by Sarah Mason
Holly lives in a small two-bedroom flat in the Clifton area of Bristol. It's on the first floor of a large Regency house and has those huge high ceilings and sash windows. She has always lived by herself, a fancy I think all members of our family share with her since we grew up in an extremely noisy household. Besides Barney we have two other brothers, so seven of us under one roof, not to mention a small menagerie of animals, has certainly given rise to a few living-alone-on-a-desert-island fantasies. Holly says she still waits outside her own bathroom if the door is closed until she remembers she actually lives alone.
Holly sits on the end of my bed in her toweling robe and hugs her knees into her chest. “I thought you might want to come in to the paper later this morning and talk to the people in the jobs section. I need to speak to Joe this morning about the McKellan story.”
“Great. I'll have a wander down Park Street and then come on to the paper.” I take little sips of tea and grin at my sister who is looking suitably envious. “Are we meeting James at some point?”
“Tonight, probably. Do you want to walk down or come with me and Tristan now?”
“I'll walk. Thanks all the same.”
I love Holly, but I draw the line at Tristan.
I have been looking forward to shopping in cosmopolitan Bristol. The local shops in Cornwall seem to carry an alarming range of bicycle parts and fish bait. The last time I went shopping in Plymouth, when I was more gainfully employed, I was absolutely convinced that a pot of antiaging cream from Elizabeth Arden would change my life. I excitedly approached the beauty counter of the local department store only to be told that they thought Liz might work on the leather goods counter and maybe I should try there. So the thought of shopping in Bristol is my idea of Mecca.
There are, however, other considerations to take into account and it soon becomes apparent to me that although waitressing in Cornwall might pay a small mortgage plus fish and chips every week, it doesn't stretch quite as far in Bristol. Mr. Trevesky would be absolutely appalled as even a cup of coffee is pushing it. It also raises the very ugly and unwelcome question of where I am actually going with my life. Will I ever need a crystal-covered little black cocktail dress? When would I wear some fabulous knee-high, leather boots if I haven't the job to match them? More importantly, will I ever know what to wear with them? And that's just the tip of the iceberg where clothes and me are concerned. I can see something breathtaking in a magazine or on a model, put the exact same thing on me and look dreadful. I have the wrong sort of frame and just seem to be all limbs. I don't mean that in a fabulous leggy sort of way, just in a gangly, scarecrow fashion. Wherever I seem to look there is always one of my limbs in the picture so I end up wearing a peculiar mismatch of clothes. I wish I had Holly's sense of style. I remember Seth always trying to get me to wear flash designer dresses, only to find that I actually looked better in a pair of jeans and one of Barney's jumpers. I think that was one of the reasons he always used to go by himself to the gallery openings—I never looked quite good enough on his arm.
So while I have an enjoyable few hours wandering about and indeed manage to purchase a bikini from the bargain bin without an accompanying coronary, I am glad when late morning approaches and it is time for me to make my way down to the national headquarters of the Bristol Gazette.
Holly works in a large, impersonal office block manned by security guards and several triffid-like plants, both of whom you have to wrestle with in order to gain access to the floor where the editorial part of the paper is based. After being questioned, my bag searched and new bikini admired, I am eventually allowed to sally forth. At the third floor, I tentatively step out of the lift and have a good look around. The massive insignia of the Bristol Gazette hangs over the reception desk. Sophie, a nice but vacant-looking girl who I have met a couple of times but who totally fails to recognize me, looks up from her magazine and then points me in the direction of the features desk. The office is completely open plan and I weave my way through desks littered with phones and computers.
As I approach the features corner, I am relieved to see Holly. She's on the phone but waves at me to sit in the chair opposite her, which is one of those exciting big leather swivel ones, and I have a happy time while she finishes her call.
“Good shop?” she asks as she replaces the receiver.
“Bikini,” I answer.
“Ooh, let's see.”
I duly produce it and Holly duly admires. I'm just about to ask if she would mind accompanying me on a future shopping trip when a voice snaps behind me: “Holly! When you have quite finished looking at your sister's pants. Hello, Clemmie, how are you?”
I open my mouth to answer and then realize it's not really a question at all. This is Joe, Holly's esteemed editor. Who is also, quite frankly, bloody frightening. He always wears rather startling clothing; today it's a bright yellow shirt and a lime green tie which is so vibrantly patterned that for a moment I think I'm going cross-eyed. I like it.
“Look, Holly. I don't like to make a mountain out of a sandhill but, quite frankly, you're up shit creek without a canoe.” Joe likes to talk in metaphors. Unfortunately he mixes them all up which makes him not only bloody frightening but bloody confusing too. “You need a story. And looking at your sister's pants isn't going to get you one.” I frown to myself. Is that just another mixed up metaphor or is he really talking about me? And would the fact that they're bikini bottoms make it any better? “Now, I like the sound of this McKellan story. Come and talk to me about it in my office in twenty minutes.”
I'm about to snuggle down into Holly's chair and indulge in a serious session of Solitaire on her computer when Holly says, “I think Clemmie should come too as she might be able to help.” I look at Joe anxiously. Please say something like, we never involve civilians in our work, go home immediately, Clemmie, and watch Home and Away.
