That’s it I thought. Earphones. I grabbed my handbag and found the iPod earphones. I fished them out and tried to find the earphone jack for the radio, but there was nothing.
By now the cars behind us were honking and a crowd had gathered round. Then there was the low level woo-woo of a siren as a police car drove along the line towards us, and came to a stop.
It was then that Adam discovered how to turn the car stereo off. The silence rang through our ears, but two police officers had already climbed out of the car.
‘Good morning,’ said one with a bristly grey moustache leaning on Adam’s side. ‘Could you get out of the car please?’ We climbed out.
‘We’ve had a complaint about noise pollution of a pornographic nature,’ he said.
‘That was quick,’ I said. ‘Why are you never around when we really need you?’
Adam shot me a look.
‘You are aware that you must adhere to acceptable levels when you play music in the car?’
He looked at the coloured lights flashing on the speakers in the back window.
‘We were listening to an audiobook actually,’ I said. ‘And it’s a bestseller. ’
‘We’re going to need to look inside your vehicle,’ said the police officer with the moustache.
‘No problem,’ said Adam. The younger policeman opened the driver’s door. He leaned across to where the tax disc slots in.
‘Why aren’t you displaying a valid tax disc?’ he asked.
‘We are,’ I said.
‘Where is it then?’ said the policeman. Adam and I looked inside, it was gone. I found it in a wet little ball under the seat. Then I remembered Wilfred.
‘Did Meryl sit in the front with Wilfred?’ I asked Adam.
‘Yeah,’ said Adam.
‘He ate the bloody tax disc,’ I said trying to smooth it out for the police officer. I held out the pieces of chewed paper, which bore no resemblance to a tax disc.
‘My nephew chewed it,’ I said.
‘Well where is this nephew?’
‘He was dropped off yesterday, with his mother… at her hearse…’ I said. Adam shook his head.
‘OK. Who is in control of this vehicle, right now?’ said the officer with the moustache.
‘I was, am,’ said Adam.
‘Ok. Can I have your driving licence?’
Adam took it from his wallet and handed it over. The two policemen went back to their car and read Adam’s details into the radio. After a burst of static, something incomprehensible crackled through, and the two officers went into another gear. They handcuffed Adam!
‘Hey! Hey! What’s going on?’ I demanded.
‘Mr Rickard we have a warrant out for your arrest. You absconded from Cambrian Sands open Prison last August,’ said the policeman with the moustache.
‘No, his sentence was squashed!’ I said. (I meant to say quashed).
‘Is that what he told you?’ The younger officer smirked.
‘Radio again, he’s been cleared, he went to court!’ I said.
‘Coco, its okay. Phone my solicitor,’ said Adam.
‘It’s Easter.’
‘Then we’ll pay triple,’ said Adam, and that was the last he said before he was driven off. I stood there in shock. A man who had been standing with his family said,
‘They’re very good speakers, where did you get them from?’ I ignored him.
The crowds began to clear and I got back in the car. I realised later that I should have phoned someone – Rosencrantz, Chris or Marika – but my only thought was Adam. They’d taken him to prison once before by mistake, so it could happen again!
I managed to get the car started but the pedals were so sensitive. I bunny-hopped my way out of the dusty car park, pushing the seat back even further to protect my stomach from the steering wheel. I turned out onto the road and zoomed along panicking wildly. I drove past fields and thought, where am I going? I came to a crossroads and a sign which read Kingston-Upon-Thames. As far as I could remember Kingston-Upon-Thames was pretty big, so I assumed that would be where they’d taken Adam.
As I carried on driving, the country road merged into one with houses and buildings and then I was in the centre of everything. Roads merged, junctions snaked away, sign upon sign showed one-way systems with banks of traffic lights. The car stalled, I couldn’t get it started and a lorry behind me beeped. A little Fiat to one side beeped also and tried to over-take me. I was surrounded. Then something weird happened. It was as if all the heat in my body began to sink down and out of my feet. My head and arms went cold and numb, and then my chest, I started to see stars. I tried to lift my hand then everything went black.
I was lying down under the cosiest blanket. It smelt very clean, antiseptic, but not that horrible antiseptic that stings your throat. This smell was nice and minty. Then the sound came back cars beeping and grinding gears. An ambulance was looming beside me and a young girl with a pleasant face was leaning over me. I could smell the road and exhaust fumes but the lovely minty smell was stronger.
‘Minty,’ I mumbled.
‘Is that your name?’ said the girl who I could now see was wearing a paramedic uniform.
‘Mmmmm. Minty,’ I repeated.
‘Okay Minty, we’re going to move you into the ambulance,’ she said. I can remember thinking that I must tell her my name isn’t Minty and then everything swam back to black.
When I woke up again things seemed more urgent. I was lying in the ambulance and the sirens were going and I could feel we were moving fast.
‘The baby’s heart beat is slowing right down,’ said the paramedic. I felt a sting in the back of my hand, and cold seeping up my arm. I tried to say something, but a big plastic mask came down over my face and it all went grey.
