One Night in Italy (37 page)

Catherine felt such an idiot. Here she was in jeans and scruffy boots and not even any mascara on. ‘I’d have put a skirt and heels on if I’d thought I was going to be
interviewed
,’ she confessed. ‘I’d have washed my hair and all.’

Maggie boomed with laughter again. ‘You won’t want heels in this place, chuck,’ she said in a friendly voice. ‘Besides, you look fine to me. Can you start on Monday?’

Catherine’s mouth fell open. ‘You mean . . . I’ve got the job?’

‘Sure, if you want it. The pay’s not amazing, I have to tell you, but it’s a nice place to work. I suppose I’d better take a character reference and what-not, but you seem all right and I’m not usually wrong about people.’ She held out a big freckled hand. ‘So are you in?’

Catherine shook it in disbelief. ‘I’m in.’

She felt joyful and excited for the rest of the day. Working in that shed with the women she’d seen, earth beneath her fingers, the radio playing . . . She could do that, she knew she could, way better than wrestling with a computer in an air-conditioned office. It would mean giving up most of her voluntary commitments, which was a shame, but she was sure they’d understand. It was time to start doing more for herself, rather than spending her life running around after everyone else.

‘As for the money you got from Centaur,’ she said to Mike now, changing the subject briskly, ‘I think you should give it back.’

He was raising his pint to his lips as she spoke, but almost dropped the glass on the table as her words registered in his brain. ‘Give it
back
?’ he echoed.

‘Not to the pharmaceutical company,’ she said, straight-faced. She had given this a lot of thought. ‘Back to the NHS. The Children’s Hospital is running an appeal for funds, for instance – they’d welcome your guilt money. And maybe you should give some of it to the families affected by your decisions, too. Jim Frost, for example. Ten grand or so to him should make up for nearly killing the man and ruining his family’s Christmas.’

He spluttered. ‘I don’t think—’

‘Oh, I do.’ She stared him down meaningfully. ‘I think it’s the least you can do, Mike. The very least. Otherwise . . .’

Her unspoken threat –
Otherwise I’ll tell my journalist friend
– dangled weightily between them.
And you know I’ll do it, Mike.

His expression pained, he swallowed down a large mouthful of bitter without seeming to even taste it. Then he looked at her as if he no longer recognized her. ‘You’ve changed,’ he said accusingly.

Yes, Mike, I have, she thought. And it’s a change for the better. ‘You haven’t agreed to my suggestion yet,’ she reminded him.

He glared at her. ‘Yes,’ he muttered, beaten at last.

So it had all been bluff and bluster, she thought. Fight back and he turned out to be made of hot air and nothing more. She wished it hadn’t taken her so many years to discover this – but she knew it now at least.

‘Good for you, Cath,’ said Sophie. ‘Sounds like a brilliant week, what with your new job and all.’

It was Saturday now and Catherine had come to meet Anna and Sophie for the weekly Park Run; Anna’s idea. It was a grey, drizzly morning but there were still a good hundred people there and a lively, cheerful atmosphere as they thudded around together.

‘I have a feeling that your ex isn’t the only doctor who’s going to have to rethink their prescriptions in the future,’ Anna said mysteriously and tapped her nose. ‘Just a little something I saw on the news wires in the office yesterday.’

‘What’s happened?’ Catherine asked.

‘Schenkman Pharma, wasn’t it? They’re in all sorts of trouble. Forced to take Demelzerol and a couple of other drugs off the market because of the number of people suffering side-effects – and there’s talk of them facing massive financial penalties too. Some of the trial data has been leaked and it looks as if a lot of negative results were concealed in the official reports.’

Catherine felt an enormous weight roll off her shoulders. So it was over. The secret was out, and the matter now completely out of her hands. ‘Thank goodness,’ she said. ‘It’s been on my conscience the whole time – wondering if I should take the story to the press, do more about it. But then I’d think of the children, and I just couldn’t go through with it. I couldn’t bring myself to shatter their image of Mike as a good guy.’ She pressed her lips together, feeling overwhelmed by emotion and guilt. No doubt Sophie would disagree with her when her own father had suffered at Mike’s hands.

