The Girl on Paper (22 page)

Our little living room was lit with the soft glow of a dozen candles. After a quiet evening, Billie had fallen asleep on the couch. As she slept, I psyched myself up to turn on my computer and open my ancient word-processing program. The awful blank page flashed up on screen, filling me with a sadly familiar feeling of queasy dread and panic.

Write something!

Write something!

I couldn't.

I went over to the couch and picked Billie up to carry her
into the bedroom. She groaned and grumbled that she was too heavy, but let herself be lifted. It was a cold night and the radiator wasn't giving out much heat. I found an extra duvet in the wardrobe and tucked her in like a small child.

Pulling the door to, I heard her say, ‘Thank you.'

I had closed the curtains to block out the light from the road, so I couldn't see her clearly when she whispered, ‘Thank you for looking after me. No one ever looked after me before.'

‘No one ever looked after me before.'

I was still turning Billie's words over in my head when I sat back in front of the screen. The cursor flickered, taunting me.

Where do you get your inspiration? That was the stock question I heard time and again from readers and journalists, but I'd never really come up with a decent answer. In order to write, I had to buckle down and cut myself off from the world. It took me about fifteen hours' work to fill four pages. There was no magic formula, no secret recipe for success. I just had to sit at a table, put my headphones in and listen to classical music or jazz, making sure I had a good supply of coffee to hand.

Some days, when everything was flowing right, I could run off ten pages or more in one sitting. At those times, when it seemed God was smiling on me, I could convince myself that stories were created on high and an angel was telling me what to write. But those moments were few and far between, and the idea of churning out 500 pages in the space of a few weeks seemed pretty impossible.

‘Thank you for looking after me.'

I didn't feel sick any more, just a sense of nervous anticipation, like the stage fright an actor has before the curtain goes up.

I held my fingers over the keyboard and they began to move, almost in spite of me. The first few lines appeared as if by magic.

Chapter 1

No one in Boston could remember a winter as cold as this one. The city had been groaning under a thick blanket of snow and ice for over a month. Talk in cafés turned to the topic of alleged climate change; the papers wrote of little else.

‘What a crock of shit!'

In her little apartment in Southie, Billie Donelly was in a light sleep. Life hadn't exactly been kind to her up to now. She didn't know it yet, but all that was about to change.

And I was away.

I could see now that my feelings for Billie had lifted the curse. By giving me a foothold back in the real world, she'd found the key to unlock my mind. I wasn't afraid of the blank page any more.

I started typing and worked right through the night.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is your chief flight attendant speaking. We have just touched down at Rome Fiumicino Airport, where the outside temperature is 16°C. Please accept our apologies for the slight delay. We would be grateful if you
would remain seated, with your seat belt fastened, until we have come to a complete standstill. Please take care when opening the overhead lockers and ensure you take everything with you when you leave the plane. On behalf of the entire crew, we wish you a pleasant day and hope to welcome you on another United Airlines flight very soon.'

Bonnie Del Amico couldn't seem to wake up. She'd spent the whole flight in a fitful, nightmare-ridden sleep which she struggled to shake off. She was still drowsy when she walked off the plane, and didn't notice the book Ethel Kaufman had given her, left behind in the seat pocket.

We got off at Balard, the last stop on line 8 of the Métro. It was a mild, early-autumn morning and that back-to-school feeling floated in the air.

The Hôpital Européen Marie-Curie was a huge building on the banks of the Seine, on the edge of Parc André-Citroën. Its glass front curved as the road bent round and its mirrored panes reflected the surrounding trees.

According to the brochure, the hospital had been formed by merging the services of several departments across the capital, and was regarded as one of the best in Europe. The cardiovascular unit, led by Professor Clouseau, was particularly renowned.

We eventually found the right entrance, only to get lost in the rambling central courtyard. Finally a member of staff pointed us in the direction of the elevators which took us up to the penultimate floor.

Though we had an appointment, we had to wait
three-quarters
of an hour to see the doctor. According to his secretary, Corinne, Professor Clouseau – who lived right here in the same building as his patients – was on his way back from New York, where he taught twice a month at the prestigious Harvard Medical School.

Under Corinne’s watchful eye, we waited inside an impressive office with stylish modern furniture and a breathtaking view over the Seine and the rooftops of Paris. You could watch barges bobbing lazily down the river, Pont Mirabeau in the background and the replica of the Statue of Liberty on the Île aux Cygnes beyond.

The man who eventually burst into the room looked more like Columbo than an eminent professor of medicine. He had a crumpled trench coat flung over his shoulders like a cape, messy hair and a pasty, badly shaven face. A tartan shirt appeared from under a murky green jumper and his corduroy trousers were covered in suspicious-looking stains. If I’d passed this guy in the street, I might have thrown him a dollar. It was hard to believe that, on top of his duties at the hospital, he led a team of medics and engineers who’d spent the last fifteen years working toward the creation of an artificial heart.

