by Sarah Mason
As I predicted, the room has two huge pale blue sofas which look as though they might swallow you up whole, and the interior designer has clearly been briefed with a Kensington-by-the-sea look. The bowl in the center of the old teak coffee table is a huge fossil shell, the wall lights are decorated with shells and the heavy, expensive curtains are tied back with pieces of old rope.
Sir C will probably never feature on my invitation list but he apparently features with many others' if the line of stiff white cards on the mantelpiece is anything to go by. A huge desk sits grandly under a bay window, spread with papers and files, and a half-drunk tumbler of whisky sits to one side of it.
Now Holly said to look for clues. Again, a little more questioning on that front would, at this current moment of time, have gone down a treat. Should I be actually looking for Emma? Under the sofa? Behind the door? What sort of clues should I be searching for?
Sir Christopher leans against the mantelpiece and runs a hand through his black hair. He makes no suggestion that I sit down and nor do I. There's a better getaway to be had from the standing position, thank you.
“Who told you that she had left work?”
“Em, Joe told us. Our editor, Joe.” In my current nervous state I've not a clue what Joe's surname might be and pray that he won't ask. He might try and turn this into a quick-fire round of twenty questions on the Bristol Gazette. Maybe I should have questioned Holly a little closer, learned a bit more about the newspaper and Emma. Holly has an infectious sangfroid attitude to life which means that preparations for any event are rather thin on the ground.
He seems to relax slightly which is strange. “Nice to get away from the city, isn't it? Breathe some fresh sea air.”
“Absolutely!” I agree eagerly, but then I would pretty much agree to anything he says at the moment. “All that smog!”
“Can I offer you some tea?”
“No, thank you. I can't stay very long.”
“Have you lived in Bristol long, Miss . . . ?”
“Trevesky. Clemmie Trevesky. Em, no, not long.” So, please don't ask me anything about the city because I know bugger all.
“Whereabouts do you live?”
“In Clifton,” I answer confidently. Holly lives there so this I know.
“Me too. Up by the suspension bridge.”
“Really?” I'm racking my brains to remember the name of Holly's road. Damn her. Here it comes.
“What about you?”
“Oh. You know. By the, er, square.” Holly and I drink wine on that patch of grass in the summer. “By the Albion pub!” I add triumphantly. I may not know my street names but by God I can remember the pubs.
He looks satisfied at this. “Well, I mustn't keep you. Emma isn't here, I'm afraid,” he says quietly.
I resist the temptation to clap my hands together and skip out of the room. “Well, we were just a bit worried about her,” I warble. “She left so suddenly. Should I have dropped her things off in Bristol? She might want some of the clothes she'd bought in the sale,” I improvise wildly, remembering the Whistles top Holly had mentioned. I wonder what color it is and whether it would have suited moi.
“I'll make sure she gets them, but as I mentioned she's not here.”
“Right. Good.”
There really doesn't seem very much to add and I'm about to make my excuses and leave when he suddenly asks, “If I can't offer you tea then would you like an early drink?”
Would I like a drink? I can't think of anything else, apart from not being here, I would like more in the world. And he seems to be satisfied with all my answers and is relaxing his guard a little. Any minute now he could tell me where Emma is.
“Yes, please,” I say rather quickly.
“Whisky?” he asks.
I nod hastily, I have no wish to offend a whisky drinker. “Love the stuff.”
He goes over to a silver tray lined with tumblers and a decanter. I take another look around the room and edge over to a half moon table sporting a couple of photographs. One of them is of a young-looking Emma sitting on the lap of a woman I can only presume is her mother from the resemblance. Then there's another of Emma standing between two men, one of whom is her father. I stare at the other man. He looks vaguely familiar but I simply cannot place where I might have seen him before . . .
“Here.” An arm slightly nudges me. I claim the proffered glass and thank him. “Won't you sit down?”
We move back toward the sofas by the fire and I perch timidly on the edge of one. I even manage to take a sip of the whisky without my eyes watering. Sir Christopher plonks himself on the opposite sofa and has a bash at looking a little less scary. Close, but no cigar.
