'Seventeen.' Bethan pulled at the fronds of two-tone hair around her face.
Judith glanced at Kieran. 'And you're twenty-two.'
'I know that.' He pulled his bottle of strong lager towards him. 'There's no law against it, is there? You don't seem to worry about age gaps in your own relationships.'
She stared down into her cold white wine, and suddenly didn't want it. Put it back on the table.
'Sorry,' he mumbled.
'It's OK. Age gaps are all a question of perspective and...' She fumbled for a word. ' - wisdom.'
He frowned, and she knew he was searching for her meaning and suspecting her disapproval.
When she'd had enough of Kieran and Bethan's in-your-face conducting of their courtship, all those yawning kisses even if she were half-way through a sentence, she stepped out into the late evening purple darkness and left them to it.
It was drizzling. 'Bloody weather,' she muttered, turning up her collar. She was aware that it was foolish to wander the streets late at night on her own. This wasn't Malta where the world and his wife would be strolling in the comfortable evening temperatures along the promenade from Sliema to Spinola, without any sensation of threat. This was Brinham, which had its bad areas like most towns, and a sensible British personal safety code must be followed. It didn't pay to wander back streets with a handbag on show, late at night, alone.
Her phone beeped, and she fished it from her pocket.
A text message from Richard.
Must speak, can u get 2 landline?
She stared. It would be nearly midnight already in Malta. She returned, Will be @ Molly's house 30 mins.
And turned back towards the taxi rank.
Chapter Eight
Molly had gone to bed.
Frankie was asleep in his chair, paper collapsed on his lap, glasses skewed, mouth open.
The house was still, dark except for a small reading lamp reflecting shinily on Frankie's head, and a long-life bulb that lit the stairs. Creeping quietly, Judith took the cordless phone from its stand in the hall to her room. The instant it rang, she depressed the key to ensure the others weren't disturbed.
Richard's voice filled her head, warm, friendly, reminding her sharply of Malta, the office, Erminia, her cousins. She pictured him at home with the doors and windows open to the night, stroking his smart little moustache, his feet bare on the tiles, Erminia reading a magazine in the background from the light of a lamp with a pink tasselled shade. 'Molly said you were out with Kieran; sorry to have to bring you home early.'
'No problem. What's up?'
'Business.' He sighed. 'Are you alone?'
She gripped the handset more tightly. 'Yes.' She could hear a tremor in her voice.
'It's bad news.' Another sigh. 'It's just that... well, Sliema Z Bus Tours have gone bust.'
Bust. She examined the word. Bust? Bust. She couldn't, for a moment, see its relevance to Sliema Z Bus Tours. Or, of course, she could. But it couldn't be that. That would be too terrible. That would mean...
Her mouth went numb. She fought to remain calm. 'What's happened?'
'I wrote to the directors advising them that you wished to sell your shares, and offering them the option, as we agreed. What I got back was a notice about insolvency, and the address of the Liquidator.'
'Oh my God,' she breathed.
'I didn't bother you at that stage, because I thought it was simply a mistake. It couldn't be insolvency, obviously. Probably something to do with structure, you know, because of Giorgio not being able to administer his own affairs. A technicality.'
His voice began to echo in her ears. 'But it isn't?'
'No.' A hesitation. 'A notice was among the mail at your apartment. They're in liquidation.'
Blood thundered. Disbelief coloured her words. 'That's ridiculous! Stupid! They're not in liquidation, I invested thirty thousand liri, they're negotiating to buy new buses. If they were in trouble they would've cancelled the expansion and simply used the money to trade out of their difficulties - '
'It's gone.'
Wordlessly, she wiped sweat from her top lip and the base of her throat.
'Your money's gone. I've had a long talk with Anton and Gordon. I've been with them all evening. After you, and other private investors, took shares in exchange for investment to fund the planned expansion, one of their drivers caused a fatal road accident. The company's insurance had lapsed.'
Judith closed her eyes, very tightly. 'That can't have taken all the money?'