I woke again in a hospital on a bed with a curtain round me. I tried to lift my arms but leads and cables were wrapped around them. I was also in a hospital gown. Where are my shoes? I thought wiggling my toes. And my bra and knickers? For a while I just accepted the situation. The bed was comfy, and I could hear a couple of girls behind the curtain in the next cubicle looking at Heat magazine. I listened to their chatter, as they made their way through some interviews, a film review and then they got to Torso of the Week.
Rosencrantz likes that, I thought, and then it all came back.
BAM!
I had a son, and I had a baby with a weak heartbeat. I began to shout ‘HELP! HELP!’ A Nurse came running through.
‘It’s okay Minty,’ she said. ‘I’m Nurse Julings.’ My heart bleep machine was increasing.
‘Is my baby alive?’
‘Yes Minty your baby is alive.’
‘What happened?’
‘You had dangerously low blood pressure, but we’ve stabilised both you and the baby. Calm down Minty.’ She said pushing my arms down onto the bed.
‘My name isn’t Minty…’
Another Nurse swished open a gap in the curtain, came through and swished it shut behind her. She was very tiny with blond hair.
‘This lady isn’t Minty.’
‘Can you tell us your name?’ the blonde nurse asked in a sing-song voice.
‘It’s Coco, Coco Pinchard.’
‘We’ve had a right problem identifying you, can I call you Coco?’
I nodded.
‘You had no bag or ID with you, and your car was still registered with an Atlas Priftis, we’ve been calling him, but no one is answering. Is that your partner?’
I shook my head.
‘It’s my car,’ I said.
‘What’s your address Coco?’ I couldn’t remember. I racked my brain. Tears began to fall.
‘It’s okay, Coco. What’s your date of birth?’
Again I couldn’t remember.
‘I’m forty four,’ I said.
‘We women are never allowed to forget how old we are,’ said Nurse Julings trying to make light of it. They swished out of the cubicle. I could hear the girls in the next cubicle again; the
y were talking in low voices. It seems they thought I was mad.
‘I’m not mad,’ I said. They went quiet. ‘I’m really not…’ Why is it that people automatically seem mad the second they say they’re not? I tried to think of something normal to say.
‘So who is Torso of the Week?’
‘Let’s get out of here, it’s just a cut on your knee,’ said the girl and they left the cubicle. I heard their voices fade down the corridor saying, ‘That’s well freaky man, how did she know what magazine we were reading?’
Nurse Julings swished back into the cubicle.
‘Nothing is coming up for Coco Pinchard.’
‘What?’
‘We’ve checked the whole of the United Kingdom database.’ She was watching me now, analyzing me.
‘Oh, I know what it is. Coco is my nickname, my real name is… is… ’ But I couldn’t remember.
‘But I’m not getting anything for Pinchard either, is that a nickname too?’
‘No. I got re-married… I can’t remember that name either…’
Nurse Julings regarded me for a moment and then left the cubicle.
They’re going to section me. I thought. I’m what they call a Jane Doe, or more like a Jane D’oh. I laughed. It sounded weird and manic.
And then like an angel Adam came through the curtain.
‘Coco!’ he said. He looked gorgeous, worried as hell, but gorgeous.
‘So do you know this woman?’ asked Nurse Julings.
‘She’s my wife he said grabbing my hand.
‘It’s Karen!’ I said, and then everything came back. ‘I’m Karen Rickard. I was born on the 14th June 1967, I live at 3 Steeplejack Mews in Marylebone, London.’
The nurse wrote it down and went away again.
‘What happened?’ I asked Adam.
‘You collapsed in the car.’
‘Not me, you.’
‘They took me to the police station, and as I was being booked they realised their error. They brought me back to Hampton Court but you’d left.’
The nurse came back with a bag filled with my clothes.
‘Right Mrs Rickard. Here are your things, and here is the doctor. A balding man in glasses came through the curtain.
‘Hello Mrs Rickard,’ he took my notes and flicked through.
‘Right. Geriatric mother found unconscious in a Ford Ka. Chronically dehydrated and hypoglycaemic. Blood pressure yo-yo-ing. Have we run the usual?’
‘Yes, when the patient was unconscious…’ said the Nurse.
The doctor flicked through the thin sheets in the file. Adam smiled and squeezed my hand.
‘Mrs Rickard. You’re not looking after yourself, are you?’ said the doctor taking off his glasses.
‘He is,’ I said pointing to Adam.
‘You need to keep yourself calm, rested and hydrated. Now it’s a hot day out there, did you have water with you?’
‘No.’ I said in a small voice.
‘You need to remember there are two of you.’ Instinctively I looked at Adam.
‘He means the baby,’ said Adam in a soft voice.
I was kept in for a couple more hours until they’d rehydrated me. Then we had to go back to the police station where our car was being kept.
‘If you could sign here Madam,’ said the same police officer who had arrested Adam. They were all very sheepish.
I signed my name Coco Rickard.
A police officer brought the car round to the front of the station.
‘Where to Mrs Rickard?’ Adam grinned.
‘Home,’ I said. ‘Our home.’
Tuesday 10th April
Adam’s boss Serena phoned early this morning. She has been trying to process Adam’s national insurance details for the payroll, but it’s coming up that he has a criminal record. Adam explained what had happened. Then came off the phone looking grey.
