Bridesmaids (13 page)

As Grace and I run down the street, our feet sodden with slimy street water and rain belting down onto our faces, I realise she is relying on me to know where we’re going. We reach the main road, with headlights streaming past us and squealing groups of girls hurrying into the doorways of nightclubs to avoid getting wet.

At first glance, Grace and I might look like them, but we’re not running to get out of the rain. We need a taxi and fast. So why won’t any of them stop?

With each set of headlights I see coming towards us, I hurl myself into the road with my thumb out, but they all just swerve around me and beep. Who wants to pick up two women who look like we do? They probably think we’re drunk. The fact is, we’re both as close to sober now as we’ve ever been.

‘Come on, this way,’ I say, grabbing Grace’s hand. We run for what seems like hours, but is probably only a few minutes, until we reach a taxi rank. But there is a queue of about forty people. I race to the front and grab the coat of a guy who is getting into a black cab.

‘Hey, what the fuck—’

‘Please,’ I beg. ‘There’s been an accident. My friend’s little girl has been taken to hospital. We need this cab–
please
.’

He looks me up and down, then looks Grace up and down and clearly realises we’re not just two charlatans trying to jump the cab queue.

‘Come on, Becky, get out,’ he says to his girlfriend inside.

‘What?’ says the woman, uncrossing her long, fake-tanned legs. She’s wearing a short, designer dress and, despite the rain, her hair and make-up are still perfectly intact. ‘I’ve waited twenty minutes for this taxi. I’m not getting out now.’

‘Get out,’ he repeats.

‘No,’ she says. And then, when he leans into the car and grabs her by the arm, ‘Ow! You sod! Get your bloody hands off me!’ But she’s got the message and reluctantly climbs out.

‘Thanks,’ I say to both of them and we jump into the back.

‘Alder Hey Hospital, please,’ I tell the cabbie. ‘Accident and Emergency.’

The driver throws me a knowing look; there’s only one reason you’d be going to Alder Hey A&E at this time of night and it’s not a happy one. He swings the cab around and slams his foot down on the accelerator.

I sit on the fold-down seat opposite Grace and grasp her hands. She still looks stunned.

‘So what do you know?’ I ask.

She shakes her head, an expression of desperation and bewilderment on her face.

‘Not a lot,’ she says. ‘I mean, I’d been texting Patrick all night. First of all to try and make up with him after our spat. But he just wasn’t responding. And I was getting so pissed off with him and…well, then I thought perhaps he’d just fallen asleep in front of the telly.’

She takes a deep breath.

‘Go on,’ I say.

‘So, I told myself just to forget it and have a nice time. So I did. I went to dance with Charlotte and two blokes,’ she starts sniffing, ‘but when I went to the loo I looked at my phone. There were five missed calls.’

‘And has he left a voice message?’ I ask.

She nods. ‘Just the same as the text–very brief. He just says that Polly’s had an accident and they’re on their way to Alder Hey.’

‘Well,’ I say, ‘she might just have twisted her arm or something.’

Grace looks out of the window as we trundle along and her lip starts quivering.

‘But she might not have,’ she says.

I squeeze her hand.

‘The thing is,’ she continues, ‘Patrick is usually Mr Pragmatic when things happen. I panic, he keeps his cool. That’s the way it is. But he didn’t sound very cool, not this time.’

Even though the most rational part of me is saying that this is probably nothing–a broken arm, a bumped head, maybe–there’s also a big part of me saying, actually, it might be more than nothing.

I’ve worked at the
Daily Echo
for less than a year now, but in that time I’ve covered all manner of horrific stories involving kids. You just assume that that sort of thing happens to other people. Not your best friend’s daughter. Not Polly.

Despite the taxi driver’s impressive pace, the journey seems to be taking forever.

‘Oh Evie,’ says Grace, tears welling up now, ‘I can’t stop thinking about all the questions Polly asked me today–you know how she does. I was trying to get my hair washed when she kept asking me about why dogs have tails–or something. Do you know what I said?’

I shake my head.

‘I said: “They just do, Polly”. What sort of a mother says “They just do”? Why couldn’t I have taken the time to answer her?’

She bursts into tears, sobbing uncontrollably and struggling to get her breath. I jump over and sit next to her, putting my arm around her as tight as I can.

‘Grace, don’t be silly,’ I say to her as the taxi pulls up at the hospital. ‘You’re a wonderful mother. And everything will be fine. I know it.’

I’m just praying I’m right.

‘I hope she’s okay,’ says the cabbie, as I hang back to pay him and Grace rushes into the reception. ‘Your mate’s little girl, I mean.’

