by Tony Salter
‘Did you read the report I gave you?’ I said, once we were settled back at the table, sipping what was left of our coffees and pretending that we hadn’t wanted cake, anyway.
Nicki nodded.
‘And?’
‘And what?’ she said, grinning. She must have known how awkward I felt and she was still teasing me. I probably deserved it.
‘You know exactly what,’ I said. ‘Did the findings surprise you? Open up unanswered questions?’
‘Not really,’ she said. ‘There was nothing in there I didn’t already know.’
I was lost for words. She wasn’t lying – that was clear. Why had I assumed that she would be surprised?
‘I’ve still got lots of things to tell you,’ she continued. ‘And I’m sure you have plenty as well. I don’t think we should have unrealistic expectations though. It will … it should … take us time to get to know each other. Don’t you agree?’
She had such a beautiful smile. How could I not agree? I felt like an idiot. Why had I ever allowed Daz to fill my mind with his suspicions and paranoia? Nicki would figure out who Julie really was soon enough. It wasn’t as though she was after my money. Or anything else for that matter. From what I’d seen, she was a lot better off than I was.
‘Of course I agree,’ I said. ‘And I’m really sorry about the investigator. I shouldn’t have allowed myself to be pressured into agreeing to that. I should have put my foot down. You’re my sister, not theirs.’
‘It’s OK,’ she said. ‘I really do understand.’
‘Excellent,’ I said. ‘I owe you one.’ I stood up and took a step backwards. ‘Shall we put it all behind us and start again?’ I stepped forwards and stretched out my arm. ‘Hi Nicki. I’m Sam.’
She took my hand in a firm, businesslike grip. ‘Hi Sam. Pleased to meet you.’
We both laughed, and I felt the tension in my shoulders ease away. It was going to be all right after all.
‘In your email, you said you wanted to talk through something,’ I said. ‘I assumed it was to do with the subject which we’ve now forgotten about, but I guess it wasn’t.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘My idea is much more constructive, and it’s about getting to know each other … and our mother.’
‘Go on …’
‘Well. I’ve done a bit of digging,’ she said, ‘and I’ve tracked down quite a few of Fabiola’s relations, the ones who are still alive. Did you know that her older brother, Roberto, moved back to Italy five years ago?’
‘No,’ I replied. ‘I don’t know anything about her family. Dad said that none of them came to her funeral and it was always a no-go subject at home.’ I couldn’t see how a bit of family research was going to help us to get to know either each other or my mum. ‘Are you thinking of giving her brother a call? I don’t think they’d spoken for years before she died. Not since the scandal …’
‘Exactly.’
‘You think …?’
‘Yes,’ said Nicki. ‘Maybe they knew about me?’
‘But they wouldn’t have …’
‘Who knows? Proud Italians. Shame on top of shame. Whatever happened, something was serious enough to split the family completely,’ said Nicki. ‘Anyway, I think we should go and see Roberto. Find out what he’s got to say about it.’
‘What? But you said that he’d gone back to Italy.’
‘Yes. And we should visit him, take a trip to Puglia together, find out what we can about our mother and what really caused the rift with her family … and take the time to get to know each other on the way.’
‘Oh. I see.’ She was actually serious. Half an hour earlier, I’d been expecting to find out she didn’t want to see me again. And then we were going on holiday together. ‘And when are you thinking we might do this?’
‘I’ve provisionally booked us flights for next weekend. Going out to Bari late on Friday and coming back Tuesday afternoon. You’d need to take a couple of days off work. What do you think?’
I’d agreed to go, of course. No-one who knew me would have been even slightly surprised. If there was ever a crazy impulsive decision to take, I could be relied upon to be there, ready and waiting to leap headfirst into whatever mess was sitting in front of me.
Dad wasn’t impressed. For some unfathomable reason, he still expected me to learn from my mistakes.
‘Are you sure this is such a great idea,’ he said. ‘I can’t see you finding much of a welcome.’
‘Why?’ I said. ‘You did when you went to Puglia.’
He slipped seamlessly into the far-away look which usually appeared when we talked about Mum. ‘That was a long, long time ago,’ he said. ‘I was with your mother … and you were so cute. Most of those people will be long dead by now and, charming as you are, I doubt anyone will be queueing up to pinch your chubby cheeks this time round.’
I did my best to look hurt and offended.
‘I suppose you might try and look up her uncle, Alberto?’ he continued. ‘He was the only one who wrote to me after Fabiola died. If he’s still alive, he must be in his eighties by now.’
‘Thanks, Dad. I’ll see if I can track him down.’
‘And what about Nicki? Don’t you think it’s a bit weird, her wanting to go off with you like this?’
‘Maybe,’ I said. ‘I don’t know. There’s nothing normal about this situation, but I’ve decided to put my suspicious thoughts to one side. They haven’t been getting me anywhere. And I don’t want any more advice on the subject from you or Uncle Daz.’ I noticed his expression and replayed my words. ‘Sorry. That came out wrong. You know what I mean?’
‘Yup,’ he said. ‘I know what you mean.’
Details
‘Hello? Nicki?’
‘Julie?’
‘Yes. Can you hear me?’
