Chapter 9 Last Call
Last Call
Early Saturday morning and Flick was standing at a condiment bar in a cafe, looking for brown sugar for her oat milk flat white while listening to the automated voice in her AirPods.
Ah, there it was. Grabbing a packet, she located a stirrer.
Actually, on second thoughts. She grabbed several and pressed hash.
After following several prompts and giving the name of her local station, a real person came on the line.
‘Hello, this is Police Constable Kahn. Can I take your name?’
‘Hi, yes, it’s Felicity Lomax – hang on, is that you, Tariq? It’s me, Flick, from The Local Echo.’
‘Oh, hi, Flick, you’re at work early, and a weekend too! What can I do for you?’
The official voice gave way to a friendly one as he recognized her. Having spoken lots of times about various local crimes reported in the newspaper, Flick and Tariq were on first name terms.
‘Actually, it’s the other way around. I’ve got some information about a Mr Theo C. Stratin who is wanted for questioning in connection with a romance fraud.’
‘I see. And what would that information be?’
‘I’ve got reason to believe he’s in Europe.’
‘Right, well, in that case I’m afraid that’s out of our jurisdiction. I’ll enter it into our database along with your number and someone in the relevant department will be in touch. Anything else I can help you with?’
‘No, I think that’s it.’ At the other end of the line, Flick felt a strange mixture of resignation and liberation. ‘Oh, just one more thing. Any closer to catching the thieves who stole Mrs Robinson’s new electric car? I interviewed her a few weeks ago and she was really upset.’
‘Not yet, I’m afraid, but we’re still working on it. Fighting crime never stops. Speaking of, I’ve got another call waiting so I can’t chat, sorry Flick. Enjoy your weekend.’
‘Thanks, you too.’
Flick hung up with the satisfaction of having ticked a box.
While she didn’t hold out hope of the police doing anything much – if they couldn’t catch the local teenagers responsible for stealing Mrs Robinson’s Citroen C3 from her driveway, despite having the whole thing captured on footage from her doorbell camera, then catching a romance fraudster on the run in Europe seemed unlikely – at least she’d done what she promised.
Because after talking to her editor, Flick had decided Seymour was right – and not just about telling the police. She did need a holiday. So she’d found a cheap, last-minute flight to Nice and booked into a little Airbnb for the night. Call it a working holiday.
Sipping her coffee, Flick wheeled her carry-on out of the cafe and across the departures lounge to a row of plastic chairs where she found a free seat and sat down. From here she could keep an eye on when her flight was boarding.
The only problem had been what to tell Rory, her boyfriend.
‘You’re going away for the weekend?’
They’d met at The King’s Head after work last night.
Being a Friday night, it was busy, so she’d been helping out her stepdad Colin behind the bar.
Her mum and stepdad had taken over as landlords when she was small, and ever since they’d lived above the pub.
Memories of being allowed downstairs when she was a little girl, the familiar sights and smells of beer and perfume, her mum cleaning the counters, Colin changing the barrels. She loved the pub with its regulars.
After her mum got sick she’d finished her degree and put her plans on hold.
While her university friends found jobs in the cities, starting their new, exciting careers and lives, she’d moved back into her old bedroom and her old life, working behind the bar until eventually she’d got a job at the local paper.
Now, with her mum gone, they had full-time staff but she still liked to help out when she could.
It made her feel closer to her mum somehow.
‘It’s just for one night. I’ll be back Sunday evening.’
With the after-work rush hour over and a lull before the Friday-night regulars appeared, Flick was sitting at a table in the corner with a vodka tonic while Rory sipped his pint and fired her with questions. He was not best pleased with this new turn of events.
‘I can’t believe you didn’t mention it. I thought we were going to the Odeon tomorrow to see that new Marvel movie.’
‘Sorry, I totally forgot. What with everything that’s been going on, it totally slipped my mind.’
‘And what is it again?’
‘Oh, some boring journalists’ conference.’
She’d thought about telling him the truth. She really had. But then she’d remembered how Rory was always telling her not to get ideas above her station and thought better of it.
‘Where is it, again?’
‘I’m driving to Manchester first thing.’
‘If it’s only Manchester, I don’t see why I can’t come. I can stay in the hotel while you’re at the conference. Make use of the spa facilities,’ he grinned.
‘What spa facilities? I’m not staying at The Hilton,’ she quipped and he frowned.
‘Well, where are you staying?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, probably some budget hotel chain.’ She brushed it off evasively. ‘It is The Local Echo, remember.’
