by Sarah Mason
“Holly's trying to persuade me to go and visit a mad, bloodthirsty barrister for a story of hers. You wouldn't go, would you, Sam?”
“For you, Clemmie?”
I smile hopefully at him.
“Not in a million years. What's the story?”
“Well, a girl I work with has disappeared. Shortly after handing in her resignation by fax,” starts Holly.
“This would be Emma?” interrupts Sam. “I remember Clemmie telling us about her.”
“Her fiancé, who none of us knew she had by the way, turned up yesterday while we were dropping Emma's things off in Rock and told us that Sir Christopher McKellan, Emma's father, is practically keeping her prisoner because he doesn't want her to marry aforementioned fiancé.”
“Sir Christopher McKellan, did you say? But Clemmie didn't mention that her father was Sir Christopher McKellan.”
Oh God. Even Sam has heard of him.
“This is not the same bloodthirsty barrister that Holly wants you to visit, is it?”
“Yes, it bloody well is!” I say emphatically.
“Make sure your insurance is up to date before you go,” he murmurs. “Did you say he's keeping his daughter prisoner?”
“We found out from her fiancé.”
Sam frowns. “Why on earth is he doing that?”
“He doesn't like the fiancé. They were getting married in secret and then he found out and is keeping Emma away from her own wedding. It's next Saturday.”
“Are you sure it's wise, Holly, taking on McKellan? He would be a fairly formidable opponent.”
“I'm not scared of him.” I stare at her in utter disbelief. I wouldn't bloody well be scared of him either if I had a big sister to hide behind. “The point is that he shouldn't be allowed to take away people's free choice. You'd think we're still living in the Iron Age with a father dictating who his daughter marries. The man has some sort of God complex and it's about time someone took him on.”
“All right, all right, don't get all feisty and women's lib on me. I'm just saying be careful. That man wouldn't think twice about squashing your career like a fly.” Sod Holly's career. What about people's heads? Does he think twice about squashing them? Would it look self-seeking to ask?
My lips are poised with all these questions and many more besides when Sam looks over at me. “Look, you're scaring Clemmie. Let's talk about something else.”
Holly wisely sees that her stooge is rapidly losing the will to live and adds on quickly, “Yes, let's talk about something else. Let's order! I'm ravenous.”
I, funnily enough, have had the edge taken off my appetite. I half-heartedly peruse the menu and choose some sort of baguette thing while the other two go the whole hog with chicken and lamb. Dave takes the order and goes off kitchen-ward without a care in the world.
Holly folds her arms and leans on to the table. “So what's been going on here? How's Charlotte?”
Sam throws a quick look at me as he probably knows Charlotte isn't my favorite subject in the world. I'm busy gulping back some wine, and anyway, if Charlotte stops us talking about Sir Christopher for any period of time then I definitely want to hear about her. “Yes, how is Charlotte?” I ask. “Dear Charlotte. Is she well?”
“Em, yes, she's fine.”
“How was the surfing?”
“I don't think it was as close to skiing as she would have liked. But Barney was really good with her.” Both Holly and I beam at the mention of our beloved brother. “Pulled her out from underneath a couple of waves.”
“Was the surf up?” I ask, temporarily lulled by a wonderful picture of Charlotte drowning under two-foot paddling waves.
“It was big. Not ideal learning conditions.”
“We were up at Watergate Bay yesterday morning and saw Barney briefly.”
“Yeah, he knocked off after lunch.”
“I forgot to ask him if he was seeing anyone?” Holly asks innocently and shoots a little look at me.
“Nope. No one on the horizon since the last one. What was her name? Had a nose stud.”
“I remember. Our mother kept thinking it was a rather large bogey and offering her a tissue.”
“That's the one!”
“I think her name was Lucy.”
“Aaahh. Juicy Lucy. I wonder what's she's doing now.”
