by Sarah Mason
“My God! I thought you out of everyone had some semblance of decency but this is the lowest I have ever seen you stoop. And now I've got to explain not only to Sir Christopher but also to my chief how my girlfriend has managed to stir up such trouble.”
Rather him than me. Holly says timidly, and rather hopefully considering the last few words exchanged, “So the police are getting involved now?”
“NO!” roars James. “Martin Connelly still hasn't done anything wrong, whereas you have. I'm having to get involved because since your little visit to Sir Christopher McKellan's house yesterday, he is threatening to charge you with breaking and entering, which I'm not completely sure I want to dissuade him from.” Holly carefully studies her shoes. “You'd better get back to Emma. I'll discuss with Sir Christopher what we can do to help and then come over later.” He strides from the room and I venture from my corner.
We both sit down heavily on the sofa. I feel like I've been through a mangle, so I shouldn't imagine Holly is feeling too hot either. I remember how furious I was with Seth when he interfered with my job. But while Holly never intended to do anything to harm James's career, Seth was perfectly happy to scupper mine.
“He is pretty mad, huh?” I eventually say.
Holly nods.
“But he will come round, won't he? You just need to explain that you thought you were helping Emma.”
“I'll try,” she says weakly.
“What are we going to do?” I ask, because it suddenly strikes me that despite the intervention of James and Sir Christopher, Emma is still our responsibility. Morally at least. “Could Emma stay at James's flat for a while?”
“Martin only needs to follow us there one day and we're sunk.”
I shiver involuntarily at this. “You think he'll be watching us?”
“Well, it won't take much for him to find out where I live. I wonder how long it will take Sir Christopher to make arrangements to get Emma away from here.”
“I suppose we had better get back to her.”
We both get up and while Holly raids her fridge, which was our main reason for coming back here, I peruse the contents of her hall cupboard-cum-cloakroom. I find a very fetching orange bobble hat and a suede jacket with a fringe that Holly must have bought when she was going through a phase. I peer more closely at it. A phase of what I simply do not know.
“You're not honestly wearing that, are you?” says Holly as I return to the kitchen.
“Well, you apparently bought it at some point.”
“It was for a fancy dress party,” says Holly, coloring slightly.
“Oh really. And what did you go as? Someone hopelessly out of fashion?”
“I don't think you can talk. I went as a cowgirl and I didn't wear an orange bobble hat with it.”
“I'm in disguise.”
“He'll spot you a mile off.”
“Nonsense, he's looking for girl-about-town Clemmie.”
“Whereas this is away-with-the-fairies Clemmie?”
“Exactly.”
I spend the entire journey to James's flat facing the wrong way in the car, bum in the air, peering anxiously out of Tristan's back window in case we're being followed.
“What on earth will we do if I see him following us?” I say to Holly nervously.
“We just won't go to James's flat. We'll go to the nearest police station or something.”
“What happens if Tristan breaks down en route?”
“He won't! He always knows when the chips are down.”
Funnily enough, I am not reassured by her words and am very pleased when we reach James's flat intact and without any nasty incidents with psychopaths.
“I'm not sure I can do this every day,” I gasp as we scurry inside. Emma's head peeps around the doorway of the sitting room.
“We've brought supplies!” Holly says with probably more cheerfulness than she is feeling. “I've spoken to James and he's going over to see your father and they'll decide what we do next.”
“We wouldn't have to do anything if you had minded your own business.” Emma looks at us stonily. Ah. Forgive and forget obviously isn't very high up on her code of ethics. “I suppose someone will let John know?”
“John?” I question.
“John Montague, who I was staying with.” Of course. The MP.
“Don't worry, James will tell him,” says Holly reassuringly.
“He'll be worried if he finds I'm gone when he gets back. I would have called him but I've left my mobile behind and the phone line is dead.”
“The phone line is dead?” I squeak, my hand involuntarily going to my throat. Has Martin cut them? Is he waiting outside?
“James had them disconnected because he's moving, Clemmie,” says Holly, making eyes at me.
Of course. Mustn't get hysterical. Must be thankful my mother isn't here as well.
Emma gives me a look of sheer contempt and stalks off back to the sofa. She really has the most charming manner. Holly and I busy ourselves in the kitchen making cheese on toast, and have a swift gin and tonic which we drink secretly in order not to make Emma too jealous. We all eat our supper while watching an episode of Changing Rooms and then James scares us by letting himself in with his key.
“It's only me,” he calls through to us. We all sit up, anxious for news.
He looks considerably calmer than he did a couple of hours ago. He smiles at Emma. “Hello, Emma. We have met before at one of the paper's bashes. I'm sorry about this business. I've been to see your father and we've decided on the best thing for you to do.”
“What's that?” Emma asks.
“You're going to Cornwall.”
“I can't go there! Martin knows that we have a house in Cornwall.”
“You're not going there, you're going back with Holly and Clemmie.”
“Back with Holly and Clemmie?” Emma makes it sound as though she's being asked to bed up with the Kray twins. I'm not too thrilled about it either.
“But we met Martin Connelly outside Emma's house in Cornwall. He must know we live down there,” I object, purely on practical grounds, you understand.
