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  Jackie sighed. ‘We’ve been through all this Nigel. It’s only a dozen extra guests.’

  ‘Only!’ Nigel exclaimed forcefully.

  Jackie looked round at the other tables. ‘Ssh! Keep your voice down. And there’s something I need to discuss with you ... about the honeymoon.’

  Nigel stared at her, almost resentfully, suspecting that he wasn’t going to like what she had to say.

  ‘We’re not exactly ... um ... youngsters,’ she continued falteringly. ‘And as we still haven’t made up our mind where to go on our honeymoon - as you claimed we might get a better deal on that last minute thingee - I thought we might have the honeymoon in November, when we might appreciate going somewhere sunny when it’s gloomy and foggy over here.’

  Nigel pouted like a sulky child. ‘But a honeymoon’s supposed to follow a wedding.’

  Jackie laughed, and waved a dismissive hand, which irritated him.

  ‘Yes but we’ve been there and done that - both of us - the first time. So why don’t we treat this as a holiday?’

  ‘I don’t understand what the problem is of going away immediately after the wedding.’

  Jackie shook her head emphatically. ‘Because I can’t go. I won’t be available. I’ll be rehearsing, and then in mid-November I’ll be performing.’

  Nigel stared at her, open-mouthed.

  ‘I’ve joined the Royal Town Players, an amateur dramatic society.’

  ‘So when did this all come about?’

  ‘I told you: I auditioned for them the other night. I knew you weren’t listening.’

  Nigel fiddled with the salt cellar and scowled at it. ‘Yes I was. Only I didn’t think...’

  ‘You didn’t think I’d get the part?’

  ‘Well, no ... I mean ... I hadn’t really thought about it.’

  ‘I’d have thought you’d have been pleased for me.’

  Nigel looked up, giving her a feeble smile. ‘Oh, I am. It’s just that I’m disappointed about the honeymoon, that’s all.’

  ‘It’s not as if it’s cancelled. Just postponed.’

  ‘And what about this play you’re in?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘What sort of thing will you be doing?’

  ‘Well, it’s a romantic comedy. And I’m one of the leads.’

  Nigel tugged thoughtfully at his lower lip. His voice was frosty when he spoke. ‘I see. A romantic comedy. And does this involve kissing other men on stage?’

  Jackie laughed. ‘You’re not jealous, are you?’

  ‘Of course not. It’s just that I’d like to know what I’m supposed to do with my evenings while you’re out practising this play.’

  ‘We don’t call it practising,’ said Jackie. ‘It’s called rehearsing.’

  ‘Does it matter what it’s called?’ snapped Nigel. ‘Does it matter?’

  ***

  ‘Your guvnor in?’ Tony Rice asked Mandy, Craig’s shop assistant, who stopped shaking the scoop containing a freshly-cooked batch of jumbo sausages in batter and stared blankly at him, trying to decide whether he was friend or foe. He looked like a bailiff, like the one who came round that time her mum and dad were way behind on their council tax.

  ‘I’ll go and see,’ she answered non-committally before disappearing into the back of the shop. Rice heard some whispered exchanges, then Craig appeared in the open doorway behind the counter, wiping his hands on a J-Cloth. He tried to look pleased to see Rice, but there was no disguising the insincerity of his over-hearty greeting.’

  ‘Hello, mate! How’s it going?’

  A skeleton of a smile played on Rice’s lips. ‘Mustn’t grumble. You got a minute?’

  ‘Yeah - what can I do for you?’

  ‘No, I mean...’ Rice inclined his head in Mandy’s direction as she squeezed past Craig and returned to the fish fryer. ‘I’d like a word in private. There’s a boozer round the corner we could...’

  Craig shook his head. ‘Sorry. Lunchtime on a Friday can get pretty busy.’

  Rice stared at Craig without speaking. Mandy watched with interest this tacit exchange of wills between her employer and this stranger with his quietly threatening demeanour. After what seemed like an uncomfortably long silence, Craig backed down with a false laugh.

