by Sarah Mason
“I should say not. Has James told you then?”
I nod and fiddle some more with the paperweight. “Are you pissed off with James as well?”
“Of course I am! He wants to invite Robin to the wedding. Can you imagine how awkward that will be? I’ve told him no way, but he’s not listening. He seems to think that Robin needs protecting.” He sighs and leans back in his chair. “You’ll be well out of it by then though; the diary will have finished. What are you going to do after all of this, Hol?”
I shrug. “Go back to features, I guess. I hope I might get some better pieces to cover as a result of the diary.”
“I’m sure you will. It’s been a great success!”
I see out of the corner of my eye that James is back. I sling a hasty, “See you later,” at Callum and run back over to our desks.
“Well?”
“The Chief has grudgingly agreed to put the house under surveillance for a few days.”
I write up my diary for that day. It is relatively thoughtful (for me anyway). It begins:
I got to know Detective Sergeant Jack Swithen a little better today. We talked a bit about his childhood and where he grew up. He told me a story about a little girl . . .
On Friday morning, James comes striding in. “Dawn raid on Tuesday. I’ve got five other officers and until then to arrange it.”
My eyes open wide. I mean, how much can one journalist take? A stakeout and now a dawn raid! “How fantastic!” I exclaim, clapping my hands together. “So the surveillance was a success?”
“A lot of things were going bump in the night, apparently. Also, uniform has been talking to a few people and I got some of the other detectives to talk to their contacts in that area as well. Too much nighttime activity has been going on at that place.”
“So what time are we leaving on Tuesday?”
“You’re not coming.”
The smile slowly fades from my face. “What do you mean, I’m not coming?”
“I mean that you’re not coming.”
“Why not? Is it dangerous?”
“Not dangerous, just unpredictable. You might get hurt, especially with your overwhelming talent to be in the wrong spot at the wrong time.” He turns his attention back to the papers on his desk.
“You can’t do this to me. This is my whole career.”
“I’m not talking about your career, I’m talking about you.”
“What if I stay in the car and don’t come in until it’s safe?”
He hesitates. “You wouldn’t move until I came to get you?”
“I promise.”
He sighs resignedly. “OK then.”
“Vince too?”
“Don’t push your luck, Holly,” he says, returning his attention to his papers.
We spend the afternoon in court as Kenneth Tanner, the hospital drug thief, is due to appear. James and I mooch about drinking endless cups of coffee, doing the crossword in the paper and reading out each other’s horoscopes (he’s a Scorpio and I’m a Virgo). It is a complete waste of time being there and James isn’t even called to the witness stand in the end. Vince takes some photos of us standing in front of the courthouse though and even a couple of us larking about on the steps until I fall down them, needless to say nearly breaking both of our respective necks.
At the end of an unexciting afternoon, I gather my things together and go over to the paper to file copy. These burglaries and the solving of them (if this is the solving of them) could dramatically increase the diary’s ratings. Sometimes journalism really is about being in the right place at the right time. I smile to myself as I wind up my laptop leads and wonder if I’ll be given a new post after this or whether Joe will send me back to covering pet funerals.
I burst through the front door of my flat. “Lizzie? Are you home?” I shout from the hallway as I tear off my coat, getting my hands stuck en route. A lethargic rustling greets me from the vicinity of the sofa. She must have found the custard cream hiding place. I walk through into the sitting room and her mournful face stares at me from the darkest depths of the couch. I wrinkle my nose sympathetically. “How are you feeling? How was work today, any progress yet? Alastair still ignoring you?”
She valiantly stuffs another custard cream into her already full mouth and shakes her head. “I even wore my sexiest two-piece,” she says, spitting crumbs at me. “Nothing. Not a flicker, not a glance, not a word.”
“Oh,” I say dejectedly.
