by Sarah Mason
Well, I'm all for taking a few supplies, popping Norman at the front door and disappearing to the cellar. The plan seems watertight to me.
We reach the house and all pile through the unlocked door into the kitchen. Just that realization makes me feel quite faint. Our doors are always unlocked, we simply don't think anything of it. Martin could have walked straight in and up the stairs toward Emma. Maybe he is already here? I look around in alarm. Let's keep this in perspective, Clemmie. Someone spoke to him in Bristol about half an hour ago. Even Martin doesn't have supernatural skills.
“I don't think we should panic Emma until we know what to do,” says Sam.
“What do we do?” I ask.
“Er, I don't know yet but we have at least two hours. I think the important thing is that he doesn't see Emma. Even if her condition isn't that obvious, it would be awful for her. So we need to move her.”
“That's exactly what James says.” Holly has come in after us all.
“Is James coming down?” I ask hopefully. Preferably in a large squad car with sirens and maybe a bit of back-up as well.
“No, he's not,” says Holly shortly.
“Could we call the local police?”
“And have the whole of the village know where she is? Besides, Martin still hasn't done anything illegal, Clemmie. And you might argue that he has a perfect right to know he's about to become a father,” says Holly.
“I don't think the moral issues are any concern of ours. You and Clemmie made a promise to help Emma and that's what we're doing,” interjects my father.
“We can either move her to Barney's house or mine,” says Sam. “I think mine might be best because the fewer people who know the better. Any of Barney's housemates might be at home.”
“What about Charlotte?” asks my father.
“I might have to tell her.”
“Better her than any of Barney's blabbermouth friends,” I throw in.
I look over to my mother to see if she has any sage words of advice for us all but she looks so absolutely thrilled by the entire scenario that I decide it's best to leave her out of it.
“So we move Emma to Sam's house,” my father summarizes.
This is all very well and good but I'm keen to move on to the next part. “And then what?” I ask eagerly. “We make for the hills? Pop off to Jamaica Inn for a drink?”
“No, I think the best thing is for us to face him.”
“Face him? You mean Martin Connelly? We are talking about the same person, aren't we?”
“Clemmie, if we don't convince him that you and Holly have absolutely no idea where Emma is then he might keep hounding you. Even after we have delivered Emma to France. Which isn't illegal but difficult to stop.”
Good point. I don't like it much but it's a good point.
“Holly, I might just give James a call and have a chat with him. See if he has any ideas,” says Sam.
“I'll go and wake Emma and tell her to gather her things together now that we know where she's going,” says my father.
Holly hands her mobile over to Sam and he and my father disappear off in separate directions, leaving the three women and Morgan in the kitchen.
“Aren't Sam and your father wonderfully in charge?” breathes my mother. “It's just too, too thrilling. Barney will be so disappointed to have missed all this. Do you think I should go and get him?”
“No! I think you should leave him where he is.”
“You're right. It might be dangerous.”
“The way Barney is playing cricket I think he would be better off facing Martin Connelly.”
“Holly, what do you think?”
“Why do you think Martin is so desperate to see Emma?” I cut straight across my mother and address myself to Holly. “Sam's right. He must know the game is up.”
“I don't know. Perhaps he wants to rub it in, otherwise it's a bit of a silent victory for him, isn't it? Having gone to so much trouble, he probably wants to experience the end result.”
“And he was supposed to, wasn't he? They were going to get married and then go and surprise her father. Maybe he's pissed off that she has upset his plans.”
“Well, we certainly know that he's pissed off from his little scene at the paper,” agrees Holly.
“Now, what do you think I should wear?” says my mother.
My father is the first to rejoin us and informs us that Emma is packing. When Sam returns he at least seems to have some sort of plan. Not my sort of plan, but a plan.
“James and I think the best thing is for us all to be very surprised when Martin turns up. He only has the name of the village at the moment so he needs someone to direct him up here.”
“You will stay with us, won't you?” I ask suddenly in alarm.
“Maybe it's better if Sam isn't here,” says my father gently. “After all, the least number of people that Connelly knows the better.”
“But I'll stay if you really want me to,” says Sam.
“Let's hear the rest of the plan first,” says my father firmly.
“Then when Martin turns up, Holly tells him that she dropped Emma off with her father and she hasn't seen her since.”
“IS THAT IT?” I roar. “But he won't believe it! What on earth is Holly doing down here anyway?”
“She'll say her editor was so pissed off with her over the story that he made her take a week's sabbatical while he decides whether or not to fire her. Naturally she came home for a while. And of course he won't believe Holly when she says she dropped Emma off at her father's. So at this point, Clemmie, you jump in and say something like Emma talked about staying with some friends of John Montague's in Birmingham. All clear?”
Er, no. Not really.
Sam stands up as though he's about to leave. “Where are you going?” I ask in alarm.
“I'm going to take Emma down to my house. Via the back entrance, naturally.”
“I'll come with you!”
“Don't be silly, Clemmie. You have to stay here. Besides, I need to see if I can get us on any earlier flights to France.”
“To France?”
“Yes, Clemmie. We still have to take Emma to France.”
