The Near Miss

Chapter 17

SEVENTEEN

WREN

Wren woke to the smell of coffee, and when she opened her eyes, there was a cup on her bedside table, steam rising from it in white curls. She shuffled to sit up. Nick was sitting fully clothed on the sofa, sipping his own drink.

‘I hope you don’t mind me making myself at home,’ he said, lifting his cup a little.

Wren took a drink. ‘Not at all, especially if you make a coffee as nice as this. Thank you.’ She felt a little shy again. ‘Did you sleep okay?’

‘Like a log. I think yesterday caught up with me.’

‘Me too,’ she said. She looked at her phone. It was nearly ten o’clock. ‘Bloody hell, is that really the time?’

He chuckled. ‘I know, I know. I’ll be out of your hair once I’ve finished this brew.’

‘I didn’t mean?—’

‘I know. I’m winding you up. But I’d better get back. There’s a bus to Naples in twenty minutes.’

‘And your brother will be waiting for you, I’d imagine. Tell him I’m sorry for stealing you away.’

‘Ha. I think he’s quite enjoyed it. Apparently Naples does a roaring trade in knock-down designer gear. Who knew?’

‘Oh, right. He’s into fashion then?’

‘Like you wouldn’t believe. Right, I’d best be off then.’ He put his cup down and slapped his knees in the universal gesture of leaving someone’s house. Standing up, he slung his rucksack onto his shoulder. ‘I guess I should say thanks for the adventure?’

Her stomach dropped slightly. This sounded like a proper goodbye, and she realised now she’d been hoping to see him again, like they’d said last night. Should she ask for his number? She opened her mouth to do just that but then snapped it shut again. It was all too confusing. Just last week she’d had a boyfriend, and although Alex had shredded any love she had left for him, he still hovered nearby like an unwelcome ghost. Years of being with him still weighed heavy. Was it wrong to feel like she could move on so quickly? She made a split-second decision.

‘Yep. Same to you. Thanks for the memories and all that,’ she said, and it came out a little more brittle than she’d intended. It was borne out of feeling awkward, not to mention regretful, but she saw his smile falter.

‘Sorry that a fair proportion of them were quite harrowing,’ he said, recovering.

‘Mentally scarring.’ She smiled, the strange tension easing a little.

‘And say the same to your dad for me. Apologies for dragging you away yesterday.’

‘Quite literally,’ said Wren, thinking of her helter-skelter ride through the cave tunnel. Then, on the subject of fathers, she remembered why Nick was here. She hesitated for a moment then asked, ‘Will you be looking for your dad again today?’

He seemed unsure for a moment. ‘I think I will, yes.’

‘I hope you find him.’

‘I hope so too. I think I’ll go back to Capri. Take another look around.’

‘Good! Good plan. I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you.’

‘Thanks.’ He smiled, and Wren wondered if it was a slightly sad smile, or if she was projecting. He headed for the door. ‘Bye, Wren,’ he said, and he left.

Wren was still in bed, knees pulled up to her chest, holding her mug with two hands. She chewed her lip as she thought. Why did it feel strange suddenly being alone in her room? She’d spent plenty of time alone until yesterday and been quite happy about it. But now Nick had gone, it felt like there was an empty space.

Before Alan answered the door, Wren could smell lemons. When he opened the door, the lemon scent was backed up by the distinctive odour of ethanol. She wrinkled her nose.

‘Been having one or two limoncellos, Dad?’

Alan looked like he’d had one or twenty limoncellos. His wild hair was even more unkempt, one side plastered to his head, the other sprayed up like a peacock’s tail. He had bags under his eyes that would have required a supplemental payment at check-in.

‘Come in, pet,’ he said, voice like gravel. He walked slowly to his bed and sat down on the end of it, rubbing his eyes.

Wren resisted the urge to laugh and took a seat on the armchair, setting down some pastries and two cups of takeaway coffee from a nearby cafe. Alan’s room was smaller than hers but was still comfortably furnished with a small dressing table, gauzy curtains and Mediterranean prints on the walls.

