LITMIR.BIZ

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eyes narrowed. ‘Not like that, surely? You’re not ill are you?’ She picked her way across the kitchen and stood a wicker basket on the table amongst the debris of breakfast, letters and open books. Oscar headed towards the cat litter tray.

      Dora glanced down at the grey dressing gown she was wearing and shook her head.

      ‘No, I’m fine. I’ve been up for hours. I’ve been working on the computer this morning. Would you like a cup of tea?’

      ‘You said quarter past ten,’ Sheila said flatly, tapping her watch for emphasis. She looked wounded, tipping her head accusingly to one side.

      ‘I did? I can’t remember saying quarter past ten. What was supposed to happen at quarter past ten?’

      Sheila sniffed again. ‘I’ve been hanging around outside the post office for ages. Anything could have happened.’ She paused and pulled her suit jacket straight. ‘Absolutely anything.’

      ‘What was it I missed this time?’ asked Dora, noncommittally. ‘Tea?’

      Sheila sighed, picking at a small dry stain on her lapel. ‘Just a quick one and then I’ve really got to get on. I told the vicar we’d go to his coffee morning today. Oh, and I’ve brought you these for that cat.’ She pulled a neatly tied bundle of newspapers out of the basket and added it to the chaos on the breakfast table. ‘I’d put us down for the washing up.’ Sheila ran her tongue over her teeth. ‘Too late now, of course. I’ll have to ring up and apologise when I get back.’

      Dora fished two mugs out of the cold water in the sink.

      ‘I didn’t realise you’d promised anybody. I thought you said we were just going to raid the cake stall and rootle through the bring and buy. Why don’t you go into the sitting-room? I’ll bring the tea through.’ As she spoke she ran hot water over the remaining plates in the sink and added a squirt of washing-up liquid. It bubbled instantly and hid the debris of last night’s supper under a reassuring explosion of suds.

      Sheila nodded, pointedly ignoring the grubby tea towel Dora had tucked over her arm, and the miasma emanating from Oscar as he strained triumphantly over the cat litter.

      Obtusely Sheila stepped across the little hall into the adjoining room, barely bigger than a broom cupboard, that Dora used as her office. Dora scrubbed the rings off the cups, watching as her sister peered myopically at the blank computer screen.

      ‘So, how’s the translation coming along?’ Sheila’s high-pitched voice betrayed a rich mosaic of resentments.

      Dora dropped two tea bags into the pot.

      ‘So-so, it’s a bit slow at the moment. How are the kids?’ She could see Sheila running a finger along her book shelves.

      ‘Not too bad, Jason’s getting his grommets next month,’ Sheila said distractedly. ‘Do you really read all these books?’

      Dora carried the tray through and balanced it on a little table wedged between her desk and the office armchair.

      ‘Why don’t we go in the sitting-room. Sheila? You hate that armchair.’

      Sheila shook her head, finger still working along the spines of the books arranged from floor to ceiling on the wall near Dora’s desk.

      ‘I prefer it in here, it’s the only room you keep tidy. There’s cat’s hairs everywhere on that settee.’ She paused. ‘We’re having a fund raiser next week, maybe you could sort out some of these you’ve finished with.’ Her stubby finger tapped on one spine. ‘I read about her in the paper. She’s going to be in Smith’s.’

      Dora picked up her mug, gathering her dressing gown around her knees as she folded herself onto the swivel chair.

      ‘Who is?’

      ‘This Catiana Moran woman, she’s doing a book signing. I saw a bit about it in the Fairbeach Gazette. I think it’s one of the ones I brought –’

      Sheila hurried back into the kitchen, reappeared carrying a newspaper, and began to thumb through the pages. She turned the paper back on itself and handed it to Dora.

      ‘There we are. What’s on in Fairbeach, half way down –’

      Dora stared at a small grainy photograph.

      ‘Oh, yes,’ she said, swallowing down her surprise, and folded the paper alongside the tray. There was a familiar face on the front page. ‘My God,’ she whispered, scanning the headline. ‘I didn’t know Jack Rees had died.’

      Sheila pulled a face. ‘Who?’

      Dora slipped on her glasses. ‘Jack Rees, the MP?’ She glanced down the column.

      ‘Oh, him.’ Sheila’s face registered her disapproval. ‘Jumped-up nobody, him. His dad was a fishmonger in Railway Road, mum used to work in the Co-op.’ She sniffed dismissively and turned her attention back to Dora’s shelves.

      Dora stared at the picture of Fairbeach’s famous son. There were few modern political giants from the fens, which had made Jack Rees all the more special – a true Fen tiger, a local hero who had dedicated his life to improving things in his home town. His features were so familiar that it felt as if she was looking at an old friend. She felt a peculiar little flurry of loss, while, across the room. Sheila pulled out one of the books.

      ‘You’ve got an awful lot of that woman’s stuff here,’ she observed, peering at the photograph of a lascivious wet-lipped nymphet draped provocatively across the front cover. ‘Do you read a lot of this sort of thing?’ she whispered, turning it over so she could read the jacket.

      ‘No, and I don’t think it’s really your sort of thing either,’ Dora said. Leaning forward, she prised the novel gently from between her sister’s fingers and slipped it back into the bookcase with the others. ‘And they’re definitely not suitable for a church bring and buy. Here, why don’t you have your tea? How about if I get dressed? I was going into town later anyway, we could go out for some lunch if you like. I’m sorry we missed your coffee morning.’

      Sheila gazed back at the unbroken spines of Dora’s Catiana Moran collection.

      ‘No thanks, I ought to be getting back. I don’t see why you’ve got so many. There’s two of some. Three of this one. Passion in Paris.’

      Dora nodded. ‘I get them sent to me by the publisher,’ she said casually, handing Sheila the sugar.

      ‘Oh, not one of those awful book club things?’ Her sister rolled her eyes heavenwards. ‘You really should write and get them to cancel your membership. Do you remember when Dad ordered that boat-building thing out of the Sunday colour supplement …’

      As Sheila spoke, Dora surreptitiously slid her notes for the latest Catiana Moran novel under a pile of magazines and sat back to listen to her sister railing against the temptations of a mail-order culture.

      Climbing the stone steps to Calvin Roberts’ office, Dora thought fleetingly about his strong jutting chin, his rippling muscles – and sighed – only in her dreams. Her agent was small, round, with a penchant for cheap cigars, Labradors he perpetually called Dido, and propagating geraniums. His office on Northquay, an elegant Georgian crescent that overlooked the tidal waters of the Western Ouse, smelt of all three, and was a brisk ten-minute walk from Dora’s flat in Gunners Terrace.

      The girl behind the reception desk grinned at her. ‘Hello, Dora, how are you?’

      Dora pulled a wry face. ‘Perfect. Is his lordship in?’

      The girl nodded. ‘Just got back from walking the dog. He’s gone upstairs to read his horoscope. Do you want me to buzz him to let him know you’re here?’

      ‘Yes, you’d better. Can’t have our lord and master caught on the cusp –’

      Calvin’s corner office was on the first floor. The opaque glass door bore the legend ‘Calvin Roberts, Literary Agent’ in faded gilt

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