“So you know Emma?” he rejoins jollily.
“Yes, yes. We worked together. In PR.” I take another nervous sip. “At the paper.” Of course at the paper, Clemmie, where else? “So everything is all right with Emma?” I venture.
“Of course. Why shouldn't it be?”
“Absolutely. Why shouldn't it be?”
“So tell me, Miss . . .”
“Trevesky.” I helpfully fill in for him again. Goodness, he has a problem with names. Maybe he isn't the bloodthirsty barrister we thought he was. This little glimpse of humanity makes me relax for a second. But only for a second because the wily old goat's next question comes soaring through the air and knocks me off balance.
“Why didn't you telephone?”
“S . . . sorry?”
“You dropped her things off yesterday. You didn't need to return. So why didn't you telephone? I presume you can use one; in fact, I get the impression that they are positively de rigueur in the modern home.”
“Well, my parents live down here and I thought I would just pop in.” In my nervousness I chuck the drink down my throat and manage to spill most of it over my front. I start to brush myself down but he doesn't take his dark eyes from my face.
“Where is home, Miss Trevesky?” His voice is steely. I don't like the turn this conversation is taking. “Because if it's not Daymer Bay or Polzeath, and I'm betting that it's not, then Rock isn't really on your way anywhere.”
“I thought I would just pop in,” I warble. “Check on Emma.”
“You know, Miss Trevesky, I don't remember Emma ever mentioning your name, which is strange considering she only has two other colleagues in her department at work, both of whom I have met.” This is why he was pretending to stutter over my name.
“I'm new,” I squeak.
“Then you wouldn't know Emma well enough to be worried about her, would you?”
I stand up now and, trembling slightly, place my empty tumbler on a spindly side table. I can hear myself say in a voice that doesn't quite sound as though it's coming from me, “Well, thanks for the drink, I really must be going now.”
He stands up too. “Do you want to know what I think?”
Er, no. Not really.
“I don't think you know my daughter at all. I think you have tricked your way into my house under false pretenses.” His voice starts to gain some momentum. “I think you are a fraudster and a liar!” he booms. Christ, that's a bit strong, isn't it? “What have you got to say for yourself?” he yells at practically ten million decibels.
“I think you have been sent here,” he says in a dangerously quiet voice. He starts to walk toward me and although I don't feel as though my legs will even take the weight, I start to do a trembling knock-knee chicken combined with the one-step tango toward the door. “I think a certain young man from Cambridge has sent you to do his dirty work.”
“No!” I pipe up in a shrill voice, “that's not true at all!” Actually it's a certain young lady from Cornwall who has sent me to do her dirty work but he may not want to split hairs. This must be how he performs in court. I really wouldn't fancy being in the box if Sir Christopher is prosecuting but at least you get someone to defend you, don't you? Whereas now it's just little old me and my sister waiting outside in a car which probably won't even st
art. No wonder Emma has turned out the way she has; in fact, I'm starting to have a certain amount of sympathy for her.
We've reached the hall and with one quick movement I scuttle toward the front door.
“I want you GONE from my house and I don't want you to come back.”
We share this one common goal because, by God, I wanted me gone too. Trembling madly, I start the mammoth task of unlocking the front door. At last I have it open, but as I make my bid for freedom Sir Christopher's hand catches hold of the wood.
“You can tell him from me that my daughter will never marry him. In fact, she will never set eyes on him again. You take that message.”
I nod frantically, my fringe well and truly frizzled up by now, and at last he lets the door go. With a wild yelp, I hurl myself out onto the pavement.
Holly must have been somewhat alarmed to see her older sister, skirt hitched up around her knickers to aid a better running motion and with a new frizzy hairstyle, pelting it along the pavement yelling, “START THE CAR! START THE CAR!”
