Out Late with Friends and Regrets (39 page)

“Lizzie Fitchett.
 
Elizabeth.
 
Willowbank, Hamilton Avenue -”

“Hello, Lizzie, I’m Petra, I’ve just moved in – you’re the first of the neighbours I’ve met – Willowbank’s just a few doors down, isn’t it?”

“Yes, that’s right, you must come in for coffee, sometime, Petra.”

“Love to, Lizzie.
 
Is that your son I saw doing the front garden the other day?”

“No, that’s our gardener Stefan. An absolute treasure.
 
Our son lives in Kent -”

“Excuse me, ladies...”

Eventually, everybody had given their account of events, during which Petra was emphatic that Lizzie was not the figure she had seen in the avenue; the stalker was shorter and had definitely been loitering.

Archer’s ringtone, an annoying few bars of “A Pub With No Beer”, interrupted proceedings repeatedly until she put it on mute; Abcabs had evidently been unable to raise her on the radio and were trying to track her down.
 
No action was apparently to be taken over the incident in the street, although the police cautioned all concerned not to accost suspected stalkers on any account in future.
 
Then they left.

“Right, girls, let’s have a drink, for goodness’ sake,” said Hamish.

“I think we should just get off back home,” said Fin.

“Oh come on,” said Ellie, “I could certainly do with one, how about you Rachel? Archer?”

“I definitely want a drink,” said Petra.

“Just a quick one, then,” said Rachel.

 
“I gotta go,
now,
or I’m out of a job,” said Archer. “You guys can call again, I’m on till midnight.”
 
She turned to Hamish.
 
“Crying shame. You can buy me one on me day off, you hairy old shirtlifter.”

“You’ll be lucky, you fat-arsed Ozzie bulldagger.”

They kissed, and Archer grabbed a handful of his stomach as he leaned over.

“Puttin’ on weight, Hamish, no doubt about it,” she said.

“Am
not
,” he retorted.
 
“Fuck off back to the colonies, crim!”

She made the wrist gesture at him, and left, cackling.

Fin glanced at Lizzie.
 
Her eyes were almost popping out through her glasses.
 
Oops.
 
Perhaps she was already regretting inviting Petra for coffee.

“Lizzie, darling,” said Hamish, evidently having similar thoughts.
 
He put an arm round her shoulders.
 

“You poor old sausage,” he soothed, giving her a little squeeze, “I think what you’re needing is a stiff brandy, am I right?”

To Fin’s surprise, Lizzie beamed, and looked up at him, apparently charmed.

“Oh, yes
please
, Hamish.”

Fin caught Ellie making a “Well, who would have thought it?” face at her, and she telegraphed back in kind.

“Better let the old man know where I am,” said Lizzie, taking an unexpectedly up-to-date looking smartphone from an inner pocket.
 
Fin assumed that it had been too inaccessible to make an emergency call during the chase, and made a mental note to make a habit of keeping her own handy at all times.

Lizzie punched in a text with surprising facility, and commented, “Damn.
 
Silly old bugger’s turned his off,” then selected a number.
 

“Didn’t actually want to speak to him,” she explained, “Didn’t want to go into details about all this - Hello dear? Yes, fine.
 
Our new neighbour’s invited me in for a cup of tea and a chat.
 
No, you’re in your pyjamas, aren’t you? No, don’t bother getting dressed, you can meet her another time. Well, that’s just too bad, you’ll have to do without it tonight, I’ll get some milk first thing.
 
No, you go on up, I’ve got the key.
 
Goodnight, dear.”

At half past twelve there was a ring on the doorbell, and Archer reappeared.

“I’ll take that drink now, since you guys don’t seem bothered about getting up for work tomorrow,” she said.

“Oh, God,” said Rachel, getting up, “I completely forgot the time – I’ve got an early appointment, too.”

“Guess we’d better make a move, then,” said Ellie.

“The Pear Fabissimo will be just a puddle of shattered culinary dreams by now,” said Fin, suddenly remembering it.

“Ah, precious!” said Ellie, “You can do it for us again next time – something to look forward to!”

“Sorry, Archer, can you take us home?” said Rachel.

Archer groaned.
 

“Thought I’d finished for the night.
 
I’ve put me taxi to bed at the yard,” she sighed,
 
“but because I’m a beautiful person I’ll run the lot of you home, if you don’t mind gettin’ very friendly in the back of the Fiesta.”

There was no response from the others. Doc was cosied up to Lizzie on the sofa, holding her hand in both his, chatting earnestly, and Hamish and Petra were sitting back in their chairs, discussing the state of the antiques market.

“We’re off, now, Petra,” said Fin, “thanks for the drink.
 
Lizzie, sorry for the shock we gave you.”

After a round of goodbyes, she, Ellie and Rachel followed Archer out.

It was only after Rachel had got out at her house, that Ellie said, “You know, Fin, it was an amazing evening, but you know what, the stalker is still out there.”

