Valentina

by S. E. Lynes

  I made myself look at her.

  She did not look away. “Maybe I’ll do that then. Probably got stuck to one of my letters in the sorting office and got carried like a stowaway.” She smiled, her tooth catching on her bottom lip. “Cute, when you think about it.”

  “I suppose. Otherwise why would your postie even have it in his bag? Which reminds me, I don’t have your address.”

  “That’s right.”

  “If you give me your second name ...” I took out my iPhone and looked up at her.

  “What?”

  “Your name.”

  “The name of the street? I told you, Union Grove. Seagull paradise.”

  “I meant your name. Your surname.”

  “Oh,” she said slowly, light dawning. “Sure, right. My second name as in my surname. It’s D’Angelo.”

  I typed it in. “Is that Italian?”

  “I guess. Somewhere along the line. But listen, I’ll write it down and give it to you next time, eh? Unless you’ve got to have it right now, like, urgently? What’re you going to do, write me?”

  I can’t put my finger on why but I had the feeling I always used to get at work when an interviewee was dodging a difficult line of questioning – like whatever I asked would bounce back and I would still be none the wiser.

  She pulled her bag onto her shoulder and headed into the living room to fetch Zac. I followed her to the doorway, watched her thread Zac’s arms through his jacket.

  “Are you on Facebook?” I insisted. “I could send a friend request.”

  “Why bother?” She buttoned up Zac’s coat. “We’re not Facebook friends, are we?” She stood, picked up Zac and plonked him on her hip. When she reached the doorway, she planted a kiss on my cheek and smiled. “We’re real friends.”

  I waved her off from the front door, as I would normally, wishing she wouldn’t drink and drive like that. When her car had disappeared behind the trees, I returned to the kitchen, picked up my iPhone and touched the browser icon, any worry for her safety replaced now by a deep unease. Something was not right, more than not right. Something was wrong, I felt it in my guts. Perhaps it was as simple as the imbalance of Valentina knowing where I lived without me knowing where she lived. But then, I had never asked her to be more specific than the street. That she and I always hung out at the cottage, I had taken as the natural order of things. The cottage was a pleasant place to while away an afternoon with small kids, whereas she lived in a small flat with no garden. Here, there was an acre of green space in summer, a cosy fire in winter – and it was safe, if you didn’t count the fish pond.

  She had said she would write her address down for next time – fine, she was in a rush. She had a letter addressed to someone else in her bag. But that was a postal error. All of it could be explained. But I had suspected that the man in her car had not been Red. And I had been right. Now I suspected her of, if not outright lying, then evasion of some intangible sort. In the supermarket, she had not said, yes, Red is here with me, she had simply said she was texting him to buy – peas, was it? She had presented the tip of a scenario and let me arrive at the implied conclusion myself.

  There was still no signal on my phone. My next thought was to call Mikey from the landline. But he was offshore and anyway I was not sure what I would say. In an emergency I could contact him. But this wasn’t an emergency.

  It was nothing, nothing at all.

  In the end I called Jeanie and was lucky enough to find her at her desk.

  “Hello stranger,” she said. “I was away to send a search party.”

  “It’s so good to hear your voice,” I said. Oh, and it was. How was it possible I’d left it so long? On my highly intermittent internet service, we’d managed to email each other a few times these last few months. But I hadn’t liked to call her at work even though we used to call each other all the time, one desk to the other. And at night, by the time I’d finished with Isla and the dishes and all of that, I was always too tired.

  “When are you going to invite me to stay anyway in your country hideaway?” she was saying in her dear voice, the accent of my home town.

  “Don’t give me that,” I said, half-choked. “You know you can stay anytime you like.”

  “Aye, right. Maybe I will. Everything OK, doll?”

  “Ach, we’re up and running now. I’m fine, really.” I paused. I wasn’t fine, wasn’t that why I was calling my best friend? My other best friend? “Actually, I wondered if you could look someone up for me. The signal is having an off day. It’s having an off life, actually.”

  “Here’s me thinking you were after my scintillating repartee. Go on.”

  I laughed. “I was wondering if you could get any information on Valentina D’Angelo. She’s a yoga teacher up here – has her own business.”