He muttered a few words of apology, swapped his trench coat for an off-white doctor’s coat and, no doubt suffering from jet lag, slumped into his chair.

I’d read somewhere that when we first encounter a new face, our brain takes a tenth of a second to decide whether that person is trustworthy. It’s a process so quick we don’t have a chance to influence this first impression with rational thoughts; it’s based purely on instinct.

Despite his unkempt appearance, Professor Clouseau put me instantly at ease that morning. Billie wasn’t put off by what he looked like either and launched straight into
her list of symptoms: loss of consciousness, exhaustion, breathlessness, nausea, temperature, weight loss and heartburn.

While he took in all this information, murmuring, ‘Hmm, hmm,’ quietly, I handed him the folder of notes I had put together from the tests Mortimer Philipson had carried out. He put on a pair of bifocals straight out of the 1970s and scanned the papers. Though he pursed his lips doubtfully, his eyes behind his round spectacles betrayed a lively intelligence.

He cut Billie off. ‘We’re going to do all these tests again,’ he announced, throwing the folder into his rubbish bin. ‘These analyses carried out in some exotic hotel clinic, the whole business of being made of ink and cellulose, a “girl of paper”, it just doesn’t add up.’

‘Why have I been blacking out then?’ asked Billie angrily. ‘And what about my hair—’

He interrupted brusquely.

‘It seems to me that your fainting fits are linked to a sudden decrease in blood flow to the brain. A cardiac or vascular abnormality must be the cause – which is a stroke of luck, since that’s my area of expertise.’

He made a list of the tests he wished her to undergo during the day and arranged to meet us again that evening.

The Boeing 767 from San Francisco was manoeuvring into its parking slot. The passengers had disembarked more than half an hour ago and the plane was about to be cleaned.

The pilot, Mike Portoy, finished off his post-flight report and shut his laptop.

So much damn paperwork!
he thought with a yawn.

He’d rather rushed the debrief this time, but the truth was the fifteen-hour flight had wiped him out. He looked at his cell phone. His wife had left him a loving message asking how he was. To avoid having to call her back, he sent her one of the ‘copy and paste’ texts he kept for just such occasions. He had better things to do today than chit-chat with the wife. He was determined to take Francesca out that evening. Every time he passed through Rome, he made sure to have a shot at the hot receptionist at the lost- property office. Twenty years old, fresh-faced, sexy, with tempting curves, Francesca drove him crazy. Up to now she had always given him the brush-off, but this time would be different, he could feel it.

Mike left the cockpit, brushed his hair and did up his jacket.

Never underestimate the power of a man in uniform
.

But before he got off the plane he needed to come up with a reason to approach the Italian girl.

He gave the cleaning staff their instructions. They each took a section, moving quickly and efficiently through the rows of seats. On the first trolley, amid piles of discarded magazines and used tissues, he spotted a nice-looking book, bound in midnight-blue leather. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands. The cover was decorated with stars, with the name of the author and the title of the book standing out in big gold letters: Tom Boyd –
The Angel Trilogy
– Volume 2.

Never heard of it, but it’ll do the trick!
he said smugly to himself.

‘You can’t take that book, sir.’

He turned round, caught in the act. Who’d had the nerve to speak to him like that?

It was one of the cleaners, a pretty black girl named Kaela, as the regulation identity badge hanging round her neck told him. She wore a bandana over her hair depicting the Somalian flag – a white star on a blue background. Mike looked down at her with contempt.

‘I’ll take care of this,’ he insisted, keeping hold of the book. ‘I need to drop by the lost-property office anyway.’

‘I’ll have to speak to my supervisor, sir.’

‘You can speak to the good Lord about it for all I care!’ he jeered.

He turned and left the plane, book in hand.

He’d get Francesca into bed tonight, for sure.

As she sat in the taxi on the way to her hotel, Bonnie suddenly remembered to turn her phone back on. It was brimming with messages. First there was a voicemail from her father checking she’d arrived safely, then a bizarre text from Yu Chan telling her the police were after her, and a whole stream of missed calls from a guy named Milo, wanting to buy the Tom Boyd novel from her.

‘What the…?’

She had a feeling something wasn’t right and rummaged around in her bag to find the book had gone.

‘I must’ve left it on the plane!’

The taxi was about to get onto the motorway when Bonnie cried out, ‘Stop, please! Can we turn round?’

‘Try to relax, mademoiselle. It’s a totally painless procedure.’

Billie was lying on her left side, naked from the waist up. The cardiologist stuck three electrodes onto her chest, then spread a large blob of gel over her skin.

‘We’re going to take a scan of your heart, which will help us to locate any potential tumours.’

He moved the probe over her from her ribs to her breastbone, taking several images. I could see her heart beating on the screen, racing with fear. And I also saw the doctor’s face becoming grimmer as the examination progressed.

I came straight out and asked, ‘Does it look serious?’

‘Professor Clouseau will talk you through the results,’ he replied rather coldly, before adding, ‘I think we’re going to need to do an MRI scan.’

