EMMA WEBSTER IS SELECTING
HER NEXT VICTIM
Hi, I’m Martin. My friends call me Marty.
OK. Now, I’m gonna pass based purely on the dress sense.
Hello. Hi. I’m Selwyn. I’ve never done this before. I’m with the
Hmm. Can we give him better – is it teeth? Or hair? I dunno.
Hi, I’m William. My friends call me Bill, and I hope you will too.
We can’t fix tosser, can we?
Hi, I’m Harry. I’m
Oh. He looks amazing. Can we make him just a little taller?
Greetings!
No.
Hi, I’m Rhys. I work in haulage.
Yes!
GWEN IS LOSING THE
ARGUMENT
Gwen let herself very quietly into the flat. It was a move she’d practised from back in the days when she still went out, taking her shoes off on the stairs and sneaking in giggling, trying not to wake up Rhys, who’d almost always be sat on the sofa, waiting up for her, passed out among a jungle of pizza and beer bottles. Once she’d even found him and Banana Boat, stretched out, game controls in their hands, as riderless cars zoomed round and round on the screen. How long ago was that? It had been ages. Honestly, you turn thirty, you get married, you vow the party won’t stop, but—
‘Love?’ Rhys was wandering through from the bedroom. Gwen froze, caught quivering on the step. She switched on her best smile. ‘Hiiiiiiii…’ she managed. It never failed.
‘Right,’ said Rhys, folding his arms. Damn.
‘What’re you doing home? I thought you were working tonight.’
‘I am,’ Gwen tried stretching the smile a tiny little bit further, but Rhys just walked closer.
‘You are up to something.’
‘Uh-huh,’ said Gwen, pottering through to the kitchen. He followed her. Bad sign. She turned. ‘Look, it’s undercover work. Nothing dangerous, but I’m just popping in for a change of clothes. You know. Don’t want to stick out.’
Rhys’s gaze continued to stare, pitiless and unblinking, at her jeans, T-shirt and leather jacket. It was at times like this he reminded her of her dad – Gwen could wrap him round her finger, unless he wheeled out the hard stare. Gwen sometimes wondered if Dad had taught it to Rhys.
She took a couple of steps towards the fridge, took out a can, opened it, and started to drink. All the while Rhys stared on.
‘Oh,’ she said, toughing it out, brightly, ‘I don’t suppose the immersion’s on is it? I’ve just got time for a shower, and then I can be all out of your way.’
Rhys tilted his head to one side and smiled. It was a dangerous smile. ‘Normally, if it’s Torchwood, an evening out involves you running through muddy tunnels. Suddenly you’re coming home for new clothes and a shower. Now, I don’t believe Jack’s got classier, has he, love?’
‘Well, no,’ Gwen admitted. ‘Look – I just don’t want you worrying.’
‘I worry every time you go to work in the morning.’ Rhys’s voice was rising a little. ‘I worry every time I try and call you and I can’t get through. I worry about you, full stop.’
Aww, bless, thought Gwen, and nearly kissed him. ‘Look, it’s really easy, Rhys. Something’s killing people. Remember the corpse I found at the restaurant? It’s not the only one. Several men have died on dates in the last week. So… I’m going speed-dating.’ She finished, quickly and bravely.
Rhys moved smoothly towards the kettle and pulled down two mugs before she could blink.
‘Speed-dating, is it?’ he said. ‘Not even married a few months,’ he sighed, stirring the tea bags and pouring in milk. With a practised move, the bags were flipped into the bin and the mugs carried smoothly across the living room towards the coffee table.
Oh god, thought Gwen, we’re going to have a rational conversation. Sometimes, I miss the rows.
A few minutes later, they were having a very good-sized row. Gwen was shouting. ‘No! Rhys! No! I am not having you come along!’
Rhys roared back. ‘What, are you frightened I might get more attention than you?’
‘No, of course not!’
‘Thanks very much, pet.’
‘No! You know what I mean – this isn’t fair. I can’t spend the evening worrying about you.’
