Читать книгу Killing Kate - Alex Lake - Страница 9

‘Great,’ Kate said. Awfully badly, she thought. And why did I just lie?

‘Would you like a drink? Orange juice? Coffee? Tea?’ He raised an eyebrow. ‘Beer?’

‘What?’ she said, her voice little more than a croak. ‘Are you kidding?’

He grinned. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I am.’

Kate blushed. ‘Right. Sorry. Of course you are. I’m feeling a little delicate.’

‘Me too. They make strong drinks here.’ He drained his coffee, then untucked his foot and stood up. ‘I think I need a refill. You want one?’

She didn’t. Even though they hadn’t, in the end, had sex, she still didn’t want to spend a single minute more here. The grubbiness of her hangover mixed with the memory of throwing herself at him and produced a horrible self-loathing. But she also didn’t want to be rude; he looked so hopeful. And a coffee did sound good.

‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Maybe a quick one. Then I have to get going.’

‘If you need to be somewhere, I understand,’ he said. He had a neutral accent which was hard to place, although she thought she detected the flat vowels of the north. Lancashire, maybe. ‘You don’t need to hang around if you don’t want to.’

‘No,’ Kate said. ‘It’s fine. A coffee would be nice. Thanks.’

He crossed the white-tiled floor to the kitchen and took a mug from a cupboard. He filled it from a stove-top coffee maker. He was wearing chinos and an olive green T-shirt and was maybe ten years older than her, in his late thirties, with a lean, wiry body. His movements were precise and deliberate, but graceful – almost balletic – and he was handsome in a severe, school-teacherly kind of way. He was very different to Phil, a stocky, broad-shouldered rugby player who was anything but precise and balletic. His friends called him clumsy; he said he was too strong for his own good. Either way, it was one of the things she had loved about him.

There was a carton of milk open on the worktop. Mike picked it up and gestured towards the freshly filled cup.

‘Milk?’

‘Yes, please.’

He poured some in and passed her the cup. ‘It’s that UHT stuff they have here,’ he said. ‘Not fresh. But the coffee’s good. Some local brand. Nice and strong. Perfect after a late night.’

It was good. Hot and rich and heady. She only wished she could enjoy it more, that she was drinking it on a café terrace by the harbour with her friends, watching the morning sun glint off the water.

‘So,’ Mike said. ‘Here we are.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Here we are.’

There was an awkward pause. She sipped her coffee. Mike sipped his. After a moment he broke the silence.

‘Where are you from?’ he said. ‘Back home?’

She didn’t want to tell him. Didn’t want him to know anything about her. It wasn’t him – he was pleasant enough, considerate and relaxed, and in other circumstances she might have quite liked him – but she didn’t want any reminder of the night before.

‘Stockton Heath,’ she said. ‘It’s a small town. Village, really. It’s near Warrington, in Cheshire.’

His eyes widened.

‘No way!’ he said. ‘Are you kidding?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Why?’

‘Did we talk about this last night? And now you’re messing with me?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘We didn’t.’

‘Are you sure I didn’t tell you?’

She would have thought it was impossible for her mouth to get any drier, but that was what happened. She sipped her coffee. ‘Tell me what?’

‘Where I live.’

She shook her head. ‘No. Where do you live?’

‘I’m your neighbour,’ he said. ‘I live in the next village along. I live in Moore.’