'So you "handled" him?' I ask indignantly. Ah, a little too feisty. Her hand inches towards the poker. I relax my face into an enquiring look.
'Holly,' she says in her best condescending manner, T don't just handle
him
, I handle everyone. Do you think it's easy being rich? Do you?' I open my mouth to answer that not only does it look quite easy but that I'm certain I could do it standing on my head with both my hands tied behind my back, but then hastily close it again lest I get the poker shoved in.
'It's not like the good old days when everyone bowed and curtsied to you. Gave you respect just because you had money. Nowadays you have to
justify
why you have money. I blame it on the Lottery.' She walks in agitation over to the window. ' People think you don't have problems just because you have money. You can't say a cross or unkind word to anyone without RICH BITCH being branded across your forehead.' She shrugs. 'I got bored with it. So one day I decided that I would be sweetness and light to everyone.'
'Hence the bereavement charity?' I murmur.
'Yes, actually. Hence the bereavement charity.' She stares at me, challenging me to protest. I don't; her trigger finger is twitching and I don't fancy being on the receiving end of it. 'I was bored with the Hooray Henrys my father used to undisguisedly throw in front of me. What I wanted was a really good man but I just didn't know where to meet him. There were only a certain number of jobs I could take without qualifications – the charity was my third attempt but it certainly paid off. Good men are hard to come by, Holly. You should know that.'
I nod numbly; actually I did know that. And her particular 'good man' is a once in a lifetime opportunity as far as I am concerned.
She reaches up and twirls a strand of hair around her finger, looking dreamily into the distance. 'And one so kind and honest.' She seems to snap to and her eyes lock back on to mine. 'And he's dynamite in the sack.'
I drop my eyes first. This one hits me squarely in the stomach and damn well nearly doubles me over. Golly, dynamite eh? Not that he'll ever be blowing up my quarry, but still, nice to know what I'll be missing. She turns her back to me and stares out of the window.
'We'll be spending a lot more time together as well when he finishes his work.'
'Finishes his work?' I echo.
'Daddy's going to offer him a nice little position in the company.'
'But James will hate that! He loves his job!' I exclaim.
'We'll see.' My mind reels with this simple phrase. How on earth could she persuade James to give up his work? I don't like to think of the many devious possibilities.
I stand up to leave. I have as much information as anyone can handle. Quietly replacing my glass on a side table, Fleur hears the gentle clink and spins around.
'Don't think you can run and tell him all this, Holly. He's on his stag do somewhere, you won't find him. And don't bother turning up tomorrow because I'll have security throw you out. Even with your lust for publicity you would find that distasteful.'
Incapable of saying anything, I shake my head.
'And don't even consider contacting him after the wedding. I'll tell him you're a compulsive liar. He'll believe me over a reporter any day.' There is a pause as her eyes challenge me to make a rebellion. Seeing there is none, she shrugs to herself and turns away again. 'It wouldn't make any difference at any rate. James is a man of his word.' A small smile plays around her lips. 'That's the great thing about good men; once he's made a commitment, he'll make it for life.'
'Why on earth did you try to make friends with me?'
She shrugs to herself. 'I wanted to keep you close. You …' her eyes wander slowly downwards, '… used to be quite attractive.'
I stumble blindly from the room, tears blurring my vision. I tug frantically at the huge oak front door, slip out and run to Tristan. Wonderful Tristan. Fumbling with the key, I finally thrust it in and pray. My rock in a sea of despair. Make that a lightly slipping sand structure, I add to myself as the starter motor chugs over and fails to make the vital connection. Come on Tristan! I angrily bang my hands on the dashboard. Get me out of here! I can almost feel Fleur's eyes on my back. I try again and he apologetically hums into life. Ramming him into first gear, we hurtle down the drive and out on to the country lane.
I ease up a bit as we put the miles between us and Fleur. No wonder that bitch is friends with Teresa the Holy Cow. A match made in heaven, the two of them. There is no doubt Fleur is one hell of an actress – she had me completely and utterly duped. Her acting skills would put my mother to shame any day.
