Chapter Two Zig #2
“Kettle’s on,” a female voice said from behind Zig. “Would that be a tea or a coffee?”
Zig turned. “Blimey, I can see where Si got his height from,” came out of his mouth with no assistance from his brain whatsoever.
But seriously, Mrs. G must have been six-foot tall, easy.
She was a looker, too, even at, what, fifty or so?
Dark hair, still thick and lush, and big dark eyes like her son. “Did you used to be a model?”
She grinned. “And who says I’m not still one? No, my lover. I’ve always worked in admin. Pay’s not so good, mind, but you can eat what you want. Oh, that reminds me, are you hungry? I can do you some eggs and bacon in a jiffy.”
Even as his stomach rumbled, something about her whole-hearted welcome made Zig feel exposed and raw, and he had to clear his throat. “Yeah, that’d be great. Cheers. Decent of you.”
“Oh, it’s no trouble. And I know what young men are like. I swear, the weekly shop doesn’t cost half as much since Simon moved out. You’ll be wanting his address, I expect.” She spoke over her shoulder as she headed out of the living room, presumably to the kitchen.
Zig could have cheered, although he wasn’t sure whether to follow her or not.
“Let me write it down for you,” Mr. G said, deciding for him. “It’s right in the centre of town. He’s got a flat over a shop—you know the sort we get round here.”
Not as such, no. “What, like groceries?”
Mr. G rolled his eyes with a chuckle. “Nothing so useful. Incense and magic tricks. She knows her stuff, mind.”
Zig was rapidly losing the plot. “She?”
“Esme. Simon’s landlady. She owns the shop. You watch Dragon’s Den?”
“Uh . . .” Zig was a bit out of touch with what was on the telly. “Is that the one where small business owners try to blag money out of people who’ve made it big?”
“That’s the one. She’d fit right in on there.” He didn’t specify which side she’d be on. “Now come on, you sit yourself down. Oh, and I’m Bob, by the way.”
“Zig.” He took a seat on the squashy sofa, having to shift a couple of tapestry cat cushions to find room.
Bob settled into what Zig had already pegged as his armchair—the one with the TV remote on the arm. “Zig. That’d be the eyes, right? For Ziggy Stardust?”
“Yeah.”
“Bit before your time, I’d have thought.” He laughed. “Before mine, come to that. I was never much into Bowie, but my sister used to have his posters all over her walls. How long are you in Glastonbury for?”
“Not sure. Kinda thinking of moving out of London permanent-like?” Zig smiled encouragingly.
“Well, you wouldn’t catch me living there. Got to think about jobs, mind. What line are you in? No, don’t tell me, let me guess.” Bob peered intently at Zig, then nodded. “Car salesman. Am I right?”
Zig laughed. “Got it in one.” Not even close, thank God. He didn’t reckon career criminal would get him that address.
And anyway, it wasn’t true, was it? Not anymore. He could be a salesman. He could be anything, so long as whoever was hiring wasn’t too picky. “So, uh, Si’s address?”
Bob rolled his eyes. “Forget me own head next. Now, paper and pen, paper and pen . . .” He looked around distractedly as if they were going to leap into existence on demand.
“Tell you what,” Zig said hastily. “You tell me the address, and I’ll put it in my phone, okay?”
Bob reeled off the street name and number. “And the shop’s called Sage the sun had been down for hours.
What had Si told her? Did she know they’d messed around, back in the day?
Fuck, did she and Bob even know Si was into blokes? Maybe she knew and wasn’t happy about it? Did she reckon Zig had led her darling boy astray, all them years ago?