'Probably trying to stop you suing him,' I say in my Eeyore voice, crossing my arms and huffing down into my pillows.
'The way you described him I thought he was going to be a monster. Mind you, what you've written about him this last week or so, the whole village has been …'
I interrupt hastily. 'So, have you told anyone else I'm here? Lizzie? Ben?' Not that I want people to worry, you understand, but a potentially dramatic situation such as this shouldn't be wasted.
'Well, I called Lizzie last night, but I'm afraid I didn't know how to get hold of Ben so I asked Lizzie to contact him. I'll call her in a sec and tell her you're awake.'
James walks back in carrying three cups on a tray.
'The nurse is sending the doctor down to have a look at you. A cup of coffee, Sorrel? Patrick?'
Sorrel and Patrick? SORREL AND PATRICK? My word, someone has got his feet firmly under the table. I haven't heard them called that for absolutely years. In my small circle of friends they're known as Mr and Mrs C, and their friends all 'darling' each other to death. I had almost forgotten those were their names.
'Thank you, James. How sweet of you.'
My mother sits herself down in one of the chairs and gets out a packet of cigarettes.
'Did you get me a coffee?' I ask James a little pathetically.
James frowns. 'No. The doctor's coming to see you in a minute. I don't think you should be drinking coffee.' Oh no, silly old moi. I eye my mother's cigarette packet. No coffee, because the caffeine would be bad for you, as opposed to being suffocated by someone else's smoke fumes.
'Do you think I can smoke in here, darlings?' asks my mother to the general ensemble. James shrugs and looks up. 'Can't see any detectors.' What has happened to the pedantic, sarcastic detective? Not to mention law-abiding?
'No, I don't bloody think you can smoke in here,' I bluster.
'Oh, don't be so stuffy, darling. Honestly, we poor smokers are in the minority now. We're pushed out to the very fringes of society. Not welcome anywhere.' She lights up and pats the chair next to her. 'So, James, come and tell me all about how you managed to meet Miles' little girl. I was absolutely amazed when Holly told me that you were the groom. Have you met Miles? A frightful old fart, isn't he?'
Oh fine. That's just fine. Don't mind me. I've just regained consciousness, that's all. Nothing at all to concern yourselves with. I'll just lie here and wait until you finish your little chat.
And so it is in this convivial ambience that Dr Kirkpatrick finds us a quarter of an hour later. One slightly smoky room, one sulky patient, one charming police officer (who, I might add, is being so bloody charming my mother will probably think I've been making the stories up about him) and two laughing parents. I perk up a little when he enters the room because (a) it is Dr Kirkpatrick and he's gorgeous and (b) the attention is back on me, albeit for a brief and probably short-lived while. That is, of course, if the three musketeers over there can break off from their fascinating conversation. Hats off to James Sabine, as my family's ability to talk about nothing for hours on end is legendary. And it takes someone of a fairly deep character to understand and keep up with the superficiality. My mother starts to frantically spray perfume lest her smoking is detected.
He is gorgeous. Dr Kirkpatrick, that is. His dark hair, freshly washed, flops suggestively down over his face.
He grins at me. 'Back again, Holly?'
'I can't keep away,' I murmur. He takes my wrist and concentrates intently. He 'hmm's' a bit to himself and then walks around to the front of the bed and picks up my chart. He scribbles a few notes.
'Well, can't see any long-term damage. But I would like to keep you in until about teatime for observation. Can't be too careful with concussion cases.' I look over to the three of them to ensure that they are carefully heeding his words.
He also turns to the corner group. 'Can one of … oh, hello Detective! How are you?' He shakes hands with James. 'Keeping well?' He's bloody buggery fine, I feel like shouting. I'm the wounded one, over here in the bed. The one he almost clubbed to death.
Dr Kirkpatrick continues: 'Can one of you take Holly home? Around about teatime?' They all nod their agreement and the doctor turns back to me.
'I'll be back on my rounds after lunch, Holly, to check on you.' A brief smile and he's gone. James gets up.
'I'm going to go and get some work done,' he says.
A thought occurs to me. Butterflies of panic suddenly start up in my stomach.
'What happened with the diary? Did Vince let the paper know?'
