“Where’s the biscuits?” said Sunshine.
Laura arrived back from the hairdresser’s salon just as Freddy was leaving for the day.
“You look different,” he said, almost accusingly. “Have you got a new jumper?”
She could, quite cheerfully, have kicked him. Her jumper was several years old and bore a generous sprinkle of pilling to prove it. But she had just spent the best part of two hours and seventy quid having her hair cut and colored with what her stylist, Elise, had described as burnished copper lowlights. When she left the salon, tossing her glossy, chestnut mane like a frisky show pony, she had felt like a million dollars. Now, for some reason, she felt like she’d wasted her money.
“I’ve just had my hair done,” she muttered through gritted teeth.
“Oh, right. That must be it, then,” he said, rummaging through his rucksack for his car keys. Finding them, he gave her a quick grin and headed for the door.
“I’ll be off, then. See you tomorrow.”
The door closed behind him and Laura gave the bamboo umbrella stand a petulant kick, toppling its contents onto the floor. As she gathered up the scattered umbrellas and walking sticks, she told herself that her new hair wasn’t for Freddy’s benefit anyway, so it hardly mattered if he hadn’t noticed.
Upstairs, Laura admired the new black dress hanging on the front of the wardrobe. It was elegant and tasteful but with a hint of “sexy,” exposing just the right ratio of legs to cleavage for a woman of her age, according to the saleswoman who had taken Laura’s credit card. Laura thought it was a bit tight and bloody expensive. She would have to eat only a little and be sure not to spill anything down the front of it.
Her date was called Graham. He was Vince’s area manager and she had bumped into him in the car park of the Moon Is Missing after her lunch there. She had met him many times at dealership Christmas dinners and numerous other social trials while she was married to Vince and he was married to Sandra. But now she wasn’t, and neither, quite recently, was he, and so he had asked her out. And fresh from meeting Felicity for the first time, she had thought, Why not? and said yes.
But now she wasn’t so sure. As she wriggled into her dress and checked her hair yet again in the mirror, she was beginning to have doubts. According to Elise, whose salon chair doubled as a confessional for most of her clients, Laura was currently the favorite topic of conversation with the locals. In life, Anthony had attained the status of a minor celebrity on account of being a published author. In death, therefore, it automatically followed that his affairs should remain squarely, if a little unfairly, in the public domain. His public’s assessment of Laura apparently ranged from “a conniving coffin chaser” and “a gold-digging tart” to “a faithful friend and deserved beneficiary” and “former traditional Irish dancing national champion.”
“But I think Mrs. Morrissey might have got you muddled up with someone else there,” Elise had to admit. “Well, she is nearly eighty-nine and only eats cabbage on a Thursday.”
Perhaps, thought Laura, she shouldn’t be going out at all. People might think she was enjoying herself too soon after Anthony’s death. In her new dress, with her new hair, it might look as if she were flaunting her inheritance; dancing on his grave before the earth had a chance to settle. Except, of course, he’d been burned and scattered, so technically there wasn’t one. Well, it was too late now. She checked her watch. Graham would be almost there. He had always seemed like a nice man. A gentleman.
“You’ll be fine,” she told herself. “It’s only dinner.”
But by the time her taxi came, she wasn’t feeling hungry at all.
Graham was indeed a gentleman. He was waiting for her at the restaurant with a champagne cocktail and a slightly nervous smile. He took her coat, kissed her cheek, and told her that she looked lovely. As Laura sipped her drink, she began to relax. Well, as much as she could within the bondage of her dress. Perhaps it was going to be fine after all. The food was delicious and Laura ate as much of it as she could manage to squeeze in while Graham told her about his marriage breakup—the spark just fizzled out; they were still friends but no longer lovers—and his new interest in Nordic walking—“a total-body version of walking with the aid of fiberglass poles.” Laura resisted the urge to make a joke about him not looking old enough to need one walking stick, let alone two, but she had to concede that he did look fit. Forty-six next birthday, his torso was happily unencumbered by middle-aged spread, and his shoulders were broad and hard-muscled beneath his well-pressed shirt.
In the ladies’ room, Laura congratulated herself as she reapplied her lipstick.