Fen. Freya North
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time since lunch. ‘We’re going to the pub for a—’
Fen’s phone silenced him and he soaked up her wide-eyed excitement at its ringing.
‘Archive?’ she said, almost with incredulity, on answering it.
‘Fen McCabe?’
‘Yes?’
I don’t recognize the voice yet he’s Fen-ing and not Fenella-ing me.
‘James Caulfield,’ the voice drawled. ‘I was told to call you by Margot Fitzpatrick-Montague-Laine – I think that’s the right order and the right quota of hyphens – at Calthrop’s. You know, or knew her.’
God! Margot! thought Fen, who really hadn’t thought about Margot Fitzpatrick-Montague-Laine since leaving the Courtauld.
God! Margot, thought James, who had thought of her on occasions when he couldn’t sleep.
‘It concerns three Fetherstones in my collection,’ he said, clearing his throat and rearranging his semi-hard cock in his trousers.
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