Page 52 of The Hallmarked Man
With a view to keeping the conversation civilised, Strike asked,
‘Who’re you here with?’
‘My fiancé,’ she said.
‘Ah,’ said Strike, ‘congratulations. Which one’s he?’
Nina pointed at a large blond man staggering around on the dancefloor beside Mrs A.
‘Nice moves,’ said Strike. Nina didn’t smile.
‘What are youreallydoing here?’
‘I just told you,’ said Strike. ‘Kids. Good cau—’
‘You’re here after someone.’
‘I’m a donor. The charity helped out my godson.’
‘Oh,’ said Nina. She clearly imagined even Strike wouldn’t lie about having a seriously ill godson. ‘Right. Sorry.’
He wanted to walk away, but thought it inadvisable to do it in any way she’d consider rude. Why the fuck hadn’t he just said ‘thank you’, or sent her flowers, six years ago?
Shout out to my ex…
‘Dominic’s pissed off at you,’ Nina shouted up at him. ‘Hesays you’ve got too grand for him. You’ll only give tips to Fergus Robertson these days.’
‘Would you say Robertson’s grander than Dominic?’ asked Strike. Robertson was a short, balding Scottish journalist of working-class origins, whereas Nina’s showbiz reporter cousin was ex-public school. When Nina’s expression remained icy, Strike said, knowing full well he wasn’t,
‘Dominic here?’
‘No,’ said Nina. ‘Is that your date?’ she asked, watching Kim dancing virtually back to back with Mrs A.
‘Yeah,’ said Strike.
‘Huh,’ said Nina, with a faint sneer. She took a clumsy swig of wine.
‘Shout Out to My Ex’ had ended. Mrs A and her friend staggered, laughing, off the dancefloor and headed for what Strike assumed would prove to be the powder room. Kim followed.
‘What’s her name?’ asked Nina, her eyes following Kim.
‘Linda,’ said Strike, off the top of his head, then wondered why the hell the first name to spring to his lips was that of Robin’s mother, who detested him.
‘Is she a detective too?’
‘No, she works in a shop.’
‘Sure she does,’ sneered Nina.
‘Peopledowork in shops,’ said Strike. ‘Not everyone works in publishing or PR.’
‘I know that,thankyou,’ snapped Nina, taking another gulp of wine.
Strike wished he still had a drink, and wished even more that Nina would sod off. Didn’t she want to dance with her fiancé, who was now staggering around to ‘Rockabye’?
‘Still at Roper Chard?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Actually,’ she added, with a slightly snide laugh, ‘if they knew I was talking to you, they’d want me to offer a deal on your memoir.’
