Best Eaten Cold: The stunning new psychological thriller you won't be able to put down.

by Tony Salter

  He picked up the iPad and started searching through my emails.

  'Here we go,' he said. 'They confirmed your online application on the tenth of November and asked you to send your signed declaration form, photos and supporting documentation. Ridiculous bureaucratic bullshit. What's the point of building an online application system if you still need to send in the paper forms? Did you send them off?'

  'Yes,' I replied. 'I even did it registered post and got a receipt but, in any case, they sent me a confirmation mail a couple of days later, saying they'd received everything they needed and I should expect the passport by the week commencing November twenty-fourth. Last week.'

  'I can't see that email,' Rupert was giving me that look again. 'The only other one you have from the passport office is dated on the fourteenth of November, confirming receipt of the application, but saying the photo of Sam isn't valid because your hand is visible.'

  'What!' I thought he must be teasing me for a brief moment. 'That wasn't what the email said. It said everything was fine and gave me an estimated delivery date. I wouldn't have invented that. Why would I make something like that up, for Christ's sake?'

  'I don't know Fabi, all I can do is read what's in front of me. Emails don't just change.'

  'Well, I don't bloody know either. You must remember it. You've been reading all of my emails anyway, haven't you? I know you have.'

  'Yes, I've been checking your mails, but I haven't been reading everything. I wouldn't have bothered to open an email like this. I haven't been trying to spy on you. Only to help.'

  'Well it would've been helpful if you'd actually read this particular email at the time wouldn't it? Then you'd know I'm not making it up and that something is going on.'

  'Fabi, I've got no idea what's going on and I get you're frustrated and scared, but before we start looking for people to blame, let's focus for a moment on the practical issue of getting Sam's passport in time. So you definitely didn't send them a new photograph?'

  'No, why would I?' I said, close to tears. 'I just told you I got an email telling me everything was in order. Why would I bloody do anything except wait for the passport?'

  'OK, OK. Give me a break here, it's not as though it's my fault. Why don't you grab me another beer and I'll have a look at out options.'

  He sat on the sofa, head down and focusing on the iPad. I had no idea what was going though his head, and it may have been me imagining things, but his voice had been cold and flat, and I was afraid he was properly angry this time; his tense, almost business-like posture a sign of how much effort it was taking for him to avoid shouting at me and telling me what a bloody idiot I was. Again.

  'All right,' said Rupert, looking up. 'We might be able to do a fast track premium application. They don't normally do them for first passports but it's worth trying. It costs more and we'd need to go to London on Thursday to pick it up, but it's all we've got. The phone lines are open until eight. Let me give them a try.'

  'Thanks Rupert. I'm so sorry about all of this. I only wanted to make everything work smoothly. To show you I haven't become totally useless and crazy.' I managed a half-smile. 'Not panning out so well, is it?'

  Rupert laughed. 'Well at least you haven't totally lost your sense of humour. Don't worry, if this doesn't work out, my dad's best friend from school is something big in the civil service. He might be able to pull some strings. We'll sort it out. There's no need to get upset.' He went off into the garden to pick up a better phone signal, leaving me standing there, powerless again.

  The last thing I wanted was for Rupert's parents to get involved. Virginia had definitely decided that I wasn't a positive addition to the Blackwell family and I suspected that, were we in Victorian times, she'd already be furnishing an attic in the vicarage to hide me away.

  We don't always get what we wish for as I realised when Rupert came in from the garden.

  'There's good news and bad news,' he said. 'I got through to someone at the passport office and they confirmed that you can't do the premium service with a first passport, even for a baby. The only option is a Fast Track but it takes a week.'

  'So, is that the good news or the bad news, or both?'

  'That's the bad news. The good news is that I spoke to my dad and he's sure his mate will be able to help, especially as you made the original application a while ago. He's calling him now and we'll hear more in the morning.'

  'Thank you darling.' I held him tightly, pressing my face into his chest in search of strength and comfort. 'I feel so bloody useless and I'm scared of what's happening.'

