Richard Osman

Last time she was down she told me off for having the slats of my venetian blinds angled upwards instead of downwards. That was the straw that broke the camel’s hump for me. I said to her, I’d wanted to say it for ages, that I felt I could never get anything quite right, and she said well she felt the same, and I said that’s nonsense, and asked her what she meant, and she said, well Mum, I’m always too fat or too thin, or with the wrong man, or just split up with the right man, or I should wear my hair up or down or I work too hard or I have too many holidays, or I shouldn’t have painted my kitchen that colour. That actually struck a nerve, I can be a bit like that, but I decided to dig in, so I stood my ground and said Joanna, that’s because I care, that’s because I love you, and she said so you show me you love me by telling me I’m too fat? And I said well I know you’re happier when you’re not overweight

‘They can take me as they find me,’ says Ron. ‘I’ve earned this face, it tells a story.’

‘Horror story, if you don’t mind me saying?’ says Pauline, looking at a colour palette, and then at Ron’s face. She blows him a kiss.

Always fighting for the working man, weren’t you, throwing your weight around?’ Pauline opens a compact. ‘You still believe in all that, do you? Up the workers?’

Ron’s shoulders go back a touch, like a bull preparing to enter a ring. ‘Still believe in it? Still believe in equality? Still believe in the power of labour? What’s your name?’

‘Pauline,’ says Pauline.

‘Still believe in the dignity of a day’s work for a fair day’s pay, Pauline? More than ever.’

Pauline nods. ‘Good oh. Then shut your mush for five minutes and let me do the job I’m paid to do, which is to remind the viewers of South East Tonight what a looker you are.’

‘Stop flirting, Mike,’ says Pauline. ‘No one’s interested.’

‘Oh, Joyce’ll be interested,’ says Ron.

‘I am,’ says Joyce. To herself, but just loud enough to carry.

‘Thank you for getting him to stay for dinner – you never know, do you?’

‘You never do know, Joyce, that is true. Perhaps the two of you will marry before the year is out. And, even if not, which is an outcome we must prepare for, I’m sure he will have plenty of information about Bethany Waites.’

Perhaps she will be found guilty, perhaps she won’t, but Connie likes to err on the side of optimism in all things. Plan for success, her mum used to say, although soon afterwards she died, having been hit by an uninsured van.

Joyce had been adamant that they were to investigate the Bethany Waites case. Ibrahim was quick to agree. Firstly because it is an interesting case. An unsolved case. But mainly because Ibrahim has fallen in love with Joyce’s new dog, Alan, and he is worried that if he upsets her, Joyce might restrict his access.

‘Why is Elizabeth investigating it?’

Bogdan shrugs. ‘Because Joyce wanted to meet someone off the TV, I think. I didn’t really understand.’

Donna nods – that sounds about right.

‘I think it’s too complicated,’ says Bogdan, ‘For a murder. A car, a cliff, come on.’

‘And you’re an expert in murder now?’

‘I read a lot,’ says Bogdan.

‘What’s your favourite book ever?’

‘The Velveteen Rabbit,’ says Bogdan. ‘Or Andre Agassi’s autobiography.’

This is how you’re supposed to fall asleep, thinks Donna. How has she not known about this before? Safe and happy and sated. And murders and Elizabeth, and tattoos, and being different and being the same, and cars and cliffs and clothes, and tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.