A Racing Murder by Frances Evesham

Author:Frances Evesham [Evesham, Frances]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Boldwood Books

18

Dinner

Imogen had reserved her favourite table for four in the hotel, neatly tucked in a little alcove in one corner of the room.

Adam was first to arrive, to Harley's delight. Unfortunately, the dog had just spent a happy half-hour in the garden where he'd found the muddiest spot close to the stream and rolled enthusiastically in the sludge.

Adam held Harley at arm’s length in the foyer until Emily rescued him. She took Harley by the collar and led him away. ‘I'll get Michael to give him a bath,’ she said.

Adam brushed mud from his best trousers. That served him right. He’d dressed up, telling himself it was out of respect for the elegance of The Streamside Hotel’s dining room, such a contrast from the casual atmosphere of the Plough, although he knew it was for Steph.

Imogen grinned. ‘Nice shirt,’ she said.

‘This old thing?’ Adam mocked. ‘I’ve had it for years. Isn't that what you’re supposed to say?’

‘Can't fool me. It’s new, and I'm sure…’ she twinkled, ‘I’m sure Steph will be looking lovely, as always.’

Adam snorted with laughter. ‘And what will Dan be wearing tonight, do you think?’ he teased.

‘Painter’s smock?’ Imogen suggested.

‘And a beret, of course. Did he paint in a garret in Paris?’

‘Well, at the art school, anyway.’

‘Maybe a string of onions, then.’

‘And that, Mr Hennessy, shows your age. I bet you can remember when onion sellers came from Brittany to sell their wares from their bicycles.’

Adam threw up his hands. ‘Not quite, but I learned about it at my mother's knee.’

They were still giggling like children when Dan arrived, soon followed by Steph. They made their way towards the restaurant.

Steph’s dark curly hair had mostly withstood the fading of time, except for a white streak at her temples. This evening, her purple paisley shirt and orange scarf lit up the dining room. Adam swallowed hard, suddenly short of breath.

He caught sight of himself in a mirror and snorted quietly at the contrast. There was no point in kidding himself. ‘Smartly dressed’ was the best he’d ever achieve. He'd been born with genes that had stopped him growing taller than five foot six, but seemed to have no such scruples when it came to sideways growth. Once or twice he’d tried a diet, but the truth was, he loved the good things of life.

He hadn’t been out for a run since Saturday morning.

Still, friends, good food and good wine mattered more to him than his figure. He’d never lasted more than three days on any diet. At least he looked the part as the host of The Plough.

He really should get back to that fitness plan, though. He was eating far too many restaurant meals these days. He’d treated James Barton to dinner here at The Streamside a couple of days ago, thinking his friend needed more than the pub meal he’d originally promised. It had been his thank you to James for feeding him information on Alex Deacon’s death, and was designed to bring him up to date on Adam’s meeting with DCI Andrews.

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