Free White Lies by Rachel Green Page B

you in tomorrow? Eleven o’clock?”
    “That would be lovely. Thank you.”
    “I’ll pencil you in. What name is it?”
    “Meinwen Jones. We’re old acquaintances.”
    The woman on the other end lost all her aloofness, her voice becoming warm and familiar. “Oh! Manny, darling. It’s Jennifer, from the vicarage?”
    “Of course. How lovely.” Meinwen smiled as she recalled the outspoken author of several erotic novels. “How’s the writing going?”
    “Rather well, actually. Richard’s quite strict about how much novel writing I do. I’m more productive than I ever was and of course, now I get to do some proper research.”
    Meinwen chuckled, imagining just what kind of research Jennifer was doing, since her genre was erotica. “I’m glad it’s going well. We’ll have to meet up for a coffee one of these days.”
    “I’d love to. You can tell me all about the witchcraft you’ve been doing and the gossip about the Women’s Guild. I get Thursday afternoons off at the moment.”
    “That would be splendid. Look, I have to go. I’ve got a taxi waiting. I’ll try to say hello tomorrow when I come.”
    “Spiffing. I’ll let Richard know.”
    “Great. Thank you, Jennifer.”
    “Okay. Byses.”
    Meinwen disconnected the call with the smile still on her face. It was odd to think of her prim and proper friend succumbing to the carnal desires of the flesh. The death of Jennifer’s brother had made the world of difference to her outlook on the concept of morality and sin.
    A rap on the door startled her from her reverie. Jimmy. “The taxi’s here.”
    Meinwen raised her voice as she stood. “Coming.” She slung her bag over her shoulder and plucked her umbrella from the sink. At the door she turned, went back to the table and slipped John’s gold ring into her pocket.
     

 
    Chapter 7
     
    The taxi took them all the way to Chervil Court in under fifteen minutes. Meinwen felt slightly guilty about her shop as they passed the Shambles. She’d already arranged another appointment tomorrow which entailed leaving the shop closed all morning–even if she went in she’d have to leave again at ten to get to the Larches on time and she could barely remember the last time she had a customer before ten. That was the trouble having a mainly pagan clientele. They generally stayed up with the moon.
    Chervil Court was a group of maisonettes all facing a central park and recreational area. Forty years had done a lot to change it from the model housing the planners had visualized. The maisonettes were pleasant enough when they were built but had d fallen into disrepair and vandalism when the Conservative council had sold them off in the eighties. In the last decade they’d been bought as owner-occupied and gradually modernized and decorated.
    The communal gardens had suffered in the meantime. When the council-employed caretaker had been made redundant, the gardens had become a focal point for the nineties drug scene, forcing the local authority to bulldoze the lot and replant it as a large piece of grass surrounded by road. The flats were served by two bus stops, their dimly lit shelters providing business premises for prostitutes and drug dealers in easy reach of their clients.
    At one end of the crescent was a patchwork of different curtains in the windows, several varieties of music drifting from open ones. “Looks like a thriving student population.” Meinwen nudged her traveling companion with her elbow. “Your luck could be in, there.”
    “Nah.” Jimmy shook his head. “Not me. Too old to be courting students.”
    “I wasn’t thinking about courting them.”
    “What number is it?” The taxi driver slowed when he turned into the road.
    Meinwen leaned forward. “Number eight, please.”
    “Number eight.” He sped up until he reached the penultimate block and pulled over, clicking off the meter. “Four fifty please.”
    “Here.” Meinwen gave him a fiver. “Keep the change.”
    “Thank you