“Why don't we set off now?” I clasp myself on to Sam's arm.
“Clemmie, it's all going to be fine.” Sam starts to prise my fingers off his arm, one by one. “Everyone is going to look after you and then we're all setting off to France together. Thank God Holly isn't coming with us now, that really would look suspicious if he was watching us. At least we can say we're just popping off for a little holiday.”
“I'll try to inadvertently mention it, just in case he's thinking of coming back,” my father says calmly.
“I don't really have to be here, do I?” I interject. “Couldn't I be somewhere else? He's really come to see Holly, not me.”
“You're essential to the proceedings.”
“Well, that's sweet of you to say so, Sam. But you might need some help carrying Emma's luggage.”
“I think I'll be able to manage Emma's luggage. You're needed here, Clemmie, because you're the weak link. Let Connelly throw his weight around for a bit, a few bully boy tactics, and then you hit him with the punchline. That you heard Emma on the phone and Birmingham is where she's heading.” Sam gives me a couple of slaps on the back and leaves.
This has got disaster written all over it.
By my father's reckoning Charlie should be here at five. We all arrange ourselves decoratively in the sitting room, complete with Sunday papers and the remains of some tea things. My father seems genuinely interested in the article he's reading whereas I can't even focus on the words long enough to take them in. I start playing the “what if?” game. What if Martin instantly knows I'm lying? Do I just blab out that Emma is at Sam's house or hold my ground while he tries to throttle me? What if he simply doesn't believe us? What if . . . ?
“Clemmie! Will you stop sucking that cushion? We paid an awful lot of money for it and we don't need your
dribble marks all over it,” says my father.
I nervously replace the cushion and pick up Morgan, who has been expressly asking to sit on my lap for the last ten minutes. I hope I'm not going to inadvertently start sucking him too. That really wouldn't be nice.
“Darling, just do what we do in the theater,” says my mother soothingly.
“What's that?”
“Breathe,” she says, and waves a floaty arm in front of me.
“That's it?” I demand. “Breathe? You haven't anything better than that? No drugs, no alcohol?” I go back to wringing my hands.
Please God, let Martin lose his way. I promise I'll start going to church. I'll start being nice to Catherine Fothersby. Maybe even Charlotte too.
God has clearly heard it all before. He certainly has from me because the doorbell rings and I nearly leap through the roof. Poor Morgan ends up back on the floor.
“I'll get it,” says my mother.
“Clemmie, just calm down or you're going to blow it for everyone,” hisses Holly in a none-too-friendly way as she gets up from the sofa. “Sit!” She gives me a little shove. I can hear my mother breezily leading someone through; she is undoubtedly a very gifted actress. It's just a pity I haven't inherited any of her skills. I whimper to myself as I hear Martin's dulcet tones getting closer and closer.
“Darlings, there's someone here to see you. I'm so sorry, I didn't catch the name. It was . . . ?”
“Martin Connelly,” he replies, and there he is standing before us. His eyes catch like Velcro onto mine and I hope I give a passably good impression of being surprised. I am certainly shocked to see him. It's peculiar to see someone who features in your worst nightmares casually standing before you. Like Hannibal Lecter or Freddy Kruger just popping in for tea.
“Hello, Holly. Hello, Clemmie,” he says quietly.
Holly has risen unsteadily to her feet and stares at him for a moment. My father, who has also risen to his feet, says in his best paternal manner, “Holly, perhaps you could introduce us?” She duly makes the appropriate introductions and the two men shake hands. “Do you know Holly from work?” asks my father politely.
“Em, yes. You could say that.”
“What on earth are you doing here, Martin?” Holly smoothly interrupts. “How did you find our house?”
He gives a mad sort of laugh. Well, it's probably quite a normal one but I have a slightly tainted view on Martin.
“You're not the only one with detecting skills, Holly. Now look, I'm not going to get angry, I'm sorry about that. I just want to ask you a few questions.”
“Won't you sit down, Mr. Connelly?” asks my mother, gesturing to a chair which is so close to me that I think she must be going quite mad too. Does she want him to sit on my knee or something? I quickly sit back down and concentrate on making myself as small as possible. I curl my legs up under me and shrink into the back of the chair.
“Would you like a cup of tea? Martin did you say it was?” interjects my mother. Martin nods his assertion and she goes out of the room.
“So where do you know Martin from?” asks my father, looking from one to the other of us. Holly looks very convincingly shamefaced: she obviously has inherited some skills from my mother.
“I'm afraid it was that story I got involved in, Dad.”
“You mean the one you got suspended for?”
“Yes. Things weren't as I thought they were.”
“You've been suspended?” asks Martin.
“For a week, pending an inquiry.”
My mother returns with a cup of tea for Martin and he takes it, thanking her prettily. He still has some very nice manners.
He sips his tea for a second and then turns to me and says softly, “Clemmie, where's Emma?” He clearly has spotted the very obvious chink in the armor here.
“I . . . I don't know,” I stammer. “We took her to her father's house and left her there.”
