if I was in my fifties, or trying to hide in a pile of shapeless fabric.
In the end I found a black fitted top that I usually wore under my suit at work, a black skirt that was short enough to be quite daring. And some black tights. I looked like a trainee ninja. Finally, at the back of the drawers, a pale pink cashmere cardigan. At least that would cover up the scars on my arms. Instead of buttoning it, I tied it at the waist.
I looked sadly at all my sensible shoes, all just right if I ever felt the need to break into a sprint, but not exactly alluring.
Hell, I didn’t need shoes anyway, I was only going upstairs.
I rubbed my hair dry with the towel and found some make-up, just a little, I didn’t want to scare him, after all. After all that, I had a look in the mirror. I looked very strange, and very thin. Not like me at all. If he does come looking for me, I thought, he’ll be lucky to recognize me.
I didn’t want to think about that. I found a bag and stuffed a few essentials into it, toothbrush, sneakers and a T-shirt, clean underwear. Just enough so I didn’t need to come back downstairs later, if I didn’t want to.
I put the bag right by the door so it would be handy, and started checking.
Saturday 17 January 2004
The Spread Eagle was full of people, most of them friends of Sylvia’s from the Lancaster Guardian. The noise levels were immense and there was even a DJ, although the music was actually being drowned out by the shouts and laughter. Judging by the noise and the state of those present, they’d been drinking for most of the day.
Sylvia, who was holding court at the bar, looked even more beautiful and exotic than usual in a magenta skirt and an emerald-green silk blouse that matched her eyes, open to a low enough button to reveal a good portion of cleavage and a glimpse of cherry-colored bra. When she saw me, she gave a shriek, peeled herself away from the men in suits either side of her, and tottered over to give me a cuddle. She smelled of expensive perfume, gin and pork rinds.
“Oh, my GOD! Can you believe this? I’m actually fucking going to the DAILY MAIL!”
There was a bit of mutual jumping up and down, and then I remembered Lee, and stepped aside.
Sylvia stepped forward with her best coy smile, gave Lee her hand and made a delicate little curtsy. “Hello again, Lee.”
To his credit, Lee gave her one of his smiles and kissed her on the cheek. This clearly wasn’t enough for Sylvia, who put her arms around his neck and honored him with a cuddle. He looked at me over Sylvia’s shoulder and gave me a wink.
After that, he seemed to relax. I flitted about the pub, talking to various people I knew, drinking far more than I should have, accepting drinks from people I knew vaguely and some I’d never seen before in my life. From time to time I caught sight of Lee, and each time he seemed fine, talking to Carl Stevenson mainly, who’d been Sylvia’s editor when she first joined the paper. Later on, I saw him in a group with Sylvia, who was partly talking to him and partly to the rest of the crowd. He saw me looking and gave me a smile and another wink.
So much for an hour, I thought to myself, watching with amusement as Lee stood at the bar, chatting away animatedly to Len Jones, the chief crime correspondent. He was the one who had pursued Sylvia relentlessly, back in the summer, despite the existence of Mrs. Annabel Jones, who had more than once threatened to castrate him with a pair of nail scissors.
I sidled up to Lee at the bar and snuggled under his arm.
In response he gave me a beery kiss just above my ear.
“Ah, you never said this lovely young vixen was yours!” said Len, raising a sloppy pint in my direction.
“Hello, Len,” I said.
“Cath, my little sexpot. How are you? And why haven’t you been to talk to me?”
“I came over just to talk to you now, in fact,” I said. “Nothing at all to do with the fact that I was hoping Lee might buy me another drink.”
He took the cue and shouted over the bar, handing over a tenner and getting me a