nod as I make my way through the throng. In fact, it almost completely restores my humour. I may never get on with James Sabine but I can tell that I'm going to like the rest of the department.
Chapter 5
S o what is he like, this Detective Sergeant Sabine?'
I'm on the phone to Lizzie. I take another huge slug of my vodka and lemonade, sit cross-legged on the floor, lean my head back against the wall and settle down.
'What do you mean? I've told you what he's like. Mean, moody …'
'No. What does he look like?'
'Look like?'
'Yes Holly,' says Lizzie patiently, 'look like. Any warts? A squint? Buck teeth? You know, HIS APPEARANCE.'
'Didn't you see him down at the hospital?'
'Well, yes,' she admits, 'but only the back of his head.'
'Oh! Oh.' I shrug to myself. 'Well, I suppose he's quite average-looking. You know, boy-next-door.' I use Robin's phrase.
'Boy-next-door? You mean he looks like Warren Mitchell? YUK! How gross! How …'
Lizzie and I have had much the same experience of boys-next-door. Not very talented. In fact, couldn't shake a bum cheek at a Levi's ad between them.
'No, Lizzie. Not literally. Not Warren Mitchell.'
'Then who?'
'He's just nice-looking. Well, we know he's not NICE, but he's nice-looking. Green eyes. Dark blond hair. Tall. Well-built. Usual stuff, usual stuff.'
Now it's not like me to describe a good-looking man and then say, 'Usual stuff, usual stuff afterwards. But James Sabine really isn't making me very enthusiastic. You see, a man's personality matters a lot to me. He needs to be amusing without being too sarcastic. Detective Sergeant Sabine has certainly failed on that score as he is just plain sarcastic. He needs to be warm and friendly. Again, nil points. And kind. I like kindness best. And is it kind to be unpleasant to a girl on her first day on the job? NO, IT IS NOT.
'He sounds quite nice to me,' says Lizzie dreamily.
'He isn't nice. He makes me feel about ten years old and he really doesn't want me around,' I grumble.
'He must be quite fit, being a police officer.'
'Where's Alastair tonight?' I say pointedly.
'In Scotland for some meeting.'
'How is he?'
'I think he's fine. I haven't really seen him since the weekend.'
Lizzie and I say our respective goodbyes and I put the phone down. I quickly turn my thoughts to weightier issues. What is a reporter on her new assignment shadowing a detective supposed to wear? What would Cagney and Lacey wear? No, too eighties. I think a touch of glamour may be needed. I put on some Aretha Franklin to inspire me, and clasping a new re-fill, I toddle through to my bedroom, fling open the doors of my wardrobe and survey the contents. Hmmm. I start emptying the clothes on to my bed in search of that elusive
je ne sais quoi
. Eventually I settle on a pair of black suede trousers, a little lilac jumper and a pair of high black boots. Which, to be honest, are the first items I took out.
'… no, I am sure cream will be fine … chocolate ink? What's that? … Oh. OK, it sounds nice … no, it does. Look. I have to go … that reporter's here … what? Cream ink on chocolate? Are we talking about the same thing? I'm sure whatever you choose will be fine. I really have to go.'
James Sabine has been on the phone since I arrived, the latest call presumably with his fiancée. Or at least I hope it is. It is a conversation I have unashamedly been trying to listen in on; it's enlightening to hear Detective Sergeant Sabine being pleasant for a change.
I have surprised myself this morning. With the assistance of a radio, two alarms and a wake-up call from the talking clock I have made it down to the police station for eight a.m. Rather like a kid at a new school, I have pilfered the contents of the generous stationery cupboard at the
Gazette
and armed myself with new notepads, pencils and several blank tapes for my dictaphone. I have to say I wondered briefly whether to sew my name into my pants.
I have been putting my time to good use while
Chapter 5
S o what is he like, this Detective Sergeant Sabine?'
I'm on the phone to Lizzie. I take another huge slug of my vodka and lemonade, sit cross-legged on the floor, lean my head back against the wall and settle down.
'What do you mean? I've told you what he's like. Mean, moody …'
'No. What does he look like?'
'Look like?'
'Yes Holly,' says Lizzie patiently, 'look like. Any warts? A squint? Buck teeth? You know, HIS APPEARANCE.'
'Didn't you see him down at the hospital?'
'Well, yes,' she admits, 'but only the back of his head.'
'Oh! Oh.' I shrug to myself. 'Well, I suppose he's quite average-looking. You know, boy-next-door.' I use Robin's phrase.
'Boy-next-door? You mean he looks like Warren Mitchell? YUK! How gross! How …'
Lizzie and I have had much the same experience of boys-next-door. Not very talented. In fact, couldn't shake a bum cheek at a Levi's ad between them.
'No, Lizzie. Not literally. Not Warren Mitchell.'
'Then who?'
'He's just nice-looking. Well, we know he's not NICE, but he's nice-looking. Green eyes. Dark blond hair. Tall. Well-built. Usual stuff, usual stuff.'
Now it's not like me to describe a good-looking man and then say, 'Usual stuff, usual stuff afterwards. But James Sabine really isn't making me very enthusiastic. You see, a man's personality matters a lot to me. He needs to be amusing without being too sarcastic. Detective Sergeant Sabine has certainly failed on that score as he is just plain sarcastic. He needs to be warm and friendly. Again, nil points. And kind. I like kindness best. And is it kind to be unpleasant to a girl on her first day on the job? NO, IT IS NOT.
'He sounds quite nice to me,' says Lizzie dreamily.
'He isn't nice. He makes me feel about ten years old and he really doesn't want me around,' I grumble.
'He must be quite fit, being a police officer.'
'Where's Alastair tonight?' I say pointedly.
'In Scotland for some meeting.'
'How is he?'
'I think he's fine. I haven't really seen him since the weekend.'
Lizzie and I say our respective goodbyes and I put the phone down. I quickly turn my thoughts to weightier issues. What is a reporter on her new assignment shadowing a detective supposed to wear? What would Cagney and Lacey wear? No, too eighties. I think a touch of glamour may be needed. I put on some Aretha Franklin to inspire me, and clasping a new re-fill, I toddle through to my bedroom, fling open the doors of my wardrobe and survey the contents. Hmmm. I start emptying the clothes on to my bed in search of that elusive
je ne sais quoi
. Eventually I settle on a pair of black suede trousers, a little lilac jumper and a pair of high black boots. Which, to be honest, are the first items I took out.
'… no, I am sure cream will be fine … chocolate ink? What's that? … Oh. OK, it sounds nice … no, it does. Look. I have to go … that reporter's here … what? Cream ink on chocolate? Are we talking about the same thing? I'm sure whatever you choose will be fine. I really have to go.'
James Sabine has been on the phone since I arrived, the latest call presumably with his fiancée. Or at least I hope it is. It is a conversation I have unashamedly been trying to listen in on; it's enlightening to hear Detective Sergeant Sabine being pleasant for a change.
I have surprised myself this morning. With the assistance of a radio, two alarms and a wake-up call from the talking clock I have made it down to the police station for eight a.m. Rather like a kid at a new school, I have pilfered the contents of the generous stationery cupboard at the
Gazette
and armed myself with new notepads, pencils and several blank tapes for my dictaphone. I have to say I wondered briefly whether to sew my name into my pants.
I have been putting my time to good use while
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