Playing James

He is gorgeous. Dr. Kirkpatrick, that is. His dark hair, freshly washed, flops suggestively down over his face.

  He grins at me. “Back again, Holly?”

  “I can’t keep away,” I murmur. He takes my wrist and concentrates intently. He “hmm’s” a bit to himself and then walks around to the front of the bed and picks up my chart. He scribbles a few notes.

  “Well, can’t see any long-term damage. But I would like to keep you in until about teatime for observation. Can’t be too careful with concussion cases.” I look over to the three of them to ensure that they are carefully heeding his words.

  He also turns to the corner group. “Can one of . . . oh, hello Detective! How are you?” He shakes hands with James. “Keeping well?” He’s bloody buggery fine, I feel like shouting. I’m the wounded one, over here in the bed. The one he almost clubbed to death.

  Dr. Kirkpatrick continues: “Can one of you take Holly home? Around about teatime?” They all nod their agreement and the doctor turns back to me.

  “I’ll be back on my rounds after lunch, Holly, to check on you.” A brief smile and he’s gone. James gets up.

  “I’m going to go and get some work done,” he says.

  A thought occurs to me. Butterflies of panic suddenly start up in my stomach.

  “What happened with the diary? Did Vince let the paper know?”

  “Of course. In fact, I helped Joe write it last night. Well, supplied the information anyway. And don’t worry; I’ll do the same at the end of today. To be honest though, there won’t be much to report. I’ll be interviewing Christine and then I’ll have to start preparing the case against her. So it’s paperwork for the most part.”

  “James, dear,” says my mother, “would you mind calling Lizzie on the way out? Here’s the number. Only mobile phones aren’t allowed in here.” Oh right. As opposed to smoking, which is of course perfectly legit. My mother’s interpretation of the rules never ceases to amaze me.

  He takes the number from her. “I’ll come back at lunchtime.”

  “Call Joe too!” I shout after his disappearing back. He raises his hand in acknowledgment.

  We all sit in companionable silence for a few minutes.

  “Dad? Could you do me a favor? Could you see if you could get a copy of the paper? I’d like to read the diary.” My father duly disappears on his errand and I take the opportunity of a room relatively empty of people to make a run for the loo. I wrap the flimsy gown around my backside, scurry into the bathroom and then return to settle again on my pillows.

  “Well,” says my mother, “what a nice bloke that James is. I have to say I like him excessively.”

  There is another few minutes’ pause. I am starting to feel distinctly uncomfortable as I can see the way my mother’s mind is working. The cogs are turning and she’s thinking “What on earth is this very attractive young man doing racing around most of Bristol all in aid of my daughter? And shouldn’t I, as the mother of the aforementioned daughter, and indeed a wedding guest at his impending nuptials, be inquiring a little deeper into this?”

  “So, do you like him, darling?”

  I stare intently down at the sheets and wonder whether the hospital has its own laundry.

  “He’s OK,” I say noncommittally.

  Pause.

  “The whole village is reading the diary, darling. We’ve taken to photocopying it and putting it up on the notice board! They’re all huge fans! You’ll be opening the church fête soon! Mrs. Murdoch thinks you must like him a lot.” She tacks this neatly on to the end.

  “For goodness sake! He’s getting married in a week’s time!” I explode. “You are invited to his wedding; for that matter, so am I! His fiancée, Fleur, the daughter of your friend Miles, is a really nice girl. And what about Ben? Do you like Ben?”

  “Of course we do, darling. Of course we do.” She pauses. “Although . . .”

  “Although what?” I snap, starting to get well and truly rattled now. My God! I’ve just been bonked on the head, out cold for practically days on end and she breezes in here with a quick “Feeling better now, darling?” and then it’s gloves on. Never mind my blood pressure. Never mind the doctor’s “Can’t be too careful with concussion cases.”

  “He went to public school, didn’t he?” she murmurs.

  “So? SO?”

  “Well, it’s just that I find public school boys, generally speaking, to be a little . . . There is the odd exception, of course . . .”

  “A. Little. What?”

