The only thing of note that happened over the next couple of days was Darren dropping off a copy of one of Lilah’s old movies, back from when she’d still been acting. I thanked him politely and set it aside to go What the hell? about to Phil when he got home.
Oh, and a postcard from Scotland turned up. It was warped from where Cherry had posted it in the rain, and it didn’t say a right lot apart from having a lovely time and other clichés. She didn’t end it with Wish you were here, so I deduced the honeymoon was going okay.
The photo on the front was of a malt whisky distillery, so chances were, it was.
“Do you think Gary and Darren watch straight porn?” I asked as I bunged the DVD in the player late that evening.
Phil gave me a look. “You really want to know about their sex life?”
“Not as such, no. What’s disturbing me now is that from the sound of things, you do know about it.”
He smirked. “Darren’s the sharing sort.”
“Oi, I hope there’s limits to what you go sharing with him.” I knew him and Darren getting chummy was going to come back and bite me on the bum. And there was an image I could have done without.
“Don’t you worry. Forsaking all others, remember?” Phil put his arm around me from behind and pulled me back onto the sofa.
I was about to go all mushy, when a thought occurred. “Yeah, but you haven’t actually made that vow yet.”
“No harm in practising. Are we going to watch this film?”
“Getting all eager, are you?” I hit Play.
The opening scenes were . . . not what I’d expected. For a start, there were two blokes in bed—in a hotel room, supposedly—getting it on with no Lilah in sight.
“You think he gave us the right DVD?” I asked, as one of the blokes went down on the other. “Not that I’m complaining, mind.”
They weren’t bad looking, and the sight of all that bare male flesh getting up close and personal was beginning to have predictable results. I adjusted myself in my jeans, not bothering to be subtle, in the hopes Phil might take it as a hint.
He just carried on watching, the git. There was another five minutes or so of guy-on-guy action, by which time even Phil was showing signs of feeling a little hot under the collar—and then the door flew open.
On screen, I mean. Not our actual door.
A younger, fresher Lilah stood there in the doorway, hip cocked. She was wearing what must literally have been the world’s shortest French maid’s outfit. “Room service,” she called seductively, and closed the door behind her. The blokes on the bed stopped what they were doing and sent her a come-hither look.
I hit Stop. “Right, I can guess where it goes from here.”
Phil smirked. “You can’t catch being straight by watching it, you know.”
“Yeah, but it’s . . . I dunno. Disrespectful. She’s a client.”
“So if she was a singer, you wouldn’t listen to her CDs?”
“That’s different.”
“Why?”
“She probably wouldn’t be getting her kit off, for a start.” I thought about it. “Not that you’d know from a CD. Maybe it’s like newsreaders not bothering to wear trousers.”
Great. Now I wasn’t going to be able to listen to anything without picturing the artists letting it all hang out in the studio. Course, with some of them, that’d be a bonus . . .
“So you’re saying anyone who gets naked for a living ought to be ashamed of it?” Phil asked. I could practically see his hackles rising, presumably on Darren’s behalf.
Sod it. “No, I’m saying having a stiffie while watching our client in a porno is going to make it flippin’ hard—pun not intended—to look her in the eye next time we see her, that’s all.”
Phil smirked. “There’s ways round that.”
“Oh yeah?”
“I could give you a hand. Get rid of the problem right now.”
In the event, he gave me more than a hand. And we never did get around to watching the rest of that movie.
I needn’t have worried about the whole looking-Lilah-in-the-eye thing, not in the short term at any rate. She never turned up for her next appointment, which seemed a strong argument in favour of her not having been quite as into all the mystic mumbo-jumbo as Phil had reckoned. Either that, or she’d loved the idea but been less than impressed by the reality, which I could hardly fault her for.
She still sent Jonny-boy’s personal items along the Friday after we saw her, so she must have had some faith in me. They came courtesy of Darren, who I reckoned I must’ve seen more of over the last couple of days than his own husband had. Fortunately this was only a flying visit. The thought of Gary getting it into his head I was trying to poach on his property was as alarming as it was surreal. Although given the number of hints he’d dropped about a foursome . . . Nah, alarming was definitely winning here.
Darren reckoned Lilah was having problems with her kids or something. Maybe the babysitter had stood her up. You get a mix of feelings at a time like this. First off, I was relieved, seeing as it saved me from having to pretend all Phil’s painstakingly researched information was wafting to me over the ether or being communicated by my nonexistent spirit guide. Then I felt bad about it, ’cos for all I knew the problems with the kids might be serious. Then again, they might not, so I also felt let down, like she’d had her fun and now she was bored with this particular trick pony. Except, it wasn’t like I’d enjoyed all the jumping through hoops and whatnot, which brought me back to relief.
Then I decided it was time I got over it and got on with opening Lilah’s package.
It was in one of those mailing boxes they sell you at the post office. I always wondered who bought those, when you could get perfectly good cardboard boxes free from any supermarket. I unwrapped it warily, a bit dubious over what Lilah might have seen fit to hand over. After all, I’d asked for stuff he’d worn next to his skin . . . I needn’t have worried. She’d parcelled up a couple of worn T-shirts with faded logos, which were just about ideal for my purposes, with a note saying Sorry I washed them.
I wasn’t, though. Sorry, that was. If they’d been hanging around in the laundry basket for a couple of weeks, they’d have been pretty rank by now, rather than wafting floral fabric conditioner up my nose to the extent I had to fight a sneeze. And it’s not like it makes a difference to the vibes once whatever’s been washed has dried out. Even your modern biological powders aren’t proof against those stubborn psychic stains.
“Gonna give it a go?” Phil asked over my shoulder.
“What, with the map? You know that’s all bollocks.”
“Never hurts to try.”
“Yeah, it does. I’m wounded you don’t accept I know my own abilities better than you do.”
Phil huffed. We had a long-standing argument going over my so-called talents, with me, on the whole, happy with the way things were right now (happy being a relative word, obviously), while he seemed to think I needed to exercise my psychic muscles as much as possible, presumably with a view to making them all big and manly.
He didn’t say anything, which technically meant I’d won. Hah.
On the other hand . . . “Fine. Get the bloody map out, if it’ll stop you looking at me like Arthur when I won’t give him seconds.”
Phil got the bloody map out, retrieved the pendant from where it’d been batted under the sofa by a furry paw, and smirked at me.
Once again, I gave it all I’d got.
Nothing.
Even Merlin had lost all interest in it by now. I glared at Phil and considerately didn’t tell him I told you so.
He returned the favour by not asking if I’d really been trying. “Fine. So plan B it is. We go down to the market and do it the old-fashioned way.”
“A. Plan A. Me getting a psychic hit? That was never plan A. That was plan B. Or more like plan Z. Or one of those letters that’s not in the alphabet anymore.”
“Plan A, then,” he agreed easily.
I glared at him. “Git. You could at least pretend you’re not humouring me.”
He gave me a look as if to say Where would be the fun in that?