Local Gone Missing(28)
He looked round at the space that seemed to close in on him daily. And being cooped up in the caravan with the curtains drawn and the television on mute was clearly getting on Pauline’s nerves too. But it had to be done.
The last time he’d been in trouble, they’d had four reception rooms and a home gym to distract her. But there were no distractions now. She’d given herself a manicure and a pedicure, plucked what remained of her eyebrows, and shaved her legs. The only thing left to do was to keep up a continuous loop of nagging and whining. Charlie wanted to scream but he gave her a foot massage as demanded, stroking the moisturizer into her cracked heels. He thought he’d managed to placate her until she suddenly realized she was about to miss her next appointment at the hairdresser’s.
“My hair needs doing. Today!” Pauline screeched at him as he tried to dodge her flailing nails. “This is like being in prison. I should never have married you. You’re a complete failure. In every department.”
“Pauline,” he ventured. “Darling . . . it’s only for a few more days and then you can go to the salon hourly if you want.”
“I will. But it won’t be in your honor. . . . I have other friends who’ll appreciate it.”
His mouth soured at the thought of his wife’s friends but now was not the moment. He’d deal with them all in good time.
“Of course you do, my darling. The thing is,” he explained patiently, “I have to ring some people. Boring but essential. You know that.”
“Well, your phone calls don’t seem to be doing the trick,” she snorted. “What the hell is going on?”
“Just a minor blip. You have been marvelously patient and I’ll sort it out. Perhaps I should work in one of the outbuildings for a bit.”
“Yes, do that. I’m getting a headache.”
“Of course, there’s no electricity—”
“Just go! You can come back when it gets dark to plug in your laptop and phone.”
* * *
—
A wave of exhaustion washed over him when he entered the dark shed and he put his head against the rough surface of the nearest wall.
He couldn’t work there. Maybe he should set up camp in the house. The bloody house. The noose round his neck.
What he needed to do was to get out of there. And find a drink.
The pub was the place to be when things were tricky at home. Drink oiled the wheels, loosening inhibitions, and striking up a conversation with a stranger was welcomed—expected, even.
Lunchtime was best. Men were more likely to be drinking on their own—no better halves to distract them or put an oar in.
He took a deep happy breath as he pushed in through the door of the Neptune.
The pub was heaving with sticky flesh. The temperature outside was rising and the bar was thrumming with thirsty customers. It was a young crowd, trade, workmen on weekly wages. Charlie slipped off the Old Harrovian tie he’d knotted expertly that morning and put it in his pocket. It was too bloody hot for neckwear.
“Hello, old man,” he hallooed Dave, fluttering his last ten-pound note above heads.
“Gin and tonic, please, with plenty of ice.”
The landlord smiled and nodded, reaching for a tall glass. “How are you today, Charlie? Hot enough for you?”
“It’s positively Mediterranean out there, David. Good for business, though . . .”
All around him, off-duty workers from the new builds were glugging lager as if it was their last drink on earth. He swallowed half his G&T.
“What about this festival, then?” Charlie asked Dave. “Is Pete Diamond funding it himself or has he got sponsors?”
Dave’s face reddened. “Mr. Big Bollocks?” he spat. “It’s all his own show, apparently.”
“That’ll cost him. He’s probably writing it off against tax.”
“That’s illegal, isn’t it?” Dave leaned closer. “I could turn him in.”
“Ah! But he’s probably got an accountant to sort out a loophole. People with that sort of money do.”
“Not like me, then?” Dave snorted bitterly. “Another?”
“Lovely.”
He watched the landlord shoveling ice into the glass and wondered what Dave was actually worth. Did he have property? Savings? A maiden aunt about to pop her clogs? A pension?
“You work so hard,” Charlie said when the fresh glass was delivered. “When are you hoping to retire?”
“Not yet! I’m not that old.”
“What are you? Fifty?”
Dave smirked at the ridiculous compliment.
“Fifty-seven.”
“Ah, the golden age . . .” Charlie laughed.
“Sod off, Charlie. What are you on about?”
“Financially, David. Look, you’re sitting pretty, actually. You can now cash in your pension and reinvest it in something that actually pays out a decent dividend.”
“Yeah, I’ve done that, actually. I’ve put it in a savings account for the time being.”
“Have you? You’ve got to be careful, though. You need to put it to work to get a proper return.”
“Absolutely,” Dave said, ignoring the customer in front of him urgently asking for a refill. “Doll!” he called down the bar. “Can you take over here.”