“Come on don’t muck about. Seriously, what did you do?” I
urged, figuring he must’ve tried to stick something up her arse at the very
least but Tom was steadfast.
“That’s all I did, after just one night together I told her
I loved her,” he almost laughed. “What a plank!”
If I’d been asked to take a stab at the least likely
explanation as to what had gone on between them it would’ve probably been this.
Tom wearing her knickers or Sally fleeing after being led through to a waiting
glass coffee table I could’ve almost seen, but this? It boggled the mind and
threw up all manner of questions, the most obvious of which was clearly: “And
so do you?”
But Tom just shook his head again. “No of course not. Well,
obviously I love her to bits but not the way you mean. Sally’s just a friend,
nothing more,” and I half-expected him to say, “you know, like you and Elenor
are?” but he declined the chance. I guess he was too wrapped up lamenting his
own foolishness to turn the screw into mine.
“But you did at the time?” I pressed.
Tom just stuck out his lip. “No, not even then. Not really.”
“So why did you tell her you did?” I asked.
“Because I was 19. And because she was the first girl I’d
gone to bed with. If I’d banged you that night I might’ve said it to you too,” Tom
shrugged and I could see his point. We all said and did things we didn’t mean
when the wine and hormones were flowing and at that age who knew love from the
real thing? Not me, that was for sure, and some might uncharitably argue I
still had problems in that area so who was I to point the finger? “Besides,”
Tom continued, “I did you a favour in the end, mate.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Well – and don’t tell Sally I told you this – I
reckon she only went out with me to make you jealous,” he said, finally proving
the world was more topsy-turvy than I could’ve ever possibly imagined.
We joined the motorway and headed into town. Somewhere up
this road desktops and documents, caravans and colleagues were waiting for us
but they’d only prove a temporary distraction.
At the end of the day I’d come home along this same road
again.
Back to Sally.
And to the life we shared.
###
“There is no duty we so much underrate as the duty of being happy.”
– Robert Louis Stephenson, 1881
###
BOOKS
The Burglar Diaries
The Bank Robber Diaries
The Hitman Diaries
The Pornographer Diaries
Milo’s Marauders
Milo’s Run
School for Scumbags
Blue Collar
More Burglar Diaries
The Henchmen’s Book Club
The Monster Man of Horror
House
The No.1 Zombie Detective
Agency
A Four-King Cracker
TELEVISION
Thieves Like Us
(2007)
FILM
Wild Bill
(2012)
STAGE
The Pornographer Diaries:
the play
Killlera Dienasgramata
(Latvia)
DANNY KING
Danny King
was born in Slough in 1969
and later grew up in Hampshire. He has worked as a hod carrier, a supermarket
shelf stacker, a painter & decorator, a postman and a magazine editor and
today uses this smörgåsbord of experiences to dodge all of the above. He lives
in Chichester with wife, Jeannie and two children and divides his time between
writing and wondering what to write about.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My thanks to
Jeannie King, John Williams, Clive & Jo Andrews, Katie Finnigan and Simon
Fellows and for each helping me with this book. Also to eagle-eyed Jon Evans
for spotting a few wanton typos in an earlier edition. Many thanks to you all.
REVIEWS
If you enjoyed
this book, please consider posting a review on Amazon or elsewhere as every
mention helps, especially with a Kindle-only release such as this book. Thanks
you.
FOR ANDREW CROCKETT
A tireless champion of my books and
the best gosh-darn brother-in-law any skint writer could wish for.
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