Page 41 of Paper Roses

“And one for you,” I add, stopping him as he reaches the door.

He turns, looking back at me in question. “We can eat lunch together,” I add.

He tilts his head as he scans my face.

We didn’t use to do this. In the old days, I’d swan off for lunch with friends and he’d do his own thing of which I knew nothing. I liked it that way. But I’ve grown to love spending quiet time with Artie talking over work and laughing about office gossip. He knows so much because he actually listens to people.

“We can discuss the moving,” I say quickly.

His face relaxes. “Yes, of course. Good idea.”

“I do have the odd one or two.”

He offers me an impish grin and disappears into the outer office, where he’s hailed by many voices at once. I tense as possessiveness seizes me. They can get their own Artie. I don’t share.

Sighing, I make myself relax. I’ll soon be as twisted as a pretzel if I keep battling these feelings. I’m starting to think cheerful oblivion is the key to being fake married.

We pull up outside the house. Scaffolding cocoons the building, but its attractive, wisteria-covered contours are still visible. The big, semi-detached Edwardian house has an Arts and Crafts design, with mock timber framing and windows that feature stained glass. Its proportions are graceful and the house is wide and deep with an extension on the back and a long garden.

The tree-lined street is full of similar houses, all of them well kept. It’s a very nice neighbourhood.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you. How did your neighbours cope with the squatters?” I ask. The older couple next door had greeted our renovations with barely concealed relief.

Artie shrugs. “They made a lot of complaints to the police, but they were overseas a lot with the husband’s job, so the complaints never really went anywhere.”

As soon as we get out of the car, a familiar voice calls, “Mr Walker!”

“Oh Christ,” I say.

Artie nudges me. “Be kind. He’s lovely.”

“He’s like a red setter with all the accompanying destructive energy,” I say grimly.

The builder’s apprentice approaches as I get our suitcases out of the boot. Tyler is a cheerful, dark-haired lad with a sunny temper and the destructive tendencies of a wrecking ball. “Hi,” he says breathlessly. “Oh mygod,I’ve got something so exciting to tell you.”

“Where is Eric?” I ask cautiously.

Tyler’s wide grin is slightly manic around the edges. “He went to the builders’ merchants. We’ve run out of cement.” Hewaves his hands. “Come and look,” he calls and darts into the house.

I turn grimly to Artie. “Didn’t you tell me that Eric promised Tyler wouldn’t be left on his own?”

“Yes.”

“Remind me again why that was.”

He snorts. “It was because Tyler thought the new Belfast sink was a relic and took it to the tip to be helpful.”

“I’m sure they were suitably grateful. He’s single-handedly extended this project by a month. Why does Eric put up with him?”

“Tyler’s his nephew.”

“Is he really? Another attack on the war against rampant nepotism.” I stare at him as if he’s harbouring more secrets. “How do you know these details?”

“Because I actually ask questions.”

“Ah well, there’s your first mistake. Because questions come with answers that are usually wordier than a Shakespeare sonnet. I should know. Last week I asked Rafferty about Stan’s guide dog. I think I could actually breed them now; such is the breadth of my knowledge.”

“Comeon, Mr Walker,” comes a call from inside. It’s followed by a loud crash. “Oh, don’t worry. It’ll mend.”

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