Meet The Kings

By E Smith and Camilla Davis

One family − three generations, each hiding a family secret.

Emma King: Wife, Mother and bored to death receptionist.

Secrets and unexplained events turn Emma into a meddling super-sleuth. With a fast growing talent in accusing the innocent, Emma fails to spot a life threatening situ

• Language: English
• Publisher: Book Printing UK
• Release date: Feb 2, 2016
• ISBN: 9781911113294

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Paul King sat on the side of his bed in his knee-length dressing gown rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He picked up his mobile, blinking his vision into focus - Saturday: 09:24AM.

Yesterday’s relentlessly long and tiring day had taken its toll. He sits for a moment examining his hands, pulling a face at his calloused fingers and bulbous knuckles − unwanted souvenirs of a twenty-five-year slog, gratis the construction industry.

Sluggishly, he walked towards the bathroom and shouted, Emma? Jake?

No reply.

A childlike grin emerged. Then in his best 'Redneck Hillbilly' slang he cried, "Well, bless ma cotton socks, I’m home alone mama."

Before heading off to check if the early morning post had arrived, he ran the shower. His tired reflection in the bathroom mirror caught his attention. Pulling at his cleft chin, he wiped a hand across a two-day shadow and leant in for a closer inspection. "Good grief! You need a holiday mate, and a haircut."

His thatch of hair had barely receded but once as black as coal it was now marbled with wiry grey streaks. For all of his 45 years, Paul King still looked good. Body tall and muscle firm, his steel blue eyes still held that mischievous, childlike glint.

Post retrieved and with the shower still running, Paul headed for the kitchen. Flicking on the percolator and turning the radio up high, he audited the fridge.

"Good. Bacon check, eggs check, sausage check. Houston, we have a fry up." Moments later, three sausages and four rashers of bacon spit and sizzled under a red flame grill.

As he headed back into the bedroom he was greeted by billows of steam drifting across from the en suite. Stepping into the mist, he fumbled around for the soap. With the 70s band Queen blasting in the background Paul exerted the baritone pipes as he sang along with Freddie Mercury.

"Who wants to live forever? . . . Who −"

He dropped the soap.

Humming away, he uncapped the shower gel instead and lathered up. Waiting for his chorus moment, Paul competed in a power-struggling, ear-jarring duet.

"Oooohhhooo . . . Who wants to live forever? . . . Who dares to live forever? . . . Ahhaaahh . . ."

Rinsing off and reaching for a towel, he stepped out of the shower and straight onto the bar of soap. For a moment that would become indelibly etched in his brain ‘forever’, Paul’s life flashed before him as his body involuntarily entered into a deep 90-degree lunge creating an almost perfect split. An indescribable pain from the downward force, wrenching his groin and his hamstring and voilà! Paul’s voice was now two octaves higher than Freddie’s.

And so another day began in the King household.

***

Meanwhile, on the A6 Derby Road, Emma King, referred to by Paul as ‘the Mrs’, sat in bumper to bumper traffic. The temperature was ratcheting up a steady two degrees an hour, and by midday it was already a sweltering twenty-four degrees celsius. The tardy air caught in the haze of exhaust fumes polluting the gridlocked.

Emma leant out, but there was no visual on what was causing the tailback.

Their seventeen-year-old son sat up front, nodding along to his air guitar. With his iPod plugged into his ears from the start of the journey, Emma had been robbed of all conversation. The only sound was the ghastly boom of rock music emanating from his earpieces. Technology: a wall of fortifying bricks segregating the family members. Emma hoped the crescendo was about to be reached. She often wondered if her teenage son could ever be reached.

This six-foot alien posing as her son lost his ability to communicate somewhere around his early teens. Gone were the days when Emma stood alongside the other mums at the primary school gates. As the classroom doors swung open, her sweet little boy with his mop of bright blonde hair would outrun all the other kids racing to get to his mother first. Struggling to catch his breath, he would stumble over his words, relating his entire day within 60 seconds flat. They nicknamed him Jabber Jake because he spoke rapidly and incessantly from the moment he awoke, until the moment he fell asleep. Now, Jake speaks the language of the grunts and shrugs, a monosyllable, incoherent tongue adopted by the Teen's people.

