Читать книгу The Watcher - Grace Monroe - Страница 12

Chapter Six

Cumberland Street, Edinburgh Sunday 23 December, 1 a.m.

‘All I knew, Brodie, was that I missed you.’

Jack Deans. Investigative reporter, ex-rugby player, and my booty call, was getting serious.

‘I missed you, Brodie.’

‘Yeah. You said.’

I was running around like a headless chicken trying to get ready to leave for the police station. As usual I couldn’t find anything and I was making another promise to myself to be more organized.

‘You’re a bloody infuriating woman, do you know that?’

‘So people keep telling me.’ I pushed my feet into my bike boots.

‘You make me so mad but all the time I was in Darfur, I wanted to talk to you, to run stories past you, to get your opinion – even if the only one you ever seem to have is that I should shut up.’

He looked at me, waiting for an answer or encouragement – I couldn’t give it to him. The safest way was to continue ignoring him. I rifled through a bag searching for my keys – Malcolm was waiting and I needed to see Moses on my way to St Leonards.

He sat up in bed and a shaft of light came in the window. He was tanned, lean and, in this light, without my contact lenses, did a fair impersonation of George Clooney’s less attractive brother playing a war correspondent.

‘Brodie – this has been going on too long … Is there any point in me taking all this crap from you – always ending up back in your bed?’ I wanted to object to his use of the word ‘always’, but maybe he had a point. I thought I was safe with Jack; Mr Deans was definitely not the marrying type. Was I wrong? It’s sod’s law. Whenever you’re not looking for commitment they come running – it’s the same principle as buses.

‘I’ve spent the last few hours watching you wrestle demons in your sleep, wanting to hold you and make it all better, and knowing there’s no point in me even trying. That’s not my job is it? That’s for Glasgow Joe to do.’

He was trying to look all appealing and sad, but that was never really the type I went for. I liked him rough and uncommitted, and I liked him knowing where the door was as soon as we’d finished having sex. He wasn’t playing ball at all.

‘Brodie …’ he began. Again.

I held my finger up to him. ‘Uh! No!’ I barked, as if he was a leg-rubbing puppy (which was a pretty accurate description, come to think of it). ‘There was never a point when I said I wanted to hear another word from you, Jack.’

‘You weren’t complaining a couple of hours ago,’ he replied, predictably.

‘Oh, shut up – that wasn’t talking, that was grunting. And you may have noticed you did a hell of a lot more of it than me, so don’t go thinking you’ve waltzed back into town like bloody Casanova.’

‘I got a call. A personal one.’

I didn’t so much as raise an eyebrow of interest, finding my cuticles much more interesting instead.

‘From your Grandad. He had a bit of news for me – namely that you and Joe were definitely over, and if I came back, I might find myself in with a shout.’

‘Lovely,’ I hissed. ‘Did he offer you a dowry as well?’

‘The timing was perfect – the Sudanese government was throwing me out anyway. And I got here in time for Christmas.’

He pulled on a red Santa hat that lay on the floor.

‘How about we give it a try?’

I slammed the door on my way out.