‘So, you had a good night, then.’

He grinned and immediately winced. ‘You could say that. Those sailor fellas know how to have a good time. Have you ever played a drinking game, Wren? Because I can’t tell if I won or lost.’ He took a cup of coffee, sniffed it carefully and took a sip.

Wren laughed. ‘Probably both, Dad. Did you enjoy the lighthouse?’

‘Oh, Wren, it was smashing. Did you know it was kept by just one man until a few years ago? Only became automated in 2019.’

‘Wow,’ said Wren, nodding appreciatively but keen to swerve the conversation away from the technicalities of coastal safety measures. ‘They were a nice bunch then?’

‘Salt of the earth, Wren – proper good lads. And lasses too.’

Wren smirked.

‘Nowt like that, you cheeky monkey. We had a good knees-up and put the world to rights. Well, as much as you can when the Italians are trying to decipher your Geordie accent.’

Wren’s insides warmed at the thought of her dad in the thick of a lively conversation and remembered the noise that had come down the phone last night. She didn’t think Alan had been out for so much as half a pint in the pub for many years.

‘So you’ve got some new pen pals?’

‘Better than that.’ He smiled contentedly. ‘Lina set me up on Facebook and I’ve joined their group.’ He fumbled with his phone and brought up his profile. His badly angled selfie looked like it’d been taken in the reflection of the back of a spoon, but he was grinning from ear to ear.

‘Ah, that’s lovely, Dad.’

‘Yeah, and looka! This one here is my old pal, Neil, from school. He “friended” me. And this one’s Charlie from when I used to play snooker.’ His eyes misted over a little, and he tapped at his phone screen to turn it off. ‘Lost their phone numbers years ago.’

Wren’s heart swelled. Maybe this holiday might do more for her dad than just giving him a bit of a tan.

As if he’d read her mind, he touched her hand. ‘Thanks for bringing me along, Wren. I didn’t realise how much I’d enjoy it. It’s been a long time since I’ve been away.’

‘I’m happy you’re here, Dad,’ she said, realising how sincerely she meant this. Alex seemed a million miles away, and she was glad.

Alan gave a bashful grin. ‘You know, it must be nearly forty years since I went abroad.’

Wren hadn’t really thought about it, but they’d never been on a holiday outside the UK when she was a child. Bucket-and-spade holidays in Scarborough or Devon, but not once overseas.

‘Was that one of your holidays with Mam?’

‘Aye. It was,’ he said, his eyes misting over a little as he remembered. ‘It was before you were born. Cyprus. She loved a bit of sun, your mam. Those were the days before there was all this fuss about sun cream, you know? She used to baste herself in carrot oil so she’d bronze up a bit more.’

Wren laughed, picturing the photos at home where Caron looked as pale as British weather would usually allow. ‘What kind of stuff would you do?’

‘Oh, this and that. British pubs, a bit of karaoke. Nothing as fancy as this. She would have got a kick out of this; she’d have felt like the lady of the manor. She’d have loved being here with you too, you know. I can picture the pair of you out there by the pool on sun loungers.’

‘You can?’

‘I can.’

Wren blinked. This had to be the most her dad had said about her mam in a very long time. It was as if a bit of sun and a lot of alcohol had opened a gate that had been tightly locked. Could she ask him again? About Edie and the Kitchen?

Then she saw how comforted he looked by those happy memories, and she couldn’t bring herself to say it. Taking the conversation to a place he’d avoided before seemed cruel.

‘So, what do you fancy doing today?’ she asked instead. ‘I think there’s only the one lighthouse around here, but I’m sure we could find something else seafaring to do.’

Alan went a little green. ‘You know what, pet, I think I might have a bit of a lie-down. Do you mind? I’m still quite… tired.’

Wren bit her lip, trying not to laugh. ‘Of course, Dad. I understand.’