  “Is that the lass you’ve got friendly with? The Australian? Whereabouts in Aus, do you know?”

  “I don’t, actually.” I’d only just found out her second name, I almost added, but didn’t.

  “Is D’Angelo her married name?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe. No, I think she said it was her family name. Sorry, shite journalist, aren’t I?” I thought for a second. “She lives on Union Grove. Not sure which number though.”

  “OK,” Jeanie said, slowly. “You’re sure you didn’t make her up? Is she your imaginary friend? Come on, Shona, you can tell Aunty Jean.”

  I laughed again. “Aye, right. She lives at the bottom of the garden.”

  I had dropped Valentina off once in Union Grove, about halfway down, but she had stayed on the pavement, waving me off. I had found that charming. I had thought: what a nice girl. But as Jeanie tapped on the keys, I thought about how I had no idea what pictures were on Valentina’s walls, whether she had carpets or hard floors, paint or wallpaper, what crockery she used, what books were on her bookshelf, what food was in her fridge. Apart from Zac, I had not seen anything of her life.

  “There’s quite a few on Facebook,” said Jeanie. “What does she look like?”

  “She’s got red hair and green eyes. Kind of hippyish, you know? A wee bit New Age.”

  I waited.

  “Nah,” said Jeanie, then, after a moment, “they’re all either Italian or American. Wait, one here with red hair here but sunglasses ...”

  My stomach muscles clenched. “Australian? Yoga teacher?”

  “Lives in Treviso, Italy.”

  “Not Aberdeen, Scotland.”

  “No.” She tutted – the tap tap tap of pencil against teeth. “Let me try another search. You don’t have an Australian address, even a town?”

  “Nah. Sorry. It’s just that she had a letter addressed to somebody Smyth-Banks in her bag, Smyth with a y, you know? Ms. G. – Grace maybe? Gloria? It’s put the willies up me a bit. Probably nothing though – think the countryside’s driving me a bit nuts, to be honest. I need to get back to work.”

  “LinkedIn, let’s see ...” The flurry of keys, the heavy tap: Enter. “OK. Medico, Grafica, these are all Italians ... business analyst, mental health professional, no job specified but that’s Italy again ...”

  Valentina had said she needed to go to the post office to return that letter. She wasn’t stupid enough to have thought that necessary. A lie, then. Possibly.

  “There’s nothing here,” said Jeanie. “Obviously not a big online presence.”

  “That’s funny. She’s got her own business and she’s very confident – can’t imagine her being a shrinking violet when it comes to publicity. Or in any other context for that matter.”

  “Some people are luddites, Shone.”

  “Aye, I suppose she’s a bit hippy dippy. Probably not very techie.”

  “I’ll keep digging. I’ll give you a bell if I find anything, OK, hen?”

  “Ring me on my mobile,” I said. “I’m going for a drive.”

  On Union Grove, I slowed the jeep, scanned the cars parked up along one side. I counted four red cars but none of them were her old
Toyota. She had said she was going to the post office so maybe she had gone there after all, to hand it in. I drove on, looking for red cars, for answers.

  Why I seized on this letter, I had no idea at the time. It wasn’t the letter, I think now, but the same feeling of confusion as when I’d met her in the supermarket, the same bouncing ball of deflected questions. Then as in my kitchen earlier she had slowed her speech, her actions had become more deliberate. In both instances, her behaviour had been like that of an alien disguised in the unfamiliar skin of an earthling. Could it be something to do with the law-enforcing Italian lothario? Maybe he was married and she had told me otherwise because she had been too ashamed to admit it. Maybe it was he who had left the letter in her flat by mistake. Maybe John was his nickname, maybe he was Geoffrey or Giovanni – I had a hunch that was Italian for John? No, it was Ms. on the envelope, not Mr. Maybe the letter was for his wife and he’d dropped it at Valentina’s flat? Gayle. Gaynor. Gabriella.

  I pulled in, turned off the engine, wrenched up the handbrake. Palms pressed flat to my face, I made myself stop and think clearly. You’re a journalist, Shona. Avoid speculation. What are the facts?

