True Colours (The You Don't Know Me Trilogy Book 2) Read Free Page A

take a box of fish fingers out of the freezer and lay a handful under the grill, buttering a couple of slices of bread while they brown, and discovering a cheap bottle of white wine on the top shelf of the fridge.  I notice two glasses laid ready on the table, and even though the wine’s probably part of Lucy’s preparations for Clive’s visit, I’m sure she won’t mind if I help myself.  Pouring a glassful, I turn the fish fingers and set about musing over the dream, replaying each and every part of it.  I must be on the third repeat when the smell of burning tickles my nose.
    ‘Bugger.’
    Rescuing the fish fingers before they’re thoroughly singed, I lay them out on the bread.
    ‘You need a proper meal,’ Lucy announces from the doorway.  She’s changed into one of her flowery summer dresses.  There’s no make-up yet and her hair’s a mess.
    ‘This is a proper meal.’  I pick up a sandwich and take a bite, cursing myself for diving straight in: the fish fingers are superheated.  ‘When’s Clive getting here?’
    ‘Any minute now.’
    ‘With my handbag?’
    ‘Of course.’
    Right on cue, the doorbell chimes.  While Lucy gets on with the business of letting Clive in, I open up the bread, squirt ketchup all over my fish fingers, and close the sandwich again.
    ‘That looks interesting.’
    And that’s not Clive’s voice.  My eyes travel up from my gourmet meal and meet the perfectly made-up face of Lily Babbage.  What’s she doing here?  That’s the first question that springs to mind, shortly before I start wondering why she’s got a pair of Ray-Bans resting on top of her perfectly sleek brunette hair-do. It’s still raining, and I’m pretty sure the sun hasn’t shown itself all day.  There’s just no need for it.  I take in the rest of her outfit: a pair of designer jeans matched with some Boho Chic flouncy white top, and I’m betting that’s a Louis Vuitton handbag dangling from her skinny arm.
    ‘Can you spare me a few minutes?’  The perfectly made-up face gives me a smile.
    Can I?  Should I?
    ‘I … er …’
    I watch in disbelief as without waiting for an answer, she draws out the spare chair, lowers herself gracefully, positions her ridiculously expensive handbag on the floor and eyes up my plate.
    ‘What on Earth are you eating?’
    ‘Fish finger sandwiches.’
    ‘Oooh.’  She purses her lips.  ‘Don’t let me stop you.’
    ‘You won’t.’
    And how dare you look down your nose at my completely adequate evening meal, I’d like to add.  I bet you’ve never once touched a fish finger sandwich in your charmed little life … maybe a caviar sandwich at a push.
    ‘You’ve been painting.’
    ‘How do you know?’
    ‘Paint in your hair.  Dan said you’re a messy pup.  He’s not wrong.’
    ‘Why are you here?’
    She scans the table top, taking in the bottle of ketchup, the cheap wine, the spare glass.
    ‘May I?’
    She points at the bottle.  I nod.
    ‘Clive told me what happened.’  She pours herself a glassful of our local supermarket’s finest plonk.  ‘I must say, I was shocked Dan hadn’t told you the truth.  I went over to see him this afternoon.’
    ‘Good for you.’  I’m bristling now, premium blue ribbon bristling.  If he thinks he can send in his friends to smooth the way, then he’s got another think coming.  ‘And I suppose he’s asked you to talk to me.’
    She takes a sip of wine.  Leaving a print of deep red lipstick around the rim of the glass, she swallows, recoils.
    ‘He doesn’t know I’m here.  And if he did, he’d go mad.’  Another uncertain sip.  She pulls an I-think-I’ve-just-swallowed-drain-cleaner type of face, and places the glass back on the table.  ‘He doesn’t like people meddling.’
    ‘Well, don’t meddle then.  How did you find out where I live?’
    I pick up a sandwich, take a huge bite and set about chewing my way through a mouthful of overcooked fish.
    ‘Clive.’
    She stares at me,