Jake uncapped his water bottle and glugged down the remainder. Emma glanced at his right leg endlessly drumming, his vexation transparent.

Jake, stop doing that thing with your leg will you?

With his music on full blast, Jake was oblivious to the request. Emma threw her head back and sighed; broken beads of sweat - skiing down her hairline. In the far distance, a cacophony of car horns vehemently battled against an immovable army. The metallic line stood firm.

Jake’s fidgeting and tapping mannerisms ascended into hyper mode. Emma had had enough.

"Hey! You! What’s with the Morse Code leg?"

There was no response. He just looked ahead, noisily chewing his gum, nodding, and tapping his fingers to the beat on the car roof. Every crack of gum had her tightening her grip on the steering wheel, her headache now bordering on a migraine. She turned the radio on to drown out the noise. A poor choice given the state of her head, but another crack of gum and she’d strangle him. Two music tracks later and the regional traffic news puts the cherry on the top.

Road works on the A6 heading towards Queensway are creating a 1.6-kilometre traffic jam. That’s one mile in old money listeners. Drivers are advised to −

She turned it off.

Great. Just . . . great, said Emma, her hands bouncing off the steering wheel. With the traffic crawling at a snail’s pace, she rested her elbow on Jake's headrest and cupped her head. It was going to be ‘one of those days’. The ascension downhill started from the moment she awoke. From finding the conditioner bottle empty after shampooing her hair, to retrieving her cashmere cardigan from out of the dryer. Then the joys of dragging her ‘allergic to shopping’ alien around the mall for sensible interview shoes. She’d given him the money twice over, but he was unable to complete the mission himself. Fellow aliens had transported him to the computer game shops instead.

Oh, and not forgetting the £60 parking ticket waving to her from the arm of her windscreen wiper when she returned to her car. Yes, it was one of those days, and it wasn’t over yet.

A sudden jolt from Jake springing his seat back and her throbbing head lost its elbow support. Jake made a reach for his sports bag. With the prowess of a quick change artist, his sweatshirt was off and his rugby shirt was on. Emma with one eye on the traffic swung a double take.

It’s frightening to see how fast you can undress in a car.

Eh?

I said it’s . . . never mind.

What? said Jake, hanging out of the car. It goes on for miles, can’t you turn around?

"Ah, so it can string a sentence. No, I’m on an A road with a lane out; that’s what’s causing the tailback."

But I’m gonna be late, I’ve got a match in half an hour.

She leant across, pulling his earpiece out of his ear like a cork from a bottle. And I thought you were going to a fancy dress party!

Jake started shifting impatiently from side to side like a caged chimpanzee. His large muscular frame, formed from over four years of rugby training, rocked the Mini Cooper like a cradle. Emma had another attempt at the air con. Jake, watching, screwed his face up. It doesn’t work.

"Neither do you!"

Right that’s it. I’m off. I can run faster. He flew out of the car, slamming the door behind him. Emma dangled out of the window calling after him. Her calls − blatantly ignored.

Finally, the traffic began to flow and a wearisome hour and a half later, Emma parked alongside the undercroft of their mews home.

Greenwood Valley: a four-year-old mews estate, built in a leafy suburb in Matlock on the southeastern edge of England’s green and glorious land – the Peak District. Only a 35-minute drive from central Derby. Paul would proudly tell you that his company developed the groundwork of the estate. Emma would wax lyrical on the joys of living in the beautiful, tranquil countryside with only a short commute to the city centre. Even Trip Advisor highlighted its many places of interest:

Nestled within rolling valleys, discover the rustic charm of old stone villages. Visit country houses with spectacular gardens or take a long walk along ribbons of public footpaths and bridleways, all with breathtaking views. A delight for the Sunday strollers and a getaway for the city slickers who long to see endless stretches of green. Flip a coin and you can battle against rapid rivers, climb defying cliff faces and explore the underworld of bottomless caves − ideal for the adrenalin junkie. There’s a whole range of indoor and outdoor pursuits to stimulate the masses.

