by Lizzie Lamb
‘Well, you’re so not his type.’ Isla’s look intimated that he was out of her league. Out of all their leagues. ‘Not that it’s any of your business, but Wolf is short for Big Bad Wolf. We call him that because we’re not afraid of him. Like in the nursery rhyme? Geddit?’ she snapped. This was her moment and clearly she didn’t appreciate it being ruined by their comments.
‘He can be very …’ Cat butted in, and then words failed her. Plainly, the thought of Ruairi’s reaction to their latest escapade filled her with dread. ‘We’re going to be grounded for life - allowances stopped, mobiles confiscated, put to work on the estate beating for grouse and schlepping picnics out to the guns for the whole summer. And that’s if he’s in a good mood,’ she concluded. Seconds later Isla’s phone rang and their stepbrother’s voice echoed in the close confines of the police van.
‘Don’t even think about hanging up, Isla.’ His tone brooked no defiance and even Isla didn’t have the nerve to cut him off.
‘Ruairi. How are you? There’s nothing wrong with my phone. I didn’t hear it ring … cut off you say? Probably a signal black spot.’ She banged the phone several times on the side of the van and made a sound like a demented cappuccino machine. ‘See what I mean. Maybe, the battery’s flat. You know me.’ After a few seconds, everyone was under no illusions just how well Ruairi Urquhart knew his stepsister!
‘Isla, please,’ Cat pleaded, ‘don’t make things worse.’
‘I’m in a taxi if you must know - on my way to Boujis … yes, Cat’s here.’ She passed the phone to her sister.
‘Hi, Ruairi,’ Cat sounded as though her throat was suddenly dry and her vocal cords constricted with nerves. ‘No. Well, yes I suppose so. Yes. Sorry, sorry.’ Isla snatched the phone off Cat and mouthed “wuss” at her.
‘Still there Ruairi? No - no, I don’t think it’s funny. Not funny at all. Yes, I know you ordered me home - but something came up and … I’ve decided to have a highland fling of my own.’
Words such as: unreliable, immature and feckless bounced round the wagon as Ruairi Urquhart ripped into Isla. One or two girlfriends exchanged looks of schaudenfreud, openly enjoying Isla’s discomfiture. She was a bit like Marmite Fliss decided, you could love her one minute and hate her the next. She’d stolen their boyfriends, acted high-handedly towards them, made sarcastic remarks about their clothes and played on their neuroses about their weight. Now it was payback time and her girlfriends looked like they were enjoying every moment it.
‘I didn’t ask bloody old Shipstone to ring you, did I? I don’t care if it was his third phone call this evening - the man’s clearly obsessed. His wife keeps a log on us, can you believe that?’ Fliss noticed that Isla’s faux Estuary English had become perceptibly more upper-class as the conversation progressed.
‘Bugger! Ruairi wasn’t supposed to find out about that,’ Cat explained unnecessarily as they reached their destination and Isla killed the call. A young officer opened the doors and was greeted by a loud woo - hoo and appreciative applause, as if this was a hen party, the police van a stretch limo and he was the strippergram.
‘Take them into the station, Collins. And you lot … keep the noise down,’ a more mature officer snarled at them. ‘You are in serious trouble.’
Fliss suddenly remembered the wrap of cocaine in her pocket and anxiety scoured her intestines like battery acid. She thought was going to be physically sick. Being arrested was bad enough - but being in possession of a Class A drug was much worse. She doubted that saying she was looking after them for a friend would cut much ice with the judge. Subdued, she followed the others into Ladbroke Grove Police Station where they were brought before a tired looking duty sergeant. At the sight of the Urquhart sisters, he glanced at his watch and sighed, giving the impression it was going to be a long night.
‘Darling Sergeant Chapman,’ Cat and Isla said in unison, exchanging relieved looks as they rushed up to the desk. Clearly, this wasn’t the first time they’d been brought before him.
‘We’ll soon have this little misunderstanding sorted out with you in charge,’ Isla schmoozed.
‘Sorted out, eh? Well, I don’t know about that Miss Urquhart. Let’s see.’ He consulted the charge sheet, and then looked over the top of his glasses at her. ‘We’ve had complaints of drugs, underage drinking, sex, nudity and trespass in the communal gardens. Your guests using designated parking spaces. Your neighbour asked you several times to turn down the music and you were abusive to him.’
