“I’ve got some questions to ask him,” she said, feeling extremely important. She imagined she was a cunning detective, like Sherlock Holmes, only female and without the pipe. Fiona didn’t smoke, although she had seen her mother with a cigarette. If Fiona had lit a cigarette, her hair would probably have gone up in flames.
She went back to her mother’s house, and burst into the kitchen, pointing an accusing finger.
“Would you like to explain yourself?” she said.
“What?” said Cecilia.
“Oh, sorry, wrong person,” said Fiona sheepishly. “Where’s Frederick?”
“He just left for work,” said Cecilia. She narrowed her eyes at Fiona. “Why are you asking?”
“No reason,” said Fiona hurriedly. She would have to wait a little longer to find out the answers she needed to know.
***
When Frederick returned to the house several hours later, Fiona grabbed the list of probing questions she had prepared during the day. She had drawn on a pair of glasses using lipstick, because she thought it made her look more professional.
“You’re being taken in for questioning!” she yelled.
“What’s that on your face?” asked Frederick. “And taken in where?”
“Well, the living room, probably,” said Fiona. “Sorry, I don’t have access to anywhere more glamourous.”
“But anywhere is glamourous when you are there, clearly,” said Frederick, which made Fiona’s palms begin to sweat.
“Flattery will get you nowhere,” she lied. She consulted her piece of paper. “Right, question one. Who was that woman you were walking with in the street earlier today?”
Frederick turned pale. “How do you know about that?”
“Ah, so you’ve been up to something!” Fiona proclaimed triumphantly.
“Shh!” said Frederick fearfully. “Cecilia will hear you!”
“Explain what’s going on, then,” said Fiona.
“Nein, I can’t…” began Frederick.
“But wouldn’t it be awful if someone happened to mention this woman to my mother?” said Fiona innocently. She had no intention of doing this, but it worked – Frederick turned pale and swallowed.
“Fine, I will tell you!” he said. “But outside, please. We can’t risk Cecilia overhearing.”
They went out into the front garden and sat on the wall. “So?” said Fiona, tapping her foot in a way which she thought made her look intelligent and knowing. She took out her lipstick and re-applied her glasses, which had smudged.
“Well,” said Frederick. “You see, that woman was my fiancée, Prunella.”
Fiona stared. “But you’re with my mother!”
“No, alas,” said Frederick miserably. “I don’t love your mother. I followed my vision, and when I found her, I told her she must be the one. But it quickly became apparent that she was not. I couldn’t bear to hurt her feelings by leaving her, so I still keep up the pretence. But in the meantime, I went out and met Prunella, and now we are going to be married.”
“But how will you get married without my mother knowing?” asked Fiona. Her new life was turning out to be much more complicated than she had expected.
“I am planning to run away in the middle of the night,” said Frederick in a low, suspenseful voice. “Prunella and I will elope, and when we are married we will return to Germany to live in secret. I would like you to promise not to mention this to Cecilia.”
“Of course,” said Fiona, wondering why she felt such hatred for Prunella when she had never met her. “But don’t you think it’s wrong to lie to my mother?”
“But what else can I do?” said Frederick tragically.
“Well, you could always come clean to my mother and move to live with your fiancée instead,” said Fiona helpfully.
Frederick looked amazed. “I think not! I value my life.”
Fiona considered this. “Good point,” she said. “Very good point.” She already knew her mother all too well.
Chapter Three
The next day, Fiona prepared to go to work for the first time. Her hair was so hard and shiny it could have been made out of plastic, and she had washed her polka-dot dress specially, although it did have a smell of vodka about it. She had used bottled water because all the taps ran vodka instead of water, but for some reason the bottles all seemed to contain vodka too.
She walked to the office building, and was directed upstairs. Inside the room was a man in his thirties, who stood up as she entered.
“Ah, my new secretary,” he said. He knocked on her hair, and it sounded like someone knocking at a door. He nodded approvingly.
“Hair like that will get you far,” he said. “So what’s your name, dear?”
