Seriously, how had I managed to let her cajole me into babysitting?
Partly because she was right. Iwasprocrastinating with detective work. I could at least procrastinate in a way that helped her out I supposed. But if I did it once, and she thought I was capable of working while doing it, I’d have no excuse not to keep being her babysitter. Why couldn’t anyone understand that I had to concentrate to write? Not just sit down with a coffee and a laptop for a few hours. There was actual thinking involved.
That was the problem I’d had with the two men I’d actually had more serious relationships with over the last few years. As soon as we lived together, they thought my working at home meant I was at their disposal to keep the flat sparkling clean, pick up their dry-cleaning and deal with every other household job basically. Like writing didn’t actually take any real amount of concentration or time. Ugh.
I pulled out the chair from my desk and continued staring at the pink and blue sticky notes, until my eyes crossed. Whenever my mind cleared, the only image that crept into my head was that of Stephen’s eyes, dark as the coffee he’d brought me. The thrill as they coasted over me from head to toe.
I shook my head and grabbed a blank character worksheet from the folder I’d found. First, I would write one about Trevor Moorcroft; pool all the information I had so far, and then I’d do another one about James, to refamiliarise myself with the womanising snake from my last book, who Kaylee thought I should reintroduce. This would serve two purposes: it would count as work towards my book and also, it would remind me that any fantasies I might have about handsome, smooth-talking men were best channelled into my fiction, where they couldn’t hurt anyone. Least of all me.
Chapter Six
‘He looks like a cross between Clint Eastwood and a serial killer,’ Stephen commented dryly when we met up at a bar halfway between Little Italy and Gramercy Park. I’d just showed him the poster and he’d stared at it for a full minute, face giving nothing away apart from a subtle downturn at the corner of his pretty lips. ‘Small wonder half the calls I’ve received have been from people concerned as to whether he’s on a register of some kind.’
‘Oh come on, he doesn’t look that bad and it’s totally obvious that’s not the reason we’re looking for him. Why don’t peoplereadthings anymore?’ I rolled my eyes and dragged the poster back across the sticky bar.
It was Friday night and I was painfully aware that a full week had passed since I’d last been in a bar with him and since I’d received my edit letter. I was one week down on my deadline and even though I had felt it for the first time the other day – the wispy strand of a solution to my plot problems, floating around like a hair caught on my eyelashes – I still wasn’t in the right place to catch at it. If I didn’t get work underway, I was definitely going to need an extension on my deadline. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t mind asking for that, but after my first draft being such a flop and the fact that I wasn’t signed up for another contract, I was worried it would be another black mark in the column against re-signing me.
I’d spent some time looking up small towns in the Midwest since I’d had the idea to change the mystery to something in Charmaine’s past and therefore would need to send her back to her hometown. Settings are very important in cosy crime; they create constrictions and therefore conflict.
Despite doing this very important work, it was frustrating how many times I could accidentally open Twitter or TikTok and fall down a wormhole of nonsense on social media, pinging silly dance routines back and forth with Daisy and listening to songs that Beth was sharing with me on Spotify to help me build an inspirational playlist for the book I should be writing.
Stephen scoffed. ‘They’ve had no issues reading the number on the poster. I’m considering getting another phone so I can switch it to voicemail; it’s not terribly convenient trying to field these calls while I’m working. I’m not certain why we needed to have my number on it at all.’
‘Are you suggesting it should bemynumber on there?’ I asked coolly, because he probably thought I had nothing better to do during the day than act like his secretary.
‘Absolutely not. I’d remove every poster if you did that.’ He shrugged out of his jacket. ‘You can’t have strangers getting hold of your personal number.’
I tilted my head as I looked at him. I was definitely just trying to figure his personality out and not at all watching the way his broad shoulders moved underneath his crisp light pink shirt. ‘I can’t work out if you’re being passive-aggressively sarcastic to make a point or you’re being genuine,’ I admitted.
‘I’m not being sarcastic.’ He shook his head, looking around for somewhere to rest his suit jacket. It was a struggle; everywhere looked sticky or grimy. This bar was a far cry from the one on Fifth Avenue. ‘What I meant was, why do we have to have a number on it at all? An email address would be preferable. Or, better yet, not bother with the poster.’
‘I used a cell number because a lot of older people prefer to talk to someone. And if you think putting an email on the poster instead would save us from weirdos you’ve clearly never heard of the phenomena that is dick pics.’ I gave a little shudder. ‘And why do you want to quit with the poster already? It’s got us this lead hasn’t it?’
‘Hmm.’ He settled for draping the jacket over his thigh. ‘If you can call this a lead. Surely if he had any useful information he was inclined to share, he’d have told me over the phone?’
‘Depends. If he knows Trevor, maybe he’s checking us out for him. I mean, if I found out someone was looking for me, I’d want to know who they were before I got in contact with them.’
‘I suppose.’ Stephen raised his hand to catch the attention of the burly barman, who loomed over us. ‘Could I get a bourbon, neat, please and…?’ He looked to me again.
‘Half a Guinness, thanks.’
We were grunted at and I look a deep breath and another glance around. As Peter Parker might have said, my spidey-sense was tingling. It was dark inside the bar; despite the fact it was only six o’clock in the evening and the sun was still shining brightly outside. Other than us, there were two groups of men. One bunch sitting in the corner of the bar, receiving table service, clearly regulars, and the others younger – around college age – playing pool on the opposite side. They were being very loud, laughing and jeering at each other over the clack of the balls, which told me they were either drunk or nervous themselves at being in this claustrophobic dive bar, or both. I was the only woman and I was glad I’d dressed down.
‘In fact…’ I folded my arms on the edge of the bar, ignoring the way my skin stuck to whatever lingered on its surface, and leaned closer to Stephen, dropping my voice. ‘My gut feeling is, he’s already here, watching us. He might not tell us he’s here at all.’
‘Oh joy. This sounds like a fantastic use of time then.’ Stephen shook his head and handed the bartender some money to cover our drinks. ‘That was sarcasm in case you were wondering.’
‘Are you always this grumpy after work or is this a special mood for my benefit?’
He gave me a look from the corner of his eye and took a drink from his glass. I guess that answered that. I pulled a clip out of my bag so I could put my hair up and stop watching the way his Adam’s apple bobbed in the strong column of his throat as he swallowed. I was uncomfortably aware of the way he was able to sit on the bar stool and still have his feet touch the floor, in comparison to how I was perched up high, balancing on it like a toddler.
Conversation evaporated between us as we sat side by side in the muggy bar. A solitary fan, which the bartender spent most of his time blocking with his barrel chest, occasionally moved the air near me as I sipped at my stout. I hated tense silences, especially when I couldn’t figure out why it was so tense. Was it all because of the phone calls and the poster? Was it because he felt on edge in this dodgy bar? Or was it because he was doing what I asked by not flirting and without that repertoire he was basically uninterested in talking to women?
My cell rang and I almost cheered with delight. It was Tim. Which was odd as he never really called me. We tended to communicate through funny memes and videos on WhatsApp and saved actual conversations for family gatherings.
‘Everything okay?’ I answered.
‘Yeah, great,’ Tim all but yelled over the noise in the background. I tried to turn the volume down a little so no one else could hear him.
