Page 13 of The Man Who Didn't Call
‘Harrington.’ Tommy had twisted round to look at me. ‘Are you there?’
‘Sorry. Yes.’
‘Look, there’s something I need to tell you.’
I watched him. Tommy’s eyebrows were not carrying glad tidings.
‘When I got that message about the local press earlier, Matthew told me something else. He—’ Tommy broke off, and I knew then that it was bad.
‘Matthew married Claire Peddler. I didn’t mention it before because I didn’t think you’d want to hear her name. But when he texted to say that the local press were coming, he also said that . . .’
No.
‘. . . that Claire had decided to come, too. And she’s . . .’
Bringing Mandy.
‘. . . bringing a little group of friends from our year. Including Mandy Lee.’
I sank forward and rested my head against the back of his seat.
Chapter Six
DAY ONE:The Drink That Lasted Twelve Hours
‘Sarah Mackey,’ I said. ‘M-A-C-K-E-Y.’
The landlord handed me a pint of cider.
The man from the village green just laughed. ‘As it happens, I know how to spell Mackey. But thank you. My name’s Eddie David.’
‘Sorry.’ I smiled. ‘I live in America. It’s a more American surname, I think: when I’m over here, I often have to spell it. Plus I’m fond of clarity.’
‘So I see,’ Eddie said. He was leaning sideways on the bar, watching me. Tenner folded between large brown fingers. I liked the scale of this man. That he was so much taller, so much broader, so much stronger than me. Reuben and I had been the same height.
We sat in the pub garden, an oasis of flowers and picnic tables in the little valley below Sapperton village. The thin ribbon of the River Frome spooled unseen around the meadow fringing the pub’s car park; briar roses toppled from a tree. A couple of walkers were slumped over half-pints, a panting cocker spaniel staring at me from under their legs. As soon as I sat down under a large umbrella, the dog came and sat by my feet, settling itself with a great huff of self-pity.
Eddie laughed.
Somewhere along the valley, the abrasive cracking of a chainsaw started and stopped. A few stunned birds called dazedly from the woods above us. I sipped the cold cider and groaned. ‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ Eddie agreed. We clinked glasses and I felt an uncurling of pleasure. Being alone in my parents’ empty house this morning had been more upsetting than I was willing to admit, and the walk along Broad Ride had done nothing to improve my mood. But here, taking the rough edge off it all, was cold cider and a very agreeable man. Maybe it could be a good day.
‘I love this pub,’ I said. ‘We used to come here when I was a kid. My little sister and I would roam feral and poke around in the stream while my parents and their friends got a little too jolly.’
Eddie took a good draught from his pint. ‘I grew up in Cirencester. Bit trickier to roam feral in the middle of a town. But we did come here once or twice.’
‘Oh, really? When would that have been? How old are you?’
‘Twenty-one,’ Eddie said comfortably. ‘Although people say I look younger.’
He didn’t mind when I laughed. ‘Thirty-nine,’ he said eventually. ‘I remember running around this garden when I was about – what, ten? Then my mum moved here in the late nineties, so I started coming here quite a lot. How old are you? Maybe you and I were feral together.’
A small fleck of suggestion. My app must be going mad.
‘Oh, probably not. I moved to Los Angeles when I was still a teenager.’
‘Really? That’s quite a move.’
