Playing James (23 page)

She puts her finger to her lips to indicate we are about to enter a live studio and sweeps me inside. Before I know it, I'm stepping over cables on my way to a squashy sofa where Giles is sitting in state and talking to the camera. I'm forcibly taken by the arm and plonked next to him. Butterflies start up in my stomach. I listen to his patter.

'As I am sure most of you have been "reading all about it", our next guest needs no introduction to the residents of Bristol. She is Holly Colshannon and she works for the
Bristol Gazette
, where she has been writing a day-by-day account of her adventures with the Bristol Constabulary and one officer in particular, Detective Sergeant Jack Swithen.'

He turns to me. 'So, Holly, tell us about life on the force.' And we are off, and fairly speedily too. I don't know if Giles wants to spend more time on the prize-winning ferrets but we gallop through my 'fly on the wall' stuff and fairly canter through the details about The Fox until we come to one of his last questions. I wriggle uncomfortably in my seat. The microphone case that Mike has fixed to the back of my skirt has come a little askew and is busy trying to work its way down the back of my legs. Much like the human version was doing earlier. I reach for a glass of water someone has thoughtfully placed on the table in front of me and try to disguise the fact that I seem to have ants in my pants.

'Right, Holly,' Giles says, fixing me with what I suppose must be his winning smile, 'for those people out there who haven't had the chance to read your diary, tell us how you got that black eye. Were you pursuing the famous Fox when it happened?'

I don't actually manage to answer the question. As I am leaning forward to replace the glass of water on to the table, my hand catches my microphone wire. The half-full glass is jerked forwards as my hand comes to a sudden stop due to the restraint. The water is thrown in a perfect parabola and lands neatly in Giles' lap. Simultaneously, my microphone case, suitably loosened now, flings itself on to the floor like a child having a tantrum and lands with a loud clatter in the pool of water. Giles has leapt up the instant the water has infiltrated his boxers and is standing there staring at me with an open mouth. I stare back at him, frozen with horror to the spot. Then, all of a sudden, the studio seems to come to life. Two people run on to the set, one armed with a tea towel who starts feverishly mopping at Giles' crotch area and another who tries to pick up my abandoned microphone casing. The fact that it is lying in a pool of water doesn't seem to disturb him but unfortunately the rules of physics conspire against him. He gets an electric shock, which he receives with a loud 'SHIT!' before dropping the mike back into its pool of water. Amid all the chaos, I am gazing intently at Giles. He is the anchorman of the show and I am willing him to lead us out of the wilderness. He seems, however, to be having some problems controlling himself. His mouth is twitching suspiciously and he appears to be in danger of snorting. I daren't look at him any more but instead I breathe deeply, stare down at the floor and fight for some control. I bite down hard on the inside of my cheeks and try to suppress the wave of giggles that is coming up my throat. Giles doesn't seem to be faring any better. With a loud snort from him, I can't control myself any longer and we both collapse. I clutch myself and sink down on the sofa, tears pouring down my face. Slowly the laughter subsides amid furious hand signals from the floor manager behind the camera. I wipe my eyes. 'I'm so, so sorry,' I whisper. Giles grins at me with the camaraderie of a shared moment and turns back to the camera.

'Golly! Well, thank you, Holly, for coming in. Don't forget to read all about Holly's adventures in the
Bristol Gazette
. Our next guest …'

The telephone rings for the third consecutive time just as I am walking away from it. I pause and look down at my feet for a second in the vain hope it might stop ringing. I curse BT for ever inventing the Ring Back request and then despondently turn round and drag my weary feet once more into the hall.

'Hello?'

'How was it?' It's my mother.

'Terrible,' I groan.

'Why?'

'You didn't see it?'

'I told you. we don't have it in our area.' A good positive point there, I think, grasping at this last comment. Humiliating oneself on local television isn't quite as bad as doing it on national television. Fewer viewers.

'I threw water over the host, electrocuted a technician and then laughed about it. All on live TV.' My rather cavalier attitude to the catastrophic television interview has vanished after a phone call from Joe, who told me just how awful the whole thing had looked and generally gave me a good dressing-down. The only way I could get him off the phone was to promise I would be slitting my wrists as soon as I replaced the receiver, if not before. That was the first phone call.

