I stood in front of my wardrobe trying to decide what to wear to meet Alan White. I could have cycled and thus worn cycling kit, or casual and let him see the unimproved me–but neither of those captured my mood of the day. I had watched Shadowlands yet again and cried myself silly, and before someone asks, it wasn’t because I’d eaten all the chocolate in the first reel.

I’d slept well and although I always missed Simon after spending the weekend with him, I felt okay. In fact I felt quite girly and seductive–maybe not the best mood to be in when meeting a friend of Des, about whom I knew little.

In the end I decided to wear a suit, some heels and my hair down. I took great care over my makeup and chose my nicest perfume–Coco. I looked good in my designer suit, the one that had impressed the EU people, and the expensive blouse. I looked really good, then I took the clothes off and pulled on a dress instead–that came off too. Finally, I wore the longer denim skirt, with boots, a scoop necked tee and my denim jacket. I wore my mother’s sapphire necklace and earrings, and finally I was satisfied with my appearance.

We were to meet at a coffee shop near Whiteladies Road, a stone’s throw from the BBC. I’d had to park some distance away and was a bit warmer–make that hotter–than I’d liked to have been. I was also a bit late. He’d had the benefit of seeing a picture of me in the paper after I’d saved the baby in the car fire. All I knew about him was he had a beard. I was curious about that, his exact words when asked how I’d recognise him, were–“Look for the beard.” He refused anything other than that.

I entered the coffee shop, the door top bell jingling loudly. Several people looked round, mostly women, and as far as I could tell, none of them had beards. Oh no, after all my rushing, have I got the wrong coffee shop?

No, this was, ’The Coffee Pot’, hardly the most original name for a coffee shop, but at least it wasn’t one of the franchised chains. I glanced around for a free table and strolled inside the dining area. Then I saw him. There could be no doubt it was him, a large man, seated at a table using a laptop, with the biggest beard I have ever seen. I think even Bernard Shaw would have been in awe. It wasn’t anywhere near as long as Gandulf’s but it was certainly a beard and a half.

I walked towards him, and he glanced up. “Cathy?” he asked and extended his hand, “How nice to meet you.” He pulled out a chair for me.

“Thanks,” I said and sat down, taking off my jacket to lose a bit of heat. I was sweltered.

“What would you like?”

“Lady Grey, if they have it.”

“I think so,” he raised an arm and the teenage waitress came over to him. He ordered my tea and another espresso for himself.

“How long did you know Des?” I asked.

He pursed his lips, “Forever, or it felt like that. He was a really good mate in lots of ways, then he'd do something stupid and for a moment, you’d want to kill him.”

“I can recognise him from that.”

“I can’t believe he’s gone.” He looked wistfully into the distance, “Silly bugger, especially as he knew I was out of the country. I’ll bet he only did it so I couldn’t get to his funeral.”

I smiled at his deliberately flawed reasoning. Why is it that we have to joke about death? To reduce the fear we have of it? To hide the pain of our loss? I didn’t know, but I knew people often spoke in humorous terms about people they’d lost, often with some irreverence as Alan was doing now.

The drinks arrived with a piece of almond slice, which I hadn’t noticed him order. I ate it out of politeness–the first bite, anyway, the rest was pure indulgence, it was delicious. We talked about Des and then I introduced our project.

“So you did the script and he did the camera work. He was going to edit it and you were going to do the narration, is that about right?”

“Yes,” he’d been listening. “The BBC have expressed an interest, and it’s sponsored by the bank and DEFRA.”

“We are in honoured company.” He smirked at me.

“Why?”

“Cathy, I’ve been in this game a long time. Des was good, but not the best. I am, at least of the free lancers. To get the interest of these heavies before starting the shooting, he must have had something very special to sell.”

“He did, me.” I blushed as I said it.

“I didn’t know he was into white slavery.”

“I have links to the Cameron’s.”

“Oh, we do move in high circles, don’t we?” He gently mocked me.

“In some ways. The origins were that my future father in law, Henry Cameron…” I was interrupted as Alan spat espresso all over the table. He then spent several moments coughing and spluttering. I patted him on the back. He went very red. I wiped up as much of the mess as I could with the paper serviettes we’d been given. The young waitress came up with a cloth and after removing the chintzy tablecloth, wiped the table. Then a few moments later she relaid the table and brought Alan another cup of coffee.

“Henry Cameron is your father in law?”

“Future father in law, yes. I’m engaged to Simon.”

“Bloody hell, if you’d said, I’d have genuflected at your arrival.”

“Please, I’m an academic not an aristocrat.” I gave him a stern look and he nodded. “They wanted their takeover of High St Banks, to look environmentally friendly and lo and behold, Simon’s girlfriend studies nice little furry things, which have a huge awwwww factor. Kill two birds with one stone, engage girlfriend to make film extolling virtues of bank.”

“You can’t do that, not on the Beeb.”

“Not directly, no. But by association, you can.”

“They watch for that as well.”

“Just suppose, I finish the film which is purely about dormeece. They are very photogenic and do have a high awwww factor. So by mentioning at the end, the sponsorship by the bank, aren’t we associating the bank with green values.”

“I suppose so, but they may not agree to allowing the mention of sponsorship.”

“They will, they’ll mention DEFRA, too.”

“So what’s so special about you?” He threw the conversation back at me.

“I’m quite knowledgeable about dormice.”

“And Camerons.”

“I only know what they want me to know about them, whereas dormice don’t.”

“So you’re an expert on dormice and photogenic, what next?”

“That’s it.”

“Oh, is it? In which case the government may have invested prematurely in this film.

“Have you seem the clip with the dormouse on Youtube?”

“With it going down the girl’s dress?”

“Blouse.”

“No, I’m sure it was a dress, I’ve seen it loads of times and very funny it is too.”

“It’s a blouse with a suit, it has a slight mark where the bloody thing peed.”

He stopped and put his cup down–probably thought he may inhale less coffee that way. “You sound as if you know that blouse quite well.”

“Intimately.”

“It was you, wasn’t it?” Without waiting for an answer, he called up the website and watched it, with the sound turned off. He sniggered and looked at me again, “Good grief, that is you, isn’t it?”

I nodded while blushing furiously. “That clip is a classic, no wonder they wanted to use you. You’re a natural.”

“So I’m told.”

“Can I see some of Des’ work?”

“Only if you agree not to copy any of it.”

“Absolutely.”