by Sarah Mason
“No. There. Isn’t,” I say adamantly and unfortunately truthfully as well.
twenty-five
“Don’t make me go!” I wail.
“Holly, you have to go,” says my mother emphatically. “People will have seen that TV interview and think there is no smoke without fire.”
“Bloody Giles,” I mutter furiously.
“You not showing up will really get tongues wagging.”
“Bloody Joe.”
“If not for you, then do it for James.”
“Bloody James,” I mutter.
“Holly. Don’t mutter.”
We are standing in my bedroom the day after the TV interview, having a scene that is reminiscent of ones we used to have more than a decade ago. The only difference being the wallpaper doesn’t have pictures of Duran Duran and George Michael on it any more. (Yes, I know they’re not particularly cool.)
“Why would it matter to James if I’m there or not?” The drinks party at Fleur’s parents’ house is this evening. I would rather slit my wrists than face all those people who think that either James and I are having an affair or that I have a thumping great crush on the fair detective. Ever since the TV interview I have developed various murderous intentions toward Giles and Joe in turn.
“Because he has to cope with people wondering whether it’s true or not as well, you know. It can’t be very pleasant for him. He is the innocent party in all of this.”
“What are you implying? That I’ve done this deliberately?” I say hysterically. All the toys are coming out of the cot.
“Don’t be silly.” She sits down on the bed and pats the space next to her. I sulkily go and sit beside her. She takes my hand and says gently, “You know, darling, this may seem very painful right now but bad times enable your character to grow.”
“I’ve got character coming out of my sodding ears,” I mutter into the floor but nothing is stopping my mother as she warms to her theme. She stands up and waltzes into the middle of the room, turning to face me with a flourish.
“But you’ll find your experiences will help you grow inside.” I feel a flutter of recognition. “Until, like a butterfly—”
I interrupt hastily. “Isn’t that a speech from one of your plays?”
She stops, hands in midair. “Hmm?”
“Isn’t this from one of your plays?”
“Is it, darling? I thought it sounded vaguely familiar. So easy to slip back into them.” She comes back down to earth and sits beside me again. “Anyway, you’re going to go into that party looking beautiful and as though you haven’t a care in the world. People will soon forget all about this silly rumor. They probably didn’t even see the interview.”
I absorb all of this and then say, “Still, I can’t dress up and look beautiful, they’ll just think I’m some sort of hussy!”
“Would you rather dress down and let people think you’ve developed a huge great schoolgirl crush on him? Better a hussy than a fool.”
I hesitate for less than a second. “You’re right. Where are the heated rollers?”
Lizzie arrives a quarter of an hour later, looking fabulous in a red dress. Twenty curlers dot my head. I am intently trying to shape my eyebrows in the mirror (a little sarcastic voice in my head says, “Oh yes! That’s sure to bring him round, your eyebrows”) while listening to M-People in an attempt to empower me. I swivel round as Lizzie comes in.
“Lizzie! You look gorgeous! Where are you going?”
“With you! I’m going to deflect attention from you by being the scarlet woman!” She giggles and does a little twirl for me.
“But you’re not invited.”
My mother bustles in. “I called Miles and asked if I could bring her; I said she was our cousin staying for a few days.”
“Can you do that?”
“Darling, it’s just a drinks party, not a sit-down dinner, so they won’t be trying to decide how to get another portion out of the tarte tatin. Besides, we thought you might need the moral support.” She winks at Lizzie, who giggles.
I shrug and turn back to my eyebrows. Lizzie sits on the bed while my mother bustles off again.
“I couldn’t believe it when Giles started asking you if you and James were carrying on! I thought you were going to pass out!” she says.
“Joe put him up to it,” I say grimly.
“Two people from my office called me up to ask if I was watching!”
“I just hope James and Fleur didn’t catch it.”
“Are they likely to have done?”
“Well, James was supposed to have been having a drink with some of the other officers but I don’t know what Fleur will think if she saw it.”