Jake will tell you, ‘It’s boring’.

An ear-piercing two burst hit on the car horn scattered the bird life – Emma’s usual arrival signal indicating the need for bag carrying assistance. Two minutes later and with no helper appearing, the car horn took another hit. 

Curtains twitched from across the mews.

Having unloaded the car, she stood back, shielding her eyes from the sun, surveying two storeys up for signs of life. She was in no mood to carry the lot up, so another burst just for emphasis.

Sockless feet from under the dressing gown descended the stairs. Paul walked tentatively down, one step at a time, tightly gripping the handrail. All right, all right, I can hear you. He eyeballed the amount of shopping Emma had bought and shook his head. With legs wider apart than a giraffe at a water hole, Paul looped multiple bags onto his arm. Emma, hand on hip, curiously observed his wide gait. Oh, hello, it's the Lone Ranger! she remarked, smiling. She didn’t care to ask what mishap Paul had gotten himself into, for it was such a regular occurrence.

Place Paul on a construction site with an infinite number of safety hazards: overhead cables, gaping foundations, flowing cement rivers, mile high scaffolding, and he’ll be fine. Strap a magazine-loaded nail gun onto his tool belt or let him operate a circular saw of a magician’s proportions and not a scratch.

Leave him for half day, alone, in a finished house with all the perils of electrics hidden under smooth walls; feet, treading on calamitous soft pile carpeting; all appliances − safety certified; and yet he was at serious risk, imminent danger. Anything could happen and usually did.

Like an overburdened packhorse, Paul carried his load. Half way up and with his hamstring threatening to snap, he stopped for a moment, resting his bags on the stairs. Gathering his composure, he turned to Emma. I hope you remembered to get a ham, I fancy a ham salad sandwich.

Wouldn’t you prefer beans cowboy?

The deep throb pulsating from his groin overloaded Paul’s brain like a virus blocking his usual quick fire banter. He stared for a moment at the monumental ascent ahead and decided not to reply.

As they unpacked the shopping every top cupboard door of their streamlined modern kitchen was open.

Their three-storey mews home was both stylish and elegant, boasting a living room with separate dining room, three bedrooms and an en-suite.

Emma clearly had an eye for decorating. When she first met Paul she voiced dreams and ambitions of becoming a fine artist, a colour therapist, an interior designer, anything arty! An early pregnancy, coupled with a young mortgage, and the dream was cut short. For years Emma felt empty inside at not fulfilling her ambitions, but in order to pay the bills the office job filled the void. The extra bedroom became filled with impulsive buys. Clothes that she would never wear and arts and craft materials, all of which were inspirational buys, still sat on shelves in their packaging.

When the evolving doors to career opportunities came round again, she played it safe, tried unsuccessfully for another child and so stuck with what she knew, her mature years shackling her to the chains of familiarity.

Emma stood tiptoed on her one-step reach ladder trying to make room in the bulging, top kitchen cupboards. Paul sat directly below in a frog type squat examining the food stock like a quartermaster.

Can you smell smoke? she said, her nose in the air.

Realising that his cold carbonised breakfast was still under the grill, Paul attempted to stand with all the finesse of a newly born foal. On his third attempt at launching himself upright, the sharp edge of the open top cupboard door came directly into contact with his skull. His arms encased his head as he hopped from one foot to the other in short, agonising movements. "Shsssshhhh . . . aaahhh!"

Emma swung a cursory glance and carried on putting the shopping away. I don’t know any bloke that hasn’t done that, she said nonchalantly. Paul didn’t know which part of his body to cradle. His lips disappeared as his mouth over tightened. Like a deranged man with rickets, he walked up and down the kitchen breathing heavily through his nose.

