by GJ Minett
She takes a sip of red wine and looks at the glass as if nodding her approval.
‘Adam though,’ she goes on, ‘he really knew how to listen. I mean, he had this way of making me talk about myself, even though I didn’t realise what I was doing. I used to tell him so many things I’d never even told Callum. And he seemed to hang on to every word I said. Not many men are like that.’
I’m like that, he wants to scream. I can be like that. Look at me now – I’m listening to every word you say, just like I always have done. But he says nothing. And he’s noticed that she’s talking now in the past tense whenever she refers to Adam.
‘Anyway,’ she says. ‘We started meeting outside work. Nothing serious, you know? Just friends. . . or at least that’s how I saw it. I mean, it’s not like either of us was free to start up anything else. I was married to Callum and Adam had this girlfriend who was out of the country but who he was obviously close to, so there was never going to be anything between us. At least that’s what I thought. Only things started to change – ever so slowly but enough for me to get wind of what was going on.’
‘How did they change?’ he asks. He knows asking questions is something he’s expected to do. It shows he’s really listening.
‘Well, first he dumped his girlfriend. She flew in from Africa for a week just to see him and he waited till the last day then told her he wanted to finish it. Just like that. And I thought that was a bit harsh but it wasn’t really any of my business, so . . . Anyway, then he started trying to engineer ways of seeing more of me. And if I wasn’t available for some reason he’d want to know what I was doing instead that was so important and it all started to feel a bit . . . you know. Uncomfortable. I felt he was pushing me into a corner and I’m not ready for anything like that. Despite what Phil seems to think.’
She breaks off as she sees the waitress approaching with their starters. He’s frustrated by the poor timing but he needn’t worry – she’s in the mood now and as soon as the waitress has gone, she picks up again where she left off.
‘Anyway, last weekend – Sunday it was – he invited me round to his flat. Said he’d cook dinner for me to say thank you in advance for feeding his cat. He’s away in Leeds this week, staying with friends from university so I agreed I’d pop round there every morning and put food out for her. Thing was, I’d been feeling a bit under the weather for a couple of days, a touch of this flu that’s going around. By about four or five in the afternoon, I was really struggling and had to ring up and cry off. And he went mad.’
She pops a mushroom into her mouth and pauses to savour it.
‘I mean, absolutely ballistic. Started griping about all the money he’d spent on the food and how he’d already started preparing it. Surely I could give it a go. And when I said I really didn’t think so, he slammed the phone down, and when I tried to ring him back he wouldn’t answer. Just kept going to voicemail. I was so shocked. I mean, I hadn’t seen it coming.’
Owen has almost cleared his plate already. Wonders if it might have been more polite to take his time and keep pace with Abi but she’s doing all the talking here and the starter’s practically disappeared before he knows it.
‘That’s stupid,’ he says, feeling strongly that he should be saying something profound here to demonstrate his support. ‘He can’t expect you to go round if you’re ill.’
‘That’s only half of it,’ she continues. ‘Later that evening I was lying on the settee in my dressing gown and there’s this banging on the window. Scared the life out of me. So I jumped off the settee and peered round the edge of the curtain and he’s standing there, asking me to open the door. Says he needs to talk to me. And he’s yelling so loud I think I’m going to have to let him in or the neighbours will all be wondering what on earth’s going on. So I open the door and he comes marching into the front room. And I’ve hardly had a chance to shut the front door before he starts up with the accusations: what’s going on? He knows I’m seeing someone else – who is he? And I mean, he can see I’m telling the truth about feeling ill cos I look like death warmed up and the lounge is like a pharmacy for God’s sake, but he’s still harping on. And it’s only when I burst into tears and he can see he’s scaring me that he snaps out of it and starts to calm down a bit. Next thing I know, he’s trying to hug me and apologising over and over again and it’s the last thing I want so I end up pushing him away and telling him to get out. And next day he disappears off to Leeds and Muggins here is stupid enough to go round and feed his cat for him all week. Well, not the cat’s fault, is it? Don’t want it to starve.’
She empties her wine glass and signals to a passing waitress that she’d like another.
‘So I guess you could say I’m not doing very well in my choice of men,’ she says with a rueful smile. ‘I seem to have a gift for picking the wrong ones. One bad decision after another. I spent all Sunday night thinking it through and I think that’s what made me realise how unfair I’d been on you. I mean, you know you shouldn’t have done what you did but it’s not like it’s the greatest crime in the world, is it? And I thought maybe I shouldn’t have listened to Phil when he told me trusting you was iffy. But it was a bad time and I wasn’t thinking straight, even though that doesn’t really excuse the way I reacted. You’ve always been a good friend. You certainly wouldn’t yell at me and scare me the way Adam did.’
‘You want me to go round and see him when he gets back?’ he asks.
She looks shocked.
‘No, Owen. God, no. That’s not why I told you.’
‘I could warn him not to bother you again.’
‘No – honestly. I don’t want you to do anything like that. In fact, I’ll be cross if you do. Besides, there’s no need. First chance I get, I’m going to meet him somewhere where he can’t make a scene and tell him I don’t want to see him anymore. I’ll sort it myself. I don’t want you to get involved, OK?’