“Fiona Clay,” said Fiona. She wished he wouldn’t call her ‘dear’, but she didn’t want to get fired after only five minutes in her job, so she kept quiet.
“Well, Fiona,” said the businessman, “I’m Mr Cornwall-Hughes, but you can call me Rupert.”
Fiona thought she would rather not call him Rupert, but she managed to keep her mouth shut again. Mr Cornwall-Hughes proceeded to give her a tour of the office.
“This is the phone,” he explained. “You press these numbers, and then you can use it to call other people.”
“I know what a phone is,” said Fiona through gritted teeth. “I did read your ‘secretary wanted’ sign.”
“Just checking,” said Mr Cornwall-Hughes, winking at her. This annoyed Fiona even more.
“Now,” said Mr Cornwall-Hughes. “This machine here is called a typewriter. I know it looks very complicated, but I’m sure you’ll soon learn how to use it. You see, if you press these keys with letters on, the letter appears on the paper, and…”
“I know what a typewriter is,” sighed Fiona. “I can already use one, actually.”
“Yes, yes, I’m sure you’re a very clever little girl, but a typewriter is a difficult machine to use,” said Mr Cornwall-Hughes in a kind voice. So Fiona patiently watched him demonstrate how to use the typewriter. She then had to watch demonstrations of the photocopier, the coffee machine, the stapler and paperclips. She wasn’t looking forward to the rest of the day.
***
When Fiona arrived home, fed up after a day of being patronised, her mother and Frederick were sitting in the kitchen.
“For God’s sake, Frederick, I told you, I don’t want to go to your squash club,” Cecilia was saying. “I have other things to do. If you want to do something together, we could go for French manicures.”
“I don’t think that would suit me,” said Frederick diplomatically. “I’m going to play squash by myself, then.” He left the kitchen, and walked straight into Fiona.
“Did I hear you say you liked squash?” asked Fiona excitedly. “Only, I love squash. I used to play it back home with my friend Jane. Only she had to stop because the ball hit her in the eye and her vision got damaged.”
“Really? You play squash?” Frederick said.
Fiona nodded.
“I’ve never met anyone else who liked squash,” he said wonderingly. “I know, you could come with me to squash club!”
“I would love that,” said Fiona happily.
They drove to the squash club in Frederick’s car, which was a shiny Chevrolet. Soon afterwards, they were playing squash against each other. This thrilled Fiona – was Frederick finally going to pay her some attention? Whenever he turned round to fetch the ball, she admired the sportswear he had chosen to wear. She also admired him for having the courage to wear a green t-shirt with baggy purple shorts.
But the moment was soon shattered when the door of the squash club flew open. A beautiful woman appeared there, with her hands on her hips. Fiona saw the look of dread which crossed Frederick’s face, and guessed the terrible truth.
“Prunella,” said Frederick, confirming Fiona’s worst fears. “What are you doing here?” Fiona noticed that his German accent had just got stronger. She thought it proba
bly happened in times of stress.
“I couldn’t find you, and I thought you’d probably be here,” Prunella snapped. “You were meant to take me out to dinner tonight, or had you forgotten? And who’s this?” The entire squash club (all five of them) turned round to stare, as Prunella pointed her finger at Fiona.
“Ah, this is just the daughter of my landlady, who I happened to meet here by chance and have never had a single conversation with in my entire life,” said Frederick quickly. This news didn’t seem to please Prunella. She looked at Fiona with dislike, and Fiona looked back at her in the same way. Prunella grabbed hold of Frederick’s arm and marched him out of the squash club, so quickly he almost tripped over his racket. He looked unhappily back over his shoulder at Fiona as he was dragged outside. Fiona stood there, conflicting emotions flooding through her. She was torn between whether to follow her head… or her heart.
***
When they arrived home, Fiona was surprised to see Frederick go up to his room, then return, dragging his bedsheets down the stairs. She watched as he began to set them up on the tiny, narrow sofa.
“What are you doing?” she asked, after a while of this.