He limped towards her. I think I've fractured my skull, is it bleeding? Emma didn’t bother to look. Instead, she asked, What do you want me to leave out for supper?

You can forget that, it’s Friday; it’s drinks and a curry.

Don’t you want a change?

He popped his head around the cupboard door. Yes, but you won’t leave.

"Ha ha, I suppose if you live long enough, we’ll order it later."

Paul got back on task, facing up the tins in his usual orderly fashion, taking note of the current stockpile. With his head still stuck in the cupboard, he extended an arm. See that? We’ve got five of them, and six tins of tomato soup that nobody likes. What are we starting here, a soup kitchen? He turned around with another tin in his hand, but Emma had left the room.

Looking like a limp starfish, Emma had splayed her arms and legs across the couch, her feet turning circles.

Seriously Em, check the stock before you go will yah. Her arms folded tightly, and the circling feet started swinging.

"Perhaps you should go shopping, and then you can buy what you want." Her voice, razor-sharp. She sat upright forcing the footrest to snap shut and marched off into the bedroom.

Emma collapsed on top of the bed. Eyes closed, arms lifeless, palms, facing forward, the madness of the day having drained all the life out of her. The only thing amiss: a label on the end of her toe.

Paul gently and cautiously lay down beside her. He deliberated for a moment on his approach. His conclusion being that it was a possible code amber warning, which was Paul’s inventive scale and best approach guide for a premenstrual woman. His tactical thoughts led him to play the ‘show her the old baby blue eyes’ card. Less than a hand's width from her face, he stared down at her, beaming like a child on Christmas morning. You okay, grumpy? Startled, Emma shot upright, her head bouncing off his temple. "For goodness' sake Paul! The palm of her hand now stuck to her forehead. I’m fed up. Just . . . fed up."

Fed up with what? You mean fed up with me? he asked, blinking, finding his focus.

No. Not you. Never mind, it doesn’t matter.

Paul’s right temple started to blush red from the impact. He edged off the bed to examine his head in the mirror. And there it was, another blossoming bruise adding to his collection. He muttered to himself, Dag nab it!

Emma, still propped up against the headboard, picked up her wedding photo from the bedside table. She wiped a fingermark away with the end of the duvet and then paused for a moment, staring at it. She and Paul standing at the church door, young and beautiful and full of life, blurred confetti caught in the moment. A snapshot suspended in time when every day together thereafter was going to be new and different and unexplored.

Peering into the mirrored frame, the downward tilt kick-started the gravity. Her head sprang upright. She held the frame aloft pulling a fine wrinkle smooth then glanced back at her youth thinking, 'Look at you, and you haven’t even climbed Everest yet!'

Emma headed back into the living room. Paul followed.

Ah, I see, you’re sick of the old routine are you? We all get sick of that love. That’s just . . . life.

Emma sighed. Pulling at her hair with both hands, her tousled hair now stood in two unkempt clumps either side of her head. She walked towards the window. No wonder I buy the same stuff each week. Her arms stiffened, her voice rose in anguish. I go round the supermarket like one of those Stepford wives. I know what I’m doing this time next week, this time next month. Honestly, Paul, I’d rather be stuck up Kilimanjaro than just stuck in –

Here?

Traffic, replied Emma, softly.

She stared aimlessly out of the window.

Paul looked at her sad face caught in the reflection. For some time something has been niggling at his wife but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. To Paul, Emma had never changed; she was as beautiful to him now as when he first clapped eyes on her over two decades ago. Her shoulder length brown hair still glossy and full. Forest green eyes with flecks of silk chartreuse, now framed with laughter lines adding to her charm.

He planted a kiss on the back of her head and wrapped her in his arms. She leant into him, resting her head on his shoulder, gently stroking his strong muscular arm.

Hey you, cheer up, it’s Friday!