He nods. OK.
‘Promise?’
Nods again. It’s just a nod. Doesn’t mean anything.
She reaches across the table and pats his hand. Thanks him for the offer. It’s nice to feel protected. He tries to pat hers as well but she’s already withdrawn it and he picks up his glass of water instead.
Throughout the rest of the meal, she asks him about what he’s been doing but there are more silences than earlier and he gets the impression her thoughts are drifting elsewhere. It’s almost as if she’s building up to something but isn’t sure how to bring it into the conversation. He wonders if it’s Christmas Day that’s bothering her, whether it’s occurred to her that he might be the perfect person for her to invite round for lunch so that she doesn’t have to spend the day on her own. Maybe she’s thought about asking him but is afraid he’ll say no.
So he tries his best to work the conversation round to the right subject by talking about putting up decorations, thinking about what presents to buy. He even makes a joke of sorts about how she needn’t worry – he won’t buy her another necklace. And she smiles but it’s clear she’s not really with it. Maybe she’s still a bit under the weather and the evening is gradually knocking the stuffing out of her.
Then, just as he’s starting to run out of ideas, she takes a sizable drink from her wine glass and tells him there’s something she’d like his opinion on.
‘Would you mind? You’ll probably think it’s just me being stupid but it’s been bothering me and if I don’t tell someone soon, I’ll go mad.’
His first thought is, at last. He hasn’t got a clue what it is she wants to ask him, doesn’t care how stupid it is. What matters is, she wants an honest opinion from someone she trusts. And she’s asking him. He nods to tell her to go ahead. Puts on his listening face.
And what she has to say is nonsense. If there’s one person in the whole world who can say with absolute authority that she’s got the wrong end of the stick altogether, it’s him – because no one knows better than he does what happened to Callum that night in A
ugust. Even so, Abi’s been doing a bit of thinking, putting two and two together and she’s come up with an answer that’s so wide of the mark it’s almost embarrassing. But the more he listens, the more he likes what he’s hearing. And the more the wheels start to turn.
What’s bothering her is the fact that on the night Callum was killed, when she left Owen’s place, she went off to meet Adam for a drink, just like she’d told the police. The thing is though, Adam turned up late. Made some excuse – she can’t remember what it was now, but she knows she was definitely sitting there on her own for quite a while before he finally showed up. And when the police asked Adam what time they were at the pub, he said it was about 8.15 and she didn’t think to question it back then because why would she? But now she’s given it a bit of thought, she’s pretty sure she can’t have got to the pub much before 8.15 herself and she knows she waited a good twenty minutes or so before he finally showed up.
And what she wants to know now is: should she go and tell the police she was wrong about that time too?
‘I’ve already changed my statement once,’ she says, pulling a face. ‘If I do it a second time, they’re going to go mad. They weren’t happy with me the first time it happened. But I don’t know what to do. Do you think I ought to tell them anyway and leave them to make up their own minds?’
And though the answer’s blindingly obvious from his point of view, nevertheless he takes his time over it. He wants her to see that he’s been listening carefully, but there’s only one answer he’s ever going to give her – he’d be mad not to take advantage of an opportunity as good as this. So after what he considers to be a decent interval he tells her she needs to go back to the police and tell them what she knows. The timings in things like this might be crucial. She has to tell them. And an excellent evening is getting better by the minute.
He was right about the necklace. He knew she’d like it. Knew she’d have to wear it in the end. And it looks as if it was made for her. It’s perfect.
And he’s right about the baseball bat too.
It’s going to come in handy after all.
It’s just a question of working out how.
20
SATURDAY, 13TH DECEMBER
OWEN
Saturday is his favourite day of the week. Not by a lot – the others have all got something to be said for them too. Monday to Friday he gets to work in the fresh air for the most part, physical labour which has enough variety to keep him interested and wears him out so that he’s guaranteed a good night’s sleep. Sunday mornings he sets aside for maintaining the website, designing plans for customers and keeping his accounts up to date. In the afternoon he allows himself three or four uninterrupted hours of tinkering in the garage, restoring old mowers to their former glory.
But Saturdays have the edge over the other days because from the moment he gets up it’s all about him. He likes to start with a lie-in, maybe until as late as eight o’clock if the mood takes him. Leisurely breakfast while he listens to Radio 2 – cereal always and a fry-up if it doesn’t feel like too much trouble. Then he clambers into the truck and drives off to a car-boot sale somewhere. Hunter’s Lodge is his favourite but it’s not there all year round. He’s tried most in the area and can usually find one that will fit the bill.
And in the afternoon he likes to check the listings for Cineworld in the hope that there might be a film worth seeing. If there is, he usually tries for a showing around late afternoon/early evening and picks up fish and chips on the way home. If not, he might work out on the weights in the spare bedroom or try to find something worth watching on TV. He’s generally in bed by nine o’clock but sees that as a positive. Apart from anything else, the later he stays up, the more likely it is he’ll have Willie in his ear, moaning about something else he’s done wrong. An early night can seem like a blessing.
