Pink Wellies and Flat Caps (39 page)

He looks at me expectantly.

‘For the sun …’ pipes up Georgie.

For the sun? In bloody December? What is she on?

‘… beds,’ she adds quickly. ‘They have the best sunbeds and spas here. We thought we’d come for a pre-Christmas treat.’

I give her an impressed nod.

‘Is that right?’ he says with a frown. ‘Is there something you need in the boot?’

Georgie sways unsteadily.

‘No,’ she chokes.

‘You can’t seem to stop looking at it.’

He clicks a button on his radio and Georgie frowns at me.

‘Can you run a check on vehicle registration Charlie-Mike-1-2-Foxtrot-Foxtrot-Alpha, Probably personalised and currently being driven by an Alice Lane.’

He looks at me curiously and I force a smile.

‘Open the boot please.’

Oh no.

‘Oh,’ breathes Georgie guiltily, her face turning white and her eyes as wide as saucers. I feel my stomach turn over.

Okay, I must stay calm. There is absolutely no reason to panic. What am I talking about? There is every reason to panic. My eyes stray unwillingly to the gun that sits innocently in his holster. I really should mention the replica gun and grenades. Oh really Alice, and just how do you plan to do that?

‘Before I open the boot officer I should just mention the replica AK47 assault rifle in the boot and oh yes, the replica grenades.’

I don’t think so.

‘The thing is
…’ stutters Georgie.

I glare at her.
The police officer’s eyes penetrate mine.

‘Please open the boot Miss Lane.’

Oh dear, why does he have to be so insistent? I so need a boot full Maltesers right now. Instead I have a boot full of grenades. Classic.

The radio crackles and a voice says,

‘Can affirm vehicle is registered to a Mr Charles Marrow of Chelsea.’

‘Can we just pay the fine?’ begs Georgie in a strained voice. ‘We really don’t want Charlie to find out that we were in Cornwall. He will be
very
cross and will no doubt take it out on Alice.’

I give her a sharp look. What on earth is she saying? The officer’s eyes hold mine for a second and he says,

‘Do you have reason to fear Mr Marrow?’

‘No, of course not, it’s just that
…’

Before I have time to reply he has taken the keys and clicked the boot open. The light hits the gun and grenades, and they glint beautifully in the midday sun. The masks seem to smile at us and I suddenly feel very sick. I gasp and Georgie sways unsteadily, mumbling
oh shit
under her breath. For one horrifying moment we all stare at them and the only sound is the crackling of the police radio. Georgie pushes me forward.

‘For God’s sake don’t just stand there, show him the gun,’ she yells.

Suddenly there is mayhem. The officer yanks the gun from his holster and points it at us menacingly while yelling,

‘Step away from the car. Face down on the ground, both of you, NOW,’ he yells.

‘Holy shit,’ cries Georgie. ‘We’re not fucking Thelma and Louise you know.’

‘On the ground NOW,’ he yells again, his voice shaking.

The radio bursts into life as he clicks it back on.

‘Requesting back up, repeat requesting back up, have two females, armed and dangerous. Driving vehicle Charlie-Mike-1-2-Foxtrot-Foxtrot-Alpha. Boot full of ammo. Possible terrorist attack. Close all access roads to Truro.’

Isn’t he getting just a touch carried away? Two females armed and dangerous? Boot full of ammo. God if I ever needed Maltesers now is the time. I wonder if my mother can bring a crate. Heaven knows how long we’ll be banged up for. What am I thinking? I’m sounding like a gangster. I can’t go to prison, I can’t even be arrested. I need to warn everyone of the turkey attack. I look down at the wet ground and slowly lower myself. This is going to ruin my Fat Face jeans. I could kill Georgie.

‘You can’t be serious,’ argues Georgie
. ‘Look at the state of the ground. It’s been raining all morning.’

‘Face down now. Fucking do it.’

Christ this is like something out of
The Sweeney.
I half expect him to say
you’re nicked
as he grabs my bag roughly and rummages through it.

‘Who are you working for?’ he demands.

‘I’m not at the moment. I’m actually looking for a job …’

‘What fucking organisation? Don’t play games with me.’

Shit.             

‘Tell him,’ screams Georgie.

‘The NHS,’ I say. ‘But not any more …’

He waves several sheets of paper in my face but all I can focus on is his gun. I am going to die on the A39 to Truro and all because I was going to a fancy dress party. My mother will have to identify my bullet
-ridden body. Don’t think about it, Ali, just don’t.

‘Christ, I’m in a Martina Cole novel,’ groans Georgie.

Georgie and her damn crime novels.

‘Don’t piss with me,’ he yells again.

‘Bloody hell,’ gasps Georgie as sirens blast from all directions and helicopters drone above us.

‘All this,’ she says, wide
-eyed, ‘for a replica gun. I dread to think what they would have done if we’d had the real thing. Shit, I reckon he would have bloody shot us.’

Three more police vans skid to a halt and dozens of armed police spill out with rifles aimed and decorating us with laser marker dots.

‘What the fuck did you say?’ asks the officer as he cautiously approaches the gun that sits innocently in the boot.

‘Jesus, I don’t believe this. Are you two for real?’

‘We are but they’re not,’ she says cheekily above the noise of the sirens.             

‘I think we’re in deep shit Ali, deep shit Truro,’ Georgie laughs as the officer fires water into the air from the AK47 rifle.

‘You are disturbed,’ I laugh back.

Oh well, it was fun while it lasted, but Thelma and Louise we are not.

After a lot of undercover investigations, which Georgie performs with such aplomb that I truly feel she has missed her vocation, we discover the ball is being held at Bradley Hall, a mile out of the village of Stantonford, and is costume or cocktail dress.

