by Lucy Diamond
‘What is?’ asked Joe, coming in just then. ‘The number nineteen bus? Tell me about it. Twenty minutes late again. A wheelbarrow could go faster than that useless piece of crap.’
Anna was still fuming about Pete. ‘You wouldn’t turn down a night in a gorgeous Italian restaurant, would you, Joe?’ she asked crossly.
‘Course I bloody wouldn’t,’ he said. ‘Why, are you offering?’
She laughed. ‘No, but …’ This was the moment where he was supposed to laugh too and say, Only joking, he didn’t really think so. Instead, he was standing expectantly as if he was seriously waiting for an offer to be made. ‘Well …’ she said hesitantly, ‘I do need someone to go with me, actually. It’s a restaurant review – remember I’m covering for Marla? I just asked Pete, but he can’t make it.’
‘I can,’ he said promptly. ‘Unless it’s tonight or Thursday.’
‘I was thinking Wednesday.’
‘Cool.’
‘What – really?’
He shrugged. ‘Why not? Could be a laugh.’
She thought about it. Why not indeed? It wasn’t like a date-date. He was a fellow writer, they could bounce ideas off each other. And he was right – they could have a laugh together, too. Even better, it was a chance to practise some of her Italian.
‘All right, let’s do it,’ she said. ‘I’ll book us a table. Cheers, Joe.’ Then, just so that he wouldn’t be in any doubt about this unexpected arrangement, she added, ‘You’re a real mate.’
The following evening, it was Italian class again, and Anna was pleased to see the other students. After a single night in the pub together the week before, she now felt as if they were her new friends. ‘Hi, Geraldine, how are rehearsals going?’ she asked, walking into the room. (Wonderful, she was word-perfect and now trying to wangle a new outfit for the show.)
‘What happened on your blind date?’ she whispered to Nita, opening her textbook. (He was late and had a moustache, came the answer, complete with pulled face. His number had already been deleted from Nita’s phone.)
‘Lovely hair – wow!’ she marvelled to Catherine. ‘Pheebs, did you do that?’
‘I totally did,’ Phoebe said, looking chuffed. She was wearing her hair in two plaits tonight – the demure schoolgirl look. ‘Looks mint, doesn’t it?’
‘Thanks,’ Catherine said, blushing. ‘I’m really pleased. Everybody – get Phoebe to make you over this week. She’s a miracle worker!’
Phoebe leaned forward, eyes gleaming. ‘By the way, Cath,’ she said. ‘Sad news. After you left, there was a terrible accident with Rebecca’s white coat. Coffee all down it. No idea how it happened.’
‘No!’ breathed Catherine in shocked delight, then giggled, her hand flying up to her mouth. ‘Seriously?’
‘Yep. She said she wouldn’t come to us any more. We’re all so upset. Really gonna miss those non-existent tips.’ She winked naughtily.
George raised an eyebrow. ‘Blimey, your salon sounds like it needs its own TV show,’ he said. ‘Your hair looks great, by the way, Catherine.’
‘Thank you!’ she said, turning bright red.
‘If you ever want a little trim, George, just pop in,’ Phoebe said instantly, brandishing one of her business cards. ‘I could do you a wicked boyband cut, one of those big floppy fringes and …’
He shook his head, grinning. ‘I’m happy with the shaggy, unkempt kind of look, thanks,’ he replied, running a hand through his sandy hair and batting his eyelashes. ‘But I’ll bear that in mind, Pheebs, if I ever want a change.’
As their homework the week before, Sophie had asked each of the students to prepare a few sentences about themselves, featuring the phrases they’d learned so far in Italian. The lesson began with them taking it in turns to read these aloud, occasionally stumbling over some of the pronunciations, although a couple of students – well, Geraldine – threw themselves very theatrically into the accent, complete with rolling ‘r’s and flamboyant hand gestures.
After Sophie had praised them for their efforts – even Phoebe, who giggled every time she had to say ‘Ho ’ – she went on to teach them the vocabulary for features in a town (market, cathedral, tourist office, etc.) and nationalities. Anna felt a thrill run through her as she imagined herself arriving in Rimini and asking directions in fluent Italian. She was so going to sort that trip out. Any day now.
