Page 85 of Blow Down (The Plumber's Mate)
Well, hopefully.
“We’re keeping our own names,” Phil said shortly. “Look, I’ve got some paperwork to do, so I’ll leave you to it for a bit.”
He headed upstairs with his laptop. Phil finds Gary easier to take in small doses.
Especially when Gary’s got a face on him like the one he was sporting right now. “Keeping your maiden names? Don’t you think that shows a certain lack of commitment?”
I shrugged and wrote Fine by me in my notebook.
Gary arched an eyebrow. “The names? Or the lack of commitment?”
I gave him an eye roll. Then I wrote, It’s what he wants, and I’m not bothered.
“Oh, sweetie,” Gary said, his tone sorrowful. “You don’t want to be the one who always gives in. It’s a slippery slope, Tommy dearest.”
I scribbled down, I’m not.
Gary just raised an eyebrow, the git.
Phil didn’t say he was going to stay over that night, just hopped into bed with me as if he owned the place.
I can’t say I was all that surprised, to be honest. Actually, for a moment there I was worried he’d taken Dave’s advice to heart and really was intending to hold my hand while I went for a piss.
Course, if he moved in with me, it’d be our place, not just mine, and he’d be hopping into bed with me every night. Which, yeah, no cons there.
Just . . . I’d lived alone for years now. And yeah, he was round here a lot, but that wasn’t the same as him having nowhere else to go.
Maybe it would be better to take up Cherry’s offer? Start off fresh somewhere new? Somewhere bigger, where I wouldn’t feel he was invading my space?
Christ, though, Pluck’s End? I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s lovely there. But would it be home, like Fleetville was? I felt like I belonged here. I knew the people in the local businesses, and, well, I fitted in. Would I fit in, in Pluck’s End, with all the lawyers and the doctors and the retired bank managers?
Phil would, with his cashmere sweaters and his shiny VW Golf.
Everyone would think he was slumming it with me.
I felt a lot more chipper next morning, after a decent night’s kip and a lie-in. My eyes were still a bit on the satanic side, and the bruises looked, if anything, worse than the day before, but at least my throat wasn’t as sore. I wasn’t planning on entering X Factor anytime soon, mind.
I could tell Phil was torn. He clearly wanted to be out and about tracking down whatever bastard had tried to break our engagement permanently, but he didn’t want to leave me on my own. I had a feeling he was going to try to ship me over to Gary’s to be babysat, and if that was the case, we were going to have to have words.
Probably written ones, in my case. But they’d be in all capitals.
“Feel up to a trip out?” he asked in the end.
“Yeah,” I croaked, louder than I’d meant to. “Thought you’d leave me behind,” I added in a whisper.
“Don’t talk. You need to rest your throat. No. We’re going to talk to Alex Majors about his plumbing, and having you along looking like that might loosen his tongue.”
I grinned and grabbed my notebook. You’re sexy when you’re ruthless, I wrote.
It was a lie. He was sexy all the time.
Phil went off to make a couple of phone calls, and I set about making myself more presentable. With one of Phil’s cashmere scarves round my neck to hide the bruising and sunglasses to hide the demon eyes, I looked like Lance Frith’s less trendy cousin. Maybe I should grow a beard. I mean, I hadn’t felt much like shaving this morning anyhow, so I already had a start on it.
I thought about mentioning it to Phil as we drove off in his Golf—he looked like he could do with a laugh—but although my throat was definitely better than it had been, I still wasn’t keen on speaking when it wasn’t absolutely necessary, especially when there was background noise around. Maybe I’d text him. Trouble was, he was driving. If I made him hit a lamppost, I’d be well embarrassed.
I fiddled about with my phone until I found the text-to-speech app and had an idea moment. I hit Play, and a robotic American voice asked, “SHOULD I GROW A BEARD?”
Well, it certainly got a reaction. Phil looked over, startled, the car swerved, and we almost did hit a lamppost. “Jesus, you want to warn me next time?”