‘I feel bad. I left you on your own yesterday too. No, no, I’ll get myself up, and we’ll go and do something.’ He stood up abruptly. Maybe too abruptly, as he swayed a bit and clutched his head.

Wren hurried over and gently pressed his shoulders until he sat on the bed again. She went to the bathroom sink and filled the toothbrush mug with some water, then produced some paracetamol from her handbag. ‘Here, take these. You have a good rest and we’ll meet up later.’

He obeyed and looked up at her, slightly cowed. ‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t say sorry. I’ll head out for a wander, and I’ll ring you later. We can grab a bite to eat once you’re back on your feet.’

He nodded and lay back down on the bed. Wren let herself out, smiling as she closed the door, seeing him retrieve his phone and re-open his new social-media page.

Outside, the late-morning sun was growing steadily hotter. She wondered what to do, now that the day was her own and her dad was taken care of. Her dad . This brought to mind Nick again, and she felt grateful that her own dad was safely tucked up in the room behind her, even if currently his blood-alcohol level would set off a breathalyser at a hundred paces. Nick couldn’t say the same. Why was his dad missing? Had he run off, or was something else going on? She berated herself for not asking more.

She pictured Nick, and possibly his brother, pounding the pavements of Capri and felt a wave of guilt. She had nothing but time on her hands today and using it to lie on a beach or buy souvenirs suddenly seemed wasteful. Plus, she thought, with a twinge of selfishness, she’d like to see Nick again. But how would she find him? Capri was small, but not that small. She cursed herself for not asking for his number and sighed, heading back to her room to give herself time to think.

She had another cup of coffee, texted Libby and thought about googling Nick. But she didn’t know where he lived, what he did for a living, or even his surname. She restlessly washed her coffee cup then went for a wee, almost to pass the time.

Then she spotted something crumpled in the bathroom waste bin. A piece of paper that she didn’t remember throwing in herself.

Gingerly, she reached in and plucked it out, unfolding it. On it was a name and address, written in spidery handwriting – Richard Keyes, Ristorante Giorgio, via San Giovanni, Capri. Was this his dad? Maybe it had been the dead end he’d alluded to, but the journalist in Wren thought only one thing. A lead was a lead. She grabbed her bag and headed for the coast.

An hour later, she was standing outside Ristorante Giorgio – or rather the pitiful vestiges of it. The dusty forecourt had clumps of litter in the corners, and the windows had that misty look that uninhabited places have. She looked at the crumpled note in her hand and felt a pang of disappointment, mostly for Nick. Where could she go from here?

Wren scouted around for any kind of helpful signage, an owner or proprietor, or a phone number, but there was nothing. She went up to the windows and peered inside. There appeared to be some broken bits of furniture and a few dust sheets but little else. She tried the front door handle then felt silly for doing so. Then she went into the side alley to look at what might have been the staff entrance. There was a grimy little window, and she cupped her hands around her eyes to peer into the gloom. There, on the floor tiles, was a pile of junk mail, and a single letter with a name and address. Signora Elena Bianchi . A quick Google search of Elena Bianchi Capri immediately served up the proprietor of a brand-new restaurant on the other side of town – Pastasciutta . Her heart leaped. What if Nick had seen it too? Could he have tracked his dad down to another place?

It was only a short walk across Capri town, and she found herself standing outside a small, smart-looking but unintimidating restaurant. It was similar to Ristorante Giorgio in that it had an outdoor courtyard with umbrellas, but this place was buzzing with customers, and the smell of garlic and seafood emanated from within. A busy but smiling waitress came to offer her a table.

‘Actually, I was looking for someone. Richard Keyes?’

‘No, I do not know any Richard Keyes,’ said the waitress, shaking her head.

‘How about Elena Bianchi?’

‘Ah, Elena.’ She smiled then called over her shoulder towards the open door in Italian. A stout woman of about fifty came out from the restaurant and walked over to Wren.

