Playing James

by Sarah Mason

  “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 downward, “. . . 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 blond 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 toward the city center.

  thirty

  Stag dos. Stag dos. Where on earth would you go on a stag do? I speed into the center 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 blond 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. Realizing 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 inquiringly.

  “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 o
n 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 apologize 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 recognize. 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.”

  “Could you try him please?”

  He taps a little longer. “You’re unlucky today. He’s not on call and he won’t be available until tomorrow. Would that do?”

  I shake my head. I need to find out where Callum and James spent last night. Would they have gone home or stayed in a hotel? The officer looks at me inquiringly. “Could someone else help?” he asks.

  I shake my head again. “I’m afraid only James Sabine can.” Tears fill my eyes and the officer pats my arm. “We’ll track him down, love. Don’t you worry.” And with this he gets on the phone. He’s back off it two minutes later after calling one of the detectives from the department. “Gosh, you’re unfortunate aren’t you, love? It’s Detective Sergeant Sabine’s wedding today apparently; that’s why you can’t get hold of him!” He grins at me, apparently pleased with his Sherlockian deduction. I nod wearily and the smile on the officer’s face fades. “Aren’t you the reporter . . . ? You and James Sabine . . . ?” I nod again. Words are now beyond me and slowly the penny drops. The officer stares at me. “Right,” he says decisively and gets back on the phone.

  Together we call and call until our digit fingers are nearly falling off. Again and again people aren’t sure where Callum and James are. I speak to the officers themselves, their wives, children, great-aunts, anyone who happens to answer the phone. Most of the officers who were out last night seem to have extreme cases of amnesia. I do find out that Callum and James were staying in a hotel somewhere together but no one can remember the name. They can’t even tell me where it was as they packed them both into a taxi at about one this morning.

  “Where did you go for the evening?” I ask casually when I manage to get hold of another officer called John.

  “Weston-super-Mare. Callum thought a bit of sea air might do us all some good!”

  “Weston-super-Mare?” I cry somewhat hysterically, thinking of my exhausting night traipsing the length and breadth of Bristol, freely handing over my hard-earned cash to fat nightclub owners.

  “It was fantastic! You should have been there!”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Anyway, I think Callum said they were staying somewhere like, em, the Pacific?”

  “Right. Thanks John.”

  I get off the phone and pass this piece of precious information on to my new partner. We bring up everywhere with “Pacific” in its title in the Weston-super-Mare area on the computer. We both take a deep breath and start phoning.

  I look at my watch. It’s a quarter to twelve. Countdown is fortyfive minutes. I wearily replace the receiver and gently put a hand on my partner’s forearm. He looks up from dialing in another number. I shake my head. “Don’t worry any more. He would have left for the ceremony by now.” The officer (I never even found out his name) slowly replaces the receiver and looks at me. He smiles sympathetically as I get up. “Thanks anyway,” I add before sluggishly weaving my way through the maze of desks and down the stairs.

  Time seems to be running on slow for me. I watch a flock of birds as they fly in perfect formation across the blue sky and mindlessly think the weather has turned out well for them. I notice a building I’ve never seen before and wonder if it’s always been there or whether someone else had an evening as busy as my own last night and knocked it up while we were all still asleep. Will James notice I’m not there at some point? At the buzzing reception, will he frown to himself and think he hasn’t seen Holly? I’m too exhausted to cry, I just want to get into the car and drive and drive until I reach the end of the earth. I have no wish to go home either, so I fish my mobile out of my bag and call my own home number to speak to my parents. The phone rings and rings; I stupidly and belatedly realize they’ll both be on their way to the wedding. The answer machine clicks on and I press the cut-off button on my mobile. I sit for what seems like hours, trying to think of what to do and where to go next. I consider calling Lizzie but as my finger hovers over the digits I realize I am not really feeling up to coping with their happiness right now. I know that sounds completely horrible of me but I’m not. I just want to get as far away from here as I possibly can. I think wistfully of Cornwall, of the green fields and the blue sea. Cornwall. I’ll just drive down to Cornwall, to my parents’ house. I have a key to it on my keyring which has always hung there. I call my home number again and this time I leave a message on the answer machine.

  “Hello. It’s me, Holly. I’ve decided to go down to Cornwall for a few days. To
home. I know you are coming on tomorrow after the wedding so could you bring some clothes for me? Just make sure everything is off and slam the door on your way out. Thanks. See you tomorrow.”

  With a marginally lighter heart, I leave a message for Joe saying I am taking a few days’ holiday at my parents’ house and set off toward the M5 south and home.

  I try to keep the tears at bay by talking out loud to Tristan about everything and anything that comes to mind. I jabber about the weather, the holidays I fancy taking, the books I’m going to read. Anything to keep my mind off the wedding which I know will be over by now. Little thoughts come bumbling in of their own volition. Mr. and Mrs. James Sabine. Sounds nice, doesn’t it?

  At about junction twenty, Tristan starts to judder. “No, nooo. Tristan, please, not now.” He practically starts to pant and I reluctantly pull over on to the hard shoulder. I turn off the engine and sit immobilized for a few minutes. Tristan shudders alarmingly every time a lorry goes past. This had to happen today of all days, just when all I wanted was to reach home and collapse. Another ironic indication that sometimes life isn’t fair. Muttering madly, I drag myself out of the car and start the long hike toward an orange emergency phone. I glare ferociously at every passing motorist who looks with interest at the loopy bag lady hiking up the hard shoulder.

  “Just let any rapist or murderer come within an inch of me,” I mutter savagely, “just let ’em try.” I tell the polite operator I am a woman on my own, request her to call the RAC and stomp back to the car in a thoroughly bad temper.

  Twenty minutes later, which to be honest was plenty of time for any accomplished axe murderer to have had his wicked way with me and then chopped me up into little bits, a familiar squad car pulls up. I smile at them in the mirror. Pete and Phil, my usual muses, beckon me into their car, the usual formalities dispensed with.

  “Hello Pete, hello Phil!” I mutter as I clamber in the back.

  “Are you all right?” Pete asks, swiveling around in his seat and frowning at me.