The Girl on Paper (24 page)

Your life has ended up like your paintings, Luca. Cold, empty and colourless
. Luca stood entranced by the blaze, feeling a sense of release as his work went up in smoke.

The doorbell rang. Luca leant out of the window and saw
the hunched figure of his mother. He went down to talk to her, but when he opened the door, she had gone, leaving a large envelope in his letterbox. He frowned and tore it open. Inside were the very photos and letters he had wanted to ask his brother for.

How had she known?

He went back up to his studio and spread the mementos from the past over his work bench.

Summer 1980: the year he’d turned eighteen and met Stella, his first love, the daughter of a fisherman from Porto Venere. Walks along the port beside the narrow, multicoloured houses looking out over the sea. Afternoons swimming in the tiny bay.

Christmas that year: him and Stella walking through the streets of Rome. A holiday romance that went on long after the sun had gone in.

Spring 1981: the bill from a hotel in Siena, the first time they’d made love.

1982: all the letters they’d written each other that year. Promises, plans, a whirl of excitement.

1983: a birthday present from Stella: a compass from Sardinia, engraved with the message, ‘May life always guide you back to me’.

1984: first trip to the USA. Stella on a bicycle on the Golden Gate Bridge. Mist over the ferry to Alcatraz. Hamburgers and milkshakes at Lori’s Diner.

1985…Laughter, holding hands, the untouchable couple …1986…The year he sold his first painting…1987…Should they have a baby or wait?…The first signs of doubt…1988 … The compass losing its bearings…

A tear slipped silently down Luca’s cheek.

C’mon, don’t start crying like a baby
.

He had left Stella when he was twenty-eight. It was a dark
time in his life, when frankly he was a mess. He didn’t know what his paintings were about any more, and his relationship suffered for it. One morning, he’d got up and set fire to all his canvases, just as he had done today. Then he’d slipped away like a thief in the night, without a word of explanation for the pain he was causing; he could think only of himself and his painting. He’d fled to Manhattan where he changed his style, purging his pictures of the figurative until all he painted were variations on the colour white. He’d married a smart woman who ran a gallery over there and helped open doors for him in the art world. They’d had a daughter together but divorced a few years later, though they continued to do business with one another.

He had never seen Stella again. He’d heard from his brother that she had gone back to Porto Venere. He had erased her from his life, denied her existence.

So why was he dredging up ancient history now?

Maybe because it still wasn’t over.

The tea room was right at the foot of the Spanish Steps.

Luca was sitting at a small table at the back of the room, the same one he used to sit at when he came here with Stella. The tea room was the oldest of its kind in Rome, founded 120 years ago by two English ladies in the days when you could only buy tea from chemists.

The decor, left almost unchanged since the nineteenth century, made the place feel like an enclave of Englishness right in the heart of Rome, playing on the contrast between
the Mediterranean city outside and the British charm within. The panelled walls were lined with dark wooden shelves holding dozens of books and a collection of antique teapots.

Luca had opened the Tom Boyd book at a blank page, right after Mrs Kaufman’s montage. He was moved by the way the various items had been put together, a succession of snippets of a life. As if it were a magic book that could make your every wish come true and bring the past back to life, Luca stuck in his own photos, with drawings and notes around them. In the last snap, he was sitting on a scooter with Stella. Roman holiday, 1981. They were nineteen. She had written to him saying, ‘Don’t ever stop loving me.’

He stared at the picture for several minutes. He was almost fifty now and had led a relatively full life, with its fair share of high points: he’d travelled, made a living from his art and been successful. But, when he really thought about it, nothing compared to the powerful emotions of the early years, when the future lay before you and you hadn’t a care in the world. Luca closed the book and stuck a red sticker on the cover. He wrote a few words on the sticker then used his phone to connect to the bookcrossing website and left a short message on it. Then, while no one was looking, he slipped the book onto one of the shelves, between Keats and Shelley.

