‘Good afternoon, this is the Cutting Edge, Porsche speaking, how can I help you?’
‘Can I speak to Kate, please?’
‘I’m sorry, Kate is frightfully busy at the moment.’ She whispers the last bit in a smug, superior tone, as always. This is like trying to get past the receptionists at my local doctors.
I assume the most superior voice I can muster. ‘This is her gynaecologist and I must speak to her IMMEDIATELY about her recent STD test. It’s a medical emergency.’
I can picture Porsche visibly paling at the thought of stirrups, spatulas and sexually transmitted infections. Kate is on the line in twenty seconds.
‘Kate, it’s me. I saw the papers! Oh, and don’t hate me but the only way I could get past your receptionist was to tell her I was your gynaecologist and calling with your STD results.’
Porsche is obviously listening to Kate’s side of the conversation, because she just groans, as opposed to threatening to kill me.
‘You have the results then?’ she answers wearily, playing along.
‘No, I can’t get through to Jess or Carol. Where are they?’
‘Ah, gone into remission,’ she stammers, as if repeating what I’ve said. This is hard work.
‘Is Jess okay?’ I persevere.
‘Yes, fine.’
‘And Basil?’
‘It’s definitely terminal.’ I hear a thud in the background as Porsche hits the floor. At least there’s never a dull moment.
We drown out Motown’s Greatest Hits on the CD player. We’re Dancing In the Street as we cross the bridge, giving Respect as we head up through Cupar, then getting soaked by a Rainy Night in Georgia as we approach the coast.
My twenty page guide to St Andrews bed and breakfasts is on my lap. After all, we’re on a budget – albeit a fraudulently attained one.
The first thing we see as we enter St Andrews is the beach and the resplendent Old Course Hotel.
‘That is stunning,’ I gasp.
Sarah’s eyes widen. ‘Who stays in somewhere like that? It must cost a fortune!’
I take a deep breath and shake my head. Oh, no!
‘Fuck it. We do.’ I do a handbrake turn to the left and screech up the driveway.
Sarah splutters, spilling coffee down the front of her shirt. ‘You’re joking, aren’t you? No, you’re not! Oh, sweet Jesus.’
As Carol would say, ‘May as well get hung for a sheep as a bird in the hand.’
We cross the marble floor of the reception area. In the middle is a table with a display of lilies that must have cost more than a small cottage.
‘Excuse me, do you have a twin room available?’
Sarah’s behind me, sniffing the lilies.
‘For how long, madam?’
I haven’t thought about that. How long will it take me to find him? I hope it’s not long or my credit cards will be up to the limit before I even leave Scotland. I say that four nights will suffice. Even if I find him quickly, I know I’ll want to stick around and get to know him again.
The receptionist checks her computer, then looks up and smiles. ‘We do, madam. The rate will be—’
I hold up my hand. ‘Stop! Please don’t tell me, you’ll give me indigestion. Just charge it to this, please.’
I hand over my Visa card. The last of my sensible brain cells give up and go into hibernation.
We find our room, giggling like two schoolgirls trying on their first bras, and throw open the door. For once in my life I’m speechless. The room is class, class and more class. In the centre are two stunningly dressed double beds. Cream fabric covers them, matching the drapes that are so perfect that I’m afraid to touch them. There are fresh flowers on the oak dressing table, lace cushions on the sofas and a selection of chocolates on the coffee table, which is probably just as well because I’ll never be able to afford to eat again. But it’s worth it for the look of sheer wonderment on Sarah’s face.
We unpack, make a posh coffee using some swanky, high-tech machine, and stretch out on the sofas, contemplating the view of the golf course and the beach beyond it.
‘Isn’t that Michael Douglas down there?’ Sarah asks.
I dive to the window and press my nose against the pane. She could be right. I’ve been besotted by him since The Streets of San Francisco.
Right, down to work before I capitulate to a life of luxury.
Plan A. I locate a phone book and search for ‘Russo’. I mean, how many can there be in a town this size?
I search some more.
None. Zero. Zilch. He must be ex-directory.
I throw down the book in disgust.
‘What’s plan B?’ Sarah asks.
‘I don’t know. I hadn’t got past A.’ I feel defeated.
‘Right. C’mon, get your jacket,’ she says assertively. That’s the old Sarah.
‘Where are we going?’
‘Didn’t your mother teach you anything? When all else fails, ask a policeman.’
She pulls me out of the door by the scruff of the neck. Ten minutes later, we’re standing in the reception of the local cop shop. How do I explain this?
‘I wonder if you can help me. I’m trying to find a guy who lives in this town. His name is Nick Russo.’
PC Plod looks at me like I’ve landed from another planet. ‘Are you having me on?’
‘I know it’s a long shot. I guess I’m wasting your time. I’m sorry.’
‘Follow me, lass.’ He’s coming round to the front of the desk. Is he going to arrest us for suspected chemical abuse? Or is he just going to kick our bums out onto the street?
I contemplate making a run for it but he reaches the door first. He opens it wide and signals for us to join him.
‘I think that might give you a bit of a clue, lass.’
My eyes follow the direction of his finger and my face turns a ripe shade of tomato. Across the road, not twenty yards away, is what looks like a wine bar and bistro. Above it, in two foot high letters, is ‘Russo’s’. He guffaws. ‘Do me a favour, love. Don’t ever decide to
