Playing James

by Sarah Mason

  I slowly lead my mother out of the restaurant, supporting her around her waist. I drop her as soon as we get outside. “I don’t believe it!” I rage.

  “Darling, I know, neither do I. Ben upstaged me so badly—I couldn’t believe it myself when he walked straight across me like that. Absolutely unforgivable.”

  “No, I mean you,” I spit out. “Why did you have to faint?” I start off toward the car.

  My mother looks a little shocked. I suppose to her it was a natural reaction. “Because Ben was about to tell everyone that you love James, of course! I could see James walking across the restaurant.”

  “I thought you wanted James to be told!”

  “Not like that, darling, with Joe there as well. It would have been awful. Besides, as I remember, you didn’t want him to be told. I did it for you.”

  My steps slow down slightly. I might have been a little uncharitable.

  “Oh yes. Er, sorry. So, do you think Ben is going to spill the beans?”

  “Nooo. Joe will persuade him somehow. Coverage for his matches or something. There is no way Joe is going to let any paper but his own upstage your diary.”

  The week passes as though time is in an egg-and-spoon race. Spurts of speed and monotony by contrast. My memories of my last few days at the police station are all out of focus and linked by a swirling cacophony of emotions. Every time Fleur called James I could almost feel myself falling into the precipice. Fleur. (Fleur. I find if I say her name quickly enough, I can make it sound as though I am being sick.)

  Lizzie and Alastair are still cocooned in their happiness. I think a lot about Teresa and Ben together, and when I really want to play the masochist I picture James and Fleur or James and Robin together. I have a heightened sense of awareness of James. I know where he is at all times and how close he is to me. Sometimes I feel the warmth of his body and the electricity in his hands if they occasionally brush me.

  The two last evenings, while wallowing in good old-fashioned self-pity, I have been going through my CD collection and pulling out every song I know will make me cry. George Michael, U2— even good old Robbie and Take That have played their part. I thought it might exorcise the pain somehow but all it has succeeded in doing thus far is to give me puffy eyes and several soggy handkerchiefs.

  But I do have some happy memories too. Today lots of happy things happened and today was my last day of the diary. It is Friday.

  I got down to the station at the usual time and was greeted not only by a series of whole sentences from Dave-the-not-quite-so-grumpy-desk-sergeant, but also by a rip-roaring department send-off party for both James and me. Let me tell you, it’s quite a surreal experience to eat cake and set off party poppers at eight in the morning but I rose gallantly to the challenge. In fact, I think all mornings should start like this from now on. Of course the rest of the day was very busy, what with trying to tie up the arrest from the arson case at the veterinary surgery and writing the last episode of the diary. James offloaded all of his cases onto an increasingly pissed-off Callum.

  At five-ish I made a move to go and file my final diary copy at the paper. I said my goodbyes to the various people in the department I wouldn’t be seeing at the wedding tomorrow. James helped me carry all of my stuff in cardboard boxes (WHERE had it all come from? Where?) out to Tristan. We stood awkwardly after he had deposited the last box in the boot.

  “So,” I said.

  He looked at his hands. “So . . .”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Yes,” he said slowly. “I’ll see you tomorrow. You know, I would have suggested going out for a drink together, it being your last day, but the boys have laid on a sort of stag do—”

  “It’s OK,” I butted in quickly. He held the door open as I packed my tired limbs into Tristan.

  “We’ll see each other again, won’t we, Holly?”

  “I don’t think that would be wise, do you?”

  He frowned. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I don’t suppose you do,” I said in a small voice as I pulled shut the car door, waved at him and drove off before he noticed the tears streaming down my face.

  At the paper, some of the folks wanted to go out for Friday night drinks but, to be honest, I simply couldn’t face it. So here I am, back at home, being fed vodka and tonics by my mother. She is full of news of the wedding, having had lunch with Miles today. The front door buzzer blasts out. My mother answers it and shouts through to me that it’s Lizzie. Lizzie has been around almost every night this week to cheer me up. The problem is she is so happy that she can’t resist talking about her own wedding when she is with us. And apart from my mother’s spurt of effort to get James and I together at the beginning of the week, she seems to have finally come to respect my wishes and there has been absolutely no mention of it since.

