She’d spotted the advertisement in a paper one of the customers had left behind at Johnny’s Bar and had cut it out for future reference. The written words had quickly settled in her mind and even before she knew she was going to come to Malta the name of the place had called to her. Valletta sounded exotic, and she felt that fate had planned for the newspaper to be carelessly abandoned for her to find. Of course, that had been before everything went terribly wrong at home. She could still see her parents’ shocked faces in her mind as clearly as if she were there again. The broken expression in her father’s eyes, her mother’s bitter, accusing fury.
A wave of homesickness hit her as she remembered tiptoeing into her father’s study in the dead of night to retrieve her identity card, steal some francs and pick up travel documents from his unlocked desk. She’d used some of the money to pay for a false identity card so that in Malta she’d be able to use a different name and that had taken an extra day. She’d contacted her sister Claudette to ask for help, but her sister had refused, said she should stay and resolve things with their parents. But she couldn’t do that. So she had been forced to relieve her mother of more valuable jewellery, ‘that she never wore anyway,’she whispered. Then she’d sold some of it to buy a ticket at the beautiful Gare de Lyon.
In her hurry to escape before the true extent of the brewing scandal was likely to be unleashed, Rosalie had had neither time to write to Gianni Curmi in Valletta, nor to wait for his reply. Instead, she’d done what she needed to do and with fear in her heart, she’d boardedthe train before she was banished or worse. Now she was here, she had to find a way to make it work.
‘I have the address in my bag,’ she said to Charlotte. ‘I’ll get a taxi.’
‘If you’re sure. When Archie’s chauffeur arrives, I’m sure he’d be happy to take you wherever you need to go.’
Archie Lambden was Charlotte’s fine, upstanding fiancé and there was no way Rosalie was going to admit her situation to anybody, least of all to someone like him. ‘Thank you, but I’ll be fine,’ she said. ‘I’ll probably see you around then?’
She smiled at Charlotte. Her new friend was pale with red hair rather like her own and an almost transparent complexion. Rosalie wondered how she would fare in the relentless heat of Malta, although this wasn’t Charlotte’s first visit so she must have found a way.
‘Absolutely,’ Charlotte was saying. ‘I’ll be having a beach party or maybe a dinner soon. You must come. You have my address so drop by and I’ll tell you when it’s going to be?’
Rosalie nodded. ‘Look, there’s a man with a horse-driven cab just over there.’ She gave Charlotte a peck on the cheek then picked up her case and made a dash for it.
Having left the Grand Harbour, the driver, who spoke heavily accented English, told her they would be heading downtown. She nodded; glad she had spent a little time brushing up her reasonably good schoolgirl English with Johnny’s English waiter in return for a little petting.
When the driver pulled up, he said, ‘Here you are then. This isThe Gut.’
She frowned. ‘But …?’
‘Strait Street. We call itThe Gut.’
When she climbed down and saw a long sunless, cobbled alley, she felt the ache of disappointment. In contrast to the harbour, the buildings were eerily silent, with no sign of life and all shutters firmly closed.
‘Umm. Do you know where The Evening Star club is?’ she asked him.
‘About halfway down. Won’t be open now.’
Her heart sank and she felt a sudden flash of homesickness for sizzling Paris.
‘There’s a good café around the corner in Old Bakery Street.’
‘You know a lot about Valletta, do you?’
‘Everything. Any time you want a guided tour just knock on the door and leave a message with my wife.’
He dug in his pocket and passed her a card.
‘So, I’ll take you there, shall I? Old Bakery Street? You can get a bite to eat and hop along to The Evening Star later.’
She got back in the cab and a few moments later he had halted. She paid him and her mouth watered at the aroma of hot sugary pastry as she pushed open the glass door of the café. It was warm and cosy. The owner – a short, fat, middle-aged man sporting a wide curling moustache and ferocious eyebrows with spiky silver hairs flying off in different directions – gave her a broad smile.
‘Welcome. Welcome,’ he said and twirled his moustache.
She thanked him, her spirits lifting.
‘So, an espresso or akafe fit-tazza?’ he asked, wiping his hands on his large striped apron. ‘Coffee in a glass, best with a sweet ricotta-filledkannolor a hotpastizz.’
She ordered the coffee and apastizz, though she had no idea what it was, and he told her to take a seat and he’d bring it over to her.
She sat at a window table and glanced out at the people passing by the tall houses on the other side of the street, wondering what her next move ought to be.
A few moments later, the man came across with a tray. ‘Here’s yourpastizzand your coffee,’ he said as he laid the tray down.
She glanced down at the little half-moon-shaped puff pastry pie on her plate. ‘What does it taste of?’
