Page 41 of Sassy & Sixty

She moved from the kitchen through to the small sitting room at the front of the house, and peeped out between the slants of the closed blinds. Emma was crouched behind her hydrangeas, wearing oversized sunglasses and clutching a homemade smoke bomb that smelled suspiciously like vinegar and baking soda.

Lisa came crawling along the carpet behind Rosie, determined not to be seen.

"Are you sure about this smoke bomb thing?" she said to Lisa. “Is this really going to work?”

“Of course it is,” said Lisa. “Shall we go?”

They walked and crawled back through the house and ran down the garden to the car. Lisa climbed into the back and lay down with a pile of coats on top of her, while Rosie jumped into the driver’s seat.

"Ready?"

“Yes, all covered up and ready when you are.”

Rosie sent a message to the group. “All units, all units. Be aware. Principal is on the move. Principal is on the move.”

She was quite enjoying all this. She was keen to help Lisa in any way she could but was also immensely enjoying acting as if she were a close protection officer assigned to royalty.

She heard Lisa giggle from the back seat. “You’ve been watching too many terrible American films,” she said.

“Principal is moving her lips, principal is moving her lips,” said Rosie, as they drove round the corner. As they approached the house, Rosie saw the Sensational Sixties Club members emerge from their hiding places and hurl the homemade floury bombs at the journalists. Rosie kept driving. She wanted to skid round the corner Starsky and Hutch style, but knew that drawing attention to her little car and its precious cargo was the last thing she should be doing when the others were working so hard to distract the media.

As Rosie turned, she saw the clouds of floury smoke filling the air behind her. She drove on, now happy that they would make their rendezvous safely.

Meanwhile, there was chaos back in Rosie’s garden. The reporters were scattering in confusion. Cameras swung wildly, trying to capture the madness. Rosie’s perfectly manicured lawn devolved into a battlefield.

In the middle of it all stood Emma, overjoyed by the carnage, thrilled that she’d been able to help her friend, and wondering whether they could get everything cleaned up and sorted out before Rosie returned.

The next fewdays passed in a blur of media frenzy. Rosie's house became the unofficial headquarters of "Operation: Save Lisa's Reputation" (Emma had wanted to call it "Operation: Hot for the Chancellor," but had been firmly vetoed).

They took turns fielding phone calls from reporters, each coming up with increasingly outlandish stories to throw them off the scent.

"Lisa Worthington? Oh, you must mean my great-aunt Lisa," Rosie found herself telling one particularly persistent journalist. "Lovely woman, but bit old now. She’s lost touch with reality. Thinks she's having an affair with Winston Churchill's ghost. Sad, really."

It was on the third day of this madness that things came to a head. Rosie was in the middle of assuring a reporter that Lisa had joined a silent monastery in Tibet when she heard a huge commotion in the street.

Peering through the curtains, she saw a sight that made her heart sink. There, striding up her garden path with the confidence of a man who'd never had to throw homemade bombs at reporters, was Gerald Fitsimmons himself.

"Oh, blimey," Rosie muttered. She turned to the others, who were all frozen in various states of panic. "Ladies, we've got company. Important, political company."

Emma's eyes gleamed with mischief. "I’ve got a plan,” she said. But there was no time, the doorbell rang before she had time to think, and Rosie stepped forward to answer it.

Gerald Fitsimmons was every bit as distinguished in person as he appeared on TV. His silver hair was immaculately coiffed, his suit crisp despite the warm weather. He fixed Rosie with a penetrating gaze.

"Mrs. Brown, I presume?" he said, his voice smooth as silk while cameras clicked and flashed, and Rosie really wished she were wearing something nicer. "I believe you know where I might find Lisa Worthington."

Rosie opened her mouth, prepared to deny everything, when a voice from behind her said quietly, "It's alright, Rosie. Let him in."

Lisa stepped into view, looking more like herself than she had in days. She'd borrowed one of Rosie's dresses, her hair was neatly styled, and there was a determined set to her jaw.

As Gerald entered, the atmosphere in the room could have been cut with a knife. The Sensational Sixties Squad watched with bated breath as Lisa and Gerald faced each other.

"Lisa," Gerald began, "I came to?—"

But Lisa held up a hand, silencing him. "Before you say anything, Gerald, I want you to know that I don't regret a single moment of our time together. But I won't be your dirty little secret, hidden away while you play the respectable politician."

Gerald blinked, looking taken aback. "I... what? Lisa, I came here to ask you to marry me."

The room erupted in gasps. Emma dropped her coffee cup. Catherine, who had been stress-eating Maria's muffins, choked and had to be thumped on the back by Trisha.

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