by Sarah Mason
“How are the play rehearsals going?” I ask her.
“We’re opening at the National in a few months’ time.” She frowns into her glass. “Always been terribly unlucky for me there since Mildred, my dresser, sliced the top of her finger off with the sword from the finale.”
“Poor Mildred!”
She remarks breezily, “There’s no theater without danger, darling.” I’m not sure Mildred would feel completely the same way.
While she is saying this, Morgan the Pekinese seems to have come to life. He clambers purposefully off the sofa with the air of someone who knows exactly where he’s going. My mother never travels anywhere without this little dog. Morgan now seems to be trying to form a deep and meaningful relationship with a chair leg. It’s my turn to frown. I ask, “That dog isn’t going to pee anywhere, is it?”
“Morgan is very sweet, if at times a little windy, but he never, ever pees in other people’s houses.” Hmm. “So, have you seen anything of that dreadful Teresa?” she continues.
It is quite strange—my mother seems to have taken a complete dislike to Teresa over recent years, bordering on obsessive hatred. She was always quite indifferent to her when we were young. Probably caught her wearing pink or some other such grisly crime that my irrational mother seems to think is a lynching offense. I shrug and say, “Now and again.”
“Still religious? Ten Hail Marys for leaving the house without an umbrella?”
“Something like that.”
“How is Lizzie? She still seeing that boyfriend? What’s his name?”
“Alastair. Only just. It looks as though it might finish soon. She doesn’t really get to see him very much as he’s working all the time.”
“Talking of boyfriends, when are we going to meet the mysterious Ben?”
Oh shit. I freeze as she says these words. I’d forgotten. He’s coming over tonight and it is now, I look at my watch, bollocks, seven o’clock. This meeting may have arrived a little earlier than anticipated. Not that I am ashamed of my parents, don’t get me wrong, it’s just that I don’t want Ben to feel I am forcing them on him. As though I am forcing him to make the next step in our relationship. I would definitely like him to meet my parents—five minutes before the wedding vows would be the best time. But it is a little unfair to surprise him with them now. I grit my teeth resolutely. They are going to have to go. I fly into action! There might still be time . . .
“You have to go!” I yelp.
Three pairs of puzzled eyes fix upon me.
“Ben’s coming!”
“Well, isn’t that a good thing, darling? We can meet him at last,” says my mother, smoothing down her dress.
“No, no. It’s a bad thing. A very bad thing. I’ll explain some other time, but right now, You. Have. To. Go.” I’m up on my feet and I’ve got my mother’s bag over one arm and my father’s crutches in my other hand. Then with my free hand I latch on like an octopus to my father’s drink, which he is still trying to wrestle up to his mouth.
“Come on!” I am panting now with the sheer exertion of trying to evict three very unwilling bodies. “UP! UP!” I despair with my father and seize Morgan instead, who looks most reproachfully at me. Slinging him under one armpit, I help my mother heave my father up out of the chair and the three of us struggle to the door. Just as we reach it the intercom sounds. Bugger. We’re just going to have to brazen this out. “BACK! BACK!” I yell, not caring now if my parents are finding my behavior a little strange, not to mention contrary. I dump all three of them back on the sofa under a pile of crutches and handbags, run to the intercom and pick it up. I deep breathe into it for a few seconds until I finally manage to wheeze, “Hello?”
“Holly? What on earth are you doing making dirty calls on your own intercom?” Ben’s voice crackles down the line.
“I’m not, I’ve just, er, been, er . . . Anyway, do you want to come in?”
“Well, that would be nice.”
“Oh, yes. Right.” I press the front door release key and rush back into the sitting room.
“It’s Ben. He’s coming up. Act normal.” Even I balk at this. “Well, as much as possible anyway.”
nine
I have always based my relationship with Ben on a “no commitment” scenario and I am absolutely positive it is the secret of my success because I have thus far succeeded where all of his past girlfriends have failed. It is the main reason I have been able to hang on to such a gorgeous specimen for so long. I always make sure I never appear too keen. I never ask when I am going to see him next or when he is going to call and I have found that being completely blasé about our relationship (although underneath I am a swirling sea of emotions) keeps him coming back. I know this unnatural state of affairs can’t last for very long, but I was hoping it might last long enough for him to realize that I am absolutely, unequivocally, without a shadow of a doubt, the woman for him. Somehow, introducing my parents to him seems a major detour from this plan.