I have to tell James. I have to somehow get to him and tell him all this. My mind resolved by this rather flimsy mission statement, I put pedal to the metal. The hedgerows whizz by in a blur and are gradually replaced by increasingly urban scenery. A thought filters through a tiny chink in my brain and I let up on the accelerator a tad. What if James doesn't want to know all this? Let's face it, it's the last thing you want the night before your wedding. Some daffy blonde riding up like the cavalry, blowing her bugle or whatever, proclaiming she's here to save you. And don't think, Holly Colshannon, that he'll thank you for bringing him this spot of bad news, give the travel agent a quick call and jet off with you on the honeymoon. You can stop right there with that little fantasy; he thought you were quirky, remember? And Fleur, with all her talk of commitment, is right about one thing – James takes it very seriously. Surely he'll feel he's already committed? That a slight technicality of fifteen hours or so won't make much difference?
I mull these things over in my brain and come to one conclusion. James needs to know. Even if he never speaks to me again, even if he decides to go through with it anyway, he still needs to know. For once in my life I am going to do something right. Tristan and I accelerate towards the city centre.
S
tag dos. Stag dos. Where on earth would you go on a stag do? I speed into the centre of town, park Tristan at a rakish angle and dive into a nearby pub. The Friday night punters don't give a second glance to the rather tatty, wild-looking blonde staring frantically about. Instead they set about the serious task of getting profoundly pissed, their faces set determinedly. I can't see James or anyone else from the department so I dive back out and continue down Park Street. Like a whirling dervish, in and out of pubs, clubs, wine bars and any other watering hole you care to mention I go, getting more and more distraught as time goes on. Cursing what I had previously considered a blessing – Bristol's extremely wide and varied choice of drinking venues – I come to a screaming halt outside Wedgies nightclub. 'I'm looking for a stag do,' I say to one of the bouncers standing outside.
'We've got plenty in here, love. Take your pick.'
'No, no. A particular stag do. He's tall with …'
'Are you the stripper?' he interrupts.
'I certainly am not!'
His glance strays to my extremely inappropriate choice of clothing, finally coming to rest on my clogs. 'No, no. I can see that,' he murmurs.
I draw myself up to my full height and stick out my chest. I am just about to ask why not when the clock on the Wills Memorial Building chimes ten. Realising I haven't really got time to debate my suitability as a stripper with a bouncer on a pavement on a Friday night, I make to walk past him. He puts out his hand to stop me. 'It's five quid to get in, love.' Clearly my appearance belies the fact I am earning a wage packet. 'That's fine,' I reply as haughtily as I can and strop into the nightclub. A bored woman behind a plastic screen holds out her hand.
'That's a fiver please.'
'I'm just looking for someone. I'm only going to be a couple of minutes.'
'That's what they all say. It's still a fiver.' Her hand clenches persistently. I sigh and get out my wallet. I have twenty quid. This is going to prove to be an expensive evening.
A quick look around confirms the fact that I am wasting my time and I walk back out into the evening air, giving the lady and the bouncer a backward wave as I continue down the street. Girls dolled up in their finest party gear and tottering along on high heels stare and giggle as I clomp by in my clogs. In and out, in and out, I weave.
I pass a cash point and empty my virtual piggy bank, giving me a total sum of another forty pounds to spend. I eventually zigzag into town, my pockets considerably lighter, and eye the Odyssey nightclub. My feet are beginning to blister inside my clogs and my ankles are bleeding from where I keep catching them on the side of my wholly inappropriate footwear. Sinking down on to a nearby bench, I morosely study the ground. Scenes from my future life play before me. Will I be left an old maid? Playing mother to Lizzie and Alastair's gorgeous posse of children? Will I meet James again? I look about despondently until my eyes spot the police station. Of course! I leap up with renewed energy and purpose and, with a hop, a skip and a jump, bound over to the doors. I burst through the entrance, questions already on my lips. 'Dave! Do you know where …' I slow down and slide to a halt as a complete stranger looks up at me enquiringly.
'Where's Dave?'
'He finished his shift at seven o'clock, miss. Can I help you with anything?'
'Do you know Detective Sergeant Sabine?'
'Erm, the name's familiar. Is he a day shift officer?'
'Er, yes.'
'Well, I wouldn't know him then, miss. I'm night shift only.' He looks dismissively down at his pile of papers.
