Dying to Write

by Judith Cutler

  ‘Or was it Madame Tussaud’s that put it into his head?’ asked Hugh. ‘I recall having a long conversation with him about the Chamber of Horrors. Do you remember, Sophie? My first evening?’

  I nodded. The day of the rat in the fridge. I thought of the penknife in my pillow, the knife through my overshirt. ‘Why should he have picked on me? I hadn’t a clue who was up to what.’

  ‘You must have said something.’

  ‘I went for that run. If anyone seemed threatening, it was Naukez, actually.’

  ‘Could anyone else have known?’

  ‘Everyone! Shazia drew me a map on the kitchen blackboard,’ I said, light dawning at last. ‘And I suppose he saw my reluctance to run with him as being fear, or something.’ I yawned. I couldn’t stop. I wanted to go home, dig a curry out of the deep-freeze, and retire to the comfort of my duvet.

  I put the idea of a curry to Hugh when we emerged into the chilly evening.

  ‘Harborne Tandoori,’ I said, with growing enthusiasm. ‘They know me there. It’s a place a woman can eat alone without being patronised or tucked away at a duff table. Then a dram afterwards. And I’ll switch on my central heating.’

  He seemed less than enthusiastic. But since he had to get me and my case home anyway, he didn’t argue. He didn’t follow me into the house, however. He grinned suddenly and announced he had an idea or two of his own, and he’d use his car phone to follow them through.

  It didn’t take him long. I’d done no more than switch on the water-heater and tip all my clothes into the washing machine. I remembered in time to fish out my silk camisole; the overshirt was still with the police. Evidence.

  The Mondiale, that was his idea. We’d use their jacuzzi and their sauna, then have dinner in our room. I liked the sound of ‘our’. En suite bathroom, of course. He sat on my bed and watched me putting clothes into an overnight bag. He pulled my nightdress out.

  ‘Won’t be needing that,’ he said, dropping it on the floor.

  Perhaps a sexy couple of days was just what the doctor would have ordered.

  He had to help me out of my tracksuit and into the slacks and top I thought more in keeping with the Mondiale. At least its foyer. The rest of the time I didn’t expect to have too much to do with the other guests. He even had to brush my hair back, I was so stiff. When I winced at a button, he kissed the finger better. ‘Is that where that rat bit you?’

  I nodded. ‘A good job it was a tame one, not a wild one. Rats carry all sorts of nasty diseases,’ I said helpfully. I suppose I was talking too much because I was embarrassed by my bedroom – it’s always been the room I intend to decorate next year.

  He returned to the bed. With me, this time. Perhaps we wouldn’t be going to the Mondiale just yet.

  On Sundays you don’t have to pick your way through back streets to avoid city-bound traffic jams. You can risk the main road straight into the centre. He drove easily, and dived into the underpass at Five Ways, emerging into Broad Street. Normally this is where you start wondering where on earth you’ll park, but he drove straight to the Mondiale’s entrance. A doorman appeared by magic to help me out, but Hugh was there himself. And it did take two of them. Then the car disappeared, almost of its own volition. By the time we had checked in, particularly if we stopped off at the bar first, our luggage would be in our room. All very efficient.

  There was a chirrup from Hugh’s portable phone while we were still in the foyer. When he’d finished the call, I’d tease him about his plethora of communications technology. Meanwhile I drifted over to the fountain. But I found the movement of water too chill, and turned back again.

  His face was very serious. His whole body showed concern. He asked a couple of impatient questions. Then he snapped the phone shut and stowed it in his pocket.

  ‘Problems?’ I said mildly.

  He nodded. ‘Marcus. My eldest. Mumps. And Fi – my wife thinks Claudia may have them too. I’ll have to go straight back home. I wonder if we can intercept our bags.’ He pushed his way to the front of the queue.

  ‘Get them to call me a taxi,’ I said, over his shoulder.

  I’m not sure how long it took to sort things out. A porter arrived eventually, and I reached for my bag.

  ‘Madam’s taxi,’ he said, keeping hold of it. He gestured to the entrance.

  ‘No need for that. Harborne’s on my way,’ said Hugh.

  ‘I’d rather.’

  ‘What the hell’s the matter with you?’

  I looked at him. Couldn’t he understand? Perhaps I didn’t even want to go to the trouble of explaining. It wasn’t so much that he was married – I suppose I ought to have guessed that, and I would probably have taken no more notice than I did of Carl’s having a wife – but that he hadn’t considered it necessary to tell me. Indeed, now I came to think of it, he’d probably gone to a lot of trouble to conceal the fact.

  I walked with as much dignity as I could muster across the foyer and through the automatic doors. The doorman opened the taxi door for me. The porter stowed my case. After a moment’s hesitation, Hugh ran down the steps after us.

  ‘When –’ he began.

  But I tapped the window for the driver to start.

  What a pity tomorrow was Bank Holiday Monday. It meant it’d be Tuesday before the shops would be open and I could go and buy a rat.