Page 63 of Blow Down (The Plumber's Mate)
Phil got up, walked around the desk, and swivelled the chair to face him. He crouched down and ran his hands up and down my thighs. “No you weren’t. Not really. But there’s worse things in the world than not being totally sure which country your great-grandad came from.”
Yeah. I guessed there really were. Like having the bloke you loved turn out to be a bastard. “Did you keep hoping about Mark?” I blurted out, and wished I hadn’t.
Phil’s face turned bleak. “Really want to ask that?”
No. No, I guessed I didn’t.
We headed off back to mine after that. The weather had turned a bit wet and windy—proper autumn squall—so I did bangers and mash for tea to warm us up a bit.
Any suggestions I might’ve wanted comfort food for reasons other than the weather are gonna get roundly ignored, all right?
Afterwards, we curled up on the sofa with some proper coffee and a couple of choccy biccies. Also a couple of sulky cats, annoyed ’cos neither of us had a hand free to pay them the attention that was theirs by God-given right.
There was nothing interesting on the telly, so after a while, I got to thinking. “You never said what you wanted to do about names when we get married, did you?” I said, making sure I was looking Phil right in the eye.
Yep. There it was. The expression froze. “We should talk about it,” he said at last.
“Yeah, see, I was thinking.” I took a deep breath. I was pretty sure I’d got this right. “We’re both in business, and it doesn’t pay to confuse people. And the way I see it, neither of us deserves to lose out financially just ’cos some people are tossers. So maybe we should stick with what we’ve got, yeah? Forget about the double-barrelling.”
Phil’s face softened. “Yeah. I reckon that’s a good idea. If you’re sure?”
I smiled. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
After all, what’s in a name? Really?
Phil put down his mug and slung his arm around me. Arthur was visibly Not Amused by this wanton display of skewed priorities, but he could suck it up and deal.
Then, of course, the doorbell rang.
“I’ll get it,” I said, seeing as (a) it was my house, strictly speaking, and (b) Phil was currently weighed down by around fifteen pounds of cat.
I opened the door, half-eaten choccy biccie in hand and still munching on my mouthful. And nearly choked.
It was Vi Majors, queen of the bloody annoying timing. She didn’t look happy.
“What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?” She took down her umbrella, shook it briskly so that fat, cold drops of water landed all over me—and my flippin’ biccie—and stomped past me into the hall without so much as a by-your-leave.
“Make yourself at home, love,” I said sarcastically.
“Is that partner of yours here? Good.” Clearly Phil was still in the living room where I’d left him. “I’m paying you to find a necklace, not a bloody murderer.”
I made it into the living room. Vi had her fists clenched, squaring up to my Phil, who just stood there looking irritatingly calm—well, I bet it got Vi’s back up—with his arms folded.
“What makes you think I’m not doing just that?” he asked.
“I spoke to Uncle Arlo today. He told me everything. He said you practically accused him of causing his sister’s death.”
“Oi,” I said, narked. “That’s not how I remember it.”
Phil glared at me. Typical. There’s no pleasing some people. Then he turned to Vi. “Miss Majors, I never suggested your uncle had murdered his sister. Just that the replica necklace was involved in her death. As you already know.”
She actually threw up her hands and made a sort of truncated boiling-kettle noise. “Why would a fake necklace have anything to do with murder?”
Phil didn’t answer her question, just carried on asking his own. “Were you aware that your uncle had made the replica necklace for your stepmother?”
Vi reddened. “Of course I was.”
Was she lying? I couldn’t tell.
