Page 117 of The Guilty Girl

He physically backed his chair against the wall. Her solicitousness belied the ominous expression on her face. What was her problem? Did she think Richie was cheating with some girl he’d met at a club? Probably. With good reason.

‘No thanks. I’m grand.’ He stood, and the chair scraped against her pristine white wall. Fuck. And he was certain they were her walls, not Richie’s. ‘I think I should head off. I’ll catch up with Richie another time.’

‘You haven’t had your coffee. Sit.’

He sat. ‘Sorry about the wall, I think the chair scratched it.’

‘Oh, don’t worry. Richie can touch it up. You met him at a nightclub, you say?’

‘Er, yeah.’ His feet were definitely swimming in his runners now, keeping pace with the perspiration gluing his shirt to his spine. He felt anxious being alone with this heavily pregnant woman.

‘Are you okay?’ she said. ‘You’ve turned an awful colour.’

‘I-I’m fine. I really have to go. Tell Richie to give me a call.’

He was attempting to extricate himself from the chair without doing further damage to the paintwork when he heard the front door open, then shut.

‘The wanderer returns.’ Brontë’s face was sweet again. ‘What took you so long?’

‘There was a queue for the checkout. Thought I’d never get out of there.’

‘On a Sunday?’

‘Yeah. Who’d believe it?’

‘You could have used the self-scan.’ Her mouth twisted slightly.

Noel really wanted to escape.

‘Didn’t think of it,’ Richie said.

Looking from one to the other, Noel coughed.

Richie turned round and dropped the shopping bag on the table, his eyes widening.

‘What are you doing here?’

On guard now, Noel said, ‘Just wanted a quick word.’

‘You could have phoned.’

‘I could have, but I … I was in the area. You know what? I can’t even remember what I wanted to discuss. I’d better be off.’

‘What happened to the wall?’ Richie said as Noel shuffled out of the chair.

‘My fault, sorry.’ There was so much unspoken stuff going on that he felt like an extra in a tense Shakespearean drama. One where he might end up being dumped into a cauldron of boiling oil.

‘There’s no need to rush,’ Brontë said. ‘Make yourself a coffee, Richie.’

As she sat at the table, Noel tried to catch Richie’s eye over her shoulder, but he had turned away, pressing buttons on the coffee machine.

‘Don’t forget the mug,’ Brontë said.

He fumbled along the cupboards and placed a mug under the spout just as the coffee started to flow.

‘He makes stupid mistakes when he’s stressed.’ She laughed bitterly. ‘You’d think he was the one about to give birth.’

‘I’m sure it’s a tense time for you both, and with Lucy McAllister’s murder, it must be even …’ Noel halted as Richie’s eyes flashed daggers behind his wife.