Fry Read online

  “Do you really have to go?” he asks in a whiny voice.

  He looks quite forlorn - until he notices something:

  “Hey, we’re standing under the mistletoe!”

  “What?” I glance upwards. He’s right, this part of the ceiling’s totally covered with it. Before I know what’s happening, he’s pressing his lips against mine. His breath smells of cheese and onion crisps. I pull back, repulsed, just as Sonya returns.

  She raises her eyebrows. “You ready to go?”

  “Very.”

  “Oh, you know you loved it,” Stu calls after my departing back. “All the ladies do. Once you’ve had Stu, no one else will do!”

  *

  I make the call just before work on Monday morning. I reason that a successful businessman like Bernie Greengrass isn’t one to loll about in bed, so I’m sure he won’t mind me calling him a little early.

  “About time!” he chuckles, when he hears my voice. “How about you pop in to see me, and we can discuss the details.”

  “Sounds great. When?”

  “Let’s see - I’ve just had a lunch cancellation, actually. Can you do twelve o’clock?”

  Wow, this is all happening so fast!

  “OK, I’ll see you then.”

  “Morning Isabel,” Alicia bounds up to me in the car park when I get to work. She has the energy of a Labrador puppy.

  “Hi,” I reply cautiously. “How was the ball?” I was dreading this conversation, but somehow, with the lunch-time meeting in my pocket, it’s not quite so bad.

  “It was incredible! Deacon’s such a great dancer!”

  She giggles. – I don’t know what at.

  “Did you have fun at your party?” She leans a little closer. “I heard you and Stu kissed!”

  “Yeah, well don’t believe everything you hear.”

  I brush past her into the store.

  “Have you seen Stu?” Sonya asks with glee. “His skin is definitely a few shades lighter today!”

  I smile, but to be honest I can’t tell the difference. “Um, Sonya, is it OK if I take a long lunch break today? I need to go to the post office and you know what the queues are like this close to Christmas.”

  “Course, just make sure you’re back by two.”

  So at half past eleven, I head off for my interview.

  “Good luck,” Alicia whispers, as I walk by. I look at her sharply. How the hell does she know? But Alicia just smiles sweetly, in that annoying way she has.

  Must be a lucky guess, I tell myself. I bet half the staff here are job hunting at the moment.

  I arrive at Filbert’s a little early, so I sit in the car and smoke a cigarette while I think about what I want to get out of this meeting. Obviously, I want a pay rise, but I also need to know what my career prospects would be, though they couldn’t be any worse than they are at Robertson’s.

  I’m just stubbing out my cigarette, when a loud beeping sound makes me jump. I reach into my bag and pull out my keys. It’s my bloody smoke detector. It doesn’t usually go off when I smoke. So why’s it become so sensitive all of a sudden? Slowly, I look up.

  Crap! There’s a car on fire!

  I can see flames coming out of the boot.

  I know I should call 999, but I can’t from here. I can’t be around fire. Not when I’m already under so much suspicion. With shaking hands, I stick the keys back in the ignition and speed towards the exit. As I wait for the woman in front of me to pull out, I glance back at the car that’s on fire. It’s a beautiful, shiny new Jaguar, with customised registration plates that read ‘Bernie1’.

  I speed back to Robertson’s, violating about twelve different traffic laws along the way.

  “That was quick,” says Sonya, as I walk back into the office. “I thought you’d be at least an hour.”

  “Yeah, well the queue looked a bit too crazy. I’ll go another day. Have you seen Alicia by any chance?”

  I have to know if she’s behind this.

  “She’s on her lunch break.”

  “Down in the canteen?”

  “No, she said something about going into town.”

  Which means it could have been her who started that fire!

  I don’t know what that girl’s up to, but I don’t trust her. Not one bit.

  Chapter Eight

  I tip my sodden clothes into the dryer. The machine whirls and then judders as it picks up speed. I watch for a moment, as my clothes whiz round and round and the thoughts tumble around in my head in a similar manner.