Chapter Eight
When we reach home, Holly wraps me in a nice warm blanket, parks me on the sofa and forces a whopping great G&T into my trembling hands. She had managed to compel most of the story out of me on the way home, despite me being absolutely incoherent for most of it.
I take a shaky slug of my gin and snuggle into the blanket. Bloody hell, that wasn't funny. Not funny at all. Charlie must be absolutely mad to take that man on.
Holly sits opposite me, cradling a glass of gin herself, deep in thought. I occasionally peep out at her but mostly keep my head down and the gin flowing. I prefer Holly when she is deep in thought anyway, it keeps her out of causing trouble elsewhere.
Eventually she speaks. “So he actually said that Emma would never be seeing Charlie again.”
I nod from beneath my blanket.
“The man must be almost holding her prisoner. How awful for poor Emma.”
Sod poor Emma. I'm more concerned about me at the moment and my own very stressed nervous system. It can't be good for you to have this amount of adrenaline whooshing around.
“But where on earth do you think she is?”
“Haven't got a clue,” I mumble. “He said several times that she wasn't in the house.”
“Maybe he was just saying that to throw you off the scent.”
“I got the impression it was more of a message. More of a she's-not-here-and-you'll-never-find-her jobby.”
“And you didn't glean any clues?”
“Nothing.” I shake my head and have another shiver to myself.
“You're still coming back to Bristol with me?” Holly and I had planned to set off this evening and, considering my idea of happiness at the moment is a few hundred miles between me and Sir Christopher McKellan, then to Bristol I am going. I nod to Holly.
“How on earth are we going to find her, Clemmie?”
This time I manage to pop my head out from underneath my protective layers. “What do you mean ‘we'? I think I have done more than my duty for the Emma/Charlie cause and I'm not bloody doing any more.”
“No, no, I don't want you to do anything like that again.”
“You wouldn't get me doing anything like that again,” I say betwixt gritted teeth.
“I was thinking more along the lines of some library research with me.”
“Why do you need me along? Can't I just stay at your flat and watch TV?”
“But it's been so much more fun working together and two heads are better than one. Besides, don't you want to see how it turns out?”
“No.”
“Come on, Clemmie. I'm only talking about some gentle research. No more Sir Christopher McKellan characters.”
I again shiver at the mention of his name. “Tell me what you mean by gentle research,” I say suspiciously. Knowing Holly this could mean a spot of gentle lion taming or something equally heinous.
“Well, I thought perhaps we could go to the paper tomorrow and have a look through some old stories on Sir Christopher. See if we can find something that might tell us where he's hiding Emma. Of course, Joe is going to want me to verify my sources first.”
“And then what?” I ask warily. Would she want me to swing through an open window with a knife in my mouth? Would she lower me through a hatch in a Mission Impossible-style harness?
“And then we'll reunite the happy couple! More gin?”
Holly skips off happily to the kitchen while I hunch huffily into the sofa. I've always considered Holly's blissfully blasé attitude to life as one of her many assets, but now I'm starting to think it's a downright menace. Lucky for her she returns with the bottle.
“As long as I'm not involved in the reuniting,” I stipulate.
“But you'll help otherwise? The wedding is only a week away and I really do need this story,” says Holly pleadingly.
“Okay,” I say sulkily.
“What are you two doing in here?” asks Barney as he comes in. “Everyone's in the kitchen.”
“I know. That's why we're in here,” I say grumpily through my blanket.
“Holly, what have you done to Clemmie?”
“Nothing at all! She's overreacting terribly. She just had to go and see someone for me for work. That's all.”
I view her from my huddled position. As soon as I can drag myself off this sofa I'm going to lamp her.
“Come on through. We need the gin back.”
With the blanket still draped around me, I shuffle through to the kitchen after them and park myself in front of the Aga on Norman's beanbag. I hope he hasn't been doing anything nasty on it. My father is busy preparing some food and my mother is lying with her legs dangling across a chair wearing an eye mask and with a cigarette in her mouth. Sam is sitting at the kitchen table calmly eating pistachio nuts while talking on his mobile.
