I gather up my bag and make my way to the door. Just as I am about to leave, Joe calls out, 'How's Buntam?'
'Hmm?'
'Buntam, your cousin. How is he?'
'Er, Buntam's fine,' I reply, blinking a little.
'I didn't see him playing last weekend.'
My mouth opens and shuts a few times and I blink some more. Normally I would be prepared for this sort of eventuality but the diary has been all-consuming. I wonder briefly what sort of miraculous story-telling my mouth is going to come out with.
'Did I say he is fine? I meant he's fine after his accident.' I nod gravely.
'Accident?'
'Runaway golf buggy on the sixth hole. Very nasty. Hit and run too. Looks like dear old Buntam will be out of the game for a few months.' Bravo mouth! A fine effort!
'Hit and run? In a golf buggy?' There is a note of incredulity in Joe's voice that makes my brain pause for a second. Unfortunately it doesn't seem to slow my over-ambitious mouth up at all.
'It was one of those new speedy American ones. Nobody got his licence plate.' Do the damn things have licence plates?
Joe shakes his head and tuts to himself for a while, then mutters, 'Licence plate?'
'Well, the new ones have to have them. Because they go so fast.' Even I inwardly wince at this. My problem is too much embroidery. Why couldn't I just leave it at a simple accident? Oh no, I had to bring in golf buggies too. But the important thing is to leave and quickly before any more awkward questions come up. 'Anyway! Got to go! A friend is expecting me!'
'Give Buntam my regards!' shouts Joe after my disappearing back.
It's about eight o'clock when I reach home. As soon as I put my handbag down, Lizzie arrives.
'How was your day?' she asks.
I frown. 'Interesting. How was the wonderful world of computers?'
'Tedious.'
'Did you read the diary today?' I ask, noticing the paper poking out of her bag.
'God, yes! I read it every morning. Honestly, I look forward to it.' I walk over to the fridge and open the door. I am greeted by a very mopey looking lettuce and some out-of-date yogurts.
'Do you mind if we go to Salisbury's?'
'Not at all.'
Lizzie and I meander our way down to the supermarket in her car and on the way she insists I tell her why my day was interesting. So I talk about Mr Williams and the hospital (which she will read about tomorrow in the paper) and then about meeting Fleur (which she won't read about tomorrow in the paper).
She sits up suddenly. 'You mean he's got a fiancée?' wails Lizzie.
I glance over at her impatiently. 'You knew he had a fiancée.'
'I thought she might be made up or something. For the diary.'
'Er, no. Why would we make that up?'
'I don't know. Extra publicity or something.'
'Lizzie, I thought you were trying to get Alastair to marry you.'
'I am,' she says sulkily, staring out of the windscreen.
'It's not rocky or anything is it?' she carries on hopefully.
I shake my head firmly. 'Rock of Gibraltar, I'm afraid. She's absolutely gorgeous and inordinately nice to boot,' I add pointedly. 'Why are you so interested anyway?'
'Come on, Holly,' she says, wide-eyed with the obviousness of it.
'What?'
She nearly chokes in the effort to tell me exactly what. 'He. Is. Ab-so-lute-ly. Gorgeous.'
I shrug. I mean, I know he's good-looking. And tall. And broad.
'The girls in the office are in a right tizzy about him.'
'Well, they wouldn't think he was quite so gorgeous if they'd had the sort of start I've had with him,' I say, leaning to one side as she narrowly avoids a kid who is insisting on roller-blading in the gutter.
'He can't be that bad! He looked really concerned about your eye in the diary!'
'I would hope he did! It was his bloody fault!' I say indignantly, swiftly changing the subject. The conversation is making me feel distinctly uncomfortable. 'I sorted everything out with Ben.'
'Oh, good.'
'Well, I hope he believed me.'
'I'm sure he did. If you like, I'll call him and tell him the magazines were mine.'
'No. Thanks anyway. He might think I'd put you up to it or something. Least said, soonest mended. I'm sure it'll be fine. Will you take the magazines back with you though and get them out of my flat?'
Lizzie pulls a face. 'Alastair might see them then and think the same as Ben.'
'Lizzie,' I say with a warning note in my voice. I mean, if she hadn't brought the bloody things around in the first place then I wouldn't be in this mess with Ben.
'OK,' she says sulkily.