'How marvellous, darling!' My mother laughs her tinkling little laugh. I idly wonder where I inherited my great Father Christmas guffaw from. 'People will definitely remember you now! Just think, you could be on one of those
It'll Be Alright on the Night
deliberate mistake things!'

'Gosh. Do you really think so?' I say mutinously.

'Absolutely!' says my mother, not catching the edge to my voice. 'I can't wait to see a copy!'

'I am personally trying to ensure that every single copy will be burnt on a giant bonfire.'

'I'm sure it wasn't that bad.'

'No, really. It was.'

There's a pause and I can almost hear her scraping around for something good to say. I would normally pitch in and try and help out at this point but (a) I can't think of anything and (b) I'm interested to see if she can.

Longer pause. The wheels are frantically turning. There must be something she can think of.

'At least it was only local television and not national. I mean, no one watches local TV, for goodness sake!'

I drag my feet back into the kitchen to fix myself another drink. I have ran out of tonic and don't want to trail round to the corner shop to buy some more in case I am pointed to and laughed at by the local children. I am drinking vodka and water. It has a kind of desperate feel to it.

Grasping my glass close to my heart, I stagger back through to the sitting room and flop on to the sofa. I reach for the remote control and will the cathode rays to brainwash me into oblivion. Avoiding any channels that might invoke disturbing images of Giles and
Southwest Tonight
, I turn to Channel Four and their Friday night comedy fest.

My second phone call (the one before my mother) was from Lizzie. Had she called before Joe, I might have been a little more responsive and indeed amused to hear her snorts of jocularity.

'Oh! Oh! Holly! That was priceless!' Pause as she struggled for control. I shifted uncomfortably. She was finding this a little too funny. 'His face when you threw the water over him! Oh! It was a picture!' She was doing a passably good impression of a drain.

'I didn't throw it, Lizzie, it was an accident.'

'And then when the technician swore out loud! It was just hysterical!'

'Well, I wish Joe thought so,' I said dully.

Lizzie eventually calmed down and we got around to talking about Alastair. The long and the short of it is, they are at last spending the whole day together tomorrow and she wants me to put parts A and B of OPERATION ALTAR, which is her rather elaborate plan to force Alastair to many her, into play. I did rather gloomily enquire as to what was wrong with the old-fashioned method of getting pregnant, to which she tartly replied that they would have to be sleeping together now and then for that to happen. In order to get her off the phone so I could return to my depressive state, I agreed.

Thinking is too much of an effort.

In the morning I lie in bed for a while, contemplating the day ahead, before remembering my rash promise to Lizzie. I groan softly to myself. Damn. Why couldn't I have resisted the very considerable charms of my vodka and water and tried to talk her out of her ridiculous plan?

I faff about in my dressing gown for the next hour or so, drinking tea and opening post and basking in the joy of a whole weekend stretching before me. Ben is coming over tonight after the obligatory rugby game and bonding and then we'll spend the day together tomorrow. Normally the very thought of this should have me squealing for joy on the one hand and reaching for the polish and clean bed sheets on the other. I should be chilling wine, scrubbing the place clean and artfully chucking fresh flowers about like a woman possessed. But not today because I really can't be arsed. I frown to myself, deep in this particular line of thought. What does this mean? Am I going off him? No – I can't expect to remain in the 'honeymoon' phase for ever; besides, with recent events I don't want to be seen to be too keen. Right, absolutely. Don't want to seem too keen. Conscience appeased, I get dressed and wander into Clifton village to execute Part A of OPERATION ALTAR.

The lady at the flower shop says she can deliver the flowers later today and I hand over the name and address. The lady looks at me highly dubiously, probably imagining me in some sort of lesbian sex triangle. I mutter goodbye, wildly hoping I will never have the occasion to send flowers again. Why can't Lizzie send Lizzie flowers you might ask? Yes. Quite.