Sam and Holly carry on with their Lucy reminiscences and I smile to myself and watch them together. They fall into this effortless camaraderie full of shared memories and past history which I sometimes wish I could replicate with Sam. But our relationship has a more edgy feel to it, like two prizefighters circling each other. One minute I think I know where I am with him and then he seems to change all the rules. It has been like that ever since I came back from school one day and found him lolling about with Barney in the sitting room. My parents have always adored Sam and when they found out that his aunt in the village often couldn't get home from work in time for supper, they started to feed him every day after school. He soon settled into an easy relationship with all the family, letting himself in the back door with his key.
I used to have a pet hamster called Rollo and one day my mother and I came home from the supermarket and found Sam, Barney and my father all standing in front of his cage trying to look completely innocent. Apparently his wheel had been annoyingly squeaky and they'd decided to oil it with a cooking oil spray but they'd completely overdone it and poor Rollo had turned into some sort of otter and had to slither everywhere with his hair poking up at peculiar angles. I remember thinking then, as they laughed guiltily, how much I would have liked to be in that little clique.
Holly brings me out of my reverie by pointing out that my mother's rehearsal must have finished because the whole cast has just trooped in.
“Either that or they've got so pissed off with my mother that they've left her trussed up on the stage.” Unfortunately that tantalizing little thought has to remain just that as she drifts in behind them all wearing some sort of kaftan and a chain belt.
“Darlings!” she says as she spots us and wanders over.
“Sorrel, you look very Arabesque,” says Sam diplomatically.
“I do, don't I? We have just had the most exhilarating rehearsal! I feel quite, quite exhausted!”
Matt comes over. “I suppose it's no surprise to find you lot in here, do you want a drink?”
“Matthew, darling, I simply have to tell you that you were fabulous today!”
“No, Sorrel. You were fabulous.” This is their little witty repartee thing; it usually goes back and forth until my mother finally agrees that she is fabulous and I don't think she's joking.
“Oh, Lord,” says Matt. “There's Trevor, I'd better go and say hello. I think he's getting even more deaf, if that's possible. He kept missing the start of the hymns at this morning's service. One minute I was murmuring peacefully about gentle pastures and the next I was yelling ‘TAKE IT AWAY, TREVOR' up the aisle. Poor Mrs. Gill looked as though she was going to have a heart attack every time I did it. And he's not exactly zippy in his delivery so we were finishing about three minutes before he did.”
Matt moves away just as Catherine Fothersby arrives. She is wearing a neatly pressed blouse and skirt but has tied a peasant scarf (also neatly pressed) over her perfectly shiny hair in a moment of recklessness. The effect is terribly twee, down to her petite gold watch.
“Hello, Catherine,” we all say dutifully. Sam even takes it one step further and asks her how she is.
“Quite well, thank you,” she rejoins politely while her eyes follow Matt over to Trevor.
“How are the rehearsals coming along?” he recklessly asks, risking life and limb.
“Well, Mummy is very glad that Matthew has a part.”
“Because he can prevent the whole thing deteriorating into debauchery and wantonness?”
She looks vaguely shocked at this and I smother a grin. “No, because I don't have to miss any church activities.”
Sam is vaguely nonplu
ssed and takes a gulp of his pint. “That's what I thought,” he murmurs.
“In fact, it's the only reason I was allowed to do it.”
“Allowed to do it?” I query before I can stop myself.
“Well, Mummy didn't want me running around with a group of . . . actors.” She does have the grace to look vaguely embarrassed about the implications of this as two of us are daughters of the biggest thespian around. My eyes wander over to my mother, who is leaning against the bar with two drinks lined up in front of her telling Dave some story which involves enormous gesticulations and a fag hanging out of her mouth.
I can see Mrs. Fothersby's point.
Chapter Seven
After lunch, Sam says he has some work to do.
“Well, I simply must get going too, tons of things to do! Lovely to see you, Sam. See you later, Holly!” I burble before the subject of visiting barristers can rear its ugly head again. I get up to go but Holly grabs hold of my arm. Damn. I hoped she might have forgotten all about it.
I turn back and raise my eyebrows in an and-was-there-something-else? inquiry.
