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“Yes. Do you have any specific place in mind?”
“I’m not sure.” I hazard a guess. “I thought I’d fly to Wellington and take it from there.”
He nods. “Although I’ve heard that Christchurch, on the South Island, might be a better place to start.”
My heart starts beating faster. “Christchurch?”
“Yes, in particular, a place called Akaroa, on the Banks Peninsula. It’s supposed to be beautiful.”
I keep my voice calm and even. “Maybe I should start there, then. Would it be a good idea to go now, do you think? It’s almost winter here, so it would be approaching their summer.”
“I think it would be the perfect time to go.”
“And… I don’t suppose you know somewhere I could stay in Akaroa?”
He shakes his head. “I’m afraid not. But I’m sure you’ll be able to find something along the waterfront.” He pauses. “You should take a tripto Purple Peak while you’re there. I hear there are some beautiful houses being built in the hills. Now,” he says, “I’m afraid I have another appointment.”
“Of course,” I say hastily. “Thank you for seeing me. You’ve been very helpful.”
“I hope you get the answers you need.”
“Thank you.” I look at him hopefully. “I don’t suppose you want to come with me, do you? To New Zealand.”
He smiles. “I think, Amelie, that’s a journey you need to make on your own.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
I take a taxi to the airport, wheeling the same suitcase I took to Las Vegas four months ago. Around me other people are hugging their friends and family goodbye.
“Have a wonderful time, let us know when you arrive,” I hear a mother say to her daughter, and as she hugs her, I have to look away.
I’ve already checked in online, so I head straight to the Air New Zealand bag drop. My thoughts turn to Paul Carr and the text I received this morning:Safe flight, safe trip, Paul.It felt reassuring that at least someone knew where I was going, and that if I disappeared, he would know.
I’ve worked out that the fleeting look of anger I saw on his face when I told him I’d been to the memorial service wasn’t directed at me, but at Carl, for refusing to speak to me, for making me think that I’d imagined everything. Because why would he help me otherwise, by directing me to Akaroa?
It’s a long journey. Approximately thirteen hours to Singapore, a five-hour stopover, then a ten-hour flight to Christchurch. On the first flight, I don’t allow myself to think, I read, eat, sleep, watch films. By thetime I’m on the flight to Christchurch, anxiety is cramping my stomach. Even with the information I’ve got, I’m not certain I’ll be able to find Carl. And I’ll need to be careful. I’ve researched Akaroa, it’s a small place. If I ask about a man called Carl Hunter who’s having a house built in the hills, it might get back to him. And I want to surprise him.
The plane finally touches down. I disembark and follow the other passengers through Immigration, then to the baggage claim area. While I’m waiting for my luggage, I reply to Paul, just a simple message:I’ve landed in Christchurch. Thank you.
My suitcase arrives, I pull it onto the floor, open it, put my blanket, which I had with me on the plane, inside, and make my way to the exit. I’ve ordered a car to take me to Akaroa, where I’ve booked a one-bedroom apartment in a guesthouse on the waterfront. I see a man on the concourse, holding a sign with my name, and make my way over.
“Welcome to Christchurch,” he says, smiling broadly and taking my suitcase from me. “Is it your first time here?”
“Yes,” I say, smiling back.
“Well, let’s hope it’s not your last.”
He introduces himself as Bill, and on the one-hour drive to Akaroa, he tells me he has a cousin who lives there. For a moment, I almost ask him if he’s heard of a Carl Hunter but decide against it. Instead, I let him tell me what I already know from the guidebook I bought, that Akaroa was New Zealand’s first and only French settlement. He tells me about the beach at French Bay, the harbor and the wharf, and when he asks me about myself, I make up a life I’d like to have, a life where I’m taking a year off before starting my master’s, a life where I have parents waiting for me back in the UK, and friends in Australia who I’m going to meet up with at some point.
By the time we get to Akaroa, jet lag has caught up with me and I can’t wait to get to bed. We pull up in front of a small building; Bill wheels my suitcase inside and leaves me to check in. The lady at the reception desk, who introduces herself as Glenda, is warm and friendly,and as we climb the stairs to my apartment, I give her the same story as I gave Bill.
The apartment is lovely. As well as the bedroom and bathroom, there’s a large room with sofas, a table, chairs, and a kitchen area. There’s also a balcony overlooking the sea.
“There’s milk and butter in the fridge, tea, coffee, and bread in the cupboards, along with a few other bits and pieces,” Glenda says.
“Thank you,” I say, looking gratefully at a bowl piled with kiwis, mandarins, apples, and avocados. “That’s so kind.”
“You’re welcome. If you need anything, just shout.”
