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Authors: Stella Whitelaw
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afternoon breeze. Something swayed damply across her face. Fancy brushed it aside without thinking.
Then she looked up, wondering what could be wet on a sunny afternoon. It had been tied to a low branch of an apple tree. Fancy stopped, horrified. It was one of Melody’s floating chiffon scarves, slowly dripping water.
The water dripped onto her face.
It was 5.01 p.m.
FIVE
Monday Evening
F ancy hurried to her room in Lakeside, almost running up the stairs, hand shaking as she tried to turn the key in the lock. She was trying it the wrong way in her haste. She slammed the door shut and leaned against it, getting her breath back.
The scarf didn’t mean anything to anyone else at the workshop . It was there as a message to Fancy. It was saying: Look what happened to Melody. But she was sure it had not been there when she climbed the steep path to the Orchard Room. Someone was watching her every move.
She had told no one that she planned to go to this talk. It had been a spur of the moment thing. A way of clearing her mind of the day’s happenings. And she was always interested in learning something new.
If she didn’t go to this evening’s party, would they think she was snooty or too successful to mix with ordinary people? Neither of which was true. She liked parties. She liked meeting people. Everything and everybody gave her ideas, sharpened her brain, refreshed her writing. The Pink Pen Detective liked parties too.
She stood under the shower and let the warm water soothe her shattered nerves. Rubbing herself dry helped to jump-start her circulation. She dressed with special care, slim black velvet skirt and white, crinkled, silk shirt, finishing the look with a wide pink belt, some dangling earrings. She wasn’t going to be scared off by a bit of flapping wet cloth.
ABC was apparently the large residential building she hadwalked past several times already, not giving it a second glance. The front entrance door was open. Long corridors stretched ahead either side. She could hear music and headed towards it.
The bedroom was full of people, most of them holding glasses of wine. It was a big room with a double and a single bed. Fancy spotted a bathroom with a bath and shower. Luxury indeed. Music was pounding from a personal transistor radio. It was a bright, cheerful party and the host soon spotted her. In seconds she had a glass of red in her hand and was being introduced to so many people. Some faces she recognized. No committee members present as yet, all delegates, all ages, white badges and regulars, other speakers and course lecturers.
It was a great party. Fancy felt rejuvenated and it wasn’t only because of the wine. It was the company. It was talking to normal people about normal things, not always about writing. Callum McKay was a great raconteur with lots of stories. She met Pheobe Marr, the poet, and enjoyed talking to her. Sometimes she wanted to forget that she made her living putting words down in a certain order.
And it was cosy, sitting on beds, leaning against the window, having her glass refilled. Too soon it was supper time and everyone helped clear up the debris before departing to the dining room. They seemed to stay in the same groups at the tables and the good conversation continued. No one mentioned Melody. Her husband had arrived, someone said, but his first stop was obviously Derby Hospital.
‘Have you ever wanted to do anything different to writing?’ asked Phoebe.
‘No, never.’
‘I wanted to be a ballet dancer but I grew too tall,’ Phoebe said.
Fancy thought about all her dreams and frustrations. She’d never win the Booker or the Orange Prize – not literary enough. She’d never get a film option and walk the red carpet with Johnny Depp, though she often wrote in a part for him. She would be delirious if the Pink Pen Detective got a television series.
‘So really you are the Pink Pen Detective,’ said her host at the party.
‘No, I only invented her. I’m
Then she looked up, wondering what could be wet on a sunny afternoon. It had been tied to a low branch of an apple tree. Fancy stopped, horrified. It was one of Melody’s floating chiffon scarves, slowly dripping water.
The water dripped onto her face.
It was 5.01 p.m.
FIVE
Monday Evening
F ancy hurried to her room in Lakeside, almost running up the stairs, hand shaking as she tried to turn the key in the lock. She was trying it the wrong way in her haste. She slammed the door shut and leaned against it, getting her breath back.
The scarf didn’t mean anything to anyone else at the workshop . It was there as a message to Fancy. It was saying: Look what happened to Melody. But she was sure it had not been there when she climbed the steep path to the Orchard Room. Someone was watching her every move.
She had told no one that she planned to go to this talk. It had been a spur of the moment thing. A way of clearing her mind of the day’s happenings. And she was always interested in learning something new.
If she didn’t go to this evening’s party, would they think she was snooty or too successful to mix with ordinary people? Neither of which was true. She liked parties. She liked meeting people. Everything and everybody gave her ideas, sharpened her brain, refreshed her writing. The Pink Pen Detective liked parties too.
She stood under the shower and let the warm water soothe her shattered nerves. Rubbing herself dry helped to jump-start her circulation. She dressed with special care, slim black velvet skirt and white, crinkled, silk shirt, finishing the look with a wide pink belt, some dangling earrings. She wasn’t going to be scared off by a bit of flapping wet cloth.
ABC was apparently the large residential building she hadwalked past several times already, not giving it a second glance. The front entrance door was open. Long corridors stretched ahead either side. She could hear music and headed towards it.
The bedroom was full of people, most of them holding glasses of wine. It was a big room with a double and a single bed. Fancy spotted a bathroom with a bath and shower. Luxury indeed. Music was pounding from a personal transistor radio. It was a bright, cheerful party and the host soon spotted her. In seconds she had a glass of red in her hand and was being introduced to so many people. Some faces she recognized. No committee members present as yet, all delegates, all ages, white badges and regulars, other speakers and course lecturers.
It was a great party. Fancy felt rejuvenated and it wasn’t only because of the wine. It was the company. It was talking to normal people about normal things, not always about writing. Callum McKay was a great raconteur with lots of stories. She met Pheobe Marr, the poet, and enjoyed talking to her. Sometimes she wanted to forget that she made her living putting words down in a certain order.
And it was cosy, sitting on beds, leaning against the window, having her glass refilled. Too soon it was supper time and everyone helped clear up the debris before departing to the dining room. They seemed to stay in the same groups at the tables and the good conversation continued. No one mentioned Melody. Her husband had arrived, someone said, but his first stop was obviously Derby Hospital.
‘Have you ever wanted to do anything different to writing?’ asked Phoebe.
‘No, never.’
‘I wanted to be a ballet dancer but I grew too tall,’ Phoebe said.
Fancy thought about all her dreams and frustrations. She’d never win the Booker or the Orange Prize – not literary enough. She’d never get a film option and walk the red carpet with Johnny Depp, though she often wrote in a part for him. She would be delirious if the Pink Pen Detective got a television series.
‘So really you are the Pink Pen Detective,’ said her host at the party.
‘No, I only invented her. I’m
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