One Night in Italy (23 page)

‘One down, nine to go,’ she muttered under her breath. She dug out the list of agencies she’d contacted and scribbled a line through Jenny Hayes Recruitment so hard the pen tore through the paper. Jenny Hayes and the snotty little madam who worked for her could shove their data entry somewhere painful. Things could only get better, right?

Wrong. Things only got worse. Selective Recruitment were . . . well, too bloody selective to want her. Crown Appointments did not give her the royal welcome. Even Domestic Goddesses, who specialized in cleaning work, didn’t have anything suitable. She was starting to feel desperate. Didn’t anyone want her? Was there nothing she could do?

‘Hey! Catherine!’ She was just walking up Pinstone Street towards the last agency on her list, when she heard her name. Turning blankly, she noticed Phoebe, from the Italian class, leaning out of a nearby hairdresser’s and waving.

‘Hi,’ she said, glad to see a friendly face at last. ‘Hair Raisers – is this you, then?’

‘Certainly is. What are you up to? Bit of shopping?’

Catherine pulled a face. ‘Trying to get a bloody job,’ she said. ‘And failing horrendously. There’s just nothing out there.’

‘I know.’ Phoebe nodded sympathetically. ‘My fella Liam’s trying to find something too. Pants, isn’t it?’

‘Totally pants. Great big horrible stained old pants.’

Phoebe giggled. ‘Hey, why don’t you come in, have a cup of tea? I haven’t got a client for another hour and you look like you need a break.’

Catherine’s feet were killing her. The thought of sitting down and having a drink was too tempting to resist. ‘That would be brilliant,’ she said gratefully. ‘Thanks.’

Phoebe considered her for a moment. ‘Tell you what,’ she said. ‘As I’m free, why don’t I give you a quick cut and blow-dry? On the house.’

‘Oh, I couldn’t.’

‘Course you could. Come on, let me take your coat. I’m telling you, a fringe would totally suit you . . .’

Before Catherine knew it, she was having her hair washed with sudsy apple-smelling shampoo, a steaming cup of coffee beside her. ‘Now, then,’ Phoebe said afterwards, guiding Catherine to a large comfortable chair in front of a mirror and combing out her damp hair. ‘I’m thinking a bit more shape around the front, maybe some layers to add some weight at the back, and you’ve got to let me cut you a fringe, Cath. Trust me on this, it will revolutionize your face.’

‘Er . . .’ Catherine wasn’t entirely sure she wanted her face revolutionized, but Phoebe was so charming and persuasive (and the coffee was so bloody lovely) that she felt powerless to refuse. And it had been ages since she’d thought twice about her hair, other than shoving it into a ponytail. Maybe a change would do her good.

Just as Phoebe was getting to work with her scissors, a platinum-blonde woman in a white coat walked through the door. Catherine jerked in her chair. Oh no. It wasn’t, was it? It couldn’t be. Please, no!

‘Ooh Gawd, nearly took your ear off there, Cath,’ Phoebe yelped. ‘Are you okay?’

Catherine barely heard. She was too busy staring at the new arrival. Pristine white trench-coat. High black heels. A well-cut tan leather bag. Of course, she hadn’t had any of that lot on when Catherine had last seen her. Only the red lipstick was the same.

‘Cath?’ Phoebe was saying, puzzled. ‘What’s up? You’ve gone really pale. Have you changed your mind about the fringe?’

‘I’ve got a two o’clock appointment with Melissa,’ the woman announced to the receptionist. ‘Rebecca Hale.’

Rebecca. It
was
her. Last seen stark naked with her legs wrapped around Mike. That nasty smirk.
Oops.

‘Shit,’ Catherine muttered, twisting her head to hide her face as Rebecca was helped into a black protective gown. ‘Oh God. I need to go.’

‘Why?’ Phoebe sat in the chair next to her. ‘What’s happened? Are you not well?’

‘That woman who’s just come in – don’t turn round – Rebecca, she’s called. My husband left me for her.’

‘Oh bloody hell,’ Phoebe said. ‘Oh no. That’s awful.’ She lowered her voice. ‘She’s a right bitch, and all. In here every few weeks to get her roots done, never leaves a tip.’

