by Zoë Folbigg
‘OK sir, you cannot fli today, sir.’
‘I know that. When’s the ambulance coming?’
A small man with a bald head ran over and started tending to Olivia, checking her vitals.
‘Soon, we need jour boarding pass and pasaporte, sir.’
‘What?’
‘So I can get your equipment taken off the plane. For all of your group.’
The woman spoke to the gruff security official, who was holding out his hand.
‘Oh, right.’ Daniel handed over the passports and boarding passes, except Olivia’s, which was inside the little leather saddle bag slung across her body on the floor.
‘And jer?’
‘My wife, is she OK?’ Daniel asked the bald man.
‘Jer pasaporte, sir?’
‘For fuck’s sake, it’s in her bag! I don’t think we should move her!’ Daniel looked up to the crowd and shouted. ‘Has someone actually called an ambulance?!’
Sofia sobbed as tourists started to crowd around. A Swedish woman said she was a doctor and offered to help. The bald man nodded, to both Daniel and the Swedish doctor, as he listened to Olivia’s pulse.
‘Daddy! Is she dying?’ begged Sofia. ‘Please don’t let her die!’
Flora started crying now and pulled Sofia into her waist.
Daniel shook his head.
‘No sweetheart, Mummy just fainted, she’ll be fine. But I don’t think we’re flying home today.’
Eleven
September 1996
Cambridgeshire, England
‘Thank you so much for having us Mrs Cruddup, your home is adorable,’ Jim said, with earnest baby blues and a dashing smile, as he handed the woman with thick false eyelashes a Charles and Diana mug. His Fred Astaire charm was a veil for the scathing thoughts inside his head: that there was no fuckin’ way (as Jim often said in his sweet Valleys diction), he would touch the tepid tea inside the commemorative royal wedding cup, not after he saw Mrs Cruddup pouring UHT milk into it. On top of the teabag. So he tipped it out onto the pansies in the front garden when only Daniel was looking. ‘And thanks a million for showing us your gate,’ he added with a beam.
‘You’re welcome love,’ she said, touched to have been visited after all these months calling the paper.
Ever since Mrs Cruddup’s new gate had been fitted in the spring, and she noticed something different about it, she had been calling Lee on reception at the Elmworth Echo and asking him to put her through to someone on the news desk. After months of being fobbed off and Jim putting it off, they finally paid her a visit.
Jim, Daniel and Alan the photographer couldn’t deny that the gate to the neat front garden did indeed sound like Chewbacca from Star Wars mid-roar, as it opened and closed, and Jim was already thinking of the headline he could write to accompany the story.
‘WOOKIE WHAT WE HAVE HEAR!’
‘CHEWIE ON THAT, POSTMAN!’
‘HEAR THIS GATE, YOU MUST!’
‘THIS GATE NEEDS NO WOO-KEY!’
OK, they needed work, but it was a slow news week.
Daniel finished his glass of water and checked over his shorthand notes.
‘Yes, I think that’s everything. Thanks Mrs Cruddup, it’s been… a revelation.’
The woman gazed adoringly at the handsome young men in her hallway, before her eyes settled on Alan the photographer, who slurped down the last dregs of anaemic tea to fill a silence. Jim shot Daniel a quick look of repulsion and pretended to puke.
‘My pleasure! It’s been a long time since I had three handsome men in my house!’ Mrs Cruddup let out a saucy giggle, as Jim’s high forehead crinkled all the way up to his quiff and his eyes widened in alarm. Alan pulled his trousers up from under his girth, and handed his mug with a barn owl on it back to the genial host. Alan had enjoyed getting an array of shots of Mrs Cruddup lingering over the gate, her heavy false lashes fluttering and her frosty pink lipstick shimmering in the sunshine. Especially after she had pointedly told Daniel in his interview that Mr Cruddup wasn’t on the scene anymore.
‘Gross,’ Jim had whispered to Daniel, as they stood in the porch watching Alan at work, stifled by carpet and flocked wallpaper on a warm September afternoon.
‘Thanks for having us Beverly,’ Alan tried to smoulder.
‘Unless something major happens, it’ll run in Thursday’s issue,’ Jim said quickly, keen to leave.
