Page 4 of The Lost Story of Sofia Castello

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LISBON, 2000

It’s impossible to miss the Hotel Avenida Palace. An imposing five-storey building with an ornate facade and huge stone pillars either side of the entrance, it sits on the corner of another beautiful, cobblestoned square. I check my notebook to make sure I have the correct address. It looks incredibly grand and super expensive. But then I guess Sofia won’t be poor, given the longevity of her success. ‘Ocean Longing’ featured on the soundtrack of a smash hit film just a couple of years ago which sent it catapulting back up the charts. But how would she be able to claim the royalties from her music if she’s supposed to be dead? This is just one of the hundreds of questions I’ve been plagued with since my meeting with Jane. Still, I guess I won’t have long to wait to get some answers.

As I approach the hotel, a porter in a pristine uniform springs to attention and gives me a dazzling smile. I glance down at my jeans and scuffed boots and hope they let me in.

‘ Bom dia !’ he says warmly.

‘ Bom dia !’ I reply. ‘ Desculpa, sou inglês .’

‘No need to apologise; the English are our friends!’ He laughs warmly. ‘And I speak some English, so it’s all OK.’

‘Oh that’s great. I would have learned more Portuguese, but this is a very unexpected trip. I have a reservation,’ I gabble nervously.

‘Very good, please…’ He opens the door and ushers me inside.

‘Thank you. I mean, obrigada .’

I step into a beautiful foyer. A huge chandelier instantly draws my attention, glittering from the centre of the ceiling. Thankfully, the air is much cooler inside and is perfumed with the sweet scent of lilies in large gilt vases dotted around the place. The mahogany reception desk gleams in the soft light, and two leather sofas have been arranged in an L-shape in front of it. A man is sitting on one of them reading a newspaper, which obscures his face, but I’m relieved to see that he too is wearing jeans and a pair of scruffy trainers.

As I make my way over to the desk, the woman behind it smiles warmly.

‘ Bom dia !’ she cries.

‘ Bom dia !’ I reply. ‘I have a reservation for this evening.’

‘Wonderful, welcome to the Avenida. What is your name please?’

‘It’s Lily. Lily Christie.’

As she consults the leather-bound register on her desk, I feel a brief moment of panic as I once again wonder if this might all be a huge prank. Maybe there are cameras hidden behind the huge potted ferns and vases of flowers filming my reaction for one of those candid-camera TV shows. I glance around and see that the man on the sofa is now looking at me over the top of his paper. He has wavy chestnut brown hair, piercing green eyes that glimmer emerald-bright against his tanned skin. As soon as our eyes meet, he ducks back behind his paper as if embarrassed to be caught looking at me.

I turn back to the desk, aware that my cheeks are starting to flush. It’s been so long since I’ve been noticed by a man. It’s been so long since I’ve wanted to be noticed. The double whammy of learning that I can’t have children and the revelation of Robin’s affair caused that part of me to shut down to protect myself from further hurt. For the past ten months, I’ve drifted around London wearing nothing but black and grey, trying to blend into the background.

‘Ah, yes, here you are,’ the receptionist says. ‘You’re in Room 412, on the fourth floor. It has a stunning view,’ she adds.

‘Oh that’s great.’ So, it isn’t a prank then. I feel a rush of excitement. My life really is about to begin again, and in the most extraordinary way.

She hands me my room key. ‘The elevators are over there.’ She points over to the left, her glossy red nail polish shining in the light. ‘And the restaurant and bar are through there.’

As I turn to look right, I see that the man has left the sofa and is striding across the lobby towards the bar.

I make my way over to the lifts, marvelling at the excitement and anticipation I’m experiencing. Moments later, I emerge onto the fourth floor to discover a wine-coloured carpet so plush and thick it feels like walking on a cloud, and when I open the door to my room, I can’t help gasping – it’s almost as big as my London apartment. The elegant wooden furniture gleams in the soft lighting, and the burgundy-and-gold velvet drapes perfectly match the bedding.

I head over to the window and look outside. The receptionist wasn’t lying; the view is stunning. I take off my jacket and throw it on the bed and start to laugh. This all feels like an incredible dream.

After a quick shower to freshen up, I put on my jeans and the one T-shirt I brought. It’s still only 5 p.m., so there’s plenty of time to explore.

I head back downstairs and out onto the square. It looks even more magical in the twilight as the lights begin to come on, sparkling like stars against the deepening blue sky. I head towards Avenida da Liberdade, which Lonely Planet informs me is Lisbon’s equivalent to Paris’s Champs-élysées. As soon as I reach the top of the avenue, I can see why. Both sides of the wide boulevard are lined with two rows of trees forming inviting canopies of green to stroll beneath. The pavement is covered in a mosaic of tiny tiles creating ornate patterns in black and white. My side of the street is filled with market stalls selling everything from leather bags and purses to brightly coloured scarves and clothes. With every step I take, I feel more emboldened. I’m no longer the unseen woman who drifts around London like a ghost. I’m a woman who travels the world solo. I’m an intrepid explorer who can navigate the Lisbon Metro. I’m a writer on an intriguing international assignment. I’m?—

My thoughts come screeching to a halt as I reach a stall selling clothes. Hanging on a rail in front of me are an array of beautiful silk dresses in radiant swirling prints. I’m instantly drawn to one in teal and gold. I had planned to wear a pair of smart black trousers and a grey blouse to my meeting tomorrow, but just a couple of hours in Portugal has convinced me that this dress would be far more appropriate. Before I have time to overthink, I take the dress from the railing.

The stallholder, a beautiful woman with olive skin and long grey hair, treats me to a smile and says something in Portuguese.

‘ Desculpa, sou inglês ,’ I reply, which is starting to roll off my tongue effortlessly.

‘That is OK. I speak some English,’ she replies. ‘This dress, it would suit you very well. The greeny-blue, it matches your eyes and will make that lovely red hair light up like fire.’

‘ Obrigada !’

‘And it is silk, so it packs up very small. Perfect for travelling,’ she adds, and I feel a burst of joy as I realise how she sees me – a traveller with hair like fire. I’m so grateful, I have to fight the urge to hug her.

‘I’ll take it,’ I say without even checking the price. Thankfully, it’s very affordable, and feeling buoyed, I continue on my way.

As I walk past a restaurant, I catch a delicious waft of grilled meat, and I’m ambushed by a sudden and acute hunger. I was so nervous about finding my way to Lisbon, I didn’t eat a thing on the plane and hardly anything for breakfast. I remember seeing a beautiful old taverna on the square near the hotel and do an abrupt about-turn.

As I look back down the avenue, I notice a man a few yards away also come to a sudden halt and quickly turn to look at a stall full of bric-a-brac. There’s something familiar about him, which confuses me as I’ve only been here a couple of hours. But then I realise where I know him from. It’s the man from the hotel lobby, the one I caught looking at me over his paper. Is it a coincidence, or did he see me leave the hotel and decide to follow me? But why would he be following me? A terrible thought occurs to me. What if he knows why I’m here and who I’m here to meet? What if he’s a journalist who’s got wind that Sofia Castelo is still alive? But how could he? Jane was adamant that nobody else knows.

I stare at him, bent over the stall, engrossed in something, or pretending to be. What if he’s some kind of stalker or a thief? What if he spied me arriving at the hotel on my own and thought I’d be an easy target?

My new-found joy drains from my body, replaced by a feeling of growing unease. Is my dream assignment about to turn into a nightmare?