Page 28

I nod just as the film’s opening scene begins. A man and a woman stand yelling at each other. He grabs for her. She wrenches away. Then he storms out into a dark, treacherous night. Lightning flashes in the sky and thunder roars. The scene changes to a clear day and a woman’s body washes up on the shore.

It’s only the fourth scene and Charlie’s arm rests between us. So close to touch, but I’m not sure.

In the last scene the body was lying on the beach with the waves running up towards it, but not as far as the woman’s face, which is aimed straight to the sky with her right arm flung over her eyes. Yet now in this one, with no wave or anything near to disturb the body, the woman’s arm drapes far lower, across her neck, and her face is twisted towards the sand.

I tentatively lift my hand, still unsure what to do. Part of me wants to touch his arm, and the greater part doesn’t want to be a pest. But I agreed, so I tap his forearm. His mouth lifts at the corners.

Moments later the hero of the tale, also the man who found the body and is being blamed for the murder, is taken to the police station, and his clothes, despite coming straight from the beach, are entirely different. I squeeze Charlie’s arm again.

He whispers into my ear, “Even I caught that one. He’s got on a dark tie now.”

From then on, I touch Charlie’s arm at every incongruent detail. I’m not sure when I simply leave my hand resting against his forearm, but I am very sure when he reaches his hand over and holds mine beneath his.

I can barely watch the film from that moment on, being keenly aware of my hand resting within his, but I must. I have to pay attention. Just as Ursula said, I need to remember the moment yet pay attention to each detail as it comes. Think two ahead, if that makes sense. Really, it means to focus, to anticipate. And I do. I notice so many details I soon lose count of how many times I lightly squeeze Charlie’s arm or how many times he returns a gentle answering pressure. I just know that when the film is over and his hand pulls from mine to gather our coats, I miss it very much and my brain feels a bit fatigued.

“You’re brilliant,” he says as we leave the theatre. “You caught at least three dozen mistakes.”

“There’s nothing brilliant about it. A trained monkey notices things.” I throw my standard answer over my shoulder lightly. At least I intended it to sound casual, even jocular. But even I notice how heavy the words crash around me. They’re dismissive, unkind, just as Ursula said they were.

I try to soften their landing with a tiny titter, almost as if offering an apology to both myself and to Charlie, but a backwards glance tells me I’m unsuccessful. His brow wrinkles and his eyes hold a million questions as they clash with mine. Turning around again, I follow the crowd up the aisle and outside the theatre.

Forcing a confidence to my voice I no longer feel, I ask which inconsistencies he noticed, and we go through the list together, trying our best to remember every one.

“Then the window—”

“I caught that one too,” Charlie blurts out. “When the chief constable hands Erica his resignation letter, the window is partially open, the statue right of center, and the book placed at an angle.”

“And when she hands it back,” I add, “the book is completely straight, the window open wide enough to climb through, and the statue sitting on the centerline.”

Charlie chuckles. “If you don’t like detective work, you should consider the cinema.”

“I doubt there’s a job for someone who tells you when things are out of place.”

“Why not? There’s certainly someone trying to get all the details right.”

“True. But I like where I am.” I like who I’m with, too, but I don’t add that. “I also can’t imagine moving all the way to Hollywood.”

“Lots of films come out of London.”

“Ah, but Great Rollright is growing on me.”

“Our pokey village got to you, huh?”

“I came on a whim, but yes, I like it very much.”

Charlies pulls the Morris Minor away from the curb and points it home. “You don’t mind everyone knowing everything about you? About you and me going out tonight, for example?” His voice lifts in jest. “Or everyone chattering on about Peggy’s birthday cake?”

I slap my hand over my eyes. “How bad is it?”

“You tried to kill Mrs. Sharpe. You’re lucky the chief didn’t haul you in.”

“Maybe if he had, the truth could’ve gotten out.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Which was?”

A sigh so long and so dramatic trails out of me I wonder if it’s been lurking within me since last Monday. “I switched the salt and the sugar. And while it was horrible tasting, it was hardly deadly, and she didn’t go to hospital. It was just my typical bungle, and I’m sure there are plenty of those from the store floating about too.”

“Hey now.”