Lizzie shrugs. “I wouldn’t worry. She is marrying him next week. If she doesn’t trust him by now . . .”
“How are you feeling?” I ask Lizzie after a minute, suddenly aware I’m not the only person with problems.
She smiles. “Better, I think. It’s good to have something to take my mind off it.”
“I aim to please.”
The four of us and a sulky Pekinese clamber into my father’s enormous Range Rover. No mean feat in a pair of three-inch heels, I can tell you. We are all looking incredibly smart; my mother is wearing an elegant knitted wool suit and my father is in the obligatory blazer and tie. I would much rather we were going somewhere else. Out to dinner in a peaceful country pub perhaps. I indulge this daydream as we drive into the countryside surrounding Bristol—anything to keep my mind off horrific fantasies about the drinks party. My parents argue about the map reading and my mother ferrets about in the front in a desperate attempt to unearth the invite, which apparently has a map on the back of it. The car is a mound of papers and I’m surprised my father can see out of the windscreen to drive as the dashboard is literally piled high with debris. This is all part of my mother’s unique filing system. They got bored of dashing around the countryside trying to find parties, winding down windows to ask locals vague questions because they’d forgotten the map, the invitation or both, when they’d much rather be chatting and drinking their host’s booze. So now my mother keeps all the invites in the car and just has difficulty finding the damn things.
We locate the venue at long last, swing into a driveway and speak into an intercom at the gates. We wait as the pair of huge iron contraptions swing open. A beautiful, tree-lined driveway stretches before us. “James is marrying into this?” I ask incredulously. “What does Fleur’s father do again? I thought you said he was a theater backer?”
“He is, darling. It takes a lot of money to be a theater backer— his main career is something to do with finance.” My mother dismisses the many acres in front of her with the vague phrase “something to do with finance.”
I sink into my father’s upholstery with a sigh. How on earth did I ever think I could compete with this? My sharp-eyed pater notices my reaction in his mirror.
“Gilded cages and all that, Holly. Shouldn’t think it’s as much fun as it looks.”
Well, even half the amount of fun it looks would be enough for me.
The driveway soon gives way to a glorious old Georgian house. Dad parks the car next to an assortment of BMWs, Audis and Alfa Romeos. My heart is in my mouth and my immediate reaction is to make a bolt across the fields but my mother takes tight control of my hand. “You look gorgeous,” she whispers into my ear and gives my hand a conciliatory squeeze. In the end we chose a sophisticated black dress with slits up the front and back, cleverly backed with a brilliant purple lining which glints through the material. It is, as Lizzie wryly remarked, the pulling dress I wore before I met Ben.
I look up in wonder at the house. It is built from mellow Cotswold stone and has large Georgian windows. A Virginia creeper spreads across half of the house and the huge front door, painted in red, stands out proudly against it.
We are greeted by a discreet waiter who takes our coats and then shows us through to the drawing room. The buzz and hum of voices gets closer as
we walk across the vast hallway until it reaches a crescendo as the waiter throws open the door. We walk in and are immediately greeted by a gentleman whom I presume is Miles, Fleur’s father.
“Miles! How fabulous to see you! How are you?” my mother confirms.
“You look wonderful, Sorrel! Patrick, how nice to see you again,” he says as he turns toward my father. My father shakes his hand rather stiffly. He has never been a big fan of any of my mother’s financial backers, shrewdly suspecting their motives for getting involved with the theater. My mother turns to me. “This is my daughter, Holly.”
“You need no introduction, Holly! I have heard so much about you!” He finishes this sentence with a great guffaw and I truly wish I could be anywhere else but here. Maybe it was the way he said it, or the laugh afterward, but he is making me feel very uncomfortable.
My mother hastily shoves Lizzie in front of him. “This is our cousin, Lizzie, who’s with us for a few days.”
