“What do you mean?”

“The film, Chinatown. Haven’t you seen it?”

“What happens?”

“Jack Nicholson gets his nose cut by Roman Polanski, and Faye Dunaway, well…she does what you’re doing now.”

“Puts TCP on it?”

“Well, I don’t think it was TCP—I don’t think they have that in America—but the idea’s the same. Anyway, it’s a very sexy scene.”

“Sexy?” Michelle paused. Banks could see her flushed skin, feel the heat from her cheeks. The bathroom seemed to be getting smaller.

“Yes,” said Banks.

She dabbed at him again. Her hand was trembling. “I don’t see how putting TCP on a cut could be sexy,” she said. “I mean, what happens?”

She was so close to him now that he could feel her breast touching ever so lightly against his arm. He could have leaned the top half of his body farther back, bent at the knees, but he stood his ground. “First, they kiss,” he said.

“But wouldn’t it hurt?”

“It was just his nose that got cut. Remember?”

“Of course. How silly of me.”

“Michelle?”

“What? What is it?”

Banks took her trembling hand by the wrist and moved it away from his mouth, then he put his other hand under her chin and cupped it gently so she was looking at him, her brilliant green eyes questioning but holding his gaze, not looking away now. He could feel his heart thudding in his chest and his knees wobbling as he pulled her closer to him and felt her yield.

Chapter 16

You were late back last night,” Banks’s mother said, without turning from the kitchen sink. “Tea’s fresh.”

Banks poured himself a cup of tea and added a splash of milk. He had expected this sort of reaction. His mother had probably lain awake until two in the morning listening for him the way she did when he was a teenager. He and Michelle had decided that, for many reasons, it was not a good idea for him to stay with her overnight, but even so Michelle had laughed at the idea of his having to go home to his mother.

Ida Banks turned. “Alan! What have you done to your face?”

“It’s nothing,” said Banks.

“But it’s all bruised. And your lip’s cut. What have you been up to?”

Banks turned away. “I told you, it’s nothing.”

“Were you fighting? Was it some criminal you were arresting? Is that why you were so late? You could have rung.” She gave him a look that spoke volumes about what she thought of his chosen career.

“Something like that,” Banks said. “I had a bit of business to take care of. Look, I’m sorry I didn’t ring, but it was so late. I didn’t want to wake you.”

His mother gave him the reproving look she was so good at. “Son,” she said, “you ought to know by now that I can’t get to sleep until you’re home safe and sound.”

“Well, you can’t have slept much these past thirty years or so,” Banks said, and immediately regretted it when he saw the other look she was so good at, the suffering martyr, lower lip trembling. He went over and gave her a hug. “Sorry, Mum,” he said, “but I’m all right. Really I am.”