Free What Men Say by Joan Smith

pressure, especially with all this . . .” She picked up one of the newspapers which Loretta had reluctantly brought downstairs when Bridget suggested they share a late breakfast. “It’s Stephen,” she exclaimed, looking at it more closely. “I hardly recognized him.”
    â€œThe best report’s in the
Telegraph
” Loretta said hastily as Bridget reached for
Today.
She could not now remember which tabloid had run the piece about the row in the English faculty, but she did not want Bridget to see it.
    â€œFancy you buying the
Torygraph
” said Bridget, feeling for it near the bottom of the heap. “Right, let’s have a look.”
    â€œInside. Page three.”
    â€œGot it.” Bridget finished her bread and licked jam off her fingers. “Blimey, I’m glad I don’t read this stuff every day. Fourteen-year-old girl strangled by stepfather to conceal sex abuse . . . Masked gunmen sought after gangland shooting at south London pub . . . Police seek van driver after stranded woman motorist attacked on the A34. You know, Sam’s been on at me to carry a can of what’s it called—mace. He’s always reading out pieces about sex attacks in the
Oxford Times”
    â€œIsn’t it illegal in this country?”
    â€œQuite possibly, but the police aren’t exactly full of good ideas. They gave a talk for freshers this year, thisWPC came along who’s been trained to deal with rape victims, and it was all about not walking home alone at night. One of my students got up and said how was she supposed to afford taxis with an eight-hundred-pound overdraft?” She shrugged her shoulders, grimaced and returned to her study of the paper. “Nothing here we don’t know already,” she said a moment later, throwing it down.
    â€œExcept for the post-mortem—it’s this morning.” For the first time it occurred to Loretta that the two things might be connected, the pathologist’s report and DC Sidney’s recall to St. Aldates police station. Then she realized she had no idea how long a post-mortem lasted, which made speculation futile.
    â€œTime I got dressed. OK if I have a shower, Loretta? Sam should be here soon.”
    â€œYou’ve spoken to him?”
    â€œYes. I wasn’t telling the truth, actually, when I said I was asleep when he—when PC Plod banged on the door. I was a bit embarrassed, opening the door like this.” She gestured towards her night clothes. “Anyway, Sam’s taken the day off, they keep thinking up new questions and he said it seemed easier not to go in . . . I wonder how long it’s going to go on. It couldn’t have come at a worse moment, he’s so busy at work.” Her mood changed abruptly and her face crumpled. “Isn’t that callous? When that poor woman . . .” Her hands ranged over her hips, searching unsuccessfully for pockets and a handkerchief.
    â€œHere,” said Loretta, pulling off a square of kitchen paper and holding it out. “Use this.”
    Bridget took it and blew her nose hard. “Sorry,” she muttered, dabbing at her eyes. “Either I think about it and get upset, or I try not to and . . . Sam said whydon’t we have lunch at Browns, take our minds off it—I said yes, but afterwards—”
    â€œDon’t you remember when my father died? You took me to that caff in St. Giles and I had a huge fry-up . . . I did nothing but eat junk food for about a week. There aren’t any rules for situations like this.”
    â€œOh yes, there are,” Bridget contradicted. “Imagine what the papers’d make of it, Sam and me sitting in a restaurant the day after . . .”
    â€œIt’s only Browns,” Loretta pointed out, guessing that Sam’s suggestion had been made, at least in part, because he wanted to have an hour or two alone with his wife. “It’s not exactly the Quat’