‘So do I,’ I say, handing him a twenty-pound note.

‘Oh, I don’t want paying, love,’ he says.

‘But it’s a Friday night,’ I point out.

‘Just go and be with your pal,’ he says, pushing my twenty back.

I haven’t got time to argue.

‘My daughter’s just been brought in, in an ambulance,’ Grace is saying to the receptionist. ‘Her name is Polly Cunningham.’ She sounds weirdly calm.

‘Just one moment, please,’ says the receptionist, as she starts bringing something up on her computer.

‘Right,’ she says, ‘if you’d just like to go through those double doors on the right then follow the corridor along to the desk, they’ll be able to help you there.’

We run down the corridor, but before we reach where we’re going, I can see Patrick walking towards us, with Scarlett in his arms.

‘Patrick!’ shouts Grace, and launches into a run.

‘I’ve just come out to try to phone you,’ he says when they meet. ‘She’s
fine
. Just a few cuts and bruises, they think, but absolutely fine.’

The look on Grace’s face tells me she doesn’t know whether to kiss him or hit him.

Polly, it turns out, fell down the stairs. When I say she fell, it sounds more like the sort of stunt for which Hollywood film stars would need a specially trained double. She’d gone into Grace and Patrick’s room–something she’s taken to doing recently when she wakes in the middle of the night–and when she’d seen that neither of them was there, had thought it a good idea to go looking for them downstairs.

Which would have been fine, except she tried to do it in the dark and in her new, slightly too long Barbie nightgown. By the time she reached the bottom stair, she was actually unconscious. Patrick, obviously, phoned for a paramedic and, although she had come round by the time they arrived, they decided to take her into hospital to check her over. In the event, she didn’t break a single bone, which apparently makes her some sort of medical miracle.

‘I bet you had a shock,’ I say to Patrick.

‘You better believe it,’ he says, shaking his head.

‘At least Scarlett slept through the whole thing,’ he adds, nodding over at the baby in her portable car seat.

The baby is a vision of peace and contentment, fast asleep with only her little dummy moving as she sucks it.

‘I’m sorry we rowed,’ Grace says softly.

‘Me too.’ And Patrick leans over to kiss her on the forehead.

I sense my presence is no longer wanted.

‘Anyone fancy a coffee?’ I ask. ‘I’m sure there’ll be a machine in here somewhere.’

I do a complete tour of the hospital–twice–before I manage to locate a coffee machine. In the event, it runs out of coffee after I’ve only bought two of them and leaves me with a chicken soup I suspect went in there in powdered form in 1972.

When I get back, Polly is still having a final, precautionary X-ray and, to my disbelief, Patrick and Grace appear to be having another domestic.

‘Well, I’m sorry, but I think one of us needs to get Scarlett home,’ Patrick is saying. ‘She’s going to want to be fed if she wakes up.’

‘I’m sure the hospital will let us borrow a little bit of formula milk to keep her going,’ says Grace.

‘You can’t ask them to do that,’ he replies.

‘Why not?’ she asks.

‘Well, because it’s a hospital. They can’t just go giving handouts to visitors.’

‘I’m not a visitor,’ says Grace. ‘I’m the parent of a patient that’s just been admitted.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ he says. ‘Scarlett isn’t the patient, Polly is.’

‘Look, I’ll pay them for it if need be,’ she says impatiently. ‘I’m sure they’re used to this sort of thing.’

‘Don’t be so ridiculous,’ he says.

‘I’m not being ridiculous,’ she says.

‘
Look, you two!’
I leap in, and they both turn to look at me. ‘I’ve brought you some coffee.’

I hand them over, glad at least that I’ve managed to shut them up.

‘Sorry if they look like the contents of a washing-up bowl,’ I say.

‘I don’t mind,’ says Grace. ‘I’ll drink anything that’s warm and wet at the moment.’

‘Hmm,’ says Patrick, sipping his and pulling a face. ‘Well, it’s definitely wet.’

‘Listen, I’m going to get going,’ I say. ‘You don’t need me hanging around.’

‘Oh, Evie, thanks so much for coming with me,’ says Grace. ‘You’re a real friend.’

‘No problem,’ I reply. ‘If you ever hear of any four hundred-metre races in which the runners have to wear high heels, sign me up.’

‘Sorry as well that you had to leave Jack behind,’ says Grace. ‘You looked like you were enjoying yourself there.’

‘Oh, don’t worry about it,’ I say, trying to look on the bright side. ‘I’m just glad Polly’s okay. Anyway, there’s always Georgia’s wedding. That’s not long now.’