As usual, the two-hour lesson went by in a flash. ‘Well done, everyone, you’re all doing great,’ Sophie said at the end. ‘See you next time. Ciao! ’
‘Ciao! ’ the others all chorused enthusiastically.
Sophie beckoned Anna over as she was about to go. ‘Can I have a quick word?’ she asked.
‘Sure,’ Anna said.
‘It was Rimini, wasn’t it, where you thought your mum had met your dad?’ Sophie asked without preamble.
‘Yeah, that’s right. Why?’
‘Only I’ve had an idea. A mate of mine’s working there at the moment, according to Facebook. I was thinking … If you let me borrow that photo of your dad, I can scan it in and email it to my friend, see if he recognizes where it was taken,’ Sophie said. ‘It would give you somewhere to start looking, wouldn’t it, if he can pinpoint the exact place? He might even know him!’
Anna’s heart quickened. ‘That would be brilliant,’ she said. ‘Thank you!’ She thought of the photo propped up on her bedside table, wishing she could hand it over there and then. ‘How can I get it to you? Are you in town at all during the week? I work at the Herald office, so could nip out and meet you any time.’
‘I’m popping into town on Thursday,’ Sophie said. ‘How about grabbing a coffee sometime then?’
‘Perfect,’ Anna said. ‘Do you know Marmadukes? I’ll meet you there at around eleven. Thanks!’
Outside the classroom, Catherine was waiting for her. ‘Um … Anna, can I ask you something?’
‘Course you can,’ Anna said. ‘Shall we walk while we talk? My parking ticket runs out in fifteen minutes.’
They went along the corridor. ‘I’ve found something out,’ Catherine said bluntly. ‘Something a bit weird, that I don’t understand. I know journalists are experts at getting to the bottom of a story, so I just wondered …’
Anna’s polite smile froze on her face. This happened every now and then – she’d be asked to investigate a missing will, or people would tell her indignantly about some injustice they’d suffered at work in the hope that she would highlight it in the newspaper. Axes to grind, usually. She was glad now that she’d given Catherine a fifteen-minute time limit. Some people could go on and on and on, given half a chance.
‘Well … It’s a GP, basically. He’s a good GP, but I know that somebody’s been giving him thousands and thousands of pounds – nearly a hundred thousand in the last year and a half. And I don’t know why.’
Anna frowned. This wasn’t the usual fare, admittedly. ‘And you don’t know who this mysterious donor is?’
‘No. That’s the thing. What would you think, as a journalist, if you knew those two facts?’
‘What, that a GP had been receiving secret payments?’ Anna said, walking through the revolving door at the front of the college and stepping out into the cold, dark night. She shivered as she waited for Catherine to emerge, shoving her hands into her coat pockets for warmth. ‘I’d think the GP was being bought off,’ she replied. ‘Blackmail or bribery. Sounds dodgy to me.’
‘That’s what I thought,’ Catherine said. Despite the cold, there was a sort of glow about her, as if she was burning with nervous energy.
‘Who is it? What’s the story?’ Anna asked, unable to help her interest.
‘Um … It’s complicated.’
Damn. And now she was clamming up, just as Anna’s appetite had been whetted. ‘Well, if you need my help with any digging around, just drop me a line,’ she said, taking a business card from her bag and handing it over. ‘I can do investigative journalism as well as cooking, and I’m happy to help.’
<
br /> Catherine pocketed the card with a nod. She seemed to be thinking hard about something. ‘If the GP in question was involved in some racket or other, what do you think would happen to them if they were caught?’
‘Depends on what they’d actually done. I mean, might they have been left this money by a grateful patient?’
‘No,’ Catherine said. ‘It’s regular payments from a company. It’s not a grateful patient.’
Intriguing. ‘Well, in that case, assuming some kind of fraud or corruption, the GP might go to prison,’ Anna said. ‘They’d almost certainly be struck off too, if it was extortion or bribery. Hard to say without knowing the full story, but there would definitely be repercussions.’
‘That’s what I thought.’
