Diane was settled with a drink in our favourite corner when I arrived at the pub. It’d been our watering hole for years and to date the brewery had resisted the temptation to turn a perfectly pleasant local boozer into some theme pub for the younger end of the market. Consequently it was quiet enough for us to have a good chat and you could always get a seat. The beer was good too. Creamy Boddies kept just cool enough by the landlord.
I bought a pint and joined Diane.
‘You look brighter than you sounded,’ I remarked.
She raised her eyebrows. ‘Good news.’
‘What?’
She grinned.
‘Go on!’
‘I’ve got a show,’ she beamed.
‘What! Where?’
‘The Cornerhouse.’
‘Oh, Diane.’
‘Three weeks, first-floor gallery.’
‘Brilliant.’
‘And…’ She put her glass down.
‘There’s more?’
‘A tour of the North West after.’
‘Oh, wow! When did you hear?’ I squirmed with pleasure.
‘This morning. The woman from The Cornerhouse rang. They want it up in October.’
‘Fame and fortune.’
‘Well, fame maybe. I won’t make anything unless it sells.’
‘Course it will. They’ll be falling over each other to buy you. Trendy or what?’
‘I’ll have to get a serious haircut.’
‘What?’
‘Well, they all have haircuts, don’t they, very stylish.’
‘It’s your prints they’re after. Besides, what do you call that?’ I signalled in the direction of Diane’s blatant strawberry-coloured wedge.
‘Go on!’ she said.
‘Well, it’s hardly natural, is it? I’d say it was a pretty definite hairstyle.’
She giggled.
I shared her delight at the news. She deserved some recognition. I loved her prints – silk screen and batik – but she barely made a living out of them. We talked some more about the exhibition and the work it would involve before the conversation turned to me.
‘I’m fairly busy,’ I said, ‘but I don’t know how long it will last. It could just fizzle out.’ I explained in general the job Agnes was asking me to do. I always confide in Diane; I never name names and I trust her not to go blabbing about what she’s heard.
‘There are a few weird things about it all, her rapid decline and this business with the pills, but it may all be perfectly innocent.’
‘And why anyway?’ said Diane.
‘Why what?’
‘Why would anyone want to make this woman ill? Who benefits? Hey, maybe you should check the will – has she recently changed it in favour of the nursing home? Does her family know? That could be it. Sign on the dotted line and bingo – soon as she pops her clogs they get their hands.on the money.’
I laughed. It was a preposterous idea. Nevertheless I would find out who were the beneficiaries if Lily died.