We toddle about Sainsbury's, popping various bits and pieces into the basket. Lizzie and I are busy contemplating the pros and cons of sugar-free baked beans compared to good old Heinz when a voice from behind us says, 'Hello!'
Lizzie and I look at each other, tins in our hands. It's Teresa. Oh, un-yippee and un-hooray. My hand involuntarily tightens around my can and Lizzie's knuckles are looking a shade on the white side themselves. We plaster a smile on our faces and turn round.
'Hello Teresa. How are you?'
'Fine. My goodness, fancy seeing you two here. I would have thought you'd be out clubbing or something.' She laughs an innocent-sounding tinkle. Now you may think this is a very innocuous comment, but coming from the lips of Teresa it has a different slant on it. The kind of slant that implies we are two trollops with a drink problem. -It's all I can do not to club her over the head with the can of baked beans.
'I would imagine you are doing the same thing that we are doing here, Teresa. No prayer meetings to go to?' says Lizzie pointedly.
'Just come back from one.' She smiles smugly, completely oblivious of the sarcasm.
'Have you been reading Holly's diary in the paper?'
'No, I don't read the tabloids. Full of smut.' Right, now I'm going to clock her one. 'But I do know Fleur. I believe she is the fiancée of the officer you are shadowing, Holly?'
Will we ever be free of this girl? Ever? Why couldn't we have met someone nice in the supermarket? The Beverley Sisters perhaps? How on earth does she know Fleur?
'How do you know Fleur?' I ask in surprise.
'My prayer group does some Bible work down at the bereavement charity where she works. Such a nice girl. She is so sweet. And kind.' And what are we, the twin sisters of Genghis Khan? 'We were just chatting the other day and she mentioned her fiancé was being shadowed by a reporter. And of course I knew that was you, Holly, although I have never read your diary.' I think she has mentioned that before.
'We would love to stay and talk, Teresa, but we do have to get back,' I snarl. We all smile a little stiffly. Teresa goes to walk away and then hesitates. 'I would just like to say, Holly, that your Ben was nice.' There is a peculiar, smug expression on her face. It flashes there for a moment and then it is gone. She adds, 'Bye,' and walks off.
'God!' I fume as we walk towards the car, 'what has she got to be so bloody self-righteous about! And don't you think it was a funny thing to say at the end about Ben?' 'Oh, don't let the annoying cow get to you. She's got it into her head that any ordinary person needs to be rescued from themselves and she's probably thinking you need to be pitied just because you have a normal, functional relationship.'
After we have consumed a bottle of wine, half a quiche Lorraine, two French fancies and a sherbet dip each, we seethe and bitch about Teresa to our heart's content. Then Lizzie takes her leave, pleading an early morning meeting.
After she has left, I wander around the flat, strangely restless. I pick things up and put them down again. I mindlessly puff the cushions on the sofa. I wipe the work surfaces in the kitchen and then I go through and phone Ben.
'Hi! It's me.'
'Hi!'
'Just called to see how you are.'
'I'm fine. Do you want me to come round?'
'Yes please.'
Long after Ben has gone to sleep, I lie awake. My head is full of Fleur and James. To distract myself, I turn to thoughts of the burglaries. Who would Mr Williams have let into his house? If he had seen the person who assaulted him, would he have recognised his attacker?
T
his being my first-ever visit to a television studio, I have to admit to feeling just a little apprehensive. I am greeted at the reception desk by an over-bright, shan't-keep-you-a-minute peroxide blonde. While I sit patiently in the reception area for someone to collect me, I look at the photos all around me of the studio's stars. Some I recognise, most I do not. This is unsurprising as I am not an avid viewer of local television. I have never been on television before, if you don't count the time my school class were given a slot on the local news for creating an Easter garden. I was the only child not to have a plant in the garden. We all had to bring one from home and my mother dug up what she thought was a lily-of-the-valley, while waxing lyrical about what a gorgeous flower it was and how beautiful it smelt. Unfortunately, she was actually digging up wild garlic. My plant and I stank the classroom out and we were both banned from the Easter garden. The crew who filmed our two-minute slot thought it would be amusing to bung me in at the end with my wilting garlic plant. Not quite so amusing to an eleven-year-old who cried for a week afterwards, and it took almost two terms for me to shake off the nickname 'Humming Holly, the greatest-known antidote to vampires'.