‘They can’t hire me while I have a record,’ he said.
Agent Fergie is now #203,000
Winetime #5
Wednesday 11th April
It’s going to be three months before Adam can start work. Even though they know a mistake has been made, it takes ages for all the computer payroll systems to update.
Amazon, however, is updating every hour and Agent Fergie continues to fall… #215,000 and counting. I’m not even looking at anything else.
Friday 13th April
This morning Agent Fergie was #250,001. I could feel the book was slipping through my fingers, so I made one last ditch attempt and went to Angie’s house unannounced. She looked surprised to see me when she opened the door.
‘I can’t stop Cokes. I’m just about to leave for Battersea Dogs’ Home.’
‘Are you getting a dog?’ I asked.
‘No, Regina is doing some filming. She and Pippin are going to be on ‘The Dog Whisperer’. Pippin is getting some anger management training, and it’s great publicity.’
‘Just give me two minutes,’ I said firmly. Angie checked her watch.
‘Okay. Come up to my office.’
I’d been practising a speech on the way over. I was prepared to give Angie an ultimatum: either she started engaging with me again, or I looked for representation elsewhere. I was just wondering whether I should choose a better word than ‘engage’ when we arrived in her office. Angie was dressed in a charcoal-grey suit, and a blood-red blouse. She pulled some equally red lipstick out and started applying it in her mirror.
‘Oh. We just got some of the first copies through of Agent Fergie,’ she said without taking her eyes off the mirror. ‘Is that what you’re here for?’
‘Yes. And no.’ I said. Chloe came in and said hi.
‘Chloe love, show Coco her book,’ said Angie. Chloe dragged a cardboard box over and got to work on the tape.
‘Angie, I need to talk about us,’ I said.
‘You make it sound like we’re dating...’
Chloe got the box open.
‘Oh, that’s the new holocaust book,’ she said. She put a copy on the table beside me. It had a black and white cover, with an image of the barbed wire of Belsen. Splurged across the front was the quote:
“I laughed and laughed and laughed,
what an imagination this author has!”
REGINA BATTENBERG.
‘What’s this?’ I asked pointing to the book.
‘I just took this woman on who wanted to have her diaries published…’ said Angie blotting her lipstick in the mirror.
‘No, the quote,’ I said tapping the cover. Angie put the lid on her lipstick and came over. Chloe got the other box open and pulled out a copy of Agent Fergie. It was hot pink with huge black lettering. It looked fab, but I immediately noticed that on the cover was written:
“A harrowing account of a woman who survived the holocaust…”
MARY BEARD.
Angie perched her glasses on her nose.
‘Shit!’ she said going pale. ‘Shit! Chloe, what have you done?’
‘I must have got the files mixed up!’ said Chloe going equally pale. ‘These haven’t gone out to stores yet,’ she added ‘This is a limited first print run…’
‘But copies have gone out to two hundred fucking journalists!’ said Angie. I looked at the fear on her face.
‘Isn’t this basic stuff? These books are hardly similar!’ I said holding the two covers side by side.
‘You keep out of this Coco!’ said Angie
‘Keep out of this? Right that’s it. You need to sort this out and then you’re fired.’
I stuffed as many books as I could in my bag. Angie was in shock.
‘What are you doing? Coco… you can’t take those.’
‘Yes I can. Thanks to your screw up I’ll probably have to put these on Ebay. At least one of us can make some money!’
I tried to leave as elegantly as I could, but who can take a waddler seriously? I came home and told Adam.
‘Surely people will realise the mix-up?’ said Adam. M
y phone rang. It was a journalist.
‘Hi, Coco Pinchard? I’m Kelly Klass phoning for Dave Numan from the Daily Record…’ she said. ‘I’ve been asked to do some fact checking before we go to print.’
‘Is this about Agent Fergie?’ I said.
‘Yes. Would you be offended if I asked how old you are?’
‘I’m forty-four,’ I said.
‘And you’re pregnant?’
‘Yes.’
‘Look. I know people lie about their age, but if you survived the holocaust, you must be at least eighty. Could we compromise and put sixty-one?’
I explained what was going on. She sounded quite excited and rang off.
‘You see Cokes, no publicity is bad publicity,’ said Adam.
‘As long as they don’t put that I’m eighty, or sixty-seven...’
Wednesday 18th April
Agent Fergie #263,000
Winetime #2
Nothing has run in the press about the quote mix-up. And there is nothing anywhere about Agent Fergie coming out tomorrow. I spent the morning online, Googling myself. Nothing. Then I made Adam come to the newsagent and we rifled through every magazine and newspaper on the stands until Clive, who runs the shop, got rather annoyed and asked if we were going to buy anything.
‘Look at the bigger picture,’ said Adam as we came out of the newsagent. ‘There is so much other great stuff happening in your life.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like what? You’re having our son!’
‘Yes… I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I just thought this would be it. When I signed the deal for Agent Fergie, everyone seemed so excited, Angie, the publisher. So much time has passed and now things have got in the way, like Regina Battenberg.’