Page 65 of Cover Story
Bel needed to not be distracted by office politics tittle-tattle, bigger issues were at hand.
Once both men were on phone calls, she slid her iPhone out.
Bel
Ian, we should meet for a catch-up this week if you can risk it, but also, I’m going to shoot my shot: can I request you bring Erin? Not to apply pressure, I just think it’d really help for us to meet each other.
A reply after fifteen minutes:
Ian
I’ve spoken to Erin and she’s agreed to join. She’s becoming a devotee of your podcast archive. And I think your cameo in Amber’s Instagram made her realise you are both serious about this, and very good at what you do!
Bel
I’m definitely at least one of those things.
37
‘It’s nice enough weather to sit in the garden and yet we probably shouldn’t for reasons of privacy, should we?’ Ian said, answering the door at his immaculate terrace.
‘Could compromise with kitchen and open windows,’ Bel said. ‘Serious hydrangeas. Your garden is incredible.’
She gestured at the explosion of blooms, the flowers a beetroot-stain pink. Ian’s fenced front plot, window boxes and hanging basket had the well-controlled wild abundancy of a good gardener.
‘Oh, thank you,’ Ian said. ‘I can give you a cutting when you leave.’
‘There’s no garden at my chic city address, I’m afraid, but thank you. Someone did vomit in my shared hallway the other day, though, and the other residents were insistent they could “tell” it wasn’t resident vomit. That’s as wildlife watching as we get.’
Ian guffawed.
‘Then you can have them for a chic city vase.’
Bel stepped into a narrow hallway in red ankle boots, made narrower by a trail bike and coat rack with old-fashioned umbrellas propped in it.
For their third meeting, Bel had the lightbulb she couldsimply go to Ian’s house. He lived in Sale, so Bel decided to get the tram after work.
On her way, she squeezed in among the commuters, and her mind turned to how on earth they could pull off the iPad stunt. Connor’s scepticism was merited, and Bel was starting to sense the limits of what her brother called the ‘it’ll be reet’, approach. She’d begun to very vaguely toy with a backup plan, but ‘plan’ was dignifying it.Death or glory reckless self-immolation with two per cent chance of coming offwas probably closer to it. There was a disjoint between her devil-may-care methodology and the trust that had been placed in her, and when she wasn’t rationalising herself out of it (‘This was Ian’s idea!’), Bel felt it.
Ian’s home was exactly as she’d have predicted if she’d thought about it: spider plants on full shelving and mid-century modern furniture with toothpick legs: sofas and chairs a seal-dark grey, crocheted throws and rugs, a riot of bright colour.
There was an Aaron Parry-approved Stanley Chow print of Mrs Merton hung above an original fireplace in a dining room with a chunky wooden table and an old-style stereo stack, a spotless galley kitchen beyond. Fastidiousness, and warmth. (Bel had politely declined a lasagne with both of them, feeling it crossed a line into socialising.Probably for the best, Ian said,my plant-based diet niece is forcing a butternut squash filling upon me.)
‘Take a seat and I’ll put the kettle on. Unless …’ Ian checked the time on a wall clock. ‘Sun’s over the yardarm. Can I tempt you to a wine, or are you driving? Do you drink both white and red?’
‘Yes you can, no I’m not and yes I do. I can drive but I haven’t got a car, just as well with where I’m living at the moment,’ Bel said, taking a seat at the table.
‘Right in the thick of it, Ancoats, I think you said? I love those old converted cotton mills. I envy you and I put in a shift in the 1990s, but I’m too old for it now. The quiet ’burbs have a sudden allure when you hit forty-five.’
Ian placed a glass of white wine in front of Bel and she outlined Amber’s thirty-fifth, adding illustrative details about fake boyfriends and overnight stays.
‘Lord in heaven,’ Ian said. ‘It’d make several podcast episodes at this point? With cliffhangers.’
The doorbell rang. ‘That’ll be Erin.’
Ian’s niece entered the room with a look of trepidation. She was small, in a black cord jacket, with henna box-dye red shoulder-length hair with chunky sections bleached white, and a punky amount of eye make-up. Bel would’ve guessed her age as late teens, twenty at the oldest. She should’ve been babysitting Glenn’s nephews and nieces, not fodder for his fantasies.
‘I’m Bel and you must be Erin … so good to meet you.’ She stood up and reached out to shake Erin’s hand, who mumbled a hello.
