Page 19 of Pressure Head
I frowned. “What? Nice? Or hoping to get my leg over?”
“No, you— Are you seeing anyone?”
“Why do you care?” Did he care? Did I want him to? “No, as it happens.”
He paused, a forkful of pie halfway to his mouth. “Not the relationship type?”
“Yeah, that’s me. Shag a different bloke every night. And you know those porn clichés about the plumber turning up to give your pipes a good seeing to? They’re all true, every one.” I managed not to roll my eyes at him and jammed a forkful of fish in my gob.
“Still a touchy little sod, aren’t you?” He sounded amused.
“Less of the little, if you don’t mind.” I raised an eyebrow deliberately. I wasn’t sure Phil spoke innuendo.
His smile spread, so maybe he did understand me. “Why? It’s true. You should put it on your business cards—Tom Paretski, the pocket-sized plumber. No job too small.”
“And again with the height jokes. What do you have on yours?Phil Morrison, the muscle-bound moron?”
“Now, come on—that’s a poor effort. How aboutPrivate Dick—the biggest in the business?”
I grinned. “So is it, then?”
His turn to say, “What?”
“The biggest. Come to that, is it private, or can anyone apply?” I took another forkful of plaice.
Phil stared at me a bit too intently for comfort, his eyes dark and unreadable. For all the fish was melt-in-the-mouth tender, suddenly my throat was too dry to swallow it. I reached blindly for my drink, unable to break eye contact.
“They can apply,” he said at last. “Doesn’t mean they’ll get the job.” Then he bent his head to his pie and started chowing down like a champion.
Obviously we’d finished with the flirting part of the meal. I followed his example and chomped in silence. Well, it’d be a shame to let it get cold—the fish really was good.
“Why did you leave the force?” I asked after a while, when I’d begun to feel full but didn’t quite want to stop eating yet. “Did the institutionalised homophobia get too much for you?” Although I couldn’t imagine Phil taking any crap about his sexuality from anyone.
“Not exactly.” He paused, decided it was safe to let me into the secret. “I’d always planned to go private. Just joined the force for the training.”
“Sneaky.”
“Sensible.”
“That’s my taxes paid for your training, though.”
“You got six years out of me. I reckon it’s a fair trade.” He speared a carrot. “And how much tax do you ever pay, anyway? I’d have thought half your work was cash in hand.”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t pay tax on it.”
“I thought fiddling the tax man was one of the perks of the trade.”
“Spoken like a true upholder of law and order. Although I suppose now you’ve gone private, you can afford to be a bit more flexible about that, can’t you?”
“I’ve got my ethical standards, same as everyone. Are you done there?”
“Why, in a hurry, are you?” I looked at my plate. It still had some chips on it, but at least I’d eaten all my greens, Mum. “Yeah, I’m done.” I supposed this was good-bye. Maybe I’d see him at Graham’s sometime—I was definitely going to have to keep in touch with the poor sod. Someone needed to make sure he was eating right, that sort of thing. If they hadn’t already locked him up and thrown away the key, that was.
“Good,” Phil said, pushing back his chair and standing. “Come on, then—the estate agent’s just down the road.”
I did a double take. “Hang on a minute—when did I become your unpaid assistant?” I had to hurry after him, the long-legged git. “What do you want me along for, anyhow?”
About to push the door open, Phil turned to me. “Your van’s up at Graham’s. You’re not seriously expecting me to take you up there and then come back down here, when the place is only yards down the road?”
Had he set this up? I sent him a suspicious look, but seeing as it only reached the back of his head as he set off down the hill without waiting for an answer, I might as well have saved myself the bother. Still, I wasn’t exactly averse to spending a little more time in his company. If he could only keep his mouth shut, he’d be perfect. I smiled as I got a vivid image of Phil Morrison in my bed. Gagged.
“Something funny?” Bugger. He’d turned at just the wrong moment.
“Trust me, you don’t want to know. This it, then?” We’d stopped outside the offices of Village Properties, which was next door to the Women’s Institute shop. I could see hand-knitted dollies peeping coyly out from behind patchwork cushions and strange, vegetable-shaped ornaments in their window.
Phil, of course, didn’t spare a glance for the ladies’ handiwork, and pushed open the estate agent’s door. I followed him in—and nearly tripped over the doormat when I saw the bloke at the desk. Bloody hell, that photo had done him no justice at all. He wasn’t justnice; he was gorgeous.