  She looks me straight in the eye. “Emotionally retarded.”

  I gulp. “Emotionally retarded?” I can’t believe the front of the woman. This is the lady who regularly tries to change TV channels with a calculator and hides Christmas presents in the freezer.

  “Yes, emotionally retarded. Their parents chuck them off to boarding school when they’re about five and it’s all ‘No tears, stiff upper lip, little man, your grandfather shot tigers in India.’ Then they all have fags; God knows what that means but let’s face it, darling, the word has highly dubious connotations. And before you know it they’re all grown up, know the school song by heart, have their old school ties but are unable to form a proper emotional relationship with anyone.”

  She has obviously been reading Tom Brown’s Schooldays.

  “Well, that’s not Ben,” I say staunchly, but a slight seed of doubt sows itself in my mind, which I daresay is her intention.

  “That’s OK then,” she says swiftly. She lights up another cigarette and lies back in the chair puffing smoke rings into the air and watching them float away. Now I’m feeling cross.

  “So, do you like him? Ben?” I persist.

  “Hmm?” she says, as though we finished discussing the subject ages ago. “Of course we do, darling. Just as long as you know he’ll make the commitment. Just as long as you’re happy.”

  She’s very smart, my mother. Many just dismiss her as an empty-headed actress. It’s all a carefully constructed front. She says those words with just the right degree of indifference. Of nonchalance. And even despite knowing it’s all an act, it still has the desired effect on me. I start to doubt. Bravo, Sorrel Colshannon. A fine performance.

  But you know what? I really don’t want to think about this. I really, really don’t. For some reason I’m feeling a little emotional and I’m having a hard time holding back the tears. It must be the shock setting in. And my life is complicated enough right now. I don’t want to think about love because, frankly, there are more important things. I’m sitting in a hospital with concussion, my career has taken a big upturn with the diary, my best friend has just finished with her boyfriend and I also have . . .

  “TV interview. Tomorrow at seven. Your detective called; I came straight down.” Joe waltzes into the room.

  “I’m feeling better, Joe, thanks for asking. How are you?” I say crossly.

  “Fine thanks.” He turns to my mother and proffers a hand. “Joseph Heesman. Nice to meet you. You must be Holly’s famous mother.”

  “And you must be her notorious editor. Your reputation precedes you.”

  “All bad, I hope?”

  “Appalling.”

  “What’s up with her?” He gestures his head in my general direction.

  “Cranky. Knock on the head.”

  He addresses himself to me. “You’ll be all right for tomorrow, won’t you? Right as a shower?”

  “I don’t know . . . one always has to be careful with concussion.”

  “Come on, Holly! They’ve been on the phone all morning after the latest installment.” He winks at my mother.

  “Why ‘after the latest installment’? What did you write?”

  “Had all the makings of a high-class thriller. A criminal on the run. The good guys chase the bad one. Boy knocks girl out. For the second time as well! Not a traditional ending, admittedly. And the photos are knockout! Sorry, no pun intended. I’ve saved some of them for the interview.”

  “Who’s the TV intervie
w with?”

  “The same guy as before, just at the local station. But don’t look at a Trojan horse’s mouth. I have to say, the whole thing has generated a lot of interest. We’ve had people calling all morning to see how you are. Quite a little cult following you’ve got going.”

  This, as blatant flattery always does, cheers me up.

  “Really?”

  “Yep, really.”

  At this point my father comes back in and hands the newspaper over.

  “Sorry it took so long. It’s a bloody warren in here.”

  I turn to my page quickly while my father and Joe make their introductions with lots of manful handshaking.

  “Blimey Joe!” I say. “No wonder it’s caused some fuss!” He’s looking very pleased with himself and so he might. It starts:

  I am writing this in lieu of our normal correspondent, Holly Colshannon, as she lies unconscious in a hospital bed as a result of today’s dramatic developments . . .

  “Photos are good too, aren’t they? Vince is chuffed to bits with them. But he only had time to develop the first half of the film so we thought we would save the other half for the TV interview. He’ll be coming down later, if that’s OK? Take a few of you for tonight’s edition.”

