'Aye,' she says after a hesitation. 'It's not urgent, I just need to talk to someone, that's all.'
'You don't have any plans for the evening? No parents or fifteen year-old strapping boyfriends to see?'
'Parents are in Inverness. I'm going up for New Year. I wasn't really planning to do anything other than watch Mission Impossible 3 again.'
'All right, I think I can save you from that.'
We stare at each other for a minute. Crosses my mind that she really is young enough to be my daughter, and almost feel paternal. Reminds me of my real daughter.
'Look, sorry, I've got to go.'
She smiles. 'I'll see you tomorrow. And I'm sorry about the other night. I was rude.'
Don't know what to say to that.
'Right. See you,' I say, and turn out the door, the smell of her still with me. Along with that bloody nuisance, curiosity.
12
Standing on the doorstep of Miller's house. The doorbell has just rung with a comforting lack of affectation. I was expecting it be the Hallelujah Chorus, or something equally grandiose and pretentious, but instead it was a fairly close approximation of ding dong.
God, I'm talking pish. I have to relax. She's only a woman. I've had hundreds of them. No, really. Try not to wonder why I'm here, because that's not going to get me anywhere. I've been thinking about her since I saw her topless; maybe she's been thinking about me. There's weirder shit than that in life.
Maybe she wants to talk about all the war shit. She knows a little of the story, and every now and again she makes some comment about how she must learn more about it, it's so interesting, and on and on… I don't believe she's interested in my part in the Balkan wars any more than I want to go back there.
My part in the Balkan wars, for crying our loud.
Still in a mild state of excitement after the first meal of the evening. The kids were all over me, after ignoring my instructions and opening the presents there and then. They went down a bomb. I'll have to thank Harrison. Nearly fell out with Andy over the ridiculous fusty moustache he's attempting to grow, but then he's a teenager and he'll do a lot more stupid things than that before he hits his twenties.
Anyway, their mother arrives, not just to pick them up, but to sit and have a drink. So there we were, the happy family. I hand over the gift to Peggy, she does the same opening it there in front of me routine, then nearly freaks. In a good way. You could tell the kids loved it. All the while I was wondering what Mr No Personality would make of it if he were to walk in but then the way the conversation went, I got the impression that he had taken his deficient character back to Paisley and was leaving my family alone.
They all ended up pleading with me to come and spend Christmas dinner, to which I agreed, leaving myself with the quandary of what to do about the delicious Bathurst. Almost asked if I could bring her along, but thought better of it. So I'll check out of work tomorrow at five, and rejoin the family; and if the merchant wanker has just walked out, it looks like I timed my expensive present to perfection. There are two things women never fail to fall for — diamonds and occasional displays of maturity. They work every time, and I managed to pull both off in the same day.
The door opens. Superintendent Charlotte Miller. I stand and stare at her. Her eyes, I'm looking at her eyes. She leans against the door.
'Are you going to come in, Thomas? You look freezing.'
I'm no fashion freak — another plus to my character — so I don't know what you'd call what she's wearing. Sort of pyjamas. And blue.
Walk tentatively into the house, not sure whether I'm going to find anyone else there. Had the sudden thought on the way down here that maybe she was inviting about twenty people from the station and we were all keeping it quiet thinking we'd been specially selected.
I wander into a dining room, low lights, roaring fire, soft music, two place settings at the table, one very obvious bottle of champagne. Christmas tree in the corner.
'Can I take your jacket, get you a drink?'
I take my coat off, hand it to her. I've got that weird feeling in the throat you get sometimes when you know you're about to have sex.
'Vodka tonic, please.'
'All right,' she says, and shimmers out the room.
Jesus. Just bugger the questions as to why I'm here, I can worry about them tomorrow. Plenty of time. Relax and enjoy yourself, Hutton. And it might finally be time to stop feeling guilty about all those lascivious breast-related thoughts.
I start looking at the pictures on the walls. Sailing ships and big seas mostly. I've heard tell she's a member of the Royal and Northern Yacht Club just around the corner. Doesn't sail, just goes there to hang out with the rest of the local money and to shag whatever big stick she can get her hands on. Very admirable.
The mind rambles on. If I had to guess I'd say the music was Mozart, but that's only because I saw Amadeus twenty-five years ago.
She comes back into the room, rid of the jacket, and clutching a bucket of ice and a bottle of expensive looking French white. Pitches up at the drinks cabinet and sorts out my v amp;t. Pours herself some wine.
'No art can compete with life whose sun we cannot look upon,' she says, as I stare at a picture of some old sea battle. Stevenson, I presume, but I don't encourage her by asking her to explain what in the name of all fuck she's talking about.
She hands over the vodka, raises her glass.
'Merry Christmas,' she says.
Raise my glass in reply. 'Right,' is all I can think to say. I'll have to do better than that.
She wanders over to the comfy seats by the fire, sits down. Her smell is intoxicating. I want to smother her in ice cream and spend hours licking it off. I want to rub chocolate sauce into her breasts and drink vodka from her belly button. I want to swathe her buttocks in cream and thrash them senseless. I want to pour syrup over her pubic hair and vagina, bury my head between her legs and emerge five hours later a sticky, gooey mess.
'Sit down, Thomas, for God's sake. And relax, you look like you're scared shitless. I'm not going to eat you.'
Damn.
I take the hint and sit down on the next available seat. Take a large draw from the vodka, which contains a comforting lack of tonic. Feel the warmth of it descend into my stomach; instantly relaxed.
I sort of smile at her and then stare into the fire. Hypnotic flame. Relaxed by it and by the smells in the air. Charlotte, burning wood, the real Christmas tree. A fantastic, festive erotic dream.
Feel her looking at me, but keep staring into the fire. She asked me here, she can make the first move. Take another drink from the vodka and realise I've nearly finished it already. Better slow down or I'll be making a knob of myself.
'We don't talk much, do we?' she says.
I drag my eyes away from the flame. Her lips are moist, her nipples are obvious against the satin. I get that weird feeling at the back of my throat again.
'We're all too shit scared of you,' I say. Not sure about my candour, but it's out there.
She smiles. Sips her wine. Eyes shine in the light of the fire. 'It's good to get to know one's people a little better,' she says.
I nod. I want to smother her backside in honey, and drink champagne from her ears.
'I don't know what sort of things you'll have heard about me, Thomas. I'm sure I must have a reputation.'
I nod again. I don't really think that about her ears. I'm just rampant and not looking at my crotch because I don't want to know how obvious my erection is.
No idea what she wants me to say to that. Well, darling, we all think you're in it for the power, and you'll
