The Lost Guide to Life and Love (19 page)

I got back to the flat and thwacked the papers down on the coffee table alongside the sofa where Mum lay propped up. ‘Disaster!’ I said, starting to scrabble through them while explaining what it was all about.

‘Oh, God this is awful! They’ve all got something about Matty! Every single one!’ I wailed. ‘Even the posh ones!

Mum had picked up one of the tabloids that I had hurled across the table and was thumbing through it slowly. ‘But these pictures are fantastic!’ she said. ‘Is this really Kate’s daughter? What a stunning-looking girl.’

I took the paper back from her. The pictures
were
fantastic. Matty in jeans and jumper on the quad bike, her
hair streaming out behind her…Matty striding up the fellside, looking slim as a wand with Tess beside her…Matt lugging a hay bale, with the horses, backing up the tractor and trailer…

‘These don’t look snatched photos,’ said my mother, studying them carefully. ‘Matty certainly isn’t avoiding the camera. She seems to be positively playing up to it. I mean, look at that one,’ she said, pushing the paper towards me. ‘She’s practically lapping up the lens.’

It was a close-up of Matty on the quad bike. She was leaning over the handlebars, laughing straight into the camera, looking full of life and energy, happy and—I tried to think of the expression—
mischievous
. That’s right, she looked mischievous, almost triumphant, as if this was all some great joke.

‘There’s something else odd,’ I said. ‘Normally when she’s working on the farm, she has her hair in a plait or tied back, or bundled under a cap. But in nearly all these pictures her hair is loose. And’—I looked closely at the pictures in front of me—‘those aren’t her work jeans. Those look a much better fit. And where’s her battered old Barbour? And her five layers of clothes?’

I flipped quickly through the rest of the papers. There were similar images in each one. They were amazing pictures. Every one seemed to capture Matty at her most relaxed and consequently even more stunning than usual and there were also masses of the scenery, showing the fellside in all its glory. Intrigued, I turned the page to see the picture by-line, to see which agency had got there first.

Suddenly it all became crystal clear.

The photographer who had taken every single picture in every single paper was Dexter Metcalfe. That must have been the idea he’d had just as I was leaving the pub.

‘Instead of waiting for the paparazzi to find Foxy, they’ve beaten them to it,’ I said to Mum. ‘It’s a brilliant idea—Dexter took all these pics. And now he’s flooded all the papers with them, he’s killed the market. These photos are fantastic. No paper’s going to pay good money for snatched pictures not as good. There wouldn’t be any point. Dexter’s beaten them all to it and now Matty’s safe in Egypt. Ho ho.

‘They must have done the pictures before Matty flew out. They must have worked like crazy. Then Dexter got every single paper to use them.’

‘He must have influence. Or good contacts,’ said Mum. ‘Very impressive bit of work on all accounts. He must be a very clever man, that Dexter, as well as a talented photographer. If he’s as good as this, I’m surprised he’s happy running a pub.’

She lay there for a while, looking at the different photos, until gradually she dozed off again, one of the papers slipping from her hand onto the floor. I eased it gently from her grasp and was folding it to put it on the coffee table when I saw the picture. I’d been so busy looking at pictures of Matty that I hadn’t noticed this one.

It was Clayton with a very blonde blonde—long hair, glowing tan, glossy pout and the sort of cleavage that costs a fortune. The designer seemed to have run out of material when they made her dress, and what there was didn’t cover much. She and Clayton had their arms round each other. Judging by the expressions on their faces, they had had a good evening and there were no guesses about how they would finish it off.

‘Footballer Clayton “Quicksilver” and actress Kim Scarlett seen leaving exclusive West End restaurant Mario’s in the early hours of Sunday. Last week Clayton paid over £50,000 for a necklace at a charity event but doesn’t seem to have
given it to girlfriend Kim yet. Maybe he’s saving that for extra time…’

Fifty thousand pounds? So much for accurate reporting. But if that’s Clayton’s girlfriend and she’s expecting him to come up with a necklace, there’s even more reason for me to get it back to him. Though I suppose he could buy £25,000 necklaces the way I bought bangles for a fiver off the stall by the tube station. I looked again at the photo. I’m sure that wasn’t one of the girls he was with when I saw him in Club Balaika. But he clearly wasn’t a one-woman guy.