While this introduction is going on, I glance around the room at the array of people chatting in groups, clasping glasses as waiters circulate with canapés. I spot James and Fleur talking to an elderly couple and Callum in a group next to them. Callum spies me looking over and excuses himself from his group. James, noticing Callum’s movement, looks up and follows his gaze to me. My heart misses a beat and we smile at each other.
Callum wrestles through the throng, twisting his body this way and that to reach me. He finally arrives at my side and grimaces slightly. Due to the social situation, he plants a kiss on my cheek. I smile and squeeze his arm, genuinely pleased to see a friendly face.
“How’s it going?” I ask.
He fiddles with his collar. He is looking very smart in a gray suit with a pristine white shirt. The Donald Duck tie ruins the effect a bit.
“It’s all a bit of an effort for us simple coppers,” he whispers.
“Feeling the strain?”
“What I do in the name of friendship! You look gorgeous, by the way!”
“Thank you. So did you have a good time last night?” I ask conversationally as he grabs two glasses from a passing waiter and hands one to me.
“Last night?”
“Yeah, you went for a drink with the rest of the department.” I notice James out of the corner of my eye saying hello to my parents and Lizzie.
“Oh, that. Yes, it was fine,” he shrugs.
“Stayed out all night, did you?”
“No, no.”
“S’pect you all needed to relieve the tension from the week,” I prompt, fishing madly.
“You want to know if any of us saw the TV interview, don’t you?”
“Did you?” I gasp.
“No, my flatmate spotted you and recorded it for me. He missed the first five minutes though. So I caught the video but no one else saw it.”
“Thank God,” I say fervently. I glance over again to James and my parents. They seem to be sharing a joke and laughing raucously.
“It wasn’t that bad,” says Callum, grabbing a canapé from a tray as it whizzes past.
Be careful, I warn myself. I try to shrug nonchalantly. “No, just a bit embarrassing the way Giles stitched me up.”
“My flatmate is a real fan of the diary. He says that he didn’t like the skirt you were wearing the other day. The beige one with the—”
“Poppies on it,” I finish wearily. “He’s not the only one. I will be burning it as soon as I get home. So have you written your best man speech yet?”
“Haven’t even started! I’m a bit nervous about what to say in front of all this lot. I have a feeling coppers aren’t really their thing. James seems to fit in OK though.” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “Have you met that girl Susie? Now she’s a—”
“You called me Jack after one of your cats?” whispers an amused voice in my ear.
I jump as James sidles into our conversation. “I suppose my mother told you?” I grin.
“You suppose right.”
“You should count yourself lucky—the other one is called Jasper.”
“Well in that case, thank you for calling me Jack. Not tempted to show us all the bottle trick with your toes yet?” he asks, eyeing my glass of champagne.
“Maybe later.”
He smiles. Callum makes the excuse that none of the canapés seem to be heading our way and wanders off in search of nourishment. James and I are left alone. I examine the carpet intently. Is it Persian or Siamese? Or am I thinking of cats again? Never having been in a social situation with James, I feel awkward and gauche suddenly. What on earth do we talk about?
I clear my throat and ask, “Are you feeling nervous yet?”
“What of? You?”
“No, the wedding.”
“Oh, the wedding.” He shrugs. “No, not yet. Are you coming? You can make free and loose with my father-in-law’s booze.”
“If you want me to. Come, that is.”
“I would like you to come.”
We look at each other for a second and I think I detect some sadness in his expression but it could be wishful thinking on my part. If only we had some more time together, but from my brief experience of James Sabine, I know this wedding will go ahead. He is a man who keeps his promises.
We glance over sharply at my mother as her shrill laughter peals out and I smile.
“She’s wonderful,” he says.
“Thank you.”
“What’s with the expression, ‘Shit MacGregor’?”
I sigh, emotional crisis avoided. “Don’t, whatever you do, ask her to tell you.”
“Why?”
“Because it rather predictably involves a Scotsman, a rowing boat and it’s not funny when you’ve heard it for the hundredth time.”
James laughs and Fleur miraculously appears at his elbow. “Holly, can I borrow him for a minute?”
