Pressure Head by J.L. Merrow Page B

self-defence?”
    “Something like that.” I found I was rubbing my hip, so I reached for my pint quickly to give my hand something less revealing to do.
    Unfortunately Gary’s got a keen pair of eyes on him. “Sweetie…”
    I managed half a smile. “Look, just leave it, all right? Water under the bridge and all that.”
    Gary nodded. “Ooh—did I ever tell you about the time I had sex under a bridge? Mortifying, it was—absolutely mortifying …”
    And he was off, into a story involving an improbably endowed bloke whose wife drifted along in a narrowboat at the worst possible moment.
    Good old Gary. If I ever need cheering up, he’s my man.
     
     
    I spent Sunday doing the shopping, hoovering cat hair off the sofa, and not thinking about Phil. I didn’t think about him at Tesco’s, when I was staring at their Buy One Get One Free offer on sirloin steak and wondering if I should invite someone round to share it with me. I didn’t think about him when I was watching telly in the evening and reflecting that a cat on your lap was all very well, but nothing beat a strong pair of arms wrapped around you. And I definitely didn’t think about Phil when I was in the shower, or later when I was in bed, my hand creeping down to my groin…
    Nope.
    Didn’t think about Phil Morrison at all.

Chapter Eight
    We went to see Reverend Lewis mid-afternoon on Monday, which I guessed must be his quiet time—after all, you hear about morning prayers and evening prayers, but you never hear anything about afternoon prayers, do you? Maybe the man upstairs likes a nap after lunch.
    Like the vicarage he lived in, the Reverend Lewis was tall, austere, and looked like he’d been constructed sometime during the reign of Queen Victoria. Not that he was old—I put him in his early thirties, tops, with his washed-out blond hair and thin, ferrety features. But he somehow didn’t seem to fit in the modern world—like he’d be horrified if a girl showed her ankles in front of him, or if anybody swore. He offered us each a limp hand to shake and invited us in. The air inside the vicarage was chilly and damp, which was one way it made a change from the vicar himself. His handshake had been unpleasantly warm and damp.
    “Do come this way,” he said, ushering us into a front room I guessed had been decorated by the previous reverend’s wife—it was all chintzy floral patterns, now faded in parts, and tasselled ties holding back the curtains. This Rev, Phil had told me on the way over, was unmarried. Looking at him, it was hardly surprising. I don’t expect my blokes to have film-star looks, but I do like them to have at least a nodding acquaintance with a shampoo bottle, and I’m fairly sure most women would agree.
    “Can I get you a cup of coffee? Tea?” At least he had better manners than Samantha East, but then I supposed it sort of went with the job.
    “Coffee would be lovely. White, no sugar, ta.” I sat down on the sofa, leaned back and crossed my ankle over my knee.
    Maybe the Rev had had a big lunch and was feeling a bit dozy this afternoon—he just carried on looking at me for a moment, then jumped when Phil spoke. Loudly.
    “I’ll have a cup of tea, thanks.”
    Rev Lewis blinked and turned a bit pink. “Ah. Yes. Of course.” He scurried off down the hall.
    I looked at Phil; he nodded, so I started listening for vibes. “Nothing here,” I murmured after a moment. “But something’s definitely calling me upstairs.”
    “Okay—give it ten minutes or so, then make your excuses.”
    “You do realise half the bloody village is going to end up thinking I’ve got incontinence issues, don’t you?” I muttered.
    Phil laughed. “Bit sad, really—a plumber having problems with his pipes.”
    “You’re all sympathy, aren’t you?”
    Rev Lewis scuttled back in, carrying three mismatched mugs on a scratched tray with a picture of a fluffy kitten on it. I was a bit disappointed not to see something more overtly