Coming of Age Page 8

  Amy flicked her hair over her shoulder. “A friend of mine,” she said carefully, “wants to go to Florence. She’s asked me to get her some details. She wants to go in August, in a fortnight’s time. On Sunday 12th August, travelling back the following Saturday, the 18th. Could you tell me how much it’ll cost?”

  “It depends where she wants to stay.” The man looked instantly more interested, as if he could see another fat commission in his payslip. “Plain or fancy?”

  “Plain. Clean and decent. And safe. But no frills. Bed and breakfast will do.”

  “Right.” He jabbed a stubby finger at his computer. “I assume she’ll be flying direct to Florence? If so, she’ll have to leave from Gatwick. If she wants to fly from Heathrow, she’ll have to go to Rome or Zurich and change planes.”

  Amy’s stomach clenched with fright. “Gatwick direct.”

  “With a door-to-door service? Does she want an airline car to pick her up?”

  Amy thought rapidly. If she used a local taxi firm, the driver might recognise her, wonder – and gossip about – why she was travelling alone. Buses on a Sunday morning would be non-existent. If she wanted to escape incognito, she’d better do it properly. “Yes, please. Door to door.”

  He screwed up his eyes against the computer’s glare. “There’s one seat for Sunday the 11th, leaving on the afternoon flight at two-fifteen. Shall I reserve it?”

  “I need to talk to my friend.”

  “I’ll hold it for you until noon. After that, it’s first come, first served.” He glanced around the empty shop. “We get very busy this time of year.”

  Amy perched uncomfortably in Starbucks, on a stool by the window, trying to scrape up enough courage to go back to the travel agent’s and admit the ticket was for her. The froth on her cooling cappuccino sank to a thin scum.

  She had the money, the details, the opportunity. She had the motive. She’d bought a map of Florence, a guidebook to Italy and a rapid learner’s paperback: Speak Italian in a Week. She’d be an idiot to lose her bottle now.

  She gazed enviously at the carefree shoppers in their sunhats, shorts and floppy shirts. They seemed so confident, so sure where they were going.

  What if she flew to Florence and something went wrong? Nobody would know where she was for a whole week, not Dad, not Julian, not Ruth. She couldn’t tell Ruth. If she did, she’d have to tell her about Marcello. Or invent some improbable story that Ruth would see through like a shot.

  If she was going, it’d have to be a secret flight. Taking the risk. The real Houdini.

  She sipped at her cold coffee, grimaced, pushed the cup aside.

  It was no good.

  Too many things might go wrong. She’d get lost at the airport or in Florence. She’d be mugged, lose all her money, her tickets, be unable to get home. The plane might crash. Nobody would be able to identify her. Everyone would think she’d vanished off the face of the earth, run away from home because she didn’t want to be with Dad.

  The whole idea had been ludicrous. She’d never find Marcello – and even if she did, what on earth would she say to him? Did she really intend to wave a battered old postcard under his nose, demanding to know whether he’d written it and why?

  She could think of nothing more undignified. He’d never admit to anything. He’d probably forgotten who Mum was. He’d have a wife and six children by now. He’d think she was some crazy little English kid.

  The week would be a waste of time and money.

  She stood up. End of story. She’d go straight home and tear up that wretched card. Grit her teeth and go to France with Mrs Boring Baxter. She flung her bag over her shoulder.

  A woman pushed into Starbucks, bumping against her. The scent of lily-of-the-valley filled the air.

  “Amy!” Hannah wore an immaculate ice-blue trouser suit with a floaty chiffon scarf. Her hair had been freshly washed and cut. Amy felt dowdy and dull. “What a lovely surprise! May I join you?”

  “I’m just leaving.”

  “Another ten minutes won’t hurt. I’ve got the day off. The freedom’s quite gone to my head.”

  “I’m meeting someone in half an hour.”

  “That gives us plenty of time.” Hannah guided Amy towards an empty table. “I’ve been meaning to have a chat with you for ages.”

  Amy plonked herself into a chair, squashing her bag beneath it so that Hannah wouldn’t spot the books on Italy.

