'Fine.'
'I'll call you when it's time.'
'No problem. See you.'
'Bye!'
I finished reading the article and, deep in thought, went through to brush my teeth. Apparently all I have to do is get Ben, a mountain, a sunset and a bottle of champagne in the same place at the same time and plaster a surprised expression on my face. How hard can it be?
I
think the whole world is wedding-obsessed at the moment. Even my mother! I answer the phone to her before I leave for work. That is my first mistake of the day, answering the damn thing.
'Hello?'
'Daaaarlingg!'
'Hi! How are you?'
'I'm fine, but the question is, how are you?'
'I'm fine,' I reply doubtfully. Is there a reason I shouldn't be? An urgent operation that perhaps has slipped my mind? I clutch my vital organs for reassurance. My mother doesn't enlarge on her mysterious comment and sweeps on regardless.
'Now, darling. Do you remember I told you about that wedding? The one we're coming to?'
'Er, yes.' Er, no.
'I was just ringing to check if it's still all right to stay in your box room.'
This is an accurate but scathing description of my spare room. 'Fine. Whose wedding is it? Am I invited?'
'No, you're not. It's Miles' daughter's; do you remember him? Dreadful old letch. One of my play's backers.'
'No, I don't remember. When is it?'
'In about three weeks' time. We've been invited to some drinks party with them the weekend before as well. A sort of pre-wedding thing, but I don't think we're going to bother with that.'
'Fine.'
'Talking of weddings, you're not thinking about eloping are you?'
My mind reels at the sudden subject change. 'Er, no.'
'Good. I saw a hat recently that I want to wear at your wedding so I just thought I'd make sure before I bought it.'
'But I'm not getting married,' I say slowly.
'Never?'
'Well, maybe not never, but not in the foreseeable future,'I bluster.
'Well, darling, don't hold out for ever.'
'I'll bear it in mind.' I am too tired to argue. She has probably been watching daytime television again and they've done a report on weddings. My mother absolutely loves to be aboard a bandwagon, regardless of its destination.
'How's your detective?'
'James Sabine?'
'Now, that name's familiar … ' she says thoughtfully.
'That's because you've heard me say it a million times,' I reply patiently. 'You know him as Jack.'
'Ah yes! Jack! We're getting acquainted with him quite well from the paper. Have you caught The Fox yet?'
'We haven't got any leads.'
The suspense is killing me. I do hope it lasts. How is Jack?'
'Bad-tempered.'
'Good!' she says vaguely. 'Darling, I have to go. One of your brothers has just arrived with a sheep in his car.'
'See you soon.'
I smile to myself. My family always amuse me. Especially with a distance of a few hundred miles between us.
'So, James, how would you feel about having a photographer along with us?'
I frown at myself in the mirror. Maybe that's a little too straight. Maybe I should sugar-coat the request a little. It's the start of my third week as crime correspondent.
'My editor feels you shouldn't hide your light under a bushel any longer. He wants your gorgeous good looks captured on film.'
Too creepy-crawly. The door to the Ladies bangs open and two giggling WPCs barge in. I busily wash my hands at the basin and listen to their careless chatter as they shout to each other across the partitions. The problem with James Sabine is that he can cut through any sugar-coating with those piercing, I-can-see-straight-through-your-soul green eyes. I give an involuntary shiver.
I press the button on the hand dryer and hot air whooshes out to supposedly dry my wet hands. I shake them impatiently. I really wish I didn't have to ask James for this, but I popped into the paper on my way in today and Joe caught me. I dropped the mouse from my laptop into the loo last night (don't ask, just don't ask) and so had to make an unscheduled pit stop at the paper to beg and plead with the IT department to give me another one (it was my second this month so I was ready to use some good, old-fashioned bribery). Luckily the offices were half empty as the full day shift hadn't started yet. I was just tip-toeing over to see Andrew, the IT head of department, whose bald patch I had espied over the top of one of the computers, when Joe roared behind me, 'HOLLY!' I jumped and then turned around in what I hope was a jaunty fashion.
'Joe! Morning! How are you?'
'Fine. You were on your way to see me, I take it?'
