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Everything fine. In Alnwick. Speak tomorrow.
My text to Yvette summed up my mood more precisely.
Shitty B&B. Got to eat out. Lumpy pillow.
Yvette, unlike Mum, who hadn’t replied, came back instantly.
You should write a review of B&Bs.
My friend was trying, without success, to make me smile. Before I could reply, the phone went ping again. Yvette, somehow, across the distance, had sensed my subdued misery.
It’s going to be lonely. Enjoy the scenery. The weather, OMG, it’s boiling here.
I hugged the phone to my chest, then wrote a short reply, my thumbs skidding around the numeric keypad.
Thanks. Tomorrow will be better. Dunstanburgh.
My stomach grumbled and I swung my legs off the granite hard bed, grabbing my coat at the same time.
The front door, apparently spring loaded, slammed shut behind me and almost caught the heels of my shoes. The key dangled from the string. I dropped it into my handbag. Rain pitter-pattered on my face. Barely visible, it floated down, a misty grey visage that smothered the air with tiny droplets. It was the kind of rain that penetrated everything it touched, straight down, no breeze to shoo it away. According to the weather forecast, this was an interlude; the heat was set to return.
I hoisted up my hood, squeezed past the immovable rusted gate, and headed towards the town centre, hoping to stumble across a restaurant or cafe. The first one I encountered was shut. It was Monday, not the best day of the week for eating out. Moving along the main street of the town, I peered at the menus and walked past a bistro twice before accepting it was the best option.
Sipping on a glass of water, waiting for the spaghetti Bolognese, I mulled over my current situation, starting with the man holding the purse strings. I recalled the emails between David and me, the thread of communication that had begun my northern adventure. David handled me; he was in control. Since our one and only face-to-face encounter, he had continued to instruct me remotely, and I’d not taken the time during the preparations to clarify the relationship I had with him. By Easter, not only had I ceased questioning his role in the arrangement, but I had failed to establish exactly who Medici was. David was deliberately concealing his identity. He referred to everything in the first person.Iwill provide you with a rental car and expenses.
The forkful of spaghetti hovered by my lips, my mouth frozen half-open; the strings of spaghetti slipped off the fork. David had accepted the nickname, Medici, and used it in all of our correspondence. Medici this, Medici that, the pair of us knocking the name back and forth. Medici himself seemed to appreciate the moniker.
The fork clattered on the plate. Were David and Medici one in the same person? Had I overlooked the obvious explanation?
The idea of being manipulated into believing I had been communicating with two different people, when they could well be the same person, irritated me. No, more than irritated, infuriated me. Was the mystery man a trickster taking advantage of my naivety?
It didn’t make sense. Why pursue the charade of pretending to be somebody different? I’d only spoken to David a couple of times on the phone and he came across as trustworthy and honest, but also forthright and unswerving in his decisions. David’s writing style was unlike Medici’s, although I had few examples to compare. Medici remained resolutely focused on addressing what he needed from me: the photographs. Only once had he touched on other territory and it had been to discuss my views on history, specifically my quest to visit as many castles as possible. The wording of the email had caught my attention and still did.
David tells me of your ambition. An intriguing goal. Is it to immerse yourself fully into the past, the history of each location, or to photograph every possible architectural feature of the period? I know which I would prefer.
I had given the same answer that I gave to David, who after the exhibition had never discussed my love affair with castles or photography. Medici’s response indicated his preference. Lacking any kind of emotive language, he described architectural concepts using exact terms, some of which were new to me, and I had to look them up. Only at the end of the email had he referenced my goal.
You should see and experience as much as you can. Envelope yourself in history as if you were there. I envy your opportunity.
Again, I tried not to read too much into the insightful remark, but all the same, it unnerved me how close he was to the truth. In contrast, practically-minded David had proposed the annual membership to English Heritage, rather than buying tickets at each castle, and other things relating to travel that I’d not considered. David was proving more useful, if less enthusiastic.
I retrieved the fork. David and Medici were not the same person. Medici delegated and David, for whatever undiscovered reason, carried out the instructions, and I in turn did the same. I recalled a conversation with Yvette when she described the benefits of patronage, the role of a benefactor, and the definitions certainly applied to the context of my situation. Why would Medici be bothered with the details? Should these issues matter to me anyway? The money was there in my account, proof of both men’s legitimacy.
?
The rain was spewing out of the guttering and striking the front doorstep. I turned the key and for a moment the door refuse to budge. A firm wriggle of the key and it still held fast. Nausea bounced into the back of my throat at the thought of all my camera equipment being flogged on eBay. I shoved harder against the wood, the door yielded, and I stumbled over the threshold. Behind me, the door shut with a recoiling bang. Rainwater dripped off my nose. I flared angry nostrils. Apparently my host cared little about hospitality. Having shaken my head free from the damp hood, I listened with a cocked ear. Raucous laughter broke the uncomfortable silence. Meg had company. The front room, which I hadn’t troubled to enter, was the source of the man’s brassy baritone and Meg’s high-pitched giggles.
‘Oh, you bad boy,’ she squealed. ‘Do that again.’
I froze. There was no mistaking the panting or Meg’s over-egged moans.
‘Don’t stop!’
I bolted up the stairs and straight to my bedroom. Breathing heavily, I leant against the door and drew across the bolt. The unwanted and embarrassing noises of Meg’s rowdy play acting were still audible through the floorboards.
‘Oh, yes!’ Another burst of clichéd dialogue followed. I lay on the bed and covered my ears with the pillow. Meg didn’t have a self-conscious bone in her body. My arrival, crashing through the front door, obviously added to the excitement. Perhaps she’d deliberately kept the door stiff, a cue to put on a performance for her guests. The shrill tones continued for a few more minutes. I cringed at each exaggerated moan and groan.
The quietness was abrupt. An eerie nothingness enveloped the narrow house. Easing myself upright, I tiptoed towards the door and pressed an ear to it. Softer voices, normal in volume and tone. A door creaked.