‘He was abusive to me, actually,’ Isla began belligerently, then obviously thought better of it. She dragged Fliss forward, ‘My friend here is very sensible and can tell you exactly what happened.’
‘Can you, Miss?’ Sergeant Chapman’s expression wavered as he took in Fliss’s ripped and stained clothing, her mascara-streaked face. His lips twitched, briefly, and then his professional persona dropped into place. ‘Name?’
‘Felicity Bagshawe,’ Isla answered for her, openly relieved that the heat was now on someone else. Fliss gave her a thanks-for-nothing look.
‘There was no nudity; it was just my friend showing us her tattoo.’ She was surprised to find how steady her voice was. Evidently, keeping company with Isla the Blagmeister had taught her a thing or two about lying through her teeth
‘Go on,’ he urged, making notes on a large pad.
‘As for drugs …’ She managed a casual shrug that suggested drugs were evident at every party these days and tried to forget the wrap of cocaine in her pocket. ‘It was just a little party that got out of hand,’ she explained, pulling her ripped top further down over her jeans, hoping that Sergeant Chapman didn’t have x-ray vision. Surreptitiously, she stuck her thumb in her jeans pocket and splayed her fingers over the drugs packet to conceal it.
‘And the underage drinking?’ he moved on.
‘Well, I may have had a very small alcopop,’ Cat admitted, conveniently forgetting that she’d vomited over someone’s Laboutins less than an hour ago.
‘And what about this lot?’ he asked, indicating their friends who were banging on about human rights abuse - as if this was Guantanamo Bay, not West London. Fliss’s frantic heartbeat slowed down as his attention was diverted away from her. ‘I suppose that’s all a big mistake, too? Just high jinks? Broken-hearted at the thought of you two returning to Scotland? Oh, yes, I know all about your farewell party. As does most of Notting Hill - you’re very lucky it wasn’t gate-crashed by undesirables.’ His expression told them exactly what he thought of farewell parties that got out of hand.
‘High jinks, that’s it exactly! The Crescent hasn’t been the same since Shipstone and his wife moved in. I bet they phone you twice a day to let you know that the dustbin hasn’t been emptied or that a pigeon has pooped on his BMW. And you so busy fighting crime and arresting real criminals.’ Isla looked up through her thick black eyelashes with guileless blue eyes at the sergeant.
The Sergeant and the WPC exchanged a look that suggested Isla was bang on message. It was Shipstone’s position in the Home Office, his widely expressed views on Law and Order and his friendship with the power brokers in parliament that had warranted the police busting their party this evening. By clearing the gardens, the police had maintained law and order and kept Shipstone and the other residents happy.
Evidently hoping to draw things to a conclusion, Sergeant Chapman banged his desk with an empty coffee mug. ‘You lot,’ he gave them a stern once over, ‘Have upset a number of residents on several occasions this week alone. And you, Miss Urquhart,’ he gave Isla a more censuring look, ‘don’t need to get into more trouble. Do you?’
‘No Sergeant,’ she said with convincing meekness, evidently having the sense not to push her luck. She stood with her eyes downcast, giving the impression that she spent her spare time painting watercolours and embroidering handkerchiefs - not living the vida loca.
‘Right,’ he threw his pencil down on the desk. ‘I want each of you to ring your parents, using the station ph
one. Or, a responsible adult prepared to vouch for your character and guarantee your good behaviour. The desk clerk will take your names and addresses; once that has been done and you have made your phone call, your parents, or whoever, can collect you and take you home.’
‘Yay!’ One of Isla’s friends punched the air triumphantly, earning a censorious look from the officers on duty.
‘But,’ he gave them a quelling look, ‘I have a good memory and the law has a long arm. If any of you comes before me again this summer, you’ll be dealt with more severely.’ He signalled his clerk to come forward and the subdued revellers made an orderly queue to give their names and make their phone call.
The phone on his desk rang and he picked it up.
‘Sir Ruairi,’ Sergeant Chapman greeted affably. On hearing his name, every nerve in Fliss’s body went into hyper-drive, he was fast becoming her nemesis; why couldn’t he leave the police to sort out his sisters? His interference would only complicate matters.