‘Then don’t. I’ve been on dates with mental girls before. I’ve even married one, and it’s going bloody well, thank you very much.’
Gwen marvelled at how determined Rhys’s jaw had got. She suddenly saw a glimpse of him as a child really, really wanting a toy fire engine. She spoke, gently. ‘I see. And how will you know if it’s the suspect you’re talking to?’
‘Well, I’m assuming two things will happen. One, she’ll try and kill me, two, you’ll come down on her like a ton of bricks.’
‘Ten points to Gryffindor,’ said Gwen.
‘Admit it – you’re looking for a woman. You going along is a bit pointless. What’ll you be looking for?’
‘I don’t know – desperation, anxiety, hunger.’
‘I see. You’ve not been out with single women for a while, have you? Good luck spotting the difference there, pet.’
‘Rhys – how many single women do you have throwing themselves at you?’
Rhys shrugged. ‘Company Christmas Do, they hurl themselves at me like Blu-Tack.’
Gwen couldn’t help but laugh. ‘Bollocks.’
Rhys placed a placating hand on her arm. ‘Now don’t fret, love. I may possess a raw animal magnetism, but I swear I’ve only ever used my powers for good.’
‘Really?’
‘Yeah. I know what single women are looking for – someone dependable, reliable, and studly.’
‘But what about the single men?’
Rhys smiled wolfishly. ‘Something blonde, fit, and easier to get into than a tangerine.’
HELENA CARTER IS MAKING
MONEY FROM THE MISERY OF
OTHERS
The manager of Abalone’s shot Gwen a worried look when she walked in. She ignored it, and headed over to a girl at a table with a lot of stickers.
‘Hi!’ she said.
The girl looked up, and grinned, professionally.
Gwen eyed her up and didn’t like her. The woman was very polished. Everything about her reminded Gwen of the people who came in to do training courses when she was in the police. Great, great people skills but as shallow as a bucket. All open questions and big smiles and no bloody use in a crisis.
‘Hello! Welcome! Is this your first time at speed-dating?’
‘Er, yes. Yes it is.’
‘Lovely,’ said the woman. ‘Well, it’s ten pounds, it’ll be a lovely evening, and there’s a free cocktail at the bar. What’s your name?’
‘Gwen Cooper.’
The woman looked at Gwen for a beat, and then wrote out ‘Gwen Cooper’, and handed it to her on a sticky badge.
Gwen grinned goofily. ‘Why do they never make these things nice so that they don’t ruin an outfit, eh?’
The woman looked at the badge. ‘Please don’t take it off. We’ve got some gorgeous men here tonight and we’ll be kicking off in a couple of minutes. Why not have a mingle and enjoy your complimentary Bellini?’
Gwen swished to the bar, where a small group of women were nervously making scrabbling small talk. In a corner, like they were penned up, a clutch of men stood. They looked sullen.
‘Oh god,’ Gwen thought. ‘None of these people look like killers. This is just going to be a completely embarrassing nightmare.’
And then Rhys walked in.
Gwen picked up her free cocktail, downed it, and walked swiftly to the loo.
Rhys walked in, in time to see Gwen darting to the loo. He grinned and marched up to the table.
‘Evening, luv. I’m here to find the love of my life, or whatever comes along.’ He smiled and the woman gave him a plastic flicker of interest.
‘Well, it’s ten pounds, it’ll be a lovely evening, and there’s a free cocktail at the bar. What’s your name?’
As Rhys told her she scribbled on a sticker and continued in a flat voice, ‘Please go and join the bachelors. Don’t forget the lovely free cocktail or beer waiting for you at the bar. We’ll be starting in just a few minutes.’ She put the sticker on him.
‘Hey!’ said Rhys. ‘You’d think they’d come up with something that didn’t ruin an outfit.’
He walked off, and the woman at the desk watched him go, curious.
‘We’re going to be late,’ said Emma.
Yes, but you look fabulous. You have nothing to worry about.
‘Really?’
Of course. If there was anything wrong with you, you know I would fix it. I’m not letting you in there unless you’re perfect, girlfriend.