Sipping his pint, Rory looked put out. ‘Who else is going from the paper?’
Flick bristled as he showed his possessive streak. ‘No one, just me. Most of the staff are married and have family commitments, so I got the opportunity.’
‘Well, we know how to change that, don’t we?’ Putting his arm around her, he pulled her close and kissed her.
Flick kissed him back, ignoring the tightening in her chest. She was just anxious about lying, that was all.
‘I’ll just have to go out with the lads then. Have fun without you,’ he said, finally seeming satisfied.
‘I’ll be back before you know it,’ she smiled.
Draining his pint glass, he stood up. ‘Same again?’
He didn’t wait for her answer.
She wasn’t really lying. She was technically in Manchester.
OK, so she wasn’t at a conference, she was at the airport, but still.
The interpretation of the truth was very fluid these days.
Everyone talked about speaking their truth, but wasn’t that just their opinion?
Flick found it all rather confusing. Shouldn’t the real truth be the same for everyone?
And wasn’t her job as a journalist to find it?
She glanced up at the electronic screen. Her flight was boarding. Last call. She couldn’t wait any longer. Standing up, she began walking to her gate.
Maggie was late. The bus had taken for ever. She always used to take a taxi, but those days were long gone now. Which meant she’d had to change twice, standing around waiting ages for the next one to turn up.
Maggie noticed that a lot. All the waiting around.
The loss of control. Everyone always thinks having money means being able to afford nice things, but it was less about buying stuff and more about having time and convenience and ease and agency.
You jumped in taxis, bought takeout coffees, ordered Deliveroo and dropped clothes at the dry cleaner’s. Convenient. Quick. Easy.
No having to try and run in flip-flops with your heart bursting out of your chest as you dashed through sliding doors into the airport and through security as you tried to make your flight before it leaves without you.
And then she saw her.
‘Flick Lomax!’
As Maggie rushed down the long concourse towards the gate, she waved with her free arm at the reporter ahead of her.
‘Wait!’
At least she thought it was the reporter. She looked different out of her suit and she had her hair in a ponytail. But as Flick turned, Maggie noticed she was still wearing the same trainers, only now they were free of mud. They’d cleaned up well.
‘Maggie?’
‘Sorry, the bus took for ever,’ Maggie gasped, catching up with her. God, she was out of shape.
‘I’ve been waiting for you in departures. I didn’t think you were coming.’
Flick was staring at her with disbelief as she bent double, hands on her waist, trying to catch her breath.
‘Of course I’m coming. You bought me a ticket.’
Yesterday, after speaking to George, Maggie had phoned Flick, who’d seemed surprised but pleased to hear from her.
When Flick had told her she was still determined to get her exclusive and was flying to France in the morning, where she had reason to believe her ex was, Maggie had made the impulsive decision to go with her.
‘I thought you might have had second thoughts.’
‘Second, third, fourth and fifth.’
Straightening up, Maggie looked at Flick.
A reluctant traveller, she was seriously out of her comfort zone, but she felt like she didn’t have a choice.
Without her there was no story; she had to warn other women.
And when Flick had said the newspaper would buy her a ticket and the trip was all expenses paid, she couldn’t refuse.
Especially since she’d woken up a couple of weeks ago to find an enforcement notice from the council slapped on the door of the caravan.
Due to lack of planning permission, she was deemed to be living illegally and had twenty-eight days from the date of the notice to move the caravan otherwise they were taking her to court.
So basically, in two weeks she was going to be homeless.
Like George said, at this point, what had she got to lose?
‘I’ve got lots of questions.’
‘Me too,’ replied Flick. ‘But they’re going to have to wait.’
‘This is the final boarding call for flight 2103 to Nice. Will any remaining passengers please report to the gate immediately, as it’s about to close.’
For a split second the two women exchanged glances as they listened to the announcement, before grabbing their cases and dashing to their gate .
. . to find it completely empty but for one member of the cabin crew who urgently greeted them, scanning their boarding cards and rushing them onto the plane.
It was only when they were finally in their seats, their seatbelts on, and the plane was taxiing down the runway that Maggie turned to Flick. ‘So, He’s in Nice?’
She still couldn’t say his name.
‘Actually, no.’ Flick shook her head. ‘In fact, he’s not in France at all. My geography’s terrible. I didn’t realize it was a different country.’
‘Huh?’ Maggie looked at her, bewildered, as the engines began roaring and there was a sudden thrust as the plane took off.
‘Didn’t I tell you? We’re going to Monte Carlo.’