Sitting by the phone since half past six, Bunty waited as the clock behind her chimed seven. Her hand hovered over the handle.
Bang on the dot seven. Sullivan seemed like a stickler for punctuality, but she never wanted to seem too keen. And of course, he'd only just be home from work. Barely have his coat off. Might just be sitting down to a bite of dinner. She'd be best to wait for a while. Probably about half an hour, give him time to sit down and relax and...
She seized the handset and punched in the number. She breathed very loudly as the dialing tone kept playing.
Probably wouldn't be in yet. Probably wouldn't-
''Kembleford 741.''
Oh God, he was in. Bunty suddenly found her heart beating very fast, as if she was talking to a stranger as opposed to a man she'd already slept with. But that being said, she barely knew anything about Sullivan, and he would stay a mystery if she didn't say something.
''Hello?''
''Hello. The Right Honourable Penelope Windemere here.''
''Hello, Mademoiselle Windemere,'' Sullivan's voice was warming, and he almost seemed to be chuckling, ''How are you?''
''Oh, fine, fine.'' She agreed, ''How was your day?''
''Largely uneventful.'' He said. ''How was yours?''
''Similar.'' She replied. ''Lay in bed until around lunchtime, given the hangover.''
''Wish I could have done that.''
''In my bed? Oh, I wish you'd have said, we could have came up with some excuse.''
''No, that's - I mean...'' Bunty could almost feel him blushing down the line. Obviously his bravado reached a peak when the lights were out.
''About that date,'' He continued, dismissing the last statement, ''Any plans?''
''Not yet,'' She said, pausing with her hand over the mouthpiece to make sure those footsteps were only in her head. There was a footman called Robert who she suspected listened at doors. ''Have you any suggestions?''
''Well - oh bugger, hang on a second -''
She listened to the line buzz for around two minutes, before Sullivan returned, somewhat out of breath.
''Everything alright?''
''Dinner was burning.''
''Oh. Sorry about that.''
''It's fine, I think I've salvaged it.''
''What are you having?''
''Tonight? Beef stroganoff.''
''Ooh, fancy. Did you make it yourself?''
''Yes.''
''Impressive.''
''It's really not. Just throw everything into a saucepan and hope for the best, don't cut your finger with the knife when you're peeling the potatoes.
''Yes, I managed that last time I was helping Mrs McCarthy in the kitchen. Had to start a whole new batch of broad beans.''
''I'd say she wasn't too pleased about that.''
''Definitely not. It is impressive though, I know very few men who cook.''
''Wait there a second - I have to take the pan off the boil.''
Once again, Bunty sat and listened to the static. She was becoming increasingly aware of people moving in the house around her. Strange how she could blot them out when Sullivan's voice was in her ear.
''Sorry about that-''
''It's fine. Sorry for ringing at tea time.''
''That was entirely my fault, I told you when to phone. Anyway - about this date.''
''Indeed.''
''What or where do you fancy?''
''I really don't know.''
''Choices are limited in Kembleford, but we could drive.''
''We'd have to drive, or it would be a very damp walk to the chip van and back.''
''Yes, the weather's got miserable all of a sudden, hasn't it?''
''Horrible. Half the crowd last night left coats hanging on the chairs outside and forgot about them, and with it raining so early this morning they were all ruined when they came back to them.''
''Oh dear.'' Sullivan was laughing.
''I saw it all from the bedroom window - all these duchesses trying to shake the water out of mink and sable. Really pulls on your heartstrings.''
''Are you fond of fur and stuff like that?''
''Not to the extent that they were. A lot of it makes me sneeze and it's much too warm for it this time of year.''
''Mm. I hear there's a new restaraunt outside Hambleston - its opposite that hotel.''
''Which one?''
''The one where that girl was murdered a few years ago. Didn't you hear about it? The one in the luggage trolley with the stockings?''
''Oh yes! I was at a dance in that a few weeks ago.''
''They have dances there?''
''Yes, I think they're starting the ballroom as a regular thing, every Saturday night.''
''Seriously? That's great news. I like dancing.''
''I'm not surprised, you do it so well.''