“Make sure you tell him you are here completely by accident,” I hiss, and with this veiled threat I run through to the bedroom, hastily plaster some lipstick on, pass a comb through my bedraggled hair, try to take a few deep breaths—I seem to be having to do a lot of this lately—and then run back to open the front door just in time to greet Ben. He pecks me on the cheek and steps into the hallway. He is dressed in his blazer and club tie which all the team wear after a game. I can’t help it. I go weak at the knees for him.
“Ben! Hi! How are you?” My voice is squeaky high. Ben views me suspiciously. Maybe a little over the top? I tone down my puckishness with a quick droop of the shoulders and drop my voice an octave. “How was the game?” I growl.
“We lost.”
“Good. I mean, er, oh no! Look, Ben, my parents just happened to be passing and they’ve dropped in.”
He stares intently at me. “Your parents?”
“Yes, my parents. My folks. My kin.”
He pauses for a second and then seems to take it in his stride. “Right,” he says blandly and marches through to the sitting room. I raise my eyebrows to myself. Maybe I am overreacting.
My mother leaps up as he enters and, being my mother, gives him a resounding smacker on each cheek. “Ben! How nice to meet you at last! We are sorry that it’s such short notice but we did happen to be passing!” My father in the meantime has struggled to his feet and firmly shakes Ben’s hand.
I gulp. I had forgotten, gazing at them anew as though through Ben’s eyes, just how smart they look. It doesn’t appear terribly accidental, does it? Why couldn’t they have bloody well turned up wearing wellie boots or something? Do they have to look so “meeting the prospective son-in-law”-esque? I fume silently. Just remember, I tell myself, they did turn up accidentally. Repeat after me, Holly, they did turn up . . .
“HOLLY!” yells my father in my ear. I leap about a foot into the air.
“What? What?”
“I think Ben would like a drink,” my father says in the voice he reserves for three-year-olds.
“Yes, yes. Right.” I scoop up the empty glasses, trying not to drop them as my poor nerves literally fray at the ends, and rush into the kitchen to do refills, muttering madly to myself. I clatter ice into the four glasses and eye the gin bottle. Calm, calm. Happy thoughts. Think happy thoughts. Think gardens. Think water-falls. Think calm. I concentrate on splitting what was one unhappy piece of moldy old lemon into four bits and try to listen intently to the conversation next door. My mother is busy asking about Ben’s rugby game. Thank God. Refills complete, I march back into the sitting room and hand them out.
“Darling, I have suggested that we all pop out for a bite to eat before your father and I head home.” My mother smiles at me. I frown. I’m not sure two hours of my parents is going to safeguard any future with Ben, immediate or otherwise.
“Are you sure, Ben?” I say slowly. “Don’t you have to meet the rest of your team?”
“Not until about ten, Holly, and it�
�s only seven-fifteen now.”
“Well, it’s a Saturday night. I don’t think we will get in anywhere.”
“Don’t worry!” breezes my mother. “I’ll get us somewhere.”
True to her word, half an hour later we are all seated around the best table that Melbourne’s has to offer, complete with three bottles of wine (it’s a bring-your-own). My mother immediately lights up a fag.
“Are you still smoking, Mother? You ought to stop—they’ll kill you, you know.”
“Either that or your father will, darling. I became so cranky last time I gave up that he nearly took to me with a machete. Frankly, I’d rather take my chances with the cigarettes, thank you. Do you smoke, Ben?”
“No, Mrs. Colshannon, I don’t,” he replies, a little stiffly. He’s acting public school–like. I think he must be on his best behavior. The problem is that “public school” really doesn’t go down very well with my parents. They are very big on ordinary schools.
