Dying for Millions by Judith Cutler Page B

said mildly. ‘No, Sophie, as it happens, it will be my good self. I’ve provided myself with a wig and sunglasses for just such an eventuality. And I have to inform you that I will sleep with my door shut, because I snore, and that I will be happy to prepare breakfast at whatever hour you choose.’
    I grinned. ‘God, it’s after well after two now. How do we break up the party?’
    â€˜Jonty’s job. Nothing for you to worry about. And I’ll sort out Andy and Ruth. Their driver’s police-trained, by the way.’
    â€˜I’ll bet you are too. Would you like to drive tonight, Mr Rivers? Feel like a bit of slumming with your old cousin?’
    â€˜I thought you’d never ask.’
    Since – ostensibly – I was taking Andy home, I could scarcely say goodbye to him and Ruth. But I wandered back in, not wanting them to think – I didn’t know what. I felt totally exhausted. If I closed my eyes, I saw Pete Hughes’ broken body; my ears were still ringing from the concert despite the earplugs. When I found Andy and Ruth, I managed to imply – I hope – that I was going to say my farewells and get back to them. ‘See you later,’ I said: that’s what we say in Brum, even when we know full well we won’t see someone for weeks, so I wasn’t, strictly, lying.
    Griff drove home swiftly, unostentatiously. When we got back he waved a laminated sheet of tablets in a bubble-pack at me: sleeping tablets. Homeopathic ones. I’d seen them in health-food shops but never thought of trying them. Better than cleaning any more of the kitchen, perhaps.
    â€˜Might as well get some kip, love,’ he said. ‘You look as if you could use it. Might even try a couple myself.’ He popped a couple and chewed them and passed me the sheet.
    â€˜Why is it,’ Griff began, tipping scrambled eggs on to toast, ‘that you can spend half the night listening to the God-awful row Andy produces and hardly notice the noise, but when you get out into leafy suburbia, and it’s all quiet and allegedly peaceful, you can’t sleep for the yelping of some bloody dog fox? And the little bleeder switches your security lights on too – just to make sure. Here, try that for size.’
    â€˜Thanks.’ The eggs were wondrously fluffy. ‘Learn this in the Met, did you?’
    â€˜There are few things you don’t learn in the Met. Hmm – a little light on the cayenne … Thing is, Sophie, my wife wouldn’t recognise a frying pan if it jumped up and hit her. She was the woman for whom TV dinners and microwaves were invented.’
    â€˜What’s she do?’
    â€˜She’s a housewife. Raised the kids.’ He sounded slightly shocked.
    I
was
slightly shocked. I didn’t know any housewives. Those of my friends who had had children had taken maternity leave, or at the very most career breaks. I wondered what it would be like to spend endless hours in the house. Never a dull moment when the kids were small – but surely when they were older, when they left home?
    â€˜What does she do now?’
    He looked puzzled. ‘Looks after me, of course. Apart from the cooking, that is.’
    â€˜And?’
    â€˜What else do you want her to do? A bit of brain surgery on the side?’
    I shrugged. ‘It was just that I wondered if she might be a bit – bored?’
    â€˜Never mentioned it to me.’
    It was clear I wasn’t endearing myself to him; in any case there were more important things to talk about, once we’d finished eating.
    â€˜Is there any way of learning if Andy’s arrived safely wherever it is?’ I asked at last.
    â€˜Where’s your phone?’
    I gestured to the living room. He pulled himself to his feet, and plodded off: I half-expected him to close the door behind him, but he didn’t. There was no way of hearing what he said without shamelessly eavesdropping,