She hadn’t wanted to argue with John. He just seemed to push her buttons. She harrumphed as she raked over their disagreement. So far, though he was bullish and self-righteous, John’s only real crimes had been to seek enough money to look after an elderly aunt in her twilight years and to suggest that a sixty-something man shouldn’t be homeless. What had happened here, she surmised, was a classic case of transference; she was taking out her feelings of frustration and powerlessness with Max on John.
Max’s passive aggression bordered on abusive; even when she was aware of what he was doing, his words would leave her tongue-tied and impotent, like screaming through duct tape. She’d been frustrated for so long that John’s unthreatening, plain-speaking manner seemed to set all her pent-up words free. She knew, somehow, there’d be no repercussions with John. But feeling safe with him didn’t mean she could behave like an arse; in fact, she reasoned, it ought to garner the opposite response. He did still push her buttons, though . . .
“Oh my God!” She raised her hands heavenward in exasperation. “Why is he so annoying?” She was offered no response to her pleas, other than Tiggs regurgitating and waking herself up with a start.
“Serves you right for eating your supper like a pig,” said Annie.
Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle eyed Annie with contempt and settled back down to sleep.
Annie huffed. “Oh, all right,” she said irritably to no one at all. She picked up her phone and texted John.
I’m sorry. I don’t know why I snapped like I did. Well, actually, I do know but it’s too complicated to go into over text. The thing is, my anger wasn’t aimed at you and it was unfair of me to go off like that. I’m sorry that our truce ended. Thank you for helping to make my first ever Halloween party so enjoyable.
In less than a minute her phone pinged.
I’m sorry too. I came off as self-righteous and accusing and that isn’t how I meant that conversation to go at all. I guess the skeletons in both our closets were rattling their bones tonight Of course you care about Alfred. I took my frustrations out on you and that was unfair of me.
Annie read and reread the text. Blimey! she thought. He’s like a real live grown-up! Another text came through hot on the heels of the first.
I’m driving to Cornwall this weekend to visit Mari and Celeste but I’ll be back in Willow Bay on Wednesday to help Paul with the fireworks. Perhaps we can talk again.
Away till Wednesday? Don’t you ever work?
To which he replied: Ha! The benefits of working remotely. I work six days a week but pick my own hours. Can usually be found burning the midnight oil.
“Hmmm,” Annie mused aloud. “A workaholic?” She texted: In that case . . . don’t you ever sleep?
The response was almost immediate: Not enough and lately even less!
Annie desperately wanted to ask why he wasn’t sleeping, but given how quickly their conversations deteriorated, she decided to keep things light.
Well, you’ve got a long drive tomorrow, so hopefully you’ll get some sleep tonight. Nite nite.
She deleted the nite nite and then wrote it back in again three times; was it too cutesy? Too familiar? Too dismissive?
Oh, for the love of God, woman! Just finish the text already! she berated herself. She put nite nite back into the message and pressed send before she could change her mind again.
Sleep tight! J. came the reply.
Just one more thing . . . Annie messaged.
Yes??
If you could only listen to one song for the rest of your life, what would it be?
The response was almost immediate. Spice Girls, “Wannabe.” Obviously!
Annie laughed out loud. She was still erupting into little guffaws as she settled herself down under a blanket to watch an old Hammer Horror on TV: Dracula: Prince of Darkness, starring Christopher Lee as Dracula, nibbling on the necks of prim ladies with jaunty hats and plummy accents. What better way to finish off a perfect Halloween.
Chapter 56
The next morning, it was pouring with rain outside, and her customers were primarily those for whom nothing will come between them and their constitutionals. A couple squeaked their way to the bench by the window and shrugged out of their hardy outerwear.
Annie’s phone buzzed with a text. It was from John: a photo of Mari, laughing from beneath a woolen hat and shrouded in many layers, as she sat outside a café in bright sunshine, holding up a coffee cup. Behind her, the view fell away down to the sea and little fishing boats bobbing on the water. Just at the edges of the picture was a slender hand with black nail varnish, resting lightly on a packet of cigarettes. This, Annie surmised, must be Celeste. The caption read: Just so you know I haven’t locked her away in a nursing home.