‘Perfect?’ Emma liked the word and repeated it.
Yes. You’re going to be the best person there. You know it. You can have whoever you want. Now go on – let’s make a storm.
Emma pushed open the door.
As she walked in, she breathed in, closed her eyes, and then opened them. First she took in the group of women at the bar, all of them turning to look at her. Emma gave them all a wide, unthreatening smile. She could hear Cheryl’s voice in her head: You are better than them! But she didn’t, she couldn’t believe it. Some of the women smiled back. It was the kind of look of quiet comradeship and sympathy that women gave each other when stuck waiting for an unfairly late bus.
She looked at the men in their little area. She noticed some quiet nudging and glancing in her direction. Hello, boys, she thought, and gave them the curiously bored look that Cheryl had taught her.
She barely glanced down at the woman running the speed-dating. ‘Emma Webster,’ she said, taking the sticker and placing it proudly on her lapel before striding to the bar.
Helena Carter had been running speed-dating for a few years. It made her a tidy little profit. She did, it was true, work in PR. But she found this a nice little sideline, and, as she told her few friends, ‘I really feel nice – it’s making a difference in people’s lives, that’s what it is, you know. I’m really giving something back.’
If you’d asked for her opinion of Gwen, Rhys and Emma, it would have gone as follows.
Gwen: Don’t go giving yourself airs that you’re too good for this, darling. You’re not. You’re here, aren’t you? You’ll be lucky to find something with an attitude like that. And I think you bite your nails. I’ve seen your type. Three speed-dates in, and you start slugging back the cocktails, and then you’re either being helped into a taxi, or a man called Barry.
Rhys: Aw, what a sweetheart. He’ll do very well here. First-timer. I can tell – a bit nervous, but a real sweetie. Bet you he has a lovely flat and a nice job. Good old bit of Welsh charm – and there’s nothing wrong with that. If he doesn’t get snapped up, I’ll try and see if he needs a bit of coaching. I bet he’s not been back on the scene for long. Perhaps he’s just out of a marriage. Oh. I could take those broken wings and make you fly.
Emma: What is she doing back here? I mean, it’s unsettling. She looks so good – has she been dieting, or sprayed on the tan, or just found a new hairdresser? I dunno, but she looks knockout, the cow. Of course, I shouldn’t begrudge her her looks, but she’s really come on in leaps and bounds. She’s made an effort. She used to look like she’d been dressed by her cat. Ah well. If there’s hope for her, there’s hope for all of us.
Emma got herself a drink from the bar, and inhaled it, glancing around nervously.
Bloody chill, girlfriend! Leave everything to me, and you know you’ll be brilliant.
Yeah, thought Emma. I’ll just look at a few people, and if I don’t like them, then I can go home, we’ll log in to Are You Interested? and laugh at strange men’s curtains.
God, you are thrilling. And I’m taking the liberty of tweaking your metabolism just a little. A little less adrenalin, a little more…
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. Emma decided this was the best drink she’d ever tasted. She caught her reflection in the mirror and grinned. I am looking fantastic, aren’t I?
See? Now, let’s get on with this.
‘Hello, my name is Harry. I work in… well, it’s just a call centre really. At the moment. It’s not what I wanted to do, really, but you know how it is – you doss around after uni, and then you do something for a few weeks, then a few weeks more, and before you know it, you’ve been doing it for eighteen months, and then you’re the manager. But you know, it’s OK – the people are great, and the money’s nice, but my real love is my sport and my mates and surfing. Do you know what the original lyrics to that Beach Boys song were?’
Emma sipped carefully at her drink.
Well?
He is gorgeous, she admitted. He’s got great hair, lovely teeth and piercing blue eyes. And I can tell he’s ripped. She let herself imagine them taking walks along a foreign beach. They looked good together.
But…?
Well, he’s so dull. I can just tell. And so young.
What do you want me to change?
I dunno.
Oh, Emma!
Look, the body’s perfect, but he’s so empty. I mean, can you make him more mature, teach him a foreign language, get him a decent job, some nicer jeans and a cordon bleu cookery course?
