lemon said, ‘I was wondering—could you do me a favour?’
Cass looked round. Fiona said it casually, in a way that suggested she wanted Cass to pick up a few bits from Tesco on her way home from work or maybe pop round to let the gasman in, and so, halfway down a glass of house red, Cass nodded. ‘Sure. What would you like me to do?’
But before she could answer, Bert, the big chunky tenor, an ex-rugby player who sang like an angel, drank like a fish and was tight as new elastic, bellowed, ‘Anyone fancy a top-up, only it’s m’birthday t’day, so I’m in the chair.’ Fiona’s reply was lost in the furore.
‘Maybe it would be easier if I popped round some time?’ Fiona shouted above the general hullabaloo as people fought their way to the bar to put their orders in. ‘Make an evening of it?’
‘Okay,’ said Cass, easing her way to the front. ‘Why don’t you come round for supper one night next week?’
Which was why they were now standing in Cass’s spare room with a suitcase full of props and the remains of a bottle of Archers which Fiona had brought round—probably, Cass now realised, as a liquid inducement. It had slipped down a treat. Unlike Fiona’s little favour.
It had taken Fiona a couple of glasses, a lot of idle chitchat and much admiring of Cass’s home before she managed to get around to what she had in mind. What Fiona wanted was a little light surveillance. More specifically, she wanted Cass to follow Andy, and find out what he was up to, where, when and with whom—although so far the reasons behind it all were a little hazy.
‘So tell me again what exactly has brought this on?’ asked Cass. ‘If I’m going to go the full Mata Hari, at least I should really know what I’m getting myself into.’
‘Andy’s seeing someone,’ said Fiona, gazing past her into the mirror, presumably trying to gauge the effectiveness of Cass’s disguise.
‘How can you be so certain?’
The questions seemed to take Fiona by surprise. ‘Because he’s been acting very strangely over the last few weeks. He’s changed the password on his email account.’
‘And you know this because?’
‘Well, when I was on his computer I couldn’t get into his email,’ said Fiona, casually.
‘You read his email?’
At least Fiona had the decency to look a bit sheepish. ‘Of course I do, I mean, doesn’t everyone? We’re practically married—’
‘And that makes it all right, does it?’ Cass couldn’t imagine anything worse than having someone nosing through her private life.
‘What on earth has right got to do with anything?’ said Fiona indignantly. ‘He shouldn’t need to hide things from me.’
‘So presumably Andy’s got your password too?’ asked Cass.
Fiona looked outraged. ‘No, of course he hasn’t, but that’s different—I mean, I’m not up to anything.’
‘Changing your password is hardly proof of being up to something though, is it?’
‘He keeps getting texts…’
‘Oh for goodness sake, Fee, we all get texts.’
‘Which he erases,’ Fiona countered. ‘I know because I’ve looked while he’s in the shower. His inbox is always empty—you’ve got to admit that that is suspicious?’
Cass wasn’t sure there was any sane answer. Experience told her that if you think someone is up to something, then your mind is only too happy to fill in the gaps, and everything the other person does only conspires to make them look even more guilty. And while Fiona’s plan all sounded pretty crazy from this side of the fence, no doubt inside Fiona’s head it sounded just fine. When it struck, jealously, insecurity and uncertainty could be a destructive and all-engulfing madness.
‘How long have you two been together?’ asked Cass, adjusting the wig and adding a bit more lipstick. She’d always wondered how she’d look as a blonde. Cass turned to catch a look at her profile; realistically she probably needed something a little less Barbie.
‘Nearly four years. I read somewhere that four years is the new seven-year itch. And besides, if Andy’s got nothing to hide, then why does he keep wiping the inbox on his phone, why does he have a new password on his email account and why does he sneak about? Did I tell you he’s been sneaking about—’
‘Have you thought it might be because you’re trying to break into his email account, read his phone messages and are currently setting someone up to stalk him?’ asked Cass.
Fiona considered the possibility for a few seconds then shook her head. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Andy’s got no idea he’s going to be stalked. And besides, he is up to something, I know it—and I want you to find out exactly what it is.’
‘Because?’
‘Well, because we’re friends, and I’d do the same for you.’
Cass stared at her. ‘Really?’
‘Oh God yes,’ said Fiona. Which wasn’t exactly how Cass remembered it. She did remember lots of things about being Fiona’s friend, like being left at the bus stop in the pouring rain, in her gym kit, because Fee had persuaded her mum to give the school hunk, Alan Hall, a lift home instead of Cass, the same friend who had refused point-blank to lend Cass a tenner when they were at a gig and Cass found she’d left her handbag backstage.
None of which suggested to Cass that Fiona would be running to her rescue if she ever needed a bit of on-the-side spying.
‘I don’t think blonde’s really my colour, do you?’ asked Cass, narrowing her eyes, trying to gauge the effect of the wig and hoping to lighten the mood. ‘Maybe something with a bit more caramel?’
‘Can we please concentrate? I don’t think you’re taking this seriously,’ snapped Fiona. ‘Andy’s going to be at Sam’s Place, Saturday night, at eight. I’ve brought my camera with me just in case yours doesn’t have a zoom.’
Cass looked at her. ‘Sam’s Place?’
‘Uh-huh you know, the trendy new bar, opposite the Corn Exchange.’
Cass shook her head.
‘Oh, come on, Cass, you must have seen it. It’s been all over the local papers. They did a double-page spread in the Argos and Echo, and a thing on local TV. Some guy off the telly is one of the partners in it. He used to be in The Bill—not that I watch that kind of thing, obviously. Anyway, there’s a cocktail bar and restaurant, and a coffee shop, all retro and very Casablanca, with a nightclub upstairs. I’ve been trying to persuade Andy to take me there for weeks.’ Fiona paused for effect. ‘Do you know what he said?’
Cass decided it would probably be wiser not to offer any suggestions, so pulled an I have no idea face instead.
‘He said, “Fee, what in god’s name do you want to go there for? Clubbing—at our age? It’s ridiculous.” That’s what he said, Cass, “Ridiculous”. It was horrible. It made me
