She was surprised by the quality of his book. The pages were thick and easy for small hands to turn. Each plink had an individual colour and their pelts had a tactile feel; grainy, fluffy, coarse, smooth and velvety fabrics for children to stroke. Their eyes shone, their trotters moved. They spoke their names when their mouths were pressed and, amazingly, scratching their snouts released different smells: chocolate, gingerbread, oranges, freshly baked brownies. Technically, this was an amazing achievement. Obviously Ben Carroll, who had dedicated the book to her, was more than just a street artist. She smiled when she read his dedication. To Amanda Bowe. Thank you for rising me to my feet.
She was still examining the book when Eric entered her office. She showed him the dedication and how the pages worked. He flicked through them dismissively. A kids’ book, who cared? How she had changed. Before Marcus was born, she would have dropped this book into the litter bin without even opening it.
‘Tonight?’ Eric asked softy before he left her office. ‘Is everything okay?’
She nodded and avoided looking at him. Discretion, even when they were alone, was essential. This building had ears and eyes, and gossip was stirred daily in its cauldron. The boss’s wife and the crime correspondent – what would they make of that?
The earth does move. This was not a cliché, nor an illusion. It shook to its foundations on the night she drove to Eric’s apartment, then steadied slowly in the drowsy aftermath. Dawn was framing the new day in a soft-focus lens when she drove back to her dream home.
Shearwater had never seemed so vast, so empty. Lar was abroad and Marcus was on a sleepover with Josh. Her footsteps echoed in the long hall where Rosalind’s portrait hung in proprietorial arrogance. She sank to the floor in her bedroom, her body in spasm as she recalled the slow probe of Eric’s tongue as he explored her curves and musky hollows, and how, after they had rested for a short while, they made love again with that same frantic elation. She was undone by desire, dangerously defenceless as she resisted the urge to ring him, just to hear him breathing.
Until that final moment, she had convinced herself they were meeting at his apartment to discuss the sources she used during her time with Capital Eye. Contacts that would help Eric do a Behind the Crime Line investigation into the drug empire the Shroffs controlled. But that flimsy excuse was soon seen for what it was and, after that first night, there was no going back.
They stole their hours with care. She lay awake at night, coiled away from Lar, afraid to move in case he would stir and fumble towards her in sleep. What was once endurable had become repugnant to her. Did he have any idea where she fixed her mind as he pummelled her body with his chemically fuelled desire? He would fall asleep immediately afterwards but, even then, there was something watchful about him, as if he was determined to penetrate not just her body but the desire that drove her at every opportunity into her lover’s arms.
She could leave him. She thought about it as she lay restlessly in their ‘second-best’ bedroom. She had despised Imelda for not leaving her husband, unable, as a teenager, to appreciate her mother’s helplessness, her dependence on the meagre allowance he gave her every week. Never enough to manage, yet he refused to allow her to work outside their home. So she stayed and scrimped enough money to educate her two daughters. To make them strong and independent. Maternal love, that’s what it was called. Amanda had to wait until Marcus was born to understand its brutal power.
Chapter Forty-Two
Karl entered Quix Cafe and sat down at an empty table. Staff from the television studio and Richardson Publications came and went. He recognised some of them from his days with Hitz but they passed him by without a second glance. He had learned to blend against walls, eyes down, shoulders stooped. The atmosphere was relaxed as they talked shop, ate wraps and checked their mobiles. He sensed a subtle shift in the atmosphere when Amanda Bowe entered and sat at a table near him. No one stopped to speak to her but she seemed unconcerned by her isolation as she messaged on her phone.
Grafton Street had proved to be the perfect canvas to test the plinks. Children had gathered around him, as he had hoped they would, shy and curious to see what he would draw next. Meeting her on that Saturday afternoon had been fortuitous but unplanned. The odds that she would walk past were too slim to consider and Karl had intended contacting her only when he published his first book. But there, in the throng, the boy had hunkered down to examine his drawings and Karl, looking up, had seen her standing protectively over her son.
He watched as Eric Walker entered the cafe and joined her. They spoke briefly before he left. Only a few words were exchanged, yet Karl was so attuned to Amanda Bowe that he instantly understood the stealth of their body language.
She was leaving the cafe when he called her name.
‘My goodness! Ben Carroll.’ She stopped, surprised. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I was hoping to have a word with you,’ he said. ‘Have you time for coffee?’
‘I’ve to collect Marcus…’ She glanced at her watch, then sat down opposite him. ‘I’ve a few minutes to spare. Black coffee, no sugar.’
‘A muffin?’
‘No, thank you.’ She made a slight moue of distaste.
She was slim and fit, with a thinness that suggested gym-workouts and rigorous dieting; yet on television she always looked the perfect weight.
‘I wanted to send you a thank-you card for your book but I’d no address,’ she said when he returned with two mugs of coffee. ‘Marcus adores it. He came home from crèche the other day with a plink drawing. It was a scribble, I’m afraid, but he insisted it was Super Plink. All the children had drawn their favourite plinks, so your characters are becoming very popular.’
‘Sales are excellent,’ he replied. ‘I’ve just published a second book.’ He drew a book from his backpack and handed it to her. ‘I hope Marcus enjoys this one as much.’
‘I know he will.’ She picked up her coffee, then set it down again untouched. ‘What can I do for you, Ben?’
‘I’d like to put the plinks on television,’ he said. ‘I’ve written a pitch for Kathy Birch but I’m not sure if she’s the right producer to approach.’
‘She’s in charge of children’s programming so, yes, you need to contact her.’
Her eyebrows rose, thick, dark and perfectly sculpted. ‘From the pavement to television is an ambitious leap.’
‘Think of the Teletubbies, how successful they are,’ he argued. ‘Handled properly, the plinks could be equally popular. Would you consider reading my pitch before I submit it to her?’
‘Of course.’
He removed a sheet of paper from his backpack and handed it to her.
‘Intriguing,’ she said when she’d finished reading it. ‘I like the idea of Plinkertown Hall and all those magical rooms. Also, it’s aimed at the right age profile. Marcus would love it. You mention a narrator who will tell the stories and draw the pictures. Who will that be?’
‘Me,’ he replied.
Her eyelids flickered when he tried to smile and he knew she was repelled by his mouth.