‘Oh wonderful!’ The woman clasped her manicured hands together. ‘I shall look out for it. Thanks so much for coming,’ she said with an adoring smile. ‘Bye boys.’
‘Bye Mrs Cruddup,’ they echoed.
‘Bye Alan,’ she mouthed seductively as her hand gave a regal wave. Alan took out his handkerchief from his pocket and mopped the sweat beading under his combover.
‘I’ve just been sick in my mouth,’ Jim whispered behind clenched teeth as he and Daniel walked down the garden path ahead of Alan, lumbering under the weight of his body and his camera. Daniel tried not to laugh.
Mrs Cruddup closed the front door and they stopped at Alan’s low Citroen BX at the pavement.
‘Want a lift back to the office fellas?’ he asked as he unravelled his camera lead from his thick neck and leaned on the bonnet to catch his breath.
Daniel looked up and down the nondescript cul-de-sac, its 1960s houses with their identikit white uPVC doors.
‘I’m all right thanks Alan,’ he said gratefully.
‘Yes, we’ll walk back to town,’ Jim concurred. ‘It’ll do us good.’
Town was just a fifteen-minute walk out of the cul-de-sacs, under a railway bridge and down a hill: Jim and Daniel would rather that than find space for themselves among the discarded McDonald’s polystyrene, black 35mm film cases, crushed cans of Diet Coke (to offset the McDonald’s), camera bags, newspapers and a battered London A-Z.
‘As you will,’ said Alan slightly huffily, as he mopped his combover again, waved farewell and wheezed into the low seat.
Jim threw his courier bag over his crisp white T-shirt while Daniel put his pen and notepad into his backpack and slung it over his shoulder. They watched Alan drive off at an angle, his driver’s side skimming perilously close to the road.
‘Fuckin’ hell,’ exclaimed Jim. ‘I mean, no wonder he’s morbidly obese.’
Daniel knew he shouldn’t laugh.
‘Seriously, it will take Alan more bloody time to go round two sets of traffic lights, park, get to the building and squeeze his sweaty arse into that lift and up to the top floor than it will take us to walk it.’
‘He does have all his equipment,’ Daniel said, playing devil’s advocate.
‘And did you smell him?’ Jim’s lightly freckled nose turned upwards, ignoring Daniel’s point. ‘The BO is just dire. You would have to pay me a lot of money to get in that car. “We’ll walk thanks”’ he added, doing an impression of himself and chuckling.
Daniel felt a bit bad for Alan. Life couldn’t be easy shuffling around under his weight, carrying all his photography gear, getting from house to house, Scout parades, fun runs and the council offices, all in the name of being the Echo’s only staff photographer.
‘Anyway, it’s almost five. Fuck the office. Wanna get a drink?’ Jim asked, looking like he’d planned this all along.
‘Yeah, ace,’ Daniel said, a bit confused by the fact his new boss already felt more like a mate.
*
In the courtyard garden of a town-centre pub, Jim and Daniel sat drinking cider.
‘She’s not always such a cunny, you know,’ said Jim, as he savoured the taste of the end of summer.
Daniel nearly spat his out as he burst into laughter.
‘Who?’ he asked, knowing full well who Jim was talking about.
‘You know!’ he laughed. ‘She can occasionally show flashes of generosity, but she does love a mind game, does our Viv. You know… make you jump through hoops.’
Daniel rolled his eyes as if to say that much I guessed. In the three weeks he’d be
en working at the Echo, across the two issues he had contributed to, Viv Hart had sent every piece of copy Daniel filed back to him, riddled with red pen, asking him to rejig each story at least five times before another eleventh-hour change (and as a consequence, a late night putting the paper to bed). The most frustrating part? Each story had gone to print looking rather like the piece Daniel had originally submitted. It seemed an awful waste of time and energy.
Jim couldn’t help but notice that Viv was ‘pulling a Viv’ on poor Daniel, as they sat opposite each other on the news desk in the editorial half of the office.
‘Even if you filed something the way it was printed – she would have changed it. She’s a mindfuck. I wish I could bend space and time to test her on it – get a story she’s happy with in the future, bring it back, file it, and see how she tears it apart.’
‘Alan doesn’t have a flux capacitor in that Citroen of his then?’ Daniel asked, mopping the thin line of Magners from his upper lip. The feeling of bristles under his thumb reminded him to shave tomorrow.
