'It wasn't that bad,' says Callum, grabbing a canapé from a tray as it whizzes past.
Be careful, I warn myself. I try to shrug nonchalantly. 'No, just a bit embarrassing the way Giles stitched me up.'
'My flatmate is a real fan of the diary. He says that he didn't like the skirt you were wearing the other day. The beige one with the—'
'Poppies on it,' I finish wearily. 'He's not the only one. I will be burning it as soon as I get home. So have you written your best man speech yet?'
'Haven't even started! I'm a bit nervous about what to say in front of all this lot. I have a feeling coppers aren't really their thing. James seems to fit in OK though.' He lowers his voice to a whisper. 'Have you met that girl Susie? Now she's a—'
'You called me Jack after one of your cats?' whispers an amused voice in my ear.
I jump as James sidles into our conversation, 'I suppose my mother told you?' I grin.
'You suppose right.'
'You should count yourself lucky – the other one is called Jasper.'
'Well in that case, thank you for calling me Jack. Not tempted to show us all the bottle trick with your toes yet?' he asks, eyeing my glass of champagne.
'Maybe later.'
He smiles. Callum makes the excuse that none of the canapés seem to be heading our way and wanders off in search of nourishment. James and I are left alone. I examine the carpet intently. Is it Persian or Siamese? Or am I thinking of cats again? Never having been in a social situation with James, I feel awkward and gauche suddenly. What on earth do we talk about?
I clear my throat and ask, 'Are you feeling nervous yet?'
'What of? You?'
'No, the wedding.'
'Oh, the wedding.' He shrugs. 'No, not yet. Are you coming? You can make free and loose with my father-in-law's booze.'
'If you want me to. Come, that is.'
'I would like you to come.'
We look at each other for a second and I think I detect some sadness in his expression but it could be wishful thinking on my part. If only we had some more time together, but from my brief experience of James Sabine, I know this wedding will go ahead. He is a man who keeps his promises.
We glance over sharply at my mother as her shrill laughter peals out and I smile.
'She's wonderful,' he says.
'Thank you.'
'What's with the expression, "Shit Macgregor"?'
I sigh, emotional crisis avoided. 'Don't, whatever you do, ask her to tell you.'
'Why?'
'Because it rather predictably involves a Scotsman, a rowing boat and it's not funny when you've heard it for the hundredth time.'
James laughs and Fleur miraculously appears at his elbow.
'Holly, can I borrow him for a minute?'
'He's all yours,' I reply truthfully.
'Darling, there's someone I want you to meet …' she says as she leads him away. I wander over to my parents' group, picking up a fresh glass of champagne on the way. I stand politely on the outskirts, trying to pick up the conversation, when a figure by the door catches my attention. I frown to myself. He's very familiar. It's like seeing your postman in the supermarket – you can't place them when they're out of context. He starts to look aggressively around and then relaxes minutely as he spots his prey. He strides over to the subject of his gaze and just at that moment I recognise who it is.
It's Alastair.
I take a step towards him but it's too late. He's punched James Sabine squarely in the face. 'Bloody hell,' says my father.
J
ames goes down like a sack of potatoes and a collective gasp goes up. A strange hush then falls around the room. Everyone stands motionless, stunned. It is like that statue game we used to play as kids. Callum and Lizzie are the first on the scene. I can't hear what Callum is saying to Alastair but his body language indicates that it's along the lines of, 'You're completely loopy but I'm going to speak calmly in case you've got a gun.' He looks enormously relieved when Lizzie, after checking James is OK, spins around to confront Alastair.
'What the hell are you doing?' she shrieks, doing a good impression of a banshee which goes down particularly well with the room's acoustics. For a moment I think she might stop and ask whether we can hear her at the back, to which I would give a hearty thumbs-up. I inwardly wince and hope no one remembers I brought her.
At this point James gets back to his feet and a morbid little group presses forward, myself among them, to see how much blood there is. I have a more personal interest than just plain old curiosity. Enter Fleur from stage left. She pushes through the crowd and throws herself on him. 'James, darling, are you all right? How many fingers am I holding up?'
'Fleur, don't be ridiculous,' he snaps, 'I'm fine.' I suppress a smile.