But Sophie looked sympathetic. ‘You were in an impossible situation,’ she said. ‘And for what it’s worth, I think you were really brave, standing up to your ex and forcing him to act.’

‘Absolutely,’ Anna agreed. ‘Don’t beat yourself up, Cath. You did something at least. Other people might have buried their heads in the sand.’

Catherine gave a wan smile. ‘I think it was the threat of “my journalist friend” that did it in the end. That’s you, by the way.’

Anna laughed. ‘Because I’m
so
threatening,’ she said, pulling a face. ‘I could totally . . . put him in my next restaurant column.’

‘Handsome Colleague becomes Dodgy Doctor,’ Sophie suggested, quirking an eyebrow.

Anna pulled a face. ‘Not this week he doesn’t,’ she said. ‘It’s the Valentine’s special, isn’t it? I’ve been baking like a loon, trying to work out the best home-cooked dinner for two for my cookery column,
and
me and Joe have got to suffer the red roses and cheesy music of The White House on Valentine’s night for the restaurant review. Imagine how thrilled his poor girlfriend is about that!’

‘Shit,’ Sophie said. ‘Really? I’d be fuming if my boyfriend had to take someone else out for dinner.’

‘Me too. I think the relationship is currently hanging by a thread, you know. I have to say, I do feel really bad about it.’

‘You shouldn’t,’ Catherine told her, feeling the beginnings of a stitch. With all the tennis she’d played over the years, she’d thought five kilometres would be a doddle, but talking and running at the same time was starting to become a problem. ‘He could have said no to the whole thing, couldn’t he?
You’ve
done nothing wrong.’

‘Yeah. Two more weeks and I’ll be in Rome anyway, so it’ll all be worth it,’ Anna said, shrugging. ‘Hey – and talking of epic journeys, I’m off to see my mum this afternoon in Leeds. She’s finally agreed to tell me more about Dad.’

‘Really? Wow, that’s fantastic,’ Sophie said.

‘You must be so excited,’ Catherine said.

‘I know, I’m psyched. Well, psyched and bricking it, weirdly. I’m scared she’s going to say something awful about him.’ Anna’s pretty mouth twisted, betraying her nerves.

‘No,’ Catherine managed to puff. ‘I’m sure she won’t. But either way, at least you’ll know.’

‘Yeah,’ Sophie agreed. ‘I bet he’ll be great. You’ll see.’

After the run, the three of them had coffee and brunch together in the cosy park café. Half-term had just started so there would be no Italian class during the week, but they agreed to meet again for the next Park Run the following Saturday. ‘Oh, and did you two get the text from George about going guerrilla tomorrow?’ Catherine asked as they said goodbye.

‘I can’t make it, we’ve got an extra rehearsal on,’ Sophie said.

‘And I’m snowed under with work,’ Anna said. ‘Are you going, Cath?’ She winked. ‘I think our George has got a soft spot for you, you know.’

‘He hasn’t!’ Catherine protested. ‘He’s nice to everyone, not just me.’

Anna and Sophie looked at each other, eyebrows raised. ‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much . . .’ Sophie teased, and elbowed her. ‘He’s lovely anyway. You could do a lot worse.’

‘I’m not really . . . I hadn’t even
thought
. . .’ Catherine began, struggling to get the words out. Oh God. Why had they said that? Now she was all flustered. ‘Anyway,’ she said, trying to change the subject, ‘I’d better go. Good luck with your mum, Anna – and that Valentine’s dinner. I’ll be reading all about it.’

‘And you too with the new job,’ Anna said back, ‘and with the play, Sophie. We all want to come and see you on stage so let us know about tickets, yeah?’

‘Honestly, my part in it . . . blink and you’ll miss me,’ Sophie said, but you could tell she was chuffed. She hugged them both in turn. ‘It’s been a pleasure, girls. Have a good week!’

The following day, when it was time to meet George for their guerrilla gardening mission, Catherine kept remembering the way Sophie and Anna had teased her about him, and her nerve almost failed. They were only messing about, she told herself, as she dithered at the front door. They were just joking. She and George . . . Well, it was impossible. It was silly to even think about it.

