'What? Who's it from? Read it to me.'
Frankie grabbed the letter and did so, adding in the bit about lack of postmark and scented paper. 'So what do you think?'
'Well, it sounds cool, but who do you think is behind it?' Kate's voice was cautious and Frankie was reminded of their teenage years in Southampton, the mornings they'd sit in the back of Kate's mum's people carrier, Kate's younger brothers chattering away while the girls talked about school and boys and Kate's mum would add in dry, no-nonsense comments. They were fond memories and sometimes Frankie missed those years, when life had been simpler, though they hadn’t known it back then. As teens, everything had felt intense and dramatic and like the world would implode if the boy they had a crush on didn’t like them back or the Topshop dress they were after wasn’t in stock, or if they got a C grade for an essay instead of an A.
‘You still there?’ Kate asked.
'Yes, sorry. I don't know who it is.' Frankie frowned, opening her eyes.
'Oh, come on! It'll be someone you know, it has to be. Delivered to your home address, your favourite perfume? And that don’t be late comment.'
'What do you mean?'
'Come on Frankie, you're late for everything. Whoever sent it knows you.' Pausing. 'D'you think the letter could be from Christian?'
Frankie's short square gold nails dug into her palms. 'Unlikely. I haven't heard from him since we broke up. Even when I went to get my stuff once I was up to it, he wasn’t around. He wasn’t interested in seeing me. I think he took me ending it with him pretty badly. So I doubt it very much. Besides, he's in Bali at the moment.'
'Oh, yes. You missed out there on the holiday in paradise. But then again, money isn’t everything.'
'Yes, that’s what I keep telling myself.' Frankie muttered, scowling at the peeling ceiling above her head.
'What’s that? Is everything okay?’
Yeah, just hunky-dory. I live in a rough part of London, have no money, a job I can barely tolerate, debts coming out of my ears, and will probably end up with severe pneumonia because of the insane damp climbing my walls. But apart from that, it’s all good.
‘Frankie?’ Kate’s voice was strained, ‘You’re worrying me.’
Self-pity is not attractive! Frankie gave herself a proverbial kick up the arse. You have your health back, your independence and the freedom to make choices. More than some people have. She made her voice breezy. ‘Ignore me, everything is fine.’
‘Okay. If you say so.’ Kate said dubiously, but let Frankie off the hook. ‘If it’s not Christian, who else could it be?’
‘I don’t know. Davey?’
‘I thought he was gay?’
'Oh, he totally is, but it could be his idea of a joke.’ She sucked in her cheeks, considering the options. ‘Or maybe a way to remind me romance isn’t dead?’
‘Sounds a bit mean to me. Or a bit extreme, sending you on what could be a wild chase across the city. Do you really think he’d do that?’
‘I- hmmm, maybe not. I don’t know. The hand-writing doesn’t look like his though.’ Her side was aching, so she repositioned the cushion behind her head and crossed her ankles, resting them on the opposite arm of the sofa.
‘Any other likely suspects?' Kate quizzed.
‘No, I-,’ she hesitated.
‘What?'
'There is a guy at work. But…no.’
‘Who? And why not?’
‘Zack. He started a few months ago. He’s a sweetheart and we get on really well. But there isn’t a spark, and I’m not sure if the letter is his style.' Shaking her head, ‘Nah, I can’t see it. We're just friends and I’ve not given him any reason to think otherwise. Besides, it’s too soon.’
‘Maybe, maybe not.’ Kate replied, carrying on quickly before Frankie could object. ‘Anyway, perhaps he'll surprise you, and spark isn’t everything. Chemistry can grow over time. There are lots of other important things-’
'I know that from experience, remember? But like I said, it’s unlikely.’
‘Well, whoever it is, what’s the risk?’ Kate asked.
‘What? The risk of following the clues?’
'Yes. Let’s think it through. I suppose it could be a stalker,’ she paused dramatically, ‘or, dun-dun-dun, a serial killer.'
Frankie thought of one of her favourite films, This Means War and the main character’s objection to internet dating, and grinned, 'Yes, I guess I could end up as some guy's skin suit.'
‘That wouldn’t be good.’
‘No, it would put a serious cramp in my style,’ she giggled, and Kate joined in.
‘Seriously though,’ Kate said softly, ‘if the clues lead you to public places, you're fine, right? If they don't, you can always just cut your losses and go home.’
‘So you think I should do this?’ Frankie sat up, grabbing the remote and switching off the TV, side fringe swinging into her eyes. She blew it away impatiently.
'I'm not saying you have to, I'm just saying why not? It’s kind of exciting.’
‘What would you do?'
'I'd do it, as long as it was safe. But you already knew I’d say that. It’s why you called me. You were torn. Part of you is really tempted. If you weren’t, you wouldn’t have bothered getting in touch, you would have just binned the letter.’
'What? I didn’t-,’ Frankie blew out a breath, eyes straying back to the A4 sheet of paper lying open on the table. The bloody thing had been like a magnet since she’d first read it. 'Argh, I hate it when you’re right. Okay. What's the harm? I don’t have to commit to anything. And it’s not as if I have anything else to do for the next few hours.'
'Yay,’ Kate let out an uncharacteristic squeak, 'you're going on a romantic scavenger hunt. Amazing!'
Frankie made a dismissive sound. 'Shut up.'
Kate guffawed, 'Whatever! Listen, I’m around for the evening, call or text me after every clue. I want to know where you end up going, and who it is. Now go, you’re late.’
‘Shit.' It was gone twenty past four. 'Okay, speak later. Thank you! Love you!' Ending the call, she shoved the phone in her jeans pocket, grabbed the letter, yanked on her leather jacket and whirled out the door. She might as well get on with it. And Kate was right, she was late.
On the tube on the way to Knightsbridge, Davey’s words spun in her head. Everyone needs love. It had never been so obvious after visiting her dad. She knew he worried about her, living in London, barely any disposable income to her name with Christian out of the picture, but she was more worried about him. He'd been quiet, grey.
'Missing Mum?' she'd asked softly as they'd sat in the front room of the pebble-dash semi-detached house she'd grown up in.
'Yes. It's worse today. This time of year.’ He sighed. ‘It's a time for families.'
Putting her patterned porcelain teacup down with a clink – her dad insisted on brewing a pot of tea the old-fashioned way, just as his wife had – she crossed over to his beige velour armchair. Squeezing his shoulder, 'I know it is. But that's why I'm here.'
He put his hand over hers, his skin dry and firm, but lined. She was an only child and they'd had her in their early forties after years of trying, so he was older than most of her friends' parents.
Gazing up at her, he smiled sadly. 'I love you Francesca, you know that.