‘Hi!’ said Wren. ‘I wonder if you could help me? I’m looking for someone called Richard. Richard Keyes?’

Elena immediately rolled her eyes. ‘Not again,’ she said sternly.

Wren grinned.

Her smile didn’t last for long.

A brief and impatient conversation with Elena revealed that a man of Nick’s description had indeed been to ask the very same question that morning and she’d told him that Richard Keyes used to work for her. But she had no idea where he was now. Elena threw suspicious glances at the younger waitress and talked rapidly in Italian, gesticulating with her hands.

She turned back to Wren. ‘Why you people come asking about him? He in some kind of trouble?’

‘I… I don’t think so. Well, I don’t know.’ Wren blinked at the woman, who stood with her hands on her hips, one finger tapping at her skirt.

She looked Wren up and down. ‘Like I say to the boy, I don’t want to get involved.’ And she turned on her heel and went back inside.

The waitress shrugged apologetically and went back to work too.

Wren stood there for a moment, deflated. What could she do now? And why was Elena being so cagey? Again, her journalistic senses were piqued – but what good would it do if she’d told Nick the same thing? He’d probably gone back to Naples feeling infinitely more disappointed than Wren did. Sighing, she realised she had no choice but to give it up as a lost cause and trudged back towards the ferry port.

The sun had almost set as she arrived into Sorrento harbour, covered in fresh sea spray yet again, but the place had been transformed since she’d departed that morning. She’d needed to wait for a ferry ticket in Capri, as they were all booked solid, so she’d passed a few hours nursing espressos and cakes in a little cafe until an evening ticket became available.

On the marina, there had been a smattering of decorations and stalls selling sweets and pastries that morning, but now there were crowds of people packed onto the harbour, and on the water’s edge, there was a row of huge floats. The church in the centre of the harbour that she’d seen being festooned with lights was now lit up like a Christmas tree.

She squinted into the distance, trying to make out what was going on, but couldn’t quite see from this angle. It seemed as though each float was some kind of stage with a construction that looked like a theatrical set. She couldn’t believe the scale of them – on the nearest one, she could see a few people busying about, and the structure behind them was the size of a house.

She disembarked the ferry and joined the crowd, checking her text messages. There was one from Libby, asking if she could squeeze an Italian waiter into her suitcase, and one from her dad saying that he was meeting up with Lina and the port gang again, giving her the name of a bar where she could come and meet them. The map on her phone gave her its location, which was unfortunately right at the other end of the harbour.

She shouldered through the tight shoals of people, thinking about Nick. She was disappointed not to have found him again, despite her best investigative efforts. And now she was a bit worried about him. What had Elena meant when she said she didn’t want to have any part of it? And why did she think there was trouble involved? Her stomach pinched at the thought of Nick out there, somewhere, possibly walking into danger.

She came to a halt; the crowd had stopped moving and had parted, making a path for some people shouting in Italian. Some were dressed in costume, others in normal clothes, and they were carrying what looked like props towards the floats on the harbour.

Wren heard two Americans speaking in English nearby.

‘What’s going on?’ she asked.

The man, who was wearing a baseball cap and vest top, looked at her incredulously. ‘You know it’s the Saint Anna festival, right? I mean, that’s why we’re here.’ He looked at his female companion with raised eyebrows. ‘Isn’t that why you’re here?’

‘Um, not quite. I didn’t realise this was going on when we booked. I saw them stringing up the lights, but this is… bigger than I expected,’ she said.

‘It’s a big deal. See those floats? They’re all along the theme of sailing – she’s the patron saint of sailors, right?’

‘And pregnant women,’ said his friend.

‘So they’re going to sail along past the judges over there,’ he said, pointing to a raised dais on the harbour front, ‘and they do a kind of performance. Cool, huh?’

