“Might this help?” Andrew said before fishing two ice cubes out of his glass and carefully dropping them onto Diane’s back, innocently apologizing as she half shrieked, half laughed.
The heat was unrelenting into August. People eyed each other nervously on the tube, looking out for potential fainters. Roads cracked and split. Garden watering bans were out in force. On the hottest day of the year, Andrew met Diane after work and they sprawled on the parched grass in Brockwell Park as all around them people kicked off shoes and rolled up sleeves. They’d brought bottles of lager but had forgotten to bring an opener. “Not to worry,” Diane said, confidently approaching a nearby smoker and borrowing his lighter to somehow crack open the beers.
“Where did you learn that trick, then?” Andrew asked as they resettled themselves on the grass.
“My granddad. He could use his teeth too in an emergency.”
“He sounds . . . fun.”
“Good old Granddad David. He used to say to me”—she affected a deep, booming voice—“‘If there’s one lesson I’ve learned, Di, it’s never go cheap on your booze. Life’s too short.’ My granny would just roll her eyes. God, I loved him, he was such a hero. You know what, if I ever have a son I really want to call him David.”
“Oh yeah?” Andrew said. “What about if you have a girl?”
“Hmmm.” Diane inspected her elbow, creased with a crisscross patch from the grass. “Oh, I know: Stephanie.”
“Another relative?”
“No! Steffi Graf, obviously.”
“Obviously.”
Diane blew the froth from her beer at him.
Later, at home, she straddled him on the sofa as lightning seared the sky.
The rain came while the city slept, a deluge of greasy water pounding the streets. Andrew stood by the window as dawn broke, sipping a cup of coffee. He couldn’t tell if he was still a bit drunk, or whether there was a hangover lying in wait. One of those nasty ones that creeps up on you, the sort where you’re eating bacon while it’s en route to the plate from the frying pan. He heard Diane stir. She sat up in bed and let her hair fall over her face.
Andrew laughed and went back to looking out of the window. “Have you got a hurty-head?” he said.
“I’ve got a hurty-everything,” Diane croaked. He heard her shuffle over and felt her arms go around his waist, her cheek resting at the top of his back. “Shall we have a fry-up?” she said.
“Sure,” Andrew said. “We’ll just have to grab a few things from the shop.”
“Whadoweneed?” Diane yawned, Andrew feeling it resonating through him.
“Oh, just bacon. And eggs. And sausages. And bread. Beans, possibly. Milk definitely, if you want tea.”
He felt her grip slacken slightly and she groaned in defeat.
“Whose turn is it to do a thing?” he asked innocently.
She buried her face into his back. “You’re only saying that because you know it’s mine.”
“What? Never!” Andrew said. “I mean, thinking back: I changed the channel, you put the kettle on, I put the bins out, you bought the paper, I did the washing up . . . Oh, you’re quite right, it is your turn to do a thing.”
She poked her nose into his back several times.
“Oi,” he said, eventually giving in and turning to take her in his arms.
“Do you promise everything will be better after bacon and beans?” she said.
“I do. I absolutely do.”
“And you love me?”
“Even more than bacon and beans.”
He felt her slide her hand into his boxers and squeeze him.
“Good,” she said, kissing him on the lips with an exaggerated “mwah” and abruptly walking off to slip on some flip-flops and throw a thin sweater over her pajamas.
“Well that’s not fair,” Andrew said.
“Hey, it’s my turn to do a thing, I’m just going by the rules . . . ,” Diane said with a shrug, trying to keep a straight face. She reached for her glasses, grabbed her purse and left, humming a tune. It took Andrew a second to realize it was Ella’s “Blue Moon.” Finally, he thought. She’s a convert. He stood there grinning stupidly, feeling so hopelessly in love it was like he was a punch-drunk boxer desperately trying to stay upright.
He allowed himself two listens of “Blue Moon” before heading to have a shower—guiltily hoping that by the time he came out he’d be able to smell bacon sizzling. But there was no sign of Diane when he emerged. And there still wasn’t ten minutes later. Perhaps she’d bumped into a friend—a fellow Bristol Poly alumnus; small world and all that. But something about this just didn’t feel right. He quickly dressed and left the house.
He could see the gathering of people from the other end of the street where the shop was. “That’s the thing,” he overheard someone in the gaggle muttering just as he reached them. “All that hot weather and then suddenly a big old storm . . . bound to cause damage.”
There were police officers standing in a semicircle, blocking anyone from going further. One of their radios crackled into life, a confusion of feedback and static that made an officer on one end of the ring wince and hold his radio out at arm’s length. Then a voice cut through the interference: “. . . confirm it’s one deceased. Falling masonry. No one’s been able to ascertain who owns the building, over?”
Andrew felt the dread seeping into him as he moved through the last line of the crowd and toward the edge of the police ring. He was trembling as he walked, as if an electric current were flowing through him. He could see some blue plastic sheets ahead on the ground rippling in the breeze, a pile of smashed slate to one side. And there, next to it, perfectly intact, looking just the same as on the bedside table in Mrs. Briggs’s house, was a pair of orange-framed glasses.
A policeman had his hands on his chest, telling him to get back. His breath smelled of coffee. There was a birthmark on his cheek. He was angry, but then he suddenly stopped shouting. He knew. He understood. He tried to ask Andrew questions but Andrew had crumpled to his knees, unable to support himself. There were hands on his shoulders. Concerned voices. Radio static. Then someone was trying to pull him to his feet.
The noise of the pub flitted back in and the policeman’s hands became Peggy’s, and it was like he was coming up from underwater, breaking the surface, and Peggy was telling him it was okay, squeezing him tightly, muffling his sobs. And even though he couldn’t stop crying—it felt like maybe he’d never actually stop—he slowly became aware of a tingling in his fingers, warmth finally returning.
— CHAPTER 30 —
He barely had the energy to get back to his flat. Peggy walked him there, half supporting his weight, and insisted that she come in with him. He protested halfheartedly, but now that Peggy knew the truth there wasn’t much point.
“It’s either that or the hospital,” Peggy said, which settled the matter.
The model train set still lay wrecked, untouched since he’d smashed it up. “Hence the limp,” he mumbled.
He lay down on the sofa and Peggy covered him in a blanket and then her coat. She made him tea and sat cross-legged on the floor, occasionally squeezing his hand, calming him down each time he jolted into consciousness.
When he woke, she was sitting in an armchair reading the Ella Loves Cole sleeve notes and drinking coffee from a mug he’d not used in a decade. There was a crick in his neck—he must have slept in a funny position—and his foot was still throbbing, but he felt more like himself.
He could vaguely remember a dream he’d had about Meredith’s dinner party, and a question suddenly struck him. “What happened to Keith?” he asked.
Peggy looked up at him. “Morning to you too,” she said. “Keith, you’ll be glad to hear, is fine.”
“But I heard you calling an ambulance,” Andrew said.