“Oh, hello. Fancy meeting you here.”
Mal glanced up and blinked. Shit—it was Jory’s missus. Funny to think he’d shagged her husband. Still, he wasn’t going to be doing that again. And that was two things they had in common. He gave her a smile. “Kirsty, right? These are dead good. They by a local artist, or are they shipped in from China?”
“You’re cynical in your old age, aren’t you, love? All made locally by my own fair hands, I’ll have you know.” She handed him a business card that said Kirsty Fisher—Art from the sea.
“You’re shitting me. Seriously? These are like epic.”
The prices were pretty epic and all, but then Mal didn’t have the first clue what the going rate was for driftwood art cos, well, it wasn’t like you were paying for the cost of materials, was it? He gave the mermaid a last little stroke in farewell.
Kirsty raised an eyebrow. “Like her, do you? I wouldn’t have thought you were the sort to go for mermaids.”
Mal grinned. “Mermaids, mermen . . . I’m an equal-opportunities patron of the arts, I am.”
“Oh yeah? I’ll let you into a secret, then. This is one of my favourites.” She picked up a sculpture from the back of the table and held it up. “Like him? I call him AC/DC, cos he’s an electric eel. Go on, have a feel. And no, I don’t say that to all the boys.”
The sculpture was amazing—a snaky S curve of glossy, rich wood mounted on a simple stand. Somehow the eel managed to look like it was alive, and moving, even, swimming through the sea with a flick of its muscular tail. Mal reached out a hand. If he’d thought the mermaid’s scales were smooth, this was like touching moonlight. Mal stroked it a few times. It was weirdly satisfying.
“Enjoying that, are you?” Kirsty asked.
Okay, maybe it wasn’t all that weird. “Too right. I’d be tempted to take him home, but I bet he’s out of my price range.”
“Oh, he’s not for sale. Who’d I have to keep me company on lonely nights if he went? I could do you a deal on the mermaid, though.”
“What kind of a deal?”
“Hmm . . . call her half price, as long as you keep it to yourself. Don’t want everyone and his dog thinking I’m an easy touch.”
She was still fairly pricey . . . but sod it, what else was he going to spend his money on down here? And maybe he’d give her to Jory to remember him by.
Or maybe he’d keep her to remind him of Jory. Mal got out his wallet. “You’ve got a deal.”
“Lovely. Let me wrap her up for you.” She reached down below the table, bringing out bubble wrap and tape, then sat down on the folding chair with the mermaid on her lap.
“How long have you been doing this?” Mal asked as he counted out notes.
“Since I came down to Cornwall, pretty much.”
“Yeah, I thought you weren’t from here. Where are you from originally?”
“Oh, here and there. Mostly there.” She bit off a piece of tape and stuck it down on a neat parcel. “You’re a London lad, by the sound of you.”
“Yeah, South London. Balham.”
“Staying long?”
“Not sure.”
“Depends on a certain young Cornishman, does it?”
“What, Jory?” It felt funny to think of him as a Cornishman—he didn’t speak like a local, and from what he’d said, he’d spent most of his time out of the county—but he was, wasn’t he? “Nah. That’s not . . . It’s work stuff. I’m helping out at the Sea Bell at the mo. The barmaid there’s me mate’s little sister.”
“I don’t get a lot of chance to go to pubs these days.” Kirsty sounded sad about it.
“No? I’d have thought blokes’d be queuing up to take you out. Why don’t you come round some evening? You can buy me a drink to make up for that hard bargain you kept me to on Ariel here.” He gave her a sly wink at the last bit. A middle-aged couple had dawdled over to browse and from the watch on the bloke’s wrist they were well minted. Mal didn’t have a problem with helping out the redistribution of wealth in society, and Kirsty probably deserved it more than they did.
She had dimples when she really smiled. “I’ve a good mind to take her back if you’re going to call her that. Her name’s Zennor, if you want to know. No, I don’t like to leave Gawen on his own in the evenings. But you could come round to mine if you like. We could open a bottle of cider. Tell you what, come round about seven and I’ll even throw in dinner. Feel free to touch if you want,” she added to Mrs. Minted, who was clearly impressed with a leaping dolphin that looked a bit phallic to Mal’s mind.
Was it a good idea, going for dinner with Jory’s wife? Mal was supposed to be keeping out of his way until they’d both cooled down a bit. “Just you, me, and the kid, right?”
Okay, maybe he was curious to see how Jory’s son had turned out.
“You can bring Jory if you want,” Kirsty said, like she was testing him.
“Nah. That ain’t gonna happen.”
“No? All the more for us, then. So, it’s settled? Tonight? Or do you have to work?”
He didn’t have to work any night. And it wasn’t like it was folk night at the Sea Bell, when it could get a bit busy. They’d manage fine without him. “Yeah, tonight’s good.”
“Let me write down the address. I could do you a deal on that one,” she added to the punters as she scribbled. “Ten percent off, seeing as I know he’ll be going to a good home. If you promise to keep it to yourself. I wouldn’t want everyone expecting a discount.”
“Does he have a name?” Mrs. Minted asked, already getting out her purse.
“He’s Bufeo.”
“Boo . . .