  Triumphantly, Hannah brought over two fruit smoothies. “There now! Much better than another slug of caffeine.” She slid gracefully into a chair. “Isn’t this fun?”

  Amy bit her lip.

  “I wanted to say a special thank-you for asking me to your birthday party. I’m getting to know lots of the villagers in a professional capacity, but it’s great once in a while not to wear my doctor’s hat!”

  Amy filled her mouth with the smoothie. Banana and lemon sorbet, a weird mixture, surprisingly delicious, heavy and refreshing. I’ll let her chatter on for another ten minutes. Then I’ll get up and go straight home.

  “I also wanted to say,” the hazel eyes flickered, “William’s told me all about your mum and the accident. I’m so proud of you.” Her voice darkened. “It’s not easy, it it?”

  “What isn’t?” Amy asked rudely.

  “Coping with life when you’ve lost somebody you love.”

  “How would you know?”

  Hannah dipped her head. “I was engaged to a medical student. Eight years ago.”

  In spite of herself, Amy was intrigued. “What happened?”

  “He was killed in a road accident. We never had a chance to say goodbye. It took me two years to recover.” Hannah’s eyes sparked with tears. “I don’t talk about it.” She sipped her drink. A thin line of banana froth clung to her lipsticked mouth. “I haven’t even told William. That’s how private it is.”

  “So why tell me?”

  “Because I want you to know I’m on your side. It must be hard, me being around, after having your dad to yourself. I don’t want to come between you, I honestly don’t.”

  Some hope. You’ve come between us good and proper.

  She looked Hannah in the eyes. “Do you love him?”

  Hannah blushed. “It would be hard not to. I don’t fall in love easily. After Jack died, I never thought . . .” She fiddled with her scarf. “It’s partly why I went to Africa.”

  Amy drank to the bottom of the liquid. Her stomach felt as if she’d eaten a three-course meal.

  “I wanted to get away from everything. It’s extraordinary the difference it can make.”

  Amy put down her glass. “You think so?”

  “I know so. Going off on your own gives you an incredible sense of independence. Puts everything in perspective. All the snarls you get trapped in are sorted, just like that.”

  “Really?”

  “Best thing I ever did. Before Africa, I’d always belonged to someone else. I was their daughter or their sister or their aunt. Their lover. Their student or their lodger. Africa let me breathe. Gave me the freedom to be myself.

  “At first, it’s frightening. You think, God, I’m on my own. I’ve made the wrong choice, it’s too late to turn back. But then your courage takes over and you find yourself . . . Do you understand?”

  “Yeah,” Amy said slowly. “I think I do.” She glanced at her watch. She had five minutes to get to the travel agent’s.

  “Thanks for the drink,” she said. “I’ve got to go.”

  Amy checked the contents of her leather bag yet again. Passport, tickets, traveller’s cheques, euros, the map of Florence, the guidebook, Speak Italian in a Week. Marcello’s card. And her beloved copy of Shakespeare’s Sonnets.

  Guiltily she squashed the bag behind her desk.

  Yesterday Dad had asked her whether she minded if he and Hannah left for Cardiff on Friday evening.

  “It’ll mean we’ll have two clear weekends and the week between,” he said. “Dora’s agreed to have Tyler. He’ll go off
with her on Friday morning.”

  “That’s fine,” Amy said quickly. “I’ll spend Saturday with Ruth. We’re leaving early on Sunday to catch the Eurostar.”

  “You must be looking forward to Paris. It’s such a romantic city.”

  “Oh, I am,” Amy said blankly. “Very much indeed.”

  Amy waves them goodbye, stands silently in the doorway, shuts the front door behind her. The house feels eerily quiet. Tyler’s scampering feet echo in her ears. The wind sighs in the firs.

  She picks up the phone.

  “Ruth, it’s me.”

  “Hi! Coming for lunch tomorrow?”

  “That’s what I’ve rung about. I’m not feeling well, and I thought, seeing as how we’re off on Sunday, maybe I’d better stay in bed.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “A cracking headache and I feel sick. I haven’t eaten anything all day. The thought of food makes me feel like throwing up.”

  “Shall I come over and play nurse?”

