Guilty Feet (2 page)

Dear
Dan

I
don’t
usually
write
to
people
I
don’t
know
,
but
since
you
publish
your
e
-
mail
address
I
assume
you
won’t
mind
too
much
.
I
recently
read
something
you
wrote
about
Bob
Dylan
and
it
struck
a
chord
,
so
to
speak
.
I
might
not
be
of
his
generation
but
my
parents
are
,
and
hearing
his
stuff
in
my
formative
years
left
a
big
impression
on
me
.
What
I
liked
about
your
article
,
though
,
was
the
fact
that
you’re
obviously
not
one
of
those
people
that
sees
him
as
some
sort
of
god
(like
my
parents
did
—
still
do
,
in
fact).

Just the thought of my parents worshipping Dylan made me laugh out loud. They were both light opera freaks, had been even when everyone else was getting excited about the Beatles, and till this day remained stalwarts of the local Gilbert and Sullivan Society. I couldn’t be certain they’d even heard of Bob Dylan. Nobody in the office seemed to notice my outburst, or if they did they couldn’t be bothered to comment on it or ask what I’d found so funny, so I got back into Sarah mode.

I’d said what I did because I knew Dan had this thing about people who considered Dylan to be some kind of minor deity. It was meant to provide a connection between the e-mailer and e-mailee, but it still didn’t mean he had to reply. Unfortunately I’d already used up the full extent of my Dylan knowledge, but after thinking about it for a while I came up with what I hoped was the clincher, something he could rarely resist...

I
know
there
are
a
lot
of
books
written
about
him
,
but
I
wonder
if
you
would
mind
recommending
a
particularly
good
one
that
I
could
give
to
my
parents
for
Christmas
.
Something
authoritative
but
not
too
fawning
.
Something
that
shows
the
man
with
all
his
flaws
as
well
as
the
artist
.

Thanks
and
best
wishes

Sarah
Daly

I read and re-read it several times before clicking onto the
send
symbol, and then I read the sent copy again and regretted it. Sarah sounded so—I don’t know—silly and naïve? And I’m not sure I would have bothered writing back to her, even if she did ask me for a recommendation.

But there was no getting it back, and no harm really done. And although it wasn’t exactly wicked, or wild or very vengeful, writing to Dan, trying to fool him into believing that I was somebody else, wasting some of his precious time, made me feel better than I had in ages.

I resolved to dig out some of the articles I’d kept of Dan’s that evening, and the two books he’d written on people whose names I couldn’t recall at that moment. I would familiarise myself with his work, turn myself into a music fan.

And if Sarah let me down I would go in with the big guns next time. I’d invent someone else, a Tara or a Tiffany, who’d be sassy and knowledgeable and opinionated. Because, although I still didn’t really know why, I was determined to start some regular bogus correspondence with Dan.

It started to rain as I left the office, and I hadn’t brought an umbrella or coat with me. I was wearing one of the expensive suits I’d splashed out on after receiving my first big pay cheque, and because I might never be able to afford anything half so nice ever again I didn’t want to get it wet. So I darted into the Italian, which was handily placed just down the road. It served the best cappuccino in Leeds, and during the past year at Pisus UK it had become my local.

Though it didn’t close till six o’clock, the place usually started to wind down at five, and with a bit of luck Marco would have time to flirt with me. Since my break-up with Dan I often went there for this very purpose. It was a bit of cheap therapy, really, having a big hunky Leeds Italian calling me ‘Bella Joanna’ and begging me to go out with him. I guessed most women over sixteen and under forty-five received the exact same treatment, but as long as he didn’t do it when I was around I felt pretty special for a while. Giovanna, Marco’s mother, was singing ‘Volaré’
when I entered the café. It was such a big cliché of a song and she sang it so often that at first I thought she was a pretend Italian. Especially since she had very pale skin and corn-coloured hair, which she always swept into an elegant plait at the back of her head. But it turned out that I was wrong. She was completely authentic, first generation, moved here from Milan when she was just nineteen. When she wasn’t singing ‘Volaré’, she liked to talk a lot in a rather loud, still heavily accented voice that used to alarm me. It made her sound fierce, but in fact she is anything but.

Over the time I’d been going in there I’d learnt quite a lot about her life. I now knew that Marco’s father was an Englishman whom she’d met and fallen madly in love with when she was working here as an au pair.

‘
Ciao
bella!
’ Marco cried, as he emerged from the kitchen behind the counter. By now Giovanna had stopped singing ‘Volaré’
and was asking me how things were going at Pisus as the big old-fashioned and noisy, all singing and dancing coffee machine frothed up my cappuccino.

Marco came round from behind the counter and squeezed the breath out of me. I’d asked him once about his father and he told me that he ‘wouldn’t piss on the bastard if he caught fire.’ Which gave me a pretty good indication about his feelings for the man who’d turned out to be married and had abandoned both mother and child when they needed him most. It seemed the world was full of lying, deceiving and bullshitting bastards!

