Chapter 17 #2
“Only natural,” he says, rubbing his knuckles over mine. This is even better than the winding up. If he can sort of half allude to Kai without making a big deal of it, he’ll be a very unusual sort of man.
“Haven’t you got official school photos?” he says next.
“No idea what happened to them. They’re probably in Shelley’s loft. Anyway, don’t bug Aileen too much. She’s only being protective.”
“You might well think so,” David says. “I probably shouldn’t comment.”
This very mild bitch about his ex-wife is the only bum note in the entire evening.
Not to mention the night. I go to sleep with his arms around me, after both of us agreeing that we’ll literally just sleep together this time.
And sleep I do: no dreams, no drama. When I wake up, the sun is lasering through a gap in the curtains.
He has moved away from me at some point and banked me up with a pillow instead of his shoulder, but I never even stirred.
I prop myself up on one elbow and look over at him lying flat on his back on the other side of the bed, with his arms over his head as if he’s trying to look slim in a picture.
The covers are around his waist and there’s a four-inch band of skin between the top of the sheet and the bottom of his T-shirt.
There’s a promising looking tent-effect at his hips too and I feel an answering twinkle inside myself.
Not that I’m not grateful to take things slowly, but it doesn’t hurt.
I look beyond him at the rest of the bedroom.
The big windows are aggressively clean and the pale carpet too.
There’s no clutter and no lapses of taste.
He must have shed his share of the married furniture and started afresh with a designer to help him.
And he must have a cleaner too, I reckon, if it’s not too sexist to think so.
“Do I pass?” he asks suddenly.
I jump and then laugh, relieved that I’m inspecting the room and not his body, although he sounds completely alert. He was probably awake when I was inspecting him, just keeping his eyes shut to trick me.
“Do you always wake up like that?” I say. “Bang! Hit the On button.”
He turns away and swings his legs out without answering me, picks a dressing gown up from the floor and swirls it on as he walks towards the door.
“I’ll spare you the en suite,” he says. “I’m a noted farter first thing.
But you’ve got five clear minutes while I’m downstairs getting coffee. ” He turns back. “Or tea?”
“Black coffee,” I say. “And thank you.”
My whole mood has swung back round again.
Was I always such a weathervane? Is this part of grieving?
Can I still blame things on grieving when I’m in another man’s bed?
Whatever. This morning I feel ready for life.
I’ll register with a practice and speak to my new doctor.
And I’ll inhabit my house better, spread myself through it and make it a haven.
Or I could think about something else entirely.
Something bigger than yourself, as they say.
I could concentrate on finding the last home of Peggy March.
When I do, I’m going to make much more of a contribution than just donating a box set or a board game.
I’m going to visit someone there, the way I would have visited Peggy if I could.
I might even try to organise a whole raft of visitors for all the nursing homes.
I’m still smarting about the reception I got that first day when I tried to find her.
No way it should be so unusual for friends to drop in that it puts all the staff on high alert.
“What do you know about the Freedom of Information Act?” I ask David when he comes back with a pot of coffee and two cups on a tray. “Or wait! Death certificates! They’re public record, aren’t they? Do they include last addresses?”
“Is this your old lady again?” David says. “I don’t think FOI is for personal details. And death certificates take a while to work through and get into the searchable record. I think it would probably be best to ask at the council offices. They regulate the nursing homes, don’t they?”
“Huh,” I say. “Perfect for this neck of the woods.” He frowns at me.
“Right here, where the four counties meet. It’s a nightmare.
” He gives me a blank look as if it’s never occurred to him.
But then it wasn’t part of his childhood, listening to his dad ranting about hazardous-waste restrictions and bulk-collection rates from four different local authorities. “What did your dad do?” I ask him.
“Same as me,” he says. Then adds, “Law. He was a proper country solicitor. Wills, conveyancing, disputes over trees on the boundary. In fact, now you mention it, forget the four councils. Despite my treachery in going to the big bad city, I might be able to lean on some of his old pals and get your info.”
“You mean through her son? Through her will?”
“That’s a bit roundabout,” he says. “I meant, get someone to call Register House and sweet-talk them into accessing the pending records and find her last address.”
“Couldn’t a Flash Harry like you do that yourself?” I say. “Wouldn’t they jump higher if you asked them?”
He laughs. “You’ve got a lot to learn about Edinburgh politics,” he says. “If I asked, it would be an imposition, but if some sweet old buffer phones up from Yetts o’ Muckhart, they’ll delight in helping him. I know just who I’m going to ask to do it too. His name is Stourton Stout. He’s a legend.”
“Stout?” I say. “That was Chloe’s married name. I wonder if he’s an ex-in-law.”
“What did Chloe’s husband do?”
“Um, he drove a van for a tyre-supply company,” I say and burst out into disloyal giggling. “Probably not, eh?”
David waggles his eyebrows and says, “I wouldn’t have thought so.”