Sam chuckles, kisses Holly roughly on the cheek, squeezes my arm and then heads home. Lucky sod.
“What's all this kissy-kissy stuff with you and Sam?” I demand.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, he always kisses you and never me.”
“Don't be ridiculous, Clemmie. Of course he kisses you.”
“He does not!”
“Clemmie, this is obviously some sort of elaborate smokescreen to get you out of visiting McKellan.”
“It isn't,” I say sulkily.
“You promised.” Did I promise? I can't remember. “You simply have to go. We need to find out where Emma is.”
“What about all this stuff we've just been saying about what a monster he is?”
“Only to his daughter, Clemmie,” says Holly impatiently.
“That's the bit that worries me,” I explain slowly. “If that's what he does to the daughter he adores, imagine what he'll do to a complete stranger.”
“Don't be ridiculous, Clemmie. He's a QC. He has put away some of the nastiest criminals around.”
“Oh, great. So he'll know exactly where to hide my body. That makes me feel so much better. Just tell me what the point of all this is? I'll say, ‘Hello, Sir Chris. How you doing? Can you tell me where Emma is?,' at which point he'll say ‘no' and that will be that. Where is that going to get us? Charlie said he didn't think she was at the house anyway.”
“You might gain some valuable clues. Try to get yourself invited in—”
“IN?” I shout. “IN? Bloody hell, Holly, I didn't realize I'd be going in the house.”
“What on earth did you think then?”
“I thought the aforementioned piece of dialogue would all take place on the doorstep in broad daylight. Hopefully in view of a couple of passersby.”
“Of course you have to go in, Clemmie. What would be the point otherwise? As I was saying, you get yourself invited in. Say you're from Emma's work or something and then keep your eyes open. Look for clues. Try to prolong the conversation.”
“I think we should just go back and see Charlie.”
“But we haven't discovered anything. Besides, it will be a better story for me if I can reunite the happy couple myself. Maybe they'll even let us have a photographer at the wedding!”
Now she really is going mad.
Back at home, Holly chivvies me to get changed because apparently I can't possibly go and meet Sir Christopher dressed as I am. Perhaps I should wear something dark that won't show up the blood.
“What sort of thing did you have in mind?”
“Something casual but smart. After all, you are a young professional staying with her parents for the weekend. I might have to lend you something.”
“What's wrong with my clothes?”
“Clemmie. Please.”
“Clemmie please what?”
“I'm surprised you have to ask.” Well, actually I do. What is she talking about?
“Maybe we should go tomorrow instead,” I offer.
“And have you disappear on me? No way. We're going now before your courage fails you altogether. Come and choose something from my suitcase.”
“Maybe we should wait until Dad gets home,” I try eagerly. I'm pretty sure he would have something to say about Holly forcing her poor elder sister to do such a thing.
“Why would we do that? So you can sneak to him. Absolutely not.”
Poo.
She bundles me through to the bedroom and I sit on the bed while she rummages through her suitcase. I wonder if I should call Mum on her mobile and tell on Holly. But she would probably tell me not to be so spineless and that it all sounds fabulous fun.
Holly eventually selects a coral patterned skirt with a sort of thin black jumper thing and a trendy pair of flip-flops, all of which I quickly change into and then, despite my requests for a last meal of ice cream and cookies, she hustles me downstairs and into her car. She has an MG Midget whose name (which incidentally is Tristan) should have been on the scrap yard list quite a while ago. God, I'd forgotten what it's like to get into this little car. Since I can't seem to part my legs more than a few centimeters due to the tight skirt I'm wearing, I have to go for the head first technique (favored by Barney and Sam) and almost lose one of my flip-flops in the process.
We set off with feelings of trepidation on my part, not only due to my impending visit but also because Holly seems to drive as though we're in some sort of cross-country rally.
“Remind me again what I'm saying.” I shout from my 45-degree angle over the noise of the engine.
