Society Girls

by Sarah Mason

  “How do you know where this John Montague lives?”

  “Clemmie, he's the MP for Bristol. Everyone knows where he lives.”

  “What's he like? Do you think he would hide Emma away?”

  “He's very reserved and serious. Whenever I've had to interview him he's always been really courteous. But you don't know how close he and Sir Christopher are, they might go back a long way. We need to go and check it out. I'll see if Vince is around.”

  “Vince? You're bringing Vince?” I ask disbelievingly.

  “He's the best we've got! Wait for me downstairs!” she shouts over her shoulder as she disappears Vince-ward. Vince is a photographer on the paper and is simply the most flamboyantly gay man I have ever met. There would be absolutely no chance of you walking away from him thinking, “He's slightly effeminate. I wonder if he's . . .” because it is emblazoned across his forehead in pink neon lights.

  I pick up my stuff and start wandering toward the lifts. Holly is certainly a woman of action. No dithering about the right thing to do for her. Well, as long as I'm not sent in to do the dirty work I don't mind.

  Holly joins me, panting slightly, after about ten minutes. “Vince is just finishing another job so we're meeting him there.”

  She leads the way out to Tristan. “It's quite lucky Vince is meeting us there. We wouldn't have all been able to get into Tristan,” I comment.

  “Yes we would! You could have gone in the back.”

  Over my dead body.

  Fifteen minutes later finds us at a very nice address overlooking the Bristol downs. Holly pulls into the curb on the opposite side of the road and we stare at the beautiful old house and tasteful garden. A large sycamore tree, already wheedling baby helicopter seeds, sits in one corner swaying gently, while numerous shrubs line the old, low brick walls that encompass the house. All very unlike our own wilderness of a garden which has already eaten up several barbecues, shoes and a paddling pool.

  “Golly, at least Emma gets to be held hostage in the lap of luxury,” I say. “So what do we do now? Do we just wait to see if she comes out?”

  “She's not going to come out, Clemmie!” says Holly scornfully. “She's probably locked in or there's a couple of people watching her.”

  “Of course, John Montague will be there.”

  “I don't think so because I called John Montague's office before we left and asked for him. I was told he was in a meeting about environmental controls for most of the day.”

  “That might just mean he's got his feet up watching the football.”

  “Clemmie, not everyone has the same mindset as you. MPs do work, you know. So he's not home but he's probably got the housekeeper watching her or something. She's probably locked in one of those bedrooms.” I take a look skyward to one of the distant rooms at the top of the house.

  “Poor Emma,” I murmur.

  “I thought Vince could take a few photos and we could do a recce.”

  She's doing it again. “A recce?”

  “A reconnaissance, Clemmie. God, you should get out more.”

  “So should you and stop watching the TV. Well, I might just stay in the car, have a little nap and leave you to it.”

  Holly looks at me in horror. “And miss all the fun? Without you we would never have found Emma.”

  “If she's here,” I murmur, but Holly chooses to ignore me.

  “You surely want to share in the glory! They'll probably invite us to the wedding and everything! Emma might even want us to be bridesmaids.”

  I look at her with a mixture of fascination and horror. “Are you sure we're sisters? I'm becoming more and more convinced that they mixed me up at the hospital. I probably belong to some nice, sane family.”

  “Come on!” She drags me out of the car, locks the doors and then does a comical zigzag run as though she's dodging bullets over to the cover of the cars on the opposite side of the road about twenty meters from the house.

  “What are you doing?” I ask when I reach her ducked behind an old Renault.

  “Not being seen,” she whispers.

  “Well, you're incredibly conspicuous for someone not being seen.”

  “You stay here. I'm going to look through the windows to see how many people are guarding her.”

  “Er, okay. You do that.”

  I lean against the Renault and have a look up and down the road. It's relatively quiet, just a few cars passing now and then, the drivers of which look on in amazement at the mad-looking blonde (the other one, not me) creeping about. They've probably called the police by now. A lilac Beetle pulls in a few cars away and a broad smile crosses my face. It's Vince. I love this man.

