Page 42 of Pressure Head
I was lying on my back underneath a bath in Jersey Farm—that’s a big council estate between St. Albans and Sandridge, by the way, not an actual farm—when he rang me next day. “Paretski Plumbing,” I answered chirpily, recognising his number.
“You don’t sound Polish.” Phil’s voice rumbled in my ear, its tone light. Flirtatious, even—or was I just reading too much into it? I hoped not.
“Would you like me to?” I countered, hoping the customer was still busy downstairs and wouldn’t (a) hear me flirting back or (b) come up and notice I was semiaroused. I’d had a restless night—sleeping on the sofa has never done wonders for my hip—with a certain PI playing a prominent role in my dreams. I’d finally woken up late, feeling horny as hell and with no time to do anything about it.
My memory was a bit fuzzy about what had happened the previous night after Phil had got me home, but I’d woken up wrapped snug in a blanket, with a pint glass of water and a bucket (thankfully unused) by my side. I’d felt, in a word, cared for. It was a good feeling, and I’d carried the good mood it gave me all the way to work.
“Maybe some other time. Are you free at all today?”
I was tempted to trillI’m free!like John Inman playing Mr. Humphries, but I resisted. After all, they might not have watchedAre You Being Served?reruns in his house. “Depends what for.”
“How about a visit to the honorary treasurer, Mr. Lionel Treadgood, esquire?”
“You take me on all the best dates, don’t you?” There was a silence, which I rushed to fill. “What time?”
“Any time this afternoon, he said.”
“Sounds like we’re dealing with a member of the leisured classes. Nice work if you can get it.”
There was a sharp breath down the phone line that might have been Phil smiling. “He’s got his own construction firm, so I guess he takes time off when he wants to. House up in Fallow’s Wood; makes the East place look like a council flat.”
Which meant my house, by comparison, was a condemned garden shed with both wet and dry rot. “Do I need to put my Sunday frock on, then?”
“Twinset and pearls will do just fine.”
“Shame my tiara’s in the wash.”
There was another short silence. “Thought you might be feeling a bit hungover after last night.”
“Nah, someone got me to drink a gallon of water before bed. And I don’t really get hangovers. Well, not that bad, anyway.”
“Lucky bastard.”
“Hope I didn’t say anything too daft last night.”
“What, dafter than usual?” There was a pause.
I was expecting him to ask why I’d drunk so much—I was fairly sure I hadn’t got round to telling him last night—but maybe he didn’t want to get into anything heavy over the phone. I thought about bringing it up myself, but then again, the customer (“Call me Angie, love”) was only two flights of stairs away, and though I seriously doubted she was a regular at St. Anthony’s Church, Brock’s Hollow, loose lips sink ships and all that.
“Thanks for taking me home,” I said, when he didn’t say anything else.
“No problem. It was only up the road.” He cleared his throat. “Right. How about we meet up at the Four Candles in Brock’s Hollow, and you can leave your van in the car park, and we’ll drive up together?”
“Works for me. Okay, I’ve got a quote to do around two-ish—might need to go up in the attic—so how about I meet you in the Four Candles at three?”
“See you then.” He rang off, and I got back to work just in time for when Angie came back up.
“I brought you a cup of tea, Tomasz,” she said with a fair attempt at a Polish pronunciation, at least as far as I could tell. “Or is it Tomek?”
“Just Tom, love,” I told her, trying not to sound too long-suffering.
She crouched down to my level. Given how short her skirt was, it was probably a bit more of a revealing move than she meant it to be. Then again, maybe not. “Two sugars all right?”
“Lovely,” I said and gave her a wink. “Thanks, love. Just put it down there, and I’ll drink it in a mo.”
I could always tip it down the sink.
I was just finishing up my Diet Coke when Phil walked into the Four Candles. I was sitting in a corner, surrounded by photos on the walls of Brock’s Hollow in Days Gone By. Most of the buildings in the pictures were surprisingly recognisable, except every other house in the high street seemed to have been a pub those days. Perhaps that was what old people meant when they talked about making their own entertainment in the pre-TV days.
