by Sarah Mason
“I’ll try.”
I put four glasses onto a tray along with the bottle. “Alastair must love you an awful lot, Lizzie, to go through all that caper,” I say, a touch wistfully. “Waiting outside your house, following you to parties, smacking other men on the nose.” Don’t get me wrong, I’m absolutely thrilled for her. It’s just more lonely being broken-hearted by yourself. We walk through to the sitting room together and I place the tray on to a small table and hand the bottle to my father.
“He promises he won’t work so hard from now on. We’re to spend lots of time together! That, after all, was the problem to begin with!” She hugs herself with happiness. The bottle bursts open and, when poured and duly handed out, we make the appropriate toasts.
I sit cross-legged on the floor. “Actually, I have some news too!”
“What is it?”
“They want me to do another diary! And the Express has bought the rights to serialize this one and an option on the next one!”
Lizzie stares at me open-mouthed. “Fantastic! Let’s drink to that!” We all raise our glasses.
“To Holly’s diary!” proclaims my father.
“To Holly’s diary!” my mother and Lizzie echo.
“So what’s the next diary going to be about?” asks Lizzie, settling into the sofa.
“We were just talking about it before you arrived.” I pause, wondering how to break the news. “I actually thought I might go away somewhere,” I say casually.
“Where?” says Lizzie in horror. “What about my wedding?”
“You haven’t even set a date yet! Besides, it won’t be for long. Just a few months—I think I want to get out of Bristol for a while after James’ wedding.”
“Do you promise it won’t be for too long?”
“I promise.”
Lizzie nods understandingly. “What do you think you’ll be doing?”
I lean forward enthusiastically, anxious to share my new idea. “Well, I thought . . .”
“Mountain rescue?! Are you mad?” James cries. We are driving to a veterinary practice to investigate a suspected arson attack on the surgery.
“I think it will make a great diary,” I say defensively.
“I’m sure it will! Posthumously!”
“I’m not going to die,” I say dismissively.
“You. Have. To. Go. Up. Mountains!”
“I know that. I can go up mountains, you know. People do go up mountains. That’s the whole point of mountain rescue,” I explain impatiently.
“Holly, you have trouble making it down to the car pool without a packed lunch. How do you think you’ll manage twenty thousand feet up in the freezing cold? It will get painful!”
“Oh, I’m getting used to pain,” I mutter. Actually, the physical fitness side had crossed my mind, and the pain side also. But I think it will go some small way to driving out the other pain, the one that can’t be alleviated by a hot bath and a plate of pasta. Sheer physical exhaustion might also help me to sleep at night. I can only have had about four hours so far this week and I would rather be on a mountaintop faced with a yeti and with only a torch and a jar of lip balm for protection than have to go through that every night.
There is a slight pause as we both stare grumpily out of our respective windows.
“Where are you going to go to do that?” he asks suddenly. I’m starting to get cross. He has completely cabbage-ed up (inadvertently, I’ll give him that) half of my life and now he’s rowing with me and doing his best to wreck the other bit.
“Somewhere with mountains,” I say sarcastically.
“Why? WHY would you want to do that?”
“Because I am absolutely and completely in love with you and have no wish to remain in this town after your marriage as every single little thing I see reminds me of you and the fact that the closest I ever got to you was when I was knocked out and not even conscious to appreciate it.”
OK. I don’t say that. I wanted to, but what I actually say is, “Why not?”
“We could think of plenty of things to report on around here. What about . . .”
He flounders.
“. . . the sherry-making industry!” he finishes triumphantly, picking on one of the only things that Bristol is famous for.
“I’ve made up my mind.”
“So what does your boyfriend say about this mountain rescue thing then?” Blimey, he just doesn’t give up, does he?
“We’ve split up.”
“Oh Christ. Sorry.”
“S’OK. I broke it up.”
“Any particular reason why?”
I look fixedly out of the window. This conversation is too close for comfort. “No, no,” I murmur. Subject closed. We both sulk for the rest of the journey.