'Of course.' If you have to lie, I always say do it blatantly. I had actually been studiously avoiding seeing Joe ever since he'd told me he wanted to get a photographer out with James and me. Not that I didn't want a photographer with us – obviously it would be marvellous for the diary – it's just I had yet to actually ask James. I was waiting a li-tt-le bit longer until he'd become more used to me. I sighed and forlornly followed Joe into his office. I suppose it had been just a matter of time.
Joe sat down at his desk, leant forward and linked his fingers together. He fixed me with a stare. I wriggled uncomfortably and trained my gaze on a spot just above his head.
'So, have you asked him yet?'
'I'm just about to. This very morning.' I gave what I hoped was a sanguine and winning smile.
'Well, seeing that you are so confident, I'll book Vince to join you at lunchtime.' My cocksure smile drooped a little.
'Vince?' I said doubtfully.
'He's the best that we have, Holly. You should be honoured.'
'Ohh, I am, I am,' I replied, nodding frantically. Vince? VINCE? Now, don't get me wrong. I love Vince, I worship the ground that Vince walks on … in his elfin boots with chains around them. You see … how can I put it? I'll give it to you straight (or not as the case may be). Vince is gay. Very gay.
If you want a chat about the latest fashions, then Vince is your man. If you want to talk over any problems with your love life, then you reach for Vince's mobile number. If you want the best photographer on the paper, then you get Vince on the job. But James and Vince? I wasn't sure they were going to get on.
'Holly, are you listening to me?'
'Hmm?' I said, dragging my thoughts back into the room.
'Do you want the diary to do well? A photographer is just what we need to send the whole thing through the roof.'
'Great!' I meant it. I suddenly felt excited. He'd put it all into perspective for me. The success of the diary was the most important thing. What was I? A woman or a shirt button? What did I care what James Sabine thought? As long as the diary did well, then that was all that mattered. You see, Holly, I told myself, you and James Sabine will part company in a few weeks' time, but the work you are doing now will dictate your career for many years to come. Right. So, get down to the police station and tell him about the photographer.
'And I have some more good news for you.'
'What?' Can I stand any more good news?
'The local BBC TV station wants to do an interview with you!'
'Fantastic! When?'
'End of the week. You know where the studios are?'
'Whiteladies Road?'
He nodded. 'Be there on Friday at seven.'
And that is why I now find myself in the Ladies loos at the police station, drying my hands under a hot air dryer in a rather maniacal fashion, trying to think of the best way to ask James Sabine about the photographer. Stop flapping about, just go and ask, I tell myself firmly.
I march resolutely through to the office. I stride past the buzzing hives of desks and up to James, who is sitting filling in the never-ending forms.
'James,' I state purposefully.
'Holly,' he states back, without looking up.
'Photographer. He won't get in the way. What do you say?'
Now he looks up and stares at me for a second, looking as surprised as if I had said, 'You and me. Stationery cupboard. Five minutes' time.'
'Will he be as much trouble as you?'
What's a girl supposed to say to that? 'No.'
'Well, considering there is a wide gap between "no trouble" and "as much trouble as you", can I ask if he will be quite a lot less trouble than you?'
'Lot, lot less. Lot, lot, lot less.'
'Fine,' he sighs wearily, as though he were Canute up to his waist in water.
I sit down suddenly at my desk opposite him. 'Really?' I say in surprise.
'Check with the Chief first. No photos of suspects,' he replies, turning back to his forms.
'OK!' I grin at him. That was much easier than I had anticipated. 'What are we doing this morning?'
'Going back to see Mrs Stephens from the second burglary. I just want to ask her some more questions.'
We get up and start walking down towards the car pool.
'Can I call the photographer and get him to meet us there?'
'I suppose.'
We arrive at Mrs Stephens' house to find Vince already parked outside. In fact, I spotted his car from the end of the road – he drives a souped-up VW Beetle, painted lilac. James pulls our no-nonsense grey Vauxhall into the kerb. I jump out and run round to meet Vince who, as soon as he sees me, gets out. He is dressed in distressed tie-dye jeans teamed with his habitual elfin boots with chains around them and an itty-bitty coral mohair sweater. He has spiky black hair which is plastered with so much gel that he must have the entirety of Bristol's hairdressers begging for his custom. He flings his arms wide open.