So he’s feeling good about things this morning, pouring cereal into his bowl and checking the sell-by date on the milk carton he’s just taken out of the fridge, when the phone rings. He doesn’t get a lot of phone calls apart from pre-recorded messages from insurance companies and requests for help with a survey from people with such heavy accents he can barely understand what they’re saying. They don’t normally ring this early. If he gets a call before nine, especially at the weekend, it’s usually Malkie, ringing to let him know there’s another mower he’s looking to pass on to him.
But this time it’s Abi. Her voice sounds weary – a bit strained, as if maybe she’s had a bad night. And she wants to know if he’s busy. Could he do her a favour? He supposes he could tell her about the car-boot sale but, if he does, she might decide not to bother him next time and ask someone else instead. He can’t expect to become the person she automatically turns to and then turn her away the first time she needs help with something. So he tells her no – he hasn’t got anything planned.
She asks in that case whether she could borrow him for an hour or so. She’ll go over it with him later rather than explain over the phone if that’s OK with him. She’ll come and pick him up to save him the trip out to Bosham.
‘This is so sweet of you,’ she says. ‘I really appreciate it. Will ten be OK?’
He says ten o’clock will be fine.
‘Where are we going?’
‘To the allotments,’ she says.
And she’s gone before he can ask what on earth they might be doing, visiting the allotments. But maybe that’s what life is like when you have a close relationship with someone. Maybe life is full of surprises and strange requests just like this. He wonders how people manage to create any sort of routine for themselves.
He goes back to his breakfast and takes his time over it, flicking back through the pages of the conversation they had just now for clues. It doesn’t matter what she wants him for. It’s enough that she does. That she’s rung him rather than anyone else. But she’s never said anything about renting a plot at the allotments before and he’s pretty sure Callum wouldn’t have gone near anything that involved manual work. He wonders if maybe he misheard her, then tells himself he’ll know soon enough anyway, when she comes to pick him up. To pick him up.
He finishes his breakfast and goes upstairs to change out of his old sweater with holes in the sleeves and into a more presentable one. Doesn’t want to run the risk of showing her up.
Ten o’clock takes forever to arrive. She’s actually five minutes early which is just as well. He’d have worn a hole in the carpet otherwise. He’s outside before she’s had a chance to get out of the car. Panics for a moment as he slams the door until he feels his house keys safely tucked away in his pocket. He hasn’t thought to bring any money with him and checks with her whether this will be a problem. She shakes her head and drives off as soon as he’s in the car.
Sports car. Brings back unpleasant reminders of the panic he went through, trying to reverse Callum’s BMW along Honer Lane. Apart from those few moments the only vehicles he’s ever driven are his Mitsubishi pickup truck and a twenty-year-old Marina his mother always used for trips to town. Engine used to scream in protest if he tried to tease it out of third gear. This car’s different all right. A bit unnerving at first – that sudden surge which pushes him back in his seat – but he decides he could get used to it. He imagines it in the summer months with the roof down. Maybe he and Abi might go for a drive in the countryside one Sunday when the weather’s warm enough. It’s what friends do. He’s seen it often enough in old films from the fifties. Cary Grant. Audrey Hepburn. They could take a picnic somewhere in the Sussex Downs.
He asks her where they’re going now and when she turns to face him it’s the first chance he’s had to look at her closely. He can see now that her eyes are red and puffy, as if she either has a cold or maybe hasn’t slept much. He asks her if she’s OK and there’s a bit of a catch in her throat when she answers.
He listens while she explains why she needs his help. It’s Adam causing problems again. He arrived back from Leeds last night and rang to th
ank her for looking after the cat and to apologise for his behaviour the previous weekend. Seemed to think all he had to do was say sorry and all would be forgotten. Abi says she accepted his apology, which is a bit much really, Owen thinks; she wasn’t that understanding with him when he stepped out of line and all he’d done was have a look in her bedroom. He hadn’t shouted at her or anything like that and yet it had taken her nearly three months to forgive him, not just a measly phone call.
But Adam clearly doesn’t know when to stop pushing his luck because the next thing he did was to ask if she fancied meeting up with him sometime over the weekend. They could go for dinner – his treat.
‘Obviously I said no,’ she explains now. ‘I don’t really want to be on my own with him. I don’t feel comfortable. Not now I’ve seen another side to his character. I didn’t put it in quite those terms but he’s not stupid. He knew what I was really trying to say and that just set him off again. He started to get angry.’
He’s not the only one. Owen’s fidgeting in his seat. This Adam Kitchener needs to know he can’t go around upsetting Abi like that. And there must be something in his posture that gives away his agitation because Abi puts a hand on his knee. Tells him it’s all right.
‘Angry’s probably the wrong word,’ she reassures him. ‘Sulky’s more like it. He went all cold and distant, just like before. Said he’d be round first thing to collect his spare keys from me. Anyway, I didn’t want him coming round to my place this morning. Not after his last visit. So I said I’d drop them off instead. He’ll be at the allotments in Sandringham Way all morning. And that’s better than going round to his place because I’m guessing there will be other people around and he’ll have to behave himself. But just in case, I thought maybe I could ask you to come with me. I’d feel better if I had you there too. Safer.’
