it is your script.’
Dora licked her lips. ‘I see. So when do you need this work of literary genius?’
Calvin smiled. ‘By tomorrow afternoon. Won’t be a problem, will it?’
It was not the easiest social event Dora had ever hosted. Lillian Bliss perched on the edge of the settee, looking around, taking in everything with her bottle-blue eyes, unsure quite what to say. Calvin hid behind a cloud of cigar smoke and Dora played mother.
‘Do you live locally?’ she asked, trying to fill the choking silence.
Lillian smiled. ‘I do now. I’ve just got a new flat.’
From the corner of her eye Dora noticed Calvin wince slightly, and played the advantage.
‘Really,’ she said, handing the girl a cup of tea. ‘That’s nice. Whereabouts?’
Lillian simpered in the general direction of Calvin Roberts. ‘Calvin’s found me a really nice place down by the river. One of those new warehouse conversions?’ She wrinkled up her nose. ‘It’s funny, me getting a nice place like that and you living here …’ She stopped, and glanced round the room, blushing furiously. ‘Well, it is small, isn’t it? Not like I imagined at all, really. Not that it’s not nice, I mean, I’m not saying …’ She stopped dead, tripping over her own embarrassment, then took a deep breath and started again. ‘I saw a film about this famous American writer once, she’d got this big house on the beach. And a little fluffy white dog. Calvin said …’
Calvin coughed theatrically before Lillian got a chance to share what it was he’d said. He tugged at his waistcoat.
‘Er, right, I think we ought to be going now. Maybe Dora could just show you her office and then we can get on our way.’
Dora suppressed a smile and picked at the cat’s hairs on the arm of the chair.
Lillian pouted. ‘I haven’t finished my tea yet. Bunny,’ she protested in a little-girl-lost voice.
Calvin waved her to her feet. ‘Don’t worry about the tea,’ he said briskly. ‘Let’s look at the office. We’ll get some lunch on the way home.’
Lillian beamed. ‘Oh, all right,’ she said enthusiastically and turned her piranha smile on Dora. ‘I wanted to know where I write all that stuff. That’s why I wanted to come.’ She stopped and buffed her smile up. ‘And to meet you, of course.’
Dora lifted an eyebrow and stared pointedly at Calvin, who coughed again.
‘Come on then,’ he blustered. ‘We’ll take a look at the office and then we’ll be off.’
There was barely room for two in the office. Dora hung back while Lillian looked around, running a painted fingernail over the books and shelves. Calvin stood in the doorway.
Dora grinned at him. ‘Bunny, eh?’ she whispered in an undertone.
‘She’s just naturally affectionate,’ hissed her agent.
Dora suppressed a smile. ‘You surprise me.’
Satisfied, Lillian looked up. ‘Okay, all done,’ she said cheerfully. She glanced at Dora. ‘Calvin said you were going out to lunch, would you like to come with us?’
Dora felt Calvin bristle. She smiled and shook her head. ‘That’s really very kind, Lillian, but no thanks, actually I’ve been invited to my sister’s.’
‘We could drop you off on the way,’ continued Lillian. ‘It wouldn’t be any trouble, would it. Bunny?’
In spite of herself, Dora felt a rush of affection for her alter ego. She shook her head again, Calvin shuffling uncomfortably beside her.
‘That’s very nice of you, Lillian, but it’s not far and I enjoy the walk.’
At the top of the stairs, Lillian thanked her for tea, buttoned up her jacket and was gone. Calvin adjusted his crombie.
‘Nice girl,’ he said, teeth closing on his cigar.
Dora grinned. ‘I hope you’ve got a licence.’
‘Uh?’
‘Dangerous animals act, you’re supposed to apply for a licence.’
Calvin snorted. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to be dropped off anywhere?’
Dora shook her head. ‘No thanks, Calvin, just make sure, between the pair of you, you don’t drop me in it.’
Calvin squared his shoulders. ‘Have I ever let you down?’ he murmured and lifted a hand in farewell.
Dora didn’t feel he deserved an answer.
On a corner plot in the newly, dismally developed Harvest Meadows, Sheila was already busy in the kitchen, slipping a tray of gold-tinted roast potatoes back into the oven.
Dora hung her coat in the hall cupboard. ‘Everyone out?’
Sheila wiped the steam from her glasses.
‘Uh huh. You’re late. Have you taken your shoes off? That Axminster’s new. Lunch will be ready in half an hour.’ She peered at Dora. ‘I don’t know how you stay so slim, all the rubbish you eat. Doesn’t seem right. I only have to look at a cream cake and I put on half a stone.’ Sheila tugged her apron down over her ample hips. ‘Is that the dress we got from Marks?’
After the cool sharp air outside, the kitchen seemed uncomfortably hot. Dora glanced round at Sheila’s immaculate work surfaces, and sighed. ‘It was the only thing I’d got left that was clean. I’ve had company this morning –’ And on reflection the company had left her with a disturbing sense of unease.
Sheila was oblivious, setting out gleaming cups and saucers on a doily-covered tray.
‘You ought to take more care of yourself. I’ve told you I’ll come and give you a hand with your housework if you like; two fifty an hour. Cash of course.’
Dora grinned. ‘Pinkerton’s going rate?’
Sheila shook her head and wiped up an imaginary sugar spill. ‘Never heard of them. An agency, are they?’
‘It was a joke. Can I help you with anything?’
Sheila sniffed. ‘It’s all done now. You didn’t come through the Milburn Estate again, did you?’ she demanded, arranging bourbons on a small silver plate.
‘Never miss.’ Dora leant over and prised a broken biscuit from the crinkly red plastic packaging before Sheila could consign it to the swingbin. ‘It’s a really pretty walk through those new little designer houses round the back. They’ve landscaped the parking bays now. Weeping willows and red hot pokers, very Sunday supplement.’
‘It’s sick. You didn’t put flowers down again?’
‘A single cream rose.’
Sheila sighed. ‘People talk, you know.’
‘It seems very fitting to mark the place where my husband died.’
‘That would be all very well if he was dead.’
Dora crunched the biscuit, hoovering wayward crumbs into her mouth with her tongue. ‘He might as well be. I like to mark the spot where our marriage finally passed away.’ She lifted her hands to add dramatic emphasis. ‘One final, fatal collision between magnolia and sage-green emulsion that changed two lives irrevocably.’
Sheila pursed her lips and picked up the tray. ‘Sick.’
‘I’m much happier now.’
‘People do not get divorced over emulsion.’
‘It was the final straw.’
Sheila sniffed. ‘Twenty years.’
‘Do we always have to talk about this? You always bring