Page 42 of Blow Down (The Plumber's Mate)
Phil frowned. “How can you not believe in it? You know you’re not faking it when you find stuff.”
“Yeah, but . . . I just do it, don’t I? I don’t, I dunno, light a bloody candle and chant stuff with my shoes off.”
“What have your shoes got to do with it?”
“I dunno, do I? Just something Cherry said. About Frith. The . . . thing. Not the bloke. It’s some Scottish divination thing, which I reckon is why old Lance was so into it all. Not ’cos he’s after a bit of rough with yours truly.”
“What, he can’t multitask?”
I glared at him.
“Joking, okay?” Phil ran a hand through his hair. “Look, I—”
He broke off and gave a quick, suspicious sniff. “Is something burning?”
I turned. Shit. There was a definite whiff of carbonising bacon in the air, and the smoke alarm started to screech. I switched off the grill quick and yanked the pan out to check the damage. The godawful noise stopped, and Phil came to look over my shoulder.
“Hope you like it crispy,” I said with a shrug.
Phil reached around me to grab one of the least-burnt bits of bacon, hissing in a breath as he singed his fingers. “Still edible,” he commented after taking a bite. “If you don’t mind charcoal.”
I salvaged another slice, breaking off the blackest parts and leaving them in the grill pan. “Could be worse,” I agreed, my mouth full. I opened the window with my nongreasy hand. That bloody alarm would go off again if we didn’t get the smoke out. Then I remembered the beans, and lifted the lid fatalistically. Yep, nice bit of orange sludge there. I’d need to clean that pan with a hammer and chisel. “Fancy that takeaway after all?” I suggested, too bloody knackered to start all over again.
Maybe it showed in my voice. Phil opened the fridge and crouched down to have a proper butcher’s inside. “Got soup in the cupboard?”
“Yeah. Tomato or cream of chicken. And a couple of odd cans that were on offer.”
“Tomato, then.” He stood up, clutching a slab of cheddar and a bottle of beer, which he handed to me. “Yours. Go put your feet up. Even I can manage to heat up soup and do a bit of cheese on toast.”
I opened the beer and took a swig. Jesus, I’d needed that. About to head into the living room, I paused. “Look, you’ve obviously had a crappy day. Wanna tell me about it?” I kept my tone mild.
Phil was silent a long time. Then he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Later, okay? Let’s get you fed first.”
“Worried I’ll start biting your leg if you don’t?” That was Merlin’s latest trick, anytime he reckoned dinner wasn’t coming quick enough. Speaking of which . . . “Oi, where’ve the cats got to?”
They’d been in the kitchen when I’d started cooking, drawn by the siren tones of the fridge door opening, but were now nowhere to be seen. I ambled into the living room and found Merlin pacing nervously on the windowsill while Arthur sat on the sofa, only the kneading of his paws on the cushions betraying he wasn’t quite as laid-back about things as he was trying to pretend. I sat down to pet him. “Sorry. Mum and Dad having a domestic.” Obviously, I saw myself as Dad in that little scenario.
Shut up.
I could tell Arthur had forgiven me already. He only clawed me lightly when I pulled him onto my lap. Might as well give him a bit of attention while I waited for my dinner.
The soup turned up with that gritty texture that means it’s been overheated, and the toast corners were burnt. It was the best meal I’d had in ages.
I didn’t tell Phil that. He’d only have thought I was taking the piss.
Arthur had stalked off, his dignity wounded by me trying to use him to rest my plate on. Merlin gave Phil’s legs a quick sniff and a cheek rub, then carried on stalking twitchily while we ate in near-silence.
“Gonna tell me about it now?” I asked gently, when we’d finished.
We were sitting on the sofa, the telly with the volume down low, showing a darts match neither of us gave a toss about.
Pun not intended.
There was a long pause, then Phil huffed and spoke. “It was how it started with Mark, all right? He had a load of hobbies. Interests. I wasn’t working regular hours, so he’d find other people to spend time with. People he had stuff in common with, besides just watching the telly and all that. After a while, he just . . . stopped loving me. I wasn’t enough for him. Not anymore. So these blokes he took to the art galleries and stuff . . .” Phil shrugged. “He started screwing them as well.”
Jesus, what a bastard. “And he left you for one of the blokes he hooked up with?”
Phil shook his head. “No.” He gave a bitter half laugh. “I left him, in the end. We had this row . . . Would you believe it, he couldn’t even see what the problem was? Kept asking why I was getting so mad about him screwing other men when I’d never been that into him anyway.”