“Just what I was thinking,” said Fin.

It still didn’t feel right, somehow.
 

The girl, Frieda, had been fun, confident and much into accessories and novelty.
 
She was a pretty blonde with well-developed muscles and an equally well-developed circle of lovers, and Fin had met her in the juice bar at Harfordleisure.
 
She had found the trickles of sweat creeping over the girl’s tanned skin enough of a turn-on to join her on the next rowing machine, and later in her bed.

And indeed the night had been quite an experience, with multiple orgasms aimed for and achieved, much as one might fill in the sheet for one’s gym targets.
 
In fact, Fin felt pretty much orgasmed-out, being left with the slight unease of perhaps having enjoyed the repeated physical hit too much.
 
Once a Catholic...

It was clear that Frieda treated her sex life, with its constant variety of partners, as a normal entitlement; she probably regarded both loyalty and guilt as quaint and redundant.
 
So Fin had been pleasantly detached, suppressing the feeling of weirdness at having no sense of reciprocal engagement with Frieda as a person.

“Pretty good night, huh, Fin?” the girl remarked, springing out of bed.
 
“We do it again sometime.
 
Very good sex.”

“Er, yes.
 
Thank you.”

“But I got to work now, so you go after breakfast, OK?”

“Sure.
 
Er, the bathroom?”
 
She didn’t even know where the girl worked, or what at, and it didn’t seem relevant to ask.
 
The kitchen was small but clinically tidy, and Frieda was downing lemon juice in a glass of warm water when Fin joined her.
 
There was no coffee, so Fin opted for fruit juice and a dry crispbread since Frieda was plainly in a hurry to be off.

“I text you.
 
Number?
 
OK.
 
See you, lover.”

And that was it.

Another suitcase in another hall, metaphorically speaking, Fin thought, as she went through the front door, turning to smile a wan farewell.
 
Not even a kiss.

Rain spattered into her face as she walked along the unfamiliar street in search of caffeine, and crackly little brown leaves danced around her feet and across the pavement.
 
The air smelt strongly of autumn now, and she remembered she was due to be at the shop today to discuss the Christmas buying strategy with Dek. And next week Anna would be coming up for a couple of days.
 
She soon got her bearings, and made for the nearest cafe, where a flat white and a calorific muffin actually felt cleansing.

Ticking over. Yes, the business was ticking over, but no more.
 
Fin was constantly impressed by Dek’s imaginative window displays, but the figures consistently refused to make that dramatic drive upwards they both hoped for.
 
There had been a short-term problem with shoplifting, but the culprits had been reported and promptly arrested, since other retailers in the town had also had visits from the novice team. Strategically placed mirrors and a tighter fitting-room policy had enabled Dek to foil further attempts.
 
Fin wondered how much she had lost in the past by being too naive and trusting.

A rescue plan at Mauger had saved most of the Cantlesham jobs at risk, but no one knew for how long; a general air of stagnation hung over the town, and optimism amongst the retailers was in short supply.
 
Cheap-day returns to Leicester, Harford and Birmingham would be in high demand with Christmas shoppers if they weren’t careful.
 
Fin suggested a promotion, in return for an outfit perhaps, involving a local girl who had been given a trial for the Commonwealth Games; and Dek thought a link with a sports charity might benefit both with publicity.
 
In the absence of much in the way of cash flow, creativity needed to be mined to the deepest seam.

“Seen the website lately?” said Dek.

“Brilliant.
 
And always up to date.
 
I have to say, Dek, you do it really well.
 
I’ve compared it with similar sites for our sort of business all over the country, and honestly, it’s up there with the best,” said Fin.

“Well, it’s just a matter of plugging away, and trying not to get stale,” said Dek, “I just hope it’s not going to go the way of Man Hatton.”

“It’s just the time it is,” she replied, wishing she felt more confident.
 
It was so unlike Dek even to contemplate failure.
  
“And don’t forget, your old bosses were knocked out by overwhelming competition.
 
I don’t think we’re in danger of any of the big boys coveting our tiny slice of the pie.”

“Especially in Cantlesham as it is now,” grinned Dek, “Times have really changed around these parts.”

“Huh! In business five minutes, and thinks he’s seen it all, arrogant young pup,” scoffed Fin.

“I’ll just get out the ‘before’ photo we took of the shop, shall I?” he retorted. “Shabby paint, minging carpet tiles,
real
style there, boss, don’t you think?”

Fin held her hands up.
 
“OK, truce, you rotten man.
 
Sling over those catalogues you got, will you?
 
Ah, I see you’ve marked half the items in this one.”

“Just a wish list, Fin.
 
My own humble thoughts on what will sell this season.”

“Time for some hard choices, then.
 
We’ll need to cut this lot by about half.”

“If you ain’t got it, you can’t sell it.”

“If you don’t owe it, you can’t lose it.”

“No good having strong defenders if you’ve got rotten strikers.”