To sum OPERATION ALTAR up, the plan is to drive Alastair (or 'POB' as I think of him nowadays, standing for 'poor old bastard', or 'poor old beetroot' according to the vegetable system) into a frenzy of jealousy, culminating in him realising that he cannot live without Lizzie, throwing himself at her feet and immediately proposing marriage. Well, that's her version anyway. I'm not actually sure this will run completely to plan. But then I do have a very reliable past record of being completely and utterly wrong.

As soon as I arrive home, I decide to get part B over and done with and dial the number of Lizzie's mobile. What I do in the name of friendship. She answers after four rings.

'Lizzie? It's me.'

'How nice to hear from you! How on earth did you get my number?' Her voice and tone are distinctly flirtatious. It is a peculiar sensation, being flirted to by your best friend. I have obviously called at exactly the right time and she and Alastair are together.

'Is Alastair there?'

'Oh, I'm not doing anything. What are you doing?'

'Nothing much, just sent your blasted flowers.'

'Yes! I would love to!'

'This is absolutely ridiculous, you know! Pretending that I am a man!'

'See you then. Bye!' This is said in low, sultry tones that should be reserved for four-poster beds, champagne and the like. The woman means business.

'Call me later. Bye.'

I stare at the receiver for a second in disbelief. I mean, she actually did it. She actually pretended another man was calling her. I sigh. As long as she knows what she's doing, and I'm in no position to judge with my past history in the relationship department. I go back to my sofa with no intention of moving from it for quite a while.

I
t's Monday morning and I am on my way to the police station. Tristan is behaving himself and even my black eye has reduced sufficiently for me to be able to remove the sunglasses that have become such an essential fashion accessory. Now I just look like I have black circles under my eyes. Well, one eye anyway. Nothing that half a tube of concealer couldn't fix. I had quite a nice weekend but to be honest I'm glad it's over. Ben and I were a little strained with each other, as though treading on egg shells, but I think that's only to be expected for a while until recent events have blown over and we get back to some sort of normality.

It is a beautiful day and even the hustle and bustle of the city seems peaceful as I wend my way through the traffic. I park Tristan, snap on the handbrake and gather up my bag and laptop.

As I bounce up the steps to the front desk, James appears in the doorway.

'Turn around!'

I stop on one of the steps and stare at him. 'Why? What's happened?'

He looks resigned, pissed off and furious all at the same time. 'Another burglary.'

I remain fixed to my step. 'Not another one? The Fox again?'

'Probably. It's an antiques shop.' He marches past me and leaves me standing with my mouth open.

'Come on, we'll go this way to the car pool. Caught your TV interview by the way,' he shouts back over his shoulder. I catch a flash of a smile but I am more intent on the burglary. I determinedly chuck my bags over my shoulder and set off at a trot after him.

'That's a bit blatant, isn't it? An antiques shop,' I say breathlessly.

'Yeah, it is. The owner has just called us. It must have happened sometime over the weekend. Here, let me take that,' he says, holding out his hand for my bulky laptop case.

'Oh. Thanks.'

'Forensics are meeting us down there. Thank God that no one was hurt this time.'

'Maybe he got scared after slogging Mr Williams and decided an empty shop would be easier.'

'Maybe.'

'Blimey, this is the fourth one in as many weeks.'

'Yeah, that's what I'm worried about.'

'How do you mean?'

'Well, when burglaries are this intensive, it usually means the burglar intends to do just a few of them. Then they'll suddenly stop and we'll never hear from him again.'

We reach our usual discreet grey car.

'I'll drive,' says James, heading for the driver's side.

Once inside, he shoves a piece of paper in my hands.

'Directions.' We set off out of the underground car park.

As we swing up the ramp to the outside world, I reach into my bag for my mobile. 'Just going to call Vince; he can meet us there.'

'Fine.'

I duly hand over the address details to Vince (ignoring Vince's pleas of 'Put him on, put him on!') and then settle into my seat and snap on my seatbelt.

'So, what did you get up to at the weekend?' he asks.

'Oh, usual stuff,' I say, privately adding to myself, You know, sending fake flowers, pretending to be someone else in order for your best friend to trap her boyfriend into marriage. Usual stuff. 'How about you?' I ask.