Cath Staincliffe - Stone Cold Red Hot

“It must be lurve,” she joked and rolled her eyes.

“It’s irritating whatever it is.”

“You should ask him. Tell him what your worries are. All you need to say is that you’d like him to let you know if he’s considering any big changes. After all it does affect you and Maddie, like you say.” She rattled the ice cubes in her glass.

“Yes.” Reluctant. Why? Because I didn’t want Ray to see how vulnerable I could be? Because I didn’t want to make a fool of myself? Because he might confirm my fears?

“Is Laura around a lot?”

“Yeah, more than before or he goes to her flat. She’s nice – well, she’s alright, I’ve nothing against the woman.”

Diane chortled.

“What?”

“You should hear yourself. Talk about back-handed compliments.”

“Well, it’s not her, she’s not the problem. It’s the situation. Whoever Ray was seeing it would feel the same, if it was this intense. I can get on with her OK…”

Diane gave me a look.

“I can! OK we’re not big buddies but I never see her without Ray so there’s no chance to get to know her properly.” I drained my glass. I wanted another.

“Do that then, arrange to see just her.”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that. She’d think I was weird. And Ray would hate it.”

“Why’s it so weird?”

“Well, it’s their relationship, Laura’s there to be with Ray not get to know the housemates.”

“But if she’s thinking of moving in…”

“OK. Yes, if she was moving in I’d want to get to know her, not just as Ray’s girlfriend – but she may not be.” I finished lamely.

“So, talk to him. I’ve been here before. Deja vu.”

“Get us a drink.”

She was looking all exasperated.

I raised my eyebrows. “Please.”

When she returned I switched topics. Told her about my latest cases. I know she won’t blab about it to anyone. She was suitably appalled at the account I gave her of the attacks on the Ibrahim family.

“How quickly can the council act, then?”

“I don’t know. It’ll be up to their solicitors to decide if the evidence is strong enough. Then they’ll either get injunctions outlining how the behaviour of the parties has to change – not approaching the Ibrahim’s house or family, that sort of thing – or they’ll go for terminating the tenancy and they’ll repossess the properties.”

“That would be best, wouldn’t it? Doesn’t sound as though they’d pay any attention to an injunction.”

“Yes. They might even move the Ibrahims in the meantime. It’s horrendous what they’re having to put up with.” I had a drink, enjoying the taste of the beer. “The other thing I’m on is a missing person. Well, sort of. She left for university in 1976 and hasn’t been seen since.”

“What, not by anybody?”

“No. But nobody’s been looking, either. She was pregnant so it’s possible that she just went off and had her baby and created a new life for herself or had it adopted or had an abortion. Take your pick.”

“How do you find someone after all that time?”

“Slowly,” I smiled. “It’s not easy but I’m hoping the university will have a reference for where she went and failing that I’ll try the General Records Office for births and marriages.”

“So who’s your client?”

“Her brother, he’s a lot younger, there were just the two of them. Father’s dead now and their mother’s dying of cancer. I think he wants to give them a chance to make amends. I suppose also if he doesn’t find her he’s really on his own, no family anymore. But the mother has no interest in finding her daughter. Snapped his head off when he suggested it.”

“Ah.”

“So, if I do find her I think there’s going to have to be a lot of delicate negotiations before there’s any deathbed reunion or anything like that. Do you remember that really hot summer? Seventy-six. The drought. That’s when she left home.”

“Yes, I was in Yorkshire, we had stand-pipes in the street. Doesn’t half make you careful with it – luggin’ it about.”

“My Dad drained the bathwater down a pipe hung out the window to use on his vegetables. Everyone else had given up. The ground was rock hard. Long time ago.” I took a drink. “So, I’m busy, busy enough. And you?”

“More of the same.” Diane was working on a collection of textile pieces for a Bank and continuing to create her own prints as well. Her hands were stained a light blue and there were traces of crimson under a couple of her nails. Inky hands were always a good sign with Diane. Proof of production. She was most ratty when she hadn’t had chance to muck about with paint as she put it.

“And how is the darling Desmond?” Her new man. Success in the lonely hearts columns.

“Fine,” she said. “He’s really nice. Very sweet.”

“I hear a but , in there somewhere.”

She looked despondent, tugged at her hair, a rather nasty silver blonde this month with a single extension that came dangerously close to dipping in her drink.

“But…” I prompted.

“It’s not him. It’s…”

“What?” Silence. Oh, hell, must be something awful. “You’re not pregnant?” Diane’s worst nightmare.

“No, it’s not that. You know how careful I am. Promise you won’t preach…”

“Preach?” What on earth was she on about it. She wasn’t usually this coy. “Just tell me.”

“I had a phone call. From Ben.”

“Oh, no,” I groaned.

“Sal,” she said crossly.

“Well, it’s just that he made you so unhappy.” I fiddled with my beer glass.

“Not on purpose,” she retorted.

“Why did he ring?”

“Talk,” she said in a small voice. “He’s engaged.”

“Oh, great. So he wanted to tell you all about it, did he?”

“Sal, don’t.”

“Sorry.” I bit my tongue.

“He’s met someone through work, she’s based in Brussels. He said…he’s been thinking about me a lot.”

I resisted the temptation to raise my eyes to heaven and groan.

“He wanted to meet up, see me again.”

What was wrong with the guy? Cold feet?

“What did you say?”

She sighed. “I said I could do tomorrow.”

“You’re going to see him?” I was aghast. Ben and Diane had been happy briefly before their relationship got bogged down by different expectations. Ben wanted commitment, more specifically he wanted children. Diane didn’t, never had and wasn’t going to change her mind. For Ben that sounded the death knell to the liaison. After the break-up Diane was very upset, she missed him terribly, she pined. Time had helped, other men had come and gone. She mentioned him less and less. I assumed she was over him. Wrong.

“Why?” I asked her.

“Because, I still feel…” she hesitated, “…I still love him,” she said simply, “just hearing his voice was…I know it’s pathetic but no one else has ever made me feel like he does.”

“He made you feel bloody awful for months on end.”

“I know,” she glared at me.

“Why does he want to see you? Did he say?”

“Not really. He’s on the brink of a big step, I think he wants to make sure he’s made the right decision.”

It sounded awful to me, checking over an ex-girlfriend just to make sure that your fiancee is a better bet. But I kept mum. There was an awkward pause in the conversation. I searched for something constructive to say.

“Is he coming up to Manchester?”

“No,” she said, “I told him I’d rather meet on neutral ground. He’s booked a hotel in London. I might get a chance to see some of the galleries. Haven’t been to the Tate for years.”

“Does his fiancee know?”

“Single rooms, Sal. What do you think I am?”