Playing Grace by Hazel Osmond

that stuff you had to get.’ She let her gaze drift to Tate. He was already back in her chair. So much for not having to share her desk with him. She added, with feeling, ‘You know, especially the traps and the poison.’
    ‘Nice try, Gracie,’ Tate said, ‘but it’s gonna’ take more than a few traps and some poison to get rid of me.’ He swivelled the chair towards her. ‘And don’t think I’m getting in that trash bag without a fight.’
    ‘Ha, ha.’ She failed to make it sound anything other than forced and Tate stopped swivelling his chair and nodded at the bag. He wrinkled his nose.
    ‘That one of your jobs too? Taking out the trash?’
    ‘No … I …’
    ‘Shouldn’t be hauling that stuff about.’ He stood up. ‘You wanna chuck this kettle?’ He grabbed it and in a few strides was standing in front of her – she did not have time to tell him it didn’t matter and she could manage. As if to prove she couldn’t, the strap of her handbag betrayed her and slid down from her shoulder.
    ‘Here,’ Tate said as he slid it back up her arm and repositioned it, giving it a pat into place. He was smiling at her as he did it and she tried to look nonchalantly over his shoulder despite the proximity of his face, his breath. Him.
    ‘Gonna hand it over then?’ he asked. ‘What?’ She looked at her handbag. Did he mean her handbag?
    ‘The trash.’ He laughed. ‘Unless, you know, you’re attached to it?’
    ‘No, no.’ She held it out towards him and the strap of her bag came down again and this time she managed to clamp her arm to her side to halt its progress. It was a bad move, because it forced her to cling on to the rubbish bag and took her attention away from trying to avoid any part of his body touching any part of hers.
    More amusement from him, more embarrassment from her.
    He was tugging at the rubbish bag now and she let it go and saw him transfer both it and the kettle to one hand, and then he was putting her wayward strap back up on her shoulder at exactly the same time as she was trying to do it herself.
    ‘Oh, sorry,’ she said, flapping to pull her hand away. He said nothing, but she saw from his eyes he had registeredher awkwardness. When she did manage to disengage her hand, it seemed a gauche thing to do, as if she were a nervous virgin, an impression underlined by the way she flinched when he again patted her strap into place on her shoulder.
    ‘Thank you,’ she said primly and saw his lips give a definite hitch up.
    Gilbert appeared behind Tate’s shoulder. ‘You two are making this look like some ancient bag-transferring ceremony. Have you quite finished? Because if you have,’ he patted the pocket where he kept his cigars, ‘I might tag along with you and sneak a crafty one. If you’ll pardon the pun. Give me that kettle, Tate; I need an alibi for my trip out if the smoking police should happen to emerge.’ He looked towards Alistair’s door.
    Grace could have kissed Gilbert at that point. ‘Excellent,’ she said, ‘that’s really helpful. You can show Tate where the rubbish goes and I can nip off.’ She did a quick turn intending to head out before them and get down the stairs as quickly as she could.
    ‘Need something from you before you go,’ Tate said, making her turn back.
    ‘Yes?’
    He nodded slowly and she couldn’t help reading the signs. He was interested in her, perhaps more thaninterested. There was a light in his eyes that was trying to spark something in her. She dropped her gaze to the cuff of her coat as if whatever was there, invisible to anybody else, had to be examined that minute.
    ‘Sorry?’
    She heard the rustle of the bag and worked out that he was about to lift it up and over his shoulder. She imagined he must look like a pinstriped robber when he got it there, but she wasn’t going to check.
    ‘Your flashlight, Gracie,’ he said. ‘Wanna lend it me? Gonna be dark round the back, I guess.’
    ‘No,’ she said to her cuff,