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“I almost knocked it off your shelf,” he said, passing it over to her. “It has your name on it.”
Looking slightly astonished, Sophy turned the piece of card in her fingers. There was nothing written on it besides the neatly scrawled letters of her name. It was a pretty gift, three pink flowers in a glass vase with a scratchy finish as if it had been made from jelly crystals or coloured sand. It was the sort of fiddly knick-knack that women loved and that most men never got the hang of buying for them.
“That’s weird,” she said, puzzled. “Why would…”
Somebody giving her pretty gifts didn’t seem in the least strange to Mick, a fact that prompted him to get the hell out of there. Much more time around her and he would be in serious trouble.
“A friend probably saw the news footage the other night,” he said, shoving his fists deep in his pockets. “And didn’t want to interrupt you while you were working.”
“Oh, right,” Sophy said, her brow clearing and a smile dawning. Christ. Pretty. “That’s so kind. It’s beautiful. And really, really expensive,” she went on slowly, her expression a shade troubled again. “It’s very high-quality pâte de verre. It’s my favourite type of glass art. See how it looks like coloured sugar crystals? I always wanted to have a go at it, but I just don’t have a delicate enough touch to work with molten glass. Or the guts, to be honest. I already get my fair share of chisel scars. I shudder to think what a glass burn feels like.” She stroked the petals of the flowers. “Pink gerberas are my favourite too, but I can’t have them because the pollen aggravates my asthma. These are silk. Somebody went to a lot of trouble. I wish they’d left their name, so I could thank them.”
“I should go – ” Mick was starting to say, abruptly, when footsteps behind him brought both their heads around.
A tall bony man with spirals of blond curls and an oddly seraphic face stood there, beaming at them. It was a bit like a cherub from an old religious painting had stepped off the canvas, grown up, thinned out and never quite learned how to dress properly. He had buttoned his shirt wrong and knotted his tie incorrectly. He was also vaguely familiar, but it wasn’t until midway through a vigorous handshake that Mick remembered him as Sophy’s art teacher from the other afternoon.
He nodded politely in response to her hasty introductions and took advantage of the interruption to excuse himself. He was in dire need of a few moments of privacy to clear his head. Between the pitiful lack of self-control and self-preservation he’d displayed and a lingering sense of frustration, in every meaning of the word, he was well on the way to a filthy turn of temper.
Beeping the lock of the hire car, he was just sliding behind the wheel when his cell vibrated once in his pocket, followed by the opening bars of the Imperial Death March.
He bit out one short, sharp obscenity. As usual, stellar timing.
His knuckles white around the steering wheel, he gazed sightlessly though the windscreen for a second, then let out a harsh breath and yanked the phone from his pocket.
“Dad. Hello.”
A few interminable minutes later, he sat listening to the echo of the dial tone in his ear. Flicking through his contacts list, he selected a name, dialled and waited.
“Yo, my bro.” Sean’s cheerfully unprofessional greeting came through the receiver like a welcome tonic. “I hope you’re out getting down and dirty with something female or alcoholic, because it’s looking to be boring as fuck around here today. I suppose we can’t hope for a bomb scare every day of the week.”
“Did those new plans for the Islington system come through yet?” Mick asked, ignoring the attempt at levity.
“First thing this morning.” Sean coughed. “Uh, you don’t actually have a woman there, do you? Because you sound a bit…”
“We’re going to do a full evaluation of the plans this afternoon. Notify Gale and Hamlin, would you?”
Mick tapped his fingers against the dashboard, staring out the window at a group of passing tourists, all identically clad in cargo shorts and t-shirts, multiple camera straps hanging from their necks.
“You want to do a run-through here?” Sean asked dubiously. “Wouldn’t it be better to –”
“Just do it, would you.” During the silence that followed, Mick pressed the pads of his thumb and forefinger against his eyelids. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”
“Mick.” All traces of humour had gone from Sean’s voice. “Has something happened? Do I need to meet you somewhere?”
“No.” Mick exhaled, long and low. His hand still covered his eyes, sheltering an incoming headache. “No. Jesus. Sorry.”
“If it’s fucking Jennifer again…” Sean sounded furious.
Mick snorted despite himself.
“No,” he said. “I think I can safely say I will never be fucking Jennifer again.” He paused. “I’ll be putting in for a couple of days’ leave next week. I just had a call from my father.”
“Well, shit,” Sean said succinctly. He had shared the misfortune of acquaintance with Mick’s family since birth, although he was lucky enough to skip the actual blood tie. “I assume the evil is alive and well.”
“It’s not a funeral,” Mick said dryly. “It’s a wedding.”
There was another short silence before Sean let out a disbelieving hoot.
“Not Marcus again?”