Catherine’s hands were shaking in her lap. She felt as if she might be sick. ‘I just want to get out of here. I don’t want her to recognize me.’

‘Don’t you worry,’ Phoebe said, patting her arm. ‘By the time I’ve finished with you, you won’t even recognize yourself. Sit tight and I’ll crack on.’

Catherine held her breath as Rebecca was led away to a chair nearby and the hairdresser started talking to her about what she needed. Then Rebecca pulled out an iPad and started tapping away on it with an air of self-importance. To Catherine’s relief, she seemed engrossed in whatever she was doing and didn’t pay any attention when the hairdresser began separating her hair into sections to be coloured.

Phoebe, meanwhile, was snipping away, pausing now and then to check the lengths matched on either side. She perched in front of her to cut the fringe and Catherine shut her eyes as soft hair dropped into her lap. A mobile began ringing somewhere and she stiffened as she heard Rebecca’s voice.

‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Well, can he come back at four o’clock? I did say I had a meeting this afternoon, Paul.’

‘Meeting, my arse,’ Phoebe muttered, leaning close as she evened up the ends of Catherine’s new fringe. ‘She’s always bunking off to come here. Never gets her hair done at the weekend, like most people with a job. Oops, sorry, no offence, Cath.’

‘None taken,’ Catherine told her.

‘There,’ Phoebe said with satisfaction after a moment. ‘You can open your eyes now. Tell me what you think of the length. Is that okay?’

Catherine opened her eyes cautiously and stared at the woman in the mirror. Her forehead had vanished. So had the straggly long locks and split ends. Instead, she had a neat shoulder-length bob that fell around her face, with a blunt fringe that ended just above her eyebrows.

‘I told you it would suit you, didn’t I? You’ve got such great cheekbones, Cath, your face is perfect for this style. And it’ll look even better when I blow-dry it. What do you think?’

‘Wow,’ Catherine said, still fascinated by her own reflection. She looked about five years younger. ‘It’s so different. I don’t look like me any more.’

‘Let me dry it for you. It’s going to be awesome. I’ll just find some glossing spray, hold on.’

Phoebe hunted through a collection of bottles and Catherine smiled tentatively at the woman in the mirror. She looked like a different person. Maybe even a more confident person.

‘I don’t care!’ Rebecca’s voice rose crossly in the background. ‘Just do it. And make sure that Centaur payment has gone through, will you? I don’t want any more complaints.’

Catherine gave a sharp intake of breath as the words rang around her head. A Centaur payment? Rebecca was connected to Centaur?

‘Here we go,’ Phoebe said, spritzing lotion onto Catherine’s hair and setting the hairdryer roaring. Then Catherine could hear nothing but her own thudding heartbeat.

Back at the house, Catherine went straight up to Mike’s office. Now that she knew there was a connection between Mike, Rebecca and all this money, she had to search through everything again. There must be a clue somewhere.

She pulled out the bank statements. The first payment had been made in June 2011, the year before last. What else had been happening then? Maybe if she could find an old appointments’ diary of Mike’s she might be able to trace his steps in the weeks leading up to that initial juicy ten-thousand-pound deposit. I’m on to you, Mike, she thought.

She searched through his desk drawers, looking for anything that might give her a lead. She worked cautiously at first, as if he might appear behind her and start shouting at her, but soon speeded up, driven on by curiosity. Pension folders, minutes from various meetings, car insurance – it was all here. There was also a plethora of pens and notepads with pharmaceutical logos, a sheaf of the twins’ university bumph, conference brochures and . . .

She paused as a business card floated out of one of the conference packs. It was headed Schenkman Pharma, followed by
Rebecca Hale, Client Liaison Officer.
Underneath was an office telephone number and a personal extension number. Someone had added a mobile number in black biro. Schenkman Pharma. SP.

Her mouth went dry as she held the card for a moment. A little piece of history. They must have met at one of these dreary conferences, she realized. Oh, she could see it now. Take one bored GP, add foxy Rebecca, then mix with late nights in the conference hotel and flowing alcohol. Now stir.

