Page 5 of The Lost Story of Sofia Castello

4

LISBON, 2000

I stand frozen to the spot, wondering what to do. Then I remember the rape alarm my best friend Nikki insisted I buy before leaving the UK. ‘Just to be on the safe side,’ she’d said. I’d nodded along to humour her, never thinking that I’d actually need it.

I open my bag and feel inside just to check it’s there and take a breath. It’s OK, there are loads of people about – even if the man is following you, what’s he going to do ? I try reassuring myself. I think back to the council estate I grew up on and the gangs that used to roam the tower blocks in packs. My life might have been a middle-class dream since meeting Robin and leaving university, but that scrappy, street-smart kid is still there inside me.

I glower at the man’s back, daring him to turn round and face me, but he appears to be transfixed by an old carriage clock. I march past him in the direction of the hotel.

When I’ve got about halfway down the avenue, I suddenly stop and turn, hoping to catch him out again, but there’s no sign of him. I breathe a sigh of relief and tell myself off for being paranoid, but I still feel a little shaken, so I decide to forgo a visit to the restaurant and return to the hotel and order room service instead.

As soon as the food has arrived, I double lock the door, as I realise that the man probably overheard the receptionist telling me my room number. I know I’m probably overreacting, but this is the first time I’ve travelled to a brand-new country on my own and I can’t help feeling a little vulnerable. Besides, there are just hours to go before what could be the biggest, most intriguing job of my career and I don’t want anything, or anyone, to ruin it.

After I’ve eaten, I turn out the light and go and perch on the wide windowsill. The lights of Lisbon twinkle below and a balmy breeze drifts in, bringing with it the laughter and chatter of diners sitting outside the taverna. I kick myself for being a coward and ordering room service, but then I remind myself that, whatever happens tomorrow, I’ll be staying in Portugal for at least a week. If I don’t get the job, I’m going to take a holiday here instead. The beauty and vibrancy of Lisbon has already worked its way inside of me, and I crave more of this feeling. I sit for ages watching the crescent moon slowly arcing its way across the sky, full to the brim with gratitude for the magic that seems to be at work in my life right now.

It turned out that I had no need to bring my travel alarm clock with me, as I wake every hour throughout the night, full of nervous excitement. I decide against going to the hotel restaurant for breakfast, just in case I see the creepy guy again and it unsettles me before my meeting, and I venture out onto the square instead. I find a beautiful little café just around the corner, which the sign informs me has been in business since 1880, and I order a coffee and a pastel de nata – the traditional pastry of Portugal. The coffee arrives in a tiny espresso cup, along with a delicious-looking custard tart, the top burnished gold and sprinkled with cinnamon. I take a bite and can’t help gasping in pleasure. The pastry is flaky and buttery and the vanilla custard rich and creamy. It’s so different to my normal breakfast of Marmite on toast and once again I feel jolted awake by the freshness of the new.

The coffee might have been small, but it really packed a punch, and I return to the hotel buzzing from a cocktail of nerves, sugar and caffeine. There’s now only an hour to go until the meeting. Only an hour to go until I meet a music industry legend back from the dead. It’s impossible to wrap my head around the enormity of it, and to stop myself from spinning out entirely, I take a bath with the complimentary magnolia-scented bath oil, then put on my new dress.

I’d been fully expecting to feel ridiculous in it, but to my surprise, when I look at my reflection in the wardrobe mirror, I’m actually happy with what I see. The woman who sold it to me was right: the teal really does bring out the colour of my hair and eyes, and it seems to have brightened my complexion too. I smooth down the silk and take a deep breath. This meeting is going to be bizarre to say the least, but I can handle it. I’ve ghostwritten for some very big stars before – admittedly none of them had come back from the dead, but still…

‘ Bom dia , Sofia! I’m Lily Christie,’ I say to my reflection, extending my hand. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you.’ My voice wavers slightly, so I try again, and again, until I’m saying it with just the right tone of calm confidence.

Realising I ought to check my emails just in case there’s been any last-minute change of plan, I plug my laptop cable into the socket in the wall and wait as the air fills with the ping-ping-whir of the dial-up tone. ‘You’ve got mail!’ my AOL account cheerily informs me, and I see a message from Jane wishing me good luck. My stomach flips. The meeting is on and only five minutes away.

I put my laptop in its case, along with a notebook and pen, and grab my bag. I take the lift up to the top floor and make my way along the corridor to the suite Sofia has hired for our meeting, my nerves growing with every step.

But just as I reach the door, I hear a sound from the end of the corridor. My stomach lurches as a man steps through the door from the stairwell and into the corridor. It’s the same man from yesterday – the man from the lobby and the market. My mind races as he starts striding towards me. Was he watching my room? Did he see me take the lift and quickly race up the stairs to catch me?

I slip my hand in my bag and wrap my fingers around the rape alarm. As he draws closer, the corridor appears to grow narrower, making his broad, muscular frame all the more menacing. I take the alarm from the bag and press the top hard. A piercing shriek fills the air, causing the man to jump in shock, and he mutters something in Portuguese. I’m hoping he’ll turn on his heel and flee, but to my horror he keeps marching towards me. What the hell?

Feeling I have no other choice, I hammer on Sofia’s door. This is the worst possible way to meet a potential client and especially one of such stature, but what else can I do? The alarm in my hand is so loud now, I hope someone from another room might appear.

The man gets closer and closer, and I see a look of confusion on his face as he says something again in Portuguese, which I can barely hear over the piercing shriek. Then the door flies open.

A tiny woman in a black silk dress printed with pink roses stands staring up at me. Her short hair is dyed jet black and her eyes are accented with kohl in a dramatic cat eye. Her olive skin might be lined, but there’s no sign of sagging, and she still has the most incredible, prominent cheekbones. Even in the chaos of the moment, I instinctively know that I’m face to face with Sofia Castello. She stares at the alarm shrieking in my hand, then at me and then at the man, and she shouts something to him in Portuguese.

‘ Desculpa , I’m Lily Christie,’ I say, but she can’t hear me over the alarm.

‘What?’

‘I’m Lily Christie,’ I yell, ‘and this man has been following me.’ I point the screaming alarm at him accusingly.

She looks at me blankly for a moment, and my heart sinks. I’ve blown it before I’ve even set foot in the room, and all because of some crazed stalker.

I glare at him. ‘Why the hell are you following me, you creep?’

He takes a step back, holding his hands up in some kind of half-hearted surrender.

I hear something above the sound of the alarm and turn and see Sofia leaning against the door frame hooting with laughter. She attempts to say something but is clearly too amused and bends over double, clutching her waist.

I stare at her, shocked. Why on earth would she find this funny?