  Lizzie bursts through the door. “Holly! How are you?” She can’t help herself; love and happiness are gushing out of every pore.

  “I’m fine,” I answer and smile. It’s great to see her like this after so many weeks of unhappiness but I wouldn’t be human if I didn’t admit it chafes a bit.

  “Last day today, eh?”

  “Yep, last day.” Riveting conversation.

  “Holly, Lizzie and I spoke on the phone earlier and we thought we would just pop into town,” says my mother.

  “Now?”

  “Well, I need some tights for tomorrow and . . .”

  “A new wedding mag is just out and I want to get that,” says Lizzie.

  “You’re going to leave me tonight? Of all nights?”

  “Don’t be silly. We won’t be long. Your father’s here anyway.”

  I sigh and look over to my father who winks at me. “Oh, all right.”

  They quickly gather their bags and, chatting excitedly, go off without so much as a backward glance.

  My father and I are just about to settle down to supper and an old episode of Dad’s Army when the phone rings.

  I answer it.

  “Holly? It’s Fleur.”

  “Hi Fleur, how are you?” I ask slowly. Why on earth is Fleur phoning here?

  “I’m fine. Listen, I wondered if you wanted to pop over tonight. You know, for a drink.”

  “Tonight? But you’re getting married tomorrow!” say I, rather stating the obvious. “Haven’t you got tons to do?”

  “The wedding coordinator is doing most of it. Can you come?”

  “Well, not really,” I say, looking over at my plate and my father. “How about when you get back or something?” With any luck I’ll be up a mountain by then.

  “I’d really like to see you tonight.” Her voice sounds a little strained. “Will you come? For me?”

  “Er, OK.”

  “I’m at my parents’ house. Do you remember where it is?”

  “I think so. I’ll be over in about half an hour.”

  We say our goodbyes and I replace the receiver thoughtfully.

  “Dad, I have to go somewhere . . .”

  twenty-nine

  Nervously picking up my bag, I bid a hasty goodbye to my father and scurry down to Tristan. I fumble with the keys and frantically wonder why Fleur wants to see me. Dropping the damn things at my feet, I bend down to unearth them and inadvertently catch sight of what I’m wearing. I recoil in horror. I look like an advertisement for the grunge movement. I came in from work and crawled into my oldest, most comfortable clothes. These just happen to be a pair of ancient, faded combats complete with interesting tie-dye effect from a time when I was making very free and loose with the bleach on a cleaning spree, and my oldest jumper, which has been handed down from brother to brother to brother to sister so that now even Oxfam would turn their nose up at it. Said jumper is dotted all over with holes from where some grateful moth has feasted on it and my brilliant white T-shirt underneath is dramatically highlighting its meal venues. Damn. I look at my watch; no time to go and change. Fleur is just going to have to make smug comparisons, isn�
�t she?

  I put Tristan into gear and we whizz off, the miles starting to clock up as I make my way toward Fleur’s country house. Why on earth has she rung me? Is she lonely? Does she really want me to come over for a chat? Why does she want me to come over for a chat? What has happened to all her hen do pals? Not to mention Mummy and Daddy and the legions of staff that seem to be permanently camped up there? Couldn’t she chat to them? The wedding coordinator must be a friendly sort of chap. Besides, she has only just met me and so I’m hardly a friend. And while we’re on that, why was she so eager to make me a friend? Why go to all that trouble? Uncharitable child that I am, I don’t really understand it.

  Maybe she wants me up there for a more sinister reason. A quick scene change and I picture the dark, brooding mansion house. There seems to have been a power cut and all the staff I just mentioned have mysteriously disappeared. I picture myself walking into the study and seeing Fleur’s pretty, impassive face flickering in the candlelight. She moves toward me and, shock, horror! in her delicate little French-manicured hand is an axe! I involuntarily clasp my hand to my not-so-delicate neck and pull my stomach up from out of my shoes where it seems to be happily nestling. Just a chat, I murmur to myself, just a chat. No need to overdramatize.