Pens and notepads and crappy mugs weren’t the only little extras he’d come away with, then. A business card pressed into his hand, red-manicured nails lingering a shade too long on his.
Here’s my mobile number. Call me.
The oldest cliché in the book.

Her lip curled as she imagined drunken fumbles in the lift, his sweaty paws on her silk blouse.
What goes on tour stays on tour
.
What’s your room number? Fancy a nightcap?

Then she frowned. Hold on. Rebecca had been talking about Centaur payments in the hairdresser’s earlier – yet this card said she worked at Schenkman Pharma. Were there two Rebeccas? A Rebecca in every port? What was going on?

Gingerly, as if it might be radioactive, she picked up the brochure from which Rebecca’s business card had fallen. April 2011, a Schenkman Pharma conference at the Bartlett hotel in Blackpool, she read on the cover. Oh, the glamour.

She flicked it open and skimmed through the first page.
Welcome to Schenkman Pharma – a rising star in the pharmaceutical industry
, blah blah blah. God, even the itinerary was enough to put you to sleep: talks about the benefits of their new wonder drugs, an overview of recent MedTech innovations, their research techniques and trial case studies. She almost felt a nagging sympathy for Mike, having to sit through a weekend of sales talks from nerdy drug reps. Then she remembered the five-star dining and luxury hotel facilities which must have gone some way to ease the boredom. As had the free bar and Rebecca Hale, no doubt.

Frowning, she stared from the business card back to the brochure, trying to tally it with what she’d heard earlier. Then she glanced up at the clock: six-thirty. Too late to start making any office phone calls now.

She put all the files and folders away where she’d found them. The last thing she wanted was for Mike to know she’d been snooping around. The business card, however, she left on the desk. ‘I haven’t finished with you yet,’ she said under her breath.

Chapter Nineteen

La fotografia
– The photograph

Something was different about the
Herald
office on Monday morning when Anna arrived for work. Everyone seemed unusually calm and relaxed. Two of the secretaries were giggling in a corner about their weekend shenanigans and there was a delicious smell of fresh coffee wafting out from the kitchen. Colin was actually whistling.

She cocked her head as she stared around, trying to detect what was different. Then her eye fell on Marla’s empty chair and she remembered. Oh yes! Marla was on holiday. All week. Five whole days without any snarking or sniping, without any insults poorly disguised as innocence. Heaven. Who knew Monday mornings could feel so blissful?

She sat at her desk and switched on her Mac, then noticed a pile of papers on her desk with an acid-yellow Post-it note on top.
Restaurants to be reviewed herewith
, read a hasty scrawl.
Take your pick. 500 words to Imogen by Thurs 4pm.

A sinking feeling went through Anna. Was this seriously the extent of the handover notes Imogen had asked Marla to provide? One crappy Post-it – that was
it
? Oh, great. Thanks a bunch. Any other self-respecting journalist might have actually filed an extra review in advance rather than dumping work on a colleague. Not Marla. Knowing her, she’d be stretched out on a sunbed, oiled and glistening right now, smiling to herself and hoping that Anna would come a total cropper this week. Then, of course, Imogen would be furious and Marla could be all,
Well, I didn’t like to say, but . . .

She realized she was making a faint growling noise under her breath and stopped hurriedly before she spoiled the new-found newsroom chill. Dirty tricks, Marla Tucker? You picked the wrong person to try it on with. Just for that, Anna was going to write the best restaurant review
ever
. That would show her.

Scrumpling the useless Post-it into a ball and tossing it in the bin, Anna leafed through the papers: all invitations from city restaurants and country hotels with new menus they wanted the paper to sample. There were loads of them! No wonder Marla always looked so smug – you could dine out every night of the week with this lot, plus a few free lunches thrown in for good measure, too. The question was, where should she try first? She might as well make the most of this. Which was the nicest-looking, the one she’d never usually be able to afford?

Ruling out the gastro-pubs and cheap pizza places took away quite a number of options. Some chancer had even sent in a flier for a new kebab place on London Road. In your dreams, love!