Dead Wrong

Chapter Eight

No tantrums, no whining, no bickering. Just good food and good company. The height of luxury. Diane was a foodie, she loved to eat and had the figure to prove it. Big. And was happy to flaunt it. She dressed adventurously and spent a small fortune on haircuts; her current one was a blue-black urchin look.

She’d set out the table in the middle of her studio-cum-living room. The place was chaotic; canvases, paints and inks, screens, sewing machine, headless dressmaker’s dummy, PC, telly in the corner, couch. She lived and worked downstairs and slept upstairs. After twelve years the neighbours had got used to the harmless eccentric in their midst. A couple of them had even commissioned small pieces from her for birthday presents.

‘Sit down,’ she said after I’d handed her the bottle I’d brought. ‘It’s ready.’

We exchanged news and gossip as we demolished a plate of cracked olives, tomato and basil salad and hunks of sesame seed bread. But she saved up the best titbit till we’d wiped the plates clean.

‘I’ve had a date,’ she announced.

‘When? Why didn’t you tell me? Who?’ I was all indignation.

‘A soulmate.’

‘What?’

‘In the Guardian, lonely hearts?’ she smiled.

‘What was he like?’

Her smile faded. “Orrible,’ she sighed, ‘we went for a pizza in town, then to the pictures.’ She made it sound like a trip to the dentist. ‘He’s a teacher, recently divorced, three kids. Oh Sal, it was awful. He was obviously depressed and looking for someone to save him.’

‘Couldn’t you tell, from the ad?’

‘No, or I wouldn’t have gone. It was one of these where you ring them up, listen to a message. He sounded quite perky.’

‘Perky?’ I pulled a face.

‘Well, you know, lively. I left a message and I made it clear, I really did, that I wasn’t looking for anything deep and meaningful, right? Just a bit of pleasant company, no big deal, nothing serious. OK. He rings me up, makes a date. I get there. He wants another wife, virtually said so, probably wants another three kids and all.’ She shuddered. Diane had made her mind up in her early twenties that motherhood was not for her. She’s never wavered from that belief. ‘In fact,’ she scooped the plates up, ‘I reckon he wants the wife he had before, the kids, the lot. Oh, it was miserable.’ She took the plates through to the kitchen.

I filled our glasses. ‘Will you try again?’

‘I expect so.’ She came and sat down again, and took a drink. ‘You ought to have a go.’

‘Oh no!’ I was horrified. ‘I couldn’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘It’s so…’

‘Obvious? Well, how else are you ever going to meet anyone?’

‘Who says I want to meet anyone?’ I retorted. ‘I might be perfectly happy as I am.’

‘Huh!’ She snorted. ‘Are you?’

‘Yes, most of the time.’ I swigged my wine. ‘There’s a lot to be said for being single,’ I went on. ‘I don’t have to negotiate with someone all the time, I can be as selfish, independent…’

She burst out laughing.

‘What?’

‘Sal, you live with two children, a man, a lodger and a dog. You can’t move a muscle without checking out childcare or whether you’re out of milk. You’re hardly the embodiment of a free spirit.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Whereas I actually am a free spirit. I don’t even have a budgie and I could do with a bit of passion.’ She fetched a newspaper from the corner. ‘Here, look at these.’ Some of the ads had been circled.

‘How do you pick them?’

‘Knock out all the g.s.o.h.’s – good sense of humour. I reckon it’s a code, means they’re total prats who like practical jokes and toilet humour. And I knock out all the super sporty ones and the very rich ones and the attractive twenty somethings.’

‘Why?’

‘I want a man,’ she swivelled her shoulders, ‘not a boy. Read what’s left.’

While she sorted the meal out I read out the five remaining entries. We got giggly reading between the lines. They all sounded inoffensive; one or two were more interesting. One was a keen gardener.

‘You see,’ she pointed at me with the serving spoon, ‘he might be able to help you with your pruning.’

‘Ha ha.’

She brought in the main course. A glistening Spanokapita, spinach, curd cheese and nuts in a delicate filo pastry, baby new potatoes and a crunchy sprouted salad. Our conversation lulled while we piled up our plates.

‘It’s wonderful,’ I told her.

‘You busy?’

‘Yes, all of a sudden.’ I told her about my week, the gruesome discovery at Mr Kearsal’s, the press follow-up. The bomb.

‘I felt it here,’ she said, ‘the blast. I felt the windows move.’ She shook her head. ‘I hated that building, but…’

We were quiet for a moment, the atmosphere in the room suddenly charged with emotion.

I talked to her about the two cases I now had. I know I can trust her not to gossip to anyone else about my work.

Some more wine, some apricot fool and some fierce coffee, and it was time for home. I cycled back slowly. It was cloudy, no stars to gaze at, but the gardens were full of night scents; sweet stocks, the tang of honeysuckle, heady tobacco plants. Cats were out and about, darting across the roads, creeping under hedges. I passed a dead hedgehog. There wasn’t much traffic on the side roads and I could drop my guard and relish the sensation of the air on my face and the tingle in my leg muscles as I built up speed.