Coco Pinchard's Big Fat Tipsy Wedding: A Funny Feel-Good Romantic Comedy (22 page)

I saw Adam at the side by the wall, in his sash sitting and waiting. I quickened my step across the wooden floor and grabbed him in a bear hug. He felt thin, and had a deep sadness in his eyes, a look of defeat. He was wearing the clothes I had sent for him. We hugged for a long time, and then he pulled me in front of him to look at my face.

‘It's so good to see you,’ he whispered.

'Are you eating?' I said.

'Yes.’

'Sleeping?'

'Yes, and no…' His eyes were bloodshot, he had lots of shaving cuts, and his skin was dry and cracked on his hands and face. He told me they only have hand soap to shower with, and they are given the cheapest disposable razors for shaving, which they have to hand back as soon as they’ve finished.

'Why?' I said.

'So they can’t be used as weapons,' he said matter of fact. I gulped and changed the subject.

'How is the food?'

‘Disgusting.’

'And your cellmate?' I couldn’t believe we were having this conversation, talking about stuff like this…

'I’m in a cell of my own, thank god,’ he said. ‘But we’re locked up for twenty-three hours a day.'

What seemed like a brief exchange had taken up fifteen minutes of our precious hour. There was so much to say.

'What about my appeal?' he said his eyes lighting up. I told him I’d been to see Natasha, and she’d give me an update in a couple of weeks.

'Jeez… Coco, time in prison goes so slowly. It feels like months since I came here.'

He said he’d had had a ton of cards and letters; from Chris, Ethel, Rosencrantz, and the boys, friends from his old job — even Daniel and Marika. Meryl and Tony had sent a very kind card with, bizarrely, a Waterstone’s book token, and they had written;
 

Here’s hoping you get into an open prison, we’ve read in The Daily Mail they let the prisoners out to go shopping! Meryl and Tony xxx

He grinned when he told me this, and for a brief moment, I had my old Adam back. He told me he has been classed as a Category D Prisoner, which is the lowest category, reserved for prisoners who are trusted will not escape and are eligible for transfer to an open prison.

‘That’s fantastic,’ I said.

‘I’m on the waiting list for transfer,’ he said. ‘It could take months.’

‘So you’re stuck with all the rapists and murderers!’

‘Shhhh Coco,’ he hissed. I looked around but it seemed as if no one was paying us any attention.

‘It’s not fair. Even if you had done what you’re in here for you should be away from…’

‘Let’s talk about something else,’ he said. ‘How are you doing?' I told him about the fight with Marika and that I would be looking for a place to live. His face clouded over.

'Why are you standing by me Coco?' he said. 'I’ve screwed your life up. You should find a decent bloke to take care of you.

‘You haven’t screwed up my life, and you are a decent bloke. You’re more than decent,’ I said grabbing his hand. 'I love you and I’m determined to get you out so we can be together. You are innocent. I will marry you and we are going to be together for the rest of our lives.'
 

He took my hand and regarded me for a moment, then, he leant across and kissed me. After several seconds, some of the other prisoners started whistling and one of the Guards told us to move apart.

'I bet I’m going to be searched even more thoroughly,' he said. 'But it was worth it.'

‘Why would you be searched even more?’
 

’Kissing is a good way to smuggle in drugs,’ he said. Then a bell rang which told us our hour was up.
 

‘What a thing to end on,’ he said. ‘I love you.’

‘I love you too,’ I said. I clung onto him tight before I had to wrench myself away. I kept looking back at him, all the way to the door, and then he was gone.

I discovered I can visit him twice a month for one hour, I can email him twice a week, however he can’t email back. My emails have to be sent to an official address where they will be read by a stranger, then printed off and given to him as if it were a letter. He is issued with a phone card once a week, which will last about twelve minutes. I can write letters to him as many times as I want and he can write back, so long as he has money for stamps.
 

In the modern world of instant communication, this seems so alien and unfair. It’s also magnified by the fact Adam is only seven miles away from Rosencrantz’s place in Lewisham. I checked this on the AA Route Planner. He might as well be seven million miles away.

When I left the Prisoners Visitors Centre, I felt a determination after seeing Adam. I am determined we will survive this and that I will get him out of there. I need to do my maths so I can find a place to live and get to grips with the future.