“Holly said she was just in the area. She didn't say you lived down there. That's right, isn't it, Holly?”
We all look over to Holly, who nods, and James addresses himself to Emma again.
“Besides, they don't live anywhere near Rock. They'll look after you until your father can arrange for you to go to your friends.”
“How long will it take?” I try to make it sound like a polite inquiry but I am concerned as to how long we will have to put up with Emma's company.
“Four or five days, probably.” Oh, okay. Only eternity in Emma-time.
Holly is staring at James. “But I can't go to Cornwall. I've got to work.”
“Holly, after your telephone message to him this afternoon, where do you think Martin Connelly will look for you now?”
“The paper.”
“And after that?”
“My flat.”
“So you can't return to work or your flat,” I say to Holly, neatly summarizing this little exchange. Golly, we are like fugitives.
“We'll all stay here tonight, I'll go and collect your stuff from the flat and Emma's things from John Montague's house and then you can set off tomorrow.”
“You and Emma will have to go in Tristan and I'll go back on the train,” I say, vastly relieved not to be traveling on any motorways in Tristan and at leaving Bristol, the temporary home of psychopaths.
“Is this okay with you, Emma?”
“I'd rather have stayed with John, but I guess it's going to have to be okay, isn't it?” She shoots another nasty look at Holly and me but Holly is too busy looking aghast at James to take it in. Emma picks up our discarded plates and stalks into the kitchen.
“Have you talked to our mother?” I ask.
“I've called her. She says you should all come home immediately. I didn't enlarge too much on the Emma and Martin story because I
thought Emma would tell her if she wanted to, but I had to give her a brief outline.”
“So what does she know?”
“Just that you have to look after a young girl who is being pursued by an ex-con after one of Holly's stories went wrong. I didn't tell her exactly where it had gone wrong because I thought Holly might do that herself.”
Holly is anxiously gnawing on a fingernail and doesn't seem to have taken any of this in.
Just on cue, my mobile rings in the depths of my handbag. I know exactly who this will be.
“Hello, Mum.”
“Darling! This is just too, too exciting. You must come home immediately. You can't stay in Bristol with that psychologist chasing after you.”
I raise my eyes to heaven. “Psychopath, Mother. Not psychologist.” James smothers a smile. I wander over to the window and then curse myself for such an amateur mistake. God, that's how they all get caught in the movies. Letting themselves be seen at a lit window.
“I want to hear all the details. Nothing like this ever happens in Cornwall. The nearest we get to drama is Barney falling off his surfboard.”
“It's not terribly pleasant here, you know. You're welcome to come and trade places. We're holed up in James's flat eating cheese on toast.”
She lets out a squeal of excitement at this thumbnail sketch. “Darling, it sounds absolutely thrilling! I'd be there like a shot. You know how Morgan and Norman love a bit of excitement.” She drops her voice to a whisper and tries to sound concerned. “Now, who is this poor girl that the psychologist is pursuing? James wouldn't tell me much.”
I glance toward the kitchen where Emma is still smashing plates around. “Someone Holly used to work with. She disappeared and . . . well, it's a long—”
“You mean the Emma you told us about? The one with the famous QC father?”
“Yes, that's her. But—”
“So Holly found her? Gosh, how clever of her.”
“Well, it's not quite like that—”
“I do hope Emma is suitably grateful.”
“Actually, I don't think she is grateful at—”
“Darling, I have to go, your father is pulling appalling faces at me. You will have to tell me all tomorrow. Just do one thing for me and absorb the atmosphere, will you?”
“S . . . sorry?”
“Just in case I have to play a psychologist. I did play My Cousin Rachel once at Drury Lane and—”
My father obviously wrestles the phone out of my mother's hands because he comes on the line next.
“Clemmie, it's your father. Now, Sam says he has to drop some papers to a client in Bristol. He was going to send someone else up but he says he'll come and collect you all to save you catching the train.”
For the first time today, I feel vaguely comforted. It will be nice to be in Sam's safe BMW rather than looking over my shoulder on the train and chain-eating flapjacks. “Say thank you to him. That would be great.”
“He'll be there about ten.”
I duly relay James's address to my father, quite thankful it's him and not my mother who has a tendency not to listen and to write down the first thing that comes into her head.
“Sam has offered to come and collect us. He'll be here about ten.”
“Even better,” says James. “That'll give you a chance to pop into work first, Holly, and sign yourself off for a week.”
“But what on earth am I going to say to Joe?” wails Holly. “And I thought you said I couldn't go back to the office?”
“Sneak in early in the morning. You'll think of something,” says James firmly. “You always do.”
The following day, when faced with the choice of spending a brooding, sulky hour in the company of Emma or going with Holly down to the paper, I leap at the chance of Holly and a bollocking. At least with Joe you can guarantee the pain will be quick, and if I play my cards right, I could just sit out in reception reading magazines. So I gaily trip up the steps to the Bristol Gazette next to a silent Holly. We had quite a difficult night. Holly and I slept together in James's double bed while Emma had the spare room and James took the sofa. I think this was due to the fact that James was still so furiously angry with Holly that he didn't want to sleep with her rather than any consideration for my comfort. This was completely nullified anyway as Holly fretted about James and the paper until the early hours. I tried to ignore her.
