I drove the short distance from Alan’s house in St Fagans to my office in Butetown, heading east, along St Fagans Road. With every mile, the fresh air of the countryside gave way to the heat of the city, to the shimmering tarmac, the police and ambulance sirens, the blaring of car horns. Hot town, summer in the city, back of my neck getting dirty and gritty...The Lovin’ Spoonful nailed that one, all right.
In Butetown, I parked outside my office, in Marquess Terrace, then climbed the creaky Victorian staircase to my office door. Inside the office, I found Faye Collister, my assistant, sitting at her desk. Faye was one of nature’s organizers. In truth, she was obsessed with neatness, a problem born of childhood trauma.
Like its occupants, our office was neat and petite. The furniture was basic – two desks positioned at right angles, a large filing cabinet, a small bookcase, a coat stand and a sink. A vase of fresh flowers provided a splash of colour while three cacti, supplied and painstakingly arranged by Faye, added tasteful decoration. Furthermore, a double glazed window, situated behind my desk, offered a source of natural light. That window was open, to allow fresh air to circulate in the tiny room. Indeed, Marlowe, our office cat, was sunning himself on the window ledge, his bulk sprawled across the concrete sill, his whiskers twitching as he dreamed of nefarious delights.
“Ooh, look,” Faye said, offering me a saucy smile, “it’s the blushing bride.”
“Knock it off,” I complained, duly blushing for no apparent reason, “if you’re going to start the wind-ups now, it’s going to be a long ten days.”
I dropped my shoulder bag on to my desk, ran a casual eye over a mountain of bills and sighed.
“Alan got off all right?” Faye asked. She stood, walked over to my desk, picked up my shoulder bag and placed it on the coat stand. Then she gave me an apologetic shrug. Faye’s obsession with neatness and order could be trying at times, especially for her. But we’d found a way to cope; basically, I didn’t question or interfere with her actions while she studied self-help manuals and tried to reduce her stress levels; her obsession with neatness intensified when she felt under stress.
In reply to Faye’s question, I nodded and said, “He’s on his way; next stop, Australia.”
“I suppose he’ll behave himself while he’s away,” Faye said, her pretty face still swathed in a saucy smile. Before I could reply, she added, “I’ve received confirmation from the venue and registrar. You pull out now, you’ve lost your deposit.”
As well as organizing our office duties, Faye had the immediate task of organizing the wedding.
“I’m not going to pull out, Faye; I love Alan; come hell or high water, I’m going to marry him. Anyway,” I complained, “why are you casting this pall of doom and gloom?”
“It’s a wedding tradition,” Faye said simply.
“Since when?” I scowled.
“Since Adam and Eve and the apple.”
I placed the bills in the pending tray and thought about that. “Did Adam seduce Eve, or did Eve seduce Adam?” I asked. “Or did the apple seduce both of them?”
Faye shrugged. She picked up a pen and scratched the top of her head. “You’re not big on religion, are you, Sam?”
“Only when I’m trapped in a tight corner,” I said; “then I pray like hell.”
Faye examined her pen. She pursed her lips then placed the pen, neatly, on her desk. “Anyway,” she said, “everything’s booked. I’ve sorted the guest list. From your side I have Sweets, Mrs MacArthur, Mac and his boyfriend, and me.” She glanced at yours truly then frowned. “Sure you don’t want to invite anyone else?”
“I just want a quiet wedding; I don’t want a fuss.”
“From Alan’s side, I have his parents; they’re travelling over from France, right?”
I nodded; Alan’s mother was French; his parents had retired to Brittany.
“I also have Bernie Samson, Alan’s best man; his psychology mates and his ex-rugby playing pals. And Alis, of course. Is Alis bringing a boyfriend?”
“She’s not romantically attached at the moment,” I said.
“Good for her,” Faye said. Incongruously, given her good looks and sensual appearance, Faye managed to sound like a crusty maiden aunt. “So that’s the guest list sorted then.”
“Do you want to invite anyone?” I asked.
Faye scoffed. She swivelled in her chair then turned away, to gaze at the wall. “An old client, perhaps; or my mother?”
Faye had spent time on the street, as a prostitute. And she was estranged from her mother. Both actions were linked to her childhood trauma. Money represented no problem for Faye’s mother and, every month, she sent her daughter a ten-figure cheque, which Faye promptly shredded. Their estrangement was sad, but understandable. Maybe one day they would reach the point of reconciliation and forgiveness, but not yet.
“I’m serious,” I said. “Invite someone if you like.”