…
What was that?
Emma love, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, doll. You know that. But there are limits. Yeah, I can give him more balls, and make him a bit brighter. I can also have a bit of a fiddle with the genes that predispose him to cheating.
Cheating?
Oh yes. I’m afraid he’s never been faithful in a relationship. Those cheekbones were built for cheating. He gave his last girlfriend the clap. And her best friend got it too. And while he’s here making puppy eyes at you, there’s a girl in Newport who thinks he’s The One. But I can change all that. I can make him faithful and pox free.
I don’t know. Would he be the same?
Look, I am bending over backwards for you, sweet cheeks. You’ve got the best-looking fella in the room, and he’s desperate for you. Look, if he’s not a keeper, we can at least get you a shag out of him.
Oh, cheers, Cheryl.
Someone has got very choosy of late.
Of course! I’m nearly perfect, aren’t I?
:-)
Gwen watched as the guy sat down. Ponytail, (too) skinny jeans, black T-shirt with a skull design made 3-D by his beer belly. Too much jewellery. And, oh yes, a mobile phone in a holster. He gave her a big grin, and she just thought, ‘Spots? In your thirties? Oh bless.’
‘Gavin,’ he said, and laughed nervously. ‘This is all right, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah,’ said Gwen. ‘I suppose. I’m Gwen.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said. ‘So, are you into modelling?’ Gwen giggled, despite herself. ‘Bless you! No! God, no! When I was twenty and a twiglet, maybe. But no, not now!’
‘Shame,’ the man sighed, genuinely disappointed. ‘I paint orcs myself.’
‘What?’
‘Model orcs.’
‘Right. Uh.’ Gwen fingered her glass. How do people do this? ‘Any other hobbies?’
‘I love going to the cinema. And gaming. MonstaQuest. And do you play Warcraft?’
‘Dear god, no! My friend Owen used to, all the time.’
‘Really? What’s his username?’
‘Oh, he doesn’t play much any more,’ admitted Gwen, tightly.
‘Pity. I hate it when someone leaves their Guild,’ the man looked genuinely sad. ‘Still, I bet I’ve whipped him a few times.’
‘Are you sure? I think he was pretty good.’
Gavin managed a surprisingly roguish grin. ‘I think I’m better.’
‘OK.’ Gwen thought hard and mustered an interest. What was it the Gavins of the world loved? She tried to remember what the staff were talking about whenever she went to dig Rhys out of Spillers Records. ‘So, what about the cinema – I’m guessing films with a high body count and a big space bang at the end?’
He shrugged. ‘Actually, I’m more into my visceral horror – you know, torture porn? Love that stuff!’
‘Really? I’ve always been a bit squeamish, me,’ said Gwen. ‘Never could stand the sight of blood.’ She looked long and hard at Gavin. Do I really have to talk to this moron for a whole five minutes?
‘Shame,’ continued Gavin. ‘There used to be a few clubs in Cardiff, you know…’ He leaned forward, conspiratorially, his breath catching Gwen like a force field. ‘Tales of all sorts of horrors. Like fight club – but with beasts.’
‘What kind of beasts?’ Gwen was genuinely intrigued.
‘Well, you see, people said it was aliens. Aliens fighting humans. But I don’t believe all that. There’s a lot of conspiracy theories – you know how it is with all the stuff that’s been going on in the last couple of years.’
‘Yeah,’ said Gwen, almost impossibly slowly.
‘But lots of it’s nuts. I mean – all this talk of alien visits, and ships in the sky and so on. But it’s all “a friend of a friend”, isn’t it? Have you ever met anyone who’s actually met an alien? Talked to one? No? I thought not.’ Gavin smiled in a satisfied way.
‘No. Not me. I’ve always lived a quiet life,’ said Gwen.
‘Oh, don’t get me wrong – it’s not all blood and gore for Mr Gavin. Sometimes, I like nothing better than to chill at home with a pizza and some boxsets. That can be dead romantic, can’t it?’
‘Oh god, can it?’ sighed Gwen.