‘I learnt a lot from P
. D. James,’ she smiles.

By six-thirty I am ready. I stand in front of Georgie in my new white Tulle sweetheart cocktail dress. A glass of red wine in one hand and shimmering for all I’m worth. She assesses me glumly.

‘Do you need that black sash thing?’ she asks critically.

‘The black sash thing hides my tummy,’ I say miserably, knocking back the wine.

‘Ah yes, you have got fatter.’

‘Fatter,’ I say, my voice rising several octaves
. ‘What do you mean fatter? Surely that means I had to have been fat in the first place.’

She looks at me critically.

‘The sash makes you look like one of those Gladiator women.’

I gasp and pour more wine into my glass.

‘Gladiator women? This just gets worse Georgie.’

‘Well, it’s the bloody sequins at the top. They would be okay but with that sash you look like you’re about to enter the arena.’

I whip the sash off angrily and her face lights up.

‘That’s better. Do you have a corset or something?’

I shake my head. She jumps up and rummages through her case while I sip more wine to calm the churning butterflies in my stomach.

‘Here,’ she says, gleefully holding up what looks like some kind of Lycra torture instrument.

‘What’s that?’ I cry, feeling tears forming in my eyes at the sight of it.

‘It will squeeze all the fat in.’

‘All the fat? I’m not bloody Lisa Riley you know.’

I snatch it from her and dash to the loo. Five minutes later, red and panting, I return and she claps her hands.

‘Perfect, you look fab, even a bit Cheryl Cole like. If you put your hair up you’ll look quite sophisticated.’

‘But I can’t breathe, and how do I pee?’

‘There’s a little hole in the gusset. You’ll cope.’

I check the hole and sigh.

‘It will be like peeing through a Polo Mint.’

‘You have to suffer for your art,’ she says, squeezing into her own dress.

‘What art?’

She shrugs.

‘I’ll think of something.’

‘Just as well I have a fiancé
. It would take forever for someone to get a grope through this lot,’ I say, spraying myself with Femme.

‘Trust you to think of sex,’ she laughs. ‘We’re not going there to enjoy ourselves,’ she reminds me, ‘we’re on a mission.’

‘It will be a mission impossible in this corset,’ I say, attempting to sit only to find I can’t cross my legs.

Ten minutes later, somewhat inebriated on red wine and staggering on black snake three
-inch stilettos we resemble Charlie’s Angels as we march towards the Jag.

‘Into the fray,’ bellows Georgie as she tumbles into the car and swigs from a bottle of Southern Comfort
. ‘Let’s go slaughter them.’

Georgie is obviously on a mission of her own.

***

Fifteen minutes later we are parked on a street corner opposite Bradley Hall, and the place is totally congested with tractors.

‘I can’t do it,’ I say, my throat dry.

‘What do you mean you can’t do it?’ Georgie snaps.

‘I can’t go through with it. I feel sick,’ I say, dropping my head onto my chest.

‘Look, we’re here now. All we have to do is go in. Put our leaflets onto a few
tables; mention it to a couple of people and leave.’

I’m far from convinced.

‘What if someone recognises me?’ I say anxiously.

‘They won’t. I don’t even recognise you.’

Another tractor arrives and the passengers step off the trailer.

‘Don’t these people have cars
?’ asks Georgie, studying her face in the rear-view mirror.

‘I think it’s tradition. I have a vague memory of Dominic mentioning something about that.’

She licks her lips.

‘A lot of talent here lady. Let’s go,’ she says gleefully swinging back her hair and applying gloss to her lips.

‘We’re not here to pull,’ I remind her checking my own reflection which compared to hers seems very inadequate.

‘Speak for yourself, I’m newly single.’

‘How can you be newly single when you’ve always been single?’

‘You’re so argumentative. Pass the masks and capes.’

I cannot believe how many people are entering the building. We’ll never be able to find anyone here. There are so many beautiful and original costumes that Georgie and I seem quite plain by comparison. We watch intrigued as someone climbs from the tractor dressed in a gorilla suit. There’s always one isn’t there? Another is disguised as a gypsy fortune teller and I recognise her laugh as Sara’s. She is wearing green velvet trousers and a colourful jacket. Her head is covered with the most amazing turban but I would know her laugh anywhere.

‘I feel underdressed,’ Georgie complains, snatching the Southern Comfort from me.

We will be so pissed, we won’t be able to see straight at this rate, and God knows I need to see if I am going to piss through a Polo Mint.

‘Some are wearing cocktails like us. Put your mask and stuff on and let’s go, otherwise I’ll lose my nerve. How are yours?
’ she asks.

‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve lost all feeling from the neck down from wearing this Spanx thing of yours.’

‘You complain too much. Come on.’

She lifts her hand for a high five.

‘Once more into the fray. Into the last good fight I'll ever know.’

‘Live and die on this day,’ I respond.
 

I take a final swig of Southern Comfort and open the Jag door. I attempt to take a deep breath which, let me tell you, in this corset is like having my ribs crushed.

‘Fuck it’s freezing,’ cries Georgie.

I tuck my arm into hers and we wobble up the driveway to the entrance, jostling with all the other masked guests. I step into the hall and the sound of Girls Aloud almost burst
s my eardrums.

‘Hello ladies,’ says a burly man, who I recognise as the village butcher
. ‘How are you this evening?’

‘Fab,’ smiles Georgie, and I swear I can hear her eyelashes fluttering.

I feel my heart skip.

‘Got your tickets have you?’

Shit. Now why didn’t I think about that one?

‘Oh,’ I say stupidly.

Georgie lets out a loud sigh and moves closer to him.