The Secret Life of Evie Hamilton - Catherine Alliott [79]
‘There is no need to be like that,’ I seethed.
‘Isn't there? Isn't there? Righto. My fault again.’
‘I'm simply pointing out that I gave it the tiniest of taps. I can only have been doing two miles an hour!’
‘Then you don't know your own strength,’ he snapped. ‘Let alone your own horsepower. Now kindly take your monstrous vehicle away so I can repark what remains of my car!’
‘Not until I've photographed the evidence,’ I said suddenly. ‘You're so sure it's my fault – well, we'll let the insurance company be the judge of that!’ Shooting him a triumphant glare I ran across the road, nipped up the steps to my house and let myself in quickly. All was quiet. Trying not to trip over Brenda, who was scrambling up my leg, delighted to see me, I fled down the hall, found the digital camera on the dresser in the kitchen and was about to race out again when – oh, wait: and the chalk from the kitchen blackboard too. Fully equipped, I ran back out, and flashing him another smug look, crouched down and took a few crucial shots, David Bailey style, whilst he stood, arms folded, shaking his head incredulously. Then I bent down and traced around our cars with the chalk, on the very wet tarmac, and therefore with limited, indeed, no visible, results.
‘Pathetic, Columbo,’ he snapped as I finally got in to drive away, wiping my wet chalky hands on my jeans. ‘Truly pathetic. You're insane. Which is no defence, incidentally. Your insurance company will be hearing from me yet again.’
‘Bring it on!’ I snarled as I roared off.
I had to park flipping miles away, of course. And then walk back, in the rain, sodden.
Feeling utterly miserable, and like a partially wrung-out and slightly soiled dishcloth, I dripped up the front steps to my house. As I'd walked along the street I'd studiously made myself not look at his house across the road, but as I turned to shut the door behind me now, I saw the light go out. I double-locked the front door and turned off the hall light, knowing, as I passed the dark sitting room and went upstairs, that Ant and Anna were in bed.
The bedroom was in darkness, but Ant was still awake.
‘Hi,’ he whispered.
‘Hi.’ I chucked my handbag on a chair and began to peel my wet clothes off.
‘Problem?’
‘Hm?’
‘I heard shouting outside.’
‘Oh. Crashed the car. My fault.’
‘Ah.’
Ah. Just ah. You see? It was indicative of how guilty he was feeling that he didn't hit the roof. Didn't sit up and go, ‘What? Again? Bloody hell, Evie!’ May as well go for it. A good day to bury bad news.
‘Second time in a fortnight.’
There was a pause.
‘Right.’
‘Same car, too. I mean, I've hit it twice now.’
I heard him swallow. Then: ‘Irritating.’
‘Yes, isn't it?’ I got into bed.
‘But then again, why spread yourself thinly?’
‘Well, quite.’
‘Keeps the insurance claims simpler.’
‘That's the way I looked at it. Night.’
‘Night.’
I turned over and lay there, staring at the wall in the dark. His back was to mine and I knew he was wall-staring too. After a while, a tear slowly trickled down my nose, and then another, across my face and in my ear. I gulped. I felt wretched and could bear it no longer.
‘Ant,’ I gasped, ‘thanks for your text.’
He turned over. ‘Thanks for yours.’
In another moment we were in each other's arms, clinging on, and I was sobbing. But then, I do sob. Ant knows that. When I was little, Tim used to call me Boo-Hoo. Ant rubbed my back and made comforting noises in my ear. A bit later on, when I'd calmed down, we made love, in a rather desperate fashion. And some time later, I went to sleep.
The following morning dawned bright and sunny; a sunny Saturday, and the one, as we all conveniently tried to forget as we ate boiled eggs in the kitchen, on which Ant and Anna would be meeting the lovechild. Awful,