The BMW’s headlights briefly flashed over the shivering figure curled up in the porch, her beehive hair collapsed around her face.
Maurice leapt out of the car, triumphantly clutching a Christmas tub of Quality Street as if it were an Olympic gold medal, and rushed over to his wife.
‘What are you doing, my dear?’
She glared up at him. ‘An hour and a bloody half. What does it look like I’m doing, you cretin?’
It dawned on him. ‘You’re locked out!’
‘You think I’m here for fun?’ Her teeth were chattering. ‘Yes, I am. Locked out. Where on earth have you been?’
He held up the Quality Street. ‘In search of these! I’ve been to half the garages in Sussex. How did you get locked out?’
‘Just open the bloody door, will you!’
They went inside. It was pitch dark.
‘Fuse must have tripped,’ he said. Maurice closed the front door and put his arms around his wife and rubbed her back, trying to get her circulation going. She was shivering all over. ‘I’m so cold.’ She shot a wary glance in the direction of the stairs.
‘Stay one second, my love.’ He put the chocolates down on the hall table, groped around in a drawer, found a small torch and switched it on. Making his way through into the kitchen, he went into the utility room, opened the fuse box and saw the red master switch was up. He flicked it down and instantly all the lights came on. He hurried back out into the hall and put his arms around Claudette again.
‘There was someone in here,’ she said.
‘Are you sure?’
‘There was. A man. Upstairs.’
He started climbing the stairs.
‘Be careful!’
She heard him clumping around above her, then he reappeared. ‘My love, there’s no one. Are you sure it’s not all that television you’re watching? Are you imagining things?’
‘I – I am not imagining things.’
He came back down and put his arms around her. She was still shivering. ‘That’s why you ran out of the house?’
She nodded, bleakly.
He rubbed her, vigorously. ‘Better?’
She nodded again.
‘I know just how to warm you up,’ he said suggestively.
‘Good, so get me a glass of fizz before I die from hypothermia.’
‘Coming up! I’ll get us each a glass and we could have them in a nice hot bath, how about that? That would really warm you up!’
‘In your dreams.’ Her teeth were chattering – but not enough to prevent her from disentangling from his arms, picking up the tub and carrying it through into the living room and tearing greedily and excitedly at the lid.
Fetching the bottle from the fridge, and a glass for himself, he hurried back into the living room after her. ‘My love, what was it you thought you saw?’
‘I didn’t see anything. I heard a sound upstairs and smelled a cigar.’
‘A cigar? Don’t be daft.’
Sat on the sofa, ignoring him while he opened the bottle, she finally got the lid off and stared at the contents. Feeling warmer and much happier, suddenly.
Strawberry Delight!
She plucked one out, unwrapped it and popped it in her mouth. ‘Command! Play Poldark on catch-up, please.’ As she chewed she stared up at the to-die-for face of Ross Poldark. Aidan Turner! Sweet Lord! Why can’t my husband look like you?
‘Here we are, my sexy beast!’
She took the glass without even looking at Maurice. ‘That’s what I call a sexy beast,’ she said, pointing at the screen.
He sat down next to her with his glass and cuddled up to her. ‘You used to call me your sexy beast.’ He nuzzled her ear and she shook him away, dipping her hand into the tub and pulling out another Strawberry Delight. ‘Did I? I don’t remember that.’
He looked hurt.
Then froze.
He could smell cigar smoke. Faint at first but getting rapidly stronger.
A shadow moved across the doorway.
‘What the . . .?’ he said, but Claudette was engrossed in the television and didn’t hear him.
He got to his feet and walked, cautiously, over to the door and looked out into the hall. Nothing there. He sniffed. But the smell had gone – as quickly as it had come.