‘Not unless it’s powered by McNuggets.’
Daniel smiled and flipped the bar mat next to his drink.
‘Look,’ said Jim conspiratorially, his Welsh voice oozing volume and clarity, even when he was trying to be quiet and candid. ‘I don’t want to dishearten you. You’re doing a great job – and everyone likes you.’
Daniel made a keen face as if to say, really?
‘Gail in sales definitely likes you.’ Daniel raised an eyebrow even though he couldn’t remember which one Gail was. ‘Well, who can blame her? And don’t do that raising one eyebrow thing Daniel Bleeker or I will fancy you too…’
Daniel blushed.
‘I guess what I mean is, write what you’re happy with. And leave it at that. She’s an awkward bugger and she’ll change it anyway. I spent too many hours busting a gut to write stories I was proud of, only to have this tussle. It’s sooooo tedious.’
‘How long have you been at the Echo?’ Daniel asked.
‘Five years.’ Jim looked sheepish for once, and glanced around the pub garden to check no one was listening. ‘To be honest Daniel, I’m trying to get onto a national. That’s why I feel a bit better about it since you started. I don’t feel so guilty. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve enjoyed living in Elmworth. And walking to work is super handy – I know working on a national paper will be a bigger slog and a bigger commute – but don’t let that trap you. Like Alan. He’s been there thirty-six years! Not that he walks to work…’
‘Thirty-six years? Fucking hell.’
‘How old are you Daniel?’
‘Twenty-two. You?’
‘Twenty-six. Don’t still be here when you’re Alan’s age.’
‘Don’t worry, it’s only been a few weeks!’
‘I know, I just see how Viv gets people in her clutches…’
‘I’m just grateful to have the job. It’s been a weird few months since I graduated,’ Daniel confessed.
‘You moved back in with your parents?’
Daniel was embarrassed, but Jim’s face was nothing but open and kind.
‘Yeah, my mum, dad and brother. On Albert Road.’
‘Now that is a handy walk to work.’
‘I know. Lucked out really. Although I’d love to work on a national too, I’m grateful for this for now.’
‘Ahhh, you’re too nice Daniel Bleeker. You don’t have to pretend that the Echo is your dream job, even if you said as much to Viv. I don’t want to be writing about gates that sound like fucking Chewbacca, or the man who didn’t know what to do with his four-foot courgette. Or the kitten who looks like Hitler. I’m sure you won’t want to soon either.’
‘Yeah, I guess. It’s a good start though.’
‘Just be careful – everyone at the Echo has been there forever. Bill and Andy on Art – at least thirty years between them. The salesgirls have been there since they finished their O levels,’ he said, to make a point about just how long ago that was. ‘Viv makes it very easy to stay because it’s so convenient, all the while why she chips away at your confidence, to make you think you can’t ever leave.’
Daniel looked nervy.
‘Just a caution, that’s all.’
‘Noted,’ Daniel nodded, looking like he was settling in and ready for another pint.
A man with high cheekbones and floppy hair came to collect the empties and Jim gave the bum of his low-slung jeans a cursory glance.
‘So, are you dating anyone? Gotta girlfriend?’
Jim could tell that Daniel was brooding over someone. A girl probably. He had that slightly forlorn look about him. And he hadn’t seemed that keen in pursuing the Gail piece of intel; his mind was clearly elsewhere.
‘I did have. But it’s…’
‘Complicated?’ they both said in unison, and laughed.
Jim Beck’s face looked sad and sympathetic at the same time.
‘I was, sort of, dumped. Rather, I was dumped. At the start of summer.’
‘Bitch. I don’t like her.’
Jim’s acerbic tongue jarred with his cute Disney baby face.
‘We’d been together five years…’
‘Shit! You were young.’
‘I know,’ Daniel lamented.
‘The uni years! She robbed you of your uni years?!’
‘Yeah, and the lads’ holiday to Magaluf,’ Daniel mourned. ‘Although that’s no bad thing, I guess.’
‘No, I’ve been. It isn’t.’
‘We got together during our A levels, she went to the girls’ school here; I went to the boys’ school – then I went to do journalism and she studied speech and language in Brighton.’
Daniel told Jim about the travelling part, how Kelly had scuppered their big trip Down Under when they both finished their degrees; about her expecting him to give up his ticket for a dork called Ian.