We arrive at the practice. Vince is waiting for us, leaning against his Beetle and looking pretty in pink jeans and a crisp white shirt. We both get out of the car and walk toward him.
“Ooooh. What is wrong with you two? You have faces longer than a wet weekend in Scarborough!”
“You try and talk some sense into her. She wants to cover a mountain rescue team for her next project,” snaps James.
“What’s wrong with that?” asks Vince.
“Holly and mountains? One of them is going to come off worse.”
“What are you trying to say?” I snarl.
“Oooh! Handbags at dawn!” squeals Vince, looking from one to the other of us, clearly thrilled to be in the middle of such a row.
James disappears into the entrance of the surgery.
Vince and I wander slowly after him. “He’s so masterful,” sighs Vince. “Oh to be in his fiancée’s shoes next weekend.”
The comment hits home and I wince slightly. Life gets so complicated. I wish I could go back to the time when happiness was a cup of hot chocolate and a video of The A-Team.
Vince playfully gives me a couple of pokes in the arm. “I think the detective might be quite fond of you,” he says and waltzes into the reception.
“I think he might be quite fond of Man United too but I doubt he’s going to call off his wedding for them,” I murmur to myself and follow them both inside.
You may be wondering why I am not just coming straight out and telling James how I feel. Well, I’m wondering the same thing. I think he is quite fond of me in the way you get quite fond of a pair of slippers, or perhaps more like the way I tried taramasalata a few times and hated it and then started to quite like it. But the point is, I don’t think he feels the same way about me as I feel about him. If you put the whole thing into perspective, which believe me I have struggled to do over the last few days, then you can see he has asked this beautiful, kind girl (with a few rubles to her name to boot) to marry him. At this point I am already seeing the “happy ending” signs. Then I pop up six weeks before the big day and I cause him nothing but aggravation. We row endlessly but get on quite well toward the end. Would you call off your big day on the strength of that? No, quite. So I really can’t see the point in telling him and there is also the fact that I don’t want to be laughed out of town. He obviously has loads of gorgeous women after him. Robin for one. That’s the other thing which seems to be making me overly cautious. I’ve now felt firsthand what it’s like to have someone cheating on me. If James wasn’t faithful to Fleur, what chance would I have?
My mother and Lizzie, bless them, have been trying to make the week better for me but in fact have only succeeded in making it a lot worse. My mother is utterly convinced there is a way to rectify the situation and has spent her time hatching dastardly plots with Lizzie. Coming from someone who spends most of her time immersed in fiction and not fact, and another who is viewing life through her own rose-tinted, definitely prescription, loved-up glasses, I’m not holding out a lot of hope for them. My mother is insisting on meeting me for lunch today, despite my protestations of work/James/a hernia.
At noon I realize I’m going to be late for her. I look across to James who is immersed in the paperwork from the arson a
ttack at the veterinary surgery. We have a very strong lead on the case and he is hopeful of making an arrest this afternoon, which would also perfectly round off the diary with a triumphant ending. Everything is wonderful, bar the most important.
“James?”
“Hmm?” He looks up distractedly.
“I’m going to have lunch with my mother. Will you come and get me if you’re going to make that arrest?”
“Where are you going?”
“Browns on Park Street.”
“Yes, you go. Enjoy yourself while us poor police officers slave away trying to protect the country. Don’t give it a second thought.” He smiles suddenly. “Say hello to your mum.”
“I will.”
Tristan and I make our way through the city center lunchtime traffic and I try not to become agitated at being away from James. I walk into Browns, ten minutes late, to find my mother smoking a cigarette and with half a bottle of Chablis on the table in front of her. A group of admiring waiters are clustered around her, but they quickly disperse as soon as her scowling, not-quite-as-attractive daughter turns up.
