Lifesaving for Beginners

could I do a lifesaving exam if I was in Scotland? And Damo wouldn’t be able to visit because Scotland is miles away. Me and Mam drove there once and it took us about a hundred hours. Anyway, the new baby is coming and everyone knows that babies are noisy. Imelda was supposed to be getting one but she isn’t anymore. Damo’s mam hates noise.
    London’s not so far. Perhaps Ant and Adrian would bring me to Brighton once a week. On Wednesdays, maybe, so I could go to lifesaving and see Damo.

 
    Brona rings. She says, ‘I don’t want to put any pressure on you but . . .’
    This means she’s about to put pressure on me. I’m not going to make it easy for her. I say, ‘What?’
    She says, ‘Oh sorry, Kat, I’m probably disturbing you, am I?’
    ‘I’m in the middle of a pretty tricky chapter, to be honest.’ When I say ‘to be honest’ at the end of a sentence, that often means I’m lying through my teeth, but Brona doesn’t know that because she takes everyone at face value, which is both her greatest gift and her biggest failing, if you ask me.
    ‘Oh gosh, I’m terribly sorry. Should I ring back later?’
    The choice is to have pressure applied now and thereby get it over and done with, or later, which would allow me to continue what I am doing, which is, in fact, nothing at all.
    I say, ‘No, it’s fine, now is fine.’
    ‘I’m just wondering about the book. Did you have a date in mind?’
    ‘A date?’
    ‘Yes. For the drop.’
    Brona can’t understand why I can’t just email the manuscript. Or put it in a Jiffy bag. She insists that none of her colleagues would open a Jiffy envelope that is addressed to her. I’ve never worked in an office but I’ve seen them on the telly. Everyone wants to know everything about everyone. You can’t be careful enough.
    The drop never takes place at or anywhere near the publishing house. In fact, I’ve never been to the publishing house. Instead, I meet Brona at various train stations around London. I ring her when my plane lands at Heathrow and give her the name of the train station. I vary it. We’ve never met in the same place twice. We often meet in bookshops at the stations, although never in the crime/thriller section.
    Brona says, ‘Hello? You still there, Kat?’
    I say, ‘Sorry. I was miles away.’
    ‘Penny for them?’
    It’s true. I am miles away. I’m in Paddington station. The Mind, Body and Spirit section of WHSmith, to be precise. I remember every drop, but this one in particular. Brona was there when I arrived, leafing through a book entitled Soulmates and How to Get One . Beside her, on the floor, was a black leather briefcase, with a combination lock.
    I moved towards her.
    We didn’t speak to each other. Or even look at each other. We never do. I stood near her and set my briefcase – a black leather one with a combination lock – on the floor, then picked up a random book, which happened to be Love in the Time of Cauliflowers , and which Brona would later deem to be a sign. It was a cookbook for food-lovers in search of aphrodisiacs.
    Brona replaced her book on the shelf and reached down, careful to bend at the knees. Her back can sometimes ‘go out’, she told me once.
    She picked up my briefcase – with the manuscript of the seventh Declan Darker book – and slipped away. After an appropriate lapse of time – long enough to read a recipe for ‘star-crossed lentil-lovers soup’, I too replaced the book, picked up the other briefcase – containing nothing other than a congratulations card and a wilting bunch of lilies – and left the bookshop.
    I headed to the Savoy. I always booked into the Savoy after each drop. I bought the usual supplies – a family-pack of Jelly Babies, a split of champagne and two Cuban cigars – and stayed for the afternoon.
    I love hotel rooms. The anonymity of them. Sometimes, after I’ve eaten and drunk and smoked everything, I kick off my shoes, put on some music and tango through the room with my arms wrapped round an imaginary partner. And why not? Who would know? The walls of the Savoy hotel are as solid as a shelf of hardbacks.
    All the drops have been pretty much identical. They’ve all gone to plan apart from Drop Number Five, when a baseball-cap-wearing pimply youth tried to steal Brona’s briefcase. She gave chase, caught up with him outside Dunkin’ Donuts, wrestled him to the ground and beat him about the head with the heel of her shoe. The manager of Dunkin’ Donuts