Wren nodded. It was kind of cool. But she needed to find her dad, so she made her excuses and walked away. The crowd mercifully thinned out a little, and she was able to look at some stalls as she passed through. She bought some little gummy seashells and ate a few as she went, then bought a handkerchief for Libby, as it was supposed to be imbued with a blessing for pregnant ladies. Libby needed all the blessings she could get given her ideas about running the shop with a baby on her hip.

Wren stopped to take a photo of the handkerchief to send to Libby but was distracted by a light thud nearby. A woman who’d been carrying an armful of what looked like colourful hats had dropped one. Wren stuffed her phone and sweets into her pocket and picked up the hat, trailing after the woman.

‘Excuse me…’ she called. ‘Um, scusi …?’

The woman couldn’t hear her through the crowd, so Wren hurried on to see if she could tap her on the shoulder. She’d almost reached her when they got to the water’s edge beside a float bearing a construction of what looked like the Capri grottoes, blue and green light emanating from within. Wren felt a shiver of recognition. She called once more to the woman, but she still didn’t hear over the noise of the crowd and walked up a little ramp onto the float.

Wren stopped, and an impatient-looking man with a moustache tried to shepherd her onto the raft too. She shook her head and thrust the hat at the man, but he looked more insistent and took her arm, guiding her up the short gangplank. Oh, hell , she thought. If the hat’s that important, I’ll just nip onto the float and hand it over . But as soon as she stepped onto the stage, there was an exchange of Italian voices behind her and a shucking noise as the gangplank was tugged away. With a yelp, she threw the hat over her shoulder and bolted for the harbour edge. The float was very slowly gliding away from the dock, joining the slow procession towards the judging area. Staring open-mouthed at the growing space between the float and the harbour, she went cold. Oh God, she was going to have to take part in the bloody performance if she couldn’t get off. Then she heard something that drew her horrified gaze from the retreating land.

‘Wren? Wren!’

She looked up sharply, and there he was.

‘Nick?’ she shouted in disbelief.

He was standing three rows back in the giddy crowd opposite the float. He was staring at her, open-mouthed, and raised his palms in question. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked, although she could only tell from the movement of his lips.

What am I doing ? she thought, looking with panic at the growing gap, water glinting darkly below. Then, looking up at Nick again, she took a deep breath, ran a few paces and hurled herself towards the harbour.

Time almost stood still. There was an intake of breath from the people she was jumping towards and an instinctive drawing back from the edge to make space.

As she careered through the air, she thought, I’m going to make it ! But as her feet just missed the edge of the concrete and she felt air rush beneath them, she realised her mistake. Flailing her arms, she felt the scrape of rough stone and grappled with her hands, somehow managing to hold on, her belly slapping against the harbour wall as she came to an abrupt stop. Voices from above squealed and chattered as many hands reached down to pull her up by the arms.

‘Oh, shit! Wren!’ came Nick’s voice. He’d pushed through and was now visible in snapshots above her as she was hauled up onto the pavement, where she crouched, trying to get her breath. Multiple Italian voices rabbited around her, and several hands patted her down for injuries.

An older Italian lady clucked at her. ‘Crazy English lady. You could have been killed!’

Then, in the confusion, she felt a sharp tug at her neck and a scrape of metal on skin. Before she could even register what had happened, she heard Nick shout. ‘Oi! Oi! You!’

She stood up shakily to see the crowd pulling away from Nick and another man wearing a tracksuit top and a beanie hat. They were scuffling, Nick trying to grab her seashell necklace from the man’s hand.

‘Nick, no!’ she yelled as the thief tried to headbutt him.

Nick turned his head at the sound of her voice, and as he did, the other man wheeled back his fist and punched Nick in the side of the face near his left eye. Nick staggered, and the man ran off.

‘Oh my God,’ Wren said, rushing towards him. ‘Are you okay?’

He was rubbing at his eye, his face flushed, breathing heavily. To Wren’s relief, there was no blood, and his right eye looked reassuringly focused.

He looked down at her and barked a soft laugh. ‘Fancy seeing you here.’