'Ducks! How lovely to see you! How are you? Cooped up with all those handsome police officers all day; it must be driving you mad! We're all desperately jealous!'
I grin widely and hug him. James has got out of the car and is walking towards us. His face is a picture. He is trying to maintain a normal expression and yet, at the same time, trying to stop his mouth from hitting the ground.
In the meantime, Vince and I have disentangled ourselves and stand waiting patiently for his arrival. He seems to be taking an inordinately long time to cover the two hundred yards between us.
'Who. Is. This. Gorgeous. Man?' murmurs Vince under his breath. 'You lucky, lucky thing.'
'Hands off. He's engaged,' I murmur back.
James has regained some composure by the time he reaches us and I make the necessary introductions.
'Vince, this is Detective Sergeant James Sabine. James, this is Vince, our photographer,' I gaily announce as though I am a hostess on a game show. James manfully thrusts out his hand.
'Hello Vince, nice to meet you.'
'Pleasure is all mine,' Vince coos as he shakes hands.
I smother a grin. 'Shall we go?'
'Just need to get my gear out of the boot. You two go ahead, I'll catch up.' Vince minces over to the rear end of the lilac love machine (as he calls it) and throws open the boot.
James and I walk towards Mrs Stephens' house.
'You could have warned me,' he whispers.
'What about?' I ask innocently. He glares at me. 'Well, you might not have agreed if you'd known you'd have Vince fluttering his eyelids at you all day.'
'Holly, contrary to your opinion of me, I am not completely prehistoric. I have no objections to gay men. Mind the fruit pastille.' He points to the ground.
We turn through the front gate and on to Mrs Stephens' pathway. Almost immediately James breaks into a run towards the house and yells, 'STOP! POLICE!'
I follow his line of vision and spot a figure in dark clothing leaping from the ground floor window and disappearing around the side of the house.
'Vince!' I yell. 'Come on!' and I run up the path after James and our suspect, dropping my bag on to the lawn on the way. From the sound of pounding feet behind me, Vince is not far behind.
I run around the side of the house, through an open wooden gate and into the back garden. I slow down momentarily to look for them and then spot James, agile as a cat, diving through a gate in the corner. Vince has taken advantage of my transient lull, overtaken me and is belting after them. 'I really – pant – must buy – pant – a sports bra,' I gasp to myself as my breasts and I jig along together, unfortunately not in sync. I didn't have this particular little scenario in mind while dressing this morning and thus I am wearing a tight-ish, straight, long grey skirt and a pair of strappy heels.
I dive out on to the small narrow road that runs along the back of all the properties and spot eveyone about one hundred yards ahead of me. They actually haven't got too much of a distance on me. What I plan to do, if I ever catch up with any of them, I simply do not know. Yell 'TAG' perhaps and run in the opposite direction. A stitch decides to assail me at this rather inconvenient moment. I clutch my side and slow down to a bit of a limp. I think I'm going to be sick. Just need … a … bit … more … oxygen. I pause for a moment and then make a concerted sprint towards them. The youth in dark clothing makes a leap for a wall at the end of the road. James leaps after him and, in a sort of vertical rugby tackle, grabs hold of one of his legs. Vince starts snapping away just as I arrive at the scene. James seems to have gained control of the situation but as I arrive next to him, the youth gives an almighty kick out with the captured limb. James doesn't let go of his iron grip but his arm involuntarily jerks back and his elbow hits me -SMACK! – in the eye.
I fall back slightly, my hand clasped over my eye. Shit. That hurt.
'Holly!' James' head swivels round over his broad shoulder while he continues to grapple with the young man. He turns his full attention back to the youth, and in one swift movement gives the leg a hefty tug. The boy falls to the ground and James niftily spins him over and cuffs him. He leaves him on the road and runs over to me.
'Are you OK? Here, let me see. Will you stop that?!' he snaps at Vince, whose shutters simply have not stopped whirring.
'Sorry,' says Vince sheepishly and walks over to me.
James is trying to remove my hand from my eye. I think my eye will fall out if I take my hand away. James wins.