“Moving down here,” he answered.
“But where am I supposed to sleep?” she asked. This was getting worse and worse. First it had been the sofa – next it would probably be a wardrobe. Or the floor.
“You can have my room,” he said, surprising her.
“But why?” she asked. He smiled.
“Every day I come downstairs and see you on the floor, covered in blankets. Such strain is not good for your delicate, ladylike neck.” He winked at her, and her heart sped up so fast she almost had a heart attack. He was, in essence, giving up sleeping for her. What could be more romantic? But there was only one question…was she taking it all the wrong way?
***
The next week, Fiona woke up, still surprised to find that she wasn’t on the floor. She crept down the stairs, past the door of the living room, and looked in to see Frederick hidden underneath a pile of cushions, as usual. Fiona left the house, taking care not to catch her polka-dot dress in the door. This had happened the other day – she had kept walking for quite a while before realising she didn’t seem to be moving anywhere. It was a different dress to the usual – she couldn’t wash the other one without it getting holes in due to the suspicious ‘water’.
Fiona arrived at the office a little too early. Mr Cornwall-Hughes was already there, making a phone call. Fiona was about to go in, when she thought she heard him say something surprising.
“I can’t come over tonight – will tomorrow do?” he was saying. There was a pause. “Fine, Saturday then. I look forward to seeing you. Goodbye, Cecilia.”
Fiona’s eyes widened – so she had heard what she thought she had. He was on the phone to someone called Cecilia. Could it possibly be a coincidence… or was there something else going on here?
“Time for detective mode,” she whispered to herself. She took out the new lipstick she had bought and applied her detective glasses. The new lipstick was black – red just hadn’t had the right effect.
“Hello, Mr Cornwall,” she said, striding purposefully into the room and speaking in what she thought was an all-knowing tone. He blinked at her.
“Fiona dear, you seem to have something on your face,” he said. “Would you like to borrow my handkerchief?”
“No, you don’t understand,” Fiona said. “They’re glasses. They help me think.”
Mr Cornwall-Hughes still didn’t understand. “Glasses are supposed to help you see, not think,” he explained. “You young girls are always starting the strangest fashions.”
Fiona was not about to give up. She was determined to use all the cunning detective skills she knew, so she asked a probing question.
“Made any interesting phone calls this morning?” she asked casually, arching her eyebrows.
“Only to my girlfriend,” he replied. “What’s wrong with your eyebrows? Are they stuck or something?”
Fiona lowered her eyebrows. She wasn’t finished yet. “That’s nice. What’s your girlfriend called?” she asked innocently.
“Her name is Cecilia,” answered Mr Cornwall-Hughes.
“AHA!” said Fiona triumphantly. “A clue!” She had forgotten that she already knew he’d been talking to someone called Cecilia, and that that was the only reason she was asking any questions in the first place. Mr Cornwall-Hughes was becoming more and more puzzled by his secretary’s strange behaviour.
“Fiona, have you been reading again?” he asked. “Because the female brain is very delicate, and it can’t handle too much use. I’ve told you before now…”
“I find your comments poorly informed, scientifically inaccurate and extremely condescending,” Fiona said haughtily.
“Remember what I told you about using words which are more than six letters long, Fiona dear,” said Mr Cornwall-Hughes. “It could be too much for your fragile mind. Now, would you mind filing these papers for me? I’ve written out the alphabet for you at the top of each page, so you don’t have to struggle with remembering it.”
Fiona made a mental rude gesture in his direction, sighed, and picked up the first pile.
***
Fiona’s detective work didn’t make any progress over the next week, until the Thursday afterwards. She was organising copies of Mr Cornwall-Hughes’ receipts. Currently, she was sorting his Woolworth’s receipts, and was intrigued to find out that he frequently bought flowers, heart-shaped chocolates and pick’n’mix. Kilograms of pick’n’mix. It was a wonder he had any teeth left.
