White Riot Read Online Free Page B

the place to meet a potential client. And certainly not one her mother was recommending. She wasn’t looking forward to this.
    Trevor Whitman was an old friend of her parents from way back, her mother had said, although Peta had never heard him mentioned before. Back in the north-east from living in London and needing someone with Peta’s talents. Which were what? A delicate matter; her mother couldn’t say over the phone. Why didn’t Peta come and meet him? At the house? They could all have lunch. Peta didn’t think it felt like the kind of thing she should be getting involved with. Not the right kind of job. Any job, her mother had insisted, voice sweet steel, was the right kind of job when it was the only job. Peta reluctantly demurred. Her mother cooed she would do lunch. Make a pleasant afternoon of it.
    Peta liked to research potential clients, get to meetingsearly, position herself well, take control, direct the conversation. There would be little chance of that here. But she had no choice but to accept the work. Her money stream was as dried up as a globally warmed creek bed.
    Going through the front door, she crossed the black and white squared-tile entrance hall, her unfamiliar heels awkwardly clacking and echoing, handbag slipping off her shoulder, skirt tight as a rope round her knees. Pulling her cotton blouse from her sweating chest, blowing a stray strand of hair out of her eyes. Angry at having to dress up to go home, so far away from her usual comfort zone of jeans and trainers or gym sweats, she felt like a female impersonator. A very bad one.
    She looked in on the front room. Same as usual. Her parents had settled on a Liberty print and Klimt look some time in the Seventies and, seeing no reason to change what worked, kept it the same over the subsequent decades. Peta often thought that was a metaphor for their relationship, a thought seemingly confirmed because since her father’s death from cancer four years previously her mother hadn’t changed a thing.
    She called out; no one answered.
    Into the kitchen, the Aga turned as low as possible in the heat. The back door was open, two figures sitting close on the wooden garden furniture, laughing. One of them saw her, turned. They pulled apart.
    ‘Peta, darling, come on out.’
    Peta went out. She noticed that the bottle of wine between them was nearly empty.
    Her mother stood up, smiled. In her early sixties, Lillian Knight was a striking woman. With good bone structure and a figure kept trim and fit, she seemed ten if not fifteen years younger than her actual age. Her blonde hair was now perhaps a shade unnatural, but so what? When Peta lookedat her she saw herself in several years’ time and found no disgrace in that.
    They kissed, both cheeks.
    ‘You’re looking well.’
    ‘You too, Lillian.’ Always Lillian, never Mother or Mum. That’s how she had grown up. The era her parents were from.
    ‘We were just reminiscing about the good old days.’ Her mother turned, indicated the man sitting at her side. ‘This is Trevor. Trevor Whitman.’
    Trevor Whitman’s hair was greying, swept back and collar length, his beard well manicured, one step above designer stubble. Medium height and build. Kept himself in shape. Dressed in a dove-grey suit with a black silk shirt beneath it.
    He stood up, shook her hand.
    ‘Hi,’ he said.
    She noticed how he surreptitiously took her all in. How his equally surreptitious nod indicated approval. How his eyes held hers for a beat too long. She forcefully blew the strand of hair away from her face again. He gestured to the garden table; there was a third chair. She sat, feeling uncomfortable, not liking the sensation. Trying to compose herself.
    A radiant smile. He lifted the bottle. ‘Drink?’
    Peta shook her head. ‘I don’t drink alcohol.’
    ‘I’ll get you some water,’ said Lillian, seeming suddenly awkward. ‘Give you a chance to get to know each other.’
    Lillian stroked her hand along