Obviously of the same opinion Isla slapped her forehead with the palm of her hand. ‘Oh, give me a break,’ she complained.
‘Yes, they’re both here. There aren’t any charges - as yet. Certainly. Isla,’ he held the phone towards her. She took it, holding it as though it were wired to the national grid and was about to deliver ten thousand volts down her arm.
‘Okay. So we weren’t in a taxi. But you knew that, didn’t you? You are an absolute pig, Ruairi.’ She handed the phone back to Sergeant Chapman, leaving Fliss feeling as if she was a character in some mashed up Sunday night serial … Notting Hill Meets Monarch of the Glen. It was obvious that the Sergeant knew Ruairi Urquhart quite well and she wondered how many times he’d been summoned to this police station to get his stepsisters out of trouble.
‘I believe your sisters are returning to Scotland? And you’re returning home, too? Yes, I’m sure there are matters you must attend to.’ Isla leaned against the desk, arms folded like a sulky teenager. ‘If you can guarantee their good behaviour, then … fine.’ Sergeant Chapman concluded the conversation, tapped Isla on the shoulder and handed the phone to her.
‘Yeah. I heard. Whatever. No, don’t send Murdo to meet us. We’ll get a bloody taxi. I don’t care how much it costs … anyway, he won’t turn out on the Sabbath; you know he won’t … not even for you. Oh, I see, he will for his lord and master, will he? Yeah. Yeah. Sure. Whatever the Laird says,’ she added, and mimed a sarcastic little curtsey before returning the phone to Sergeant Chapman. She turned to her sister, seething. ‘He’s sending bloody Murdo Gordon to meet us at the airport. Armed escort all the way to Kinloch Mara in case we do a runner. Kilts at dawn; bagpipes playing, banners flying. Too bloody feudal for words.’
‘Okay. That’s you two dealt with.’ Sergeant Chapman was clearly unmoved by her tirade; in fact, he looked quite relieved to have her and Cat off his hands. ‘Now. What about you, Miss?’ he turned his attention back to Fliss. ‘If you have anyone who can vouch for your good character you’ll be free to go.’
It was a lifeline and Fliss grabbed it with both hands.
But, who could she ring?
The station emptied as Fliss thought long and hard about who could act as a character witness for her. She turned to Isla and Cat for some advice but they’d headed home without as much as a backward glance in her direction. She’d never felt so alone and wished that she had an autocratic stepbrother who cared enough to abandon his plans, drop everything and return to Scotland on her behalf.
‘Your parents?’ Sergeant Chapman suggested.
‘My parents are -’ Fliss stopped. She didn’t want to come across as Little Orphan Annie; she had to maintain some shred of dignity. She considered ringing Becky’s parents but she didn’t want to bring trouble to their door, considering how good they’d been to her since her parents’ death.
There was no one - except …
‘There is my employer. But …’ she bit her lip, reluctant to make the call.
She might have almost doubled the salon’s takings since joining Pimlico Pamperers, but that didn’t make her employee of the month where Mrs Morris was concerned. In fact she had already voiced her suspicions about her moonlighting and had hinted that it was just a matter of time before Fliss moved on, taking her clients with her.
With Sergeant Chapman’s permission, Fliss scrolled through her mobile phone for Mrs Morris’s number and rang her on the station phone. She pictured her getting out of bed, rubbing the sleep from her eyes and imagining the worst. Who in their right mind rang people in the early hours of the morning?
Only the Police or the local A and E with bad news.
‘Hello. Who is this?’ was the worried but terse response from the owner of Pimlico Pamperers.
‘It’s Fliss Bagshawe. I’m sorry to wake you at this time of night, Mrs Morris - but I have an enormous favour to ask.’ She took a deep breath, ploughed straight into the story, knowing that after tonight she would be looking for a new job
Chapter Six
Next morning, after a sleepless night, Fliss paced the narrow patio of her ground floor flat.
‘Don’t think of ringing up for a reference,’ had been Mrs Morris’s parting shot as she’d swept out of the police station. ‘No one will employ you to fold towels when word of this gets round the beauty circuit.’ Then she’d paused, turned on her heel and, with a swirl of her fawn cashmere serape, delivered one last jibe: ‘I’ll make it my business to ensure that you never wax legs in Pimlico again!’