Anna paused at the edge of the car park. ‘Sure you don’t want to talk to me about it now? I promise it’ll be confidential.’ Hey, I’ll even blow another quid on the parking, she thought to herself.
Catherine shook her head apologetically. ‘Better not,’ she said. ‘Maybe another time.’
Anna shrugged, trying to mask her disappointment. There was nothing worse than having a juicy story dangled under your nose then snatched away. ‘It’s your call,’ she said. ‘But obviously, if you suspect wrong-doing – and you have some proof – you should really go to the police. Because if you don’t, you might get done as well for being an accessory to the crime.’
That startled her. Anna had meant it to, of course. If anything was going to persuade quiet Catherine to talk, it was the prospect of being in the dock herself for keeping schtum.
Catherine’s expression was hard to read in the dim glow of the lamppost, but she looked pretty uncomfortable. ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ she said. ‘Thanks, Anna. It’s all a bit …’ Anna found herself leaning in closer. Come on, Catherine, spill the beans.
‘It’s complicated,’ Catherine said again. ‘Sorry.’
‘No need to apologize.’ She wasn’t going to get anywhere now. Anna put her hand up in a little wave and pressed the remote unlocking button on her car key fob. ‘I’ll see you next week.’
She glanced over her shoulder as she opened the car door to see Catherine looking deep in thought as she went on her way. The mystery tugged at Anna’s mind and a whole raft of new headlines sprang to life.
UNCOVERED Local GP exposed as fraud.
IN THE DOCK Blackmailing GP weeps in court.
DOCTOR, NO Dodgy Doc struck off for embezzlement.
It had all the hallmarks of a headline story, no doubt about it, thought Anna, starting her engine and cranking up the poxy little heating dial to maximum. She drove away, her mind ticking over with questions.
Chapter Twenty
Cosa stai facendo? – What are you doing?
FACEBOOK STATUS : Sophie Frost
I’m …
It was Wednesday evening and Sophie was lying on her bed with her laptop, her brain turning like a hamster wheel as she tried to think of something remotely interesting to write.
I’m restless.
She deleted it. It was true, but sounded too negative, too whingey. Nobody liked a whinger on Facebook.
I’m planning my next move.
She wrinkled her nose. That was true too, but then someone was sure to respond with Where are you off to next, Soph?, and she’d be forced to admit that she didn’t quite know yet. She deleted that, too.
Feeling as if life has ground to a halt. ®
Definitely not. Whinging again. Come on. Pull yourself together. Be positive.
Glad my dad is on the mend. Go Jim!
That was an improvement, although not exactly the sort of thrill-seeking update she was used to posting. Ever since she’d first joined Facebook, her timeline had been like a magical mystery tour – here, there and everywhere, with the photos and suntan to prove it.
Sunrise in Byron Bay!
Sampling cocktails with Dan in Darling Harbour. You know you want to!
Swam with dolphins in Kaikoura today. AMAZING.
Buongiorno amici! Now in Rome, working as an English tour guide – love it.
The view from my balcony … Don’t hate me
It seemed like another life now, a life she’d abruptly left. What did she have to say on her updates these days, after all?
Another scintillating shift in the café. Made approx. 9,000 lattes and got a massive £2.75 in tips. WHOOP!
Took Dad to his doctor’s appointment. Rock on!
Watching Corrie with my parents. Living on the edge.
The view from my bedroom … gotta love a cul-de-sac.
It felt as if her world had shrunk on a huge scale in a matter of months: from oceans, mountains, beaches and rainforest, all the way down to the dimensions of a detached house in the suburbs, a crap café two streets away, and the bus route into college once a week. She kept imagining herself as a digital map that someone had focussed in and in and in, so that the rest of the planet was no longer visible. Distant horizons and adventures now seemed as unattainable as a January heatwave.
Even though these days she actually quite enjoyed her parents’ company, being in their house was starting to wear a bit thin. She badly missed her independence – not only the travelling lifestyle, but also the little things: going out on a whim and not having to explain what time she’d be back, cooking when she felt like eating rather than fitting in with her parents’ mealtimes, not having to ask before she changed the channel on the TV … It was hard work living chez Mum and Dad, even when they insisted on cooking and ironing everything for her. All that chit-chat and housekeeping stuff:
Has anyone seen my glasses?
