EIGHT
Jack held the driver’s door of Mandy’s silver BMW. Jack’s old-fashioned gentlemanly pleasantries irritated her at first; or is he looking up my skirt? He’s looking up my skirt, she thought, which did not irritate her, aware that he was a fully paid up member of the dirty old man brigade, so what could she expect?
Jack got into the passenger seat and buckled up, a serious formality; his wife had been killed in a car crash and she never wore a seat belt. There was a time when Mandy thought Jack would never get over the death of his wife, but here they were, just over three years since Kate had died, and she thought he was doing okay; they were doing okay. ‘Jack, have you forgotten something?’ she said driving out of the car park.
‘Sorry luv,’ and he put his hand on her leg, somethin