The clichés are starting to sound a little tired so we have agreed I can stop using them now. Please don’t think Lizzie is wallowing in self-pity (although a wallow is good for us all from time to time)—she isn’t. It’s just a reaction to the strain of carrying on as normal in the office. Lizzie would rather poke herself in the eye than let people watch her cry. So at work she holds her head high and looks as though she hasn’t a care in the world. When she gets home she collapses in a crumpled heap, exhausted by all that play-acting.
To take her mind off things, I tell her about the exciting developments in the Fox case.
“To think we might even be able to put a name and a face to The Fox by next week!” I say excitedly.
“What time is a ‘dawn raid’?”
“I think James said about six A.M.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be on that hen do the night before?”
I stare at her. I’d forgotten all about the damn thing. “I have to go. I promised Fleur I would.”
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I really think it’s high time you came out for an evening,” I say seriously.
“You. Must. Be. Mad. I’d be slitting my wrists by midnight!”
“Awww, come on! It could be fun!”
“Fun? FUN? Running around with veils and L-plates? I’ll stay at home with some French Fancies and Ant ’n’ Dec, thanks all the same.”
“I’m sure Fleur won’t mind. I could just give her a call.”
“NO; unequivocally, positively, unconditionally NO.”
twenty
Lizzie and I stroll through the entrance to Henry Africa’s Hothouse approximately ten minutes late. I spot Fleur sitting at the bar, surrounded by an odd assortment of friends. I can easily recognize the girls she must work with at the bereavement charity. They are huddled in a small group to the left of her, some sporting spectacles, others with haircuts so uninspiring that if I had been Nicky Clarke the scissors would have been whirring by now. One is even wearing a kilt (no, it isn’t by Versace and no, it isn’t twenty inches above her knee).
The other group are much easier on the eye but also much more terrifying. They probably are wearing Versace and their hair really is cut by Nicky Clarke. I would imagine these are Fleur’s friends from home. I suspect Daddy has a private income. I can’t really see James Sabine getting on with any of them. (I must not judge by appearances, I must not judge by appearances.)
I can feel Lizzie’s eyes boring into the back of my neck as I lead the way toward them. I wince slightly to myself—Monday night telly was looking infinitely more appealing. In fact, I had nearly been persuaded to stay in tonight, but not by Lizzie. Ben had come round after his rugby training, just as Robbie Williams and I were getting ready. Well, he was singing and I was getting ready.
“Do you have to go tonight?” he pouted, lying on the bed in his dirty rugby gear. “I thought you could scrub my back in the bath and then we could perhaps go out to your favorite restaurant?” He raked his blond locks off his forehead and I smiled indulgently at his bribery attempts.
“I promised I would go; besides, it will be good for Lizzie to get out,” I said, scraping my mascara wand around in the tube in a desperate attempt to try to prize some out.
He scowled. “How long is she staying for? Surely it doesn’t take this long to get over that Alastair? What does he do for a living again?”
“Computers.”
“Poofy profession.”
I sighed. “Ben, just because he doesn
’t run around in the mud, put his head between other men’s legs and then take a bath with them, doesn’t mean he’s a poof.”
“It does in my book.”
“Darling, come round tomorrow evening and I will scrub your back all night if you want.” I snapped my compact shut and sat on the bed with him.
“You look too gorgeous tonight to be wasted on a bunch of girls,” he said, putting his arms around me. I have to say I was pleased with the results myself. I had decided, after the hectic time I’d been having with Lizzie, the police station and the diary, to take my time getting ready this evening. I’d had a bath, shaved and plucked myself to within an inch of becoming a Christmas turkey, put on a a face pack, which I’d worn until my face cracked, and even dried my hair properly. I was wearing a tailored gray skirt which split either side up to my thighs (Ben had bought me it for Christmas, although I suspect his mother really bought it as he never seems to recognize it), a little beaded lilac top and a pair of the finest earrings Butler and Wilson had to offer. I kept tugging down the lilac top until Lizzie pointed out it was supposed to be showing my midriff.
“Well, I have to say I’m not looking forward to tonight,” I sighed.
