2 p.m. Really want my mum.
2.15 p.m. Have rung police and asked them to take me to Debenhams.
Later. Mum was fantastic. Well, sort of. Eventually.
She turned up ten minutes late in top-to-toe cerise, hair all bouncy and coiffed with about fifteen John Lewis carrier bags.
"You'll never guess what, darling," she was saying as she sat down, dismaying the other shoppers with the carrierbag spread.
"What?" I said shakily, gripping my coffee cup with both hands.
"Geoffrey's told Una he's one of these 'homos', though actually he's not, darling, he's a 'bi', otherwise they'd never have had Guy and Alison. Anyway, Una says she isn't the least bit bothered now he's come out with it. Gillian Robertson up at Saffron Waldhurst was married to one for years and it was a very good marriage. Mind you, in the end they had to stop because he was hanging round these hamburger vans in lay-bys and Norman Middleton's wife died - you know, who was head of the governors at the boys' school? So in the end, Gillian ... Oh, Bridget, Bridget. What's the matter?"
Once she realized how upset I was she turned freakishly kind, led me out of the coffee shop, leaving the bags with the waiter, got a great mass of tissues out of her handbag, took us out to the back staircase, sat us down, and told me to tell her all about it.
For once in her life she actually listened. When I'd finished she put her arms round me like a mum and gave me a big hug, engulfing me in a cloud of strangely comforting Givenchy Ill. "You've been very brave, darling," she whispered. "I'm proud of you."
It felt so good. Eventually, she straightened up and dusted her hands.
"Now come along. We've got to think what we're going to do next. I'm going to talk to this detective chappie and sort him out. It's ridiculous that this person's been at large since Friday. They've had plenty of time to catch him. What have they been doing? Messing around? Oh, don't worry. I've got a way with the police. You can stay with us if you want. But I think you should stay with Mark."
"But I'm hopeless with men."
"Nonsense, darling. Honestly, no wonder you girls haven't got boyfriends if you're going out pretending to be superdooper whizz-kids who don't need anybody unless he's James Bond, then sitting at home gibbering that you're no good with men. Oh, look at the time. Come on, we're late for your colours!"
Ten minutes later I was sitting in a Mark Darcy-esque white room in a white robe with a white towel on my head surrounded by Mum, a swathe of coloured swatches and somebody called Mary.
"I don't know," tutted Mum. "Wandering round on your own worrying about all these theories. Try it with the Crushed Cerise, Mary."
"It's not me it's a social trend," I said indignantly. "Women are staying single because they can support themselves and want to do their careers, then when they get older all the men think they're desperate re-treads with sell-by dates and just want someone younger."
"Honestly, darling. Sell-by dates! Anyone would think you were a tub of cottage cheese in ASDA! All that sillydaft nonsense is just in films, darling."
"No, it's not."
"Durrr! Sell-by date. They might pretend they want one of these bimbas but they don't really. They want a nice friend. What about Roger what's-his-name that left Audrey for his secretary? Of course she was thick. Six months later he was begging Audrey to come back and she wouldn't have him!"
"But. . ."
"Samantha she was called. Thick as two short planks. And Jean Dawson, who used to be married to Bill - you know Dawson's the butchers? - after Bill died she married a boy half her age and he's devoted to her, absolutely devoted and Bill didn't leave much of a fortune you know, because there isn't a lot of money in meat."
"But if you're a feminist, you shouldn't need a ..."
"That's what's so silly about feminism, darling. Anyone with a
n ounce of sense knows we're the superior race and the only nigger in the, woodpile is-"
"Mother!"
"-when they think they can sit around when they retire and not do any housework. Now look at that, Mary."
"I preferred the coral," said Mary huffily.
"Well, exactly," I said, through a large square of aquamarine. "You don't want to go to work and then do all the shopping if they don't."
"I don't know! You all seem to have some silly idea about getting Indiana Jones in your house loading the dishwasher. You have to train them. When I was first married Daddy went to the Bridge Club every night! Every night! And he used to smoke."
Blimey. Poor Dad, I thought, as Mary held a pale pink swatch up against my face in the mirror and Mum shoved a purple one in front of it.