And that was it …
Three years of college, plus another three spent building up her client base. Pouf! Gone without a trace. All she had left were some framed diplomas attesting that she was competent in a range of therapies, a rose bowl naming her salon based beauty therapist of the year - and a stack of broken dreams. Unlike the failed candidate on The Apprentice she wouldn’t be given the chance to explain herself on BBC Breakfast the next morning.
Mrs Morris was right, without a reference she’d be lucky to get a job sweeping up nail clippings in a poodle parlour. She let out a despondent sigh and imagined Isla’s friends this morning, snuggled down in their 400 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets while breakfast was prepared for them. Downcast, she traced the cracks in the patio with her bare toe. The shade of nail varnish she’d applied with such optimism last night - I’m Not Really a Waitress - now seemed prophetic. The way things were panning out, waiting tables in some greasy spoon might be the only career choice open to her.
Bright sunlight and bird song temporarily lifted her spirits, but she couldn’t quite dismiss the image of the utility bills and rent book sprouting legs and advancing towards her, all demanding to be paid. She stared blindly into the garden where brambles entwined an old bike, a bath, discarded toilet and rusting lawnmower. Were her hopes and dreams buried there, too?
Her introspection was interrupted by a sound like an animal in pain. Spinning round, she found Becky shivering on the threshold of the kitchen door, her eyes ringed with last night’s make-up.
‘It’s bloody freezing out here.’ She raised a hand to shield her eyes and her stomach gave a hungry rumble. ‘Any coffee left, Flissikins? Hey …’ she continued with forced jollity, ‘let’s go to the greasy spoon for a fry up?’
‘A fry up. Sounds great. I need to build my strength up for what I have in mind this morning,’ Fliss replied grim-faced.
‘Don’t tell me you’re going to ask old Ma Morris for your job back!’
‘Yeah … and a pay rise while I’m at it.’
‘A pay rise?’ It was a few seconds before Becky registered Fliss’s ironic tone. ‘So, where are you going?’
‘I’ve got something to return to Isla Urquhart,’ Fliss explained, thinking of the drugs she’d transferred to her handbag in the taxi on the way home. It was no thanks to Isla that she hadn’t been stripped searched and charged with possession by the police. ‘I can’t believe they just walked out of Ladbroke Grove, leaving me in the lurch.’
> ‘Well, I can,’ Becky put in. ‘If it hadn’t have been for Isla’s stupid invitation, you wouldn’t be looking for a new job. Would you?’
Fliss zoned out and Becky’s voice merged with the sound of traffic and the wind in the trees. Her mind was on other things - like Isla’s proposition, the reason she’d gone to the party in the first place. She would get dressed, march round to Elgin Crescent and demand to know exactly what was going on. If it turned out that Isla had been playing games, or having a laugh at her expense, she wouldn’t be responsible for her actions. But one thing was certain, by the time she left Elgin Crescent the Urquharts would be under no illusion exactly what she thought of them.
‘… lowdown slappers,’ Becky finished her character assassination of the sisters as Fliss zoned back in.
‘I was an idiot for thinking I could hang with Cat and Isla. You were right, Bex, they are The Spawn of Satan.’ As far as she was concerned, they’d broken an unwritten code. Mates looked out for each other; they didn’t save their own skins and a leave you up the creek without a paddle. Becky followed her into the kitchen, looking for once as though it gave her no pleasure to be right about the Urquharts.
‘Fliss - Babe …’
‘No,’ Fliss held up her hand as Becky tried to comfort her. ‘The signs were there and I ignored them. I should have heeded my horoscope. Saturn in retrograde … friends will make or break your weekend … have an escape plan ready … yada, yada, yada. Fate did everything but draw me a diagram.’
‘Fliss, they’re the idiots, not you babe.’ Becky joined her by the kitchen sink, plainly searching for the words to make her feel better.
Fliss let her rattle on and washed up last night’s dishes. As the pile diminished some of her spirit returned and she became stronger, more determined, less accepting of the hand Fate had dealt her. When she banged on the Urquharts door later this morning, everything would be different. She would no longer be the hired hand and they the master. Last night had altered their relationship - forever.
