Page 69 of The Love Letter
Marcus watched her face soften into a smile.
‘Yes, I did, thanks. Did you? Me too. My brother’s here, speak later? Okay, bye.’
‘And who was that?’ Marcus raised an eyebrow. ‘Father Christmas?’
‘Just a friend.’
‘Yeah, sure.’ He studied her as she tried to tuck away her dreamy expression with her mobile phone. ‘Come on, Zo, you’ve met someone, haven’t you?’
‘No . . . yes . . . oh God! Sort of.’
‘Who is he? Do I know him? Do you want to bring him along to supper tomorrow night?’
‘I wish,’ she muttered. ‘It’s all a bit complicated.’
‘Married, is he?’
‘Yes, I suppose you could say that. Look, Marcus, I really can’t say any more. I’ll see you tomorrow night, at about eight, if that’s okay.’
‘Sure.’ Marcus stood up. ‘Her name’s Joanna by the way.’ He walked to the front door. ‘Be nice to her, won’t you, sis?’
‘Of course I will.’ She kissed him. ‘Night night.’
Marcus returned home that evening, having stopped off to buy some cleaning supplies, determined to tackle the last of the bachelor grime for when Joanna came round next. Whistling as he went up the stairs to his flat, he stopped in surprise as he realised his door was open. Before he could confront the would-be burglar, a man dressed in builder’s dungarees poked his head out of the door.
‘Are you the tenant?’
‘Yes. Who on earth are you? And who let you in?’
‘Your landlord – he’s a mate of mine. Just here to check on that damp for him.’
‘What damp?’ Confused, Marcus pushed past the builder and went into his flat.
‘’Ere, guv.’ The builder indicated a stretch of wall running just above the architrave, covered in fresh plaster. ‘Your neighbours reported it on their side. It’s in your walls, I’m afraid.’
‘It’s Sunday night! And my landlord didn’t say you were coming.’
‘Sorry ’bout that. ’E must have forgot. Anyway, all sorted now.’
‘Er, good. Thanks,’ he said as he watched the builder pack his tools into a kit box.
‘I’ll be off then.’
‘Right. Thanks.’
‘Night, guv.’
Marcus watched, bemused, as the man walked past him, then left the flat.
18
On Monday night, wearing her favourite dark green blouse over jeans, having trimmed the loose threads off it hastily before leaving the flat, Joanna sat fidgeting next to Marcus in the low-lit bistro. And feeling more than a little apprehensive about meeting Zoe Harrison.
‘For God’s sake, Jo, it’ll be fine! Just don’t ask who Jamie’s father is. She’s paranoid about it and when she hears you’re a journalist, she’ll be uneasy anyway.’ Marcus ordered a bottle of wine and lit a cigarette.
‘She might calm down when I tell her I’m only interested in what type of begonias she plants in her garden,’ said Joanna morosely. ‘Really, I don’t know how much longer I can stand it at work.’
Marcus wrapped an arm around Joanna’s shoulders. ‘You’ll be back in pole position sooner than you know it, especially if you uncover the great mystery of Sir Jim.’
