‘And I’m very grateful,’ I said, and meant it.
‘The bed is very big, though. Reminds me of the one Lou and I had on our honeymoon. In fact, that is the perfect honeymoon bed. It’s such a pity that it’s going to waste.’
‘That happens when you’re left at the altar in front of five hundred guests.’
‘You were mortified,’ she said, playing along.
‘Devastated. I don’t know how I’m going to survive.’
‘Perhaps a roll around in that bed will help,’ she said teasingly.
‘I’m here for a job, not island sex. Besides, even if I wanted to,there are no single men on this island – well, apart from one, and he’s a widower who’s come here to scatter his wife’s ashes.’
‘Oh no.’ Philly sounded genuinely heartbroken for this stranger. ‘Well, don’t have sex with him, whatever you do.’
‘Trust me, no sex. Anyway, it kind of sounds like you’re the one who actually needs to have sex.’
‘Me! Oh God, no. Lou was my very first and he’ll definitely be my very last too. Besides, sex is way too complicated these days. You know, in my day we just did it missionary position. Now there are all these new ways of having sex, new positions and blindfolds and people actually wanting to whip each other. In my day we didn’t even have a G-spot, let me tell you. That is some new discovery that you lot made. And now there’s another spot apparently – God, you can’t keep up with this alphabet of spots!’
I laughed. ‘I think you should put all that yoga you do to good use.’
‘The yoga is to quieten the mind.’
‘I’ll tell you what else quietens the mind . . .sex!’ I said playfully. ‘Anyway, got to go, I’ll keep you in the loop, and remember to feed Sid, please. Don’t forget he likes the flakes separated out, the red ones in the morning and the green ones at night. And there are blood worms in the freezer, and I cut up those tiny bits of lettuce for him, but don’t give him a worm and lettuce on the same day or he’ll get constipated.’
Philly laughed.
‘What?’
‘The way you care for that goldfish, one would almost think you had a soft, squishy side to you.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘Hardly.’
‘Mmm, I see you, Lizzy Brown. I see you hiding behind your prickly exterior and pretending you’re not a secret romantic.’
‘Romantic! That’s pushing it. Now I really to have to go,’ I said, climbing off the bed.
‘Okay. Good luck.’
‘Thanks, and don’t forget to—’
‘I know! Sid. I’ve got it,’ she said and hung up.
I looked around the room again. And that was when I spotted it. A bathtub. Probably the biggest one I’d ever seen. When was the last time I’d actually submerged myself in water that wasn’t a swamp or a mosquito-infested dam? When did I last have a bubble bath? Relax, read a book, maybe light some candles, pour a glass of wine . . .
I burst out laughing. Oh right, never. The idea of relaxing always made me feel anxious. Just thinking about doing nothing filled me with dread. No, I would rather be out and about doing something constructive, like catching cheating husbands who were also potential art thieves and maybe even money launderers too. Which was exactly what I intended to do.
CHAPTER 7
I unpacked my essential equipment: voice recorder, sound recorders, camera, hidden camera, bugging devices, lock picks – the kind of things that someone like me needed. Then it was time to do a little reconnaissance. Whenever I landed in a new place, the first thing I did was make sure I familiarised myself with my surroundings. There was nothing worse than being caught off guard somewhere you didn’t know, especially if you needed to make a speedy escape, which was often the case in my line of work.
I grabbed one of the sundresses from my suitcase, choosing the one with the least offensive print and eye-blinding colour. When I slipped it on, it felt uncomfortable on my skin, like I was wearing something totally foreign. Well, I was.
I never wore dresses. Ever. In fact the last time I could remember wearing one was at my father’s wedding to ‘the mistress’, as my mother always called her. I don’t think she’d ever called her anything else, despite the fact that the affair had been ten years ago. My father had wanted to leave a respectable amount of time between the divorce and the marriage, he’d said.
I was in my late teens then, and to be honest, I didn’t really care who my father was marrying, I barely cared about my father after what he’d done anyway. But my mother cared. A lot. She’d never got over the divorce.
Prior to it, she’d built her entire existence around the marriage; stay-at-home mom, homemaker, baker, that was all she’d ever wanted to be, she’d told me once. So it wasn’t just cheating, it was somethingthat stripped her of her identity as a woman. And then there’d been the subsequent fallout: the embarrassment, the fact that the affair had been with my teacher, the gossip. The whole town knew, and everyone was talking about it.
