Joyce can spend hours on it now. She was watching a detective drama set in Devon the other day, and she liked the look of the town that the grizzled, alcoholic detective lived in, and thought perhaps she might like to live there too. So she Googled the programme and found out it was set in a place called Budleigh Salterton. Bingo, put Budleigh Salterton into the Rightmove search box, and you have a good hour’s worth of entertainment – both imagining a new life for yourself and judging other people’s interior design choices. A nice three-bed apartment on the front for £475,000. You could certainly imagine sitting on the balcony with a glass of wine, but, really, £475,000 with that lino on the bathroom floor?
In the old days, when she was a Rightmove rookie, Joyce looked only at the properties she could hypothetically afford, but Joanna had put her right, and now that Joyce has no upper price limit the whole world has opened up to her. They have houses on there for ten million if you look in the right place. Those houses are all either estates with fifty acres of land and enormous marble-and-gold entrance halls or they are four-bed flats in the middle of London. Rightmove teaches you an awful lot about the world, and also a lot about people’s taste in curtains.
And so it is that she is looking up houses on Hampton Road as they walk up the hill to find Nick Silver’s house.
‘The one with the turrets at Number 16 last sold for £2.75 million,’ says Joyce. ‘And it has a fountain.’
Up ahead of them a Daihatsu pulls up to the kerb, and Ron steps out, looking very much the worse for wear.
He gives Joyce a hug. ‘You reek of booze, Joycey. That’s just how I like my women.’
Elizabeth has crossed the road and is on tiptoe next to a pair of wooden gates. She calls, ‘Found it! Nick Silver’s house.’
Joyce and Ron walk over to join her.
‘How do we get in?’ Joyce asks.
Elizabeth climbs the gates and opens them from the inside.
‘Oh,’ says Joyce. ‘Like that.’
‘So you’re saying Nick Silver’s dead?’ says Ron, as they start the walk down Nick’s driveway.
‘No,’ says Joyce. ‘Only might be dead. Someone put a bomb under his car.’
‘Okay,’ says Ron. ‘Bomb, is it? And where’s his car?’
‘It’s at his house,’ says Joyce.
‘But this is his house,’ says Ron.
‘Yes,’ says Joyce.
‘So what are we doing here?’
‘Elizabeth just wants to take a look,’ says Joyce. ‘You know Elizabeth and bombs.’
‘Just want to borrow the thing and get it analysed,’ says Elizabeth. ‘Find out who planted it.’
‘We’re going to take the bomb with us?’ Ron asks.
‘That’s why you’re here, Ron,’ says Elizabeth. ‘We needed a car. An old friend of mine called Jasper has agreed to assess it, and it’ll be quite safe at Coopers Chase.’
‘But –’ says Ron.
‘Bombs are fairly robust, Ron,’ says Elizabeth. ‘So long as you don’t drive over any speed bumps, we’ll be fine.’
They round a bend, and the house from the photographs rises before them.
‘Done all right for himself, Nicky Silver,’ says Ron. ‘Nice gaff.’
In front of the house is Nick’s car. Again, just like in the photograph.
Except.
Elizabeth takes a long look. She gets into a crouch, and then rolls herself under the car.
‘Don’t blow up,’ says Joyce.
Pushing herself up again, Elizabeth looks at Joyce and Ron and shakes her head.
‘It’s definitely the right house?’ says Ron.
‘Yes, Ron, it’s the right house,’ says Elizabeth.
‘And it’s definitely the right car?’ says Joyce.
‘Yes, Joyce,’ says Elizabeth.
It is the right house, and it is the right car.
But the bomb is nowhere to be seen.
17
Joanna is halfway up a climbing wall, and not happy about it. Paul bounds up just above her, grabbing the Day-Glo hand-holds with graceful ease. Like a gazelle that all the lady gazelles fancy.
Joanna, however, is stuck.
It’s her own fault. On their first date Paul had said he loved climbing, and Joanna had wanted to sleep with him so badly that she told him that she did too. It just came out. She also said, ‘No way? Mumford & Sons are my favourite band too!’ It was that sort of evening. With apologies to Mumford & Sons.
White lies on one-night stands can be quickly forgotten, of course, but the next afternoon Paul had texted asking her for a second date. She had waited the requisite forty-eight hours and replied saying that would be very nice, and he’d suggested an ‘urban climbing’ wall underneath the Westway.
In retrospect this would have been the time to come clean. But she still wasn’t in a place where her head was doing the thinking and she said, yes, I’d love that, I might be a bit rusty but count me in.
Ordinarily a second date might be at a slightly nicer restaurant than the first date, but, in Joanna’s view, each new relationship was a doorway to a new version of oneself. And perhaps new Joanna was a climber?
How hard could climbing a wall be? Also, maybe they’d have to shower off together afterwards?
‘You all right down there?’ shouts Paul over his shoulder. He’s about two holds from the top.
‘You worry about yourself,’ says Joanna. ‘I’m trying something new.’
Paul bounds up the final two holds and sits on the top of the wall.
The day before the date Joanna had booked an indoor climbing lesson and discovered exactly how hard climbing was, and had given up almost instantly. So what to do? She had nipped into Boots on her way back to the office, bought a bandage, strapped up her wrist, sent Paul a photo in which she was pointing to the wrist and grimacing, and offered to book a nice restaurant instead.
It worked a treat. There was absolutely no climbing, but they did still shower off together afterwards.
Job done.
Since then Joanna has managed to avoid the subject altogether, until Paul discovered with glee that their hotel was a five-minute drive from the National Indoor Climbing Centre. She couldn’t pull the wrist stunt again, and so here she was, every muscle in her body aching and still only eight feet off the ground.
Joanna’s climbing and Joyce’s glaucoma. The things we do for love.
Paul will have his secrets too, Joanna is sure of that. Little white lies that will come out over the years. They’re not even lies, are they? Little reinventions. Course corrections. One day she will tell Paul that she doesn’t like Mumford & Sons, and one day Paul will tell her that he doesn’t actually enjoy her reading Financial Times articles to him in bed.
Joanna sees that Paul is heading back down towards her. She lets go of her hand-holds and dangles in mid-air, waiting for him, the climbing cat very much out of the bag now. It’s a relief, to be honest. No more lies.
She sees Paul’s huge grin as he reaches her. ‘So you love climbing?’
‘Love it,’ says Joanna. ‘Never done it but love it.’
‘Climb on my back,’ says Paul. ‘I’ll take you down.’
‘I’m too heavy,’ says Joanna.
‘Climb on,’ says Paul again, and so she does, and he takes her down the eight feet to the floor.
‘I knew you didn’t climb,’ says Paul. ‘It’s the nails.’
Of course he knew. He knew, she knew. The little lies are all part of the fun. The big lies are what you have to be careful of, and Joanna hasn’t told Paul any big lies about herself. He knows who she is, what she believes in, what’s important to her. That was the thing, wasn’t it?