‘Only just. It’s a terrible line.’
‘I’ve routed the call via St Helena. It’s one of the few places no-one bothers to monitor. Better safe than sorry. Doesn’t do much for the call quality, unfortunately.’
‘It’s OK. I can hear you now.’
‘Good … So? How’s it going?’
‘It was harder than expected, but we got there eventually. Sam and I fly into Bari on Friday.’
‘Excellent. I knew you’d figure it out. It’ll be good to resolve this … one way or another.’
‘How do you mean? One way or another?’ It was difficult to read the tone of her voice through the crackle and echo, but Nicki sounded uncomfortable and on edge. Not her usual confident self.
I shivered as I realised that our relationship was as fragile as it had ever been. The final goal was only a few steps away but, for now, everything was in balance like a swaying tightrope walker stuck halfway across the Niagara Falls.
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘I’m just looking forward to clearing everything up.’
‘Me too,’ said Nicki. ‘I’m not enjoying lying to Sam.’
‘They’re white lies, Nicki. You know that he wouldn’t come here if you told him the truth?’
‘I know. I’m sure you’re right. It’s not so much that. It’s Damocles. From what Sam told me, the incursions are ramping up. Apparently Milinsky Labs have now got a team of five engineers working full-time trying to protect Sam and Dave.’
‘That’s what you designed it to do. You must be pleased?’
‘I know … I am … but …’
‘But what?’
‘… Nothing. It’s nothing really. I’m just finding it more difficult than I thought I would. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.’
‘OK. Well, let me know if you need anything from me. There’ll be a car waiting for you at Avis. You’ll find a phone in the glove compartment. Use that to reach me. Just dial Head Office.’
The Old Country
I couldn’t believe I was actually doing this.
I’d met Nicki three times in my life and suddenly there we were, walking through the immigration scanner and out into the noise and bustle of Bar
i airport. I was cruising on autopilot – every time I tried to work through the mess of the past few months, I felt a sharp, stabbing pain in my right temple and my brain turned to mush. Better to simply go with the flow.
Nicki and I hadn’t spoken about anything serious since I met her at Heathrow, apart from to discuss what she’d found out about Roberto and Mum’s other relations – which wasn’t a lot as it turned out. It seemed that disaster was never far from their family, or rather our family.
Having escaped from the grinding poverty of post-WWII Puglia, Fabiola’s grandfather, Nonno, had forged a good life for them all in Bedford – by rights there should have been a growing dynasty of British Carlantinos building a future on the back of his hard work.
It hadn’t panned out that way; a combination of bad luck, infertility and tragedy had cursed that vision. Roberto’s wife had died young, as had his younger brother and sister and, by the time he was seventy, Fabiola’s older brother had been the only one left. Perhaps not surprising that he’d decided to spend his last days back in Puglia.
It was only as Nicki was describing this sad story that I realised the man we were planning to see was actually our uncle. It felt unreal.
The last time I’d travelled abroad had been with Julie for the book launch. We’d travelled in her usual style, arriving at Nice by private jet before being whisked effortlessly by speedboat to the Hotel Eden Roc in Antibes. I’d made myself a promise to avoid being corrupted by the outrageous luxury of those years but, when I met Nicki at Gatwick, it had been difficult to ignore the contrast. We weren’t even travelling at the budget end of the spectrum – we’d flown BA and were renting our car from Avis – but, after forty-five minutes queueing at the Avis counter, I was beginning to struggle. How long could it take to fill out a form?
It didn’t matter. We had plenty of time and, only forty minutes later, we had our car keys and walked out into the glare of the midday sun. My phone vibrated in my pocket, but the sun was too bright for me to see the screen. By the time I’d stepped behind a bus shelter to read the message, Nicki was well in front of me, disappearing into the shade of the Avis car park.
I couldn’t believe what I was reading. The nascent migraine stabbed an icepick into my skull as I strode after Nicki. No amount of wishful thinking was going to wash this away.
I reached her just as she was pulling open the boot of our rental hatchback ‘Nicki?’ I shouted, grabbing her shoulder and pulling her roughly around.
She recoiled like a startled cat, eyes blazing and claws raised. ‘What the hell!’
I lifted my hand like a policeman in traffic. ‘Stop,’ I said. ‘Save your bullshit. I’ve just had a message from Daz.’
‘And …?’
‘He says you visited Julie three times in prison. Before and after the sentencing.’
‘Does he now?’ Nicki was almost shouting, but I could tell she was shocked.
‘You’re saying he’s lying?’
She stared at me for a second or two before slumping forward and looking down at the oily concrete floor. ‘No. Not exactly,’ she said, eventually. ‘But it’s not what you think.’
‘Trust me,’ I said, still fighting an almost uncontrollable desire to break something. ‘You have no bloody idea what I think.’
I couldn’t remember how we got from the airport to our hotel in Bari. Nicki told me she could explain, and she needed to show me something. She said we would be better off talking at the hotel rather than in a car park, and I suppose she convinced me. Beyond that, the drive into town, parking the car, checking in to the hotel and walking up to Nicki’s room … they all must have happened, but I might as well have been somewhere else.
