Agatha.
When dinner was cooked, they sat down to eat it in candle-light.
‘Now,’ said Charles, ‘what happened?’
Agatha told him about her visit, about the hairdresser’s bruised face, about the business offer and how she had found the car, unmarked, at the side of the house.
‘So it does look as if someone might have beaten him up. Good,’ remarked Charles.
Agatha said, ‘I’ve been wondering if we’ve been wrong . . . about the blackmailing, I mean. Maybe he’s just a ladies’ man.’
‘A successful one, too, by the look in your eyes. Agatha, he’s after your money.’
‘I offered it. All he was doing was offering me a job.’
‘Which you wouldn’t dream of accepting.’
‘It might be a good idea. I mean, I’m rotting here in Carsely.’
‘When you talked about your life in London, I always got the impression you were rotting there without knowing it. You’ve got friends here. Something always seems to be happening to you.’
‘I could do it for a bit. See how it works. I wouldn’t sell up here till I was sure.’
‘Aggie, he has got to you, you silly old thing.’
Agatha winced at that ‘old’ but said defensively, ‘In any case I mean to string him along. It’s a good way of getting to know him better. Then I can be sure.’
‘I think that’s a damn dangerous thing to do.’
‘Why? If he does try to blackmail me, then I’ll go straight to the police.’
‘Aggie, blackmailers create violence. You’ve gone potty.’
But Agatha had begun to build a dream up in her head of being back working in London. Why not go for Bond Street? Start with a splash. Big party. Get all the celebs. She could practically smell the petrol fumes of Bond Street, the scent from the perfume counter at Fenwick’s, the glowing pictures in the art galleries, the glittering jewels in Asprey’s window.
And perhaps, just perhaps, if he kissed her again like that, the bright pictures of James would fade and die.
‘If you don’t want to know any more about it . . .’ she began huffily.
‘Oh, I do. I’ve a feeling you’re going to need my help soon. Listen to that storm, Aggie. You’re surely not going to send me home tonight.’
‘You can sleep here . . . in the spare room.’
The phone rang. Agatha picked up the kitchen extension. It was Mr John, his voice warm and concerned. ‘I just wanted to know you were all right.’
‘Yes, I’m fine. Why?’
‘This terrible storm. There are trees down everywhere. Have you electricity?’
‘No, but I’ve a gas cooker and candles.’
‘I’m very excited about our business project and would like to talk some more about it. Why don’t you drop over here tomorrow afternoon at three, say?’
‘Yes, I’d like that. Get off!’ Charles had crept up behind her and kissed the back of her neck.
‘What’s going on?’ demanded the hairdresser sharply. ‘Who’s there?’
‘No one,’ said Agatha. ‘Just a mosquito. I’ll see you tomorrow. Bye.’
She swung round on Charles. ‘What did you do that for? That was John.’
‘I guessed as much. You are getting into deep water, Aggie.’
‘I’m not,’ she protested huffily. She took a Sarah Lee apple pie out of the freezer and put it in the oven. ‘I should have put that on earlier,’ she said. ‘Let’s go and relax.’
As they went into the living-room, all the lights came on again. ‘Good,’ said Charles, ‘we can watch telly.’
He switched it on and flicked the channels until he came across a rerun of Hill Street Blues and settled down happily to watch.
‘You didn’t even ask me if I wanted to see that,’ said Agatha crossly. ‘And it is my television set.’
‘Shh!’
So they watched Hill Street Blues and then there was a Barbra Streisand movie and Charles was addicted to Barbra Streisand. While he watched, Agatha let dreams of a new life curl around her brain rather like the smoke which was beginning to curl under the kitchen door. She had forgotten about the apple
When dinner was cooked, they sat down to eat it in candle-light.
‘Now,’ said Charles, ‘what happened?’
Agatha told him about her visit, about the hairdresser’s bruised face, about the business offer and how she had found the car, unmarked, at the side of the house.
‘So it does look as if someone might have beaten him up. Good,’ remarked Charles.
Agatha said, ‘I’ve been wondering if we’ve been wrong . . . about the blackmailing, I mean. Maybe he’s just a ladies’ man.’
‘A successful one, too, by the look in your eyes. Agatha, he’s after your money.’
‘I offered it. All he was doing was offering me a job.’
‘Which you wouldn’t dream of accepting.’
‘It might be a good idea. I mean, I’m rotting here in Carsely.’
‘When you talked about your life in London, I always got the impression you were rotting there without knowing it. You’ve got friends here. Something always seems to be happening to you.’
‘I could do it for a bit. See how it works. I wouldn’t sell up here till I was sure.’
‘Aggie, he has got to you, you silly old thing.’
Agatha winced at that ‘old’ but said defensively, ‘In any case I mean to string him along. It’s a good way of getting to know him better. Then I can be sure.’
‘I think that’s a damn dangerous thing to do.’
‘Why? If he does try to blackmail me, then I’ll go straight to the police.’
‘Aggie, blackmailers create violence. You’ve gone potty.’
But Agatha had begun to build a dream up in her head of being back working in London. Why not go for Bond Street? Start with a splash. Big party. Get all the celebs. She could practically smell the petrol fumes of Bond Street, the scent from the perfume counter at Fenwick’s, the glowing pictures in the art galleries, the glittering jewels in Asprey’s window.
And perhaps, just perhaps, if he kissed her again like that, the bright pictures of James would fade and die.
‘If you don’t want to know any more about it . . .’ she began huffily.
‘Oh, I do. I’ve a feeling you’re going to need my help soon. Listen to that storm, Aggie. You’re surely not going to send me home tonight.’
‘You can sleep here . . . in the spare room.’
The phone rang. Agatha picked up the kitchen extension. It was Mr John, his voice warm and concerned. ‘I just wanted to know you were all right.’
‘Yes, I’m fine. Why?’
‘This terrible storm. There are trees down everywhere. Have you electricity?’
‘No, but I’ve a gas cooker and candles.’
‘I’m very excited about our business project and would like to talk some more about it. Why don’t you drop over here tomorrow afternoon at three, say?’
‘Yes, I’d like that. Get off!’ Charles had crept up behind her and kissed the back of her neck.
‘What’s going on?’ demanded the hairdresser sharply. ‘Who’s there?’
‘No one,’ said Agatha. ‘Just a mosquito. I’ll see you tomorrow. Bye.’
She swung round on Charles. ‘What did you do that for? That was John.’
‘I guessed as much. You are getting into deep water, Aggie.’
‘I’m not,’ she protested huffily. She took a Sarah Lee apple pie out of the freezer and put it in the oven. ‘I should have put that on earlier,’ she said. ‘Let’s go and relax.’
As they went into the living-room, all the lights came on again. ‘Good,’ said Charles, ‘we can watch telly.’
He switched it on and flicked the channels until he came across a rerun of Hill Street Blues and settled down happily to watch.
‘You didn’t even ask me if I wanted to see that,’ said Agatha crossly. ‘And it is my television set.’
‘Shh!’
So they watched Hill Street Blues and then there was a Barbra Streisand movie and Charles was addicted to Barbra Streisand. While he watched, Agatha let dreams of a new life curl around her brain rather like the smoke which was beginning to curl under the kitchen door. She had forgotten about the apple
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