Unfortunately he does no such thing. “Very well, as you're already involved.”
Joe as well as Sir Christopher? Some bloody holiday this is turning out to be.
While we're waiting, Holly decides that this would be a good opportunity for me to go down to the job section and talk to Ruth about finding a job in the art world. Ruth is an efficient girl with very short hair and a paperwork system that apparently works like traffic lights (red, orange, green and er, dark pink), but despite being so staggeringly capable she really doesn't have any good news for me on the job front. Any small hope that there might be a plethora of employers waiting for me quickly evaporates. Ruth narrows the search until we're down to a museum tour guide. Which is fine but I actually get paid more at Mr. Trevesky's café. And if this is what it's like in Bristol then God help me if I want to stay in Cornwall. When Holly returns to collect me for our meeting with Joe, she finds me slumped at Ruth's desk with my head buried in my arms. If I happen to meet Seth ever again then, God help me, I swear I will throttle him.
A couple of minutes later Holly forthrightly knocks on Joe's door, just below the EDITOR sign.
“COME!” he yells from inside and we tentatively enter. Joe blows out a lungful of smoke and narrows his eyes at us. “Ahhh. Double the trouble. Sit down, sit down.” He waves us impatiently toward two chairs. There's about ten tons of paperwork on mine and I hover uncertainly, wondering whether to remove it or perch awkwardly on top of it. Joe might get pissy if I crease it so I remove it.
“Now I've been thinking about this McKellan case, Holly. And the more I think about it, the more I like it. I need you to take the bull by the nails on this one. An awful lot of people would like to see him brought down so a story like this will be worth its weight in salt. We, of course, will be doing it for the sake of Emma, because after all she used to be one of our employees and I think we should do our best by her.” He pauses and looks over at Holly. “Besides which, I really would like her to come back to work; I can't find anyone to write these bloody social pages of hers. She was so bitchy about everyone; ‘High Society' has never looked so bleak. We're pu
shed to write about lunchtime at McDonald's at the moment. You don't know anyone who could write it, do you?” He looks hopefully from one to the other of us and I shake my head vehemently.
“Anyway . . .” He addresses himself again to Holly. “That should be your angle. We're concerned about Emma. Local paper looks after its own feel to it. Now, no putting the horse before the cart. We can't afford any cock-ups on this. Verify your facts.” He looks carefully from one sister to the other. Why's he looking at me? Why? “Ver-i-fy your facts. This paper cannot afford to be sued by Sir Christopher McKellan which, I needn't remind you, would certainly be the end of your career and probably mine too. You know where to find this Charlie character?”
“I've got his mobile number. But obviously we need to make sure he's not some sort of nutcase. We need to check that Emma really is engaged to be married to him.”
“So how are you going to do that?”
“She must have one girlfriend she's told.” Holly looks over at me at this point for some sort of female collaboration. I start nodding. No. Stop nodding, Clemmie. Stop it immediately. Do not get involved.
“You'll need more than one girlfriend,” remarks Joe.
“Also,” continues Holly, “I think Charlie mentioned something about the church being booked. So we can find his local church in Cambridge and see if it really has been.”
Joe lets out another stream of thoughtful smoke. “Yep, that's worth a try.”
“Then after we have found Emma . . .” I love the way she says that, as though we can just pop down to Sainsbury's and find her sitting on the Emma shelf, “. . . we will reunite the happy couple, along with an exclusive piece on how Sir Christopher McKellan, supposed defender of all that is good and right, prevented her from marrying the man she loved!”
“You believe this Charlie character then?”
“He seems very genuine. And McKellan definitely didn't want Emma seeing him when Clemmie did her bit of research.” Again she looks across at me while I take a deep interest in Joe's shoes. Hand stitched. Such workmanship. Absolutely fascinating.
“Emma might even have told someone here at work about the engagement. I can't think why she would keep it to herself,” says Joe.
“You know how snobby she is in that diary of hers. Probably couldn't bear to turn the spotlight on to herself. Charlie is gorgeous and she might have been worried that people would say he's marrying her for her money or something.”
“Probably didn't tell you because you're all such motormouths.”
“I think she was nervous about her father finding out. Wanted to keep it a secret.”
“Don't blame her on that one. If Sir Christopher McKellan was my father I would feel the same way. God, when I think about that lad he put away. What was his name?”
“Martin Connelly.”
“That's right, Martin Connelly. Anyway, I don't need to tell you, Holly, that you really need this story.”
“I know.”
He looks at us both in turn which seems to conclude our interview and we both get up. I reach the door first and am out in the corridor before Holly can throw her bag over her shoulder.
We start walking together toward Holly's desk. “That wasn't so bad, was it?” she comments lightly. “God, he's really keen on the story now. I hope Charlie doesn't turn out to be some sort of nutter.”
I actually really, really hope Charlie turns out to be a raving bloody lunatic and we can just drop the whole thing. “So what do we do now?” I ask.
Holly beams at me. She must truly love her job, it's as though a light has been turned on inside her. “I think she has a flatmate so let's get her address from human resources and go down there.”
