Perfect Strangers: an unputdownable read full of gripping secrets and twists. Erin Knight
a great big nipple.’
‘Humph?’ he grunted, eyes fixed on the TV.
‘Lorna was sitting in the café window with both bangers out, Sam.’
Finally, a flicker of interest. ‘Fair play!’
Cleo smiled. Bangers was Sam’s favourite boob word. Quite possibly because it doubled up for sausages, another of his favourite things.
Sam yelled at the TV.‘Fair play, my man, fair play! One hundred-and-eight not out.’
Cleo scowled. Heathen. She wrung out the dishcloth and imagined Jonathan pouring Sarah a lovely glass of wine, listening attentively while she reflected on their day together at the marine dinosaur thingy.
‘There’ll be no end of nipples on the loose if we start hosting private functions like they do at the French place in town. Parties always get a bit rowdy; a bit of drunken debauchery might be just what the till needs.’
‘We?’ Sam laughed. ‘Coast is your party, Cleo. Always has been. I would be up for a bit of debauchery though, love. Shout up anytime.’
She ignored him. ‘Coast would be our party if you got involved. Convert the stores for me. Customers could watch the sunset over the ocean if we knocked through.’
‘I offered to help out at weekends, Cleo. You weren’t interested.’
‘Yes, but that was behind the counter. You’re a builder, Sam! Come builder this extension so we can expand . . .’
‘I’m not talking shop now,’ Sam said firmly. ‘I’ve been at it all day.’
Cleo scowled at the array of kitchen appliances awaiting her next move. ‘Evie Roberts, get down here and load this dishwasher or I’m confiscating that bloody iPhone!’
Sam jumped. ‘Bit louder, eh, Cleo?’ He ran dry, cracked hands back and forth through his hair. A cloud of plaster dust rose into the air above him. Cleo had fallen in love with that hair once. Kevin Costner hair. Before Sam’s had started to thin and hers started sprouting in new places.
‘Go and have a cuppa, Cleo, I’ll do it.’
‘No, no, you’ve been on site all day, Sam, you just said so yourself. On a bank holiday. This is supposed to be a perk of having teenagers, remember? Them occasionally helping with the menial tasks.’
There was a dribble of balsamic down Sam’s work fleece. More plaster dust clinging to the side of his eyebrow. He was such a child.
‘Evie’s been loading dishwashers all day, Cle. Let the kid have five minutes, hey? It’s her bank holiday too.’
‘She has not! I’ve been emptying the bloody dishwasher, thanks very much. Evie likes to look pretty and collect tips while I deal with exploding microwaves and hysterical mothers.’ Thoughts of Lorna made her stomach twist again. She’d never known such an awful bunch of parents, not in all the time the twins were at Hornbeam. Mothers used to be civil back then. All in it together. Cleo blamed the arrival of social media. ‘Monsters, they are,’ she hissed over the sink. ‘Momsters. I don’t know how Sarah can bear dealing with them on a daily basis.’
‘No one likes their job all the time, Cleo. I know I damn well don’t.’ He looked out onto the garden, the muscles in his cheek tensed.
‘Evie!’ Cleo barked. ‘Evie should like her job, Sam, she gets paid enough for doing bugger all.’ Cleo always sounded like a difficult teenager when bickering with Sam about their difficult teenager.
‘She’s fifteen.’
‘Yes, thank you, Sam. I was there, I do remember it vividly. Lots of screaming, lots of babies. Not so many husbands to hand.’
‘For crying out loud, Cle, let it go. Why do women have to drag stuff out? I was working, not dribbling over a barmaid somewhere. At least I’m still here. I bet Sarah doesn’t think I’m such a useless git.’
Cleo ignored him again. It had all worked out for Sarah in the end. Her prince charming rode in and trampled down any bumpy ground left by Patrick Harrison, the selfish shit. Cleo eased off thoughts of Sarah’s ex-husband and felt herself involuntarily forgiving Sam for that trail of balsamic dressing down his front. ‘Evie! I’m not yelling for you all night, you know.’
‘Sounds like you’re yelling for her all night, darling.’ Sam kissed her on the forehead. Cleo was sure he only did that nowadays just to piss her off.
‘Are you having a shower or are you going to keep coating the kitchen with a fine layer of dust?’
‘I love you too, darling wife. Thanks for the warmth. Think maybe tomorrow I’ll stay on site, cuddle up to a scaffold pole instead.’
‘Well if you didn’t always take Evie’s side,’ she spat irritably.
‘I take my side, Cleo. The side where emptying the dishwasher myself is going to cut less time out of my evening than arguing with you and the kids over it.’
‘Kid. Harry does his chores.’
‘Excellent! We must be parenting half-right then.’ He squeezed Cleo’s shoulder. There was movement in the kitchen doorway.
‘Afternoon, parents.’ Harry stretched his arms above his head, his lean, muscled midriff peeping out below his Beastie Boys T-shirt.
‘Hey Harry. Good day, son? What did you do with yourself, beach was it?’ Sam could flit seemlessly from sparring partner to relaxed father mode, just like that. Infuriating.
‘Nah, just hung out with the guys. The Village was dead so we played the courts mostly. Good day at work?’
Surfers’ Village was the name given to the area where the locals congregated for the best surf, away from tourists and holidaying politicians. Evie would’ve headed straight for The Village today too, but Harry won the coin flip and Evie got the extra shift at Coast. She was probably still sulking now.
Sam rubbed the back of Harry’s head, pulling him playfully into his chest. ‘Work’s work, kid. You make sure you come good on those exams. I don’t want to see your hands looking like these in a few years, okay?’
Cleo stole a sideways glance. ‘You need some cream on those, Sam. Harry, did you bring your washing down? I’m about to put a load on.’
‘It’s already in, I need my sports kit for the morning. I separated the whites and stuff.’
‘My marvellous son.’ She planted a kiss on Harry’s cheek as he passed her for the fridge. He pulled a carton of milk out of the door and began glugging from the spout. ‘Harry, get a glass.’ He stopped guzzling and grinned from behind a milk moustache. Her beautiful long-eyelashed little boy was rolling over for this tall, gangly, fridge-raiding youth.
‘What’s up with Evie?’ asked Harry.
‘Other than a severe allergy to chores, I don’t know, why?’
Sam walked into the sun room and slumped into one of the chairs, groaning as his body clocked off for the day.
‘I think she’s been crying. She came out of the bathroom like Alice Cooper and bit my head off for staring.’
Cleo rolled her eyes. ‘Justin Bieber’s probably going to be a father. Youth of today, I despair, I really do. I’ll go up in a minute, thanks love. Have you got any homework, H?’
‘I’ll check after I’ve texted Ingred.’
‘Just watch the network charges, okay, son? Denmark’s a long way away.’
That woke you up, Sam. International texting charges. Ingred had only been in the UK for three weeks, and Harry’s ‘girlfriend’ for just five days before the exchange trip ended and she’d returned to her Nordic homeland. ‘Have you tried Skyping, Harry? It’s free. Bloke at work uses it when his