As soon as the lift doors open at the third floor, I wave at Sophie and make for the squishy sofa in reception and what looks to be one of the latest gossip magazines. Maybe I could even persuade Sophie to make me a coffee and a small Scooby snack? Holly hovers nervously in front of me.
“I suppose I'd better go and talk to Joe then,” she says miserably.
“Get it over and done with,” I advise, trying to shoo her toward his office. The magazines are beckoning to me.
“Do you think Sir Christopher has already called him?”
“I think Joe would have been straight on the phone to you if he had.”
Holly looks fixedly at her shoes.
“You haven't turned your mobile on, have you?”
She winces. “Er, no. Not yet.”
“Hmmm, well maybe the best thing to do is go and find out . . .”
While we have been speaking, the lift doors have been opening on a regular basis as people arrive for work but I am suddenly aware of a figure looming behind Holly.
“Hello, Holly. Hello, Clemmie,” he says in the sort of voice they use on the TV for the really serious nutters.
Holly spins around on her heels.
“Hello, Charlie. Er, Martin. Charlie Martin.” Her voice sounds hollow and I realize that she's scared. Which has the effect of making me bloody scared too.
We stare at him for what feels like an eternity but is probably only a few seconds. Unfortunately Holly has already called him Martin so he must know that the game is up.
He has dark patches under his eyes, the sleek chestnut hair of a few days ago is ruffled and uncombed and he looks as though he has slept in his clothes. His eyes are hard and calculating and I wonder how I didn't notice them before.
“Where is she?” he asks in a quiet voice and takes a small step toward us. We instinctively take one to the side.
“W . . . w . . . where's who?” Ah, good. Holly's playing the stupid card.
“Emma. Where is Emma?” he murmurs with the sort of tight calmness that is truly terrifying.
“I . . . I . . . I don't know,” quivers Holly. I quiver silently over her shoulder.
One step forward. One step to the side.
“You called me yesterday, Holly. You'd found her. Where is she now?”
“I . . . I don't know.”
One step forward. One step to the side.
“When I reached the address you gave me there was no one there.”
Another step forward and another to the side. I bump into something soft and warm and look to see Sophie standing next to me, staring at Martin open-mouthed. Luckily Sophie's desk is now almost between us all. Martin suddenly slams both of his hands down on to the desk, sending post and nail varnish flying.
“You bitch,” he breathes murderously. I am wildly encouraged by the fact that he is still talking in the singular, but not very happy at standing so close to Holly.
“Now, Charlie. I mean Martin. Don't be like that. There is no need to be rash.”
A light comes on in Martin's eyes as though it hadn't occurred to him to be rash. Of course, just the thing to elicit a confession. A spot of rashness. He leans over the desk. “You know where she is, Holly, and you're bloody well going to tell me.”
“But I don't know,” she bleats.
“CUT THE BULLSHIT, HOLLY, AND TELL ME WHERE SHE IS!” he roars.
We all jump out of our skins. “I left her with her father,” squeals Holly.
The three of us instinctively scurry round to one corner of the desk. We are pinned together as though we were welded that way. I've never really had much to
do with Sophie before and I am sure she really doesn't want much to do with me but circumstances have dealt her a bad card and now she is stuck with us. She is quite tall and gangly and there is no way that I am going to let her go. We must look like the creature from the lagoon, a mishmash of Jigsaw and Top Shop with three heads. One that could do with a few more highlights than the others, but we won't go into that now.
At least we have the desk between us. Martin takes a step to one side and we go the opposite way. I look wildly around me, wondering what form our rescuer might take. And the answer would appear to be absolutely none at all. People have noticed our predicament all right, but we have an audience without any participation.
Martin brings his fist down hard on to the desk again. “DON'T LIE TO ME, YOU BITCH. JUST TELL ME!”
Our rescuer ironically appears in the guise of Joe. His door flies open and he strides out, sending our little pavement crowd scattering. “What the hell is going on?”
A veritable god stands before us with his hands on his hips and wearing a particularly snappy fuchsia pink tie.
“Em, Joe,” ventures Holly politely from our little huddle. “This is Martin Connelly,” she announces gaily as though she's introducing them at a party.
In one move Joe reaches for the phone on Sophie's desk. “Right. I'm calling security, Mr. Connelly. So you have precisely one minute before they arrive here.”
Actually he probably has a little longer than that by the time they finish their coffee, find their caps and scratch their arses but Martin doesn't know that.
Martin turns pleading eyes on Holly. “I just want to talk to her.”
Holly doesn't look at him. “I can't help you,” she says quietly.
Joe puts a hand on Martin's arm. “You're leaving,” he says firmly.
Martin lets himself be pulled away but when he reaches the lift doors he turns back. “You haven't heard the end of this, Holly,” he says before being firmly propelled into the lift. We watch as the lift doors take an inordinately long time to shut.
Joe walks back to us. “All right, everyone. The show is over. Back to work.” He waves his arms and slowly people start to disperse.