I look at my watch. “It's still early though. If the flatmate works then she won't be home yet.”
Holly frowns. “Good point. Well, let's try and find this church they must be registered at. What was Charlie's surname again?”
“Davidson,” I answer automatically.
She flings herself down into her chair while I take a more tentative seat in the one opposite. “Let's call directory inquiries for his address and, failing that, try every church in Cambridge.”
Holly starts tapping away on her computer keyboard. “Where's your laptop?” I ask suddenly, out of curiosity. Normally it's like a third arm to her but knowing Holly she has probably left it somewhere.
“In with the IT department.” She gestures with her head over the top of a partition to the right. “We had a thunderstorm last week and lightning came down the modem line and fried it.”
“That was unlucky.”
“Christ, you would think so, but the way the IT department are going on you'd think I'd planted it in a field with a large metal coat hanger attached to it.”
“What are you doing?” I ask, gesturing at her still-tapping fingers.
“Trying to bring up details of all the churches in Cambridge. Church of England, do you think?”
“I should think so. Can't we just ask Charlie?”
“God, no! I want him to think we're his new best friends! He could take this to a rival paper. We can if we get desperate but I don't want him to think we're doubting him at this stage. There!” she says triumphantly after a few more minutes, then gets up and disappears. She reappears a few seconds later waving a piece of paper fresh from the printer.
“Do you want to make a start on these?”
“I suppose. What am I saying to them?”
“That you used to know one of the happy couple, heard they were getting married at this church on Saturday and wanted to make sure when it is so you can send them a card.”
“And what if it's not that church?”
“Just say you made a mistake and ring off,” says Holly impatiently. “Honestly, Clemmie! You have no head for subterfuge!”
“What are you going to do?”
“Try and find his address. Davidson isn't exactly unusual though.”
Ten minutes later Holly has drawn a complete blank and I have called one rector who was out, one who thought I was asking about Jim Davidson the comedian and kept telling me he's already married even though I was screaming CHARLIE DAVIDSON down the phone at twenty million decibels, and then one ancient-sounding vicar who went off to check his records and never came back. The number still comes up as an engaged tone so the old dodderer must have just forgotten all about me.
Holly tears off the bottom half of the list and starts calling as well. Bloody hell, how many churches does a place need? Cambridge must be full of religious megalomaniacs. I make a mental note never to visit and carry on calling.
Half an hour later I have finished my list and am leaning back in my chair waiting for Holly to finish hers. She replaces the receiver on her last call.
“Anything?” I ask.
“Nothing.” She looks despondent.
“Well, we've still got Catholic and other churches to go and three of my vicars were out. They wouldn't get married anywhere else, would they? I don't know, in a synagogue or registry office for instance?”
“Charlie definitely said a church.”
We sit in silence for a few minutes. “Why don't we see if Emma's flatmate is home? We can take the list with us and re-try the ones that were out later. I left my mobile number with them too, so maybe they'll call back.”
Holly nods and smiles and we gather up our stuff. After a brief stop with human resources for Emma's address, we wend our way back to Tristan. Holly just bundles herself inside without any regard for life or limbs while I hesitate briefly outside the passenger door again. Do I go in head first or legs first? I opt for the former but spend an uncomfortable few minutes with my head down around Holly's knee region while I grapple with my legs.
“There!” I say, finally upright with all appendages present and correct. Holly stifles a giggle, puts Tristan into first gear and we set off. Holly hands Emma's address over to me and I look at the road name. “Redland Road,” I say. “Where's that?”
; “In Redland. Another area of Bristol.”
“Do you know where that is?” I ask nervously. Between us Holly and I have absolutely zero navigational skills. Holly doesn't know the difference between her left and right and I can only hazard a guess. I think it must be something to do with our mother shouting STAGE LEFT!, STAGE RIGHT! at us when we were young, which obviously depended on her interpretation of where the audience was and had nothing to do with the actuality of left and right.
“Yep, don't worry.”
We set off at breakneck speed and, since I can't appreciate the sights of Bristol as they are just a blur, conversation is nigh on impossible. I'm beginning to think that this is at least a lot more interesting than lying on the sofa reading magazines.
We arrive in Redland Road and spend a few minutes looking around for the appropriate number. We find a large old Victorian house with the matching digits, Holly parks up and we both scramble out of Tristan. Holly sort of falls out on to the pavement while I edge my way out on my hands as though I'm in a wheelbarrow race. Not the most delicate pair of sisters; it's no wonder that Catherine and Teresa Fothersby look so blooming marvelous next to us.
“Do you know what this girl's name is?” I ask, brushing the gravel off my hands as we walk toward the house.
“One of Emma's colleagues said she thought she was called Tasha.”
“This is quite nice, isn't it?”
“Redland is predominantly a student area, so yes it is quite nice. But then I wouldn't expect Emma McKellan to live anywhere too shoddy, would you?”
We are standing on the doorstep of the house, studying the array of buzzers before us, when the door suddenly opens and out spills a dark-haired girl with a head full of spiral curls. She grins infectiously at us. “Who are you looking for?” she asks sociably as she steps out, coat and bag slung over her arm.
