“No, not this week. They’re feeling a bit out of sorts. Stoked up the AGA, stocked up on the single malt, and secured the portcullis, I shouldn’t wonder.”
Bomber was frowning at a manuscript that was open on his desk.
“Why? What’s up?”
Eunice was concerned.
“Well, one of their good chums was caught up in that bomb in Brighton, and then there was the fire in the tube station a couple of weeks ago, and that’s on their normal route. I just think that they feel, in the words of that classic song favored by teddy bears, it’s safer to stay at home.”
Bomber slapped the manuscript shut.
“Probably just as well. I think that Ma might have felt duty bound to inquire about this.”
He waggled the manuscript at Eunice as though it were a rotting fish. Douglas finally stirred in his corner. He took in his surroundings through aged, opalescent eyes, and finding them safe and familiar, summoned the energy to gently wag the tip of his tail. Eunice rushed over to kiss his sleep-warm head and tempt him with his donut, which was already cut and plated to his exacting requirements. But she hadn’t forgotten the rotting fish.
“What is it?”
Bomber heaved an exaggerated sigh.
“It’s called Big Head and Bigot.”
“Sounds intriguing.”
“Well, that’s one word for my darling sister’s latest ‘livre terrible.’ It’s about the five daughters of a bankrupt football manager. Their mother is determined to marry them off to pop stars or footballers or anyone who’s rich. She parades them at the local Hunt Ball, where the eldest, Janet, is asked to dance by the special guest, a young, handsome owner of a country house hotel called Mr. Bingo. Her sister Izzy is rather taken with his enigmatic friend, Mr. Arsey, a world-famous concert pianist, but he thinks that the antics of the Young Farmers in attendance are rather vulgar and refuses to join Izzy in a karaoke duet. She calls him a snob and goes off in a bit of a huff. To cut a long and strangely familiar story short, the youngest daughter runs off to Margate with a second-rate footballer where they get matching tattoos. She falls pregnant, is dumped, and ends up in a bedsit in Peckham. After some well-intentioned but rather pompous interference from Mr. Arsey, Janet eventually marries Mr. Bingo, and after his agent forbids it, Mr. Arsey ends up making sweet music with Izzy.”
Eunice had given up trying to keep a straight face by now, and was howling with laughter at Portia’s latest literary larceny. Bomber continued regardless.
“The girls’ cousin Mr. Coffins, a religious education teacher at an extremely expensive and completely incompetent private girls’ school, offers to marry any of the sisters who will have him, but, to their mother’s despair, none of them will on account of his bad breath and protruding belly button, and so he marries their other cousin, Charmaine, on the rebound. Charmaine is happy to have him as she has a slight mustache, and is on the shelf at twenty-one and a half.”
“Poor Charmaine. If she has to settle for bad breath and a protruding belly button at twenty-one and a half, what hope is there for me at almost thirty-one?”
Bomber grinned. “Oh, I’m sure we could find you a nice Mr. Coffins of your own if you really want one.”
Eunice threw a paper clip at him.
Later that evening, she wandered round the garden of Bomber’s rambling flat while he cooked their supper, closely supervised by Douglas. She would never marry. She knew that now. She could never marry Bomber and she didn’t want anybody else, so that was an end to it. In the past there had been the occasional date with some hopeful young man; sometimes several. But for Eunice it always felt dishonest. Every man came second best to Bomber, and no man deserved to be forever runner-up. Every relationship would only ever be friendship and sex, never love, and no friendship would ever be as precious as the one she shared with Bomber. Eventually she gave up dating altogether. She thought back to her birthday trip to Brighton all that time ago. It was almost ten years now. It had been a wonderful day, but by the end of it her heart had been broken. On the train home, sitting next to the man she loved, Eunice had fought back the tears, knowing that she would never be the right girl for Bomber. There would never be a right girl for Bomber. But they were friends; best friends. And for Eunice, that was infinitely better than not having him in her life at all.
As he stirred the Bolognese sauce in the kitchen, Bomber thought back to their earlier conversation. Eunice was a striking young woman with a fierce intelligence, a ready wit, and an astonishing assortment of hats. It was unfathomable that she had never been courted or set one of her rather spectacular caps at any particular deserving young man.
“Does it bother you?” He was thinking aloud, albeit a little carelessly, rather than actually posing the question. It seemed a bit blunt to ask.
“Does what bother me?”