I can feel my shoulders tensing up. They are sitting somewhere in the region of my eyebrows at the moment, giving me a distinct “Notre Dame” aura. The problem with anyone meeting my parents, or more specifically my mother, is that she tends to go into overdrive. She likes to test people to see if they can take her eccentric ways, and this is another reason why I have avoided staging a meeting between my parents and Ben. He just isn’t ready for her. I am not concerned with what they think of him, I am simply petrified he’ll think they are completely up the wall and then remember that I, as their daughter, have inherited their genes.
“So, Ben,” says my father, “been watching the cricket?”
I never thought that I would say this, but thank the Lord for sports.
All in all it was a difficult evening. The conversation, although not stilted, was certainly not the most scintillating I have come across. But then I suppose all initial parent/boyfriend evenings are likely to be testing. I definitely think Ben thought my parents were rather unconventional and my parents probably thought Ben was a little stiff. But that’s because they haven’t got to know each other yet. I remember when my brother’s girlfriend came to visit for the first time and my mother served her custard tart and salad for lunch, my mother thinking the custard tart was a quiche. Well, that’s what she told us anyway. And my father nearly killed the girlfriend’s little dog by accidentally dropping a rather large ashtray on its head. And now the girlfriend is like another sister to me. So you see, a bad start doesn’t necessarily mean a bad ending.
After we waved my parents off down the M5, Ben went to meet his rugby pals for last orders and I went back to my flat. At about one in the morning his lithe, athletic body, smelling of smoke and beer, crept in beside me and I curled myself around him.
I wake with a great sense of excitement on Monday morning. Today is the day I’m going to see my diary in print! I scramble to clothe myself and then zoom around to the newsagent where I buy three copies of the paper. I rush back to my flat and, while eating my cereal, read the first installment of my diary. It’s on page three of the paper, which is a really good place to be. It has a small picture of yours truly (fully clothed) and a huge heading. I peer anxiously at the picture, trying to remember when it was taken. I think it must have been last year when the paper was on a marketing splurge. I quickly scan the text but I am so familiar with my own words I can’t tell whether it reads well or not. I ring Lizzie.
“Have you got it yet?” I say before she has a chance to speak.
A dopey voice replies, “Eh? Holly? Whatcha doing? What time is it?”
“It’s er,—” I look at my watch. “—seven-thirty. You’re not up yet, are you?”
“Well, I am now.”
“Buy the paper and call me later.”
Buggery broccoli. I put the phone down and look again at my watch. I’m a little early but I might as well go down to the police station and wait for crime to happen. What might today have in store for me, I wonder. A spot of arson perhaps? Maybe some fraud? Perhaps I could persuade Ben to set light to the rugby club? The roads are clear and I arrive in record time. Even Dave-the-grumpy-git-desk-sergeant isn’t on duty yet. Instead I produce my ID to a complete stranger (who, may I say for the record, is decidedly too chirpy for this time in the morning and so on reflection I think I prefer Dave’s economy with speech) and am buzzed through the security door.
Upstairs I meet the officers who are coming off the night shift. We exchange pleasantries and I ask them about the night’s events. Gradually the rest of the office fills up and the night duty yawn and head off home.
Callum bounds in with his usual Labrador energy, waving a newspaper.
“Holly! It’s great! Aren’t you thrilled?”
“Yes, yes, I am,” I say, trying not to look too pleased. He chucks it over to another colleague who asks to see it and then turns back to me.
“I can’t believe it’s called ‘The Real Dick Tracy’s Diary’ though.” His mouth twitches.
“Yeah, I know. Joe, my editor, thought of that.”
“I don’t think James is ever going to forgive you!”
I stare at him, aghast. “Why? How do you mean?”
“What, ‘Dick’? Are you serious? He’s not going to lose that little nickname for a long time to come.” He grins.
I frown, puzzled at this. I’d never even thought of that . . . “People are going to call him ‘Dick’?”
