Death of a Dancer by Jill McGown

Author:Jill McGown [McGown, Jill]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Pan Macmillan UK

Chapter Six

Wearing Lloyd’s spare dressing-gown, Judy pulled the cord on the blind, which ran up the kitchen window with a loud snap as it reached the top. Daylight slanted into the kitchen as the sun reflected on the hard frost.

The flat was a kind of antidote to Lloyd himself; it was even more tranquil in the early morning. Hardy British birds called to one another through the cold air, and below the window the village street still slept. So did Lloyd; it remained to be seen what he was like first thing.

She surveyed the fridge. Bacon, eggs. Good. Frying-pan – where did he keep his frying-pan? On the rare occasions that she had eaten in the flat, Lloyd had done the cooking. It was ridiculous that she didn’t know where he kept the frying-pan. Ah – up there. She took it down, glancing out of the window at the sleeping street.

Bread. She opened the bread-bin, but only a few crumbs remained. He had used the last of the bread to make sandwiches last night.

During the drive to the flat, the shock had turned to anger; she had announced as Lloyd opened the door that since everyone was agreed that she was a selfish pig who never thought of anyone but herself, perhaps they could take that as read and skip the part where she got told it all again. Then, tight-lipped, she had told Lloyd what a fool Michael had made of her, just so that he could watch her jump through hoops. Lloyd had listened, and then had asked what she had had to eat.

She had realised that she had eaten virtually nothing all day, and he had made sandwiches. You should not, he had said, make commitments on an empty stomach. It gave you cramp.

Now she was hungry again.

It was a gas cooker, and she wasn’t used to one. It was Lloyd’s opinion that she shouldn’t be allowed near any sort of cooker, but she could at least make breakfast, if she knew how to make the thing work. It was supposed to be automatic, but the clicking noises that it made when she turned the tap seemed to have no intention of fighting the gas.

She had just given up when she heard the kitchen door open, felt Lloyd’s arms come round her waist.

She twisted round to look at him. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said, smiling at him.

‘I was supposed to get up first,’ he said. ‘And bring you breakfast in bed.’

She kissed him. ‘I don’t like breakfast in bed,’ she said.

‘You amaze me,’ he smiled. ‘ Oh, well, the rose on the breakfast-tray is out, I suppose.’

‘I’ll bring you breakfast in bed, if you like,’ she said. ‘If you tell me how to light the damn cooker.’

‘I never eat breakfast.’

Judy couldn’t conceive of anyone not eating breakfast as a deliberate policy. Especially on a Sunday.

She kissed him again, hugging him close to her.

‘What was that for?’ he asked.

‘For being such a nice man,’ she said.

‘Wait a minute,’ he said suspiciously.

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