‘It’s hard, being away from your parents when they’re getting older,’ I said, watching her pounce on a defenceless yellow-flowered weed. Germaine had a thing about yellow flowers. ‘I know what it was like when I was living in London, when my dad died.’
‘That was an accident, though,’ said Nathan. ‘It was so sudden, there was nothing you could have done. No chance to say goodbye.’
‘No,’ I said, turning away to watch the dog. He touched my arm gently.
‘Sorry, that was a really daft thing to say. I know how much your dad meant to you.’ He sighed. ‘My mum’s coping really well, and as awful as it might sound, I’m glad it’s happened this way round. Is that a terrible thing to say?’ He looked at me, his eyes suddenly watery. I shook my head.
‘No, it’s not. My dad was this big, strong copper, he’d banged up loads of wrong’uns, and was in charge of three stations, but if Mum had gone first he’d have been lost.’ I smiled at him. ‘Women of our parents’ generation are used to looking after everything and everyone, aren’t they? Our dads went out and earned the money, but our mums ran the home; they budgeted, they paid the bills, they looked after the kids and made sure everyone had clean pants…’
He laughed. ‘That’s exactly what I mean. My dad wouldn’t even know how to use the washing machine.’
I looked him up and down in mock judgement. ‘It’s about time you learned how to, as well.’
He held his hands up. ‘Woah, Ms Parker, that sounds suspiciously like a sexist comment to me. I’ll have you know I am a dab hand at the laundry and I know one end of a Dyson from the other.’
‘You can’t cook, though.’
He grinned. ‘That’s why I’m friends with a chef. Sorry, a private investigator who can also whip up a dessert in less than two minutes. Chocolate lava cake in a microwave? Genius.’
I waved away his praise with a big show of modesty. ‘Oh really, it was nothing. I’m hardly going to go to a lot of effort for the likes of you, am I?’
He laughed. ‘And that’s me firmly in my place.’
‘You’re welcome.’
We stopped as Germaine finally found the spot worthy of her very special attention and lifted her leg. I turned away – I didn’t expect the poor thing to be able to perform in front of an audience – only to find that Nathan was a lot closer than I’d thought, and I almost ended up in his arms.
We smiled at each other. It would have been romantic, but for the sound of Germaine going at it like a canine fire hydrant. Even so…
Nathan’s mobile rang and the mood (such as it was) was over before it had even really begun. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and glanced at it.
‘It’s my mum,’ he said, looking concerned.
‘Do you want me to leave you alone?’ I asked. He shook his head and answered.
‘All right, Ma, everything okay?’ His Liverpudlian accent came through more strongly than when he spoke to me. ‘Is Dad—? Oh, no, no that’s cool. Hang on.’ He held the phone away from his mouth. ‘Everything’s fine; she just rang to say goodnight.’
‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ I said, and he nodded. He brought the phone up to his mouth.
‘Yeah, I’m still here. I’m with a friend. Just saying goodbye now…’ He grinned at me, and I felt myself going hot. That grin did things to me. ‘Yeah, her… Hang on.’ He held the phone down again as I turned to leave. ‘Jodie! Wait. Thanks for tonight. I really needed to be with someone.’
‘I’m glad it was me,’ I said, not even caring that it sounded a bit much for two people who were supposedly just friends. I leaned in and gave him a peck on the cheek, then yanked at the lead and dragged poor Germaine away mid-stream.
Daisy was in bed when I got home. I was pleased to see that she hadn’t taken major advantage of our dinner guest’s presence and attempted to stay up past her bedtime, but had got herself ready and was patiently waiting for me to come back with the dog.
She was sitting up reading one of my old Agatha Christie novels, carefully marking it with a bookmark bought during a school trip in London (from the gift shop at Tate Modern) before laying it on the side table. She’d been taught well: no bending over the corner of the page to mark it or (heaven forbid) breaking the spine of the book. She loved books, just as I did, and just as Mum did. You could tell a lot about someone by the way they read a book, my mum had told me once, and she was right. I’d lent one to a guy I was going out with, years ago. It took ages for him to give it back, and when he did I discovered that he had WRITTEN HIS NAME IN THE FRONT, like a monster. I was horrified. He said that it was because he’d taken it to work to read during his break, but I suspected it was because he’d not intended to give it back. Reader, I dumped him. Richard (the cheating swine) had never, in my recollection, even read a book, which told you everything you needed to know about him and more.
‘Good book?’ I asked.
‘You know it is; you’ve read it,’ she said, and I laughed.
‘True. Lie down then.