A girl wearing an outfit consisting of black leggings and a bobbly, sloppy jumper, complete with customised Union Jack Dr Martens, comes out of a door to one side of the reception. Her hair is coloured bright orange, her ears are pierced three times each side and her nose is pierced as well.
'Holly Colshannon?' Her plummy accent is in complete contrast to her appearance; she sounds as though she was taught to speak with several toffees in her mouth. But then this is the BBC. Queen's English and all that.
That's me!'
'Follow me.'
We twist and turn through a maze of corridors. We don't talk at all as there is only enough room for us to walk behind each other. We finally come to a stop in front of a door and the girl knocks politely and goes in. I follow. The room is small and completely lit by artificial light from overhead strips. There is a large barber's chair facing a wall of mirrors and the man who is sitting in it leaps to his feet. He has several tissues tucked into his collar, and a woman, who I presume is some sort of make-up artist, appears next to him.
'Hello!' he exclaims jovially. 'Jolly nice to meet you!'
'Hello! I'm Holly.' He pumps away at my proffered hand as though he's aiming to produce something from me. Maybe he's expecting water to start gushing from my mouth.
'Super to meet you, Holly! Simply super! I'm Giles, Southwest Tonight's host. How are you today?'
'Er, fine, thank you. How are you?' I ask politely.
'Very well, very well. I suppose it's been a big week for you!'
'Er, yes. It's all happened so quickly, quite a surprise really!'
'Oh no! Surely not? You must have been preparing for this for a long time.'
'Well, no, not really. I was covering pet funerals before this.'
'Not your own?'
'Er, no. Other people's.'
'Tragic, tragic.' He observes a couple of seconds' silence for the deceased pets while staring solemnly at his shoes. I stare at them too. He looks back up, respects paid. 'So, where are the little critters?'
'Sorry?'
'Where are they?' He beams at me. I frown.
'Well, most of them are in Bristol Cemetery. They have a special section there.'
'No, I mean the live ones. Didn't you bring them?
This man is completely off his rocker.
The girl with orange hair tugs at Giles' sweater.
'This is Holly Colshannon, Giles.' She speaks slowly, as though spelling it out to a five-year-old. I'm hanging on to her every syllable. 'She's from the
Bristol Gazette
. She's doing the diary with the police detective.' Giles' eyes clear and light dawns.
'Sorry, thought you were the lady with the prize-winning ferrets. She's on tonight as well.' Orange head, standing just behind his elbow, raises her eyes to the ceiling. I grin.
'Er, no. No ferrets, prize-winning or otherwise, I'm afraid.'
'Oh, right. Well, I wondered where the black eye had come from. Thought you might have had a run-in with one of the judges or something,' he chuckles. 'How's the newspaper business then?'
'Er, fine.' I am saved from having to go through this very arduous conversation once more by the make-up lady, who huffily says, 'Look, Giles, I'm not going to get time to do your eyes unless we start now.'
I am whisked away to a sort of waiting room by orange head (whose name turns out to be Rosemary). 'I am soooo sorry. He doesn't normally mix the guests up. Can't think why he did it this time. You'll be on in twenty minutes. A sound man will come and rig you up with a microphone.'
'Do I look like someone who raises ferrets?' I ask jokingly.
'Well …' She leaves me in the waiting room. I stare after her. That's a bit rich coming from someone with flags on their feet.
In due course a sound man with the rather appropriate name of Mike (Mike's-my-name-and-miking's-my-game) turns up. It seems he has one intention and one intention only and that is to get as familiar with my body as is feasibly possible within the space of two minutes. He keeps up a steady patter throughout. 'All right love? Just going to slip this down there … Oops! No need to look like that love, you're in expert hands here … Had Sue Pollard in last week. Now there's a one. She says, "Mike, go one inch further and you'll know me better than my gynaecologist!'" He roars with laughter at this.'There you are, love. Any slippage, just shout.'
Rosemary comes into the room clasping a clipboard to her chest. She walks over to me. 'Ready?'
'I think so.' I get up and follow her out of the room.
'Rosemary? Can you tell me what sort of questions Giles is going to ask?'
'Oh, nothing to worry about. He's just going to ask you some general things. Remember to talk to him, not the camera.'