“Darling!” She kisses me firmly on both cheeks and, while holding me at arm’s length, looks me up and down. “What on earth are you wearing?” I look at my flowery A-line skirt and frown. I’ve always quite liked this skirt. “Your grandmother used to have a sofa made out of that material,” she continues when the look on my face should have told her to stop. “Are you sure you didn’t whip off the loose covers when she wasn’t looking?”
“Quite sure.” I splosh some wine into a glass one of the waiters has just brought me. She lights another cigarette and settles down.
“I want to talk to you.” A waiter comes over and hands us two lunch menus. In order to avoid the oncoming subject, I study it intensely and make my choice of a sandwich. My mother doesn’t give the menu a glance but just says, “I’ll have the same,” and hands it back with a beaming smile.
“I’ll have an orange juice as well,” I tell the waiter. “Do you want one too?” I ask my mother.
“God, no, darling.” She drags heavily on her cigarette. “I don’t want anything with vitamins in it. Now,” she says decisively as the waiter scurries away. “Have you told him yet?”
“No, I haven’t and I have no intention of telling him anything.”
“Don’t you think you should?”
“NO!” I say hotly, my temper flashing into life under the strain of it all. “Why does it have to be me? If he felt the same way and, by the way, that’s a very big ‘if’, then wouldn’t he say something? He is getting married on Saturday. He doesn’t love me. End of story. What you are doing is really painful.” I take a huge slurp of wine.
My mother edges her chair a little closer to mine and looks with concern into my face. “Darling. You’re my only daughter.”
I fix her with a sardonic look. Even with my mother’s penchant for exaggeration this is going a little far. “Mother, I have a sister,” I say patiently.
“Of course you do.” She tries again. “Darling, I only have two daughters. Er, of which you are one.” She pauses. “You see? That doesn’t run quite as well, does it? Anyway, my point is that I only want to see you happy.”
“I know you do. Look, I’ve only been friends with James for a short amount of time. I don’t see what I can do. I think I would know if he loved me back; there would be—something. Signs. There would be signs.” While I am gesticulating madly, I notice Joe strolling up to the table. I stop mid-gesticulate. “Joe!” I exclaim. “What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you. I called your detective and he said you were here having lunch with your mother. So I couldn’t resist coming down myself!” With an exaggerated swirl, he bows to my delighted mother. I tut loudly.
Joe pulls up a chair and plonks himself down. Our sandwiches arrive and my mother graciously shares hers with Joe.
“Did you want me for something?”
“Yeah, I wanted to know if you’re going to make an arrest this afternoon.”
“I hope so. James said he would come and get me.”
“And Amy has been contacting mountain rescue teams for you. She thinks she might have one in Scotland. Would that be all right? She needs to get back to them.”
I glance over to my mother who is carefully not looking at me. I nod firmly. “Scotland would be fine.” We eat in silence for a few minutes.
“Speaking of Scotland, is Buntam playing the Saint Andrews course this weekend?”
I nearly choke on a piece of lettuce. In fact, I should have tried a little harder.
“Er, Buntam? No, he can’t. He’s allergic.”
“Oh no! What to?”
“To, er, haggis, of course. That’s why he can’t go to Scotland.” I groan inwardly. To HAGGIS? What am I thinking? Couldn’t I come up with anything better than haggis??
“Buntam,” echoes my mother. “Who’s Buntam, darling?” I look in alarm from Joe to my mother to Joe again. Surely he couldn’t fire me now? Now I have the diary?
“Buntam is Holly’s cousin, Mrs. Colshannon. He plays championship golf,” says Joe seriously. I briefly toy with the idea of my mother having senile dementia.
“Cousin? Championship golf?” echoes my mother. “I very much doubt it—the only allergy our family has is to fresh air. Besides, I think I would remember a relation called Buntam. The name has a peculiar resemblance to Oscar Wilde’s—darling, why are you kicking me?”
I cover my face with my hands and sink down into my chair with a soft groan. I hear a snort of rage from Joe and peep through my fingers. I frown to myself—he looks as though he’s having a fit. His eyes are bulging, his face is puce and he seems to be stuffing a napkin into his mouth while making strange hiccuping noises.