Tea’s ready!
Put something decent on, will you, love, Grandma’s popping round in a few minutes.
How long are you going to be in that shower?
She seriously missed having something exciting to put up on Facebook now and then, too.
Sophie Frost … is well jel of what you lot are all up to.
Sophie Frost … will need to blow the dust off her passport at this rate.
Sophie Frost … has nothing to say.
The worst bit was, she couldn’t imagine things changing any time soon. To put it bluntly, she was skint. Even if she knew where she wanted to go next (not a clue), she didn’t have the funds for an airfare yet, nor enough for a place of her own in the meantime. Besides, she was signed up to teach the Italian class until Easter at the earliest and couldn’t bail out now.
Maybe this was growing up – real life. Maybe she just had to knuckle down and get on with it, suck it up. She glanced back at her friends’ Facebook updates with a pang of envy. Everyone else seemed to have exciting things to report:
Matt Howard: Learning to scuba-dive. Get in!
Nell Shepherd: I’m a proud aunty again. Josie and Rob had baby number two yesterday. A boy! Flying over to see them next week.
Ella Fraser: Off to Marrakesh in two weeks. Anyone fancy meeting up there?!
Dan Collins …
She stared at the screen as a new update appeared. Dan Collins? A shot of adrenalin pinballed around her at the sight of his name. She couldn’t help a muffled scream of excitement as she read his words.
Dan Collins: I’m back in Manchester. Did you miss me?
Her breath came rapid and shallow and there was a pain in her chest as she stared at his avatar, a picture of him grinning with a pint in some bar or other. Then she shut down the laptop before she typed something she’d regret (WHEN CAN I SEE YOU AGAIN???) and went to make herself a cup of tea. Everything felt unreal and floaty; the kitchen floor seemed to lurch and tip as she walked across it, the words still echoing around her brain.
Dan Collins: I’m back in Manchester. Did you miss me?
Dan Collins. Manchester. Miss me? Miss me? Miss me?
Oh my goodness. She’d last seen him through streaming tears at Sydney Airport three years ago as he jetted out of her life. Yes, Dan, of course I’ve missed you, she thought wretchedly. I’ve neve
r stopped missing you, you idiot.
I don’t want you to go, she’d sobbed as they embraced one last time.
We’ll meet again, he’d said into her hair. I’ve just got a feeling.
He probably said that to all the women. He’d managed to peel himself away and fly to Auckland, after all. Thanks and goodbye; it was fun but now I’m moving on.
Fun. It had been more than fun. It had been the best seven months of Sophie’s life, travelling around Australia with him. They’d supported each other through terrible temporary jobs (her worst: a banana farm in Queensland where snakes and cockroaches were regular visitors; his worst: a door-to-door sales job in Brisbane where he had to dress as a strawberry and try not to get beaten up). They’d hired a car and explored the Blue Mountains, Fraser Island and Noosa; they’d freaked out on bad mushrooms in Nimbin and laughed through boozy Sydney nights together. They had gone skinny-dipping together on Coogee Beach on New Year’s Eve. She had said ‘I love you’ and meant it for the first time in her life.
Then, one bright Saturday afternoon, he had told her he was going. His Australian visa was running out and he had a plane to catch. It had been a blast, but …
‘I could come with you,’ she blurted out, a single heartbeat later. They had come to Glebe market and the air was full of drumbeats and the scent of frying onions. Stalls nearby offered Tarot readings, second-hand Levi’s, head massages and soya ice cream.
‘You don’t have to do that,’ he said.
Someone was juggling fire clubs a few metres away; a crowd had gathered around, clapping enthusiastically. ‘I know I don’t,’ she said.
He turned to face her, his expression rueful. ‘Maybe we should just …’ he said and shrugged.
An elderly Chinese woman grabbed Sophie’s arm. ‘Hey, Miss, you want massage?’ she asked, gesturing to her nearby stall.
Sophie ignored her. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Well … I didn’t come travelling to get in a relationship. And it’s been brilliant, don’t get me wrong, I’ve loved being with you, but …’
