The Cipher Garden by Martin Edwards Read Free Book Online Page B

waist. Wishful thinking, probably, but nobody could deny that her nose was too beaky to be remotely beautiful. So was Oliver’s, but somehow it suited him, lent a kind of distinction.
    As for Gail, she was fixated on defying the passage of the years. A few weeks ago, Kirsty had overheard her telling Bel that when her divorce finally came through, she’d celebrate by splashing out on more cosmetic surgery. She’d already had a discreet nip and tuck around the jawline and kept harping on about a boob job. Poor flat-chested creature, she could do with one. Now the blonde hair had lengthened overnight and Kirsty was positive she’d invested in extensions. Pity she couldn’t do anything about that letterbox of a mouth. Over the years, Gail had tried her hand at a variety of small enterprises before becoming a supplier of wine. The Heights was her best client, and she and Bel were friends. Gail was scheduled to make one delivery each week, but dropped in every otherday. They spent more time yapping about clothes and television than discussing business.
    ‘Hello, Kirsty, how are things?’
    No mistaking the fruity smell on Gail’s breath. Her favourite tipple was gin made from damsons harvested in the Lyth valley. Sweet and strong, no wonder she was having to take care not to mix up her words. An empty glass stood in front of her. Bel, always the goody-goody, was sipping fizzy water.
    ‘All right, Mrs Flint, how are you?’
    ‘I told you before, sweetheart, my name’s Gail. None of this Mrs Flint nonsense.’ Gail’s trout-like lips (Kirsty suspected excessive Botox injections) formed a smile. ‘I’m fine, but you do look a little flushed, if you don’t mind me saying so. You’re not working her too hard, Bel?’
    As Bel smiled and shook her head, they heard a car pulling up outside. Kirsty caught sight of Oliver through the window, lifting a crate of glasses from the boot of Bel’s gleaming BMW. It always gave her a kick to see him without being seen. She adored his elegance of movement, the movement of his shoulder blades under the thin cotton shirt. He didn’t bother with the gym, but he had as much feline grace as Bel. Even when peeling potatoes or carrots, he seemed incapable of clumsiness. Tall, dark and blue-eyed, in some ways he reminded her of Sam. But her brother’s muscles were running to fat. Too many chip suppers.
    Sam had no time for Oliver. He was dead jealous, bound to be, but he loved to wind her up by insisting that Oliver was gay. All chefs were, in his book. Oliver had flowing locks, down almost to his shoulders, high cheekbones and manicured hands; very different from close-cropped, grubby-nailed Sam. But Oliver wasn’t gay, she was sure of that.
    He came into reception and put the box down. When his eyes met Bel’s, the intensity of his gaze made Kirsty shiver with cold despair. It was as if the woman were a hypnotist, as if at a snap of her fingers, he would satisfy her every whim. Kirsty imagined Oliver as wild and passionate. Dangerous, even. Yet Bel had tamed him, made sure he did her bidding. Lucky, lucky woman to have that lithe body wrapped around her in bed every night.
    ‘Where shall I put these glasses?’
    Bel reached out and ruffled his hair. ‘Let me show you.’
    Her tone was flirtatious, her eyes sparkling with promise, like a teenage coquette. She led him by the hand to the kitchen. For a quick grope, presumably; the woman just couldn’t keep her hands off him.
    Gail leaned forward and whispered, ‘Much as I love Bel, I can’t help a twinge of jealousy. How about you?’
    It was as if she got a kick out of twisting the knife. Kirsty coughed, scouring her brain for an excuse to get away.
    ‘She tells me Oliver’s very sensitive to her needs. All he cares about is giving her pleasure. I mean, I’m bound to be jealous, aren’t I? The younger men I’ve known, it’s always wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.’’
    Oh God, too much information. ‘I’d better be getting on