She promptly turned to face him. Exactly, it’s Friday. Next minute it’ll be Monday and then within two blinks it's Friday again. Her expression turned pitiable. This hamster needs to get off the wheel Paul, you know?

But me likes Fridays, we have drinks, lots of drink. He tottered from side to side. It makes me giddy.

Emma raised half a smile.

"Come on Em. I’ll let you be fed up on a Monday but not on a Friday. Why don’t I run you a bath, you float about a bit, and I’ll bring you a glass of Uncle Paul’s fizzy. It’s guaranteed to make yah feel good." His eyes now as playful as his Hillbilly twang.

Towering over her, Paul decided that now was the time to make his move. He threw his best enigmatic smile at her. The sun broke out from behind a wispy cloud. The light hitting his baby blues turned Paul King into Paul Newman! Emma’s downtrodden expression was on the way up.

He tenderly kissed her neck. With Emma wrapped in Paul’s passionate embrace, he deepened and lowered his voice. How does that sound, eh?

Her eyes slowly closed as she tilted her head back, surrendering to him. The smell of Paul’s He Man shower gel and his soft alluring kisses were hitting the green light senses. She whispered seductively into his ear, Make love to me Paul.

The kissing stopped. The reality check throb beating from his groin yanked Paul cruelly out of the ring. It’s Paul that now hopelessly stared at his reflection.

Emma ran a deep bath and poured a small amount of her expensive bath oil in. Second thoughts and she decided to pour the lot in. "You’re worth it. Then, remembering how much it cost, she stopped pouring, loosely screwed the cap on and placed it on top of the sink. But you’re not worth all of it." A rummage through the overloaded bathroom cabinet to find a scented candle and a long lighter. Dropping the towel at her feet and holding the candle and lighter aloft, she gently eased herself into the deep, steaming, roll top bath. After today’s events, there’d been more steam coming out of her ears than there has out of the hot tap! Ready for a state of tranquil repose, nothing, but nothing, was going to spoil this much needed and self-designated ‘Emma time’.

As she attempted to light her candle, the phone in the living room rang. Listening intently, and with her eyes boring into the bathroom door, her motionless body awaited its fate. She could hear Paul speaking but couldn’t quite make out the conversation. Thirty seconds later and with no knock on the door, Emma’s shoulders gradually came down from her ears. She looked up at the ceiling. Thank you God.

Contented that she was not going to be disturbed, and with the long lighter still aflame, she leapt out of her skin as Paul burst through the door. The candle was now afloat, its glass holder clunking against the enamel all the way to to the bottom.

Knock, knock.

"What?"

That was Jake. He wants to know if you can pick him up from rugby.

When?

Now, exhorted Paul, shrugging his shoulders as if the answer wasn’t blindingly obvious.

Her suspended hand dropped lifelessly into the bath and the lighter flame extinguished. With a look off Emma that could turn Medusa into stone, Paul swiftly exited the bathroom calling behind, It’s all right, I suppose I’ll have to go and get him.

Still holding the lighter, Emma’s hand robotically rose from the suds. She clicked away, but it wouldn’t work. Disgruntled, she threw the lighter across the room knocking her frankincense bath oil into the sink. Emma’s posh bath oil headed down the plug hole faster than a squirt of Mr Muscle's Bath Cleaner.

Later that evening Emma, wrapped in a white robe and wearing her Bart Simpson slippers that Jake bought her for Christmas, was relaxed, sprawled across the sofa. Her hair was scooped up in a towel turban. Paul sat perched on the edge of his armchair flicking through the TV channels at lightning speed.

Raising a hand, Emma spotted a woman in period dress. Hang on a minute. You’ve just gone past my programme.

He ignored her.

Paul! It’s part two of Sense and Sensibility.

"Good grief! fumed Paul, making her jump. Is that Jack Johnson hosting another quiz show? Right, where’s my T.C. list?"

It’s in the magazine rack.

He leant over, blindly stamping his palm on the carpet, trying to locate the wire spine.