  “Fine,” I say, grinning stupidly, still looking down at the article. The photos are excellent. There are a few of all of us (except Christine) running in a straggly group, looking like rejects from the Keystone Cops, and then a couple of the back of Christine haring off into the distance with us running after her. I finish reading the article and hand the paper over to my parents for them to see.

  Joe stands up. “Well, I’ll be off. As long as you’ll be all right for tomorrow. Everyone sends their best wishes from the paper, by the way. Should have brought you some flowers, shouldn’t I?”

  “Yes. You should have.”

  “I’ll write tonight’s edition again, so don’t worry about that. Well done, Holly. Great stuff,” he says, as though I am not only personally responsible for being knocked out but also for engineering the whole thing as well. “Are you being let out today?”

  “Yeah, teatime.”

  “Good, good. Every cloud has a bit of a coat, hasn’t it? See you tomorrow, look after yourself tonight.” And with this he says goodbye to my parents and makes his exit.

  I’m starting to feel tired. My mother, noticing my droopy eyes, says, “Why don’t you have a nap, darling? We’ll go and get some tea in the canteen.”

  I really am feeling sleepy now. A little nap. Maybe just for a minute.

  I wake up with a start. My heart is racing. I was being chased . . .

  “Holly? It’s OK. You’re all right.” People leaning over me come into focus. I gulp mouthfuls of air and gradually my heartbeat subsides. Lizzie is here, I notice, and my parents have returned.

  “How long was I asleep?”

  “About an hour. Lizzie arrived just after you nodded off,” says my mother.

  “Hello! How are you feeling?” Lizzie’s sympathetic face hovers over me.

  “Oh, fine. Why aren’t you at work?”

  “Your detective called me and said you were awake. My whole office has been talking about nothing else since the paper this morning. Talk about drama! So I went through to Alastair and told him what had happened and he let me come immediately. You should do this more often, Hol!”

  “So people keep telling me,” I say grimly. I lie back on my beloved pillows for a while.

  Lizzie natters inanely about this and that and I let her mindless chatter wash over me while I slowly wake up.

  “Have you called Ben?”

  “I spoke to him last night and this morning. He’s coming over in his lunch break.”

  “Good!” I exclaim enthusiastically, looking at my mother out of the corner of my eye. See? He does care. “Have things improved at all with Alastair?”

  Lizzie shakes her head slightly. “No,” she says shortly.

  We sit in silence for a second. Lizzie obviously isn’t up to going into the whole Alastair debacle with my parents present.

  “Have you seen the paper? I brought it down with me,” she says.

  “Yeah, I’ve seen it, thanks.”

  “So, IS there anything going on, Hol?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you know. Between you and the detective. There is no other topic of conversation in the office!”

  “There. Is. Nothing. Going. On. Between. Us,” I say angrily. “You out of everybody must know that, Lizzie. Did you put her up to this?” I direct my last comment at my mother who is idly looking at her nails. My father has bought the Guardian and is rather sensibly hiding behind it.

  My mother looks offended. “Of course I didn’t, darling. It’s not just me who thinks it. I was talking to the lady in the canteen and she said . . .”

  I gape at her while she is saying all this, speechless for a second.

  “You talked to the lady in the canteen?”

  “Well, not exactly. We got chatting and I said I was visiting my daughter and that you were a reporter, and then she said were you the reporter, and I rather proudly said yes you were. And then she said that she and the rest of the staff read the diary every day, to which I said thank you very much, although I’m not quite sure why I was thanking her. By the way, she said she wasn’t quite sure about one of the skirts you were wearing the other day. The others thought . . .” My father lowers the newspaper, makes eye contact with me, sighs theatrically and then re-erects the paper.

  “Get to the point,” I say, sensing one of my mother’s diversionary tangents.

  “All right, darling, don’t get your gown in a twist, I’m just relating what was said. I can’t help it if . . .”

  “GET TO THE SODDING POINT!”

  “Well, then she asked if there was any chance you and the detective would get together.”