  He waves madly out of the window at me, shouting “Coo-ee!” and then launches himself out of the front seat. He is dressed in black—distressed jeans with a black slashed T-shirt and a woolly hat. “Ducks, ducks! How are you? It's fabulous to see you! You look well,” he calls as he minces down the pavement, camera in hand.

  “I'm fine! No better for my little holiday here, but fine.”

  “What has the mad cow got you doing now? Where is she anyway?”

  I gesture toward the house. “Looking through windows. I think James will be here any minute to arrest her.”

  “Now he is a gorgeous man. Is he still straight?”

  “Yes, I think so.” I grin.

  “Hope springs eternal. He might be in denial.”

  “No, I think he's definitely straight.”

  “And speaking of gorgeous men, how is that divine brother of yours?”

  “Which one? Barney?”

  “That's him.”

  “In a tizzy over some girl.”

  “What a waste,” he murmurs.

  Holly comes galloping toward us and screeches to a halt. “She's in there, she's in there! I've just seen her!” she gabbles in high excitement.

  “Emma?” I question disbelievingly. “You've seen Emma?” A little fizzle of excitement starts up inside me. God, I'm starting to see why Holly loves her job so much. “You mean that she's actually here?”

  “Yep, I've just seen her drinking a cup of coffee in the kitchen. Hello, Vince. I'm going to call Charlie and tell him where we all are. I'm sure he'll want to free her himself. Boy is she going to be pleased to see us! I want a picture of them as they're reunited!”

  She turns her back on us while she dials Charlie's number into her mobile and Vince and I make faces at each other. I certainly hope she knows what she's doing.

  “What's she going to do?” I whisper to Vince. “Barge in there as though we're Starsky and Hutch? We don't know who's home.”

  “Would you be the blond one or the gorgeous, dark curly haired one? Ooh, bags be Huggy Bear.”

  “Actually, I've always thought I would be the dark one because, you know, I'm convinced that—”

  “Clemmie! Vince!” Holly makes us jump. “What are you two talking about? Really! We have better things to be thinking about. Charlie is coming straight down.”

  “How are you going to reunite them if she has ten people guarding her?” I ask. Small points always seem to escape Holly.

  “Actually I thought I might just go and ring the bell and say I'm collecting money for charity or something and see if I can get a look at her captors. Perhaps see how many there are. Then I thought we'd be better placed to make some sort of plan. We can always call the police to free her!” Holly looks absolutely thrilled at the prospect of this.

  I look at her doubtfully. “Just as long as I'm not ringing any more bells.”

  “And we must have pictures of their wedding, Vince. It's on Saturday, are you booked out on a job?”

  Vince shakes his head.

  “Great. God, I can't wait to see her face. I'm going to ring the bell.”

  “Who are you going to say you are?”

  “I'm going to say that I'm collecting money for charity.”

  “But you haven't got a collecting tin,” I point out helpfully. Do you see what I mean ab
out her? The details are always a bit sketchy.

  “Well then, I'll say I'm conducting a survey,” Holly waves her notepad at me. She tries to walk off calmly toward the house. Vince and I watch her.

  “I can't believe Emma's there,” I murmur.

  “God, it's a hell of a story for Holly.”

  We watch Holly as she saunters up the front path and rings the bell. A few minutes later the door opens. Vince and I squint toward it. Bloody hell. That looks like . . .

  “Emma. That's Emma,” says Vince suddenly and scuttles toward her.

  It takes a few seconds for my befuddled brain to catch up, and then a few more for me to catch up with Holly and Vince who are both now staring in wonderment at Emma on the doorstep who, I have to say, looks equally surprised to see them.

  They might well be looking with some surprise at her because she looks a shadow of her former self. There are no designer labels in sight, just some tracksuit bottoms and a puffa waistcoat in various shades of taupe and navy blue. Her brown hair is drawn starkly back into a ponytail and she's wearing no makeup. I hope she's got time to change if Holly doesn't keep her gassing on the doorstep.