Richard's voice was gentle. 'More than. The Liquidator's selling the bits and pieces they owned, but the premises were rented and the other vehicles were leased. You know how these things are arranged. The Liquidator is making his usual enquiries about directorial negligence.'
'Because the business is insolvent?'
'It's a complete house of cards. I'm sorry, Judith.' A long silence. A slow breath, then he added, in a rush, 'Anton says Giorgio was responsible for insurance matters.'
'I see.'
'I wish I could offer to return the money you invested in Richard Morgan Estate, but I don't think it's on at the moment.' Richard Morgan Estate had bought into a new hotel development, a small one. And they'd been so bloody excited to be involved. And tie up their capital.
She scarcely slept. By early morning she was pacing the misty streets of Brinham, hoping the sun would burn the dampness off soon.
Giorgio.
A massive heave of sadness, her eyes boiling at the memory of the hospital, the tubes and beeping machines.
Cass had been right. How much better for her final memory to be Giorgio smiling, laughing, plunging his unbroken body into the sea, spending a raucous day on a fishing boat with his mates, drinking golden Cisk beer or bitter black espresso, eating unpeeled, sun-dried figs, farkizzan. Swaying with the movement of an impressive, modern, air-conditioned coach, eyes sparkling and hands gesticulating, captivating his passengers with tales of village festas, bareback donkey races, parades and ghannejja or folk singers. Ushering the tourists around ancient cities built of stone, catacombs and prehistoric temples, old film sets and bustling markets.
Had he realised then how close disaster loomed?
The impression Sliema Z Bus Tours gave was certainly one of prosperity, with the shiny cream coaches with rainbows on the side and an itinerary bursting with fun, history and culture. It didn't look, as Richard termed it, a house of cards, which one bit of mismanagement would send fluttering to the ground.
Had Giorgio known?
Surely he'd been comfortable that she'd see her investment again? That his seeking of private venture capital was legitimate? It must have been oversight or false economy that led to the vital insurance policy being allowed to lapse. She was fiercely certain it wasn't shady commerce.
Giorgio wouldn't have done that to her!
But, whichever, it had left her high and dry and she could hardly challenge him about it now.
There would be about two thousand pounds to come from the sale of her car, and although she had Adam Leblond's rent, she had to allow for council tax, insurance etc out of it. It wasn't exactly an income.
Living for free at her sister's house could scarcely continue, she was the kind who felt an overwhelming need to pay her way. And at such time as she got her own house back she'd have electricity bills, gas, water, food... She sighed.
She'd have to damned well get a job.
And before too much longer.
Her feet took her into town where the market traders were setting up stalls and the butcher optimistically winding out his canopy to shade his window display from sunshine. A postman pushed a pram-like mail carrier up the street, pausing to force packets of letters through letter flaps set low in shop doors. Paperboys cycled on the pavement with baseball caps far back on heads of tightly cut hair, people hurried to work or sauntered to the newsagent.
Judith crossed Market Square into High Street. What kind of job should she be looking for? Before she went to
Malta she'd worked long hours for big construction companies on sites like muddy, rumbling, cities. But she didn't want to go back to that, all the regs and permissions and head-in-the-clouds architects. The awful headaches of large projects. Things had changed, she'd have to get her head around updates and new conventions for things like glazing and insulation. And she'd have to overcome that male dominated world all over again.
No.
Girly, possibly, but she just couldn't hack it at the moment, too much pressure for someone whose emotions were all over the place.
A decent part-time job should be enough.
But something interesting. Not a shop, not a bank, not a big bland office, not a call centre, not a pub...
'Judith!'
She blinked herself out of her list of negatives. Tom stood across the High Street, shoulders hunched, a navy baseball cap pulled over his eyes. He waited for the lights to stop the traffic, then crossed to her pavement.
She regarded him with misgivings. She was not in the mood for more of Tom's grumpiness - 'being in a mardy', as the local slang would have it.
But today Tom seemed quite genial. 'Fancy a cuppa? There's a new caff up here, Hannah's Pantry, and they do a beautiful brew.'