  Until now, I forced myself to give Alicia the benefit of the doubt, because the alternative was way too sinister for me to even comprehend. I thought I was being crazy, paranoid. But not anymore. Now, there has been one fire too many and like DS Penney, I don’t believe in coincidences. I don’t know why Alicia is out to get me or how she’s setting all these fires but it’s about time I found out.

  To start with, how did the police know to connect me to the fire at Rose Cottage? It happened all those years ago, and it’s not like I have a criminal record. And how is it that Alicia has ingratiated herself with my friends? Somehow, she’s made them all trust her instantly. My friends have become her friends. Anything she wants to know about me, she can get from them, the people who know me better than anyone. And yet I know nothing about her.

  That has to change.

  I think back through all the time we’ve spent together, but she leaves very few clues. She has a skill of turning the conversation around to other people and since people love to talk about themselves, I don’t think anyone ever notices.

  I sit down in front of my laptop and type her name into Google. It takes some time to trawl through all the Alicia McBrides, but none look or sound like her. She has no Facebook profile, no obvious Twitter account. I draw a big fat blank.

  A car honks outside. I go to the window and peer out.

  Damn, I’d forgotten Kate was picking me up. Quickly, I run a brush though my hair and grab my handbag. Normally, I spend ages getting ready for a night out but I was too engrossed in what I was doing.

  “So, what are you doing for Christmas?” I ask, as I fasten my seat belt.

  “Staying here in Queensbeach,” she says, reversing out of the driveway. “I’m on call at the hospital, so the family are coming to me.”

  “I was thinking of going away for a few days,” I tell her. “Do you think you could feed Fluffy?”

  She glances at me out of the corner of her eye.

  “You’re going to see Julio?”

  “Yes.”

  “And his new fiancée?”

  “Yes.”

  She bites her lip and an awkward silence descends.

  “So you’ve got all the family coming to stay?” I ask, in an attempt to resuscitate the conversation.

  “And Alicia.”

  This time, it’s my turn to bite my lip.

  “Doesn’t she have a family of her own?”

  “No. Not that she talks about, anyway.”

  Poor little orphan Alicia. I know I should probably feel sorry for her but instead I just feel annoyed. How dare she intrude on Kate’s family Christmas? How dare she take advantage of her generous nature?

  The knot in my stomach tightens as Deacon and Alicia walk into Mustafa’s, hand in hand. I can barely look at them, either of them. I pick up my glass of wine and drink it straight down.

  “So when are we having our Christmas dinner?” Kate asks, oblivious to my pain.

  The four of us always get together for a Christmas meal before everyone leaves town for the holidays.

  “How about next Sunday?” Rhett suggests. The others nod in agreement.

  “Hey, how about I host it this year?” I suggest brightly.

  They all look at me blankly.

  “Oh, I assumed we’d be having it at Rhett and Deacon’s,” Kate says awkwardly.

  “I just thought it would be fun to have it at my house for a change. It’s been ages since I’ve had you all round.”r />
  “You’re, erm, going to cook?” Deacon asks dubiously.

  “Yeah, why not?”

  He rubs his chin. “Can you… cook?”

  “Of course I can!” I say with indignation. “I just don’t do it very often.”

  “That sounds lovely,” says Rhett, ever the diplomat. “How about I bring the pudding?”

  “That would be great.”

  *

  Next morning, I try once more to get Bernie Greengrass on the phone to apologise for missing my interview, but his assistant refuses to put me through.

  “I’m sorry, but Mr Greengrass is a very busy man. He doesn’t have time to reschedule your appointment.”

  “I understand. Please let me know if an appointment becomes available.”

  I put down the phone.

  Damn Alicia, she’s ruined everything.

  I see Stu coming my way and hurriedly disappear into the shoe aisle, the memory of his repulsive Christmas kiss still fresh in my mind. I wait until the coast is clear, then hot-foot it back to the office, where I pull up the personnel files on the computer.

  McBride, Alicia. No middle name.

  I flick through her details. Her age, date of birth and national insurance number all look completely normal. I scroll down the page. No work history and the only person listed as a reference is me. I’m also her next of kin. Not much to go on. I press print anyway.

