Fitz offers me a conciliatory beer. ‘Sorry. Classic Yaz. She had him on the invite list before you guys broke up and then just hit send on the email, and there’s no way that man’s missing a chance to see you.’
I rub my face hard. ‘Can I not go?’
Fitz lets out a positively theatrical gasp. ‘To Martha and Yaz’s engagement party? Leena Cotton! Even your grandmother is coming! All the way from the wilds of Yorkshire!’
‘I know, I know …’ I groan. ‘Right, come on, you. We need to find me a bloody phenomenal outfit. Bye, Letitia!’ I say as we walk past her. ‘Nice to see you!’
‘Shh,’ she says, pointing at the television.
‘Told you,’ Fitz says as we head for my wardrobe. ‘Blunt.’
38
Eileen
I’m off to the party. But I’m taking a little detour, first, to pick somebody up.
I have learned many surprising things about Arnold in the last two months. He sleeps in purple silk pyjamas that look like they belong to a Victorian count. He gets grumpy if he goes too long without a meal, and then gives me a kiss whenever I remind him. And he loves reading Charles Dickens and Wilkie Collins, but he’d never read any Agatha Christie until he started working his way through my list of favourite books from the dating website. When he told me about that, it was so damn lovely I took him straight to bed.
But the most interesting fact of all is that Arnold Macintyre is a fountain of Hamleigh gossip. As a result of one of his particularly fascinating titbits, I am now on Jackson Greenwood’s doorstep, dressed in my London get-up: leather boots, bottle-green culottes, and a soft cream sweater Tod bought me as a goodbye gift.
‘Hello, Eileen,’ Jackson says when he answers the door. He doesn’t seem especially surprised to see me standing on his doorstep dressed up to the nines, but then, now I think about it, I’m not sure I’ve ever seen Jackson looking surprised about anything.
‘May I come in?’ I say. It’s a little blunt, but I’m rather tight for time.
He steps aside. ‘Course you can. Would you like a tea?’
‘Yes, please.’ I make my way through to his living area, which is surprisingly tidy and well decorated. The wooden coffee table is a new addition since I was last here; there’s a book there, splayed out on its front with the spine up, called Thinking: Fast and Slow. Behind a stairgate, Hank wags ecstatically in the conservatory. I give his ears a fond scratch, careful not to let him anywhere near my lovely cream sweater.
‘Milk, one sugar,’ Jackson says, placing my mug down on a coaster as I head for the sofa. I’d never have pinned Jackson as a coaster sort of man, I must say. I run my finger over the wood of the table and reflect on just how little you can know about your neighbours, even when you are extremely nosy.
‘Ethan’s out of the picture,’ I say, once I’m sitting down.
Jackson pauses midway to the armchair. Just a momentary falter, but enough to send a trickle of tea down the side of his mug to the rug under the coffee table.
He sits down. ‘Huh,’ he says.
‘He was having an affair with Leena’s boss’s assistant.’
His hands flex convulsively. This time the tea spills in his lap – he swears quietly, getting up again to fetch a cloth from the kitchen. I wait, watching his back, wondering.
‘Leena found out?’ he asks eventually from the kitchen, still facing away from me.
‘I found out. I told her. She finished with him right away.’ I look down at my tea. ‘Adultery is one thing Leena will not tolerate.’
He looks at me then, a sympathetic glance. I don’t acknowledge it. I’m not here to talk about me and Wade.
‘I’m going down to London, to a party, and she’ll be there. I thought you might want to come.’
‘Me?’
‘Yes.’
Then Jackson sighs. ‘Arnold told you,’ he says.
‘Yes. Though I had to wring it out of the man, so don’t blame him.’
‘S’all right. Half the village knows how I feel about her anyway. But … go to London?’ Jackson says, scratching his head. ‘Isn’t that a bit much?’
‘That depends. Are there things you wish you hadn’t left unsaid?’
‘Actually, I …’ He sits down again, those giant hands wrapped around his mug until all I can see is the curl of steam rising from