Alastair must have caught his nose. I make this lightning deduction from the blood pouring from it. Fleur pulls a handkerchief out from somewhere and hands it to him. I almost have to stand on my hands to stop myself from playing the ministering angel and flinging myself into the middle of the intimate group.
Although Alastair's actions must have made sense to him at some point, he is looking very confused now. All eyes swivel to him; he has centre stage and looks as though he doesn't know quite what to do with it. Lizzie stands before him, drawn up to her full five feet four and a half inches, hands clenched into tight little fists, and I have a shrewd suspicion she is quite enjoying all this. The red dress was absolutely the right choice of outfit.
'Have you been drinking? What do you think you are doing?' she repeats.
'I …I …' Cue some goldfish impressions until inspiration obviously dawns. 'Well, what are
you
doing?' he asks triumphantly.
Lizzie's turn to do the goldfish thing. A sarcastic voice interrupts. 'I take it you two know each other?'
Lizzie turns to the voice. 'Yes, we do. I'm so sorry, James. I don't know why—'
'I thought he was called Jack?' Alastair demands.
I wince as this verbal body blow ricochets off James and hits me directly.
Please
don't say this is anything to do with the diary. James' eyes look over in my general direction.
'Well, yes, he is. In the diary.' Lizzie throws a sympathetic glance my way. I look over to my mother, who makes an 'isn't this exciting' face at me. Any minute now she is going to start passing round the chocolates.
'Shall we all go and talk about this?' James says in a quiet voice. The crowd leans forward, trying to catch his words. He gently hustles Lizzie, Alastair, Callum and Fleur towards the door, like a shepherd herding sheep. He then looks back, jerks his head at me and I sheepishly follow like a good little baa-lamb.
As we all exit the room, with me bringing up the rear, the hum of conversation resumes, louder than ever. Our sombre little group moves across the hall and into another room directly opposite the one we have just exited. It, too, is a beautiful room. A huge stone fireplace, laid with paper, wood and coal but remaining unlit, takes up most of one wall. The other walls are full of books and a huge antique mahogany desk sits grandly below a bay window. I sink into the welcoming softness of one of the chintzy sofas in front of the fireplace.
'Fleur,' says James, 'go back to the party. I'm fine, really.'
She puts her head to one side in concern and I feel like giving her a good kick up the … It's amazing how quickly your feelings can change towards a person when you know they're about to marry the love of your life next Saturday.
'And you, Callum. It's not a police matter.' I raise my eyebrows at this. Maybe they get lunatics throwing punches at them all the time? Callum and Fleur quietly leave the room.
Alastair draws himself up to his full height. James, by contrast, ignores him and flops down on the sofa opposite me. Alastair turns to Lizzie. 'How long has this been going on for, eh? I'm no fool. The flowers, the phone calls. Holly introduced you to him, didn't she? DIDN'T SHE?' I don't know what he's talking about but I'm taking it personally.
'Alastair. I don't know what you're talking about,' Lizzie cries. 'The first time I met this man was with Holly in a hospital a few nights ago.'
'Which time was that?' I ask James from the sofa.
The bottle on the toe incident,' he says from the other sofa.
'Oh.' The whole conversation is above us in both a metaphorical and physical sense.
'Who are you having an affair with?' demands Alastair.
'No one. Am I, Holly?'
'Not unless you count me. She's practically moved into my flat,' I reply.
'I thought you were staying with him.' He points in a dramatic, accusing fashion at James but luckily James is too busy checking his blood situation to notice.
'No,' Lizzie explains patiently, 'I've been at Holly's. How do you know I haven't been at home?'
It's Alastair's turn to look a little sheepish and examine the fine stitchwork on the rug in front of him. 'I've rung and I might have popped by a couple of times.'
'Checking up on me?'
His head snaps round. 'Maybe you need checking up on.'
'Well, I'm surprised you could spare the time away from your precious
work
,' Lizzie, spits out.
'I am trying to get a promotion, and did it ever cross your mind why?' Alastair is practically shouting now.
From the relative safety of the sofa, James asks wearily, 'Do Holly and I need to be here any more?'
Lizzie glances down. 'No, I think we need to work this out by ourselves. I'm sorry about your nose.'
Alastair adds, 'Er, so am I. I thought that James waves his explanation aside and says, 'That's OK,' but in a voice that clearly indicates it's not. We heave ourselves up from our respective sofas and wander out into the hall.