'Could you possibly buzz me in? You see, they're all out on a stag do and I thought I could just call …'
'Can I see your security pass?'
I rather needlessly pat my various pockets. 'I've left it at home, but …'
'I can't let you through then.'
'I rather need to get hold of Detective Sergeant Sabine. Is it possible you could just look up a couple of officers' details on the computer? I thought I could ring their wives and ask them if they know where they might have all gone.'
'I couldn't possibly hand out an officer's personal phone number to anyone.' He silences me as I start to protest. 'Even if I wanted to. I can't access that sort of information on the computer here. You need to go upstairs to do that. Which you, young lady, are certainly not doing.' My shoulders sag as I frantically try to think of a way around the problem. My brain clouds as panic sets in and, without any further explanation, I turn on my heels and run out of the station.
I make my way back to Tristan and together we zoom into another part of Bristol. It's half past eleven now. The pubs will be emptying and the nightclubs filling up so I am better to start concentrating on those. Abandoning Tristan, I start my search on the triangle and then move on to Whiteladies Road. Nothing. I'm running out of money and places to look. Two more clubs left and I only have a fiver. I take a gamble on one and pull a blank. He's not there. Sinking on to another conveniently placed bench, I put my head in my hands and start to cry. On and on I weep, tiredness and despair adding their eyefuls. Someone's warmth touches my hand. I look up.
'Here you are. Get yourself some food.' Someone presses a pound into my bewildered hand. I start to cry even harder and my breathing comes in short gulps and gasps. Another person comes forward and presses a coin into my hand. I just sit and stare down at the money. One pound and fifty pence. I look quickly over at the last nightclub. I need another three pounds fifty to get in. 'Can you spare any change?' I ask a passerby, grateful for the first time this evening of my choice of outfit. They ignore me and pass on by. 'Can you spare any change?' I plead and beg, eyeing a genuine homeless person watching me incredulously from the sideline. I stare at him, challenging him to step in and queer my pitch. What on earth have I descended to? He walks away muttering, knowing a genuine nutcase when he sees one. I silently apologise to him and pledge a pound to every homeless person I see from now on if only I can gather enough money together to get into this last nightclub. I just know James will be there.
I soon have my required five pounds and run into the nightclub, leaving my last donor staring after me in disbelief, doubtless thinking me a no-hope alcoholic. I eagerly hand over my ill-gotten gains and walk through the doors. Music booms at me and my eyes take a few seconds to adapt to the dim light and flashing strobes. I walk around, looking desperately from person to person, my eyes constantly roving. Suddenly I spot a broad back I think I recognise. Yes! A crop of short sandy hair. I dart after him. 'James!' I call. I catch up with him and lay a hand on his back. He turns around. 'James! I've been …'
A complete stranger looks me up and down. 'Sorry … I thought you …' I stutter. Without waiting for a reply, I turn blindly away and walk out into the night.
I drive slowly home, unwilling to give up but also defeated. My parents are anxiously waiting for me as I walk into the sitting room. 'Where the hell have you been? It's two o'clock in the morning! We've been worried sick!' My father goes on to expand upon this comment with further recriminations, doubtless all justified, but my mother, seeing my tear-stained, dirty face, silences him. Unquestioningly, she undresses me and puts me to bed.
Expecting to lie awake, I surprise myself by instantly dropping off to sleep.
I wake with a start the next morning, my heart racing. The clock says eight. The wedding is at twelve-thirty but I still have a few hours. Throwing yesterday's clothes back on, I hastily go through to the kitchen. No sign of life from my parents' room. Not wanting to wake them after their fraught evening, I leave a note propped against a milk bottle, grab my keys and run out to the car, only pausing to grab my bag containing my security pass and my wallet.
Once down at the station (still no sign of Dave), I am admitted through the security barrier and bound up the stairs, intent on making a few phone calls. A few officers I don't know are on duty but listen patiently as I trot out a convoluted story I made up in the car on the way down about needing to get hold of James Sabine on urgent police business. They nod understandingly and one of them obligingly logs on to the computer. 'You're out of luck, love,' he says after a few minutes of tapping. 'Detective Sergeant Sabine's on annual leave. All calls should be routed to Detective Sergeant Callum Thompson, it says here.'