“Marvellous.”
“And we have volunteers to do the calendar.”
“We do? How wonderful. How many?”
“Four. Mike Shanton, Norris Hillwood, Bob Collier and me.”
“Oh,” said Arlene, her disappointment vaguely insulting.
“So far,” said Nathan. “I’ve only just put the word out. It wasn’t a show of hands, and some will want to talk to their other halves. I’m sure there’ll be more.”
“Let’s hope so. How many of the squad are single?”
Nathan made a quick mental calculation and included those who were single, divorced or separated—and not dating—into the pot.
“Around nine.”
“Including you?”
“I’m gay, Arlene.”
“You’re single, though, aren’t you?”
“Terminally.”
“Ten, then. Excellent. We should start the bidding at a hundred pounds a player. What do you think?”
As if his opinion even mattered. He knew exactly what was going through her head. One event, and she would already have achieved almost half of what the committee made last year for the whole day.
“Fine.”
“It’ll be fun,” she said.
Her attention elsewhere now, she wiggled the fingers of one hand at friends and headed off. He waited until she was well out of earshot before murmuring to himself.
“It’ll be an embarrassment.”
“What’ll be an embarrassment?” came Jaymes’ voice next to him, startling him.
“Will you stop stalking me?”
“I’m not stalking—” Jaymes looked away, his eyebrows scrunched together, and he sighed. “Polly sent me over to see if you wanted a lift. In case you haven’t noticed, the weather’s taken a turn for the worse. Apparently your place is on our way. Or you could come back and share some lunch with us.”
“Polly’s cooking?” said Nathan, aghast. Polly only ever opened packets or tins. He wondered if she even knew how to use her microwave.
“Of course not.”
“You’re getting takeaway?”
“I’m cooking. Why do people find that so hard to believe?”
“Give me a few moments to come up with a suitable response.”
“You want a lift or not?”
Nathan peered out the window to where the weather had worsened. Rain hammered down from the sky, January rain—ice cold, unrelenting, and able to pierce even the thickest overcoat. His flat stood a brisk forty-five-minute walk away, usually giving him refreshing exercise after a beer. If he walked, he would get soaked. A lift home would be a sensible alternative.
“Go on, then. But you can drop me home.”