  “I can't believe it, Emma,” Holly is saying. “You could actually have walked out of here. The door was open all this time. Are you all right? Is there someone watching you?” she asks in a whisper.

  “Er, no. I'm here by myself. What on earth are you doing here, Holly? How did you find me?”

  “Oohhh, a little bit of sleuthing, Emma. Nothing special,” says Holly with a modest smile. “Plenty of time to thank me for it later. But now I really think you should put some lippy on.” Holly frowns and looks more closely at Emma. I hope she's going to suggest some foundation too. The girl doesn't look like she's slept in months and she doesn't want to greet the love of her life looking like that. “Maybe brush your hair too.”

  “Why?”

  “You have a surprise visitor coming!” announces Holly, grinning from ear to ear.

  “Who?”

  “Need you ask? Did you really think that your colleagues from the Gazette would leave you high and dry! Why, Charlie of course!”

  Even I smile at this point. Bless her. Emma looks like she's about to faint, she's that thrilled.

  “Charlie?” she whispers. “He's coming here?”

  Holly nods and grins again.

  Emma looks at us as though in a trance but the flash of Vince's camera brings her to life. She retreats into the hall and sinks down on to a convenient chair.

  “God, Holly. What have you done?” she whispers. Holly frowns. Not quite the reaction we were looking for. A little more gratefulness wouldn't go amiss. Just wait until I tell her what I had to go through with her father. “You don't know who he is, do you?” she whispers.

  “Of course we do! He's your fiancé, the man you're going to marry on Saturday. Charlie Davidson.”

  She looks up at us all wide-eyed. I feel quite scared.

  “No, Holly, he's not. He is the man I thought I was going to marry but his name isn't Charlie Davidson. It's Martin Connelly.”

  Now that name rings a bell. Where have I heard it?

  Holly sits down suddenly too on an adjacent chair. “Martin Connelly?” she queries.

  “The man my father put away. Seven years ago.”

  Chapter Ten

  “Martin Connelly?” repeats Holly, sounding quite weak herself. Of course, this is the case I was reading about this morning. The infamous one that seemed to leave half of Bristol in uproar.

  We all stare at each other for a minute. Which is all very nice but I'm not quite sure what all the fainty stuff is about. Of course the fact that her father has imprisoned her fiancé is rather unfortunate but not insurmountable.

  “So that's a bit of a coincidence, isn't it?” I eventually say timidly to Emma. “That you were going to marry the same man your father put away all those years ago?”

  This seems to bring Emma back to life. “Look, I don't know who you are,” she snarls. I take an involuntary step backward and nearly fall over an umbrella stand. Maybe now is not the appropriate time to remind her that we have actually met on a couple of occasions. “But you clearly don't understand what's going on.”

  Fair enough. I'll give her that.

  “It's no coincidence that Martin Connelly is marrying me. He did it to get his own back on my father. He's some sort of psychopath.”

  Christ, that's a bit strong, isn't it? I wonder if it's worth risking another question. I'm so confused, I think I might have to. I stick my neck out from the comfort of my umbrella stand and ask timidly, “Er, how do you know that?”

  “I would imagine that his name change is a small clue, and the fact that he has lied to me since the day we met.”

  Ah.

  Emma looks swiftly over to Holly, who is still in shock. “How long have we got?” she snaps.

  “S . . . sorry?”

  “When did you call him?”

  “About five minutes ago.” Holly looks from me to Vince for confirmation. I haven't got a clue and shrug helplessly. Timings have never really been my thing. “Look, Emma, I'm so, so sorry. Charlie came to the paper and begged us to help him. He said your father was stopping the marriage, he said—”

  “I haven't got long.” She looks furiously from one to other of us. “Thanks a lot, Holly,” she adds vehemently before disappearing up the stairs.

  Vince and I make agonized oh-shit faces at each other. This is actually quite bad. Very bad indeed.

  “Em, Holly?” I venture to the figure who now has her head in her hands and is busy murmuring “Oh my God, oh my God . . .” over and over to herself.

  She looks up dazedly. “What?”

