by Nikki Moore
Her eyes strayed to the Isaac Asimov books, or rather, what was hidden between them. She could see what it was all about, couldn't she, and be back to the pub for eight? It was only just past four now. If she left soon she could fit it in.
She stood up. Sat down. Bit her lip. But how involved was this going to be, and who was behind it? What did they want, or expect from her? No, maybe it was better not to poke the bear.
Opening the text from Davey, she re-read it. Perhaps she should phone him, ask his advice? She knew his response would be go for it though, follow the clues. Everyone needs love.
Tapping her hands on her knees, she stared at the walls. She needed to talk to someone level-headed, sensible. Someone lovely who would advise what was best for her, not get swept away in romantic notions. She'd consider phoning Zoe, one of her best friends from uni, but Zoe was in the States at the moment so the call would cost a fortune. Besides, she was completely loved up with Greg, engaged to be married, so she was hardly going to be objective about the whole thing. She was as worried about Frankie's single status as everyone else. If she was over in the UK now, she'd be one of the let's put Frankie on every dating website going brigade. What was so wrong with being single, though? She was barely past her mid-twenties, and had loads of time to settle down if she wanted to.
The other option was Rayne, another uni friend, the third part of the triangle she and Zoe formed. Vivacious and a little rebellious, Rayne was fantastic for a night out, but Frankie hardly ever saw her nowadays. Journalism was consuming her friend at the moment; she always seemed to be chasing down a story. Personally, Frankie thought it was all about getting over her first love, Adam, but had never said that to her. Rayne could be pretty forthright, if not scary. That was definitely a conversation to be had over several bottles of wine.
So, who to call? What was that saying; the old ones are the best? Yep, that was it. She picked up her mobile, going to the favourites menu.
'Kate, it's me. Have you got a minute?' Her childhood friend might be happily in love with her long-term boyfriend, a strapping South African, but was still fab at offering clear, non-soppy advice.
'Sure, Hun,' Kate's warm tones filled her ear, and Frankie could picture her sparkling eyes, shoulder length chestnut hair and massive grin so clearly it was like they were sat next to each other. 'I've just taken the dogs for a walk,’ Kate said. ‘Hang on while I sort them out.'
Frankie waited, listening to the sounds of her friend talking soothingly to her two beloved dogs, finger clicking, doors opening and closing, footsteps padding nearer, rustling and then a sigh. 'Okay, I'm back. What's up?'
'So, I've got a bit of a dilemma.' Putting her phone on speaker, Frankie propped it on the arm of the sofa and lay back against the purple patterned cushions. She pictured Kate in her comfy lounge, blue jeans on, with wellies, anoraks, leads and dog collars filling the long hallway.
'Go on.' Kate's voice filled the room.
Frankie closed her eyes, wishing her friend was here instead of in a small leafy village just outside Milton Keynes. 'I got home from seeing dad yesterday, and-'
'He still being a bit overprotective?'
'Yep. It's driving me mad.'
'Ah, bless. Well, you can see why, Hun. I mean, after your mum, then what happened to you-'
'It's been a tough year,' Frankie cleared her throat, 'anyway, I got this letter and it's a clue, I'm supposed to go to Knightsbridge-'
'What? Who's it from? Read it to me.'
Frankie grabbed the letter and did so, adding in the bit about lack of postmark and scented paper. 'So what do you think?'
'Well, it sounds cool, but who do you think is behind it?' Kate's voice was cautious and Frankie was reminded of their teenage years in Southampton, the mornings they'd sit in the back of Kate's mum's people carrier, Kate's younger brothers chattering away while the girls talked about school and boys and Kate's mum would add in dry, no-nonsense comments. They were fond memories and sometimes Frankie missed those years, when life had been simpler, though they hadn’t known it back then. As teens, everything had felt intense and dramatic and like the world would implode if the boy they had a crush on didn’t like them back or the Topshop dress they were after wasn’t in stock, or if they got a C grade for an essay instead of an A.
‘You still there?’ Kate asked.
'Yes, sorry. I don't know who it is.' Frankie frowned, opening her eyes.