  The letter had been in Valentina’s bag. Fact. It had been addressed to a woman in Fittie.

  The GPS took me to Fittie a different way, to the other side of the settlement, near the docks. With Isla strapped into her backpack, I walked by the harbour wall, past the lighthouse, until I came to the same set of squares I had wandered around that time with Isla. The whole way here I had tried to bring to mind the house number on the envelope but couldn’t. The name I could recall: Ms. G. Smyth-Banks. And I was pretty sure it had said Fittie Square. Or was it Place? I had been hoping to find someone and ask, the old-fashioned way, but there was no one about. And there looked to be three squares. All I could do was start at one end and walk slowly past the windows in the hope that something would jog my memory.

  I can’t remember how long I paced around before I remembered the darting shadow behind the window, only that as soon as I thought of it, I headed for that house. It had creeped me out at the time, I knew it had no meaning but I went anyway because I had nothing else to go on. The sign on the wall of the square read: Fittie Place. I could see the house on the far side of the green. I crossed, not bothering with the path. My shoes sank into the wet grass. My socks soaked up the water, became heavy. I got closer. Something on the ledge defined itself, as did the number: 14. 14 was, or could easily have been, the number on the envelope. The something was an ornament. It was a stork. It was a stork exactly like the one Mikey had given me. With a sick feeling, I stepped up to the window.

  Peeping Toms, the old lady had said. A pound a peep. Well, sometimes, you need to peep – sometimes you need to pay your pound and find out what the fuck is going on. Still, I looked around me, cagey as a burglar, before putting my hand like a visor to my forehead to cut the glare from the glass. I leaned in and I peeped for all I was worth.

  The window looked onto the living room. The sofa with the throw over it filled most of the floor. It was too big for the room; there was barely space for a wee coffee table and a television in the far corner. I pushed as near to the pane as I could, the glass cold against my nose. Immediately below the window was a sideboard, with photos in frames. But they were facing inwards, all I could see were the backs. I peered further in, made out a painting on the opposite wall of what looked like fishermen carrying an upturned boat over their heads, only their legs visible, their feet in rubber boots. On the grate was a thick white candle, half burnt down, unlit. In a frame on the mantelpiece, another photograph.

  Of Mikey.

  EIGHTEEN

  Isla was crying.

  “Hello?”

  Someone was saying hello. Isla was crying. Someone was pulling at my arm.

  “Hello? Can you get up?”

  I opened my eyes. An old woman with tinted glasses was peering into my face.

  “You fell,” she said. “I think you might have fainted. I saw you from across the way, ken?”

  I sat upright, the pathway cold and gritty on my hands. My head was spinning. The woman was grabbing at my coat sleeve, trying and failing to pull me up. I raised my hand – it’s OK, I can manage – stood slowly, keeping my head low. The woman was bent over, baby-talking to Isla. I put my hand to the wall to steady myself. After a moment, Isla stopped crying.

  “That’s it, you wee soul,” said the woman to Isla. “Who’s a brave girl, eh?” She straightened up, looked into my eyes. I recognised her. “Can I give you some tea, dear?”

  She was the woman I had spoken to here some months ago – the one who sat out on the bench and watched. I imagined she’d been over here like shot – I was probably the most exciting thing that had happened to her in months. “Thank you,” I said. “But I have to go.”

  I walked away, step by slow step, waved off her concerned pleas for me to sit down awhile and drink some sweet tea. I kept my hand to the walls of the houses, girded my loins to breech the windows, before stopping, backing up a little.

  “Excuse me,” I called to the woman. “Do you know who lives in that house?”

  She almost smiled. “English lassie. Affa posh. Oil, I think. Incomer, y’ken?”

  “Thank you. Goodbye now.”

  I waved and continued on. As I became surer I would not fall, I took my hand away from the wall. My steps quickened but I was still walking very slowly. I reached the jeep and leant on the bonnet, closed my eyes, opened them again. An English lassie. A posh English lassie who worked in oil. Who the hell was she? And why did she have a picture of Mikey on her mantelpiece? And why did Valentina have a letter for her in her bag?