  Twenty minutes or so later, I pull up to the huge iron gates and press the buzzer. In a faltering voice I tell the intercom who I am and the gates slowly open as though welcoming me into Hades (don’t overdramatize, don’t overdramatize). I travel timidly up the drive, noticing the huge marquee sitting quietly to one side of the grounds like a white blancmange, and park in the driveway in front of the house, now devoid of all the BMWs and Audis that had adorned it so capriciously last weekend. The engine shudders to a halt and I look out. Right. The electricity’s on. That’s a good start.

  I walk up to the front door and ring the bell. To my surprise, Fleur herself answers it.

  “Holly! How are you? Thanks for coming!”

  “No problem.” We air-kiss a good three feet from each other’s faces and she leads the way across the massive hall. Her Manolo Blahnik heels click softly on the wooden surface while my huge clogs (an absolute necessity when it comes to choosing accessories to complete the grunge look) clomp along behind her. She opens the door to the study, the very same room where James, myself, Lizzie and Alastair were the weekend before. The fire is lit this time though. It crackles in the hearth and bathes the room in a soft, mellow light.

  “Would you like a drink?”

  “Thanks. Whatever you’re having.”

  She goes over to a corner of the room, pours an amber liquid from a cut-glass decanter into a solid crystal glass and then refills her own. She’s obviously been on the juice while waiting for me to arrive. As she’s doing that I have a quick look around the room for concealed weapons. Behind the sofas, up the chimney, nestling behind the clock in lieu of the party invitations. You know, the usual places.

  I hastily fling myself down into a corner of a sofa as she comes back carrying both the glasses. She hands one to me and then daintily sits on the edge of the second sofa, tucking one slender ankle behind the other. Damn. That’s what happens when you don’t go to a Swiss finishing school. You end up charging about like a baby elephant. Fleur looks like a panther.

  “So?” I say, sensing a lull in conversation. “Are you excited?” I try to inject some semblance of feeling into my words but they almost stick in my throat as she fixes me with her blue eyes. Funny, I’d never noticed how cold they are.

  “I don’t think you should come tomorrow, Holly,” she says calmly, looking down into her drink.

  There is a pause as I try to comprehend this rapid shift in mood. I take a quick gulp of my drink. Flaming whisky burns down my throat, giving me a welcoming reminder of what warmth feels like. “Why not?” I whisper, voice hoarse with the fiery spirit. I don’t need to ask because she is going to tell me anyway.

  “Oh, I think you know why not. I saw the TV thing and I’ve read your diaries.” She gets up suddenly and walks over to the fireplace. Her hand on the mantelpiece, she turns back toward me. No doubt another pose they taught her at school. “Pathetic, like little love letters. Do you really think he would prefer you to me?” Her eyes are steely as she looks me up and down. Ah. I can see her point on this one and it’s actually the very thing that has been giving me a lot of jip over the last week. A not-so-natural-blond reporter, a few pounds the wrong side of nine stone, complete with family armed with personality disorders. Yes, I can see where she’s coming from all right, it’s where she’s going with it that worries me. She doesn’t keep me in suspense very long.

  “You see, I think it would embarrass both of us tomorrow, you being there. It’s our special day and I don’t want it marred with memories of you looking all cow-eyed.” I flinch as this one hits home. “But he doesn’t want to be unkind; he didn’t want to say anything to you.”

  “You’ve discussed it with him?” I say in a small voice. A very small voice—barely discernible, in fact.

  “Often. Don’t get me wrong, he doesn’t dislike you or anything. Now, what did he call you the other night?” I don’t know. Fat? Stupid? Clumsy? Her tinkling laugh rings out and grates over me like broken glass as she remembers their obviously amusing conversation.

  “Quirky! That was it, he called you quirky!” I shrug inwardly to myself. Quirky isn’t so bad! In fact, quirky is quite good. Now did he mean quirky as in unique and interesting or as in loopy? I wonder if she would notice if I was quietly sick in my lap, or better still in hers.