Thursday 7th April
 
12.12

TO: [email protected]

I placed an ad last night on Gumtree advertising my car for sale, and within forty minutes, I had someone interested. I emailed the guy back and agreed to meet at Chris’ place (where the car is parked) this morning.

Rosencrantz had offered to come with me and when he came downstairs this morning he was dressed in a black suit with his hair slicked back.

‘You look a bit smart to flog a second hand car,’ said Wayne, who was dishing up egg on toast for Oscar and me at the kitchen table.

‘I want to look, you know…’

‘Smart?’ I said.

‘Straight,’ said Rosencrantz awkwardly.

‘Oh please,’ said Wayne rounding on him with a fish slice and his frilly apron. ‘You’re here, you're queer, get on with it. I can’t be doing with all this pretending what you’re not rubbish.’

‘You can be gay and know about cars,’ said Oscar. ‘What do you know about cars?’

‘Um…’ said Rosencrantz.

‘I’ll be there,’ I said.

‘But what do you know about cars Mrs. P?’ said Oscar.

‘There was one time I had steam coming out of my bonnet and I knew how to fill up the radiator!’ I said proudly.
 

‘I didn’t know you wore a bonnet Mrs. P!’ grinned Wayne. ’I bet you look like a right bo-peep with that on and a fag hanging out the corner of your mouth!’

‘I’m serious guys, Mum needs this to go well,’ said Rosencrantz.
 

‘Well, maybe you shouldn’t be called Rosencrantz,’ said Wayne.

‘How about you call yourself Dean?’ said Oscar. ‘Dean is the name of someone not to be messed with, someone called Dean would know about cars.’

Rosencrantz’s eye lit up. He pulled a comb out of his pocket
 

‘Yeah. I’m Dean, and I’m mean,’ he said. Rocco barked as Rosencrantz swaggered round the kitchen.

‘I’d get the slow train if I were you Mrs. P,’ said Wayne. ‘Give him time to rehearse.’

‘What?’ said Rosencrantz.

‘You’re a bit, Dean the Queen right now,’ grinned Oscar.

We arrived at Chris’ place just before eleven. The sun was out and his house on the edge of Regents Park looked so idyllic. The thatch roof glowed golden in the sunlight, Butterflies floated above the green hedges and the garden was filled with tulips and daffodils. A Rolls Royce was parked a little way down the street and as we approached the door opened. A short fat little man in his fifties got out with a terrifyingly tall blond in her twenties. He was clad in clothes far too young for him and carrying a briefcase. A short sundress barely covered the top of her long legs, and as they walked toward us, we saw his head only came up to her shoulder. The guy was called Nick his girlfriend was Dahlia.
 

I left Rosencrantz chatting with them and walked up the path to Chris’ garage. I used my key to open the roll top door and reversed the Land Cruiser out onto the driveway. I glanced back wistfully at it; white and sleek, its chrome headlights glinting in the sun.

‘It’s only about seven months old, and it only has a few hundred miles on the clock,’ I said.

Nick walked around the car inspecting it; Dahlia followed peering in the windows. He opened the driver’s side and helped her into the seat. She pouted her big lips and grasped the steering wheel.

‘What do you think Princess?’ said Nick.

‘I wuv it,’ she pouted in a baby voice. ‘Can I have it?’

’Sure thing Princess,’ he said as if it were nothing more than a new mascara.

‘You got the papers?’ he said. I pulled out the little black plastic book housing the paperwork and I handed it over. He flicked through it.

‘You got ID?’

“ID?’ I said.

‘To show me this is you,’ he said. I rummaged in my bag; luckily, I had my passport. He peered at it and handed it back. Dahlia was still in the driver’s seat turning the wheel and miming driving.
 

‘So we said twenty-two grand?’

’Twenty-five,’ said Rosencrantz. Nick looked at us.
 

‘Well, for twenty-five, shouldn’t we hear it in action? Have you got the key?’

I said there was an ignition button and Dahlia started the car with a roar, she giggled and clapped her hands in delight. Nick placed the briefcase on the bonnet, and flicked it open. Fifty-pound notes lined the case; he picked up a thick wedge sealed together with a paper band.
 

‘You’re giving me cash?’ I said.

‘What else?’ said Nick. I looked at Rosencrantz. Dahlia switched on the radio and Shakira’s
Waka Waka
song
started booming out mixed with her revs of the engine.