  “No. I’ll be fine . . . I’ll ring you tomorrow.”

  “Ruth, it’s me.”

  “How are you?”

  Amy gives her voice a feeble tremor. “A lot worse.”

  “Have you been sick?” Ruth sounds worried.

  “I’m afraid I have.”

  “You’d better see a doctor.”

  “I’ve just spoken to Dr Martin at Dad’s surgery. He said he’ll pop in this evening. But it’s bad news about the trip. He says I’ve got gastric flu and I can’t travel.”

  “I’m coming straight round.”

  “No, don’t. I won’t let you in. It could be contagious.”

  “I’m not going to Paris without you.”

  “Of course you are.” Amy’s heart thuds with sudden alarm. “You’ll only be away a week.”

  “But I’ll miss you so much . . . You’ll be all on your own.”

  “The way I feel at the moment, that’s exactly what I want to be . . . Honestly, Ruth, I’ll be perfectly OK. Dr Martin will give me something. I’ve got to rest and drink plenty of water.”

  Ruth says doubtfully, “If you’re sure . . .”

  “Quite sure. I’ll ring Mrs Baxter, let her know I won’t be able to come.”

  “She’ll be so upset.”

  It’s too late now to change my mind. I’ve got to see it through.

  “You’ll have to tell me about it the minute you get back.”

  “I’ll buy you something wonderful from the Champs-Elysées . . . Get better soon.”

  “I will,” says Amy. “Have a brilliant time.”

  She clicks back the phone.

  She stares blankly around the hall: at the sunlight filtering through the stained-glass windows, the vase of roses on the table, the raincoats hanging from their wooden rail.

  Everything seems motionless, as if it is listening with incredulity to the web of lies she has so deftly spun and told.

  She races upstairs to Mum’s study, stands looking at her portrait. Her heart beats fast as the wings of a moth trapped in a circle of light.

  “I’m doing this for you, Mum. You understand why, don’t you? Why I’ve told everyone a different story. Why I must do this on my own.”

  She swallows.

  “I want to clear your name. I want to find Marcello. I need to know if he was on the Common that morning.”

  She tilts her head to look Mum clearly in the eyes. Those extraordinary pale grey-green eyes that seem to flicker with love.

  “I think someone killed you. And I can’t rest until I’ve found out who it was.”

  Ten

  Gatwick bustles with nervous noise.

  It is a shock, after the stillness of early-morning Surrey, where sheep graze, Sunday bells toll and most people still sleep. At the airport, every handrail throbs and hums.

  Amy stares out of the window of her plane at the ones about to fly. They sprawl on the runway like giant fish on wheels, only their flashing heartbeat lights betraying the life within.

  Her plane’s vast engine churns. The plane thrums, roars, moves forward and, with a great song and dance, lifts into the sky: through purple banks of thunderclouds, away and above them, over southern England and the green and golden patchwork handkerchiefs of France. She is trapped in a world of sky and blotting-paper cloud, seat belts, orange juice and professional politeness.

  She opens her bag, strokes the soft leather binding of Shakespeare’s Sonnets for reassurance. Next to her, an Italian businessman consumes Corriere della Sera, rustling the pages, grunting impatiently. Amy looks out of the window. She can see nothing but a world of impenetrable cloud.

  A meal is served: hot pasties with mushrooms smelling of seaweed, stale almond biscuits, a soft roll with cream cheese. Amy drinks some tea but she cannot eat. After a tactful half-hour, a stewardess removes the tray.

  Amy closes her eyes. She is haunted by random memories of Mum: the soft frills of a pale-green silk dress Mum had worn for her first book launch; seeing her lying in a hammock on the terrace, crying over a novel she’d been reading; cooking a turkey in their steamy kitchen, the snow drifting on the lawn, neither of them ever dreaming it would be Mum’s last Christmas.

  Fitfully, Amy dozes into sleep. The pilot’s instruction to Please fasten your seat belts jolts her awake. As the plane dips towards Amerigo Vespucci Airport, she forces her mind into the immediate moment, sets her watch forward by one hour.

