Pop Goes the Weasel | страница 72

Only time would tell.

It was time to say goodbye. Tony had been putting it off but it was getting late now. He hesitated on the threshold of Nicola’s bedroom, then stepped inside.

‘Could you give us a moment, Anna?’

Anna stopped reading aloud and looked up from her book, momentarily double-taking at Tony’s appearance before recovering her poise.

‘Of course.’

She disappeared discreetly. Tony paused, looking down at his wife. Her right eyelid flickered – which was Nicola’s way of greeting her husband.

‘I’ve got to go now, love. Anna’s going to be with you for the rest of the day and through the night. I’ll come and see you in the morning, ok? We can read a bit of Dickens if you like. Anna says you’ve nearly finished it.’

No response from Nicola. Had she understood what he was saying? Or was she upset and refusing to communicate? Once more Tony was swamped by guilt.

‘I’ll tell Anna she can read late tonight if you like. You can always sleep in tomorrow, I’ll put the cot bed next to you and we can snuggle. Be like old times.’

Tony’s voice caught. Why was he stringing this out when he knew it was better just to go?

Leaning down he kissed his wife’s brow. He paused, then kissed her again, this time on her lips. They seemed dry, even a bit chapped, so he plucked the lip balm from the bedside table and gently applied it.

‘Love you.’

Tony turned and left and thirty seconds later the front door closed gently behind him.

Tony walked round the corner to where he’d parked his unmarked car. It was a dented Vauxhall saloon, the car of choice for travelling salesmen up and down the land. He bleeped it open with the fob. Stooping to open the driver’s door, he caught sight of himself and paused. He was wearing a crumpled business suit, had painted flecks of grey in his hair and was wearing a pair of executive-type glasses. It was him, but not him. A vision of a man who was lonely, tired and bereft. There was more than a hint of truth in the image, but Tony refused to dwell on that. He had work to do.

Climbing inside the car, he fired it up and moved off. It was time to dance with the devil.

‘A Tart with Your Heart’

Emilia Garanita surveyed the headline with undisguised pleasure. She was particularly pleased with her word play, as was her editor, who had splashed it on the front page. Would this be the best-selling edition of the Evening News ever? She sincerely hoped so. With a bit of luck, it might even be her passport out of regional journalism.