'Of course. In fact, I helped Joe write it last night. Well, supplied the information anyway. And don't worry; I'll do the same at the end of today. To be honest though, there won't be much to report. I'll be interviewing Christine and then I'll have to start preparing the case against her. So it's paperwork for the most part.'
'James, dear,' says my mother, 'would you mind calling Lizzie on the way out? Here's the number. Only mobile phones aren't allowed in here.' Oh right. As opposed to smoking, which is of course perfectly legit. My mother's interpretation of the rules never ceases to amaze me.
He takes the number from her. 'I'll come back at lunchtime.'
'Call Joe too!' I shout after his disappearing back. He raises his hand in acknowledgement.
We all sit in companionable silence for a few minutes.
'Dad? Could you do me a favour? Could you see if you could get a copy of the paper? I'd like to read the diary.' My father duly disappears on his errand and I take the opportunity of a room relatively empty of people to make a run for the loo. I wrap the flimsy gown around my backside, scurry into the bathroom and then return to settle again on my pillows.
'Well,' says my mother, 'what a nice bloke that James is. I have to say I like him excessively.'
There is another few minutes' pause. I am starting to feel distinctly uncomfortable as I can see the way my mother's mind is working. The cogs are turning and she's thinking 'What on earth is this very attractive young man doing racing around most of Bristol all in aid of my daughter? And shouldn't I, as the mother of the aforementioned daughter, and indeed a wedding guest at his impending nuptials, be enquiring a little deeper into this?'
'So, do you like him, darling?'
I stare intently down at the sheets and wonder whether the hospital has its own laundry.
'He's OK,' I say noncommittally.
Pause.
'The whole village is reading the diary, darling. We've taken to photocopying it and putting it up on the notice board! They're all huge fans! You'll be opening the church fête soon! Mrs Murdoch thinks you must like him a lot.' She tacks this neatly on to the end.
'For goodness sake! He's getting married in a week's time!' I explode. 'You are invited to his wedding; for that matter, so am I! His fiancée, Fleur, the daughter of your friend Miles, is a really nice girl. And what about Ben? Do you like Ben?'
'Of course we do, darling. Of course we do.' She pauses. 'Although …'
'Although what?' I snap, starting to get well and truly rattled now. My God! I've just been bonked on the head, out cold for practically days on end and she breezes in here with a quick 'Feeling better now, darling?' and then it's gloves on. Never mind my blood pressure. Never mind the doctor's 'Can't be too careful with concussion cases'.
'He went to public school, didn't he?' she murmurs.
'So? SO?'
'Well, it's just that I find public school boys, generally speaking, to be a little … There is the odd exception, of course …'
'A. Little. What?'
She looks me straight in the eye. 'Emotionally retarded.'
I gulp. 'Emotionally retarded?' I can't believe the front of the woman. This is the lady who regularly tries to change TV channels with a calculator and hides Christmas presents in the freezer.
'Yes, emotionally retarded. Their parents chuck them off to boarding school when they're about five and it's all "No tears, stiff upper lip, little man, your grandfather shot tigers in India". Then they all have fags; God knows what that means but let's face it, darling, the word has highly dubious connotations. And before you know it they're all grown up, know the school song by heart, have their old school ties but are unable to form a proper emotional relationship with anyone.'
She has obviously been reading
Tom Brown's Schooldays
.
'Well, that's not Ben,' I say staunchly, but a slight seed of doubt sows itself in my mind, which I daresay is her intention.
'That's OK then,' she says swiftly. She lights up another cigarette and lies back in the chair puffing smoke rings into the air and watching them float away. Now I'm feeling cross.
'So, do you like him? Ben?' I persist.
'Hmm?' she says, as though we finished discussing the subject ages ago. 'Of course we do, darling. Just as long as you know he'll make the commitment. Just as long as you're happy.'
She's very smart, my mother. Many just dismiss her as an empty-headed actress. It's all a carefully constructed front. She says those words with just the right degree of indifference. Of nonchalance. And even despite knowing it's all an act, it still has the desired effect on me. I start to doubt. Bravo, Sorrel Colshannon. A fine performance.