  “Hi Isabel.”

  I jump as Alicia herself appears in the doorway, her eyes impossibly wide and childlike.

  “Alicia! What are you doing here?”

  “Sonya asked me to put the kettle on. Do you want a cup of tea?”

  “No thanks, I’m fine.”

  “You sure?” She seems to look right through me. “I could read your tea leaves for you?”

  “No, that’s fine,” I say sharply. Some of her last predictions were a little close to the mark.

  The room is filled with a droning sound as the ancient printer bashes out her file, line by agonising line. Sonya’s been on at Stu for a new printer for ages but he insists we can make this one last a little longer. It screeches in protest.

  “I think it’s stuck,” Alicia says, walking over to investigate. She peers down at the printer.

  “I can handle it, thanks,” I tell her. I rip the page from the printer and stuff it into my pocket.

  Alicia smiles knowingly.

  “Just trying to help.”

  Sunday - 7 AM

  I get up early to go shopping. I shop not just for food and drink but also for extra pots and pans and an apron. Good thing Robertson’s is open 24 hours a day or I’d be in trouble. My friends didn’t look particularly impressed when I offered to cook Christmas dinner, but I’m going to prove them all wrong. Even if this is the first time I’ve used all four rings on my cooker. I fill a glass with sherry and pore over the cookbook, frowning with concentration.

  Wow, turkey takes bloody ages, I’d better put it on first.

  Rhett and Kate both ring at various intervals to ask if I need any help but I insist I can handle it on my own. They don’t have to know that I had to ring mum four separate times, one of which was to find out what I’m supposed to do with the turkey baster.

  By the time my friends arrive - a polite fifteen minutes late - there is cranberry sauce in my hair and my top is covered in flour. My apron, I am proud to say, remains spotless.

  “I’ll just pop this in the kitchen,” says Rhett, staggering in with what looks like a very heavy plum pudding. He puts it down on the side and opens the oven to check the turkey.

  “Beautiful!” he says, approvingly. Then he lifts the lid off the saucepan. “These carrots look done. I’ll take them off the heat, shall I?”

  Rhett is my saviour. He puts on a Christmas CD and hands out glasses of sherry and mince pies while I dash upstairs to change into my glamorous green dress. Well, where else am I going to wear it?

  “You look fabulous, darling!” he says, as I re-emerge. “Where do you want us to sit?”

  I shoot him a grateful smile. He has even laid the table for me and folded the napkins into little swans. But even his efforts don’t make up for the fact that my dining table is meant for four. Five is a bit too much of a squeeze.

  Why did Alicia have to come?

  Thanks to her, I have to go next door to Mr Krinkle’s to borrow an extra chair and he keeps me talking for ages before he finally condescends to lend me one. Luckily, Rhett has the sense to turn down the oven so the turkey doesn’t burn.

  “Well, Isabel, this all looks surprisingly good,” Deacon says when we’re finally seated at the table. I suppose that’s as close as I’m going to get to a compliment.

  “Shall I carve?”

  I smile smugly as he doles out wafer-thin slices of turkey and try to ignore the fact that he and Alicia are probably playing footsie under the table. My cooking may not be in Rhett’s league, but this is definitely edible.

  After we’ve eaten our fill of turkey, I warm up the pudding in the microwave and pour warm brandy over it, ready to light.

  “Wait!”

  Rhett gets up and turns out the lights.

  “OK, go ahead.”

  I feel in my pocket for a lighter.

  “Here, let me do it,” Alicia offers, picking one up from the table. Her eyes gleam dangerously.

  “No!” I cry. I try to grab the lighter from her hand, but with a flick of her thumb, the flame ignites and I can only stare in horror as it dances up my sleeve.

  For a second, I can’t move.

  “Isabel, you’re on fire!” Alicia shrieks in delight.

  “Ahh!”

  She leans over and makes a big show of swatting the flames with a tea towel, which only makes it worse.

  “Get off me!” I yell.

  “Let me help you!”

  “You? Help me?”