One thing that should have alerted Gwen to the nearby presence of an alien device is the fact that this conversation had only taken ten seconds. She had another four minutes and fifty seconds of speed-dating with Gavin to go. And nothing more to say to him.
Emma was talking to some poor kid. He was babbling away about how awful his flat was. ‘See, this bloke moved back to help his folks run a cinema. He let it out dead cheap, and I thought I had a bargain. Real impressive it is – at the back of an old warehouse. The square footage is amazing, although the bathroom leaks.’
Emma was nodding quietly, trying to imagine him with better skin, or a clean T-shirt, maybe, or a bit Scottish, or blond or something.
‘Thing is, it really is an old warehouse. If I meet a girl out and she comes home, she thinks I’m like a serial killer or something. Honestly, before I even start unbolting the hangar door they’re phoning a cab…’
‘And, actually, at the moment, I’m really into World Music.’
PATRICK MATTHEWS IS VERY
MUCH STILL ALIVE
Patrick lifted the rubbish out onto the dumpster. He spun when he heard the footsteps behind him.
‘God!’ he breathed. ‘Ianto! You nearly scared me to death.’ The girl looked genuinely alarmed. ‘Really? Oh, I hope not. I really hope not. Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.’
Patrick smiled. ‘You didn’t, eh? Then what you doing creeping up on me in a dark alley?’
Ianto looked bemused. ‘I’m surprisingly used to alleys.’
‘Is that so?’ He smiled again, and leaned closer. ‘So you really checking up on me, or just trying for a quick snog without Bren noticing?’
Up close, Patrick smelt of fresh hot oil and vinegar. Ianto realised he was breathing quickly. ‘Er,’ he said.
‘Yes?’ Patrick smiled, really amused.
‘Everything been all right? In the shop, and all?’ Oh god, I’m babbling, thought Ianto.
‘Yes. Fine. Couple of boys decided to kick off tonight, but I soon cleared them out. I’m so glad I played a lot of rugby at school.’
‘Yeah, always comes in handy,’ said Ianto. ‘Um. Girl’s rugby. Obviously.’
‘Obviously, yeah,’ Patrick smirked, and started to undo his apron strings. ‘So, is that it?’
Ianto nodded, eagerly. ‘Honestly, genuinely, just checking up on you. You’re alive, tick, good. Carry on.’
‘And?’ Patrick leaned back against the wall, smirking.
Ianto looked round, and slumped with defeat. ‘Oh all right, but just a quick snog.’
GWEN HAS HAD BETTER
NIGHTS
Gwen sat down and scowled at the man opposite her.
‘Hello, I’m Gwen,’ she said flatly.
‘Hello, ugly, I’m Rhys,’ the man said back to her. He was grinning like a smug cat.
‘And what do you do for a living?’
‘Aw, I break hearts, I do, darling. How about you?’
Gwen shrugged. ‘I work for a top-secret organisation that protects Cardiff from alien invasion. I like to think I’m bloody good at it. What about you? Moved any vans around in a timely fashion recently?’
Rhys grinned broadly. ‘Oh, a few. So. Single are you?’
‘Oh yes,’ nodded Gwen. ‘Well, more widowed, really.’
‘Is that so? Tragic.’ Rhys tutted. ‘What killed him? Was it your cooking?’
‘Noooo,’ Gwen assured him, brightly. ‘One day, he spent so much time on the sofa that it ate him.’ She swilled down the dregs of the third complimentary Bellini she’d managed to grab from the bar. She was getting a bit giggly. Probably from all the small talk.
‘You know,’ said Rhys, smiling back at her, ‘you remind me of my last girlfriend. Only she had less split ends, you know.’
‘When this is over…’
‘We’re getting chips?’
Gwen shrugged. ‘Maybe, maybe not. I’m being unpredictable. I’ve heard it adds spice to a relationship. Now – seen any psychos?’
Rhys shook his head. ‘Apart from my wife, no. Everyone’s been very sweet, actually. You?’
Gwen shook her head. ‘Let’s just say I’ve discovered I could do worse.’