Then it happened. She looked over at Mr Cornwall-Hughes, who was drinking cider in a cup he had cleverly marked ‘WATER’ (although it wasn’t fooling anyone, since the cup was transparent). She noticed how his left hand with the wedding ring was making a dent in the cup, in the way people notice things when they are very, very bored, and it gradually occurred to her that something about this was not right. It took her only half an hour longer to realise that it was that his nails were manicured. Why would he have manicured nails…unless someone had forced him to go for a manicure?
After another half hour, she also realised that he shouldn’t be wearing a wedding ring when he had been talking about his girlfriend the week before.
“Mr Cornwall,” she said, “Why are you wearing a wedding ring when you were talking about your girlfriend the week b…I mean, last week?” She decided that she really needed to stop imagining she was in a crime novel – it was playing havoc with her grammar.
Mr Cornwall jumped guiltily at her question.
“Uh, well, you see…” he began, “I just… I recently…I got married to my girlfriend yesterday, you see. Yes, that’s it. I most definitely did go to a church and get married yesterday afternoon. Yes.”
Fiona remembered that he had been in the office all yesterday afternoon. She made a triumphant detective victory face, frightening several pedestrians who were walking past the office window.
Mr Cornwall-Hughes was hiding something, and she, Fiona Clay, was going to find out what.
Chapter Four
Fiona stopped outside her mother’s house, looking in puzzlement at the sight in front of her. The manhole on the pavement had been opened up, and a pair of legs and feet were waving out it.
Feet wearing high heels.
“Mother?” she asked. “What are you doing down there?”
Cecilia was so surprised that she slipped further down into the hole, barely hanging on to the edge of the manhole by one stiletto.
“Oh, I was just…repairing the drain,” she answered. “I’m putting this…antifreeze into the water tank, so that it won’t freeze. Winter’s not far away, you know.”
Fiona looked at the many empty bottles cluttering the pavement.
“It’s only May,” she pointed out. “Do you want a hand out of there?”
“Oh no, I just want to stay here for the rest of the
day in this horrible stinking hole,” said Cecilia.
“Oh, alright then,” said Fiona.
“That was sarcasm,” snapped Cecilia.
“Oh, right,” said Fiona, grabbing her mother’s ankles and pulling. Cecilia tried to look dignified while in mid-air.
“Hey,” said Fiona, while Cecilia was lying breathlessly on the pavement. “Those bottles don’t say ‘antifreeze’ on them, they say something else…”
Cecilia hurriedly grabbed the bottles and pulled them towards her. “No they don’t,” she said.
“You missed one over there,” said Fiona helpfully. “And it definitely says ‘vodka’ on it, not ‘antifreeze’.
“That’s the brand name,” Cecilia insisted. “Vodka Antifreeze. Swedish company. Very famous. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of them. You young people these days have terrible general knowledge.”
“Does antifreeze normally come in see-through glass bottles with ‘65% alcohol’ written on it?” Fiona asked innocently.
“Of course,” said Cecilia. “You are just totally inexperienced when it comes to plumbing, unlike me. I have extreme skills in this area, so I don’t know why you keep questioning my actions.”
“I see,” said Fiona, looking over at where some of the liquid was leaking out of the stray bottle. “I suppose antifreeze always makes holes in pavements, too.”
***
The mysteries and plots were thickening so much that Fiona was beginning to get lost. She wondered how she had got herself into this mess. She had made herself a new pair of detective glasses out of bent paperclips, because there seemed to be a need for them almost all the time. For some reason, everyone seemed to find this strange, especially seeing as the glasses had no lenses…everyone except Frederick.
“I admire your glasses,” he said to her when he passed her in the hallway. “You look like one of those clever people.”
Fiona wasn’t sure whether to take this as an insult or a compliment, and decided just to ignore it. But little did she know that there was about to be a revelation which would change everything.
No, just kidding. That’s just how Fiona thought about it, because she was still thinking in crime fiction prose. It was still quite important, though – the revelation that she and Frederick had something else in common. It started when Fiona went into the living room to find Frederick looking through a stack of photographs.
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