13
It was a Bordeaux this time.
Cathy welcomed him with a smile, her tight-fitting black dress accentuating her slim frame.
She led him through a sparse, impersonal room to the little kitchen. A small table, set for two. Something cooking on the stove. It was as far removed from The Vicarage as you could hope for. But he didn’t care. He wanted to forget about all of that, concentrate on the evening, and Cathy.
And the evening was good. They laughed and joked and, as he became more relaxed, the more he studied her features, the more he realised that this little bird was actually a very lovely one. When they went into the room, she brought with her a cut-glass decanter and two thick-bottomed glasses. “Sorry they’re not the right shape,” she said, as she poured him out a large measure. He