''Shall we scrap the dinner and just go dancing tomorrow instead?''
''You've got the wrong night for it.''
''Bugger, so I have. Oh well, dinner it is.''
''Shall I book a table? It might be busy if it's new.''
''I'll book it. Can I pick you up tomorrow?''
''You - oh, that's a bit tricky actually... say I met you on the outskirts of Montague, by the front gates? You wouldn't want to drive up into the middle of the chaos here, especially not in the aftermath of a party.''
''Did it get a bit rambunctious?''
''Rather. I'll tell you all about it tomorrow night.''
''I'll look forward to it. Shall I meet you around eight?''
''Sounds perfect.''
''Great.''
''One more thing - sorry to hold you, your dinner's probably getting cold.''
''It is, yes, not to be rude.''
''Can I have your first name?''
''Edgar. I hope the date's still on, following that.''
''Of course it is, I love that name. Though can I give you a bit of advice?''
''What?''
''Drop the whole 'Miss Windemere' thing. Frankly it does my head in.''
Laughter rang down the phoneline.
''I'm serious! Call me Bunty or you'll be waiting for a very long time tomorrow night. I might neglect to show up altogether.''
''Alright then Bunty. Why not Penny?''
''I'll tell you tomorrow.''
''Will you? Promise that you will, I'm intrigued now.''
"Alright, I promise."
''Splendid. Goodbye then.''
'Bye.''
It's amazing how the suit which Edgar Sullivan wore every single day of his life suddenly seemed so incredibly inadequate that he was now pulling clothes out of the wardrobe that he couldn't ever remember buying, and he was starting to fear that his predecessor had not bothered to clear out the wardrobe before he left for London.
And even with these strange additions, he still didn't have anything to wear.
It was twenty past seven. He'd showered, shaved and had a pretty good idea of what route to take to Montague. Yet suddenly he was paralysed in confusion, throwing articles of clothing across the room and wondering where on earth DI Valentine had acquired that strange shirt.
He hadn't been on many dates in his life and many had been conducted in uniform, because then they got into the cinema with a discount.
The blue suit was for work, the grey one was in the wash, this wasn't the place for a tuxedo (not that his was in very good shape anyway, it really should have been retired by his great uncle before passing it onto another generation) and the black suit was far too formal.
On the contrary, he had no informal clothes bar courdaroy slacks and denim jeans, which he never wore, and they were far to lax for a evening in a restaurant. Especially with a Countess' niece, he reminded himself.
Oh God; somehow, in the confusion, he had put on some ludicrous old shirt of Valentine's. Judging from the cut of the collar, it could have been a hand-me-down to him as well.
Bunty came tripping up the drive at ten to eight, drawing her coat a little tighter around herself. She was regretting the heels a little - never a problem in town or restaurants, but not great for sneaking up the gravel paths of Monatgue.
She hadn't wore her fur coat specifically because she feared the short sighted gardener might mistake her for a deer, or an abnormally tall rabbit.
She was more used to leaving in the car to being picked up. She didn't usually have set plans like this. No one came to pick her up. She probably shouldn't have set off this early - she'd be huddling in the hedge for at least ten exceptionally awkward min-
Oh. Car lights. Noise of the engine. He was already there.
After exchanging niceties, they sank into a rather uncomfortable silence. Bunty had been carefully formatting a question in her head when Sullivan (as she still called him in her head, he was a man almost unsuited to first names) suddenly asked,
''Does anyone know where you are tonight?''
Bunty raised her eyebrows. ''I don't believe so,'' She said, ''Why?''
Sullivan looked abashed. ''Just wondering.''
Time to tackle the elephant in the room.
''I haven't told Father Brown, if that's what you're wondering. Or any of the others.''
Sullivan coloured slightly, but said nothing. He moved his hands slightly on the steering wheel. He'd found his brown suit and went for it in the end, and he wasn't really accustomed to seeing that colour adorn his wrists. Bunty was in (from what he's seen so far) a rather stunning green dress, so he felt woefully dressed, as he knew he would have.
''Have you been to this place before?'' She enquired.
