finished the chopping and wiped his hands on the tea towel he had tucked into his belt, showing great satisfaction at his handiwork. ‘Give this half an hour, no more, and you will eat a dinner fit for a pathologist.’ He looked at her now and his forehead creased. ‘Well, you don’t have to look so fed up! I thought you’d be tickled I managed to get away so early! I picked up the fish on the way home. I thought I’d have it all ready when you got here and we’d have a lovely greedy sexy evening. And look at you! Face like you’ve lost a half-crown and found a tanner.’ Then his voice changed. ‘What’s up, love?’
It always infuriated her when she wept. It didn’t happen often and every time it did it was unexpected. Now the tears trickled down her cheeks and as she sniffed lusciously he came trotting across the kitchen to take her face between his garlicky hands.
‘Hey, doll, what is it? What happened? A nasty bod got to you? Or has someone been coming the old acid? Just you point me at him and I’ll break his arm off and bash him with the soggy end. Tell old Gus all about it.’
She shook her head, swallowed and pulled back. ‘Your hands stink,’ she managed huskily. She sniffed again and drew the back of her hand across her nose. He lifted his hands to his own nose, sniffed hard and shook his head. ‘Smells lovely to me. What is it, love? Don’t go changing the subject now. What happened?’
She told him about Sheila and he listened, concentrating entirely on what she was saying, then put his arms round her and held her closely, crooning into her ear. There was no joking now.
‘It’s all right, dollychops. These things happen. You’ve got a nasty case of the might-have-beens. It’s harder to cope with sometimes than the really-did-happens. Sheila’ll be all right as long as she got out before she was burned, and you say she did. She got a nasty fright and a throat full of muck, I dare say, but no worse than that. It does you credit to be so upset over her, but honestly, she’ll be all right.’
George let herself weep on. It was luxurious to do so, and it saved her having to come up with anything logical to say. She knew why she was weeping: it was indeed stress over the might-have-beens; she might have been having a drink and supper with Zack Zacharius in Gus’s own restaurant, while he sat here forlornly with his sea bass and lovingly prepared marinade and chilled wine, wondering what sort of emergency had pinned her down at the hospital. He wouldn’t have doubted for a moment that that was where she was; would never have dreamed she was cavorting with someone else, but she would have been. She wept on, feeling almost as though she had actually done it.
After a little while though, Gus had taken the tea towel from his belt and begun to dry her face with it. She had grimaced. It smelled even more of garlic and ginger than he did, and she spluttered at him, ‘Stop! I’ll smell like the fish all day tomorrow if you go on anointing me with that!’
He laughed. ‘Better than smelling of the job the way you sometimes do,’ he said comfortably.
Her tears stopped at once and she reared back and stared at him. ‘Gus! Are you saying I smell of the mortuary?’
He looked considering. ‘I’ve known you to.’
‘Oh, no! I shower and wash my hair and scrub and —’
‘Oh, I mean before you’ve done that,’ he said, and grinned. ‘There were times I’ve been there stinking too. It’s a horrible job, ’n’t it? Garlic’s much nicer.’
‘I hate you,’ George said, rubbing at her face with both hands. ‘I’m going to shower now. You get on with your fish, and for pity’s sake, wash your hands.’
He did both and by the time she came out of the shower, glowing with the hard scrub she’d given herself with half a tub of the most expensive exfoliating cream she had, her hair doubly shampooed and tied up elegantly in a deep blue silk scarf that matched her housecoat, dinner
It always infuriated her when she wept. It didn’t happen often and every time it did it was unexpected. Now the tears trickled down her cheeks and as she sniffed lusciously he came trotting across the kitchen to take her face between his garlicky hands.
‘Hey, doll, what is it? What happened? A nasty bod got to you? Or has someone been coming the old acid? Just you point me at him and I’ll break his arm off and bash him with the soggy end. Tell old Gus all about it.’
She shook her head, swallowed and pulled back. ‘Your hands stink,’ she managed huskily. She sniffed again and drew the back of her hand across her nose. He lifted his hands to his own nose, sniffed hard and shook his head. ‘Smells lovely to me. What is it, love? Don’t go changing the subject now. What happened?’
She told him about Sheila and he listened, concentrating entirely on what she was saying, then put his arms round her and held her closely, crooning into her ear. There was no joking now.
‘It’s all right, dollychops. These things happen. You’ve got a nasty case of the might-have-beens. It’s harder to cope with sometimes than the really-did-happens. Sheila’ll be all right as long as she got out before she was burned, and you say she did. She got a nasty fright and a throat full of muck, I dare say, but no worse than that. It does you credit to be so upset over her, but honestly, she’ll be all right.’
George let herself weep on. It was luxurious to do so, and it saved her having to come up with anything logical to say. She knew why she was weeping: it was indeed stress over the might-have-beens; she might have been having a drink and supper with Zack Zacharius in Gus’s own restaurant, while he sat here forlornly with his sea bass and lovingly prepared marinade and chilled wine, wondering what sort of emergency had pinned her down at the hospital. He wouldn’t have doubted for a moment that that was where she was; would never have dreamed she was cavorting with someone else, but she would have been. She wept on, feeling almost as though she had actually done it.
After a little while though, Gus had taken the tea towel from his belt and begun to dry her face with it. She had grimaced. It smelled even more of garlic and ginger than he did, and she spluttered at him, ‘Stop! I’ll smell like the fish all day tomorrow if you go on anointing me with that!’
He laughed. ‘Better than smelling of the job the way you sometimes do,’ he said comfortably.
Her tears stopped at once and she reared back and stared at him. ‘Gus! Are you saying I smell of the mortuary?’
He looked considering. ‘I’ve known you to.’
‘Oh, no! I shower and wash my hair and scrub and —’
‘Oh, I mean before you’ve done that,’ he said, and grinned. ‘There were times I’ve been there stinking too. It’s a horrible job, ’n’t it? Garlic’s much nicer.’
‘I hate you,’ George said, rubbing at her face with both hands. ‘I’m going to shower now. You get on with your fish, and for pity’s sake, wash your hands.’
He did both and by the time she came out of the shower, glowing with the hard scrub she’d given herself with half a tub of the most expensive exfoliating cream she had, her hair doubly shampooed and tied up elegantly in a deep blue silk scarf that matched her housecoat, dinner
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