'Oh, come on! It'll be someone you know, it has to be. Delivered to your home address, your favourite perfume? And that don’t be late comment.'
'What do you mean?'
'Come on Frankie, you're late for everything. Whoever sent it knows you.' Pausing. 'D'you think the letter could be from Christian?'
Frankie's short square gold nails dug into her palms. 'Unlikely. I haven't heard from him since we broke up. Even when I went to get my stuff once I was up to it, he wasn’t around. He wasn’t interested in seeing me. I think he took me ending it with him pretty badly. So I doubt it very much. Besides, he's in Bali at the moment.'
'Oh, yes. You missed out there on the holiday in paradise. But then again, money isn’t everything.'
'Yes, that’s what I keep telling myself.' Frankie muttered, scowling at the peeling ceiling above her head.
'What’s that? Is everything okay?’
Yeah, just hunky-dory. I live in a rough part of London, have no money, a job I can barely tolerate, debts coming out of my ears, and will probably end up with severe pneumonia because of the insane damp climbing my walls. But apart from that, it’s all good.
‘Frankie?’ Kate’s voice was strained, ‘You’re worrying me.’
Self-pity is not attractive! Frankie gave herself a proverbial kick up the arse. You have your health back, your independence and the freedom to make choices. More than some people have. She made her voice breezy. ‘Ignore me, everything is fine.’
‘Okay. If you say so.’ Kate said dubiously, but let Frankie off the hook. ‘If it’s not Christian, who else could it be?’
‘I don’t know. Davey?’
‘I thought he was gay?’
'Oh, he totally is, but it could be his idea of a joke.’ She sucked in her cheeks, considering the options. ‘Or maybe a way to remind me romance isn’t dead?’
‘Sounds a bit mean to me. Or a bit extreme, sending you on what could be a wild chase across the city. Do you really think he’d do that?’
‘I- hmmm, maybe not. I don’t know. The hand-writing doesn’t look like his though.’ Her side was aching, so she repositioned the cushion behind her head and crossed her ankles, resting them on the opposite arm of the sofa.
‘Any other likely suspects?' Kate quizzed.
‘No, I-,’ she hesitated.
‘What?'
'There is a guy at work. But…no.’
‘Who? And why not?’
‘Zack. He started a few months ago. He’s a sweetheart and we get on really well. But there isn’t a spark, and I’m not sure if the letter is his style.' Shaking her head, ‘Nah, I can’t see it. We're just friends and I’ve not given him any reason to think otherwise. Besides, it’s too soon.’
‘Maybe, maybe not.’ Kate replied, carrying on quickly before Frankie could object. ‘Anyway, perhaps he'll surprise you, and spark isn’t everything. Chemistry can grow over time. There are lots of other important things-’
'I know that from experience, remember? But like I said, it’s unlikely.’
‘Well, whoever it is, what’s the risk?’ Kate asked.
‘What? The risk of following the clues?’
'Yes. Let’s think it through. I suppose it could be a stalker,’ she paused dramatically, ‘or, dun-dun-dun, a serial killer.'
Frankie thought of one of her favourite films, This Means War and the main character’s objection to internet dating, and grinned, 'Yes, I guess I could end up as some guy's skin suit.'
‘That wouldn’t be good.’
‘No, it would put a serious cramp in my sty
le,’ she giggled, and Kate joined in.
‘Seriously though,’ Kate said softly, ‘if the clues lead you to public places, you're fine, right? If they don't, you can always just cut your losses and go home.’
‘So you think I should do this?’ Frankie sat up, grabbing the remote and switching off the TV, side fringe swinging into her eyes. She blew it away impatiently.
'I'm not saying you have to, I'm just saying why not? It’s kind of exciting.’
‘What would you do?'
'I'd do it, as long as it was safe. But you already knew I’d say that. It’s why you called me. You were torn. Part of you is really tempted. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t have bothered getting in touch, you would have just binned the letter.’
'What? I didn’t-,’ Frankie blew out a breath, eyes straying back to the A4 sheet of paper lying open on the table. The bloody thing had been like a magnet since she’d first read it. 'Argh, I hate it when you’re right. Okay. What's the harm? I don’t have to commit to anything. And it’s not as if I have anything else to do for the next few hours.'