“Holly made Clemmie go and see someone for a new story,” announces Barney.
“Really? How did it go?” asks my father.
“Not well.”
My mother is starting to stir now. She can smell a little bit of gossip a mile away.
“Holly made me pretend to be someone else and go and see this mad barrister who has kidnapped his own daughter.” My father looks in horror at Holly, who is making an I'm-going-to-kill-you face at me. I stick out my tongue at her.
My father turns back to me. “What happened?”
“He threw me out.”
My mother lifts a corner of her eye mask and sits up. “Darling, it sounds fabulous! Then what happened?”
“He threatened me!”
My father frowns at Holly. She makes another by-the-time-I've-finished-with-you-McKellan-will-be-a-walk-in-the-park face at me. I decide to shut up.
“Well, I hope you shit McGregor-ed him,” my mother says indignantly. I forgot to mention that this very annoying expression can sometimes be used as a verb. Roughly translated it means, in lieu of conversation, give a good kick on the shins and run. Again to do with the Scotsman, the loch and the rowing boat. Again don't ask.
“I wish I had. But I just concentrated on the running bit instead.”
“Darling, are they your clothes? You really look quite nice.”
Holly is very keen to change the subject so since Sam has come off the phone she asks hastily, “How's Charlotte?”
I glare at her. I'm very happy talking about me and have no wish to hear about ruddy Charlotte.
“She's good. She's just off to an actuarial dinner.” That'll be a laugh a minute. “Anyway, you've been to see McKellan? Did you find out anything about Emma?”
“Only that she wasn't there. Which we knew already. Holly always gets me involved in these things and she never thinks them through properly.” I look daggers at my sister.
“Clemmie, pot, kettle. Have you all met?” Sam steadily de-shells another pistachio.
“That's unfair! I think things through!”
“So you had thought things through when you got on a plane to
Singapore?”
“Of course!” I had actually thought about getting on the plane, I just hadn't really addressed the issue of getting off it.
“How about the plane after that to Australia?”
I hesitate. God, what is it with Sam and my trip abroad? He has been on my case about it ever since I got back. It's as though he really begrudges me going. I'm about to think up an enormously stinging reply like “Ho!” when he saves me the trouble by moving on and saying, “Anyway, I don't think you should be messing with McKellan. He has a really bad reputation.”
“Well, McKellan shouldn't think he can stop two consenting adults from getting married. This is a free country, last time I looked.”
“How do you know that this Emma wants to be found? Maybe she's decided she simply doesn't want to marry him.”
“Then surely she would tell him? She wouldn't just not turn up for work the next day. She wouldn't go to visit her father and not come back.” I look as haughty as I can from the indignity of my beanbag. I really hope Norman hasn't pooped on it.
Sam shrugs in an infuriating manner. “Maybe. I'm just saying that you and Holly seem to charge around tackling things head-on without even considering the other options.”
“I do not charge around tackling things head-on.”
“I'm sure Wayne and his bent nose would beg to disagree.”
Boy, if only I had a tray and a double-hinged door now.
“When is Mr. Trevesky expecting you back at work?” asks my father, trying to abate the row.
“I'll be back from Bristol by the end of the week.”
And by then we'll have found Emma, reunited her with Charlie and I'll be expecting a big fat apology from Sam.
In Bristol the next morning I am woken by Holly and, more importantly, a cup of tea. I stretch out blissfully and wriggle my toes. No French fries, mashed potatoes or mixed vegetables to think about for the next few days. No smelly seagulls eating bits of fish. Just Holly and me and perhaps a spot of shopping. Blissikins. I could certainly do with a spot of relaxation because the journey last night to Bristol was far from fun. The roads in and out of Cornwall aren't particularly renowned for their brevity but the harrowing bit started when we reached Bristol. Tristan then, for some personal and private reason of his own, decided to give up the ghost at one of the main roundabouts and we had to get out and push. Luckily we were on a hill, so Holly managed to bump-start him again to a rather unnecessary volley of hooting and shouting.
