‘Take a photo of the lampposts,’ I said to Nick.
‘I’m not here to take tourist shots for you.’ He looked annoyed.
‘They might be significant,’ I said. ‘They’re the reason we’re here. Ford is into Gaudí, and I reckon his apartment might be around here somewhere.’
Nick gave me an incredulous look. ‘You mean you don’t actually have the address?’
‘No.’
His grin was almost fierce. ‘This is fantastic. You come here completely unprepared, in a city that’s absolutely full of Gaudí’s work, and you think this guy would choose to live here because of a couple of lampposts?’
‘They might seem insignificant to you, but I’ve studied this guy for the last two days, and he’s obsessed with Gaudí. These lampposts were one of Gaudí’s first known works.’ I stabbed my finger at Nick’s chest. ‘I know you’ve never been interested in anyone but yourself, but when someone is really into something, they find meaning in things like this. Call it intuition or call me an idiot, but I have a feeling his apartment is close by, and I’m going to find it.’
Nick looked momentarily taken aback at my outburst. ‘Well, intuition’s all well and good, but it’s not going to win you a Walkley, is it? Why didn’t you just use our publication’s research assistant?’
‘Angela?’
He heaved an impatient sigh. ‘She’s got access to all the online databases, she can look up official records all over the world. It’d take her two minutes to find out where the apartment is while you’re faffing about with your intuition.’
I wasn’t sure who to be more annoyed with—Nick for being, well, Nick, Katrina for not telling me that Angela would be able to find Ford’s apartment, or Angela for not looking it up before we left.
‘Do you think you could lose the attitude, Nick?’ I snapped. ‘You can hate me all you like, I don’t care—the feeling’s mutual, believe me—but we’re supposed to be working together here. You might consider helping me out rather than constantly antagonising me.’
Nick took a step towards me, his flushed face the only indication of his annoyance. ‘You’re the journo here. I’m the photographer. Just so we’re clear. You do the investigating, I take the photos. And I’ve had just about enough of traipsing around after you with no plan and no direction.’
‘Oh, you’ve had enough, have you?’ My voice rose. ‘Why don’t you just piss off then?’
‘I might just do that.’
‘Fine!’
‘Fine.’
He turned his back on me, got his phone out of his pocket and made a call.
‘I’m out of here,’ he said when he’d hung up.
‘Where are you going?’ I demanded.
‘I’m meeting my mate on La Rambla.’
‘Oh no you’re not. What if I need you?’
‘If you find something a bit more significant than a bloody lamppost, you can call me.’
And he walked off, leaving me clutching the guidebook and feeling like a kid who’d been abandoned in a shopping centre. After allowing myself a few moments of rumination on the uselessness of men, I got out my own phone and called Angela.
‘Hello?’ Her voice sounded hollow and far away.
‘Hey, Angela, it’s Sarah. I need you to find out something for me.’
‘Sarah?’
‘Sarah Burrowes…’
‘Yeah, I know who it is,’ she said with exaggerated patience. ‘It’s just that it’s after midnight here. I was in bed.’
I felt like crawling into a hole. ‘Shit, Ange, I’m sorry. I’ll call back tomorrow.’
‘What are you after?’
‘I need to know where Ford’s apartment is.’
She paused. ‘All right. I’ll call you back in ten minutes.’
She hung up and I resisted the urge to do a little jig in the middle of the square.
‘Who’s got a plan now, butthead?’ I directed at the absent Nick.
CHAPTER FOUR
As I assessed the small knots of tourists gathered in the square, I figured I might as well make myself useful while I waited for Angela to call back. An older couple with their teenage children stood beside the fountain, their English accents giving away their nationality. I walked over to them.
‘Hi,’ I said, and they turned to look at me. ‘I’m Sarah. I was wondering if you’ve seen this man around here today?’ I rummaged through my bag and pulled out the photo of Ford, already creased from much folding and unfolding.
‘Hey, that’s Chris Ford!’ said the blonde girl. She looked about sixteen.
‘Who?’ asked the older man.
‘Chris Ford, Dad, from The Fords,’ she said in an annoying, know-all way. I downgraded her estimated age to fourteen.
‘Big fan, are you, love?’ her father asked me.
‘No, I’m a… uh yeah, I’m a fan,’ I said. ‘I’m doing a bit of a Chris Ford pilgrimage and I heard he’s got an apartment around here somewhere.’
‘Aren’t The Fords touring in Australia at the moment?’ The girl leant over to look at the photo again.
‘They were,’ I said. ‘I saw them play in Sydney, but there was no chance to get an autograph at the concert. The tour’s finished now and I thought he might come straight here afterwards.’
‘Haven’t seen him, love,’ the man said. ‘But I hope you find him before that photo is too creased for a decent autograph!’ He gave me a condescending wink.
I thanked them and turned away to survey the crowd again. My eyes fell on a cafe in the corner of the square. If Ford’s apartment was close by, he’d probably frequented these restaurants and bars in the past.
I went over and took a seat at one of the tables. A waiter approached me almost immediately.
‘Hola,’ he said.
Shit. I’d forgotten about the whole Spanish thing. What had Nick said again? I hadn’t even had a chance to look at the phrasebook yet.
‘Uh, hi,’ I stumbled. ‘Do you speak
