A Rush of Blood

Ninety

In another part of the city, another door chime sounded. Andy Martin thought very seriously about ignoring it as he continued to gaze at the photograph on the sideboard. Karen had taken it: Robert, held in the crook of his arm, with Danielle looking at him with sisterly pride.

The chime summoned him again. ‘Bugger,’ he whispered, but trotted downstairs to street level, and swung the door open.

She stood there, in jeans and an open-necked white shirt, oblivious to the chill of the evening. She held a bottle in her hand, up beside her shoulder, with its label turned for him to see: Siglo Gran Reserva rioja, one he recognised from another time. Behind her he caught a glimpse of a taxi as it disappeared round the curve in the road.

‘To answer your slightly crazed question of the other night,’ she said, ‘there is no such thing as a hench. If it’s a word at all, it’s an adjective, but no one really knows.’ She smiled, and in spite of everything, his heart sang. ‘And now that I’ve answered the security question. .’ she continued, ‘. . can I come in?’