Pink Wellies and Flat Caps (36 page)

‘Oh
no, there he is,’ shrieks Georgie sliding down in her seat.

Clearly she has forgotten that the ca
r stands out like a sore thumb.

‘Go go quick,’ she shouts.

I look in the rear-view mirror. Charlie is emerging from the hotel and is busy tapping something into his phone. He looks quite gorgeous in his black overcoat and grey scarf.

‘Christ Ali, you don’t have
time to swoon over your fiancé at this moment in time.’

I wouldn’t actually say I was swooning. My Blackberry shrills and Charlie’s name flashes up onto the screen.

‘He’s calling
me
,’ I say panicking and struggling to get the Jag into gear.

With my heart in my mouth I watch as Charlie turns and walks away from the car. I push my foot onto the accelerator and zoom around the corner almost knocking a cyclist off his bike. He weaves to the side, wobbles and then thankfully straightens up.

‘Shit, shit.’

He gives me the finger while mouthing something unrepeatable. I shakily grab the Blackberry and click it on.

‘Oh God, now she’s breaking the law and in bloody Cornwall of all places,’ sighs Georgie.

‘Charlie, hi,’ I say, stopping sharply at a red light.

‘Bloody hell,’ moans Georgie.

‘I thought I’d let you know that I’ve arrived in Leeds,’ he says casually. ‘Is everything okay with you?’

Leeds, my arse. The little liar.

‘Yes, fine, Georgie and I are o
n the way to the shops,’ I say.

Well
, we are. It may be the shops in Truro but we are certainly heading towards shops.

‘Okay, drive carefully. I’ll see you in a few days.’

‘I will,’ I say, swerving around another cyclist and narrowly missing an oncoming car.

‘Bloody bikes. You don’t get this in London,’ grumbles Georgie giving the cyclist a two
-finger salute.

I throw the phone into my bag as the car lurches.
This bloody car is driving me insane. I struggle to get into third gear.

‘Look out!’ screams Georgie.

I look up to see the rear end of a taxi. I jam my foot onto the brake so hard that it sends a pain through my little toe. The car stalls and the next thing I know there is a great deal of honking.

‘Where did you learn to drive Mrs
?’ shouts a bald-headed man as he drives past.

‘Christ, this activist lark is all very well but I’m beginning to think I would prefer to be at home, nursing a broken heart and a hangover. In fact, even tea in your mother’s conservatory is beginning to seem pleasurable to this,’ moans Georgie.

‘Tea in Mother’s conservatory is never a pleasure, especially when she dishes up her lard-infested mince pies.’

‘Driving school for retards was it?’ yells the man again as
I struggle to start the engine.

‘Oh piss off country bumpkin,’ yells Georgie, and I die from shame.

‘I need Maltesers,’ I say. ‘Do we have any?’

‘I have fig rolls,’ says Georgie brightly.

There has to be a good answer to that but right now I can’t think of it. The only thing on my mind is how I can hide the Jag. It’s not exactly something you can hide under a bush is it? The last thing I need is for Charlie to spot it. We finally book into a tatty B and B on the outskirts of Truro. The nearest eating place is a curry house just up the road where we go to study Charlie’s plans.

‘So he plans to bombard everyone in one night does he?’ says Georgie through a mouthful of
chicken biryani. ‘After dark, how cowardly is that? I say though, it’s terribly exciting. When exactly is this happening?’

I hand her the plans.

‘It doesn’t say does it?’ I mutter, crunching my way through a poppadum while studying the plan.

‘Perhaps it’s deliberate. Maybe he thought you might find it and purposefully left the date and times off it.’

‘Damn it.’

‘Do you want any of this
mushroom bhaji?’

I shake my head.

‘Great,’ she says, shovelling it onto her plate. ‘How about his emails?’ she asks through a mouthful of mushrooms.

I sigh.

‘I don’t know how to access them.’

‘Christ Ali, you’re a pretty useless sneak. Where else does he keep dates?’

‘He duplicates everything in about three diaries. It drives me mad to be honest.’

She chokes on a mouthful of my
chicken tikka.

‘He wouldn’t have a black leather one would he?’ she asks, throwing back half a glass of wine.

I nod.

‘How did you know that?’

‘Because I saw it in the glove compartment, you know, the one you are so afraid to go in.’

‘What were you doing in there?’

‘That’s where I found the fig rolls.’

My eyes widen.

‘You stole Charlie’s fig rolls?’

Georgie rolls her eyes.

‘Forget the fig rolls Ali, just think
diary
. It’s in the glove compartment, and you’re a fine one to talk, you’re the one that raided his briefcase.’

‘Okay,’ I say sheepishly.

I dash to the car, open the glove compartment with wild abandon and then sit staring at the black book with my heart racing. What am I doing? I should be at home preparing for my wedding, not poking around in my fiancé’s things. What’s wrong with me? What kind of woman am I who puts a pig before her future husband? No, this is terrible. It couldn’t be a worse start to a marriage. I must stop this nonsense once and for all. Edward is in New Zealand and Pepper is most likely at another farm right now, and if not, probably being prepared for someone’s Christmas table. Oh God, I mustn’t think about it. Charlie is a lovely person and all he wants to do is help the animals, and I should be supporting him not working against him. I push the diary back into the glove compartment and lock the door. That’s that. I’ll tell Georgie we will drive back tomorrow. As soon as I get back I’ll wrap all the presents and put the tree up. That will be a nice surprise for when Charlie returns. I then think of Mona and my stomach somersaults. I tell myself that Charlie is too nice to do anything really awful. All the same, nags my inner goddess, can you really live with yourself if you go home without doing anything? I so
hate decisions. Minutes later I am back in the restaurant and handing the diary to Georgie.

‘I only hope we’re doing the right thing,’ I say guiltily.