‘No,’ says Grace. ‘Not long. See you, Evie.’

‘See you,’ adds Patrick.

Why do I suspect I’m just leaving them behind to start on Round Two?

Daily Echo
newsroom, Wednesday, 4 April

Now here’s a journalistic dilemma: how do you make a page 23-nib about plans to extend the opening hours of an NHS walk-in centre interesting?

I sit and study the press release, the newsroom alive with activity around me. Jules, to my right, is bashing out the splash–a breaking story about a terrorism plot, centred around a Liverpool chippy, which police uncovered only this morning. Laura, opposite, is on the phone to the emergency services, getting a quote for her page 1 anchor piece about a four-car pile-up on the M56. Even Larry, the twenty-two-year-old work experience guy, is finishing off the caption for the front-page picture.

‘It’s with you!’ shouts Jules, dashing over to the newsdesk, as Simon, the News Editor, opens up his story–ready to give it a quick-fire once-over before it is pinged to the sub-editors.

I look at my press release again and sigh. I can’t remember when Simon last asked me to write something for that day’s edition–something to get my adrenaline pumping. In fact, I can’t remember when Simon last asked me to write
something that would prompt anything other than a sudden onset of narcolepsy.

‘It’s with you!’ shouts Simon, as the Chief Sub picks up the story, ready to lay it on chapter 1 and slam a headline onto it.

I am still searching for some inspiration, but can’t help thinking I’d be more inspired watching a job-lot of Dulux dry.

‘Right, Evie Hart,’ Simon shouts to me after he’s sent the last story through. ‘Get over here.’

My heart leaps. Maybe I had him all wrong. Maybe he’s about to give me a breaking story for the next edition. Maybe I’m about to have my name on chapter 1 today, after all. I dash over to the newsdesk, my notepad and pen poised in anticipation.

‘Right, Hart,’ he says, managing to look down my top and as if he’s about to kill me at the same time. ‘I wonder if you could explain something to me.’

I hesitate. ‘Yes?’ I say.

‘How you were scooped.’

‘Sorry?’ I ask, every story I’ve written in the last two weeks racing around my mind. ‘I mean, which story?’

‘Our four-legged friend,’ says Simon.

‘Sorry, Simon,’ I repeat. ‘I don’t follow you.’

‘
The pig
!’ he snaps, with an expression that tells me I’m about as likely to be handed a hot exclusive today as I am the title of Miss World. ‘
The pig that spoke Italian.’

‘It was French, actually,’ I say, but I can sense as soon as I’ve said it that he considers this about as relevant as its favourite colour.

‘I don’t give a fucking toss if it was Swahili,’ he screams, slamming a paper down in front of me. ‘It’s in the
Daily Star
.’

I gulp as I come face to face with the picture of Lizzie the
Gloucester Old Spot and her owner. I don’t know which one of them looks more smug.

‘I thought you said that piece was holdable?’ he says.

‘I thought it was,’ I splutter.

‘Didn’t you ask whether he was speaking to the nationals?’

I cast my mind back to my conversation with the farmer and consider for a second whether there is any point in trying to lie here. Morally, I have no qualms whatsoever about trying to pull a fast one over Simon, who I am starting to think has all the charm of a sewer rat. It’s just that lying isn’t exactly my forte. In fact, I’m about as convincing a liar as I am an Olympic javelin contender.

‘He did mention that,’ I admit eventually, hating myself for being so sheepish. ‘But, I’ve got to confess, I didn’t believe him. I never thought the nationals would be interested, short of the pig reciting every verse of the
Marseillaise
.’

Simon shakes his head and I feel like I’m standing in front of the Headmaster for the fourth time this week.

‘Listen, girly,’ he says, glancing down my top again. ‘You’ve got a lot to learn about recognising a story. And let me tell you this, in case I’ve not made myself clear: a talking pig is a good story in anyone’s book. Particularly since it’s got a better grasp of languages than half the GCSE students in this country. Now, get out of my sight.’

When I get back to my desk my eyes bore into my computer screen and I quickly become a seething mass of resentment, imagining all the things I
could
have said to Simon…but didn’t.

Okay, so I messed up. Catastrophically, according to the News Editor. But
Daily Star
or not, this is a story about a talking pig. It’s not going to bring down governments or halt the
spread of global warming. Besides, I wrote the thing weeks ago. I might have said it was holdable, but I didn’t mean until Christmas 2009.

Picking up my press release, I make a vow to myself. I am going to get a chapter 1 exclusive for this paper if it’s the last bloody thing I do.