  ‘As it happens, I could fancy a swift beer. I’ll get my jacket. Can you manage for twenty minutes, Mandy?’

  ‘Yeah. Go ahead,’ said Mandy, while he collected his jacket from the back of the shop. She looked at Rice, who grinned and undressed her with his eyes. She shivered slightly and looked away.

  Four

  Tony Rice made random selections on the pub jukebox. The choice of music was irrelevant, since he was buying a convenient noise to cover their conversation in the near-empty pub.

  ‘Cheers!’ said Craig, raising his pint.

  Rice nodded and came and sat opposite him. As soon as an unrecognisable track blasted from the jukebox, Rice got straight to the point.

  ‘The working men’s club you sussed out - I think it’s a goer.’

  A sudden twinge, a cold warning, shot through Craig’s body. He took a large swig of beer before speaking.

  ‘I’m not...’ he began, faltering as he looked into Rice’s dead eyes. ‘I’ve decided I wanna go straight.’

  ‘What’s brought this on? Conscience bothering you?’

  ‘I’m settled at the chippie now.’

  Rice sneered. ‘Yeah, an’ I can smell the fish. How much an hour does he pay you?’

  ‘My brother-in-law’s dead. I’m the owner now.’

  For some reason Craig regretted having to give Rice this information, but the ex-convict merely shrugged.

  ‘Oh, so it ain’t conscience but a change of circumstances. Fair enough. But you was the one who told me how easy it is to do the club. It was your idea.’

  Craig started to speak, but Rice carried on talking, while glancing furtively around the pub.

  ‘I’ve got someone else interested, as it happens. Someone who ain’t got any form.’

  Craig fidgeted with his glass. ‘I don’t understand. Why d’you need to tell me about the job if...’

  Rice interrupted him. ‘You’ve got form, my son. Soon as you do the club, filth’s gonna come knocking on your door. I’m giving you a chance to get yourself a watertight alibi. I’m doing you a favour.’

  Some favour, thought Craig.

  ‘And another thing,’ continued Rice. ‘You was the one nominated me for membership at the club. They might just put us two and two together. So I’d like to think you ain’t going to help with their enquiries. Understood?’

  ***

  As he lifted the drinks off the bar of the Compasses pub, Alan Watson ached with tiredness. He was shattered, having done a very long shift at Pembury hospital, and would have given anything for a quiet night indoors. But a promise is a promise, and he had already agreed to a few drinks and a meal to celebrate his partner’s new job, starting the following week.

  Pran Kapoor watched him as he carried the drinks over, and saw him wince slightly as he put the drinks on the table.

  ‘Cheers!’ said Pran, raising his white wine. ‘Does your arm still hurt?’

  ‘Only when I laugh,’ Alan replied, and slumped heavily onto his seat.

  ‘A criminal record’s not so funny, Alan.’

  Alan shrugged. ‘Obstructing a police officer?’

  ‘Or worse: assaulting a police officer.’

  ‘That’ll never stick.’

  ‘Don’t be too sure.’

  Alan sipped his lager and slammed the glass onto the table. ‘I couldn’t give a monkeys either way. I don’t see why an innocent bloke, minding his own business, can’t walk down the street without being picked on.’

>   Pran sighed impatiently. This was a recent argument regurgitated.

  ‘They asked if they could search you. They didn’t just suddenly jump on you.’

  ‘That’s not the point. The reason they searched me - for the second time in three weeks, is because I’m black.’

  ‘I still maintain you should have complied, then put in a complaint afterwards.’

  ‘Oh come on. Are you naïve or what?’

  ‘I happen to think it’s the other way round. Own up: you were just trying to make a statement about how butch you really are.’

  Pran grinned at his partner, deliberately trying to wind him up.

  ‘OK, let’s drop the subject, shall we?’ said Alan. ‘We’re not here to argue. This is supposed to be your celebratory drink and dinner. One of your last days as a free man. Here’s wishing you luck for Monday.’

  As they clinked glasses, Pran said, ‘Yes, back to the grindstone, and all that commuting to London. I’d got used to loafing around over the last three weeks.’