Luca went out into the piazza to find his Ducati motorbike, which he’d parked by the taxi rank. He strapped his overnight bag on the back and got on. He drove past the Villa Borghese gardens, around the Piazza del Popolo and along the river into Trastevere. Leaving the engine running, he pulled up outside the family restaurant and lifted his visor. His mother had come out onto the pavement, as though she knew he
was coming. She looked at her son, hoping that sometimes a look was enough to show that you loved someone.

Then Luca sped towards the road out of the city. He headed for Porto Venere, telling himself maybe it wasn’t too late after all.

Milo was at the top of a stepladder, wearing a T-shirt and overalls and holding a roller in his hand. He was redoing the paint effects on the kitchen walls.

Carole came out of her bedroom to join him.

‘Hard at work already?’ she asked with a yawn.

‘Yep, couldn’t get back to sleep.’

She looked over his paintwork.

‘You take your time, don’t you?’

‘What? I’ve been busting my gut for the past three days!’

‘You’re not doing too badly,’ she conceded. ‘Would you fix me a cappuccino please?’

Milo did as he was asked, while Carole sat down at the small round table in the living room. She got herself a bowl of cereal then opened up her laptop to check her emails.

Her inbox was full. Milo had sent her all the messages from Tom’s community of readers which had built up on his website over the past three years. Pinging off group emails to all four corners of the world, she had managed to spread the word to thousands of readers. She’d been straight with them, telling them about her search for the incomplete copy of the second volume of the
Angel Trilogy
. Every morning since, she’d been inundated with words of encouragement. But the email in front of her now was more intriguing.

‘Hey, come and have a look at this!’ she called out.

Milo handed her a steaming cup of coffee and looked over her shoulder. Someone was claiming to have come across the famous copy on a bookcrossing site. Carole clicked on the link to the website of an Italian association which promoted reading by encouraging its members to leave books in public places for others to pick up. The rules of the ‘travelling book’ were simple: if you wanted to ‘release’ a book, you gave it a code which you recorded on the website before setting it on its course.

Carole typed ‘Tom Boyd’ into the search box and came up with a list of all her friend’s books that could be on the loose.

‘That’s the one!’ cried Milo, pointing to one of the photos. He pressed his nose right up to the screen, but Carole pushed him away.

‘Let me have a look!’

There was no doubt about it: it had the midnight-blue leather cover, the gold stars and the title in Gothic lettering.

With another click, Carole read that the book had been left at Babington’s Tea Room at 23 Piazza di Spagna, Rome, the previous day. Opening up another page, she found all the details left about the book by luca66, the screen name of the man who had released it. It said exactly where it had been put – a shelf at the back of the café – and at what time it had been released: 1.56 p.m. local time.

‘We’ve got to go to Rome!’ she announced.

‘Let’s not rush into anything!’ said Milo, trying to calm her down.

‘
What?
’ she cried, outraged. ‘Tom’s relying on us. You spoke to him last night. Sure, he’s writing again, but Billie’s life is still in danger.’

Milo scowled. ‘We’ll get there too late. The book’s already been there for hours.’

‘Yes, but it’s not like the guy’s left it on a chair or a park
bench! He’s hidden it on a shelf in between loads of other books. It could be weeks before anyone notices it!’

She looked at Milo and saw that his run of disappointments had sapped his confidence.

‘You do what you want, but I’m going.’

She logged on to an airline website. There was a flight to Rome at 11.40 a.m. As she filled out the online form, she came to the box asking for the number of passengers.

‘Two,’ said Milo, dropping his head.

In the middle of the square, next to the famous Fontana della Barcaccia, the Korean tour group hung on their guide’s every word.