Others were already enjoying the fruits of Hannah's Pantry. It was panelled out in pine and served tea and coffee in mugs, with milk from a jug and sugar from a bowl and luscious homemade cakes from a glassed-in counter. The staff members were young, probably sixth formers, with one bulky woman - Hannah - in charge.
'Mornin' Tom.' Hannah reached around her chest to pop toast from an enormous chrome toaster.
'Morning, Hannah.'
'All right, Tom?' A tall young man did a squirt-and-wipe on a table.
'Hey, Tom.' A diminutive girl rapidly set out a range of jams and marmalades, wiping each jar.
By the time that Tom had exchanged greetings with three staff and two customers, Judith had got the idea that he was a regular. They ordered coffee and toast and sat down at a pine table near the steamy windows. At the bottom of the glass the ghost of a smiley face from a previous layer of condensation beamed out.
Tom asked Judith about Malta. Judith told him a little of her life there but nothing about Giorgio, because apart from being just too weird to discuss him with her ex-husband, she simply didn't want to let Tom in. Giorgio was too precious, too special, too private to open to Tom's gruff brand of sympathy. Or, even, lack of sympathy.
'So what do you intend to do with yourself?' His large teeth crunched into toast made from thick, white bread and running with butter. Awake, washed and brushed, he looked considerably better than he had done when she'd seen him last.
She spread ginger marmalade, and took a bite, enjoying that particularly British combination of hot toast, cold conserve, and a slick of butter between the two. 'A job's high on my list of priorities.' She sipped her hot tea from the forest-green mug.
He grunted. 'Back to the hard hat and wellies?'
'Hope not. I don't want to work full-time. Don't particularly want the stress of site meetings and trying to make architects understand why their pretty picture won't work on the ground. You know what that's like! I'll have to look around, think about what I can do.'
He talked around his food. 'I could look out for you.'
She selected lemon curd to spread on her second slice of toast. Tom was already on his fourth. She crunched into the toast and the tart-sweet bite of the lemon. 'Thanks, but I don't want to be in construction.' And she didn't want to be involved too closely with Tom.
When breakfast was over she walked around three of the town's job agencies, gazing into windows to read the cards in the P/time columns. Nothing to take her fancy, the agencies all seemed to deal mostly with payroll, warehouse or driving. She could sign on at an agency for professional people, but then, surely, wouldn't they be offering her jobs within her profession?
All her life she'd decided what to do and then done it. This unsettled purposelessness was foreign.
She knew she wanted something different. Something... well, she didn't understand what. But different. For lack of anything else to do, she turned for Molly's house.
Her route took her close to Lavender Row. She slowed. No harm in calling in to see if Adam Leblond had begun the hunt for alternative accommodation. It might delay the return to the frigid life of Moll and Frankie for half-an-hour.
He was speaking on the phone when he answered the door, and gestured her into the house with a flash of his smile. She went in. In the sitting room the computer in the alcove displayed a screenful of thumbnail images and a cable attached a matt black camera. Silver photographer's cases stood nearby, paperwork was laid out neatly across the carpet. 'Two minutes,' he mouthed.
Then, into the phone, with restrained patience, 'But that wasn't what you asked for. Of course I could have done the garden as well, but this is a bit after the event, isn't it? I can't rewind time.' He listened for a minute. 'Let me know tomorrow if you want me to schedule another shoot.'
The moment he clicked the phone off and began, 'Hello - ' the phone rang again. He grimaced. 'Sorry! But do you mind?'
'Go ahead.' She picked up a glossy home magazine to flip through while he entered into another conversation, clamping the phone to his left ear with his shoulder and scribbling awkwardly with his right hand, the pen lodged between his thumb and the knuckle where his first finger used to be.
'Yes, I said I can. How many? What's the angle? Well, you must know the writer's... E-mail that to me, then.'
He put down the phone, scribbled on for a few moments, then flung himself down on the sofa, shoving back his hair.
She closed the magazine. 'Sorry. I really shouldn't turn up unannounced. I didn't think you'd be working on a Sunday.'
