word with Verity. I assume you’ve finally managed to finish it.’
Max ducked under his arm, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like ‘Bloody fucking no’. His footsteps on the stairs sounded light and fast, panicked; the scrape of his hand on the bannister, a thud when he jumped the last two steps.
Tom must have heard what he said because his face tightened. He turned to me: ‘No dog today?’
I knew I was being mocked, but it was hard to pin down exactly how. I said, ‘It’s my fault Max hasn’t done his maths. I’m the one you should be cross with. It’s just we were doing English and he’s doing so well.’ I took a step towards the doorway, but he was still blocking it. It was the first time I’d been alone with him since our initial meeting on my doorstep and I felt intimidated. I could sense the coiled energy, anger, and the unhappiness of the man.
‘I hear what you say,’ he said, which is what people say when they’re not listening. ‘It’s just the maths is important too. I’m doing my best to help him. Maybe you should give me some lessons. It’s very frustrating. He can be rude, as you just heard.’
‘Maybe just be a bit gentler?’
I could tell he didn’t like that because he breathed in sharply. ‘Anyway. As I’ve got you, I, um, I notice you didn’t find your way back to your front area the other day. I’m all for live and let live, but something’s blocking the drains. You must have noticed? The smell’s getting worse.’ He was about to say more, but his phone made the sound of a quacking duck and he took it out of his back pocket, holding his hand up, signalling to me to stay.
After a second or two, I sat down on the nearest chair.
‘Absolutely not,’ he said, brushing past me, turning his back. ‘He’s not to speak to the press. No one at all. OK? Keep him indoors if necessary. I don’t care what they’re saying. They are not controlling the story. We are. Until the police . . . Yup . . . I know.’ He was inspecting the surface of the counter, rubbing his finger over an invisible stain; then he walked to the back doors and slid them open. Frowning, he stared down at the spilt earth.
‘I don’t care what Fitz says. He should have asked her age.’ He spun round and came towards me then, sitting down in the chair next to me at the table. His mouth did strange things, I noticed, when he was talking, the teeth sliding sideways, one canine more prominent than the other. ‘Yeah, well, I’d recommend from now on he keeps his trousers zipped,’ he said.
He put the phone back in his pocket, then rubbed his forehead with the ball of his hand and sighed. I was aware of an exhaustion, a desperation even, beneath the surface. ‘One of my clients, a well-known actor who shall remain nameless, is in a bit of hot water. A one-night stand that went wrong.’
‘Oh dear.’
Fitz. Fitz Conroy, presumably. The Radio Times had just done a big thing on him.
He stared at me then, his stare intense. ‘What is it with people and fucking one-night stands?’ He sat back in the chair and breathed out from his cheeks, puffing out the small space above his upper lip then releasing the air with a squeak. He was wearing a button-down shirt today, pale-grey cambric with a crest on the top pocket. It was a replacement for another cambric shirt – a bluer one with a frayed collar that had been in the bag of jumble. The blue would have brought out his eyes. The grey made him look harsh and sallow.
He inhaled deeply. ‘So yes, I have concerns. I realised at lunch the other day that you and Ailsa have been spending a lot of time together, that you’ve become quite . . .’ He searched for the right word and when he found it, he emitted it with what was almost a little cry of surprise: ‘. . . close.’
I nodded to confirm his choice of words, feeling the heat rise in my neck. When I am anxious I sometimes clamp my left thumb in my other hand and tug on it. I’d been too aggressive; a muscle gave a crank of pain.
‘So I’m checking she’s talked to you again – about clearing up a bit, getting to the bottom