  She turns away, bends down in front of the fire and picks up the poker. Ahhh, exhibit A. She turns back to me, poker in hand. “You see, Holly, I love him. I love him desperately and I don’t want our wedding day ruined by you.” She waves the poker around liberally in order to illustrate her point. It’s having a strange hypnotic effect on me as she waves it back and forth, back . . . and . . . forth.

  “Yes, it will be a very happy day for you tomorrow,” I jabber frantically, still mesmerized by the swaying piece of ironware. “You met James at your charity, didn’t you? After Rob died.”

  Her face softens and she smiles slightly as she looks over my shoulder and into the past.

  “Yes, he came in every week for two months. On his last visit he left his wallet behind. I could have run after him with it, but I decided to call instead and offer to bring it round. So I dropped in after work one day and naturally he took me out for a drink to say thank you. The rest, as they say, is history.” She kneels down and starts poking the fire. I breathe a sigh of relief at her choice of poking matter. She leaves the poker leaning up against the wall; no doubt it will come in handy should I start to prove difficult.

  She continues her tale. “He was quite reticent at first; he was coming out of another recent relationship.” Robin perhaps, I think to myself. “And he didn’t like all this.” She waves her hand airily around the room. “But I changed his mind. You see, someone grieving as he was is actually in a very vulnerable position.” My stomach tenses at the very thought of James in pain. “They need lots of care and attention and I knew just how to handle him, having worked at the charity.” She gives me a little smug smile and a metaphorical pat on the back for herself.

  “So you ‘handled’ him?” I ask indignantly. Ah, a little too feisty. Her hand inches toward the poker. I relax my face into an inquiring look.

  “Holly,” she says in her best condescending manner, “I don’t just handle him, I handle everyone. Do you think it’s easy being rich? Do you?” I open my mouth to answer that not only does it look quite easy but that I’m certain I could do it standing on my head with both my hands tied behind my back, but then hastily close it again lest I get the poker shoved in.

  “It’s not like the good old days when everyone bowed and curtsied to you. Gave you respect just because you had money. Nowadays you have to justify why you have money. I blame it on the Lottery.” She walks in agitation over to the window. “Peopl
e think you don’t have problems just because you have money. You can’t say a cross or unkind word to anyone without RICH BITCH being branded across your forehead.” She shrugs. “I got bored with it. So one day I decided that I would be sweetness and light to everyone.”

  “Hence the bereavement charity?” I murmur.

  “Yes, actually. Hence the bereavement charity.” She stares at me, challenging me to protest. I don’t; her trigger finger is twitching and I don’t fancy being on the receiving end of it. “I was bored with the Hooray Henrys my father used to undisguisedly throw in front of me. What I wanted was a really good man but I just didn’t know where to meet him. There were only a certain number of jobs I could take without qualifications—the charity was my third attempt but it certainly paid off. Good men are hard to come by, Holly. You should know that.”

  I nod numbly; actually I did know that. And her particular “good man” is a once in a lifetime opportunity as far as I am concerned.

  She reaches up and twirls a strand of hair around her finger, looking dreamily into the distance. “And one so kind and honest.” She seems to snap to and her eyes lock back on to mine. “And he’s dynamite in the sack.”

  I drop my eyes first. This one hits me squarely in the stomach and damn well nearly doubles me over. Golly, dynamite eh? Not that he’ll ever be blowing up my quarry, but still, nice to know what I’ll be missing. She turns her back to me and stares out of the window.

  “We’ll be spending a lot more time together as well when he finishes his work.”

  “Finishes his work?” I echo.

  “Daddy’s going to offer him a nice little position in the company.”

  “But James will hate that! He loves his job!” I exclaim.

  “We’ll see.” My mind reels with this simple phrase. How on earth could she persuade James to give up his work? I don’t like to think of the many devious possibilities.

  I stand up to leave. I have as much information as anyone can handle. Quietly replacing my glass on a side table, Fleur hears the gentle clink and spins around.