when it came his way.
Fortunately, he wasn’t the only stray of the group. Most of the guests were couples, but Banks knew that Graham Kirk, from the next street over, had recently split up with his wife, and Gemma Bradley, already three sheets to the wind, had driven her third husband out two years ago and hadn’t found a fourth yet. Harriet worked with Gemma, though, and clearly felt sorry for her. The other odd man out was Trevor Willis, a rather surly widower who kept nipping outside for a smoke with Daphne Venables, wife of one of David’s colleagues. Banks knew from previous occasions that Trevor was the kind who got quieter and more morose the more he drank, until he ended up nodding off—once, with dramatic effect, right into his trif le.
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It was at times like this when Banks dearly wished he still smoked, especially on a mild March eve ning. Sometimes it was good to have an excuse to escape outside for a few minutes when the conversation got too loud or too dull.
Geoff was in the middle of a story about an old woman who regularly called an ambulance just to get a lift to her hospital appointments, and how, just to scare her, one of the paramedics had remarked upon noticing a problem with her leg and said it would have to come off, when Harriet called them through to dinner.
It took her a few minutes to get everyone seated according to the plan, and Banks found himself between Daphne and Ray, opposite Max and Stella. It could have been worse, he ref lected, accepting a refill of wine from David as Harriet dished out plates of goat’s cheese and caramelized onion tart. The only ones already drunk were Gemma and Trevor, though Daphne seemed well on her way, judging by the way she kept squeezing Banks’s arm whenever she spoke to him. The tart was delicious, and there was enough free-f lowing conversation for Banks to sit quietly and enjoy it without being drawn in.
He had just finished his tart, and Daphne was holding his arm telling him a funny story about a runaway mobile library, when the doorbell rang. Everyone carried on with their conversations while Harriet got up and rushed over to answer it. Daphne was demanding all Banks’s attention, breathing Sancerre and stale tobacco his way, while exuding wafts of whatever strong perfume she was wearing.
The next thing he knew, Harriet was pulling up another chair at the end of the table. Thirteen for dinner, Banks thought, remembering the Poirot story. It was supposed to be unlucky. Conversations paused, men gawped and women stiffened. Banks still couldn’t escape Daphne’s grip on his left arm. He felt as if he’d been cornered by the Ancient Mariner. Over to his right, he heard an unfamiliar female voice say, “I’m sorry I’m so late.”
Finally, Daphne let go of him, and without being rude he was able to glance over and see Harriet fussing about how being late was no problem, setting an extra place for the new guest, who looked over at him and smiled. Then he remembered: Sophia had arrived at last.
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C H E L S E A WA S running late. She put her mascara on too thickly but didn’t really have time to apply it all over again. It would have to do.
She tugged at her bra under the skimpy top and squirmed until it felt comfortable, then dashed downstairs and put her heels on.
“Bloody hell,” said her father, turning away from the television for a rare moment as Chelsea teetered on one leg in the hallway. “Do you have any idea what you look like, girl?”
“Shut up, Duane,” her mother said. “Leave the poor lass alone. Didn’t you ever go out and have a good time when you were a young lad?”
“Maybe, but I didn’t dress like a fucking—”
Chelsea didn’t wait to hear what he said. She’d heard it all before anyway. It would be tart, trollop, whore, tom, or some such variation on the theme. She snatched up her handbag, where she kept her cigarettes, a touch of makeup and some extra money in case she needed to buy a round of drinks or pay for a taxi home, blew a kiss to her mother, who called after her to be careful and to remember what happened to that poor girl, and dashed out, hearing raised voices as the door closed behind her. They would be at it for a while, she knew, then her mother would give up and go to bingo, as usual. When Chelsea got home late, her mother would be in bed and her father would be in front of the TV
snoring through some naff old thriller or horror movie on Freeview, a full ashtray and a few empty beer cans on the ringed and stained table beside him. They were just that bloody predictable.
How she wished she lived in Leeds or Manchester or Newcastle, then she’d be able to stay out later, all night if she wanted, but Eastvale had pretty much closed down by half twelve or one o’clock on a Saturday night, except for the Bar None, where they had a naff DJ and lousy music, and the Taj Mahal, which was full of sad drunken squaddies drinking lager by the gallon and shoveling down vindaloo before they got shipped off to Iraq. Tomorrow she was going to see The Long Blondes at The Sage, in Gateshead, with Shane, in his car, their first real date without anyone else around. That would be excellent.
Then on Monday it was back to work in the shop. Such was her life.
They were all meeting in the market square. Chelsea couldn’t see a F R I E N D O F T H E D E V I L
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bus anywhere, they were so few and far between after six o’clock on the East Side Estate, so she’d have a fifteen-minute walk to get there, across the river, then up the hill past the gardens and the castle. It was already dark and her high heels made it tough going. They would be starting out in The Red Lion, she knew, and if she missed them there, they would most likely drop by The Trumpeters for a couple of games of pool before moving on to The Horse and Hounds, where there was usually a band playing covers of famous old songs like “Satisfaction”
and “Hey Jude.” They weren’t bad sometimes. Better than the decrepit trad jazz they had on Sunday lunchtimes, at any rate.
Chelsea picked up her pace after she had climbed the hill and walked around Castle Road, down into the market square, already jumping with young people well on their way. She said hello to a few people she knew as she crossed the square. The cobbles were really difficult to manage in the shoes she was wearing, and she almost
