by Liz Evans
‘I hate the idea of getting old, Annie.’
‘You’re not old, for heaven’s sake.’
‘I don’t qualify for the car of choice of a twenty-something bleached bimbo any more, though, do I?’
‘Not if you want to stay at Vetch’s. We need to get the place on a professional footing if we’re going to survive. Cheer up.’ She punched my arm lightly. ‘Take my word for it, being in between has a lot going for it.’
‘It does?’
‘Definitely. The Micra?’
‘I guess.’
She had to prise my fingers from the three hundred deposit. But in the end I did it. We arranged to collect the car after it had been taxed and insured in my name. As we left, the dealer called me back.
Squatting down, he ran a hand over the front wheel of Grannie Vetch’s monster. ‘Do you know what this is?’
‘At a wild guess ... a bicycle?’
‘It’s a Military Sunbeam. In the original WD green paint ... and, oh my God ... it’s got the original Joseph Lucas rifle clips!’ He stroked two irritating metal clips on the frame whose purpose I’d never been able to figure out.
He raised the eyes of a fanatic to my face. ‘Tell you what, I’ll take another three hundred off the price of the car if you want to trade?’
‘Done.’
I left it with him. Together Annie and I strolled back through the back streets towards the front. Halfway there, a police car cruised to a stop just in front of us and the window slid down. ‘Oi. Sexy arse.’
‘I think it’s for you,’ Annie murmured.
Stooping, I looked across the female officer in the passenger seat to the driver. ‘Hello, Terry. Still taking that bond-with-the-public course?’
‘Where’s your mate? Not seen her around lately.’
‘I take it you don’t mean Annie, who is currently standing behind me and who even someone with your limited powers of observation could hardly fail to notice?’
‘The dark-haired bird with the legs. Fancied me something rotten up the BHS restaurant. Been thinking I might give her a go-’
‘Oh, Peter.’
‘Peta? Thought she was called something to do with the weather. Misty or something.’
‘Raine. Short for Rainwing. That’s when he’s exploring his feminine persona, of course.’
‘He? Who he?’
‘He Peter. That’s Peter with an “er”.’
Terry’s face paled under the tan. ‘You mean that was a queer?’
‘If you want to put it that way, Terry. But I’m glad you liked him. He really fancied you. I gave him your number at the station. I’m sure he’ll be in touch really soon. See ya.’
I gave the passenger a broad wink. She grinned back. Within thirty minutes it would be all over the police canteen that Terry Rosco fancied a bloke. Life was getting sweeter by the second.
‘Do you know,’ I informed Annie, ‘I think you could be right about being in-between. It might have something going for it.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. It’s just a question of thinking positive and eliminating anything negative.’
‘Done that all week. In fact, you’re talking to the Arnie Schwarzenegger of the negative-eliminating business. Both photo-graphic and human.’
Annie was wearing dark lenses. She tipped them so that I could see her eyes when she asked: ‘You OK? About this Peter character, I mean.’
‘I’m fine. Do I strike you as the sort to let one rotten bloke mess up the rest of my life?’
‘Quite right. Just tell yourself there are a lot of good men out there. And one day we’re going to find one.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Annie, go back on the diet before I have to start calling you Pollyanna.’
We’d reached the promenade. I crossed the road to the seaward side. The tide was out, leaving a large stretch of mainly deserted beach glinting where the sinking sun was catching the stranded pools of water and drifts of white shells.
Kicking off my shoes, I rolled my jeans up and dashed across the soft powdery sand and wet ridges beyond the high tide limits. Annie flew after me. In fact, she overtook me easily. Not being on a diet never seemed to have any effect on her super-fitness.
We reached the first waves; their lacy, cream crests folding over into the grey troughs.
I looked at Annie. ‘Ready?’
‘Ready.’
‘Let’s do it.’
Plunging in up to our shins, we startled every passing gull and dog walker by splashing and kicking our way the entire length of the beach, singing at the tops of our voices:
‘Eliminate the negative . .. accentuate the positive ... AND DON’T MESS WITH MRS IN-BETWEEN’
THE END
***
Well, not quite the end.
Remember Luke’s film script? It turned out it really did exist. It was part of the property removed from the cottage by the police for some reason. It was returned to his mum eventually. I saw a copy of it some time later. It was absolute rubbish.
A year later, a major film company bought the option from Ginny Bowman. They’re hyping it as a future smash blockbuster.
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