‘I expected to be out of a job by now,’ I said when he let me go, ‘but it looks like we’ve weathered the storm for another day.’

Giovanna patted my hand as she placed my cappuccino on the counter. ‘You mustn’t worry, Joanna. A pretty, clever girl like-a you will soon-a find work.’ Then she threw up her arms in a gesture of dismissive flamboyance. ‘Anyway, you waste-a your time in that office. With looks like-a yours you should-a be in the movies!’

I could see where her son had learnt some of his lines.

‘Thanks, Giovanna,’ I said with a wide, silly grin. ‘And I don’t know about that but I do feel quite cheerful today. Quite optimistic.’

Marco beamed as he picked up the huge cup and saucer and took it to a table near the window. The place looked as if they’d had the theme-makers in but, just like Giovanna, the café’s decor was completely authentic—chrome and sky-blue Formica Fifties kitsch. It was perhaps fortunate that someone like Giovanna had taken over the café all those years ago, when she’d been left in the lurch by her English lover. She wasn’t the type for fussy new fads. She was of the if-it’s-not-broken-why-fix-it school and, fashions being what they are, the café’s decor was once again the very height of cool.

Marco sat down opposite me. He was a dangerously handsome man, but because I knew him so well, and because he really wasn’t my type, I couldn’t bring myself to fancy him. Unlike his mother, he had dark hair and skin, like Italians are supposed to, but he spoke with a marked Leeds accent. His toothpaste-ad smile matched impossibly white shirts, and I kept meaning to ask Giovanna what her secret was—not about her son’s teeth but the whiteness of her wash, which I was fairly certain she would be responsible for. My own so-called whites varied from just a little bit ‘off’ to something closer to silvery grey.

‘Joanna,’ he said, lowering his voice so his mother couldn’t hear him. There were only two other people in at the moment, and sound carried well over chrome and Formica.

‘Yes, Marco,’ I whispered back, moving closer to him across the table to join in the conspiracy game.

‘I have to go away soon for a while, and I wondered if you would like to fill in for me here.’

I was completely taken aback. ‘It’s good of you, Marco, but I don’t want to tread on anyone’s toes.’ I knew that he already had people who helped out in the café when he took time off.

‘It’s OK,’ he said. ‘I’ve already checked and no one’s available. And it’s you that would be doing me a favour.’

‘But I might not be available till the end of the month.’ I was still hanging on to my hope of Pisus surviving that long.

‘I understand and it doesn’t matter. I can go any time. I just need someone who’s, well...flexible. I’ll only be away a week, but I’d be happy to keep you on till you found something else.’

I could do flexible, I supposed as I spooned chocolate-covered froth off my coffee. And I couldn’t afford to have gaps between jobs. I glanced up at Marco and he looked so anxious that I began to wonder what this was really about. Why was he whispering? What didn’t he want Giovanna to know about?

‘OK,’ I said, ‘you’ve got a deal.’ I looked over at his mother, who was humming something melancholy now, not her usual style at all. ‘I take it you don’t want me to mention anything yet to Giovanna?’

He looked a bit shifty, then he grinned. ‘Like-a Mamma says,’ he said, doing the accent, ‘you are clever as well as pretty Joanna. But don’t worry, she’s going to love the idea.’

Chapter Two

Dan Baxter groaned aloud when he heard the knock at his door. He glanced at his wristwatch and was surprised to find it was seven-thirty. He’d been working since six that morning and had only stopped twice for coffee and once for a corned beef sandwich. Suddenly he was aware of how hungry and thirsty he was.

He frowned as he looked back at the computer screen and considered ignoring the knock. It was more or less time to wind things up, but he’d sooner work through the night than answer the door to who he guessed was out there. The knock sounded again, more forcefully now, and he knew he would have to answer it. If it really was who he thought it would be he was pretty certain she wouldn’t give up.

It
was
who he’d thought it would be. Libby, standing there with a large covered tray. She’d been playing Mother quite a lot since he started the book, but if this was food she’d brought with her then she was stepping the role up a pace.

She looked as if she’d just come out of the shower, all pink and shiny and make-up-free. The ends of her curly shoulder-length hair were damp, and at first glance she looked almost attractive. She didn’t usually wear it loose, and just for a moment he was reminded of Jo, whose hair was curly and shoulder-length, but just a different colour.

Libby was wearing a pale turquoise fleece zipped up to the neck and, from what he could see beneath the tray, something dark that covered the whole of her legs. She didn’t look as if she’d come to try and seduce him, he thought, and then immediately felt guilty for entertaining this idea again. Nothing she’d done so far had given him cause to suppose she was trying to be anything but a friend. It was just an odd feeling he got now and then.

She beamed at him now and, sliding one hand beneath the tray to support it, she used the other to lift the blue and white tea towel a little at the corner. The aroma of something delicious wafted temptingly up.

‘Lemon chicken,’ she trilled, nudging past him into the hallway.