You’re not even looking properly. And you can’t put Jack Johnson on the T.C. list, I like him.

Paul snapped back, Jack Johnson! He’s going in at level three on my Talentless Celebrity list.

There was a time when Paul King kept his opinions and criticisms to himself; him being as impervious to the world as fish are to rain. He couldn’t have cared less about political affairs or state dignitaries, and he certainly didn’t care about TV celebs or theatrical luminaries. He had little interest or opinion of the headline news. Not that he was poorly educated, Paul was a high achiever. From leaving school, he went on to study engineering, achieving a BSc (Hons) at UWE Bristol.

His tutor, perturbed at Paul’s apathetic interest in current affairs, would quote to him the words of Martin Luther King Jr. ‘Nothing in the world is more dangerous than sincere ignorance and conscientious stupidity.’

Paul would simply reply, Abstinence from the opinions of the world is an opinion.

For years, he had heard his parents argue on the A-Z of everything. Most evenings, Paul and his younger brother Carl would slope out of the living room arena leaving their parents to fight over politics, money, work, religion, whatever noun they could think of to raise an objection. In heated whispers, they once argued throughout an entire baptism service as to whether fish drink water! Once the flame of the topic was lit the debates would go on all night, but by the next day the world had stayed the same.

Paul had learned that for all of their verbal battles, they achieved nothing but a wedge of hostility. Until the age of twenty-six, Paul King lived for three things: rugby, the pub and women. Only after gaining a management role in the company, which eventually lead to a directorship, did Paul become a manifestation of his parents. Now he was in charge everything mattered.

Construction is a cut throat industry. You invested hard earned money in quality, training, and health & safety accreditations. You bent compliantly to petty laws and bureaucratic nonsense. You played by all the regulatory rules. You lost to cheap foreign labour contracts that were a law unto themselves. So, when a pair of inflated boobs with a fruit fly brain earned megabucks and fame for the odd TV appearance, or a celebrity whose long and lucrative career has rested on mediocre talents, Paul’s blood boiled.

He found his notepad. Ah good, got it. He waved it at Emma. Then retrieving his pen from its spine, he put the celebrity world to rights. Here we go, Sue Dollard still at number five. Emma raised her coffee mug in objection. But Sue Dollard isn’t on the television anymore.

So? They stay in their current positions until they get demoted by an even greater TC, and she’s gonna be hard to beat. He continued by crossing out names, scribbling away.

Emma’s fingers started drumming against the side of the sofa. Are you quite finished?

Paul threw the remote over. Before Emma had made the catch, the phone rang. Paul ignored it. Paul, pick up that ringing plastic thing, I believe someone is trying to contact us?

"Not us, you. Only women phone women at this hour. Emma took the call. It was Linda, her friend and work colleague. Hello? Oh, hi Linda."

Paul still engrossed in updating his list, raised a hand in self-glorifying triumph.

Evening Em. Just thought I’d let you know that I’m planning a car boot sale if you’d like to join me?

Okay, when?

Don’t know yet, I think there’s one on every first Sunday of the month at the back of the Boat & Anchor pub. Jane made over four hundred quid when she last did one.

Blimey, did she? I think I’ve got a large useless item I could flog, she said, grinning at Paul.

Good. Now get rooting through your drawers dear, and I’ll catch up with you at work, replied Linda.

Emma was more than ready to close the curtains on this day. She put the phone down, kissed Paul on his bump and headed off to bed.

CHAPTER TWO

The Victorian building of Kensington & Clarke Solicitors sat on the periphery of the High Street in central Derby. Posters advertising divorce, wills and accident claims hung in the large double fronted windows. Over the decades, the building had lost much of its grandeur. Formerly, this magnificent three storey house was owned by a wealthy cotton merchant who wined and dined the privileged.