  'I know,' he said. stroking my hair. 'But I'm here for you. You mustn't worry.'

  'I know you are, but I don't think you understand.' The panic was there the whole time now, just below the surface. 'It's as though there's someone, or something, alien hiding inside me. It's never there when I'm looking for it, but as soon as I get comfortable, as soon as I let my guard down, it does something to trick me.' I could feel my pulse throbbing into my temples like a jungle drum. 'And I think it's growing. I don't think it's going away or getting weaker, I think it's waiting, waiting for a time when I'm weak, when it can hurt me again.'

  'Try not to worry,' he said, strong arms almost squeezing the breath out of me. 'It sounds awful, darling, it really does. I think you probably still need to get some professional help. I'm completely out of my depth with all of this, and I don't know what I'm supposed to say or do.'

  'I understand,' I said. 'Neither do I.'

  'Anyway.' He let me go and looked at me. 'We'll get this passport mess sorted and enjoy a nice week's holiday. We can then have a think about how to find you the right help when we get back. Maybe after Christmas?'

  Of course, John's friend was able to sort things out, that was inevitable – but it wasn't hassle free. Rupert needed to take an extra day off work to come into London with us, and I couldn't begin to imagine what John and Virginia would be saying about me behind the scenes.

  Organising the trip had been a glowing beacon in the darkness of the previous few weeks; it was going to be the way in which I proved to myself, and to Rupert, that I was OK. That I was going to be OK.

  But I'd failed miserably and it was as though my legs had been swept from under me. I couldn't do anything right and no-one had any reason to believe in me any more.

  Fortunately, the rest of my planning seemed to have worked out well and, as I couldn't do anything to undo the passport fiasco, I decided to try to make the best of it and to focus on enjoying our first holiday with Sam.

  There's nothing quite like an airport at five in the morning. The lights were unnaturally bright and the thousands of stoned zombies milling around Gatwick South's Terminal shuffled noiselessly across the polished floor.

  I stopped breathing as the guy at passport control took Sam's shiny new passport. He spent ages looking back and forth between the passport, his computer screen and little Sam, who was wriggling happily in his baby carrier. If he'd taken any longer, I think I'd have passed out.

  Then we were through, and on our way. It would help for us to get away for a few days. We needed a break. I spent every day walking on a thin sheet of ice which could crack at any time, but if I could only make it to the other side of the lake, I would be safe.

  'I'm just going to the loo,' said Rupert. 'Will you wait around here?'

  'Sure. I'll take Sam,' I said, reaching over to undo the clips on the carrier.

  'That's fine. I'll only be a minute. He's settled now.'

  'Don't be silly. You're going to the loo. Let me have him.'

  Rupert lifted Sam carefully up and handed him to me. 'Happy now?' he said. 'I'll see you here in a couple of minutes. Don't wander off.'

  He looked over his shoulder twice as he walked off and I began to understand. By the time he came back I was certain.

  'Are you worried about leaving me alone with Sam?' I snapped at him as he walked towards us.

  'What are you talking about? Of course not.' I could see
the guilty look in his eyes.

  'I don't believe you. You're lying. You don't trust me to look after my own son. Have you got any idea how that makes me feel?'

  'Fabi, it's not like that,' he said, open hands and puppy dog eyes pleading at me. 'I just didn't think it was worth disturbing him.'

  'Bollocks.' I passed Sam back to him roughly. 'Absolute fucking bollocks. I'm going to get a coffee. I'll see you on the plane.'

  The plane had started boarding by the time I got to the gate and I could see Rupert pacing up and down next to the huge windows. Sam seemed to have had enough of the day's disruptions and was red-faced and screaming.

  I tapped Rupert on the shoulder.

  'Hi there,' I said. 'Let me take him.'

  Rupert stared at me before lifting Sam into my arms. 'Here you go. He's been like this for twenty minutes and they've started boarding.'

  'I know. I can see the sign. He'll calm down in a minute. Look, can we just forget about earlier. I don't know what came over me.'