She closed the door behind her, opened her handbag and took out an envelope. She looked at it as though it were something living before taking out a crumpled sheet of A4 paper and handing it to me.
‘Here,’ she said. ‘Read this.’ Then she turned and walked out to the balcony.
I unfolded the paper, smoothed it out and began to read:
17th June 2042
Dear Nicki,
If you are reading this, then your father is dead. I am sorry to hear that and you have my sincere condolences. He was a good man.
You will be wondering why I am writing to you and how I know your father. That is what I will try to explain in this letter.
I am not just your boss and professional mentor. We have a longer story which I have hidden from you. I have actually been involved in your life since you were a little girl.
It’s complicated, so bear with me and try to forgive me for keeping all of this secret from you for so long.
I am sure that by now, you will have heard of Fabiola Carlantino, my former lover, who committed suicide when you were only eleven. Everything I have to tell you revolves around Fabiola – everything.
Fabiola was the love of my life, but she was also the love of your father’s life and – there’s no easy way to tell you this – Fabiola was your mother.
She told me that she’d had a child, a baby girl, while we were together. She only mentioned you once – when she was drunk – and I’m certain she just needed to tell someone. It was before she went to Uni and she was only seventeen. She left you in the Royal Free Hospital in Hampstead because she didn’t know what else to do. Your father was her economics teacher, Joe Taylor.
I didn’t really think much about it until after Fabiola died, when I had a call from your dad out of the blue. Joe had found out about you – Fabiola had written him a letter to be opened if she died and she’d told him that, if anyone could track you down, it would be me. And so he came to me for help.
I was happy to try. I would have done anything to bring Fabiola back, and watching over her children was the next best thing.
It wasn’t easy, but I found a way to hack into the adoption databases and found you after three months of trying. It was in the nick of time as the police were on the point of arresting your creepy adopted father, Damian.
You were only eleven and being uprooted from your home by social services was bad enough; Joe didn’t want you caught up in the history of the old scandal or the tragedy of Fabiola’s death as well. So he asked me to create a false data trail for your mother. A short affair after his wife had kicked him out. Joe told the authorities that he’d received an anonymous phone call and used a private investigator to track you down.
Because of that, we agreed that neither of us would ever tell anyone that you were Fabiola’s daughter and I couldn’t be directly involved in your life. But I’ve been watching from a distance – like a fairy godmother – and I’m sure you’ve wondered where your father got all of his money …
Joe asked me to tell you the truth if anything happened to him, which is why I’m writing to you now. It is unfortunate that this is happening when I’m in the middle of my own scandal – all the accusations are untrue by the way – but I can’t do much about that.
I am sure you have lots of questions, but wanted to explain everything in writing first to give you a chance to reflect. Once you have done that, I will be happy to do what I can to help you understand.
Please don’t think too harshly about my deception.
All my love,
Julie
I read the letter carefully three times before folding it again and walking over to Nicki.
‘Now, do you understand?’ she said, on the verge of tears. ‘I promised her I wouldn’t say anything.’
My anger at Nicki had faded away like ripples in a well, only to be replaced by something else, a cold adrenalin-fuelled passion to protect and defend my sister.
‘I understand perfectly,’ I said. ‘This explains everything very neatly.’
Nicki smiled. ‘Oh. Thank God,’ she said. ‘I was so worried.’
Her smile faded as she saw the expression on my face. ‘Come on, Nicki,’ I said. ‘You don’t seriously believe any of this, do you?’ I threw the letter onto the bed. ‘Every word in here is tot
al bullshit. Every word.’
Unravelling
Nicki must have been in Italy for twenty-four hours and I’d heard nothing. The phone I’d left her had moved from the airport to a car park in Bari and stopped moving. Something wasn’t right. She should have been in touch.
I was on the point of of sending Signor Russo to go and check on them when she called.
‘Sorry, Julie,’ she blurted out. ‘I know I should have rung before, but things got a bit … complicated.’
‘Complicated?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I showed Sam the email you sent me. The one that explained everything.’
‘You did what? I thought we’d agreed you wouldn’t.’
‘I had to. He found out I’d visited you in prison. I needed to do something.’
‘Bloody hell. How did he find that out?’
‘Apparently Daz asked the private investigator to do more digging.’
I held the phone away from my mouth as I struggled to swallow my involuntary screams of anger. Fucking Daz. I should have dealt with him first of all. What was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he leave me alone? I took a deep breath.
‘I see,’ I said. ‘Daz really is obsessed, isn’t he?’
‘Definitely,’ said Nicki. ‘But, to be fair, he was right to be suspicious.’
‘I suppose so,’ I said, fighting to keep my voice calm and relaxed despite the incandescent fury raging like a magnesium flare inside me. I looked down at my right hand where my fingernails had carved a neat row of crimson-oozing, new-moon crescents into my pale convict’s skin. This was not going to plan. ‘What did Sam say?’ I continued.
‘He said it was all bullshit, and that I was a naïve idiot if I believed any of it. I told him he was a paranoid child and left …’ The phone went silent for a few heartbeats. ‘… And here I am. Standing alone in a bloody carpark in Puglia.’