of the gutter press, please, Beppe.’ As the cover of this week’s edition of CiaoCiao magazine featured a collage of Italian celebrities before and after breast enhancement surgery, Bruno Bianchi knew he was on thin ice. ‘Remember, we’re providing a service. If the public didn’t want the stuff we print, they wouldn’t buy the magazine.’
Beppe made no comment. This was an argument he used himself whenever people commented upon his chosen career of paparazzo, or celebrity photographer, as he preferred to be known.
Bianchi flicked through the pile of papers on his desk. ‘Here, this is the last photo we got of her and it was over a year ago. I’ve always thought Ann Cartwright was one of the most beautiful women in the world. I’m counting on you, Beppe.’
‘So where’s all the action going to be next month?’ Beppe’s spirits rose. ‘Somewhere smart, I bet. I could do with spending August somewhere sunny and classy. I work too hard.’
The verb Bianchi would have chosen was drink, but he refrained from commenting. He scrabbled around amid the chaos of his desk until he found the file. He ran his thumb down the inside page. ‘Rock Island.’
The old paparazzo looked blank. ‘Never heard of it. Where’s that? British Virgin Islands, maybe? Somewhere in the Caribbean, I bet.’
‘You would lose your bet. It’s a lot closer to home.’ He saw Beppe’s face fall as the realisation dawned.
‘Oh, shit, it’s in bloody England, isn’t it? Why does she have to be English, for Christ’s sake? Now I’m going to have to spend the summer on that cold, wet, nasty little island.’
‘So you do know Rock Island?’
‘I’m talking about England, not this other godforsaken place. Awful country, awful people and truly terrible food.’ A shudder went through his body. Bianchi clearly saw the paparazzo’s pendulous jowls shake. ‘So, what’s the place called again?’
‘Rock Island. It’s off the coast of Cornwall. I think I know where that is. Do you?’ Beppe shrugged his shoulders so Bianchi turned to the computer. A quick search showed them that Cornwall was down in the west of England, and Rock Island a rocky islet a few hundred metres out from the south Cornish coast. A close-up of the aerial view revealed a formidable stone structure, a helipad and little else.
‘It looks like bloody Alcatraz.’ Beppe felt his heart sink. ‘Mind you, Alcatraz would have a damn sight better weather.’ He extended his hands, palms upwards, towards the editor in vain supplication. ‘Why does she have to go to such an awful place? Call that a holiday? I want sun.’
Bianchi hadn’t had a summer holiday for over a decade, so he had little sympathy. ‘Who knows? Anyway, we just have to hope that the sun shines at least part of the time. I want photos of any ladies in the sea, on the beach and, if at all possible, topless.’
Beppe’s command of English was next to non-existent, but some words were unavoidable in his business. ‘Top-e-less?’ His pronunciation was unmistakably Roman. ‘No chance over there. They’ll be wrapped in furs and waterproofs more likely.’
‘Well, just you start praying for sunshine.’ Bianchi paused. ‘So how’s your English?’ He knew the answer already. In consequence, he was unsurprised when Beppe pressed his fingers together and raised his hands towards his chest in indignation. ‘Me speak English? You must be joking.’ His tone said it all.
Bianchi soldiered on. ‘Well, in that case, you’re going to need an interpreter.’ He lowered his eyes in preparation for the outburst. ‘I want you to take Giancarlo with you.’
‘Giancarlo?’ Beppe exploded into a bout of coughing. It was a while before he was in a fit state to continue. ‘Not Giancarlo. You don’t mean it, surely? The lad’s nothing but a playboy. He’s only interested in cars and women.’
Bianchi hesitated before replying. He chose his words carefully. He was talking about his employer’s firstborn, after all. ‘He’s not a playboy; he works hard, too, you know. You mustn’t say things like that, Beppe. OK, so maybe he’s a bit wild from time to time.’
‘Wild?’ The paparazzo was on his feet by this time. Bianchi raised his eyebrows, impressed that the fat man had managed to extricate himself from the chair. ‘He drove his BMW through a shop window last week.’
‘Well, yes, his record at the wheel isn’t great. I’ll give you that.’ Bianchi was doing his best to be diplomatic. ‘But his father tells me he’s studied English for ten years. And, anyway, he needs to get out of the office and to get more experience.’ And, he thought to himself, that will get him out of my way for a whole month.
‘And there was that incident with the photocopier a few days ago.’ Beppe wasn’t giving up without a struggle. ‘How the hell do you overturn a photocopier? And what were they doing with it? It’s a miracle the girl wasn’t hurt.’ Beppe adopted a tone of supplication. ‘Please don’t do this to me, Bianchi. Send the boy on holiday in August. Most of Italy’s on holiday then. He’ll be expecting it.’
‘That’s partly the problem. His father doesn’t want him holidaying with them this year. He told me to find him something to do as far away from them as possible.’ He looked Beppe square in the eye. ‘And if the boss says he doesn’t want him, he doesn’t want him. Got it?’
‘So I’m the lucky one?’ Beppe recognised the expression on the editor’s face. He gave a deep, heartfelt sigh of exasperation and accepted his medicine. ‘All right, then, but you’ll owe me after that. Big time.’
‘Talking of owing people, I don’t want you going overboard with expenses in England either. No flashy hotels and no gourmet dinners.’
‘Gourmet dinners? Chance would be a fine thing.’
‘Now, why don’t you take Giancarlo out for a drink somewhere?’ Bianchi knew Beppe so very well after all these years. ‘He should be down on the second floor at the moment. That way you can break the news to him that he’s heading for England.’
Beppe grunted and turned for the door.
Samantha got back to the house just after half past five and dumped the kayak in the back garden. She walked back into the house, the bag of wet clothes in her hand, to find Becky watching the TV, blissfully unaware of the seaborne drama that had played out that afternoon. It was sobering for Sam to reflect that if she hadn’t been saved by the people on the island, she would most probably by now be way out in the English Channel without anybody being aware of what had happened. She really had been amazingly lucky.
‘Been shopping?’ Becky’s eyes almost popped out of her head as she saw Sam’s cashmere jumper. ‘Bloody hell. Have you won the lottery?’
‘A present from the people who just saved my life.’ Seeing Becky’s eyes open even further, Sam sat down and related the events of the afternoon. Becky’s expression went from surprise to terror to amazement. By the end of the tale, she was shaking her head in disbelief.
‘Wow! Talk about jammy! Christ, Sam, you could be dead. Instead, you’ve been treated like a queen and dressed like a celebrity.’ She settled