  I push her away, and dash into the kitchen, where I plunge my arm into the washing up water, quenching the flames.

  Deacon rushes after me.

  “Are you OK?”

  “I’m fine.” I withdraw my arm from the murky water and examine the scorched fabric of my sleeve.

  “Have you hurt yourself? Let me see.”

  He takes my arm and holds it under the cold tap.

  “My arm’s fine. It’s my dress that’s ruined.”

  “What on earth was all that about?” he asks, as I towel myself off.

  “Why did you grab the lighter from Alicia’s hand like that?”

  “She could have set the house on fire,” I mumble. But even as I’m saying this, I can hear how stupid it sounds.

  “What do you have against Alicia?” he asks with frustration. “You’ve been funny about her from the start.”

  “That’s not true!”

  “Yes, it is, Isabel. I’ve seen the way you look at her. I thought she was supposed to be your friend?”

  Over my shoulder, I can sense the presence of someone else. Someone whose eyes bore into me so deeply, I feel their heat on my shoulders.

  “It’s nothing. Now if you don’t mind, I’m going upstairs to get changed. Start on the pudding without me, before it gets cold.”

  Deacon shakes his head, but allows me to slip upstairs to my room.

  I sit down on the bed. My eyes feel hot and heavy with tears. I don’t know if it’s the shock of what just happened, or the fear or what’s to come, but I can’t let Alicia see me like this. With determination, I discard my ruined dress and pull on jeans and a jumper. I am just coming back downstairs when the doorbell rings.

  That’ll probably be Mr Krinkle wanting to know if he can have his chair back.

  The bell rings again.

  “Wow, he’s impatient.”

  Kate, who’s nearest, jumps up and answers it.

  “Isabel!”

  “Yeah, I’m coming.”

  But it isn’t Mr Krinkle. It’s DS Penney and his partner. They both look very serious.

  Penney steps forward. �
�Isabel Anderson, we’d like to speak to you about a fire at Filbert’s Supercentre. Where were you at twelve noon on Monday 14th December?”

  I open my mouth to answer, but Alicia’s voice floats out from behind me.

  “She was with me.”

  Chapter Nine

  I swing round to face Alicia.

  What is she doing? But there are no clues in her wide, innocent eyes.

  She has the perfect poker face.

  “That was the day we went Christmas shopping,” she continues, unprompted. “Don’t you remember, Isabel?”

  Penney regards her coolly.

  “I suppose you have receipts?”

  I shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other.

  “I’ll have to check,” I say. “I might have thrown them away.”

  “I’ve got receipts,” Alicia says, without missing a beat. “Back at the Beach House. I can show you, if you like.”

  I watch incredulously as she slips on her coat and leads them out the door.

  Against my better judgement, I follow.

  I sit in nervous silence in the back of the police car. Beside me, Alicia yaps on about Christmas shopping and the shops we supposedly visited while I was sitting in Filbert’s car park, watching Bernie’s car go up in smoke. Just what, exactly, is she up to? And why the hell am I going along with it? I think of the till receipts we use at Robertson’s. They have the time and date printed on them. If Alicia set the fires, how could she possibly produce receipts? And if it wasn’t her, then why is she covering for me?

  We draw up in front of the Beach House and get out of the car. The little voice inside my head tells me to run but I hold my nerve. Without a hint of urgency, Alicia unlocks the door and we follow her up the stairs to her bedroom.

  And there we wait. We wait for a horrendously long time as Alicia performs an elaborate search of the room. Oh god, why did I go along with this? Did I really think she was going to be able to produce those mythical till receipts, like a rabbit from a hat?

  The police are getting restless. Penney’s partner keeps sighing and glancing at her watch.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?” I offer for the second time.

  “No thanks, just the receipts,” she responds curtly.

  “I’m sure they’re somewhere around here,” Alicia mutters, digging through her desk drawer. A search of her cupboard, dressing table, and wardrobe has failed to turn up anything besides a hair slide she thought she’d lost. The police glance at each other with exasperation and I wonder, with a sinking feeling if she’s doing all this to taunt me.