“See? Stay in with me then.”
“Even Teresa the Holy Cow is going to be there to make my evening complete.”
“Teresa the Holy Cow?”
“Yes, you know. You met her a few weeks ago. In the Square Bar.”
He fiddled with the corner of my duvet cover. “Oh yes, I remember,” he said vaguely. He looked back up at me. “Come round to my place tomorrow and then we can be by ourselves for a bit.”
“I can’t leave Lizzie right now.”
“OK. I’ll come around here tomorrow,” he said sulkily.
I dropped a kiss on the top of his head. “Thank you.”
We say our greetings to Fleur, who is sitting resplendent on a bar stool in the middle of the group. No veils or L-plates for her; she is wearing a pair of pink hipsters that I might just have been able to get one tree trunk of a leg into, and a snazzy little top which shows off her slim, brown midriff. I desperately breathe in and hope comparisons are not made. She greets us with huge “MOI”s directed at either side of our faces and Lizzie, smiling tightly, thanks her for the indirect invite. Fleur then introduces us to the rest of the group. I remember the name of the first friend she introduces, who apparently is the bridesmaid. She is standing next to Fleur and is flicking her hair as though her life depends upon it. She is called Susie and gives me a thin-lipped smile while looking fixedly over my shoulder. I could have stabbed her and she would never have been able to pick me out of an identity parade, which may be worth bearing in mind for later. I promptly forget the names of everyone else and smile inanely throughout the rest of the intros.
“We have a float and a bar tab, so get yourselves a drink,” says Fleur. We duly hand over twenty quid each for the float and then turn our attention to the baffling array of cocktails.
“Don’t let me drink too much this evening,” I whisper to Lizzie. “I have a police raid in the morning.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll drink your share.”
We watch the barman make up two Long Island Iced Teas and, just as we lean against the bar with the aforementioned items in hand, we spot Teresa the Holy Cow planting a “MOI” near Fleur’s cheek. Lizzie turns back to the barman.
“We’ll have two more of those, please.”
Teresa comes over to the bar under similar instructions to order a drink. “Hello Teresa,” Lizzie and I dutifully mutter.
“Hello Holly, hello Lizzie. Fleur said you’d be here, Holly, but she didn’t mention you’d be coming, Lizzie.” Damn, tripped up at the first hurdle.
“Funny. Holly didn’t mention you’d be coming either,” Lizzie said, glaring at me.
“Didn’t I?” I say weakly.
“So what are you doing here, Lizzie?” Teresa asks. Lizzie and I glance at each other and I start wildly fishing around in my brain for excuses. Lizzie is too quick for me.
“I’m looking after Holly in case she gets too drunk.”
I glare at Lizzie.
“I’m sure that doesn’t happen very often,” says Teresa with a smirk.
“No Bible meetings tonight, Teresa?” I ask savagely.
“No, I left early. It’s important to support a friend as she joins in the holy union of matrimony.”
“I’m sure the barman here is going to do just as good a job.”
She ignores the jibe, orders a white wine spritzer and then goes over to join the rest of the charity group.
I angrily suck up the remainder of my drink through my straw, recklessly abandon the glass and move on to my next one.
“Why didn’t you tell me she was coming?” hisses Lizzie.
“Because then you wouldn’t have come.”
“Too bloody right.”
We go upstairs to the restaurant to eat and I thankfully find myself sitting miles away from Teresa. I have a very earnest girl called Charlotte sitting on one side of me and Lizzie on the other. After Teresa insists that we all say grace, I turn to Charlotte and ask her, “So what do you do at the charity?”
“I’m one of the counselors there,” she says softly. She is a plain girl with straight dark blond hair. She has the sort of manner that makes me want to lie on the floor and pour out all my troubles.
“Do you know James Sabine?” I ask.
“I wasn’t his counselor, Judith over there was.” She points across the table to a gentle-looking girl. “But I saw him a couple of times in reception. You’re the reporter who’s doing the diary with him, aren’t you?”