I shut the paper on the picture, folded it up and banged it on the coffee table, making Mum stir in her sleep. Now I was keener than ever to cut these few small links that had so strangely connected us. An odd set of circumstances had brought him into my life, but the sooner he got out of it the better.

Mum was on the mend. The damage to her wrist hadn’t been that bad and, after a few days, she was able to manage the crutches well enough to hop around the flat. But her ankle was going to take weeks, if not months, to heal properly. Bill still popped round with food from the restaurant and I’d done all the shopping she needed. Penny came round every morning and gave a detailed report of all that had been going on in Mum’s empire and took instructions back. Emails pinged back and forth all day to Mum’s laptop. The world was beginning to return to some sort of normality.

One morning, when Penny was with Mum, I’d been round to my own flat and collected some more clothes. It seemed curiously soulless and empty. As I picked up the post, a key slithered out from between some envelopes. Jake’s key. He’d been round to take his things and just posted the key back through the door. I looked through the mail. No note. Well, thanks very much, Jake.

He’d taken all his books from the bedroom shelf and his clothes from my wardrobe, though one of his jumpers was still on the floor behind a chair where it must have fallen before we went north. I picked it up and held it against my face and felt a strange sort of emptiness. I felt nothing for Jake now. Well, no more than a mild affection born of a few years shared. If we could manage to keep that I would be very happy. As for love…I hoped he’d be happy with Flick. Well, maybe I wouldn’t go quite
that
far.

Mum’s bruises had faded to an interesting green and yellow shade. Obviously getting better, but actually looking worse, making her look like a horror movie extra.

‘Are you sure you’re going to be all right if I go back north this afternoon?’ I said.

‘Of course. Now I can hobble round I’ll be fine. Inez and Penny are here and I don’t seem to be able to get rid of Bill. We have a system and even if I can’t get into his car, I can get into taxis fairly easily. Once my face doesn’t scare the punters I can get back to proper work, so yes, you go and get back on with your life. And catch up with your sleep too.’

It was true. I’d hardly slept since I’d been at Mum’s. A decent night’s sleep would be such a treat. But with her wrist recovering, she was a lot more mobile now. I could get back to work with a clear conscience.

‘Give my love to Kate and the long-lost family,’ Mum said.

‘You’d really like them. Can I tell them you’ll be going up to see them?’

‘Oh yes, one day. But not yet. Once I’m back at work I’ll have far too much catching up to do.’ Her accident hadn’t mellowed her that much, it seemed.

I’d booked myself on an evening train so that I would be back in time for an interview with some apple-growing
monks on Thursday. But there was something I had to do first. That necklace was still burning a hole at the bottom of my bag. I had to get it back to Clayton but I could hardly just stick it an envelope and post it, even if I knew his address. I got out my phone, took a deep breath, but I couldn’t ring him. What if he was with Kim? Or his teammates? Or didn’t remember which one I was out of all the females hanging round him? That would be awful, having to explain myself. No. So I texted. ‘Need to talk to you. Are you around this afternoon?’

A reply pinged back almost immediately. ‘Back from training 4.’ And giving the address.

Hey. That had been easy.

Then of course I worried about what to wear. Of course I didn’t want to impress him. On the other hand, you can’t turn up on the doorstep of one of the fittest men in Britain in your scruffs, can you? Even if you’re just returning an unwanted gift. I know I couldn’t compete with the Kims of this world, but I could scrub up with a bit of effort. I was wearing black trousers, but didn’t have a suitable top with me. I rummaged through my mother’s wardrobe and found one of her numerous black tops—this one had a low boat neck and batwing sleeves with deep embroidered cuffs. She normally wore a silk shirt underneath it. Boring. I did my hair and make-up with extra care and reckoned that after an hour’s effort I’d got the right casual-hardly-bothered effect I was after.

Bill arrived just as I was leaving and whistled in approval. ‘Very fancy just for a train,’ he said. ‘I hope the other passengers appreciate it.’ He looked at me quizzically, but no way was I going to tell him what I was up to.

‘Look after yourselves. And each other,’ I said, hugging them both.

‘We shall,’ they replied as they stood in the doorway,
Mum leaning determinedly on her crutches, despite her obvious discomfort, and refusing all help from Bill.

I ran down the stairs and into the taxi and set off for Clayton Silver’s house.