But you know what? I really don't want to think about this. I really, really don't. For some reason I'm feeling a little emotional and I'm having a hard time holding back the tears. It must be the shock setting in. And my life is complicated enough right now. I don't want to think about love because, frankly, there are more important things. I'm sitting in a hospital with concussion, my career has taken a big upturn with the diary, my best friend has just finished with her boyfriend and I also have …
'TV interview. Tomorrow at seven. Your detective called; I came straight down.' Joe waltzes into the room.
'I'm feeling better, Joe, thanks for asking. How are you?' I say crossly.
'Fine thanks.' He turns to my mother and proffers a hand. 'Joseph Heesman. Nice to meet you. You must be Holly's famous mother.'
'And you must be her notorious editor. Your reputation precedes you.'
'All bad, I hope?'
'Appalling.'
'What's up with her?' He gestures his head in my general direction.
'Cranky. Knock on the head.'
He addresses himself to me. 'You'll be all right for tomorrow, won't you? Right as a shower?'
'I don't know … one always has to be careful with concussion.'
'Come on, Holly! They've been on the phone all morning after the latest instalment.' He winks at my mother.
'Why "After the latest instalment"? What did you write?'
'Had all the makings of a high-class thriller. A criminal on the run. The good guys chase the bad one. Boy knocks girl out. For the second time as well! Not a traditional ending, admittedly. And the photos are knockout! Sorry, no pun intended. I've saved some of them for the interview.'
'Who's the TV interview with?'
'The same guy as before, just at the local station. But don't look at a Trojan horse's mouth. I have to say, the whole thing has generated a lot of interest. We've had people calling all morning to see how you are. Quite a little cult following you've got going,'
This, as blatant flattery always does, cheers me up.
'Really?'
'Yep, really.'
At this point my father comes back in and hands the newspaper over.
'Sony it took so long. It's a bloody warren in here.' I turn to my page quickly while my father and Joe make their introductions with lots of manful handshaking. 'Blimey Joe!' I say. 'No wonder it's caused some fuss!'
He's looking very pleased with himself and so he might. It starts:
I am writing this in lieu of our normal correspondent, Holly Colshannon, as she lies unconscious in a hospital bed as a result of today's dramatic developments …
'Photos are good too, aren't they? Vince is chuffed to bits with them. But he only had time to develop the first half of the film so we thought we would save the other half for the TV interview. He'll be coming down later, if that's OK? Take a few of you for tonight's edition.'
'Fine,' I say, grinning stupidly, still looking down at the article. The photos are excellent. There are a few of all of us (except Christine) running in a straggly group, looking like rejects from the
Keystone Cops
, and then a couple of the back of Christine haring off into the distance with us running after her. I finish reading the article and hand the paper over to my parents for them to see.
Joe stands up. 'Well, I'll be off. As long as you'll be all right for tomorrow. Everyone sends their best wishes from the paper, by the way. Should have brought you some flowers, shouldn't I?
'Yes. You should have.'
'I'll write tonight's edition again, so don't worry about that. Well done, Holly. Great stuff,' he says, as though I am not only personally responsible for being knocked out but also for engineering the whole thing as well. 'Are you being let out today?'
'Yeah, teatime.'
'Good, good. Every cloud has a bit of a coat, hasn't it? See you tomorrow, look after yourself tonight.' And with this he says goodbye to my parents and makes his exit.
I'm starting to feel tired. My mother, noticing my droopy eyes, says, 'Why don't you have a nap, darling? We'll go and get some tea in the canteen.'
I really am feeling sleepy now. A little nap. Maybe just for a minute.
I wake up with a start. My heart is racing. I was being chased …
'Holly? It's OK. You're all right.' People leaning over me come into focus. I gulp mouthfuls of air and gradually my heartbeat subsides. Lizzie is here, I notice, and my parents have returned.
'How long was I asleep?'
'About an hour. Lizzie arrived just after you nodded off,' says my mother.
'Hello! How are you feeling?' Lizzie's sympathetic face hovers over me.
'Oh, fine. Why aren't you at work?'
'Your detective called me and said you were awake. My whole office has been talking about nothing else since the paper this morning. Talk about drama! So I went through to Alastair and told him what had happened and he let me come immediately. You should do this more often, Hol!'