George had told her the plan in the pub earlier that week: a group of them were clearing a patch of wasteland over near Fox Hill. This was no balaclava-wearing operation under cover of darkness, he explained. This was about the preliminaries: clearing the land then digging over the soil. ‘The gardening’s only half the story,’ he said. ‘It’s more about transforming neglected spaces; retaking the land to serve the community.’

George was already there when she arrived, along with a tall Irish bloke called Cal and two women, Jane and Nicki. Armed with rubber gloves and bin bags, they set about clearing the ground of broken glass, empty cans, a couple of syringes, an old tyre, crisp packets and even some used condoms. Gross.

‘What’s the plan when this has all been cleared?’ she asked. ‘Are you going to plant vegetables and stuff here?’

‘We want to create a community garden,’ Jane told her. ‘Nothing mega, just some lawn, maybe a wild flower garden and a vegetable plot . . . a place for people to hang out, basically. There are lots of flats around here, so not everyone’s got their own garden. This could be their place.’

‘I’d love to hold a big party here in the summer,’ Cal said dreamily. ‘Maybe even a barbecue, invite the whole estate, get everyone together. That’s what it’s all about.’

Catherine gazed around, imagining music and dancing and the smell of sausages on a barbecue. ‘I feel guilty for not doing more with my garden now,’ she confessed. ‘I’ve neglected it lately.’

‘Sounds like you’ve been busy with lots of other things,’ George said, picking up a pair of old Y-fronts with a grimace and stuffing them in his binbag.

‘Yeah,’ Catherine said. ‘The annoying thing is, I’ve got a whole sackful of bulbs in the shed that I didn’t plant last autumn. I kept meaning to, but then with . . .’ She lowered her voice so the others wouldn’t hear. ‘With Mike going, I just didn’t get round to it. I wouldn’t mind, but I’d bought these lovely tulip bulbs – they’re my favourites and they’d all be starting to come up soon. Oh well. Next year, I suppose.’

Once they’d cleared the site of rubbish, Cal marked out an area for a raised bed against the wall of a disused building. He’d brought along some old railway sleepers which they used to edge it, then they dug over the soil and mixed in bucketfuls of compost. Finally, they dug holes and planted some blackcurrant bushes, a small pear tree and a couple of plum trees.

‘It looks so much better already,’ Catherine said, standing back and marvelling at what the five of them had achieved in one afternoon.

‘It’s going to be great,’ Cal agreed. ‘Are you up for coming along some other time?’

‘Definitely,’ Catherine said. She grinned at George. ‘Looking forward to it.’

Chapter Thirty

La verita
– The truth

‘So,’ said Anna, staring intently at her mum. ‘Tell me.’

They were sitting in Tracey’s conservatory in creaky wicker chairs with fat, faded cushions and a coffee each (‘Better make it a strong one,’ Tracey had said, her smile not reaching her eyes). Thirty-two years of stubborn silence was almost over.

Tracey took a deep breath. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘So. What’s your nan been saying then?’

And they’re off.
‘She said my dad was – is? – called Gino and he’s Italian,’ Anna replied shakily. She could hardly believe they were having this conversation at last. ‘She said he was nothing but trouble. And then you mentioned you went to Rimini as the last holiday before I was born, and I thought, Aha.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Aunty Marie let me see her pictures of your holiday,’ Anna went on, unable to stop now she had started, ‘and I just put two and two together. Is this him?’ She pulled out the photograph from her handbag, hands clammy. ‘I’ve been told that this is Lungomare Augusto. Is that where you and Dad met?’

It was her Sherlock Holmes moment: evidence revealed, her hand played. Da-dah! In the car driving over here, she’d pictured Tracey’s undisguised surprise at this point, and yes, sheer admiration that Anna had pieced together the puzzle. Elementary, my dear mother.

Yet her mum was looking from Anna to the photo and back again, her expression becoming increasingly bewildered. Then she shook her head.

‘I’m sorry, love,’ she said. ‘You must have misunderstood. I’ve no idea who that bloke in the photo is, but he’s not your father.’

‘He’s . . . not?’

‘No. Tell me exactly what your nan said, if you can remember.’