  Sam was toning down his screaming notch-by-notch and was gradually moving on to a sequence of racking, hard-done-by sobs.

  'OK,' said Rupert. 'I get that things are tough for you, and I want to be patient, but I don't see why you need to accuse me of stuff like that. It doesn't seem fair.'

  'If there's anything I've learned over the past few weeks,' I replied. 'It's that nothing makes sense and nothing is fair. The unreasonable rules apply.'

  Alberto was waiting for us at Bari airport holding a cardboard sign and a big bunch of flowers. I'd been half mad with grief when I'd last seen him, but would have recognised him anywhere – he looked exactly like my father had in his thirties, the same beaming smile, the same rosy, shiny cheeks, he even had a combover which wasn't fooling anybody. Just like my dad.

  Sam had slept on the flight and was back on fine form, even happy to have his cheeks pinched by Alberto. I'd never figured out why Italians always did that – as a general rule, babies, and kids of all ages, hated it almost as much as someone trying to put suncream on their face, or wiping their mouths. 'Get your massive hands out of my face, you big person! Careful of my eyes. Why are you pinching me? Can't you see it hurts?'

  Rupert and I had agreed on the plane that we wouldn't discuss any of the troubles I was having and we would try to treat the trip almost like a second honeymoon – to the extent it was possible considering the demanding and intrusive presence of a six-month-old baby.

  It was easy to say, but there wasn't much I could do to hold back the dark thoughts and doubts which swirled on the edge of my consciousness. As we were coming in to land, I looked at Rupert and Sam both dozing beside me and made myself a promise to find a solution to my problems so I could look after them both.

  Alberto was charming and, as expected, spoke perfect English; I could almost hear Rupert sighing with relief.

  'So, Rupert,' he said as we walked to the car park. 'Is this your first time in Italy?'

  'No. I've been once before. To Rome,' said Rupert. 'But it was on a rugby tour so we didn't do anything cultural and, as you can imagine, my memories are a bit, shall we say, "foggy".'

  'And how's your Italian?' said Alberto.

  'Non-existent,' said Rupert. 'I've been totally useless. I keep meaning to but I'm not good with languages – typical Englishman, I suppose – and I keep putting it off. I've promised Fabi I'll do better when we get back. She always speaks Italian to Sam.'

  'Don't worry,' said Alberto. 'I'm sure you'll pick it up. It's much easier to learn than English and it is much more beautiful. The scholars all claim Sanskrit is the language of the Gods, but every Italian knows better.' He turned to me and Sam. 'So Fabiola, you're teaching Sam to speak Italian already? I like that. We need to keep some family traditions, even so far away.'

  'I'm doing do my best,' I said. 'It's not so easy in Oxford, though. There are lots of people studying Italian at the university, but not many real Italians and the ones I've met come mostly from the North.'

  'Ah,' said Alberto, 'that is a problem. Rupert, you must understand that the northerners always look down on us. They say we're lazy idiots and everyone here is either a farmer or a mafioso.' It was difficult to tell if he was joking or half-serious. 'I think they're jealous because we have more sunshine, better food and much more beautiful women. It's best not to talk to people from the North.'

  I could remember hearing similar comments growing up. Twenty per cent of the population of Bedford were of Italian origin, but not just any old Italians. Almost everybody was from the South and proudly partisan. The conversations meandered from amusing, good-natured rivalry, through bitter recriminations, to declarations of war and independence and back again. I suspected that the amount of grappa consumed was the key determining factor.

  'Rupert,' I said, trying to sound as serious as possible, 'this is worth remembering. When the conversation turns to politics here, the best thing for you to do is to be quiet and non-committal. Nod and pretend to agree. If you've had too much to drink and can't avoid it, tell them you're married to a southern Italian from Peschici and hope for the best. The same goes for football. And women.'

  Alberto burst out laughing. 'Don't be so cruel. We're not that bad. Sometimes we might get a little carried away and excited, but it's all just good fun. OK, if you tell someone you support AC Milan ...'