I sit up swiftly. “Joe? Are you all right?” He seems to be having some difficulty speaking. There are . . . tears running down his face.
He pushes some words out. “Oohh, Holly.” His face is screwed up with laughter. What the hell is he laughing about?
He squeezes some more words out. “Oohhh, I knew Buntam was made up.”
“You knew? And you just let me carry on?” My voice is incredulous with disbelief. Joe is unable to speak through his laughter, so I carry on.
“I had to watch golf at the weekends; do you know how mind-bendingly DULL watching golf is?” OK, this is perhaps not the appropriate response for someone whose job is on the line but I’m having a difficult week.
Joe goes into fresh convulsions of laughter. He pats my arm. “Don’t be too cross, he’s the only thing that got you the job. I knew he was made up as soon as the first syllable was out of your mouth. But anyone who could tell such imaginative lies, I wanted working for me.” He pats away as I stare incredulously at him. He starts laughing again. “Besides, do you know how amusing it has been to ask you about him and watch you scrabble around for excuses! I think the best one was when Buntam was staying in the hotel that had the power cut and . . .”
“Hello Holly,” says a familiar voice behind me. I look round and then jump in surprise.
“Hi Ben,” I say nervously. “How are you?” From the look on his face, I start to feel unaccountably worried.
“I’m fine. I was just having lunch with some work colleagues over there and thought it would be churlish of me not to come over and say hello,” he says coolly.
He smoothly shakes Joe’s hand and introduces himself as Holly’s ex-boyfriend, then turns to my mother, shakes her hand and murmurs, “So nice to see you again, Mrs. Colshannon.” It is as though a complete stranger has taken over his body. I don’t feel I know this person at all. An awkward atmosphere hangs over the table. Ben sits down.
“I’ve been thinking about some of the things you said the other night, Holly. I have to say it has been bothering me who this stranger with short hair and green eyes could be.” He turns to my mother and Joe. “Who is this man that my wonderful ex-girlfriend has fallen in love with?” Joe’s mouth is open w
ide and I sink down in my chair once more. “And then, guess what?” He rather un-sportingly doesn’t let me guess but continues regardless. “I turned on the television last Friday night and who did I see there?”
Ben doesn’t go on to tell us his sensational revelation because two things happen. Firstly my mother faints clean away underneath the table and secondly James Sabine turns up.
twenty-eight
“She’s too heavy to lift,” I say loudly. My mother’s eyes faintly flicker. See? I knew she was faking.
“Holly!” says James, shocked. “Your mother has fainted. Could you get some water instead of making unhelpful comments?”
I sulkily pour some water from a carafe on the table and give it to him. He has rolled his jacket up and placed it underneath her head. A small crowd has formed around us which I would imagine is the reason for some of the more dramatic noises my mother seems to be making. She’s like Peter Sellers’ bugler who just won’t die.
“So this is . . . ?” Ben says loudly from the front row. I had forgotten he was there.
“BEN!” shouts Joe. “Come and tell me all about your rugby team; could we do some more coverage for you in the paper?” Joe loops his arm around Ben’s shoulders and Ben allows himself to be led away. I breathe a sigh of relief at a small crisis averted and turn my attention back to my mother, who mysteriously seems to be regaining consciousness.
“It’s a miracle,” I say sardonically.
James shoots me a glare. “Wasn’t that your EX-boyfriend?” he hisses. “I thought you were having lunch with your mother?”
“I was. He turned up.”
“Aaahhhh,” says my mother. She sits up slightly, hand to her forehead.
“How are you feeling?” James asks anxiously.
“How many fingers am I holding up?” I ask, placing the V-sign in front of her eyes.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me. It must have been the feng shui in here or something,” my mother exclaims.
“Holly, take your mother out to the car. We’ll run her home first. It’s parked around to the right,” James snaps, holding out the keys. “I’ll just settle up your bill.”
