False Report by Veronica Heley Page B

own.’
    â€˜Ah,’ said Bea. ‘And you didn’t think to check with me?’
    Maggie reddened. ‘Nor you with me.’
    Bea didn’t quite know how to explain. ‘Max gets ideas occasionally; not always practical. Or desirable. You don’t want to go, do you? I mean, I don’t want you to.’
    â€˜I give up!’ CJ announced. ‘I’d better ring the restaurant and cancel the booking.’
    Maggie tried to smile. ‘Yes, but I’m grown up now and capable of earning my own living – sort of. Maybe I ought to go.’
    Bea smiled back. ‘ I don’t want you to go. You don’t want to go. We’d better sit down and talk about it properly, don’t you think?’
    Maggie sniffed and reached for a tissue. ‘Tomorrow, after I finish up at number fourteen? The tiler said he’d redo one corner of the new wet-room, but he’s a slippery so and so, and I’ll need to lean on him to make sure he does it.’
    â€˜It’s a date. Do you think it’s safe to leave Jeremy alone for five minutes tomorrow?’
    CJ was not amused. ‘Bea, the restaurant will hold the table for another half hour, but it’s in South Kensington, so if we don’t get a move on—’
    â€˜I must change. Five minutes.’ Bea fled up the stairs.
    â€˜Let me help you,’ said Maggie. ‘You have a shower, while I act as lady’s maid.’ She thundered up after Bea, overtaking her.
    Fifteen minutes later Bea descended the stairs, fresh and cool, her make-up at a minimum but perfectly acceptable, her hair shining. Maggie had selected a short-sleeved lacy top in apple green for Bea to wear, over a silvery skirt. At the last minute Bea had snatched up a russet-coloured pashmina shawl to go over her shoulders while Maggie stuffed items from Bea’s everyday handbag into an evening clutch. Silver sandals with a small heel completed the outfit.
    CJ ushered Bea out of the house and into the waiting cab without comment. He was miffed that she hadn’t been ready when he called, and he was making it clear he wasn’t going to make polite conversation until she apologized for keeping him waiting . . . which she was not prepared to do.
    She, on the other hand, felt much better for having talked to Maggie. At least now they were in this together. Whatever ‘this’ might turn out to be. A mystery to be solved, perhaps?
    Friday evening
    Maggie answered the door, munching on Jeremy’s bacon sandwich, while talking on the phone to Oliver.
    A well-dressed stranger, holding a pizza box. Not a delivery boy. He had a puzzled look on his face. ‘Is this Mrs Abbot’s place?’
    â€˜That’s us.’ Maggie said into the phone, ‘Hold on a mo, Oliver. Someone at the door.’
    The man said, ‘I can’t believe this is happening. I was just walking along, minding my own business, and a pizza delivery boy got off his bike and pushed this box into my hands. Said he’d been ringing your doorbell for ever and couldn’t get a response, and he was late back. He said it was for a Mr Waite at Mrs Abbot’s house. And drove off. Do you have a Mr Waite at your house? Has he just phoned for a pizza?’
    â€˜I didn’t hear the bell. It’s not very likely, but I suppose . . . if he woke up and felt peckish . . . Except, would he know where to call?’
    The stranger shook his head at the mystery, handed Maggie the pizza, and made off down the road.
    Maggie watched him go and returned to her phone conversation. ‘Oliver, something rather odd has just happened . . .’
    Friday evening
    The restaurant was one of those exclusive ones which have a few too many waiting staff for the number of customers being served. CJ opened the enormous menu. Bea looked inside her evening bag for her reading glasses. Oh. No glasses.
    She smiled brightly at CJ. ‘What a day! Suppose you choose something