It Had to Be You Read Online Free Page A

irritating day.
    ‘Are you still there, Marcia?’
    ‘Yes. Sorry, it’s gone. Oh, lorks, maybe I’m going to have to be a bit more on the ball if you’re having to make these savings.’
    It’s too late, darling.
    ‘Oh, yes. It’s come back. The police rang.’
    ‘The police?’
    ‘Yes. Sorry. I should have written it down, ’cause I usually do, but I thought it was so important and unusual that I couldn’t possibly forget it.’
    ‘Quite. What did they want?’
    ‘He didn’t say. He sounded nice, though. Quite young, I think.’
    ‘Yes, I don’t care what age he was, Marcia, but didn’t he say anything?’
    ‘He asked for your home number and your address. I didn’t think it would sound good to be too inquisitive. I think they’ll be in touch with you this evening.’
    ‘Thank you.’
    ‘James?’
    ‘Yes?’
    ‘I hope it’s nothing serious.’
    ‘Thank you. Probably some scrape my bloody daughter’s got into.’
    ‘I guess. James?’
    ‘Yes, Marcia?’
    ‘I’ll be in all evening. Will you ring and let me know? ’Cause I’ll worry.’
    ‘That’s very sweet of you.’
    ‘Well, you know I …’
    ‘What? What, Marcia?’
    ‘No. Nothing. Sorry.’
    She rang off. Oh, how how how could he sack her tomorrow? Or even give her a warning. How could he bear to witness the hurt that she would have no ability to conceal?
     
     
    It was his barely admitted wish that he had been born as his brother Charles that had led James to choose to live in a three-storey Georgian end-of-terrace house in one of the more fashionable parts of Islington rather than in the five-bedroom two-garage four-bathroom suburban home with conservatory, summer house, tree house and large lawn hidden from the envious by leylandii that might have seemed more suitable for the Managing Director of the London office. The only real drawback was the absence of those two garages. Even with his residents’ pass he often had to park quite a way from the house, and on this day of irritations it was no surprise that this should be so.
    As he dragged himself through the poisoned early-evening heat past the reticent charms of the nicely proportioned brick-built houses in the modestly elegant, understated street he longed for a drink, but even more than that, he craved the peace of his home. Every visitor commented on how restful and quietly artistic the house was, and he was always generous in admitting how much of this achievement was down to Deborah, his style guru.
    His legs were leaden. The heavy traffic, the tense meeting, the fear of sacking the lovely, useless Marcia, and the news that he was going to get a call from the police all contributed to a debilitating unease.
    He couldn’t find his front-door key, so he rang the bell, but there was no reply. That was odd. He had expected Deborah to be in.
    Thank goodness the house was on the end of the terrace. He took the narrow path on the eastern side of the house, picked up the back-door key from under the third stone behind the statue of Diana (Greek goddess, not princess), and entered the house through the garden door.
    Perhaps it was just as well that Deborah wasn’t home. She would have raised her eyebrows at the sight of him going to the gin bottle before he even took his tie off.
    He poured himself a gin and Noilly Prat with ice and a slice, sniffed it eagerly, and took the first of many sips.
    He sat in a green eighteenth-century armchair – no three-piece suites for Deborah – and stretched his body and his legs into full relaxing mode. He gazed with pleasure, as he did almost every day, at the carefully chosen semi-abstract landscapes by little-known modern artists that decorated the most serene living room of this man who hardly knew what the word ‘serenity’ meant.
    At last, he gave a deep sigh, stood up carefully – his back was not something to be relied upon, especially after a long drive – and strode with sudden resolution towards the telephone. As he passed the