“I’m on my own,” Faye said, “and I like it like that.” She swivelled in her chair again, only to pause and face me. “Shame you can’t invite your mother though.”
I nodded. My late, alcoholic, mother would have enlivened proceedings, if nothing else. “If she were alive, she’d probably talk Alan out of it,” I said, “over a bottle of gin. ‘When she was a little girl, Samantha dropped a dozen eggs on to the floor to see if they would bounce, did you know that. When she was six, she used to play suicide with her dolls; she’d place them on the window ledge then talk, to stop them from jumping. When she was sixteen, I caught her reading Lady Chatterley’s Lover...’”
Faye laughed, “Sounds like you had an interesting childhood.”
I nodded. “My childhood was interesting, to say the least. Is it any wonder I am who I am?” I walked over to the window and gazed down to the street. Children were wandering around, though few were playing; games involved computers and gizmos these days, not sport or hide and seek. “Still,” I reflected, “it would be nice if my mother were alive to see my happiest day.”
“I’m sure she’s looking on from somewhere,” Faye said. Then, abruptly, she went off at a tangent, “Now what about the hen night?”
“What hen night?” I frowned.
“You have to have a hen night,” Faye insisted. “That is tradition. What do you think about booking a male stripper?”
“Too tacky,” I scowled.
“Okay,” she sighed, “we’ll just get you pissed instead; get you to do a striptease, take some photographs and plaster them over the Internet.”
“You do that,” I said, “and you’re fired.”
“I’m only joking, Sam,” Faye laughed; “don’t look at me like that.”
It was time to change the subject; time to get down to business. “How did you get on at the seminar?” I asked.
Faye opened her desk drawer. She held up an object, a cigar-shaped pen. “I bought you a present.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“It’s a spy pen. Audio, video, photography; great for eavesdropping and recording conversations. They also have a coat hanger spy camera, a camera you can hide in a USB, in a smoke alarm or alarm clock. And cameras you can conceal in air fresheners and button holes.”
“We’re running an enquiry agency,” I said, my fingers caressing the spy pen, “not MI5.”
“You got to get with it, girl,” Faye said, clicking her fingers. “You got to get up to date. You spend too much time in the past. All your music, DVDs, books...they’re ancient. At work, you rely on your wits and outdated methods. If we don’t get up to date, the others will run past us.”
“Tell you what,” I said, placing the spy pen on my desk, “you get up to date. You run into the future then come back and tell me what it’s like.”
“Okay,” Faye grinned, “so officially I’m in charge of modernizing the business?”
I switched on my computer. In terms of technology, I acknowledged that a computer was essential, though already a bridge too far. “You modernize,” I said, “but don’t do anything too radical.”
Faye offered me a mock salute. “Aye, aye, ma’am; I’ll ask your permission first.”
I ignored her, my attention captured by a stream of emails. Apparently, my emails were in danger of disappearing, unless I provided my security details to someone with no name and no business address. The email was addressed to, ‘Dear User’. It was a scam, of course; cyber criminals – a scourge of the modern age. I deleted the email and blocked the sender; some people are so pathetic, so sad. On a good day, they would elicit my sympathy; I was missing Alan already, so this was not a good day.
“And talking of modernizing,” Faye said, standing, parading in front of me, “what do you think of my new outfit?”
I glanced up and admired Faye’s clothing. She was dressed in black slacks, a white blouse and a black tie. A tan waistcoat completed her attire. Combined with her natural blonde ringlets, her pink nail varnish and pink lips, the outfit was stunning. I nodded my approval. “You look very smart.”
“Think it’ll impress our clients?” Faye asked, fishing for a further compliment.
“If they’re male,” I said, “it’ll knock them dead.”
“I’m not looking for that,” Faye frowned. She returned to her desk where she adjusted her files. “But I do want your respect, Sam.”
“You have my respect,” I said.
“I have your respect and no one else’s.” Faye stared at her desk. She lapsed into a melancholy silence. Such moods troubled her several times a day, but after a moment’s introspection, she usually rallied.
“Sorry,” she apologized, “I lost myself for a second.” She straightened the files again and her features brightened. Once more, she’d lifted the veil, fought off the gloom. “So you’re happy with the spy pen?”
“Very happy,” I said.
“Great.” Faye picked up a bundle of letters, for posting. As she walked to the office door, she said, “Don’t go picking your nose or scratching your arse, because I’ve installed a camera up there too.”
I followed her gaze to the smoke alarm, fitted to the ceiling. Then, with Big Sister looking on, I got down to business and replied to some genuine emails.