  It was only half an hour's drive to Alberto's house, which was a small, but pretty, modern villa in the Valle Castellano, about a mile outside Peschici. We were welcomed by his wife, Maria, their ten-year old son, Luigi, and two enormous, fluffy Alsatians who appeared friendly enough, but were definitely too big and boisterous for Sam.

  Alberto and Maria seemed to have put their entire life on hold in honour of our visit and we had a full programme laid out – visiting old aunts and uncles, exploring the region and gorging ourselves on the most amazing fresh food. I don't think I've ever eaten as well, both in people's houses and in a series of seaside restaurants, set out on the rocks or nestled into small harbours.

  Rupert even started to pick up some Italian as he sat with the boys after one dinner or another, drinking his coffee and grappa. Sitting in my place with the other women, I had the impression that feminism might take a while to reach this part of the world, but everything appeared harmless enough. Maybe my guard was down because the environment was so familiar.

  It was not exactly beach weather and the nights were already quite cold but, for the whole of our trip, there was not even a wisp of cloud to smudge the perfect blue sky and I felt a million miles away from the cold, grey Oxfordshire December.

  Maybe things would be better when we got home.

  There was one thing in particular I'd been keen to do on the trip. The week before my disastrous job interview, the three of us had taken a trip to Odell Wood to visit Nonno's oak tree. On the way there, I'd told Rupert and Sam all about Nonno, as much as I could remember, as much as I'd ever been told. We'd nestled together under the tree, drinking coffee from a thermos and indulging my memories. I didn't cry but remember being unable to continue after a while and we sat there quietly as the sun went down, wrapped up in the warm blanket of my memories.

  Before we went home, I took a small handful of the leafy, black humus from the base of Nonno's oak and put it in a small ziplock bag to take to Italy. Fortunately it hadn't aroused the suspicions of either airport security or Italian customs.

  I'd asked Alberto if he could try to track down any of Nonno's old friends from after the war, the ones he used to hunt and forage with as a teenager. As with everything else, he'd come up trumps. Giuseppe was eighty-five, but still wiry and fit from a Mediterranean diet and a lifetime of hard, physical work. He was happy to take us to some of their old hunting grounds, but there was a sadness in the shadows of his parchment eyes when he told me how few of them were left.

  Rupert had decided to stay behind with Sam as it was a long walk and the conversation was going to be exclusively in colloquial Puglian Italian. This allowe
d us to set off early and to take our time over the route, stopping as often as we wanted, pretending to look at something beautiful or interesting, but mostly making sure we neither pushed old Giuseppe too hard, nor offended his male pride. In reality, he could probably have outlasted both me and city-softened Alberto but, as the point of the trip was for us to be there in the forest, the frequent stops felt right.

  We did have a target for the walk. Giuseppe believed he could guide us to the exact spot where Nonno had shot his last boar, on their final hunt together before Nonno had left for England. After two hours of walking through rolling hillsides of beech trees, mingled with lush ivy, ferns and the occasional giant yew, the forest gradually transformed and the beech faded away to be replaced by Turkey oak – I had finally found out what Nonno's oak trees were called – and maple trees. This was now the forest which Nonno had always talked about when he told us stories of home.

  It was midday when we arrived in a small clearing. Giuseppe stopped and turned slowly, smelling the air and nodding his head gently as he looked around. He pointed to a huge, old tree at the edge of the clearing.

  'Laggiù,' he said, 'è qui che il cinghiale è morto.' 'Over there, that is where the boar died.'

  I walked over to the tree; sharp December sunlight paved the forest's soft, mossy floor with a random mosaic of black and gold and the silence of the dense woodland was absolute. I stood for an age under the ancient oak, both palms pressed into the bark until I could feel the gnarly texture imprinting itself deeply into my skin.

  I tried to imagine Nonno as a young twenty-eight-year-old standing there proudly over his kill – elation at his victory not quite covering the hidden ball of fear which lay cold and secret in his stomach. What would England be like? Was he making the right decision? He'd heard stories from people who'd been and come back before their contracts were over, but not so many from those who'd stayed.