  The Sunday bells toll in Florence too. Amy collects her luggage, nervously searches for her driver. GRANT says the placard. “Grazie,” Amy squeaks. The Fiat’s driver whisks her away at grumpy hair-raising speed on what feels unnervingly like the wrong side of the road.

  Her small hotel on the Via Guiccardini is discreet and serviceable. In her featureless room on the first floor, Amy opens the window on to a small iron balcony. It overlooks a courtyard of crumbling stone. On a washing line, hanging beneath a row of brown shutters, white shirts, aprons and a chef’s hat bake in the heat. The smells of olive oil, fish and garlic drift from the kitchen below. Hunger clutches at her stomach.

  She flings off her clothes, steps into a cool shower. Wrapped in a towel, she spreads her map of Florence on the narrow bed and tries to get her bearings.

  If she walks out of the hotel and turns left, she will reach the Ponte Vecchio. Crossing the bridge will lead her into the centre of the city. After she has eaten – a risotto, perhaps, or ravioli with cheese – she will begin . . . What? Her search? No, it is more important than that. Her quest. She will put on her sleuthing hat and become Detective Amy Grant.

  Don’t forget, she tells herself firmly ten minutes later, as she stands at the hotel doorway. You’re here on a mission. Don’t get sucked into the museums, the churches, the galleries. However beautiful, they won’t help you find Marcello. That’s what you’re here to do.

  For two days Amy walked.

  Into and out of the centre of Florence. Up and down the narrow, bustling streets. To and from the station. Past a hundred pizzeria and small shops selling exquisite leather shoes and bags, into and out of the elegant squares.

  She walked round the outside of the Duomo until she felt dizzy at its size. She walked over the bridges and along the River Arno. She walked until her mouth felt dry as a bone and her arms and cheeks flamed in the relentless sun. Better keep out of the sun. Ruth will never believe I’ve stayed at home!

  The early mornings were the best, before the heat began to bite and while the narrow streets were empty. Shopkeepers brushed their soft straw brooms swish, swish across their slabs of cobbled pavement. On the Ponte Vecchio, jewellers polished the wooden casings of their shops, opened and cleaned their windows, stretched long arms to place each glittering stone on its cushion with immaculate precision.

  Beneath the bridges, the River Arno slept motionless, a mirror to the thick blocks of flats against its bank, echoing the pinks and yellows of their walls, the greens and browns of their shuttered windows, the summer blooms in their ro
of gardens.

  By eleven o’clock the squares had filled with the crush and jabber of guides and groups, the click of cameras, the squeal of mobile phones; the streets with the honk of cars and the angry buzz of motorbikes.

  Amy walked doggedly, persistently, looking for clues, listening to likely voices, opening guidebooks on Tuscan villas and closing them again, scanning the postcards at the stalls on each street corner. Photos of Michelangelo’s David stared out at her from every angle, his flesh cool, grey, haughty, accusing.

  “You can’t find Marcello, can you?” David seemed to say as Amy stared up at a copy of the statue in the Palazzo Vecchio. “I know where he is, of course.” The closed mouth curled its lovely lips. “But it’s my special secret and I’m not telling you.”

  On Tuesday afternoon, she escaped the city’s noise for two hours by climbing the steep pebbly paths of the Giardino de Boboli and sitting among its formal green lawns, staring into space. She read Chris’s favourite sonnet for the umpteenth time. The petals of the faded yellow rose bleached beneath the sun.

  Amy eats supper alone again that night.

  A group of boys at a nearby table try to chat her up. She fends them off as politely as she can, but they persist. Blushing and furious, she stands up, pays her bill at the counter, pushes out of the café. The boys think it’s hilarious.

  She stands outside, trembling. Trying to still the beating of her heart, she fills her lungs with the night air. The whiff of drains catches the back of her throat.

  She gasps. She remembers . . .

  She is only nine.

  She is mute.

  She is standing in the hall, waiting for Dad. Tyler barks and flaps around her legs. They have to leave soon. They are having tea with Frances, their vicar, and they shouldn’t be late because other people from the village will be there too.

  Now that Dad hasn’t got Mum to organise him, even though Aunt Charlotte does her best, things aren’t the same, he gets into muddles, he is often late.