Now the establishment was owned by three thrifty partners: Rodger Kensington, Julian Clarke and silent partner Clive Lloyd, none of whom could agree on the costly expenditure of refurbishing the building. Hence, the joiners and fitters were given strict instructions to keep within a tight budget. The former opulent parlour rooms were now sliced into rectangles with cheap stud walls creating office space for the modern gentry. The upper floors were rented offices.

Enter through the main doors and into the reception area, and where laced boots once stood on polished parquet flooring, feet now stood on russet brown, nylon carpeting. Tired, black leather bucket chairs lined up against scuffed dado rails. The magnolia walls, badly needing a re-paint, were punctuated by a large battery operated wall clock and a faded watercolour of the Peak District's moorlands. Two rectangular coffee tables offered well-thumbed, out of date, Country Life magazines − a regular contribution from Mr Clarke. The Adams style ceiling with its intricate icing of swags and fluted circles that once lifted the eyes of every house caller is partially visible. Now if the eyes skim across the ceiling at all, it’s only to note that it needs re-gilding, the elaborate plasterwork lying buried under layers of cheap emulsion.

Emma sat behind the mock walnut reception desk, the false veneer shining brightly in the overhead spotlights. A tall plastic palm sat to her right and behind her, a sign:

‘No Win - No Fee: Experts in Compensation Claims.’

Emma was a dab hand at knowing the detail of her day even before it had started! Was she the gatekeeper of the law firm, representing the all important, first professional image, crucial to the company? Could she be a multi-tasking clerical octopus - welcoming clients, taking accurate messages, operating multi-line telephone systems? Was she able to schedule appointments in order of importance? Could she arrange video conferencing at a moment’s notice? Communicate with anything from high ranking senior attorneys to . . . pond life? After all, that was Mr Kensington's verbal job description. The truth was he omitted a rather dominant part of the receptionist’s role – could she cope with routine and boredom?

At this early hour, the only sound heard was the oscillating fan, humming away on its stand.

Monica, the twenty-three-year-old apprentice legal secretary, entered the building. She had a slight look of a young Audrey Hepburn: tall, slim, her brown velvet eyes framed by thick tapering eyebrows. Hair dyed a rich chocolate brown covering the mousey original, all neatly scooped up into a tightly pinned bun. Her fringe cut short and straight, emulating the Hepburn look. What threw it all askew was the small hooked nose with its prominent bridge.

She was smartly dressed in a tailored black pinstriped trouser suit and white ruffle collar blouse. Wearing her black rimmed Giorgio Armani glasses, she had the look of a young, sophisticated intellect. That is until she opened her mouth. She was a bit of a scatterbrain to say the least.

To everyone's amusement, Linda and Emma had compiled a list of Monica’s famous one-liners.

The current favourites were: -

‘We at Kensington & Clarke's stay competitive by paying you less than the competition.’

(Excerpt from Monica’s advertisement for an office cleaner).

‘Watch, listen and learn children.’

(Charity Cake Fundraiser: Blind-Deaf Children’s Society).

Although her father ran his own legal practice on the other side of town, he insisted that Monica should begin her apprenticeship with his good friend Rodger Kensington. He told her it would avoid whispers of nepotism and would give her a fair start. Monica didn’t pick up on the contradiction. He would contribute to her salary and forward various clients, and so the deal was struck. Her father would be spared of his daughter's embarrassment and Kensington would be spared of the costs. Relatively new to the job, Monica quickly gained the girls' friendship and support. The former two Musketeers were now three.

Morning Em, did you have a good weekend? enquired Monica, striding up to the desk. Emma, typing away into her computer for a cheap holiday in the Med, intermittently looked up as she replied, Oh, just took the jet to Switzerland for a quick ski at Klosters. Bumped into Robbie Williams on the piste, then had dinner with Daniel Craig on the flight back. And you?

Went to the Kings Arms with a few mates, then popped in Bengali's for a curry. Monica pointed at the files piled high at the end of the desk. Are they for me?

Emma nodded.

Next to walk through the door were a middle aged couple. Emma checked their appointment time and