Читать книгу Killing Kate - Alex Lake, Alex Lake - Страница 17

At four p.m. – an hour or so before his normal departure time – Phil shut down his computer. He watched the screen go black, then put his laptop in his bag. He was leaving work early. An idea had come to him during the day. And it was a good one. An excellent one. It could not go wrong.

It went like this:

Kate had come home from holiday at midnight, after a week away, a week in which whatever food she had in her house would have gone off. OK, there might be some pasta and sauce and packets of soup and things like that, but there would not be any fresh stuff: no fruit, no vegetables, no bread, no milk, no cheese, no meat, no fish.

So he would take her some. Yes, they had broken up; yes, he knew that he was not handling it well; yes, she had made it clear that she wanted some distance between them, but this was different. This was merely a friendly, thoughtful gesture to help her transition from holiday to home. He’d knock on the front door, hand over a bag – or bags – and then, if she wanted him to, he’d leave. No problem.

Of course, if she saw that he was a standout guy, a caring, resourceful, loving partner and decided to ask him in to share the meal, then he would accept. As a friend. To provide some company; nothing more, nothing less.

And if they ended up having amazing, mind-blowing make-up sex, then that would be OK too.

Phil stopped himself following that train of thought. It was simultaneously too exciting and too upsetting for him to handle. He took a deep breath, and walked out to his blue Ford Mondeo.

Or his Ford Mundane-o, as her dad had called it. He was into cars and he always teased Phil for his choice. As Phil pointed out, it was practical and good value for money, and – above all – safe, which you would have thought would appeal to a father, but her dad had shaken his head and told him to get a Triumph Stag or something with soul. He knew he was only teasing him – Kate’s dad teased him all the time – but Phil hated it. It had probably contributed to Kate dumping him. He felt his resentment rise.

No – enough of that. That was the past. For now, he had a job to do.

Kate was normally home around six thirty – Phil knew her routines well, since he had been part of them up until a few weeks ago – so he timed his arrival at about fifteen minutes after she returned. He parked behind her Mini – British Racing Green; her dad had insisted that she get that colour – picked up the two Sainsbury’s shopping bags from the passenger seat, and walked to the front door.

He knocked. He didn’t want to use the bell; it was somehow too formal.

The door opened. And there she was.

Looking beautiful. Looking like Kate. She was barefoot. He glanced at her feet. They had tan lines from her flip-flops. They reminded him of the holiday they’d taken the year before in Mallorca. She’d had them then, as well as other tan lines in more intimate places. Despite her pale skin, Kate tanned heavily in the sun and he had a clear image of her white buttocks contrasting with the golden brown of her legs and lower back.

‘Hi,’ he said. ‘Welcome home.’

She stared at him. She looked tired, her eyes a little red. ‘Phil,’ she said. ‘Hi.’

‘I brought you some provisions,’ he said, and held out the shopping bags. ‘I thought you might need some fresh food. You probably don’t have anything in, coming back from holiday. This might help.’

She didn’t take them. ‘That’s so sweet,’ she said. ‘But you didn’t have to do it.’

‘I wanted to. Got to keep your strength up!’

‘For what?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I just – I just said it.’

And I should have said nothing, he thought, but I’m so fucking nervous, which is ridiculous, this is Kate.

‘How was the holiday?’ he asked, his tone bright.

‘It was good.’

‘You didn’t call me back that day.’

‘We were busy. And I was enjoying myself, Phil. The point was to get away.’

‘I know, but I’m your—’ He stopped himself. He’d been about to say ‘boyfriend’, a status which would have given him the right to expect a call from his girlfriend when she was on holiday, but that was no longer correct. ‘I’m your friend,’ he finished.

‘I know. But I have lots of friends who I didn’t call from holiday.’

‘Right. So what did you do all week?’

‘Hung out on the beach. Went out at night.’ She shrugged. ‘Usual holiday stuff.’

‘Did you – did you meet anybody?’

‘We met lots of people.’

‘Right.’ There was a long, awkward silence. They both knew what he was asking, and they both knew that she wouldn’t answer. They both knew that it would be better if he didn’t ask again, but they both knew he would.

‘Did you meet any – you know – any guys?’

‘Phil, if you’re asking me whether I met any men, then the answer is yes. We met lots. If you’re asking me whether I went out on dates with them or kissed them or did whatever, then the answer is that it’s none of your business.’

‘It sounds like you did.’

‘Fine. Think what you like.’

This was not going well. He needed to get it back on track. He held the bags out to her. ‘Are you going to take them?’

‘I’m not sure, Phil. You don’t need to feed me.’

He opened one of the bags and showed her the contents.

‘Look,’ he said. ‘Smoked salmon. And crab pâté. And some white wine. Asparagus. A baguette.’

‘Phil,’ she said. ‘I’m tired. I don’t have the energy to make—’

He put the bag down and opened the other. ‘Vegetables: carrots, potatoes … parsnips – your favourite. They’re organic. And two steaks. Filet mignon. They’ll be delicious.’

She folded her arms. ‘Why two steaks, Phil?’

He stared at her, speechless.

‘I thought this was something to welcome me back, to make sure I had food in the house?’

‘It is.’

‘Then why two steaks? I only need one.’

He blinked. He didn’t need to answer the question. They both knew why there were two: one for each of them. Which meant that this wasn’t a kind, selfless gesture, after all, but a desperate attempt to get back together with her.

He put the bags on the stone step. The bottle clinked.

‘Do whatever you want,’ he said. ‘Sorry I tried to be helpful.’

‘Don’t guilt-trip me, Phil.’

He looked at her, at the woman he loved more than anything else in the world, and he realized that it might be over, after all, that this might be for real, that he might be losing – have lost – her for good.

That couldn’t happen. Not under any circumstances. He had to get her back. Had to.

He turned and walked back to his car. Behind him, he heard the door shut. As he drove away, he saw that the bags were still outside.