“Yes, I am.”
“I recognize you from the paper.”
I smile at this, not quite knowing what to say in response, and continue with my probing. “Fleur’s so nice, isn’t she?” Please say something like “Oh no, she’s wanted for heinous crimes in four countries.”
“Yes, she’s so lovely to everyone.” Damn.
“So, how long ago did James and Fleur meet?”
“About a year and a half.”
“Did they hit it off straightaway?”
“Well, I don’t know about him, but Fleur talked of nothing else! Of course, he was devastated about his brother so it was a number of months before they started going out together.”
“Oh, right,” I say nonchalantly. It’s quite hard to appear nonchalant when you’re dying to say, “Spill your guts! Tell me everything!”
She continues, “And now look where we all are! About to celebrate their wedding! A perfect happy ending. Wonderful!”
“Yes. Marvelous isn’t it? Has Fleur worked at the charity long?”
“A couple of years. Just between you and me . . .” She drops her voice to a whisper (ahhh, heavenly words to a reporter’s ears) “. . . I don’t think Fleur really needs to work.”
“So why does she?”
“I think she enjoys helping people.” Bloody hell, the girl is all sugar and spice.
“I’m sure she does it just to help out,” I reply sweetly.
“I shouldn’t be telling you all this, you being a reporter. It’s probably the drink.”
I look longingly at my own empty glass, hail a passing waiter and order two more cocktails. “Don’t worry, I write about the police and James, not Fleur and James.”
For the next course, Fleur thinks it would be a good idea if we all move around the table one place so “we can get to know each other better.” Alternate people get up to move and I sit down on the other side of Lizzie and find myself next to Susie, the best friend. I might have to revert to the stabbing idea. I smile warmly. “Hi!”
She condescends to focus on me. I promise myself that after five minutes’ effort I can spend the rest of the evening talking to Lizzie.
“So, you’re the bridesmaid?” Well, it’s a start. She flicks her hair and nods.
I try again. “What’s your dress like?”
At last!
Some semblance of enthusiasm. “It’s a cross-bias cut with a mermaid train.”
“Sounds beautiful!” I say, without the slightest clue of what it might look like. “Have you met the groom?”
She pulls a small face. “He’s very . . . bright, isn’t he?”
I bet she has been on the wrong end of James Sabine’s sarcastic tongue on a few occasions. I try not to smirk and concentrate instead on looking at my napkin.
“He’s a policeman, isn’t he?”
“A detective, actually.”
“Same thing.”
No, I think to myself, it’s not the same thing at all but I decide to let it pass. She, unfortunately, doesn’t.
She lowers her voice to a whisper. “Not the best profession in the world, is it?”
Well, lovey, it’s the only profession that stops me from reaching over for that butter knife and plunging it into your skinny, white thigh, I think to myself, but I concentrate on nodding instead. I could imagine what James would say (apart from “well done”) if I knifed his bridesmaid a week and a half before his wedding.
A few hours on, I am decidedly pissed. Lizzie and I have degenerated to speaking between ourselves and the last few weeks have made me forget what a good time we actually have together when we’re out.
“Lizzie,” I hiss, “you said you weren’t going to let me drink.”
Lizzie tries to prize the glass out of my hand. “S’too late now,” I say, hanging on to it for dear life.
She shrugs and gives up. “What are you going to do tomorrow morning?”
“I’ll be all right.”
“What time is James picking you up for this raid thing?”
“Half five.”
“Blimey!”
“It’ll be fine. We just won’t go to bed!” I clink my glass to hers and hoover down yet another Long Island Iced Tea. “How are you feeling?” I ask sympathetically.
“Fine, fine.” Lizzie nods her head dementedly. I watch it anxiously to check it’s not going to fall off. “Sod Alastair!”
“Sod him!” I agree. “Fleur!” I exclaim as she, swaying gently, crouches down beside us. “How’s the hen? Having a good time?”