“You work with Emma and heard that she had given in her notice and wondered if all was well. Jenny asked you to drop off her things since your parents live in the area.”
“Who am I supposed to be?”
“I've just said, someone who works—”
“No, I mean my name. What do I call myself?”
“I don't know, just don't use Colshannon because he knows me.”
“I'll use Trevesky. What if Emma is there and he calls her down?”
“Emma isn't there,” yells Holly confidently. “Charlie said she wasn't.” It's all very well to be confident from the getaway car, isn't it? “Try to start a conversation and get yourself invited in.”
“Now, it won't be my fault if he takes one look at me and then just chucks me out,” I warn Holly.
“I know, but do try. Otherwise I don't know what we're going to do next, Clemmie. And just think, that poor girl's wedding is in less than a week's time.”
Yes, I must remember why we are doing this. Not for the sheer entertainment value of taking on a mad barrister who puts away unfortunate youths just for the hell of it. But for Emma, who I'm not very fond of, but nevertheless deserves to be present at her own wedding.
I look over to Holly, who is anxiously leaning over the steering wheel, and we travel in silence for the rest of the journey to Rock. Once in the village she pulls wordlessly into the curb about fifty yards from the house.
“Now, don't be nervous,” she advises nervously after she has applied the handbrake. “I'll be waiting here.”
I nod dumbly. I can't quite believe I'm doing this. Am I mad or stupid or a unique combination of both? I scramble out of the car and, as I start walking uncertainly toward the house, I realize that I'm bloody petrified. “I'm Clemmie Trevesky,” I whisper to myself just to make sure my voice is still working. “I'm Clemmie Trevesky, how do you do.” What is the worst that can happen? My mind quickly scrolls through the huge number of possibilities and I realize that this isn't doing my self-confidence any good at all. I knock as quietly as I can on the small, pale blue door. After about two seconds I decide that no one is in and I am about to leg it when the door opens on a chain. A decidedly short female peers out. Her bowed eyes and floral apron tells me that this isn't Sir Christopher's girlfriend. This must be the mad but insa
nely loyal housekeeper who will help him hide the body.
“Em, hello. Is Sir Christopher McKellan around? Or Emma . . .” I nearly slip up and call her Trevesky. But that's me. “. . . McKellan?”
The woman peers more closely at me and then, after a second or two of appraisal, says, “Can you wait a moment while I fetch Sir Christopher?”
I nod. Absolutely. I could wait a lifetime if she wanted. No rush. No rush at all. I turn my back to the door and look out over the small bay. Small yachts bob gently up and down on the water and I heartily wish that I could be on one of them.
A whoosh of air suddenly assaults the back of my head and tells me the front door has been opened with some force. I spin around to be faced with the infamous Sir Christopher McKellan.
All I can say is that Holly has not exaggerated in her description of him. The man has to duck slightly below the door frame but still towers over me. He is dressed in navy cords with a checked shirt and this blatant attempt to soften his look doesn't fool me in the slightest. His black eyes bore into me and he is wearing the sort of expression that must make his adversaries throw up their briefs and run for the hills.
“YES?” he snaps, making me jump.
“He . . . hello,” I manage to stammer. “I'm looking for Clemmie Trevesky. I mean, I am Clemmie Trevesky and I'm looking for Emma.”
“And WHY would you be doing that?”
My voice jumps an octave with nerves. “I work with her, or rather used to work with her. Jenny asked me to drop her things off with you and I was just worried that she left work so quickly, that everything was all right.”
He stares at me for a second and then says in a quieter voice, “You'd better come in.”
My first insane reaction of triumph is quickly replaced by complete fear. “In?” I repeat. “You want me to come in?” I had still been wildly clinging to the hope that he would just shut the door in my face.
“Yes, in the house.”
“Of course! In the house. Where else? Ha, ha!”
God, Clemmie. Did you have to add on that psychotic little ha-ha on the end? I follow the soft tap of his leather shoes across a stone-flagged floor and into a large, low-ceilinged sitting room where a wood fire is already softly crackling in the grate.