Just as I say that, a resounding chorus of “Morning Dick!” starts up from the other end of the room. I think Dick Tracy himself might just have arrived. I have no real wish to turn around. I know he’s getting closer because I’m following Callum’s eyes which are presumably tracking Dick’s progress across the room. I bite my bottom lip.
“Good luck!” Callum murmurs, before straightening up and saying loudly, “Why, if it isn’t the real Dick Tracy!” and bolting for the relative safety of his own desk. I wish fervently that I could also bolt for cover with Callum. Tucked up in his armpit or something.
James Sabine sits down opposite me.
“Morning,” I whisper. His expression is very hard to read; unluckily the icy note in his voice is not.
“Couldn’t you have come up with anything better than Dick?”
“It really wasn’t me. It was my editor’s idea,” I say in a very small voice.
His green eyes lock on to mine. “Well, remind me to pass on my profuse thanks if I am ever fortunate enough to meet him. I am now going to be called Dick for the rest of my life.”
“Sorry,” I whisper.
“No, no, don’t be sorry, Miss Colshannon. Because it is just another small incident in a catalog of unfortunate incidents that seem to have plagued me since your arrival here.”
Bloody buggery beans. He really is quite annoyed. I feel thoroughly chastised and bite my lip uncertainly as he studies the mound of paperwork on his desk. Really, does he need to make me feel quite so uncomfortable? Couldn’t he have said something nice about the rest of the diary? I catch Callum’s eye. He gives me a wink and I grin back at him. James Sabine’s head suddenly snaps up and he glares at me as though he can smell the happy juice. I wipe the smile off my face and study my notes.
His telephone rings. He quickly picks it up and snaps, “Hello?”, then, “Yep, she’s here. Unfortunately.” He hands the receiver over to me, saying, “It’s for you.”
“Thanks.” The temptation to add “Dick” is almost too much for me. Luckily the steely look in his eyes dissuades me.
“Hello?” I say into the mouthpiece.
“Holly, is that you?” It’s Joe.
“It’s me!”
“Have you seen the Journal this morning?”
“No,” I say slowly. “I bought our paper to see the diary, but I didn’t really look at the Journal.”
“Get a copy as soon as you can,” Joe says grimly. “We’ve been scooped.”
ten
I replace the receiver and stare thoughtfully ahead for a second. James Sabine is a
bsorbed in flipping through his pile of papers. “Back in a minute,” I say. I pick up my purse from my bag and scurry out of the office. Five minutes later, I find myself in the little newsagent around the corner buying the Journal. I run back to the station and huff and puff my way up to the second floor and back to my desk. I quickly sit down and scour the headlines, then start to look for the story page by page. I don’t have to look for very long. On page three the headline “CULTURED THIEF BAGS PRICELESS ANTIQUES” screams at me. I start to read.
Retired Colonel Sebastian Forkar-White was robbed of his family’s finest antiques as he slept. The thief apparently forced a catch on a window and then stole into the house in the dead of night. “They must have a wonderful eye for detail,” said a neighbor. “The Forkar-Whites only own the best.” An inside source revealed the police are baffled and have no clues except for a strand of hair, which will be sent off for DNA analysis, and a mysterious substance found at the crime scene. First to the incidentwere Detective Sergeant James Sabine and a reporter from the Bristol Gazette who is shadowing the detective for a supposedly exclusive six-week diary, but yet again your very own Bristol Journal brings you the full story. Continued on page seven.
I take a long breath and stare unseeingly at the page in front of me. My brain is frantically turning over the facts. How on earth could someone have got hold of details like this?
“Er, Detective Sergeant Sabine?” He lifts his head and raises his eyebrows inquiringly.
“Have you seen this?” I ask, holding up the Journal .
“I prefer fact to fiction,” he says, shifting his gaze back to his paperwork.
“Well, I think you should take a look at this.” I hand the newspaper over and wait silently as he starts to read, watching as his face turns at first to disbelief and then to anger. His eyes lock on to mine.
“How the hell . . . ? THAT’S IT!” he roars. “I’ve had enough! You’re responsible for this and I’m going to make sure the whole stupid diary thing stops now.”
