‘Grgrgrgre’
It was a small squeal. Bob and Sarah looked at each other across the bath, mouths slightly agape with surprise. Bob filled the soft sponge with water, held it over Jazz and squeezed once more, directing the water towards the centre of his long soft belly.
`Grgrgrgrgrgrgrgrgrg!' As the stream splashed into his navel, the baby kicked his legs furiously, splashing water over the side of the plastic bath and on to the floor of his bedroom. And his mouth opened wide in unmistakable delight, showing an expanse of toothless gums.
`He's laughing! Look he's smiling. Sarah, should he be laughing out loud at this age?'
She grinned. 'Why the hell not? He obviously finds you pretty funny.'
Bob beamed at the sudden development of his son's vocal range, and he sent another stream of bath water cascading over his midriff.
`Grgrgrgrgrgrgrgrgrgrgrgrg!'
Bath time for Jazz had become an essential part of the Skinner family's daily ritual. Sarah and Bob had agreed, in considering their parenthood, that, however busy each might be professionally, it would be their cardinal rule that father and mother would do all in their power to be at home every evening, if only for that special time.
As Bob lifted him out of the cooling water, the baby gave a small whimper of annoyance. But as Sarah took him, wrapping him in the folds of a soft yellow towel, the smile returned. She dried him gently, rocking him in her arms and speaking softly to him. The child nuzzled, contented, against her shoulder.
Bob watched her from a chair in the corner of the room, as she completed the process of drying, dusting, oiling and dressing for the night. 'Okay, chum,' she said eventually. 'Let's you and Mom take a walk on the terrace while Daddy makes up those rusks.'
Half an hour later they were seated in the living room. Bob held the baby, fed to the point of contentment, and rubbed his back very gently between the shoulder-blades, until he heard the soft rumble of breaking wind.
`That it?' asked Sarah.
`Yes,' Bob said, quietly. 'Let's give him a minute, then I'll put him to bed.'
Sarah left the room and returned with two flutes of pink cava. She put one on a small table within Bob's reach, holding her own glass as she settled on the couch alongside him.
`So how was your talk with Gloria?'
Worthwhile.' He paused. 'So who was this bloke who was chatting you up at the villa after the funeral, then?' He glanced down at her.
For a second she looked puzzled, until recollection came. Bob saw to his surprise that, for an instant, she flushed.
The amorous Monsieur Nicolas Vaudan, you mean? I didn't realise that Gloria had overheard us.'
'She didn't. I was joking. D'you mean the guy really was chatting you up?'
She nodded. 'Yes. Why not?' she said slightly defensively. 'Most men take it as a compliment when someone else finds their wife attractive.'
'Within reason. Was the guy out of order?'
`Not really, for a Frenchman. Sexually aggressive, Alex would say. Par for the course, really.'
`Not with my wife, it isn't. Anyway, he's only half French, so he's nowhere near par. What'd he say?'
She smiled, self-consciously this time. 'Nothing much. He just came up and introduced himself. I didn't say who I was, and he clearly didn't know. The usual small talk, then the usual "Madame, even in black vous etes tres belle." Then he told me I had beautiful eyes, and bet me they were bedroom eyes.'
A heavy frown gathered on Bob's forehead. 'So what did you say?'
‘You know me. I said "How perceptive. Come on!" No, I said, "If I do, Monsieur, then I flash them only at my husband." And then I told him how I came to be there, the story of how you found Santi. I told him that you were a policeman from Scotland — a very senior policeman, I said; a very large and strong policeman, I even added for good measure — but he was well under control by that time. The guy had the decency to act embarrassed, and to become apologetic. After that he couldn't have been nicer.'
Bob was mollified. 'You didn't tell him why I had gone to see Santi, did you?'
‘I said you were enquiring about a property for a friend: a small lie, but not too far from the truth. Why d'you ask that?'
`Because I'm going to ask Arturo to visit him, and go along with him myself, if he'll let me. What language did you use?' `English. His was better than my French.'
`Not Spanish?'
`No. He told me that he spoke five languages fluently, but that Spanish was his one blind spot.'
Skinner grunted. 'Know what he means.’
Jazz, still on his shoulder, made a soft sound.
Sarah looked at him. 'He's out. Here, gimme him. I'll put him to bed. While I'm doing that, you can make a start on those desperately ugly fish that you bought.'
The monkfish? You love monkfish.'
`Yes, but off the bone. You always buy them whole. Those faces, those mouths, those teeth, those eyes. Uggh!'
`Yeah!' Bob grinned. 'Hey!' he called to her retreating back. `Wonder if lady monkfish have bedroom eyes, too!'