“He’s all yours,” I reply truthfully.
“Darling, there’s someone I want you to meet . . .” she says as she leads him away. I wander over to my parents’ group, picking up a fresh glass of champagne on the way. I stand politely on the outskirts, trying to pick up the conversation, when a figure by the door catches my attention. I frown to myself. He’s very familiar. It’s like seeing your postman in the supermarket—you can’t place them when they’re out of context. He starts to look aggressively around and then relaxes minutely as he spots his prey. He strides over to the subject of his gaze and just at that moment I recognize who it is.
It’s Alastair.
I take a step toward him but it’s too late. He’s punched James Sabine squarely in the face. “Bloody hell,” says my father.
twenty-six
James goes down like a sack of potatoes and a collective gasp goes up. A strange hush then falls around the room. Everyone stands motionless, stunned. It is like that statue game we used to play as kids. Callum and Lizzie are the first on the scene. I can’t hear what Callum is saying to Alastair but his body language indicates that it’s along the lines of, “You’re completely loopy but I’m going to speak calmly in case you’ve got a gun.” He looks enormously relieved when Lizzie, after checking James is OK, spins around to confront Alastair.
“What the hell are you doing?” she shrieks, doing a good impression of a banshee which goes down particularly well with the room’s acoustics. For a moment I think she might stop and ask whether we can hear her at the back, to which I would give a hearty thumbs-up. I inwardly wince and hope no one remembers I brought her.
At this point James gets back to his feet and a morbid little group presses forward, myself among them, to see how much blood there is. I have a more personal interest than just plain old curiosity. Enter Fleur from stage left. She pushes through the crowd and throws herself on him. “James, darling, are you all right? How many fingers am I holding up?”
“Fleur, don’t be ridiculous,” he snaps, “I’m fine.” I suppress a smile.
Alastair must have caught his nose. I make this lightning deduction fro
m the blood pouring from it. Fleur pulls a handkerchief out from somewhere and hands it to him. I almost have to stand on my hands to stop myself from playing the ministering angel and flinging myself into the middle of the intimate group.
Although Alastair’s actions must have made sense to him at some point, he is looking very confused now. All eyes swivel to him; he has center stage and looks as though he doesn’t know quite what to do with it. Lizzie stands before him, drawn up to her full five feet four and a half inches, hands clenched into tight little fists, and I have a shrewd suspicion she is quite enjoying all this. The red dress was absolutely the right choice of outfit.
“Have you been drinking? What do you think you are doing?” she repeats.
“I . . . I . . .” Cue some goldfish impressions until inspiration obviously dawns. “Well, what are you doing?” he asks triumphantly.
Lizzie’s turn to do the goldfish thing. A sarcastic voice interrupts. “I take it you two know each other?”
Lizzie turns to the voice. “Yes, we do. I’m so sorry, James. I don’t know why—”
“I thought he was called Jack?” Alastair demands.
I wince as this verbal body blow ricochets off James and hits me directly. Please don’t say this is anything to do with the diary. James’ eyes look over in my general direction.
“Well, yes, he is. In the diary.” Lizzie throws a sympathetic glance my way. I look over to my mother, who makes an “isn’t this exciting” face at me. Any minute now she is going to start passing round the chocolates.
“Shall we all go and talk about this?” James says in a quiet voice. The crowd leans forward, trying to catch his words. He gently hustles Lizzie, Alastair, Callum and Fleur toward the door, like a shepherd herding sheep. He then looks back, jerks his head at me and I sheepishly follow like a good little baa-lamb.
As we all exit the room, with me bringing up the rear, the hum of conversation resumes, louder than ever. Our somber little group moves across the hall and into another room directly opposite the one we have just exited. It, too, is a beautiful room. A huge stone fireplace, laid with paper, wood and coal but remaining unlit, takes up most of one wall. The other walls are full of books and a huge antique mahogany desk sits grandly below a bay window. I sink into the welcoming softness of one of the chintzy sofas in front of the fireplace.
