Chapter Four

One Week Later

Mags

The knock on the front door disturbs my concentration, and for a second I just stare in the door’s direction, my head still deep in the work that’s spread all over the desk in my study.

While I’ve been wool gathering, the person at my door has obviously become impatient because the knock comes again. Louder this time.

Cursing, I throw my pen down and storm out of the room, wincing as my back twangs. When I had a bike accident in my twenties, I’d moved blithely on from it, thinking my injuries were behind me. I never realised they were just in hiding, waiting to ambush me in my fifties with strange aches and pains.

I swing the front door open, intending to send whoever it is off with a flea in their ear, but stop dead in surprise. Laurie is standing there. His wavy hair is a mess and there are dark circles under those stunning eyes of his. He’s dressed in ancient-looking jeans and another disreputable top. This one is an orange T-shirt that is so old it’s the colour of marmalade. Faded yellow Converse complete his hobo look.

He smiles cheerfully at me. “Are you ready?”

I blink. “I beg your pardon?”

“Are you ready for our walk?”

I rack my brain, trying to remember making plans. Then I realise that I didn’t. “Why would I be ready for a walk, Laurie?”

His expression is sympathetic but still somehow manages to look like he’s taking the piss. It seems to be a character trait of his. “For fresh air,” he says, slowly enunciating every word.

I roll my eyes. “I’ll open a window if I require that,” I inform him. Normally, I’d shut the door in his face. I have no problem with being rude. Today, for some unknown reason, I just stand here looking at him.

His mouth quirks and he claps his hands together. “Come on then, Mags. The day’s a wasting.”

“I’m not sure that my day was wasting in any form.”

“Were you working?”

I nod.

“It’s a Saturday. Your day was definitely being wasted. Come on,” he says. “Grab a jacket and your pension book and let’s go for a walk. It’s a lovely day.”

“I do not possess a pension book,” I state. “Because I am only a few years older than you.”

“It’s not the age. It’s the mileage,” he says happily. “And those twinks of yours look like they could take a lot out of a person’s tank.”

I want to be angry, and indeed I open my mouth to blast him, but what comes out, to my amazement, is a huge laugh. He watches me, smiling, and when I’ve finished chuckling, I wink at him. “I have a tank with a great capacity,” I inform him.