'Yay,’ Kate let out an uncharacteristic squeak, 'you're going on a romantic scavenger hunt. Amazing!'
Frankie made a dismissive sound. 'Shut up.'
Kate guffawed, 'Whatever! Listen, I’m around for the evening, call or text me after every clue. I want to know where you end up going, and who it is. Now go, you’re late.’
‘Shit.' It was gone twenty past four. 'Okay, speak later. Thank you! Love you!' Ending the call, she shoved the phone in her jeans pocket, grabbed the letter, yanked on her leather jacket and whirled out the door. She might as well get on with it. And Kate was right, she was late.
On the tube on the way to Knightsbridge, Davey’s words spun in her head. Everyone needs love. It had never been so obvious after visiting her dad. She knew he worried about her, living in London, barely any disposable income to her name with Christian out of the picture, but she was more worried about him. He'd been quiet, grey.
'Missing Mum?' she'd asked softly as they'd sat in the front room of the pebble-dash semi-detached house she'd grown up in.
'Yes. It's worse today. This time of year.’ He sighed. ‘It's a time for families.'
Putting her patterned porcelain teacup down with a clink – her dad insisted on brewing a pot of tea the old-fashioned way, just as his wife had – she crossed over to his beige velour armchair. Squeezing his shoulder, 'I know it is. But that's why I'm here.'
He put his hand over hers, his skin dry and firm, but lined. She was an only child and they'd had her in their early forties after years of trying, so he was older than most of her friends' parents.
Gazing up at her, he smiled sadly. 'I love you Francesca, you know that. And there is no fiercer love than a parent has for a child, that's one thing me and your mum always agreed on, as you'll find out for yourself one day. But,' he continued, shifting his attention to the photo hanging above the mantelpiece, the three of them on her graduation day, both her parents' faces glowing with pride, no clue that a few short years later one of them would be gone, 'it's not the same. When you've had someone who's been your best friend for more years than you can count, who's always made you smile and laugh, battled through awful things with you…being alone after that, without them, well, it's…' he drifted off, still staring at the photo.
'Hard? I know, I get it. I miss her too.'
'No.' He denied, switching his attention to the gold watch Anna had bought him for his fiftieth, a rare extravagance. Tracing a shaking finger across the face. 'No,’ he repeated, ‘it’s not hard. It's unbearable.'
'Dad?' Knowing her voice showed alarm, she rearranged her clinging black woollen dress and sank down to the floor. 'What do you mean? You're not going to do anything silly, are-'
Jerking his head up at the quiver in her voice, his eyes widened, face immediately clearing. ‘What? No, I'm just having a bad day, that's all. Don't worry, I'm fine. The port is just getting to me. Stupid old bugger!'
She clambered up, knowing the best way to handle him, 'Well, I agree with the old and the bugger bit, but I'm not sure if you're stupid. You're too good at all your game shows and puzzles for that.'
‘Very droll.’ He spoke to her back as she drifted around the room.
She realigned Christmas cards from neighbours and relatives, straightened the scrappy red tinsel on the tree, punched the sofa cushions until she was satisfied they looked right. Their conversation had taken a turn down an alley she didn't want to walk down. Keep moving on, that’s what she needed to do.
Yanking back the curtains, she squinted out the window. 'Neighbourhood kids behaving now? Things any better?' This area of Southampton wasn't particularly nice, but it was home. She would always have a soft spot for it, despite the rubbish tumbling along the pavements, the broken street-lights and some of the front gardens being filled with junk fit only for the tip. It had changed a lot since she was little, when she'd played games on the road with her friends and they'd felt safe staying out until after dark, even at seven or eight years old.
'Of course,' he pushed out of his chair and joined her, hand clutching the window frame. 'They're too scared of you after your last visit to try anything.'
She flushed. 'All I did was tell them to behave. And if it worked, it was worth it.'
'You turned the air blue! And your eyes flashed just like your mother’s used to. You were lucky they didn't beat you up.'
