Dreaming of the Bones

his knee touching hers under the table. She cleared her throat. ”I told Hazel I might be a bit late tonight, end of the week and all...
    He grinned. ”Clever girl. Come to the flat. We’ll collect a take-away for dinner—unless you’d rather go out somewhere posh?” Her expression must have been answer enough, because he pulled her up, leaving their unfinished drinks on the table. ”Let’s get out of here.”

    And so they had made up very satisfactorily, and on Saturday they had spent the day together, taking Toby to Regent’s Park Zoo.
    Now it was inevitably Sunday and they were speeding down the motorway towards Cambridge . ”When are you going to buy a new car?” Gemma asked, grousing to cover her increasing nervousness. ”I swear these springs have poked holes in my bum.” She shifted in the passenger seat of Kincaid’s Midget, trying to find a more comfortable position. ”And this window’s starting to drip at the join again.” It was drizzling, just enough to coat the windscreen with the slimy muck thrown up by the other cars’ tires, but not enough to wash it clean.
    She glanced over at him. ”I know what you’re going to say, so don’t bother. ‘It’s a classic,’ ” she mimicked, rolling her eyes. ”Now, an old Bentley is what I’d call a classic. Or a Roller. Something with style and lots of chrome. This is not a classic.”
    ”That’ll give you and Vic something to talk about,” he said with a wicked smile, then he sighed and added, ”But I suppose you’re right. It is getting a bit doddery. And it makes it difficult taking Toby anywhere.”
    Gemma absorbed this unexpected remark in silence. She’d no idea such concerns had even occurred to him, and the thought implied an intended permanence to their relationship that both pleased and terrified her.
    ”That’s true enough,” she finally replied, as offhandedly as she could manage. ”For outings and things.”
    ”We could go to the seaside in the summer, the three of us. Toby would like that, don’t you think?” He flicked on his indicator. ”Here’s our turnoff.”
    ”Mmmm,” Gemma answered distractedly. If only she’d said no when he’d invited her to come with him today, she thought. Surely she could have come up with some brilliantly clever spur-of-the-moment excuse. A tactful and gracious refusal—a sick aunt in Gloucestershire would have done nicely. She unclasped her hands and swallowed against the tight feeling in her throat. The mild curiosity she’d felt about Vic, and even the barely admitted desire to do a bit of possessive crowing over Kincaid, seemed to have evaporated entirely and she wished herself anywhere else.
    But a few short moments later Gemma glimpsed a straggle of cottages facing the road, then a few semidetached villas, and she knew they were coming into Grantchester. Kincaid slowed, turned right into the High Street, then almost immediately left, into the drive of a slate-roofed cottage washed in Suffolk pink. Even in the rain the color looked warm and welcoming, and Gemma told herself that perhaps the woman who’d chosen a pink house might not be as bad as she’d imagined. In any case, there was nothing for it now but to carry on as if she met her lover’s ex-wives every day.
    She waved away Kincaid’s offer of an umbrella. Opening and shutting it would be more trouble than it was worth in the soft drizzle, and she needn’t worry about her clothes since she’d refused to dress up for the occasion. A natural wool jumper over a printed cotton skirt, lace-up boots, her hair pulled loosely back in a clip at the nape of her neck— all good enough for her usual weekends, and so would have to do for this. Gemma climbed out of the car bareheaded. She walked slowly to the porch, enjoying the feel of the cool moisture beading on her face and hair after the overheated interior of the car. By the time he rang the bell she felt more collected, and readied her face for a polite smile.
    Then the door flew back with a crash, and Gemma found herself staring down into the inquisitive blue eyes of a boy with a shock of straw-colored hair flopping on his forehead and a faint dusting of freckles across his nose. He wore a faded rugby shirt several sizes too large, jeans, and the dirtiest white socks she’d ever seen. In his right hand, he held a slice of bread spread with Marmite.
    ”Um, you must be Kit,” said Kincaid. ”I’m Duncan and this is Gemma. We’re here to see your