He blew out his lips. 'I shouldn't be. Unfortunately, I've just lost my assistant, so I have to deal with my paperwork myself. And the phone call was from a picture editor who can access her computer network from home. Probably sitting on the lawn with her laptop catching up on a few things while her kids play in the paddling pool.'
'You work for magazines?'
'Mostly. Mags schedule features, then contact me to shoot the accompanying pix for them. A lot are case histories, you know, I had an affair with the cannibal next door sort of thing. I cover the midlands for several titles. Very busy at the moment.'
She felt like breathing a Kieran-like, 'That's so cool!' But restricted herself instead to, 'So you won't have had a minute to start looking for alternative accommodation?'
'No need.' His calm eyes hardened. 'Nowhere near August twenty-first. That's when you can run an inventory, inspect the property, give me back my key money, and I'll go.'
Judith's stomach dipped.
Key money.
She'd forgotten she held his key money. The modest savings she'd thought she still had plummeted by about twenty-five per cent. Rats.
He grinned, suddenly, and all the grooves beside his mouth and eyes deepened. 'Do you know you've got marmalade on your chin?'
She rose with a sigh to glare into the mirror over the fireplace. The cleft of her chin was decorated by a smear like a comma. 'Bugger.' She scrubbed at her chin with lick-and-tissue, succeeding in making the skin pink. 'I had breakfast with my ex. His idea of fun not to tell me, I suppose.'
'Breakfast with your ex? Civilised.'
'Accidental meeting.' She returned to her seat, her chin burning slightly and her cheeks burning a lot. 'Then I went looking in job agency windows.'
His eyes were interested. 'You're looking for a job?'
She wrinkled her nose. 'Economic necessity, like anyone. Something part-time, hopefully.'
'What sort of thing? Because I'm desperate for someone like you to help me on a big shoot, tomorrow.'
'Like me? What am I like?'
He gestured vaguely. 'Personable, with a brain. I have a hassly day scheduled. Got to drive to a village near Coventry and take shots of a family with thirteen children, ranging from
a new baby to twins of twenty. Nightmare trying to keep everyone happy at the best of times, let alone so many kids. And everything's more difficult since...' He indicated his damaged hand. 'I had a brilliant assistant, Daria, a friend's daughter who came on shoots and did my routine phone calls and invoicing and stuff. Terrific. But she's just run off to Northumberland after a whirlwind holiday romance, leaving me stuck.'
She glanced at equipment cases on the floor, open to display grey felt-lined compartments packed with cables and lenses. 'Doesn't sound too difficult.'
His face lit up. 'So you'll give it a go? That's terrific!'
She was taken aback at this leap of faith. She'd actually meant it didn't sound too difficult so he ought not have trouble filling the vacancy. Did she want to be a photographer's assistant? How many people did it take to hold a camera? 'Wouldn't you need someone full-time? And permanent?'
'Two days one week, four days the next, depending. I'll advertise for someone permanent, but in the meantime I've got tomorrow to get through. You'd be doing me a huge favour if you helped out. I pay by the day.' The sum he mentioned seemed to Judith to be worthwhile.
'Oh. Um. Well, perhaps just while you advertise,' she managed, eventually. 'I have no relevant experience or qualifications.'
Decisively, he pulled one of the metal cases towards him and picked up a lens in his left hand and a camera body in the right. 'I don't expect you to, I can teach you what you need to know. Let's start by me telling you the names of things...'
At the end of two hours she was dizzy with changing lenses, taking equipment on and off tripods and putting the settings he wanted on the Nikon cameras.
'Earlyish start in the morning.' Every item was now tidily back in its compartment. 'Can you be here by seven? I need to get going about then. The shoot's not till ten, but you know what the traffic can be like at that time in the morning.'
Chapter Nine
'About' seven proved to be deceptively casual.
She was two minutes late, having found it difficult to wake after the sleeplessness of the night before, and arrived to find the gear loaded and Adam in the driving seat of his car, waiting. He started the engine as she plumped into the passenger seat.
Uphill All The Way Page 7