'Well they shouldn't have tried to mess with my dad. Throwing missiles at the house is totally out of order. And now I live in a rough part of Landon,' she put on a thick east end accent, 'I got street smarts.' As his face clouded over, she drew the curtains rapidly. 'Come on, get your shoes on. Pub.'
'You think you can beat your old dad at darts?' he asked with a glint in his eye.
'Nope,' she said breezily as she wandered into the hallway to pull her ankle boots on. 'I know I can beat my old dad at darts.'
After he'd locked up as they'd meandered down the street arm in arm, he’d leant in close. ‘One of them kids told me afterwards that you had respect.’
‘I’m supposed to believe they respect me?’ she made a pfftt sound. ‘And why’s that exactly?’
‘He said you can swear better than they can.’
Dropping her head back, she let out a long, low laugh. ‘Is that right?’
‘Yes.’ He squeezed her arm. ‘You look like your mum when you laugh, you know. She had a lot of love to give.’ He emphasised the last sentence.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Nothing.’ He looked at her innocently, ‘Absolutely nothing.’
***
As Frankie jumped off the tube and climbed up the stairs of Knightsbridge station, she recalled his words. She didn’t think she had any love to give, not right now. Her mum’s premature death had seen to that.
But apprehension and excitement nonetheless sizzled inside her as she reached street level. She sucked in a breath. Maybe she was crazy. Only the next few hours would tell. Unfurling the letter, she read the clue again, picking out the important sections. Need for speed, window, see it revolve, road. A car then, in a shop. Pulling out her phone she typed car dealers and Knightsbridge into Google maps. It was probably a bit of a cheat but she was late and a girl had to use any tools at her disposal. There were a few likely candidates, but the closest was McLaren. Turning right, she set off, striding past several tall posh buildings with big metal gates.
Coming to a halt outside a narrow shop front with floor to ceiling windows, she peered in. Sure enough, there was some kind of orange two-tone supercar revolving slowly in the window, all smooth lines and curves with laser effect lights. The massive round ceiling light above it, wider than the car itself, set the paintwork off perfectly.
It fit the bill in terms of the clue, but what did she do now? Go in and ask if anyone had left anything for her? She’d feel like an idiot if they said no. Then again, she could just move swiftly on to the next dealer
ship. There was a Ferrari place down the other end of the road.
Hovering uncertainly, trying to make her mind up, she jerked when a guy in a sharp black suit opened the glass door and appeared next to her.
‘Can I help you?’ he smiled politely. ‘We close soon, given what day it is.’
The try not to be late part of the clue flashed through her mind, as she smiled back.
There was a method to whoever’s madness this was. ‘Yes, sorry. I, that is, a friend sent me here,’ no way was she admitting she had no idea who the person was, ‘to pick something up. But I’m not sure what. I know that sounds stupid,’ she finished lamely.
‘Not at all, if you are who I think you are. Your name?’
‘Frankie Taylor. Do you need to see some ID?’
He laughed, white teeth flashing. ‘No, you’re okay. Come in.’ He pulled open the door, gesturing her ahead of him.
‘Thanks.’ She stepped into the sparkling chrome showroom, huge silver pillars supporting the low ceiling.
‘No problem at all. If you don’t mind waiting here a minute?’
‘That’s fine.’ She glanced around, noticing another car slowly turning on the spot, this one gleaming white with black accessories.
‘Why don’t you have a go while I get your package?’ he asked.
‘A go?’
Sauntering over to the orange two-tone car, he ran his fingers around the edge of the door and pressed something. The door swooped upwards, a bit like the Batmobile.
‘Wow!’ she breathed. She wasn’t really a car girl but it was gorgeously impressive.
‘Have a seat. Watch out, it’s quite low to the ground.’
‘Are- are you sure?’ She took a step towards it, eyes drawn to the button-filled grey interior.
‘Of course.’
She frowned down at her stiletto boots. ‘What if I damage it? How much is it worth?’
‘Don’t damage it,’ he said mildly, ‘be careful. It’s a 650S,’ he explained, ‘so it’s retailing for only two hundred and seventy five thousand.’