Ten grand was counted out on the bonnet when I heard the front door behind us slam and a stick insect of a woman with a high forehead emerged. Despite the spring weather, she was dressed in a fur coat and brandishing a shotgun.

‘Stop whatever it is you're doing, this is private property!’ she said baring her brown aristocratic teeth. I realised this was Chris’ mother, Lady Edwina.

‘Are you drug dealers?’ she said cocking the gun. “Turn that blasted racket orf!’

She pointed the gun at Dahlia who was still bopping away to Shakira. She noticed the gun and screamed.

‘It’s me, Lady Cheshire,’ I shouted above the music. ‘You remember? We met at the Edinburgh Festival, Chris directed my play… I’m a friend of his.’

Dahlia turned down the music and we were all stood with our hands in the air.

‘Yes, there isn’t much money in the Theatre these days,’ she said. ‘God knows I’ve tried to dissuade Christopher, but surely you don’t need to deal drugs with lowlifes?’

‘Hey!’ said Nick. ‘I own my own construction company!’
 
Lady Edwina looked even more disgusted.

‘Rebecca!’ yelled Edwina back at the house. ‘There’s some of those
new money
types in the driveway…’

Chris’ sister Rebecca came bustling out. She’s quite pretty in a posh and pudgy way. She was wearing a hound-tooth suit and a padded hairband in her long blond hair.
 

‘Mummy that’s Coco, you silly sausage, she’s selling her car…’ she said in her little squeaky posh voice. Lady Edwina finally lowered the shotgun.

‘Why are you selling your car?’ she said.
 

‘Legal bills,’ I said. For some reason this seemed an acceptable excuse for all parties involved, and Nick resumed counting out the money. Rebecca even brought out a special marker pen she uses for work, which shows if a bank note is real. Luckily they were.

When we were done, we shook hands and Nick went back to his Rolls Royce leaving Dahlia to drive my car, well her car.

‘How much would you take for that fur coat and the gun,’ said Dahlia pulling up beside Lady Edwina.

’These are family heirlooms and not for sale!’ she huffed.
 

‘Okay, bye Dean,’ she said winking at Rosencrantz and she roared away. I watched wistfully as the car vanished.

‘Why did she call you Dean?’ said Lady Edwina.

‘Long story your ladyship,’ said Rosencrantz. She offered to phone Coutts for us and get them to come and collect the cash, but I said I had to go to find a branch of Halifax, which she didn’t understand and she went back into the house muttering.

 
The rest of the day went quickly. I paid in the money and also took out a bank loan and then watched most of it vanish when I paid Natasha’s bill.

I’ve just done my maths. With loan repayments and putting money aside for an appeal, I have £900 a month to live on, which in London terms is nothing. And then this will only last for six or seven months.

Please keep your eye out for any work opportunities!

Wednesday 13th April
 
11.14

TO: [email protected]

EMAIL FOR HM BELMARSH PRISONER −48723 (Adam Rickard)

Dear Adam
 

Well, here I am, having a go at emailing you. You should receive this 24 hours after I press send. I have also posted some letters, but they are a little waffly. I hadn’t wanted to moan about my living situation, considering what yours is. I managed to find a flat within my budget and I thought I would tell you the story.

I had a few days of drudgery, going round the slimy Estate Agents in South London (of which there are many). None of them had flats in my budget. There were plenty of scuzzy overpriced Bedsits. One guy was letting a room in his flat where the damp had made the plaster crumble under the wallpaper so it bulged out, but he didn’t want Rocco in case he damaged the furnishings. Another woman was letting out a large airing cupboard and said I could have Rocco as long as he slept in a kennel the garden. One room was even advertised as free — in exchange for ‘light modelling and photograph work’!

On the third day, I was outside a newsagent in Brockley with Rocco, trying to roll a cigarette (more economising) when I noticed a little old man in the window sliding a hand written card into one of those clear advertising pouches. The card was advertising a one bedroom flat, all bills included for £550!
 

I spat out my tobacco, and waited until he emerged a few minutes later with a copy of The Guardian under his arm. I introduced myself enthusiastically. I was dreading he would tell me to ring a number and book an appointment but he was charming in his tweed jacket and flat cap, with a little grey bristly moustache. He knelt down and tickled Rocco under the chin. Rocco, sensing that this was a make or break moment turned on the cuteness, stood to attention and panted theatrically. Then I realised he knew I had a dog.