He shook his head. ''No, I just overheard somebody talking about it in the station.''
It had popped into his head when on the phone and he'd worried about it ever since. He'd never managed to enquire what kind of restaraunt it was - in regards to clientele and prices. It was only after he'd hung up that he'd realised that this could be a pricey enough night out, but probably one that Penelope - no, Bunty, was accustomed to. If there was to be a second -
He blotted furture aspirations out of his head. No need to get too hopeful. At least he wasn't being discussed over the presnytery kitchen table. Unless she hadn't told them because she didn't want to make her affiliation with him known, due to shame of being around him.
Christ, he felt inferior. And badly dressed. And undesirable. And old.
''What age do you think I am?'' He asked suddenly - just letting what was in his head spill out.
Bunty studied him. ''Not a day over fifty-five.'' She pronounced.
The car swerved violently.
''I'm joking!'' She laughed. ''Oh, you'd be... thirty one, thirty two?''
''Thirty six.'' He confessed, feeling a tiny bit flattered. ''And you are...'' He trailed off, blushing, remembering the golden rule of never asking a lady her age. Or was it weight?
''Twenty five,'' Bunty declared, provoking a wince from Sullivan, ''Anything wrong with that?''
''Makes me feel old.'' He said, ''There must be...''
''Ten.''
''Eleven.'' He corrected.
''There's the turn.''
The car wound onto the wider road. It was duskus and the road was empty. Bunty silently realised that this was the first time she'd ever been in the front of a police car, and fought the urge to start fiddling with all the buttons.
''Does it bother you?'' He asked, ''Me being older?''
''Not in the least.'' She said, leaning forward to turn on the radio, ''In fact, I rather prefer - ''
They both swore loudly, at exactly the same time.
''That is the siren-''
''Yes, I know!'' Bunty shouted, punching at the button as the bells rang louder. Sullivan leaned over and expertly flicked it back into position.
''As you were saying?''
''Yes, if you'd followed my reputation in the papers- ''
''Which I didn't.'' Sullivan interjected.
'You'd know all about my preferences.''
Sullivan was quiet, face screwed up in concentration.
''What's the matter?''
''You've hit another button, I'm trying to figure out if it was the lights or the radio.''
''Perhaps we should use my car in the future.''
''You have a car?'' Sullivan asked, voice already alight with boyish excitement.
That conversation carried them nicely to the restaraunt.
They only left when the waiter started coughing too loudly to be ignored, and very loudly flipped the sign on the door to closed. Bunty and Sullivan stood giggling on the pavement.
''I should complain about how rude he was, but he wasn't rude, was he?'' Bunty relayed as Sullivan held the car door open for her, ''I mean, he obviously wanted to tell us to leave earlier.''
''But he didn't.'' Sullivan grinned, turning on the headlights of the car which lit up the very empty car park. ''We had every right to be there, the place closes at midnight and it's only...'' He looked at his watch, ''Oh. Quarter past.''
''Whoops.'' Bunty sniggered.
''That wasn't too bad,'' Sullivan reasoned as the car edged out onto the empty road, ''I'm sure people stay longer.''
''They often do, but waiters never throw them out. It's strange, isn't it?'' Bunty pondered, ''They always want to get rid of you but they're still perfectly polite to your face. Like you and Father Brown.'' She added softly.
Sullivan's laugh eased off. ''Even when I'm rude he still doesn't get the point.'' He sighed.
Bunty couldn't really argue with that. ''I'm sure you're never really that rude to him.''
''Do you think I should try to be?''
''Oh no, of course not.'' She responded quickly, while Sullivan snorted, ''I mean, don't be rude to anyone. It's not very nice.''
''Can't really help it.'' He mumbled.
''Of course you can - look at this evening,'' Bunty stated, ''You've been so perfectly lovely I'm starting to think you're nearly perfect.''
Sullivan went bright tomato red.
''I - glad you enjoyed it.'' He stumbled. He could barely manage another fluent word all the way back to Montague, and then she kissed him goodbye.
He was on such a dizzying high he couldn't remember the drive home any better than Bunty could remember the walk from the gates to her room.