Page 58 of Cover Story

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‘Shit,’Bel mouthed silently at Connor, as they stood facing each other, in shock.

They were trapped.

‘At least you’d chosen a side of the bed,’ Bel whispered. She handed him a spare toothbrush: ‘And I thought to hold this back.’

Connor walked over to the canary yellow Roberts Radio on the shelf nearby and tuned it to a soporific burble of BBC World Service.

‘Have you got a key for this?’ Connor said in a low voice, gesturing at the door’s lock.

‘Uhm … I think so?’ Bel reached up and felt along the top of the door frame.

She handed it over: ‘Here. Why?’

Connor took it from her and turned the lock, leaving the ornate heavy metal key in the door.

He inclined his head at the ground floor.‘You mean it’s not even occurred to you they might be doing this on purpose?’

Bel was momentarily stunned.

‘What? Why …?’

‘I mean, it’s an admirable lack of cynicism,’ he hoarse-whispered. ‘However. Everything considered, you should be more wary.’

‘But Rick’s spannered?’ Bel hissed.

‘Weassumehe’s spannered,’ Connor said, ‘They’re near-strangers and now they’re non-negotiably under your roof for the night.’

‘He’s our generation’s Laurence Olivier if he’s sober.’

‘I’m not sure “lying down and closing your eyes” is quite as hard as you think it is. Anyhow, he’s probably drugged like a Roald Dahl pheasant. Glad of the lock.’

Bel shivered a little. Connor was several things, but he wasn’t stupid. What if he was right? She’d not wanted him anywhere near this undercover escapade and yet, without him here, she’d have gone to bed, inebriated, in an unlocked room, not thinking anything of it.

If one of the first rules of journalism according to The Tao Of Aunt Tamara was ‘anyone might be lying about anything, and for no reason,’ then she’d mislaid this wisdom at a crucial moment. Bel was so sure she was taking Amber in, she’d not considered it might be the reverse.

‘I’m afraid it gets worse,’ Connor said. ‘I didn’t bring a T-shirt. Would you have anything that might fit me?’

‘Oh God!’ Bel said. ‘Erm …’ She’d thrown the splattered one she’d cooked in into the wash. ‘Let me check but I don’t think so. I only have one XL one.’

Bel rummaged in a drawer and produced a babydoll-fit Bruce Springsteen T-shirt, emblazoned withBorn To Run.

‘Do you like The Boss?’ she asked, holding it up, then couldn’t help corpsing, to Connor’s rolled eyes.

‘Jesus Christ, why is that a child’s size? Newborn To Run?’

‘It’s the skinny design that shows off your rack!’ Bel hissed. When she was nervous she went sassy, she couldn’t help it. Masking.

‘Looks like I’m showing off my rack either way. Uhm, I’m sleeping in my pants then, are you OK with that?’

‘What are my options? You in my leggings?’

‘I’m glad you’re finding my enforced nudity so funny,’ Connor said.

‘This is a trauma response,’ Bel said, and Connor finally laughed.

They negotiated changing in the bathroom, Bel going first. She pulled on her pink cotton grandad pyjamas and decided to keep a bra on, as swinging free here felt far too intimate.

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