  ‘You said you were bored shitless.’

  ‘I was. But I’d got used to it.’

  ‘Pran, listen: when you start work tomorrow...’

  Pran gave his partner a lopsided smile. ‘I love it when you put on the oh-so-serious look.’

  ‘Don’t try and change the subject. And you know what I’m going to say, don’t you? I want it to be different this time. I want you to be honest about who you are. And about us.’

  Avoiding Alan’s gaze, Pran stared into his drink.

  ‘I mean it, Pran.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ chanted Pran, parodying boredom.

  Alan leant forward, glaring at his partner. ‘Stop evading the issue. You can’t live in a closet all your life.’

  ‘Well, it’s easy for you. Your parents ... they’ve sort of accepted it, however reluctantly. Whereas I’m still getting the...’ Pran adopted an exaggerated Asian accent. ‘When-are-you going-to-find-a-nice-girl-and-settle-down routine.’ He continued in his normal English voice. ‘Given half the chance my father would arrange it for me, like he did for my sister. “A nice boy from a nice family,” he said.’

  ‘What’s he like?’

  ‘Don’t ask! My sister suffers him in silence, like the good little Asian girl she is. It really winds me up. I can’t stand him.’

  ‘It won’t go away, Pran. The problem’s going to remain as long as your father’s alive.’

  ‘I know, I know. But a gay man from a Muslim family. I hate to think what he’d do if he found out. I know he’d have nothing more to do with me. And that hurts.’

  Alan sighed and shook his head. ‘I know. It’s difficult. I can see that. But look, we’re not talking about your parents finding out. We’re talking about being open at work. My colleagues at the hospital accepted it. No problem. To begin with they didn’t know how to handle it. Maybe they were embarrassed. But now...’

  ‘Yeah. I know you’re right,’ Pran emphasised. ‘But what do I do on my first day in the office? Make an announcement. Hey, everybody! I’m gay. Or do I send them all emails? Maybe I could pin it on the staff canteen notice board.’

  ‘Seriously, Pran, you know damn well what to do. Someone’s asks you about your home life - they’re bound to - and you just tell them straight. You say you live with your partner Alan. You only have to tell one person and pretty soon everyone’ll know.’

  Pran shook his head disbelievingly. ‘As simple as that, huh.’

  ‘Yes, it is that simple,’ Alan insisted. ‘It’s about being open and honest.’

  Pran frowned thoughtfully before speaking. ‘OK. I’ll do it. I promise. But just remind me: if someone asks me about my home life, I say...?’

  ‘That you live with your partner Alan.’

  Pran took a pen out of the breast pocket of his shirt and offered it to Alan.

  ‘Could you write that down for me, so that I don’t forget?’

  Alan looked confused, until he noticed the glint in his partner’s eye. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s go and eat.’

  Five

  Flexing the fingers of his right hand, Mike winced. ‘It still hurts.’

  Without looking up from her untidy mess of work strewn across the kitchen table, Claire said, ‘The plaster’s only been off a day. What did you expect?’

  ‘Sympathy?’

  Claire shook her head for his benefit. ‘Men are such wimps when it comes to pain.’

  ‘Don’t start giving me that pain of childbirth lecture.’

  ‘Well, it’s true. Now shut up and let me finish my work.’

  Mike tested his fingers, miming scissor movements. ‘Another week and I should be able to start cutting again. My appointment book’s actually looking quite healthy. I don’t think I’ve lost too many customers. Maybe one or two.’

  Claire ignored him, concentrating on proof reading an advertisement for country pub food. She sighed as she found another spelling mistake. Mike mistakenly took this as disapprobation over his coming out of the broken finger incident relatively unscathed as far as business was concerned.

  ‘I know you think I deserve to lose more customers than I have done,’ he grumbled, struggling to fit the plug into the electric kettle. ‘I don’t know what you want from me. I really don’t.’

  Claire’s voice became brittle with suppressed anger. ‘I want you to keep quiet while I finish off this work.’