  “Did Charlie say he was coming straight down here?” I look nervously over one shoulder.

  “Yes, he is.”

  “And, er, how long will that take?”

  Holly looks over to Vince for some sort of confirmation. I just wish they would hurry up and do those sums. My rather overdramatic imagination keeps picturing Charlie arriving with a manic glint in his eye and an axe in his hand. He has probably learned all sorts of useful stuff in prison, besides the obligatory basket weaving, like the best way to dismember a body. Really useful.

  “About fifteen minutes, I think. Probably.”

  “Maybe less,” puts in Vince.

  I look anxiously at my watch. We probably only have a few minutes. I sincerely hope that Emma isn't bothering to fold anything.

  “Do you remember Charlie's hands?” I whisper. “I remember he had really large hands . . .” My thoughts are interrupted by Emma joining us back downstairs, dragging an overnight bag. Luckily she seems alive to the possibility of Charlie's imminent arrival.

  Holly gets up from her prayer position and looks at her apprehensively.

  “Have you a car?” Emma asks sharply. We all nod. “Then let's go.”

  We rush out of the house, slamming the door behind us and, like a little group of ants, scurry across the front lawn.

  “Where's your car?” Holly asks Emma. She's certainly a daredevil asking so many questions.

  “At the flat. I haven't dared use it in case he spotted it.” Emma shoots her another killer glare as we cross the road but Holly is too busy keeping to her green cross code to notice. She fishes the keys to Tristan out of her pocket as she runs.

  “Holly!” yells Vince from the door of his car. “Call me as soon as you can!”

  “Don't tell Joe!” she yells back, making a throat-cutting gesture, but whether that's meant for Vince or what might happen to Holly I don't know. Vince gives the thumbs-up sign and gets into his Beetle with a certain degree of haste considering Charlie wouldn't have a clue who he is.

  And then the musketeers are down to three.

  “In the back, Clemmie!” says Holly.

  “Eh?”

  “GET IN THE BACK!” she roars. Has she ever been in the back? I have trouble getting my handbag in there, let alone my arse and th
e various bits that come with it. In fact, it's actually little more than a ledge. Still, she's under a lot of stress so I do as I am bid and pile myself in and lie across the shelf. Emma and Holly get in after me and we all pray that Tristan will start and not pull one of his prima donna sulks on us. In fact, Holly seems to be chanting some sort of mantra.

  Tristan starts first time and I swear an eternal pledge of allegiance to him. Holly thrusts him into first gear and we fly out of the parking space, screech around the corner, all without any signals on our part and plenty by other motorists, and start winging toward Clifton as fast as Tristan will go.

  We all sit in silence for a few minutes as Holly concentrates on lane-hopping and getting us as far away from Charlie as possible. After a few minutes I risk a look at Emma. She is staring out of the window, anxiously biting a thumbnail and, although I can't quite see her eyes, now and then a hand reaches up as though to brush away tears.

  Holly must have clocked the same thing because she asks timidly, “Can we take you to your father?”

  “No, he'll look for me there. God, Holly,” she snarls suddenly, “couldn't you have minded your own bloody business for once? You had to come and poke your nose in. Everything is just a story for you, isn't it?”

  “No, Emma, it wasn't like that,” Holly protests frantically. “Well, not quite like that. I really did want you and Charlie, I mean Martin, to get back together. I thought your father was trying to stop you from marrying him.”

  There is a heavy silence in the car. I wonder if I should be adding anything to the discussion and then decide against it. They can't actually forget I'm here because every time they address each other they have to look over my knee which is poking through the gap between their seats, but I can still be very, very quiet.

  Holly suddenly decides on a destination because, to the furious sound of horns hooting, she makes a huge U-turn near the zoo and starts heading in the opposite direction.

  “Emma, we could have stayed if you didn't want to leave,” pipes up Holly, trying, I daresay, to be helpful. “There were four of us. He wouldn't have dared try anything.” Has she completely lost leave of all of her senses? I'm completely for the running scared scenario. I like the idea of cars being involved.