‘What a cow! How dare she?!’
‘Well, it’s fine – we weren’t right,’ Daniel said philosophically, not saying out loud that Kelly had already knocked the confidence out of him – Viv Hart really didn’t have too much of a task on her hands. ‘I was gutted, but it’s OK.’
‘Good for you.’
‘And I kind of met someone while I was travelling.’
‘Even better! What’s she like? Aussie surfer babe with big knockers and mermaid hair…?’
Daniel pondered Olivia for a second. Describing her wasn’t easy.
‘…like a Botticelli, rising from the ocean on a shell?’ Jim asked keenly.
Daniel ruffled his hair. She certainly looked like an Italian masterpiece. But one with swarthy skin and a Cindy C mole.
‘She was a babe, that I can say.’
‘Nice.’
‘Not a surfer, I don’t think so anyway. She’s Italian actually.’
‘Fit,’ Jim said, annunciating his t.
‘And coming to London to study this autumn. She might already be here.’ Daniel pre-empted the excitement on Jim’s face. ‘I don’t have any contact details for her though.’
‘Oh.’
Jim looked as disappointed as Daniel felt, but tried to think of a solution.
‘Electoral register?’
‘Could an Italian be on it?’
‘For the local elections, I think so,’ nodded Jim assuredly, finishing off his pint.
‘Well, she wouldn’t be on it yet. She has family in Scotland though. Edinburgh.’
‘What’s her name?’
Then Daniel realised. He didn’t know it. He really didn’t know much about her, other than the fact she was called Olivia. She went to an international school in Milan. Her birth mother was Scottish. She liked karaoke and Dolly Parton. And making clothes. She could jive. Her dad worked at Pirelli but died earlier this year. She was about to go to Central Saint Martins. Oh and her date of birth must be 29th July 1975.
‘Olivia.’
Olivia. He said it out loud for the first time since their night at the bottom of the world
and it made him sit up on his barstool a little taller.
‘Anything else? Did you get an email?’
‘No, no email. I just know she’s going to be studying at Central Saint Martins from the “fall”. I know nothing else.’
‘Do you want to track her down?’
‘Do you know how I can?’
Come on, Daniel thought. He was a reporter now. He had to think big. Surely it was within his grasp to find out a way of contacting an Olivia at Central Saint Martins. He looked at Jim hopefully.
‘I don’t really know, without a surname you’re a bit screwed.’
Daniel frowned and flipped the bar mat again.
‘It’s fine, she wasn’t that into me anyway. I was just the only person around that day to talk to.’
Jim looked aghast and gasped.
‘None of that defeatist talk please. Of course she must have fancied you!’
Daniel laughed and shrugged it off. ‘Well, I don’t know…’
‘Nonsense Daniel! Are you the Clark Kent to my Lois Lane or what? I don’t know how to find a foreign national based only on her first name, but between us we will find a bloody way, I can assure you.’
Daniel raised an eyebrow again and Jim raised a finger as if to say stop it.
‘Now if she lived in bloody Elmworth I’d be able to sniff her out in a second. Freaky natives—’ Jim cut himself short, remembering he was talking to one – although Daniel had been to university and travelling, so he didn’t count.
‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Daniel cocking his empty pint glass. ‘Another? It’s my round.’
‘Yeah I’ll have a gin and tonic please. I need something stronger after that horny old biddy and her gate.’ Jim shuddered melodramatically.
Daniel laughed and slouched inside to the bar, while Jim picked up a copy of The Mirror from the next table, unfolded the front page, and did a Chewbacca-style roar to himself.
Twelve
August 2017
Ibiza, Spain
Mimi walked swiftly down a sunlit corridor, little feet making big strides against large shiny tiles that captured the sun’s sparkle. In a room on the seventh floor she saw Flora, curled up in a chair looking at her phone. Daniel was sitting behind her, in a large ledge of a window that wouldn’t open, a long pane of glass overlooking the beige exterior of a brewery and a concrete flyover on a parched August afternoon. He was sending emails from his window seat, updating his editor on The Situation in Spain and why he hadn’t come back to work today as planned, as Sofia lay against Olivia on the bed, playing Harry Potter Top Trumps with her mother.