  “Drive safe,” I said to no one. “There will be an explanation.”

  I put Isla in her seat and started the engine.

  The harbour had grown dark – no more than monstrous oily shapes. Foot shaking on the accelerator, I pulled out of my parking space and hit the road.

  The old lady had said oil. The woman who lived in that house worked in the oil industry. That first time, the old lady had spoken about an English couple. They had a baby, didn’t they? No, it couldn’t be them. She would hardly have a photo up where her husband could see it. The house would have to belong to a single woman, a woman who knew, who had her sights on Mikey. Either that or Mikey was ... no. The thought was inconceivable. I couldn’t say it, couldn’t even give silent voice to it in my head. Not Mikey. He was too loving, too warm, too damn there. And the way he was with me when he got back from offshore – the air of holy awe about him. He did all but fall to his knees before me. I would read it in his eyes if he was ... And anyway, when would he find the time? When he wasn’t offshore, we were always together. That left only a lunchtime sex tryst. No. No. That wasn’t him at all.

  Focus, Shona. What are the facts?

  A letter bound for this address had been in Valentina’s bag. Fact.

  Valentina had claimed it was misdirected post. I no longer believed that. I believed Valentina knew this person. Conjecture.

  It had said Ms. on the envelope. This person was a woman. Fact.

  The photo. This woman knew Mikey. Fact.

  The woman worked in the oil industry. More than probable. Perhaps the woman was a colleague of Mikey’s. Perhaps she had cut his photo out from the office newsletter or something. A creep. A lonely creep. She had developed an obsession with Mikey – understandable – he was funny, talented, charismatic. Hadn’t I had a crush on him too? Didn’t I still? All conjecture.

  But how did Valentina know her? Some dark reason she wasn’t prepared to divulge – an abortion, a lover? A female lover. Was that possible? She could be very sensual in the way she touched sometimes. No. But something. Conjecture conjecture conjecture.

  Valentina knew this person knew Mikey. Conjecture.

  Did Valentina even know this woman? Was that fact? No, actually. It was circumstantial, nothing more.

  One of those wacky serendipitous seq
uences of events perhaps? You heard stories like that all the time, the papers were full of them: whole series of global connections that left even hardened cynics shivering with the heebie-jeebies, a burgeoning belief in the afterlife. Possibly.

  So. Facts. One photograph on a mantelpiece, one letter to someone I’d never heard of. Few facts, no case, only questions: what was Valentina hiding, who the hell was G. Smyth-Banks, and why did she have a picture of my husband on her mantelpiece?

  I got back to the cottage, stripped off my freezing cold, soaking wet socks and changed into some cosy fresh ones and my slippers. Once I’d done that, I picked up the phone and dialled Jeanie’s work number for the second time. I held the receiver in the crook of my neck while I peeled off Isla’s coat and set her in front of an old Singing Kettle DVD.

  When I was one I’d just begun the day I went to sea

  I jumped aboard a pirate ship and the captain said to me

  What did he sa-ay?

  I shoved a rusk in her hand to keep her going. Still, Jeanie didn’t pick up.

  I cracked an egg into a saucepan and added some butter. I put the gas on low and ran to grab the laptop from the sitting room. I ran back and, stirring the egg with one hand, fired up the computer. Please God, let there be a connection. Please God, you owe me one.

  I shoved some bread in the toaster. The egg scrambled. The toast popped. I scooped Isla up from the living room floor and wedged her into her high chair. I wiped her hands and mouth with the dishcloth even though it was stinking, slimy. I buttered the toast, cut it into fingers and put it with the egg onto her plate.

  “Come on, come on,” I said to the computer screen, absently spooning egg into my baby’s mouth.

  My screen wallpaper appeared: me, Mikey and Isla, smiling, taken at the top of Scolty Hill. Look at that picture, I thought. It was impossible Mikey was seeing someone else. I remembered that day as if it were the week before. We’d taken a flask and some bacon sandwiches up to the top of the hill, so we could see the view. It had been his idea: to survey the wider canvas of the life we were going to build together, he’d said, to find ourselves in that picture, to see ourselves as part of that landscape.