‘For many years, Piazza di Spagna was considered to be Spanish territory. The international headquarters of the Order of Malta are also to be found here. The order enjoys a special blah blah blah…’

Seventeen-year-old Iseul Park stood staring into the fountain, mesmerised by the coins lying at the bottom of the crystal-clear water, thrown in by tourists. Iseul hated being associated with the cliché of Far Eastern tour groups and the jibes that went along with it. She felt out of place taking part in this outdated holiday formula, which consisted of seeing the sights of one European capital per day and hanging around for hours while everyone took exactly the same photo. Her ears were buzzing, she felt dazed and shaky, and she was suffocating in the middle of the crush of bodies. Feeling like a twig about to snap, she sneaked out and retreated to the first
café she came across. It was Babington’s Tea Room, number 23 Piazza di Spagna.

‘So are they gonna open this damn door or not?’ Milo exploded.

Standing in the aisle of the aeroplane, he was champing at the bit.

The journey hadn’t been much fun. After leaving Los Angeles they had made stop-offs in San Francisco and Frankfurt before finally touching down on Italian soil. He looked at his watch: 12.30 p.m.

‘There’s no way we’ll ever find this book!’ he moaned. ‘We’ll have come all this way for nothing. I’m starving as well. Can you believe what they gave us to eat? Seriously, for the price we paid for those tickets…’

‘Would you quit whining?’ pleaded Carole. ‘I’m so sick of hearing you complain about every little thing. You’re giving me a headache!’

There was a murmur of agreement down the queue. Finally the door opened and the passengers could get off. With Milo following her, Carole raced down the escalator towards the taxi rank. But the queue was massive and the cars came and went at a snail’s pace.

‘What did I tell you?’

She didn’t bother to respond. Instead, she took out her police badge, walked to the front of the queue and thrust the magic key that opens all doors at the guy allocating taxis.

‘United States police! We need a car, right now. It’s a matter of life or death!’ she shouted in the manner of Dirty Harry.

Oh please, this is never going to work
, thought Milo, shaking his head.

But Milo was wrong. The guy shrugged his shoulders, let them through without a second thought, and within a matter of seconds they were sitting in a taxi.

‘Piazza di Spagna,’ Carole told the driver. ‘Babington’s Tea Room.’

‘And put your foot down!’ added Milo.

Iseul Park was sitting at a small table at the back of the tea room. She’d drunk a large cup of tea and nibbled a scone topped with whipped cream. She liked the city, but would have preferred to take her time strolling through the streets, immersing herself in the culture, talking to people and sitting at sunny pavement cafés without having to keep a constant eye on the time and feeling pressured into taking a picture every ten seconds.

While she waited, she kept a constant eye not on the time, but on her phone. Still nothing from Jimbo. It was 1 p.m. in Italy so it must be 7 a.m. in New York. Maybe he wasn’t up yet.

Maybe, but in the five days since they’d last seen each other, he hadn’t rung once, or replied to any of the emails and texts she’d sent. What was going on? They’d spent a perfect month together at NYU, where Jimbo studied film. Iseul had spent the end of the summer on a study trip to the renowned university. She’d had the time of her life, finding love in the arms of her American boyfriend. He’d taken her to the airport to rejoin her group last Tuesday and they’d promised to call
every day, assured each other their love would carry on growing in spite of the distance, and maybe they’d see each other again at Christmas. But after making all these promises, Jimbo had fallen off the face of the earth, leaving her torn up inside.

She put ten euros on the table to pay the bill. It really was a charming little place, with its wood-panelled walls and rows of books. It was like being in a library. She stood up and had a peek at what was on the shelves. She was studying English literature at college and some of her favourite writers were up there: Jane Austen, Shelley, John Keats and—

She frowned as she came across a book that looked out of place. Tom Boyd? Not exactly a nineteenth-century poet! She took the book off the shelf and found a red sticker on the cover. Curious, she returned discreetly to her table to look at it more closely. The sticky label carried a strange message:
Hello! I’m not lost! I’m free! I’m not just any old book – I’m destined to travel the world. Take me with you, read me and drop me off again in any public place
.

Hmm. Iseul wasn’t convinced. She peeled off the label and flicked through the book to discover its bizarre contents, its blank pages filled with people’s own stories. Something tugged at her. The book had a kind of magnetism. The sticker said it was free, but she still wasn’t sure about putting it into her bag.