‘That’s charming, that is,’ said Rhys.
‘Do you want chips on the way home or not?’
Helena tinkled a little bell, signalling time to change partners. ‘Aw, and I was having such a laugh,’ Rhys stood up. ‘So do you want to see me again?’
‘Not as long as I live,’ said Gwen.
Rhys left Gwen, grinning. It hadn’t, to be truthful, been a great night for the Williams ego. Not that he’d let Gwen know. No, as far as she was concerned, it had been all honey and roses. But it had also been a nasty reminder of what the world outside his little nest was like.
True, there were times when all he remembered was the fun of being single, that mad prehistoric time before he met Gwen. Those rare golden nights when it was way past booze o’clock, somewhere in between kebab and the last pint sinking like lead… that lovely, carefree moment when a girl would look at you across the Walkabout and her eyes would stay on you for a bit long, and Lottery Clive would nudge you on the shoulder and say ‘Wahey – you’re in there.’ And you’d pretend not to notice, but you’d look back, and she’d look back, and then…
Oh, the fun of it all.
As far as he could remember.
Compared to all those evenings in, waiting for Gwen not to turn up. Feeling a bit like his mum, waiting up for his dad to get back from a late shift, and trying not to flinch when he breathed beer over her while she laid out the tea things and straightened down the tablecloth.
Or those cold evenings alone in the flat, when Daveo was out, and Banana Boat was off on one of his Grail quests, and it was just Rhys and the TV guide, suddenly it all felt a bit wrong. So empty. So lonely. And then, eventually, normally a bottle of beer too late, the key would turn in the lock, and there would be Gwen, all big smiles and hurried apologies and bright, bright enthusiasm for whatever he could salvage from the risotto. And it would be like they were on stage, in a play. The Gwen and Rhys Show. Was it a comedy, or a tragedy?
And they’d lie in bed together later, and he’d notice that she no longer clung to him while she slept, and he’d kiss her sleeping shoulder gently and he’d think, ‘Is this as good as it’s ever going to get?’
And, now, here he was, discovering that for all those quiet nights in and all those times when they talked at each other – what they had was better. What they had was so much better.
Rhys stared down at the table for just a second before looking into the eyes of Date #12. He didn’t want to see the expression. He just didn’t. He’d seen four different versions of naked, fearful desperation. He’d heard six different nervous, self-deprecating laughs. One girl whose first word had been sorry. Then a woman who’d not even blinked, but just spoken in a dull, weary tone – not just bored, but despairing – both of Rhys and herself – without hope. And three women who gave it the full ’tude – all Valley pouts and aye-aye body language and bosoms which heaved above their dresses like whales on an ice floe.
After a tide of all it – all of that like me, hate me, ignore me but please want me, Rhys just felt psychologically battered. No one, not even Gwen, would have rushed to describe Rhys as sensitive, but if asked to point out the serial killer among the women, his response would have been ‘narrow it down, love.’
Frankly, though, what he’d seen of the men had dispirited him. There were a few nice, normal blokes. Bit on the sweaty side, mind, but tidy enough. A couple of nice chaps who were a bit pie-friendly, sure, and one guy who looked lost away from his computer (ponytail and a mobile phone on a hip holster. Nice). And then, frankly, it all got a bit oh dear. Rhys gazed into the bottom of the barrel, and the bottom of the barrel gazed back at him. Nylon shirts, Simpsons ties, comb-overs, dandruff and Simon Cowell trousers. It was all here and it was all mad. No wonder someone out there was wiping out the single men of Cardiff. They were probably mercy killings.
And so, with that peace made, Rhys stepped forward and sat down.
‘Oh. Hi, I’m Rhys,’ he said, trying not to boggle.
‘And I’m Emma,’ said the woman of his dreams.
Rhys didn’t know what to say next, but she leant over. He could smell her perfume, which was subtle and expensive. He loved how she was dressed – classy dress without being showy, sexy without being revealing. Great hair, a lovely smile, and just the sense that she’d stepped off a movie set. That smile – and the laugh in her eyes. It put him at ease, made him want her to like him.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said, like she was letting him in on the joke. ‘No one knows what to say at these things.’
