Part 11 (2/2)

'But tell me more about Kate,' Mum was saying. 'No, tell me first about Jake. How are things between you? Did the working holiday work out?'

'Not quite,' I said and started the story. By the time I'd finished it was getting dark and Mum was nodding off. She must really have been bashed up a bit. She normally coped on about five hours a night. I drew the curtains, put some lamps on. And while Mum dozed, I nipped into the next room and, as I always did in emergencies, I rang Bill.

He arrived within the hour, just as I was trying to help Mum to the loo. Tricky-with a bad wrist she really couldn't manage the crutches she needed because of her ankle-so we were progressing slowly as she sort of hopped while hanging onto my shoulder and I had an arm around her waist. When the doorbell rang I had to leave her propped up against the table in the hall while I went to answer it.

'Bill!' She glared at me. 'You rang him!' she accused.

'Yes, and what a good thing she did,' said Bill, not even blinking at Mum's battered face. 'Are you trying to get to the bathroom or back from it?'

'To.'

'In that case...' He put down the bunch of flowers and basket of food he was carrying and simply picked up Mum, carried her to the bathroom, came out, closed the door saying, 'Yell when you want a lift back,' and came back into the kitchen where I was hunting for a vase for the flowers.

'She looks terrible. How is she?' he asked.

'Stubborn,' I said.

'Well, we know that. But we'll look after her,' he said, like a man with a mission.

And he did. He helped her back into the sitting room, then sat talking to her, telling her stories about the restaurant and the staff there, the suppliers he had found and some of the customers. He built a colourful picture of a little world.

'You'll have to come round and see it for yourself.'

'Hardly at the moment,' said Mum, wincing as she tried to move.

'No. But soon. I'd like you to see it.'

'Maybe,' said Mum, noncommittally.

At least she seemed almost pleased to see him.

Meanwhile, I was back in my teenage bedroom. I had long since taken down the pictures of the Gallaghers and Hugh Grant. (I know, I know, but I had been very young then.) But it still took me back to a time when life seemed to be just beginning and I had no idea how it would all turn out. I couldn't help thinking that maybe I hadn't got very far, really, as I absentmindedly reached out to touch Jake that first night back and found myself instead almost falling out of the single bed.

Not that I got much sleep. I was on night duty-in bed, but ever wakeful for Mum if she needed anything-painkillers, a drink, help to the loo. 'Good practice for when you have babies,' said Mum as I brought her extra cus.h.i.+ons to make her foot comfortable. I smiled grimly. The way it was going, I was clearly doomed to be one of those perpetual bridesmaids and G.o.dmothers to my friends' children. But Bill would normally turn up mid-morning and immediately the atmosphere lightened. Mum even stopped protesting when he carried her round the flat, though she occasionally scolded him about the restaurant. 'How can you leave it to come and look after me?' she asked.

'Because I have good staff. They can cope for a few days. And you know, your staff can cope too, if you let them,' he said. 'Think about it. No one's indispensable. Not even Frankie Flint.'

On my second day back, I'd popped out for milk and papers, bread and coffee. Just two weeks in the far north had made me really excited about being able to go round the corner and find a newsagent's and deli. I even beamed happily at Tesco Express-anything that didn't involve putting on boots or driving down a b.u.mpy track every time you needed a pint of milk. In the newsagent's I picked up a whole pile of papers and magazines, hoping to distract Mum and keep her from fretting too much about work.

As I waited to pay, I looked idly at one of the front pages and nearly dropped the lot.

'Foxy tracked to ground!'glared the headline. 'Foxy's mountain hideaway!'

'The model and the muck heap!''Our s.e.xy shepherdess!'

Oh G.o.d, I was almost scared to look. They'd found her. Bang goes her peace and privacy. And the peace and privacy of her family. I thought of Kate and Guy and wondered how they would cope with photographers trudging through the farmyard. I thought of the photographers swarming over the area looking for her. Going into the pub and asking questions. It was horrid, invasive. It spoilt everything. I ran home, praying that Matty had really believed me when I said I'd had nothing to do with it.

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, G.o.d 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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, pus.h.i.+ng 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 ma.s.ses 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 circ.u.mstances 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.

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