Kate Lawson - Keeping Mum

‘Have you thought it might be because you’re trying to break into his email account, read his phone messages and are currently setting someone up to stalk him?’ asked Cass.

Fiona considered the possibility for a few seconds then shook her head. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Andy’s got no idea he’s going to be stalked. And besides, he is up to something, I know it—and I want you to find out exactly what it is.’

‘Because?’

‘Well, because we’re friends, and I’d do the same for you.’

Cass stared at her. ‘Really?’

‘Oh God yes,’ said Fiona. Which wasn’t exactly how Cass remembered it. She did remember lots of things about being Fiona’s friend, like being left at the bus stop in the pouring rain, in her gym kit, because Fee had persuaded her mum to give the school hunk, Alan Hall, a lift home instead of Cass, the same friend who had refused point-blank to lend Cass a tenner when they were at a gig and Cass found she’d left her handbag backstage.

None of which suggested to Cass that Fiona would be running to her rescue if she ever needed a bit of on-the-side spying.

‘I don’t think blonde’s really my colour, do you?’ asked Cass, narrowing her eyes, trying to gauge the effect of the wig and hoping to lighten the mood. ‘Maybe something with a bit more caramel?’

‘Can we please concentrate? I don’t think you’re taking this seriously,’ snapped Fiona. ‘Andy’s going to be at Sam’s Place, Saturday night, at eight. I’ve brought my camera with me just in case yours doesn’t have a zoom.’

Cass looked at her. ‘Sam’s Place?’

‘Uh-huh you know, the trendy new bar, opposite the Corn Exchange.’

Cass shook her head.

‘Oh, come on, Cass, you must have seen it. It’s been all over the local papers. They did a double-page spread in the Argos and Echo, and a thing on local TV. Some guy off the telly is one of the partners in it. He used to be in The Bill —not that I watch that kind of thing, obviously. Anyway, there’s a cocktail bar and restaurant, and a coffee shop, all retro and very Casablanca, with a nightclub upstairs. I’ve been trying to persuade Andy to take me there for weeks.’ Fiona paused for effect. ‘Do you know what he said?’

Cass decided it would probably be wiser not to offer any suggestions, so pulled an I have no idea face instead.

‘He said, “Fee, what in god’s name do you want to go there for? Clubbing—at our age? It’s ridiculous.” That’s what he said, Cass, “ Ridiculous ”. It was horrible. It made me sound like some sort of desperate pensioner…’

Fiona was wearing a skirt that was bang on trend—if you happened to be eighteen—a pair of Christian Louboutin knock-offs and a haircut that probably cost more than Cass’s sofa, and Fiona had made Cass swear that she’d never mention the Botox or the fillers in front of anyone. Maybe ‘pensioner’ was a bit cruel, but ‘desperate’ wasn’t far short of the mark.

‘So you haven’t been there?’

Fiona shook her head. ‘No, of course I haven’t been there, although now it looks as if he’s going to be going without me. There was a message on the pad in his office —“Sam’s Place, 8 o’clock”, and what looked like next Saturday’s date. I was going to bring it with me to prove that I wasn’t imagining it…’

‘Did you ask Andy about it? I mean, surely if he left the note on his desk he meant you to see it,’ asked Cass cautiously.

‘He would think I was mad…’

Cass decided not to comment. ‘Maybe he’s planning to surprise you? You said you wanted to go—maybe he’s going to take you as a treat.’

Fiona didn’t look convinced.

‘Why don’t you just ask him, Fee? He left you a note—in plain sight…’

‘It wasn’t actually the note I saw,’ Fiona said, after a few seconds. ‘And Andy didn’t leave it out on the desk for me to see. It was more of an impression on the pad underneath. I could see that it had something written on it, but I couldn’t really make out what it said…’

‘Right,’ murmured Cass in an undertone. This was getting weirder by the second.

‘Anyway, I saw this thing on a film once, where you get a soft pencil and then very lightly shade over the indentations.’ Fiona mimed the action.

Cass had heard enough. ‘Uh-huh, okay, look, I think we should stop right there, Fiona—this is nuts. You need to talk to Andy, not me. And as for the stalking? I think it’s crazy and I’m not doing it.’ As she spoke, Cass pulled off the wig and dropped it onto the bed. ‘I really don’t think it’s a good idea. Do you want to stay with Andy?’

Fiona stared at Cass as if the question hadn’t crossed her mind. ‘Well of course I want to stay with Andy,’ she snapped. ‘Why on earth would I go to all this trouble if I didn’t want to be with him? For god’s sake Cass—have you got any idea how hard it is to get your hands on a decent blonde wig? It’s taken me ages to get all this stuff together…’

‘Well in that case you need to talk to him, not go creeping around spying on him.’ Cass slipped off the trench coat. ‘I’m really sorry, Fee. I’d be glad to help but not like this.’

Fiona looked as if she was about to speak, and then she bit her lip, her eyes filling up with tears. She started stuffing the wig and the brolly into her holdall.

Cass sighed, feeling guilty. ‘Oh for goodness sake Fee—’ she began.

‘Don’t say anything,’ she sniffed. ‘I thought you’d understand.’ Between sobs, Fiona rolled the trench coat into a ball and crammed it into the bag. ‘I thought you were my friend.’

‘I am your friend, and I do understand,’ said Cass. ‘Really, I do—but this isn’t going to help anything.’

‘How do you know unless we try?’ cried Fiona. ‘I don’t know what else to do,’ she wailed, still gathering things up as she made for the door.

‘Fee, wait, let’s talk about this,’ said Cass, but it was too late. The last thing Cass saw was Fiona heading down the stairs with the holdall clutched tight to her chest.

‘Oh bugger,’ said Cass in frustration. The Chinese takeaway they had ordered arrived half an hour later. Mungo and Buster waited by the kitchen door, trying hard not to look too eager, although realistically there was no way Cass was going to manage all those chicken balls on her own.

‘Excuse me, Miss, Miss?’

Cass glanced up from her book and looked at the man framed in the shop doorway.

‘I was wondering if you could help me? Is that record player in the window Chippendale?’

The guy was six two, maybe six three, tanned, with great teeth and an Armani jacket worn dressed down over good jeans and a black tee shirt. He had just the hint of a transatlantic twang somewhere in his voice. He had shoulders broad enough to make a grown woman weep and the biggest brownest eyes. If he were a spaniel, women would arm-wrestle each other to take him home.

Cass closed her book and nodded, ‘Uh-huh, it most certainly is, and you see that cocktail cabinet in the back there? The cream one with the stainless-steel knobs?’ She pointed off into the shadows, between a bentwood hat stand and the little painted pine chiffonier that she’d sold earlier in the day.

The man looked around. ‘Which? Oh right—oh yes, that’s very nice.’

‘Hepplewhite. Genuine George III,’ she said.

‘No?’ said the man, extending the oooo sound to express his incredulity. ‘My god, really? I’d imagine they are just so hard to find.’

‘In that kind of condition,’ Cass said, ‘rare as hen’s teeth.’

‘Oh my god this is just too wonderful. Do you take credit cards? Do you think we can maybe do a deal on the two pieces?’