  Lizzie interjects. “I’ve got ten pounds on it in my office pool since this morning. But, Holly, I don’t want that to influence you in any—”

  “You have an office pool? On what?”

  “On you and James, of course.”

  “HE. IS. GETTING. MARRIED. IN. A. WEEK’S. TIME.”

  “Who’s getting married?” asks a voice from the doorway.

  “You are,” I say in a very weak voice, staring in horror at James. “Hooray! Lizzie was, er, just asking, er, when the wedding is,” I add, carefully avoiding further eye contact with him while surreptitiously trying to glare at my mother and Lizzie. No mean feat, I can tell you. I’m practically cross-eyed with the effort. “How’s work? Got Christine all tied up?” I continue quickly before he can cross-examine me. I wonder if it’s at all possible that I could regain unconsciousness and start this day again.

  “Yes, all done.” He pauses. “The boys had a whip-round and got you these.” From behind his back he brings out a huge bunch of lilies.

  “Oh, how gorgeous!” I breathe joyously, smelling the powerful, heady scent of the flowers. I can almost feel the nudges passing between my mother and Lizzie. I pick out the card nestling between the stems. It reads: “SORRY DICK KEEPS GIVING YOU BLACK EYES. LOOK FORWARD TO HAVING YOU BACK SOON.”

  “How nice of them,” I say pointedly. “Please say thanks to them, won’t you?”

  “And I got you these.” He pulls out his other arm and presents me with a big bunch of freesias. I am so delighted that for a second I am caught off my guard.

  “My favorites!”

  “I know, I remember you mentioning them,” he says quietly. For a second I feel perilously close to tears. “Robin is with me!” James says brightly. “She’s parking the car.” My grief is quickly replaced by annoyance.

  “Great!” I say, putting my hand to my forehead. I wonder if I’m menopausal? A little premature perhaps but it would explain the mood swings and the hot flushes.

  Dr. Kirkpatrick comes in. He smiles generally around.

  “Everyone still here?” Unfortunately. Yes.


  “Is it lunchtime already?”

  “It certainly is. So, how are you feeling, Holly? Any better?” he asks, moving around the bed and doing the usual checks.

  “I’m fine.” He wraps a black swathe around my arm to check my blood pressure and we wait while it electronically calibrates. Robin comes into the room and I wave from the solace of my bed.

  “How are you feeling?” she asks. I bob my head about in an “OK” mode. She stares a little at the fair doctor, which doesn’t surprise me at all. He’s very stare-able. Easy on the eye, as they say. He smiles at her. She smiles back. He smiles some more. The electronic monitor is beeping. Hello? Hello? Remember me? The patient? I pointedly clear my throat.

  “Hmmm? Oh yes, sorry, Holly.” He turns his attention back to my blood pressure. “You’re fine. Give yourself a few hours before you leave. Now, do you need any painkillers?”

  I look darkly around the roomful of people. That depends on what context he means . . . “Not for my head,” I murmur.

  “If I don’t see you before you go, try to take it easy over the next couple of days and I have no doubt that I’ll see you soon.”

  He smiles at Robin. “Nice to meet you,” he says to her, before turning on his heel and leaving.

  Robin stares after him. “Blimey Holly! You get all the luck!” Yes. Don’t I just? She looks back at me. “He’s divine!”

  I smile. “He is, isn’t he? And you should see him when . . .”

  “All right, all right, I don’t think you and Robin need to drool quite so blatantly over the doctor. Besides, we can’t stay long, we need to get back. Holly, your boyfriend is here,” snaps James and gestures his head toward the door, obviously jealous that Robin likes the beautiful doctor. He does lead a complicated life. I look over to where Ben’s handsome silhouette is framed in the doorway.

  “Ben!” I exclaim as he comes in, covering the distance between the doorway and the bed in three easy strides.

  “Lizzie called last night, I’ve been so worried! I didn’t come down though as she said there was no point.” He bends over and kisses me. “How are you feeling?”

  “Fine. Absolutely fine.” I make the appropriate introductions and Ben duly shakes everyone’s hand. He then sits on the end of the bed.