‘Sorry,’ Gabe said again as she crammed the wig onto her head, covering her naked scalp and pulling up the hood of herjacket for good measure. He retrieved the dropped carrier of shopping from a clump of dead stinging nettles in the ditch and handed that back too.
‘Sorry? Really? I doubt that.’ Savannah’s lip curled with derision. ‘I should imagine you’re jumping for joy. You’ve got just what you wanted, haven’t you?’ She indicated the camera around his neck and said sarcastically, ‘I hope you’re proud of yourself.’
Gabe reached for the camera; earlier, Pavlovian instinct had taken over and he’d barely been aware of taking the photos. But – he checked – yes, there they were, clear as day on the screen, ready to reveal Savannah Hudson’s secret to the world.
She’d now turned and was already hurrying on up the lane with her shopping and her ridiculous yippy-yappy dog.
‘Wait,’ Gabe called out. He caught up within thirty seconds and put a hand on her arm to slow her down.
‘Please, just leave me alone.’ Snatching her arm away Savannah said evenly, ‘And don’t touch me either or I’ll have you for assault.’
‘OK, OK, just stop for a moment and watch me.’ Closing his mind to what he was about to do, Gabe waited until he had her attention. His hands trembled as he showed her the photos on the camera screen. ‘OK, see the delete button? You press it.’
If he’d expected Savannah Hudson’s rosebud mouth to fall open, for her to turn to him in wonder and whisper, ‘Seriously? Do you mean it? Are you really sure?’ he’d have been disappointed. In a nano-second her index finger had shot out, pressing the button and deleting the images forever.
Dink, dink, gone. Just like that. And if Gabe had been expecting her to fling herself at him in gratitude crying, ‘Oh God, my hero, thank you, thank you,’ well, he’d have been sorely disappointed there too. Instead she turned away, muttering, ‘And don’t tell anyone either.’
He watched Savannah Hudson trudge up the hill with Bunty still yapping at her side. Then they rounded the bend and disappeared from view. A smattering of icy rain hit Gabe in the face and he shivered at the realisation of what he’d just done.
Damn right he wouldn’t be telling anyone. If he did, they’d only call him a prat.
Chapter 35
In retrospect, Lola was able to acknowledge that she’d made a big mistake in confiding to the others at work — OK, boasting to the others at work — about having been asked out — OK, practically asked out — by EJ Mack. Now, at least half a dozen times a day someone would clutch their chest and exclaim, ‘Oh my God, here he is! Lola, EJ’s here to beg you to go out with him ... quick, look, he’s crawling on his knees through the shop ... he’s saying, 'Pleeeease, Lola, pleeeeease will you go out with me?' ... Oh look, and now he’s crying, there are tears dripping all over his lovely blue anorak.’
Which might have been mildly amusing the first couple of times but was altogether less hilarious now.
Anyway, concentrate on the books that needed to be ordered. In the back office, huffing her hair out of her eyes, Lola returned her attention to the computer screen and double-checked a list of ISBNs.
Across the desk, after hastily swallowing the last mouthful of her lunchtime prawn sandwich, Cheryl picked up the ringing phone.
Seconds later, windmilling her free arm in front of Lola, she squealed, ‘It’s for you! You’ll never guess ... it’s him!’
‘Who?’ Lola couldn’t help herself; her ever-hopeful heart leapt at the idea that it might be Doug.
‘EJ Mack!’
God, weren’t they sick to death of playing that game yet? Cross with herself for even thinking it could have been Dougie, Lola said, ‘Well, tell him sorry, but I don’t want to speak to someone who has the nerve to go out in public wearing a turquoise anorak. Tell him to bugger off and pester Madonna instead.’
Hastily covering the receiver, Cheryl hissed, ‘You berk, I’m serious. It really is him.’
‘She’s right,’ EJ confirmed when Lola took the phone. ‘It really is.’
‘Oops. Hello.’
‘And I’ll have you know, the anorak is Jean Paul Gaultier.’
‘OK,’ said Lola. ‘Sorry. I’m nothing but a fashion heathen.’
‘The trouble is, you think I dress like a trainspotter because I can’t help myself. Whereas in fact I choose to dress like a trainspotter because I am a leading proponent of cutting-edge, postmodern, pseudo-supergeek fashion, as featured by Jean Paul in his last Paris collection.’
Shit. ‘Right. Sorry again.’
Gravely, EJ said,’That’s perfectly all right.You can’t help being a heathen. How are your feet now?’
‘What’s he saying?’ mouthed Cheryl frantically, her eyes like saucers.
‘They’re ... much better.’ Lola ignored her.
‘And you’re not feeling too shattered?’
No, I’m fine, thanks.’
‘So if I were to ask you if you’d like to meet me tonight, do you think you might say yes?’
Yeek! Cautiously — because he’d caught her out last time — Lola ventured, ‘I might.’
‘Shall we do that, then?’
It was like, Are you dancing? Are you asking?
‘If you want to,’ said Lola.
‘You don’t sound very enthusiastic. Do you really want to see me?’
