‘A little.’
She held the whisky to his lips. He sipped like a baby.
‘So, how was your day? Or would you like to sleep?’
He was trying to put his thoughts together. It was a good question. How the hell was his day?
What day?
It was coming back. Bit by bit. The eleven o’clock emergency briefing. No one had anything significant to report, except for himself. Brian Bishop’s move from the Hotel du Vin to the Lansdowne Place – and the strange explanation he had given.
‘Complicated,’ he said, nuzzling up against her right breast, taking her nipple in his mouth and then kissing it. ‘You are the most beautiful woman in the world. Did anyone ever tell you?’
‘You.’ She grinned. ‘Only you.’
‘Goes to show. No other man on this planet has any taste.’
She kissed his forehead. ‘Actually, this may come as a surprise from a slapper like me, but I haven’t tried them all.’
He grinned back. ‘Now you don’t need to.’
She looked at him quizzically, shifted herself around and propped her chin up on one hand. ‘No?’
‘I missed you all week.’
‘I missed you too,’ she said.
‘How much?’
‘Not going to tell you – I don’t want it going to your head!’
‘Bitch!’
She raised her free left hand in the air and curled the index finger, provocatively mimicking a limp dick.
‘Not for long,’ he said.
‘Good.’
‘You are totally wicked.’
‘You make me feel wicked.’ She kissed him, then moved back a few inches, studying his face carefully. ‘I like your hair.’
‘You do?’
‘Uh huh. Suits you. I do, I really like it!
He blushed slightly at the compliment. ‘I’m glad. Thank you.’
Glenn Branson had been going on about his hair for as long as he could remember, telling him it needed a makeover, and had finally booked him an appointment with a very hip guy called Ian Habbin, at a salon in Brighton’s most fashionable quarter. For years Grace had just had his hair clipped to a short fuzz by a mournful, elderly Italian in an old-fashioned barber’s shop. It had been a new experience to have his hair shampooed by a chatty young girl in a room hung with art and pounding with rock music.
Then Cleo asked, ‘So, Sunday lunch with your sister –
‘Yes.’
‘Can you tell me about her? Is she protective of you? Am I going to get the third-degree interrogation? Like,
Grace took a large gulp of whisky, trying to buy time to compose his thoughts and his response. Then he took another gulp. Finally he said, ‘I’ve got a problem.’
‘Go on.’
‘I have to go to Munich on Sunday.’
‘Munich? I’ve always wanted to go there. My friend Anna-Lisa, who’s an air hostess, says it’s the best place in the world to buy clothes. Hey, I could come with you! Check out some cheap tickets on easyJet or something?’
He cradled the glass. Took another sip, wondering whether to tell her a white lie or the truth. He didn’t want to lie to her, but at this moment it seemed to be less hurtful than telling her the truth. ‘It’s an official police visit – I’m going with a colleague.’
‘Oh – who?’ she was staring at him hard.
‘It’s a DI from another division. We’re meeting to discuss a six-month exchange of officers. It’s an EU initiative thing,’ he said.
Cleo shook her head. ‘I thought we’d made a pact never to lie to each other, Roy.’
