𝐇𝐨𝐦𝐞┃ Anthony Lockwood┃2┃

Chapter Twenty Nine - Decisions

And after it all ended, did they return to their old ways of doing things? Were they ever quite the same? Did they go back to going on missions together, just Lockwood, George and Nola – simple missions, like dodging ectoplasmic tentacles in attics – before heading home for tea?

There was certainly a slap-up feast arranged at Portland Row one afternoon, a few days after events in Chelsea had come to their conclusion. Holly had done most of the organising, so bowls of olives, salads, wholemeal ciabattas and plates of interestingly limp charcuterie were much in evidence. Fortunately, at the last minute, George made an emergency run to the shops, returning with a supply of cheap sausage rolls, fizzy drinks and smoky bacon flavour crisps. Also, a chocolate fudge cake of surpassing size, which he hoisted into pride of place in the centre of the kitchen table.

Holly and George had had a running argument about that table, Holly insisting that their thinking cloth, with its mural of scribbles, notes and grotesque cartoons, looked like the wall of a public lavatory, and would put her off her hummus dips. She wanted it discarded for the occasion and replaced with a crisp white alternative. George refused. Ever since breakfast, he had been working on a diagram on one corner of the cloth, and didn't want it moved. In the end, through sheer bespectacled stubbornness, he got his way.

By mid-afternoon, the kitchen was ready. Every surface groaned with delicacies, the kettle was on. Holly had thrown all the wrappers away. The skull in the jar, which had been making atrocious pop-eyed faces at Holly whenever she turned towards it, causing her to spill two bowls of cashew nuts and one of taramasalata, had been removed upstairs in disgrace. Then, in came Lockwood, fresh from numerous phone calls in the office, and they all sat down to dine.

He was on good form that day, Lockwood, vibrant with positive energies. Nola remembered him sitting at the head of the table, creating a towering sandwich stuffed with sausage rolls and smoky bacon crisps (much to Holly's horror – to appease her, he balanced a minuscule rocket leaf on the top) as he spoke about the potential new clients the agency now had. Like the rest of them, his recent injuries were still in evidence – the cut on his forehead, his grazed cheek, his bruises, the weariness stamped beneath his eyes – yet somehow all they did was serve to highlight his vigour and vitality.

George was happy too, making last-minute tweaks to the complicated diagram on the cloth before him, while at the same time demolishing plate-loads of miniature Scotch eggs. He made a spirited early play to sample the chocolate fudge cake too, but Lockwood decreed that this should be left to the end.

As for Holly, she was back in her smooth and flawless groove once more, smiling benignly at the goings-on, while remaining slightly detached from it all. At George's behest, she unbent enough to try a single small Scotch egg. Mainly, though, she stuck to sparkling spring water and a walnut, raisin and goat's cheese salad. In a funny sort of way, Nola was pleased she kept her standards up. It was somehow reassuring.

Nola? Yes, she was there. She ate and drank and joined in with the others, though inwardly she was far away. After a while, they looked (again) at the day's newspapers, which Holly had left folded beside Lockwood's plate.

"Every time I see this coverage, I can't believe our luck." Lockwood said. "When you combine this with what happened on the Strand, we've dominated the papers for more than a week."

Holly nodded. "The phone's been ringing non-stop." She said. "Everyone wants Lockwood and Co. You're going to have to make some decisions about expanding."

"I need to take some advice about that." Lockwood took a spear of cucumber and stuck it thoughtfully in the dip. "Actually, I'm seeing Penelope Fittes next week. She wants me to come in for an informal breakfast meeting. More of a thanks for the carnival thing than anything, I suppose, but still... I could ask her." He grinned. "Did you read the bit where she called us a 'top agency'?"