Presumed Dead by Shirley Wells Page A

unusually, he wasn’t sorry when the game ended. Arsenal had beaten Manchester City two-nil, but it hadn’t been a thrilling game.
    As he drove, he began to thaw out and, by the time they reached the marital home, he could feel his toes again.
    “Mum’s home!” Luke gave Dylan a sympathetic look. “I’ll try and put in a good word for you, Dad. And I won’t repeat what that bloke called the ref,” he added with a grin.
    Dylan groaned. “Please don’t.”
    “I won’t. He was right, though. The bloke was a—”
    “Yes, yes. He probably was, although what he does in his spare time is his own business. Let’s just forget that particular incident, shall we?”
    They walked inside and Dylan got halfway along the hall before a stern-looking Bev, arms folded across her very attractive chest, barred his way.
    Luke wasn’t put off.
    “I’ve promised to show Dad an old Arsenal program,” he said, and Dylan wondered when he’d learned to lie so easily. “I’m just going upstairs to find it.”
    “Don’t be long then,” Bev warned him.
    Dylan stood facing his wife. And she faced him straight back.
    “It was a great game.” He decided to opt for a safe subject.
    “Good.”
    “Yeah. We won, two nil. It was cold, though. Not that Luke seems to feel it.”
    She rolled her eyes. “I’ll make you a coffee, Dylan, and then you go.”
    “Aw, thanks, Bev.”
    He followed her into the marital kitchen. There was something different, yet he couldn’t see that she’d changed anything. Venetian blinds at the window above the sink looked the same. Kettle, tea, coffee and sugar canisters, bread bin—all were in their rightful places. The usual wrinkled apples and a couple of oranges sat in the wooden bowl. Bananas hung from the chrome tree, and the glove dangled from the cooker door.
    “It used to be cream,” she said on a long sigh.
    “Ah. I wondered.” He couldn’t remember it being cream. For all he knew, it could always have been this pale green. “It looks good, Bev.”
    “It was nice to just get on and do it.”
    “You should have said. I could have done it for you.”
    “I did say, Dylan. I said time and time again for two years.”
    “Ah.”
    Now she mentioned it, he could vaguely remember her telling him he had plenty of time for painting.
    “Thanks,” he said as she thrust a mug of coffee at him.
    It was time for an “I’ve changed—you were right—how can I possibly make it up to you?” conversation. Unfortunately, Bev had other plans.
    “Here’s Mum,” she said as a car door was heard being slammed shut. “Right, I’m off. See you, Dylan. And don’t stay too long!”
    “Oh, er, right. Thanks for the coffee.”
    “You’re welcome.”
    Bev was gone and her mother, someone Dylan had always got along well with, took her place in the kitchen.
    She gave him a hug, then clucked her teeth at him. “You’ve really done it this time, Dylan.”
    “She’ll come round, Pam. She always does.”
    Her expression as she patted his arm was a disturbing mix of sadness and frustration. “Don’t count on it, love.”
    Luke raced into the kitchen, and Dylan noticed the way his son’s face fell when he spotted his grandmother. As much as Luke adored her, Dylan knew the lad had been hoping for a reconciliation between his parents.
    “Has Mum gone out?”
    “She has,” Dylan said, “so you’ll have to behave for your gran.”
    “I always do. And don’t worry, Dad, I meant what I said. I’ll put in a good word for you.”
    “Thanks.”
    Dylan would talk to Bev next week. What she was doing, he suspected, was trying to make him jealous, to make him believe she had another man at her beck and call.
    Come to think of it—
    “Who painted the kitchen then?”
    “It looks much better, doesn’t it?” Pam ran a hand over the wall. “That cream was too bland with the pine units. She’s thinking of doing this wall—” she pointed to the back, “—in an olive green. I’m not so sure about