Errors of Judgment(45)

There was still no sign of Vince, Ossie and Quills.

Felicity mixed herself a vodka and Coke and gazed through the window at the little huddle of smokers hunched against the drizzle by the rotary clothes line in Denise’s patch of back garden. Denise came through, her face tense and anxious.

‘I dunno what’s happened to them. What d’you think’s happened?’ She bit her lip, then picked up a half-empty vodka bottle and poured a couple of inches into her wine glass. She pulled her mobile from her skirt pocket and hit the redial button, listened, sighed, put the phone back in her pocket and swallowed the vodka in one. ‘Quills has got his phone switched off. I haven’t got Ossie’s number.’

‘Not to worry,’ said Felicity. ‘They’ll be here soon.’

‘Yeah?’ Denise’s eyes scanned Felicity’s for reassurance, and seemed to find some. ‘Yeah. He’s a good boy. He wouldn’t let his old mum down.’ She glanced out at the smokers. ‘Sometimes wish I’d never given up. I could do with one right now.’ She touched her lower lip with a manicured finger, her hand trembling slightly, eyes distant.

The increasing sense of remoteness which had been growing in Felicity all afternoon felt suddenly complete. She was nothing to do with this. She was a bystander at this grotesque circus, not even part of the audience swigging drink and wolfing sausage rolls in the living room. She wanted to leave, to get out before Vince got here. But she could not abandon Denise. To leave now would be to confirm Denise’s worst fears – that this was pointless, that Vince didn’t care about her or the party, that his priority on his first day of freedom was to go on the lash with his mates.

Suddenly there came the frantic ding-donging of the doorbell, and drunken laughter from outside the front door. Denise gave a screech and hurried down the hall to open it. There on the doorstep was Vince, so pissed he could hardly stand up, supported by his friends. Watching from the kitchen doorway, Felicity recognised Vince’s Turkish friend, Ossie. The other, a thickset man with ginger hair, had to be Quills.

‘Chrissake, bring him in!’ Denise grabbed Vince’s arm and the four of them made their way down the hall, giggling and swearing.

Felicity shrank back from the doorway. She leant against the fridge, and heard a roar go up from the living room. Then Denise shouting, ‘Get ’im on the sofa! Move, Darren!’ Laughter, then someone shouted, ‘Get that man a drink! He looks like he needs one!’ More laughter.

Denise tottered into the kitchen and grabbed a can of Stella from one of the open boxes. She was laughing, her eyes pink and manic. She grabbed Felicity’s elbow. ‘He’s here, babes! Come on!’

Felicity resisted. ‘I just need to go to the loo first. Freshen up.’

Denise put one taloned finger to the side of her nose and winked. ‘You go and make yourself gorgeous!’ She left with the can of Stella. Wife-beater, thought Felicity. That was what Vince and his friends always used to call that particular lager. The thought had come into her head from nowhere.

She stepped quietly into the hallway, hoping no one would see her through the half-open living room door. She found her coat buried beneath others on the banister, and for a panicky moment thought she’d left her handbag in the living room. Then she saw it beside the hall table. She picked it up and opened the front door, closing it behind her as quietly as she could, even though the sounds of the homecoming celebration were too loud for anyone to hear her leave.

At half past five Rachel left her office. As the lift descended she leant back and closed her eyes briefly. What a hellish day. A wasted morning when she’d been too nervous to do any serious work, leading up to a squalid lunchtime rendezvous that had left her feeling humiliated and stupid, followed by an afternoon of self-loathing. To top it all, she’d been chased by the client on the casino case, and had had to ring Anthony up and nag him, which she didn’t like doing, and which he hadn’t much cared for either. The work just wasn’t getting done on time. It wasn’t like Anthony. He was normally so conscientious, so on top of his game. Probably distracted by some new woman, thought Rachel gloomily, as the lift doors opened.

She stepped out onto the pavement into the swirl of evening commuters and found it was raining hard. She groped hopelessly in her bag for her umbrella, before realising she must have left it at home. Great. She was going to get soaked walking to the station, on top of everything else. Suddenly someone touched her arm. When she saw it was the young man from the wine bar, she sighed in annoyance.

‘Are you stalking me, or something?’