than walked, from the room to find solace in the washroom.
As he washed his hands and face, he became calmer. Leaving all thoughts of Ben aside, he realised that it was time to face the fact that Anne was becoming more than a nuisance.
Ever since the conference in Harrogate, she had simply assumed they were a pair and had begun leading the whole office into believing her. He wished he could shout at her, loudly and brutally, in front of them all that she repelled him so much that he would rather go out with a dead cod. However, for the moment, Anne had the upper hand due to accidently seeing the costumes in the boot of his car.
Getting the right costumes to highlight his statements had been his hardest task, and for days he racked his brains while crossing out idea after idea. It was really only by accident as he glanced through one of the papers left scattered about the staff room, that he spotted an advert in the event’s section for a huge sale of ex theatrical costumes in Birmingham. Taking care not to draw attention to himself, he scribbled down the details.
The sale was on the same day as the Harrogate conference and Clive began to see how he could make this work to his advantage. If he left early in the morning, as he had been planning to do anyway, it would take him less than an hour to get to Birmingham where he would have to wait another hour until the sale opened. Clive could make his selection and then head straight to Harrogate. He would only miss the opening rigmarole, which he knew was usually a waste of time anyway with all that concentration on getting to know your fellow attendees, whom you were not going to see or meet, hopefully, ever again.
On the day, as he waited for the sale to open, Clive debated whether to ring ahead to say he was stuck on the motorway. In this day of constant snarl-ups, it was always a valid excuse. Or, should he arrive late and only bring out his explanation if asked. If he arrived just before the coffee break and slid into the back, acting like he’d been there all the time, no one would probably take any notice. The delegates would all be dying for a coffee and a fag by then anyway. On balance, he decided against the call in case the police traced it or that someone remembered him calling.
Clive had parked the car around the corner from the sale and put on an old jacket and a flat checked cap his father had once worn, which, for some reason, his mother had decided to keep.
The cover story was that he was the producer of some amateur theatrical company and the next show in the village hall was going to require several of the chorus to look like little girls at a party. Clive had invented the name of the village and show, which he thought should be written by their own local playwright, Randolph de Winter, of course. However, despite his elaborate preparations, no one really listened or appeared interested.
A sullen young man served him ungraciously with a martyred air. Clive got the impression the young man felt he was acting beneath himself and that he was only filling in time until called to portray Romeo for The Royal Shakespeare Company. Though he was glad to take the cash Clive offered him for the several costumes he had managed to find from the numerous rails haphazardly crammed into the huge warehouse.
It had taken him a long time sort out what he needed and, as he rushed back to the car with his booty, he realised that he would have to drive at some speed to get to Harrogate before the coffee break. Clive consoled himself by thinking that it might be better to arrive at coffee time and slide quietly in, and by the fact that the costumes seemed perfect for his purpose.
He smiled at the merry dance he would be leading the police. They would be dashing off in more than one direction, unaware that he had been extremely careful with every prop used, leaving them nothing that led back to him.
The only niggling worry was dear Anne, but Clive thought he had that
As he washed his hands and face, he became calmer. Leaving all thoughts of Ben aside, he realised that it was time to face the fact that Anne was becoming more than a nuisance.
Ever since the conference in Harrogate, she had simply assumed they were a pair and had begun leading the whole office into believing her. He wished he could shout at her, loudly and brutally, in front of them all that she repelled him so much that he would rather go out with a dead cod. However, for the moment, Anne had the upper hand due to accidently seeing the costumes in the boot of his car.
Getting the right costumes to highlight his statements had been his hardest task, and for days he racked his brains while crossing out idea after idea. It was really only by accident as he glanced through one of the papers left scattered about the staff room, that he spotted an advert in the event’s section for a huge sale of ex theatrical costumes in Birmingham. Taking care not to draw attention to himself, he scribbled down the details.
The sale was on the same day as the Harrogate conference and Clive began to see how he could make this work to his advantage. If he left early in the morning, as he had been planning to do anyway, it would take him less than an hour to get to Birmingham where he would have to wait another hour until the sale opened. Clive could make his selection and then head straight to Harrogate. He would only miss the opening rigmarole, which he knew was usually a waste of time anyway with all that concentration on getting to know your fellow attendees, whom you were not going to see or meet, hopefully, ever again.
On the day, as he waited for the sale to open, Clive debated whether to ring ahead to say he was stuck on the motorway. In this day of constant snarl-ups, it was always a valid excuse. Or, should he arrive late and only bring out his explanation if asked. If he arrived just before the coffee break and slid into the back, acting like he’d been there all the time, no one would probably take any notice. The delegates would all be dying for a coffee and a fag by then anyway. On balance, he decided against the call in case the police traced it or that someone remembered him calling.
Clive had parked the car around the corner from the sale and put on an old jacket and a flat checked cap his father had once worn, which, for some reason, his mother had decided to keep.
The cover story was that he was the producer of some amateur theatrical company and the next show in the village hall was going to require several of the chorus to look like little girls at a party. Clive had invented the name of the village and show, which he thought should be written by their own local playwright, Randolph de Winter, of course. However, despite his elaborate preparations, no one really listened or appeared interested.
A sullen young man served him ungraciously with a martyred air. Clive got the impression the young man felt he was acting beneath himself and that he was only filling in time until called to portray Romeo for The Royal Shakespeare Company. Though he was glad to take the cash Clive offered him for the several costumes he had managed to find from the numerous rails haphazardly crammed into the huge warehouse.
It had taken him a long time sort out what he needed and, as he rushed back to the car with his booty, he realised that he would have to drive at some speed to get to Harrogate before the coffee break. Clive consoled himself by thinking that it might be better to arrive at coffee time and slide quietly in, and by the fact that the costumes seemed perfect for his purpose.
He smiled at the merry dance he would be leading the police. They would be dashing off in more than one direction, unaware that he had been extremely careful with every prop used, leaving them nothing that led back to him.
The only niggling worry was dear Anne, but Clive thought he had that
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