“Look,” says my father. “Holly has told me all about your situation. I take it you are Charlie? She did exactly as I would have done, she washed her hands of the entire affair. After all, there is no story in it for her now, and I have to say you used her in this nasty little game of yours. I am surprised you took the trouble to come all the way down here to ask them—one day later you wouldn't have found us because we're all going off on holiday. But I would have thought it was obvious that the girls simply don't know where this Emma is.”
Normally, my father should now turf Martin out, but things still have to be said, and parts have to be played.
“Well, you see that's where I think you're wrong, Mr. Colshannon, because I believe that Holly and Clemmie do know where Emma is. In fact, I am so convinced of it that I traveled all the way down here to ask them. Now, things aren't going to get nasty, I just want to know where Emma is.”
“We dropped her off at her father's house,” Holly repeats.
“I'm not sure that I believe you.”
We are all quiet for a moment. I stare steadily at my knee.
“Look,” says my father quietly. “Do you mind if we just look at this from their point of view for a moment? Holly starts on a story that she thinks she can make something of but during the course of her investigation finds out that the facts aren't what she thought they were. Her editor is on her case, Sir Christopher McKellan is threatening to sue her and there isn't a story anymore. So what does she do? She dumps Emma back with her father. Why on earth should she do anything else? Yes, she feels guilty that she might have inadvertently led you to Emma, but I'm afraid you have too much faith in her sense of responsibility. Quite frankly, all I'm worried about is whether Holly is going to keep her job or not.”
This is a long speech for my father and I can see that Martin is quietly impressed.
“I'm really sorry about Holly's job.”
Luckily butt-clenching terror keeps me from snorting loudly.
“Hounding her and Clemmie and practically attacking them isn't going to help you.”
“I'm sorry about that too. I was acting kind of crazy that day.” All the same, it doesn't stop him turning to me. “Clemmie? When you left Emma, did she mention what she was going to do next?”
I look wildly around the room, reeking of guilt, which is probably just the reaction I ought to be giving.
“Clemmie, you don't have to say anything,” says my father.
“Look, I just want to talk to her. Why else would I want to track her down so badly?”
“I told you,” I whisper. “We dropped her at her father's house.”
“I know she's not at the house in Bristol or in Rock. I just want to tell her that I'm sorry I caught her up in all this. Please just let me have the chance to try to make amends.”
I don't believe him for a second but it's just the thing to make me spill my guts. “All right,” I burst out. “She said she might go and stay with some friends of John Montague's in Birmingham. She didn't tell me anything about them.”
Martin smiles a peculiar small smile. “Thanks for the tea, Mrs. Colshannon.” And with this, he places his cup on a small side table and gets up. My father escorts him out of the room and moments later we hear the front door slam and the hum of a car starting up.
Chapter Sixteen
“Right, the only thing I could get us all on is an overnight train to Nice.”
“An overnight train? I thought we were flying.” I'm sitting on the kitchen table ramming some random cake into my mouth. I think this whole episode might leave me with an eating disorder.
“Our flights weren't until Wednesday and Christopher and I feel we can't wait that long. It was the only thing I could get us on.”
“Christopher?” I query, spitting crumbs at him. Surely he's not referring to bloody scary Sir Christopher McKellan?
Sam looks at me strangely. “Yes, Emma's father. You must remember him, Clemmie. The one you met.”
“Oh, I remember the one I met. He just doesn't bear any resemblance to the one you're talking abo
ut,” I mumble as I pop the rest of the cake into my already burgeoning mouth.
“We're leaving tomorrow night. I thought it might be best to make sure that Connelly isn't still hanging about somewhere. How was it by the way? Your father told me the bulk of it.”
I shrug and study my flip-flops for a moment. “It was okay. I don't really know what to make of him.”
Sam comes over and sits next to me on the table. He puts a comforting arm on mine. “Clemmie, you don't have to make anything of him. You shouldn't have been part of this dreadful business at all.” I look up hopefully at this glimmer of sympathy. “It was bloody foolish to let yourself get involved in the first place.” Ah. Not really a glimmer at all. “But we'll be rid of Emma in a few days. We just have to deliver her to these people in France and then the ghastly business will be finished.”
My lip trembles a smidgeon at his soft tone. “What if Martin keeps plaguing us?”
“He's had his little revenge, Clemmie. He'll give up in the end.” The end of what? The end of time? Sam gives me a couple of slaps on the leg and slips off the table. “You'd better go and pack. We've got to leave at lunchtime tomorrow.”
“Lunchtime?” I shout after his disappearing back. “I thought it was the overnight train?”
“Overnight from London,” he yells over his shoulder.
That's the problem with sodding Cornwall. It takes you at least half a day to get anywhere. And what on earth is Mr. Trevesky going to say?
Luckily Mr. Trevesky doesn't say too much because he has his head in his hands for most of the conversation. He does manage to get out that if I'm not back in a week then I shouldn't bother coming back at all, and that I'm awfully lucky we're out of season. He wanders off muttering that Rick Stein doesn't have to put up with these problems.
I scramble home gleefully, relieved that he didn't make me stay and work the morning. Holly is gloomily spooning cereal into her mouth in the kitchen.
“Hello!” I greet her. “How are you?” We're dropping Holly back in Bristol en route to London this afternoon.
“Depressed.”