'Do you want to get some ice for that?' I ask as the blood still trickles. 'I think it might stop the bleeding.' James nods and leads the way across the hall, down a set of stairs and through a door. Inside a large, airy kitchen five people are working, crudités and smoked salmon pin wheels almost literally coming out of their ears. The kitchen has an old-fashioned Aga in one corner and I could probably fit my entire flat inside this one room.
James slumps down at a large oak table surrounded by chairs in the middle of the room. I bustle over to one of the people and ask for some ice. Call me a sad female (in fact, I might call myself that later), but I get a great deal of pleasure from doing this one simple thing for James. What is it with us women? Couldn't they have beaten this nurturing instinct out of us at birth or something? I find a tea towel, wrap the ice up in it and place it over his nose. 'Thanks,' comes the muffled response. We sit in silence for a few minutes, until he asks, 'Was she having an affair?'
'No!' I reply emphatically.
'Then why was she getting flowers and phone calls?' Damn, I should have known his sharp little detective ears would pick that up.
'Was she?' I ask innocently.
'He said she was. This is nothing to do with you is it, Holly?'
'Not exactly.'
'I knew it,' he sighs. 'Why does trouble seem so determined to dog your every step?'
'I don't know,' I say in a very small voice.
Pause.
'You only need one more bash in the face and then we'll be quits!' I quip because I'm pretty eager to get off the subject of Lizzie and exactly what my role was in the whole debacle.
'Your incidents were complete and utter accidents, whereas somehow you're involved in this.'
'Do you think it will bruise?'
'At least we'd have matching injuries.'
'But you and Fleur won't next weekend. The colour will probably clash horribly with her dress.'
'Don't worry. It won't bruise.' This seems significant in a funny sort of way.
Fleur arrives. 'Darling, I've been looking all over! How is it now?' She looks a bit annoyed at finding us together so I make my excuses and leave them.
My parents and I say our goodbyes to our hosts and, just like the musketeers, our number is down to three as we climb into the car and make our way back to my flat. Alastair and Lizzie were still locked in the study when we left and I presume he will give her a lift home. My mother mercilessly pumps me for information on the evening's events and I gleefully relate them, thankful for something else to think about.
The rest of the weekend drags by as though time is playing a sick joke. I go through simultaneous agonies of longing for the next week to be over and yet dreading the time when I won't see James any more. My mother is fantastic. She refuses to let me mope around the flat and insists we go for a bracing walk by the sea and then for tea in a local hotel on the Sunday. But everywhere I look I am reminded of him. It's like a record going around in my head that can't be turned off, and even I'm getting a bit sick of the tune. When we return home, I call Lizzie for the umpteenth time since the party. And for the umpteenth time since the party, the phone just rings.
Just when I was beginning to think it wouldn't, thankfully Monday morning dawns. I dress with great zealous-ness and Tristan and I set off eagerly. The journey takes a short time and I soon find myself bounding up the steps to the police station. .
'Morning Dave!' I greet my new friend (formerly the-grumpy-git-desk-sergeant).
'Good weekend, Holly?'
'Yeah, fine,' I say brightly,
'This is your last week with us, isn't it?' I nod and smile in answer. 'Bet you won't know what to do with yourself afterwards!' I grin again and think to myself that he doesn't know just how true that is.
As I arrive in the office, the night shift is finishing putting up a huge great banner across the office. It reads: 'JAMES SABINE'S LAST WEEK OF FREEDOM! MARRIAGE IS NOT JUST A WORD, IT'S A SENTENCE!'
I grin up at them all as they stand on top of the desks. 'That's great!' I exclaim.
'Took us all night to make!' one of them tells me.
'Quiet was it?'
'Very.'
I settle down at my desk and try to ignore the giant swatch of fabric hanging above me. I get out my laptop and collect my e-mails. There's one from Joe asking me to come in tonight to discuss 'my next assignment'. I sigh and wonder if the mayor's dog has died and he wants me to cover it. The rest of the day shift filters in and gradually the office fills with noise and the smell of coffee. Phones start to ring and people begin to yell. A cheer breaks out from across the office and I look up. James has come in and is staring at the banner. I try to arrange my features into a suitable grin and watch him as he ambles across.