‘Francesca not here?’ asked Mike Portoy, pushing open the door of the lost-property office.

The pilot struggled to hide his disappointment. Behind the counter, her replacement glanced up from her magazine to give him a glimmer of hope.

‘She’s on her lunch break, over at Da Vinci’s.’

Mike walked out without thanking her or dropping off the book he’d picked up on the plane.

Da Vinci’s was a little haven in a hidden corner of Terminal One, decorated with fake marble columns, pillars and arches covered in trailing ivy. An enormous U-shaped counter was crowded with passengers drinking strong espressos and tucking into homemade pastries.

‘Hey, Francesca!’ he yelled when he spotted her.

She was more beautiful every time he saw her. She was chatting to a young guy who worked there, some clown dressed in a barista’s apron, paid to make pouring coffee look like an art form.

Mike walked over, smacked the book down on the counter
and tried to muscle in on the conversation, changing it to his own language – American – and preferred topic – himself. But the Italian beauty only had eyes for her young companion, lapping up every word he said and fluttering her eyelashes. The kid had a winning smile, laughing eyes and angelic brown curls, like some goddamn Roman hero. Puffed up with testosterone, Mike decided to take him on, and went right ahead and asked Francesca out to dinner. He knew this little place near the Campo de Fiori that did great antipasti and—

‘I’m going out with Gianluca tonight,’ she replied with a shake of the head.

‘Um, well, how about tomorrow then? I’m in Rome for two days.’

‘It’s kind of you to ask, but… no,’ she turned him down, before she and her companion collapsed in helpless giggles.

Mike went pale. He didn’t get it. How could the little slut choose that loser over him? He’d studied for eight years to have a prestigious career that never failed to impress people. The other guy had a shitty little part-time job. He conquered the skies, while that no-hoper took home less than 800 euros a month…

Clinging on to what was left of his dented pride, Mike forced himself to stay put and order something. The two lovebirds had long since switched back into Italian. The overwhelming aroma of coffee was going to his head. He drank his
caffè lungo
in one gulp, burning his tongue.

‘Too bad, I’ll just have to hire myself a hooker around San Lorenzo,’ he said bitterly to himself, though he knew very well that wouldn’t erase the memory of Francesca laughing at him.

He got down from his stool and skulked out of the café with his tail between his legs, leaving the leather-bound book with the fancy lettering on the counter.

‘I’m sorry, but no one has brought in your book,’ Francesca told Bonnie.

‘Are you absolutely sure?’ Bonnie persisted. ‘It was very special to me. It had photos inside it as well—’

‘OK, just fill in this form with as many details as possible about the missing item, along with your flight number. If someone brings it in, we’ll call you straight away.’

‘OK,’ Bonnie mumbled dolefully.

She filled in the form, but a little voice inside her told her she wouldn’t be seeing the book again, nor would she ever taste Mrs Kaufman’s chocolate soufflé.

‘Corinne! Miss Donelly’s results,’ yelled Jean-Baptiste Clouseau as he threw open the door to his office, coming face to face with me as I stood poised to press the buzzer.

‘Never understood how that thing works. Too many buttons!’ he muttered, scratching his head.

The same went for his BlackBerry, it seemed; the latest model, it flashed and vibrated every two minutes, though he paid no attention to it.

He had been operating on patients all day and appeared even less fresh than he had that morning. His face looked haggard, with dark rings under his eyes and a thick layer of
stubble that seemed to have grown a quarter of an inch in the space of a few hours.

Night was falling, darkening the room, but Clouseau didn’t bother to turn on the light. He pressed the middle button on a remote control to switch on a huge flat screen on the wall displaying the results of Billie’s tests.

The doctor moved towards the screen to go over the first page of results.

‘The blood test confirmed a lowering of your platelet count, which explains why you’re so weak,’ he began, peering at Billie through his odd-looking glasses.

He pressed a button to go to the next frame.

‘Moving on to the scan of your heart… Well, that showed up a number of cardiac myxomas.’

‘Myxomas?’ asked Billie, sounding worried.

‘Tumours of the heart,’ Clouseau clarified abruptly.

He stood closer to the screen and pointed with the remote control toward an area of the scan showing a dark mass in the shape of a little ball.

‘Your first tumour is located in the right atrium. It has the classic shape, with a short gelatinous pedicle. On first impressions, it looks fairly benign to me …’

He let a few seconds pass before moving on to the next image.

‘The second tumour is more of a cause for concern,’ he admitted. ‘Its size is unusual, around four inches across, and its consistency is stringy and stiff. It’s lodged close to the mitral valve, obstructing the delivery of oxygenated blood to the left side of the heart. That’s what’s causing your shortness of breath, your pallor and fainting fits. Your system’s just not getting enough blood.’

I stepped forward to take a closer look. The tumour resembled a bunch of grapes, attached to the inside of the
heart by little strings. I couldn’t help but think of the roots and fibres that carry sap through wood; it was as if a tree were growing in Billie’s heart.