Free Daughters by Elizabeth Buchan Page A

never functioned properly, the plants died, the bolder flourishes of the architecture often leaked or fell apart, and arguments raged between landlord, management company and occupiers.
    She let herself into his flat. ‘Hi.’
    ‘Hi.’ His voice was just audible over the rugby match on the television.
    Duncan was in his usual unassuming armchair from his family home. He was surprisingly attached to it for (he maintained) his taste was modernist and untraditional
.
‘You can’t take the suburbs out of the man,’ she teased him – for he had grown up in one of the ugly, sprawling overspills of Greater London.
    He had not bothered to change, and was still in his suit with the waistcoat unbuttoned and the jacket flung to one side. His sleek, dark otter head rested against the back of the chair. She squinted at him. More than one beer in, she guessed.
    She dropped a kiss on the top of his head. He reached up and caught her hand. One, two … She took a few seconds to assess whether he would pay her furtherattention or not. No. This was a match night. ‘Food?’ she asked.
    He gestured to the kitchen. ‘Picked something up from Castello’s.’
    Duncan’s kitchen had been fully and lovingly stocked. Since he rarely cooked, and seldom ventured into it anyway, she found his delight in pots and pans rather touching, if mystifying. ‘All hat and no cattle,’ she had teased, when he had first brought her to the flat. Then she had surveyed (with astonishment) the stainless-steel cooker and full
batterie de cuisine
. He hadn’t appreciated the tease (Duncan could take himself a little too seriously) and she had not been invited over again for some time. Even now when they spent the nights together it was, more often than not, at her flat.
    ‘Why haven’t you moved in with him?’ asked her friends and Eve. This was touchy. She didn’t want to say, ‘We haven’t discussed it,’
because the next question would inevitably be ‘Don’t you want to?’
    The fridge contained a lasagne, Dijon chicken, a bag of salad, a bottle of vodka, the disgusting remains of some blue cheese, half a tube of tomato paste and a large bottle of Gaviscon for his stomach. Which meal would take less time to cook? She consulted the instructions on the cartons of (supposedly) homemade food. Was there a disconnect here? Could it qualify as homemade if the person who had made it had no idea about the one who ate it?
    She made her decision.
    Forty-five minutes later, she set the Dijon chicken in front of Duncan. He perched on the bar stool and ate heartily. ‘Good day?’
    ‘One or two glitches.’ She outlined the Rowan Saunderson conversation and, since she was a natural mimic, captured his tone, which made Duncan laugh.
    Actually, the conversation she would have liked to hold was a different one.
    Jane rang up today. She’s four months pregnant.
    Great.
    Duncan … don’t you think?
    The chicken was tangy and creamy, which diverted her. Duncan poured more wine. ‘I’ve got a big deal coming up in the spring. Twenty-four-hour shifts, I imagine. Awful.’
    ‘You love it. You’re the original adrenalin junkie.’
    He grinned, but didn’t deny it. They talked about the things that interested them. Work. Deals. A little bit of politics. That was what she liked in particular about their relationship. He never bored her.
    She said. ‘You won’t miss the engagement party, will you?’
    ‘Lordy, Miz Scarlett, I don’t think I can stand another word about this wedding.’ He raised his eyebrows quizzically. ‘What’s going to happen when it’s over? What
will
we talk about?’
    Tricky men. Tactic Number Forty-two. Jasmine looked out of the window on to the fountains that didn’t work. ‘On second thoughts, it might be easier if you don’t come. Then I won’t have to worry about you.’
    ‘As if.’
    As if.
Duncan was one of Andrew’s closest friends.
    He finished his plateful and pushed it away. ‘Apart from anything else, you want