He shrugged. ‘“Hi, I’m Rhys. I work in haulage.” That usually about does it for me,’ Rhys admitted.
Oddly, she didn’t seem to be listening for a moment – but then her eyes lit up. ‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘I got distracted by the music they play in here. I swear it’s the Top Gun soundtrack.’
Rhys paused, impressed. ‘Good call. You’re right.’
‘Musical genius, me,’ she admitted. ‘I can name that crap in three notes or less.’
‘That’s quite a skill,’
‘Yeah – utterly useless, but it impresses the boys.’
‘It certainly does.’ Rhys suddenly, genuinely liked her. She seemed relaxed about the whole thing. She was dating and flirting and didn’t remind him at all of a slightly dusty Garfield clinging to a rear windscreen.
‘So what’s on your iPod?’ she asked.
‘Oh, that’s not fair.’ Rhys was stumped. ‘You know I’m going to try and give you a cool answer.’
She shook her head. ‘Absolutely not. I want to know what you listened to when you came here through the rain. I bet you nodded your head.’
‘Actually, er…’ Oh, I’d make such a bad spy. ‘Well, I walked.’
‘And didn’t listen to any music?’
‘Yes, well, er, that is…’ Now Rhys, don’t start this with a lie.
‘Well, actually, I walked down with someone.’
‘Someone?’ Emma, amused, held up her hands and made quote marks.
‘My ex, Gwen. She’s not very happy about me moving on.’
She stroked his hand, just slightly, and Rhys suddenly felt like he’d discovered a new flavour of ice cream. ‘I’m sorry about that, Rhys,’ she said.
‘Oh, it’s not so bad, really. She just can’t accept that it’s over. I’m trying to be gentle, but we weren’t working. It was her job – she saw more of it than she did me, and one day I just got tired of waiting for her to come home.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ she said. ‘Work’s just work, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah,’ said Rhys, warming to the subject, ‘but she didn’t get that – not until I’d moved out. And now she wants me back. But I am saying no.’
‘Good for you.’ Again, a light touch, just a little bit higher up his arm.
‘Thing is, she says she’ll change. Says she’ll be different, you know, just to please me. And that’s not what I want. I’m just me. And work is part of what she is. She shouldn’t try and be what she’s not just to make me happy. I never will.’
The bell rang. Rhys’s face crumpled. ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’
And Emma laughed. ‘Rhys, love. Just a tip – next time, say Simon and Garfunkel.’
‘What?’
‘If you’re asked what you were listening to just say Simon and Garfunkel. They’re safe, make you seem sensitive, and if you’re challenged you can shrug and say it was on shuffle and that you’ve got tickets to the Ting Tings next month. But whatever you do, don’t talk about your ex!’
Rhys spread out his hands, aghast. ‘I am so, so sorry… That is so tragic.’
Emma shook her head. ‘It’s OK. You’ll know for next time.’ And she smiled with all her teeth.
Next time? Rhys walked away, just a little bit of a spring in his step.
‘You were bloody all over her,’ spat Gwen as they stormed down Chippie Alley.
‘Was not.’ Rhys tried lingering meaningfully outside his favourite kebabery, but Gwen was having none of it and didn’t even break her stride.
‘You practically licked the air she breathed.’
‘She was well put-together, I’ll give her that.’
‘You could have been a bit more subtle. I thought you were supposed to be playing it cool?’
‘Heart on my sleeve, me. Always been my trouble. Salt of the earth.’
‘Well, she’s instantly suspect number one.’
‘You’re jealous! Just cos something wonderful steps into my world, you want to taser her and stick her in a cell next to a Weevil.’
‘Next to? She can bloody share a cell.’
‘Gwen, love?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re bloody magnificent when you’re jealous.’
‘Thank you. Is there any of that lasagne left in the fridge?’
‘A little.’
‘Then you are my perfect man.’
‘I still bet I get more calls than you do.’