The Make

‘This month’s due soon too. Fat chance I’ll get that, I reckon. If they’re late on that, they’ll be out.’

‘I’ll pay both months, okay? I’m sure missing last month’s was just an oversight.’

‘It’d better be,’ he sniffed ungratefully, and gave her the details.

Gracie put the phone down and put the slip of paper in her bag.

She sifted through the other notes there. Nothing helpful. She looked at the post. Should she open it? That would feel like snooping, but what else was she doing here, if not to snoop around, look for some sort of answer to what had been going on? She put the post into her bag, undecided.

I’m watching you, Red.

Stifling a shudder, she stood up, took off her coat, then went and put the kettle on. Then she wandered through to the bedroom where the computer station was. She was standing there staring at the blank dead screen when a buzzer sounded loudly.

Gracie jumped. What the hell . . .?

It was coming from the lounge. She walked back through. The kettle was starting to boil. The buzzer sounded again. It was the entry phone. Someone was at the door downstairs, wanting to get in.

Harry? She felt a wild surge of hope. But then Harry wouldn’t be ringing his own damned doorbell . . . would he? Well, maybe if he’d forgotten his key and thought George was in here to let him in. She lifted the receiver and said, ‘Hello?’

A moment’s silence. Then: ‘Who’s that?’ asked a male voice. It was tinged with a faint Irish brogue.

‘Who’s that?’ returned Gracie, although a strong feeling of recognition had shot through her as he spoke.

‘Gracie?’ asked the voice, sounding incredulous.

She did know that voice. She knew it very well.

‘You’d better come up,’ she said, and pressed the release tab.

It didn’t take him long to get up the stairs. He rapped on the door a few seconds later, and Gracie opened it, her heart in her mouth. It was him.

‘Fuck me,’ she said faintly. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

Lorcan Connolly stuck his hands in his coat pockets and looked her dead in the eye.

‘Hi to you too,’ he said with a wry half-smile. ‘Is that really any way to greet your husband?’

Chapter 21

22 December

Gracie drew back and Lorcan stepped inside the flat. Her heart skipped several beats as she closed the door. Not a good sign. She didn’t want to react to him at all. They’d been apart for five years; all those feelings should have been dead and gone by now.

But . . . she sneaked a peek at him as he moved from the hall into the lounge . . . he was still so damned good-looking. Dark, neatly trimmed hair, strong face, sharp suit. That black coat was cashmere, she could tell, and snowflakes were melting on his shoulders in the fuggy warmth of the flat. She caught a whiff of his aftershave as he passed by, something new – sharp and lemony with an undertone of sandalwood.

Lorcan Connolly.

Her husband.

Who – incidentally – had just petitioned to divorce her.

That thought made Gracie snap back to attention. That, and Lorcan’s next words as he turned and looked at her with unfriendly eyes. ‘So. Come on, Gracie, tell me now. Where the fuck is he?’

‘What?’ Gracie was half afraid that her tongue had been hanging out, but now she straightened, focused. All right, the shock of seeing him after five long years of silence and distance was considerable; but she had to get over it, compose herself. After all, he certainly didn’t look fazed by seeing her.

Lorcan Connolly wanted rid of her. Fine. If that was how he wanted it, then that was how it would be. And she wasn’t going to relive the past by behaving like a star-struck teenager around him. She had more dignity than that.

She reminded herself sternly that she was a good game player, she could bluff for England. She could be cool. In poker – and she was an expert at poker – you didn’t play the hand of cards you’d been dealt, you played your opponent. You read his reactions, his ‘tells’ – the movements or gestures he unconsciously made that gave away his thoughts. She had a great poker face. She could do this.

‘George,’ said Lorcan impatiently. ‘He hasn’t turned in for work yet again, so where is he? Jesus.’ He was looking disgustedly around at the unmade-up sofa bed with its crumpled sheets, the dusty surfaces, the clutter. ‘It’s a tip in here.’

Gracie tried to get her head around what he’d just said. ‘George has been working for you?’

‘Yeah, as a dealer. Didn’t your mother tell you?’

‘She hasn’t mentioned it, no.’

He swung round and looked at her. ‘And what are you doing down here? I thought your time was fully occupied in Manchester. How is the business, by the way?’

‘Fine,’ snapped Gracie, and went into the kitchen before she forgot about playing it cool and lamped him.

What the hell was he talking to her like that for?

She rummaged in the cupboards and found a packet of cheap-brand tea bags amid the jumble and spills and out-of-date goods. ‘I’m having tea, you want one?’ she called through.

And I hope it chokes you.

‘Yeah, go on.’

She looked in the fridge. There was milk there, but she took a quick sniff, pulled a face and dumped the glutinous white mass into the sink. She looked in the cupboard again. A tub of instant milk powder, which would have to do.

‘You haven’t answered,’ said Lorcan, coming into the kitchen.

It was too small in here. There wasn’t room for a six-foot-four-inch man and a six- foot woman. They manoeuvred around each other with inches to spare. Or at least Gracie manoeuvred. Lorcan just leaned against the worktop like a wall of stone and watched while she made the tea. She could feel herself getting hot, could feel her face flushing with embarrassment.

‘I didn’t realize answering was compulsory,’ she said, stirring with a vengeance. ‘And while we’re on the subject of questions, I’ve got one for you.’

She dumped the tea bags on the sink top – the bin was overflowing – and thrust a mug towards him.

‘Thanks,’ he said, taking it. ‘All right, shoot. What’s the question?’

Gracie swept past him, clutching her mug of tea, and went into the lounge. She turned and stared at him as he followed her. Fuck it. He was still seriously gorgeous.

‘Why now with the divorce papers?’ she asked flatly.

‘Why now?’ He put his mug down on the dusty coffee table. ‘You really want to know the answer to that? Okay, I’ll tell you. George has been letting me down for weeks, throwing sickies, rolling in late. Some of the boys have said he has something else going, some little sideline that pays better. You know George, he never could keep his mouth shut. But I gave him a job because he was your brother, Gracie. You ran out on me, but I believe in loyalty so I thought, hey, he’s her brother, I’ll keep him on. And now he’s playing silly buggers too.’

Gracie opened her mouth to say something cutting, she didn’t know what.

She ran out on him? The bastard, how could he say that? She was getting angry, forgetting she had to be cool. But then – this had been the pattern of their lives together, hadn’t it. She remembered it oh so well. Tearing lumps out of each other during screaming rows. Ripping each