‘Of course you are,’ she says handing it back.

‘I can’t look through his diary. I don’t know what I might see.’

She pushes her empty plate to one side, scratches her head and then pulls the diary towards her.

‘Would you like the very very nice dessert menu?’ asks the waiter with a strong Indian accent.

‘Do you have one called
Dutch courage?’
she asks.

‘Yes, we have very very nice Dutch courage, I will get for you.’

‘What are you expecting to see in here? The dates he has to collect his Viagra?’ she scoffs.

I gasp.

‘Charlie takes Viagra?’

She shakes her head.

‘What do you think?’

‘I’m thinking he needs a higher dose.’

She bursts out laughing and pushes the diary over to me.

‘It has to be you.’

‘No it doesn’t. Anyway, I thought you came to help me.’

The waiter returns.

‘There is no Dutch courage madam,’ he says with a wide smile, ‘but we have very very nice saffron rice pudding.’

‘Okay,’ she agrees pulling the diary back. ‘I’ll do it on saffron rice pudding.’

I sigh with relief and then hold my breath as she opens the diary and turns the pages to December.

‘Ooh, he’s bought you a nice Christmas present.’

Guilt washes over me.

‘From Ann Summers no less,’ she laughs.

I kick her under the table.

‘Okay, now I know you’re joking. What is in there for today and tomorrow and please don’t tell me it’s a conference.’

She turns another page and her face blanches and for a second I think she is going to keel over. I’m almost afraid to breathe and begin to think I will pass out if she doesn’t speak soon.

‘He’s not having an affair is he?’ I say breathlessly.

She lifts her head and it is as if she has seen a ghost.

‘I thought he was playing around,’ she says shakily, picking up her glass of wine and pushin
g the saffron rice pudding to one side.

‘I thought us coming here would be a bit of fun. The truth is I didn’t really believe it. God Ali, he’s even
a got a time to collect flares, and I’m not talking trousers. I mean Christ, what does he want them for? What else is he getting, bloody nail bombs?’

‘Of course not,’ I say grabbing her wine and polishing it off.

Flares? Holy shit.

‘I feel like we’re dealing with the bloody IRA. They’ll be wearing balaclavas.’

‘So will we,’ I say confidently and beckon to the waiter.

‘A whisky, do you want one?’

‘Yes, make it a double. What do you mean we will? Bloody Nora, we’ll be going tooled up next. I really don’t want to be armed and dangerous Ali,’ she says downing the whisky in one and then grabbing mine.

‘You’re driving remember,’ she tuts when I go to protest.
‘It’s tomorrow night. It says here that they will target eight farms. Nine p.m. sharp it says. We have to warn everyone tonight. We must Ali. We should go and see Jed, he knows everyone doesn’t he? We can’t handle this on our own. Maybe we should phone the police.’

‘And show them Charlie’s diary? What does that prove?’

‘I feel like I’m in a Kimberley Chambers novel. I don’t want to wear a balaclava. This is sodding Cornwall not the bloody East End.’

‘I don’t want Charlie to recognise us and whatever you do don’t speak. We’ll have to go to a party shop tomorrow.’

She gulps.

‘You’re not buying flares too are you?’

I shake my head and sigh.

‘Balaclavas.’

‘Yes madam one very very nice baklava. To share, or one each?’ asks the waiter from behind me.

Georgie giggles and stands up.

‘I’m going to wet myself if I don’t have a pee.’

I watch her walk unsteadily to the loo and wonder what on earth Charlie is planning to do with flares. More importantly, what am I thinking of coming here and attempting to warn everyone. Good heavens, I’m beginning to think I have lost my mind. If Charlie finds out I was the one that sabotaged his operation he would be
embarrassed beyond belief, not to mention hurt. He is my soon-to-be husband after all. Maybe I should just rescue Pepper and not get involved with anything else.

What about Mona?
my inner goddess whispers in my ear.
Don’t you care about her?

‘Of course I do,’ I say loudly to the odd looks from the waiters and fellow diners. But I have to think of my future, I whisper to myself.

And what about Sara and her parents and of course Jed? How can you just sit back and watch this happen while knowing all about it?

Oh, this is just terrible.

‘Right,’ says Georgie on her return. ‘Let’s pay and go warn everyone.’

‘We can’t,’ I say bluntly.

‘What do you mean we can’t? I thought that was why we came all this way.’

The waiter places a plate of
baklava in front of her and smiles widely.

‘Very very nice
baklava to share,’ he says.

She pulls the plate towards her and cuts into the sweet.

‘I might as well eat this then. It’s not like I have a man in my life to stay slim for,’ she says stuffing a forkful into her mouth.

‘We can’t just warn them. I mean,
WE
can’t warn them. It’s bound to get back to Charlie and they might not believe us and if they do they may phone the police. I’m marrying Charlie in a matter of days don’t forget. We have to find a way to do it anonymously,’ I say dumbly.

‘I’ve got it,’ she says
, ‘we’ll drop leaflets from helicopters. You know, all over the village like confetti.’

I look at her.

‘This is not Afghanistan you know,’ I remind her. ‘Were you thinking of phoning Richard Branson to ask if we could borrow his personal chopper?’

‘He owes me a favour for the amount I’ve paid in train tickets,’ she says, pulling a face. ‘Okay, well it was an idea.’

‘How about coming up with an idea that will actually work?’

‘We could photocopy the plan and distribute it all around the village.’

I widen my eyes.

‘Okay, that sounds doable.’

‘And we could phone everyone on the list and disguise our voices, and wear masks to rescue your pig. That would be okay wouldn’t it? Then we pop your pig to the pig sanctuary and drive back home. Charlie will never know and if he is back before you we’ll just say we’ve been Christmas shopping or something.’