He’s been talking to Evelyn about a favourite author of his that she knows very well. Now, he turns to me. He’s been back in his Southsea flat for nearly a month and when he first walked in, he couldn’t believe how clean it was. I shrug the compliment off, Ms Modest, and tell him I did my best to keep it the way I found it. I can tell he doesn’t believe me for a moment, but it doesn’t seem to matter.
‘That chess game you left under my table?’ He’s watching me carefully now. ‘I’m guessing you were black.’
‘You guess right.’
‘Then you didn’t have a prayer. White more or less intact? Three pawns and your king at the wrong end of the board? Checkmate in three. I’ll send you the moves, if you like.’
I shake my head and reach for the last of my wine.
‘Sudden death was never my thing.’ I risk a glance at Evelyn. ‘That’s why we stopped playing.’
‘We?’
‘Me and a friend.’
‘Anyone special? Anyone I might know?’
‘Sadly not.’ I raise my glass. ‘Here’s to your panto. Joyeux Noël.’
Intermission Page 32