  ‘You’re always bringing work home. We hardly ever get a chance to talk to each other these days.’

  ‘And I suppose when you were busy cutting hair, and stopping off for a pint or six on the way home, I suppose we used to talk a lot then.’

  ‘Well, I...’

  Claire smiled, and gave Mike a look indicating that she had scored a point. But Mike was bored, and was determined to have the final word.

  ‘Look, I know my drinking got a bit out of hand, but I can’t put the clock back, can I? What’s done is done. I’m doing my best to make it up to you.’

  ‘Oh, really? By moping around the house, playing the helpless invalid, expecting me to mop your troubled brow?’

  ‘That’s not fair.’

  ‘No, but it happens to be true. I came back from the office yesterday and you hadn’t even put the breakfast things in the dishwasher.’

  Mike took two mugs out of the cupboard and slammed the door hard. ‘I already told you - I knew you weren’t listening - I was making enquiries about Andrew’s future.’

  ‘And that took you all day, did it?’

  ‘Yes, it did, as it happens.’

  Claire suddenly felt like screaming. Clenching her teeth, she managed to control herself and said, ‘Mike, why don’t you pop out for a quick beer? I know you want one.’

  Mike started to protest, so she added in a softer tone, ‘You’ve done very well so far. You deserve a drink. And you don’t have to go mad.’

  Mike frowned , and looked down at his shoes, deliberating. ‘I suppose I could just have a couple of pints.’

  Claire smiled knowingly. ‘Yes. And I can get on with my work.’

  ‘OK. Shan’t be long.’

  As soon as he was out of the house, Claire sighed, and talked to the framed photograph of her deceased parents hanging on the wall by door.

  ‘I know I’m asking for trouble, but I almost prefer the old Mike.’

  ***

  Vanessa lay with her back towards Jason. He snuggled up close to her and stroked her hair.

  ‘You awake?’ he whispered, one eye on the bedside clock.

  ‘Mm,’ she purred contentedly. ‘No rush is there?’

  ‘Much as I’d like to spend Saturday in bed with you, I’m afraid I’ve got some work to do.’

  ‘How long will you be?’

&nb
sp; ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Couldn’t I stay here and wait for you?’

  Jason sighed impatiently. ‘I’ve no idea how long I’ll be. Could be a couple of hours; or it could take all day.’

  Vanessa gave him a voluptuous smile. ‘I don’t mind waiting. I could cook us a meal.’

  He kissed her briefly on the cheek, rolled out of bed and grabbed his towelling bathrobe. ‘Sorry, Vanessa, but you’re going to have to run along. I’ve got a living to earn. I’ll call you later.’

  Wounded by the abruptness of his manner, this sudden change in her lover, Vanessa sat up in bed with the duvet wrapped around her protectively. She watched him, his back towards her, fiddling with a small black gadget on top of a chest of drawers.

  ‘I hope this cordless razor’s still got some life in the batteries,’ he muttered by way of explanation. ‘No time for a wet shave today.’

  ‘Do you always work Saturdays?’

  Jason turned around and grinned cockily. ‘Not always. So I’ll call you tomorrow. OK? By the way: what’s your surname?’

  ‘You ought to know. You’re going out with my sister.’

  Jason glanced impatiently at the clock. ‘She never told me. So what is it?’

  ‘Ingbarton.’

  ‘Well, Vanessa Ingbarton, on this gloomy Saturday in September 2011, did you enjoy our lovemaking.’

  ‘You know I did,’ Vanessa replied, but slightly mystified by his strange way of asking.

  Jason gave her a smug, self-satisfied smile. ‘Yeah, me too.’

  He turned his back on her, and she heard a click. Then she saw him slip the black gadget into his bathrobe pocket as he walked towards the door.

  ‘What’s that?’ she asked.

  He paused in the doorway. ‘What?’

  ‘In your pocket.’

  He patted the side of his bathrobe. ‘My cordless razor.’

  Vanessa started to speak, but he interrupted her. ‘I’m going to shower. I should have been out of here ten minutes ago. So if you don’t mind...’