The houses were big, solid, expensive and discreet. Not the sort of street I expected to find Clayton Silver living in. But, as the taxi slowed down and the driver was asking, ‘What number did you say, love?’ I spotted it.

‘Twenty-two, I think it must be that one. It’s got to be,’ I said, peering out of the window.

‘If it’s the footballer you want, then that’s the one,’ said the taxi driver. ‘That’s got to be a footballer’s house, hasn’t it?’

Behind the high, gated wall, I could see the top of a tall modern house soaring to the sky. It had been squeezed into a narrow plot, but what it lacked in width it made up for in height and balconies. Each of the four floors was wrapped around by huge curving decking, the architectural equivalent of Ray-Bans, breaking up what seemed to be towering walls made entirely of glass. In this street of quiet, old-fashioned wealth, it looked totally out of place—no doubt a bit like Clayton—but it was sunny and frivolous and strangely beautiful, like a ship about to break free of its moorings.

I had my luggage with me ready for my trip north and, as I put the bags on the pavement and paid the driver, I wondered how I would get in through these gates. There must be an intercom somewhere, a tradesman’s entrance.

With that, a huge black Hummer came up the road. Blacked-out windows and personalised numberplate. It looked more like something from an invading army than a car. It slowed down by the gates, which automatically opened for it. I couldn’t see who was behind the windows. The car stopped, a window purred down and Clayton leaned out of the window, smiling. ‘Well, hello, Miss Tilly. How nice of you to drop by. Come in.’

Dutifully, I followed the car through the gates. Clayton switched off the engine, left the Hummer where it was and came back and picked up my bags, then ran up the stairs where the front door also opened apparently magically, but actually by a tiny Filipina woman.

‘Cheers, Maria,’ he said, dumping my bags in the vast entrance hall and then leading the way up the wide curved stairs into a room full of light. With the floor-to-ceiling windows and curved balcony stretching round the entire length of the room, it seemed as if we were hovering above the treetops.

‘Wow!’ I said.

‘Good, yeah?’ asked Clayton as I walked to the balcony to admire the view over the street, the park and down across London.

‘Fantastic. And just not what you’d expect in a road like this.’

‘That’s why I had to have it. Things that aren’t what you expect are always more interesting, aren’t they?’ he grinned. ‘So, would you like a drink? Wine? Champagne?’ he gestured at a bar in the corner.

‘No, thanks, what I’d really like is a cup of—oh gosh!’

One wall of this amazing room was taken up by a huge plasma TV set, but on another was a painting, even bigger, twice the size of the TV screen. It was just dashes of colours really—blues and greens and a splash of white—yet you
knew it was a boat on a wide bright sea. As I looked, the huge voile curtain, tucked back to the side of the curving window, billowed out with the breeze and added to the impression of sails and waves.

‘It’s the one you told me about. It does make you feel you’re out on the sea, doesn’t it?’ I said, and Clayton whooped triumphantly.

‘That’s why I had to have it. Sometimes I lie on that sofa and look at that painting and I’m not here in London but I’m floating above the sea, free as a bird, just letting the winds take me. Some people just don’t get it. But you do. I thought you would. No, I
knew
you would.’

He was standing there, still in his tracksuit and training top, smiling at the painting. ‘That picture cost me shed-loads of money, but every time I look at it, it makes me happy. Got be worth it, yeah? Keeps the money-man happy and keeps me happy too. He puts money away in stocks and shares and things for me, but that ain’t much fun, is it? You can’t
look
at them. That’s why I keep buying pictures. Want to see more?’

‘Yes, please. I do.’ And I did, but in any case Clayton’s enthusiasm was appealing. When he’d said he’d liked pictures I’d thought that he just bought them to be flash, but as he showed me round I realised I’d got him wrong. He might not be an expert, but he was an enthusiast and, as the man said, he knew what he liked.

‘Look, this is one I bought when we were playing a European cup match in Italy. We had a day free and I went off by myself for a bit, found a little gallery and saw this painting and I had to have it.’

It was a classical style painting, a view through an ancient arched window, ivy growing alongside. Through it you could see the glorious remains of a Roman building, but also a high Renaissance palace with huge door and crumbling
paintwork and, just in the corner, a glimpse of a modern, gleaming, high-rise office block. In the shadows of them all were two people. You couldn’t tell if they were a couple or not, or whether they were turning towards each other or walking away.