New Year at the Ritz

No, she wouldn't go. It was the best thing.

Tapping her fingers on her knees, she sat up and studied the bookcase stuffed with sci-fi books, overflowing wall shelves stacked with photography magazines, the scarred wooden coffee table positioned on a rich, multi-coloured Indian rug brought back from the post-uni travelling she was still struggling to pay off. Her eyes lingered on the wooden family of elephants lined up on the floor by the TV, walking in a row, trunks holding tails to link them together. She didn’t have much but it was hers, and she wasn’t ready to share it with anyone.

Standing up, she strode across the room and stuffed the mystery letter in between two ancient, dog-eared Isaac Asimov books she and her dad had discovered on a stall in a musty indoor market one day, when she'd been about twelve. If she pulled one of the paperbacks off the shelf and opened it the smell would take her back to her childhood; to overflowing bookcases and Sunday afternoons spent wandering around car-boot sales and markets, a cheap and cheerful way of feeding her parents' reading addiction.

Slinking back to the sofa, she threw herself down and picked up the TV remote, flicking restlessly through the channels. She'd just veg out until it was time to get ready for the New Year festivities, whatever they might be. Davey hadn't messaged yet, but he would. He always came through with a plan.

She put the remote down and checked her phone. No messages. Nothing interesting on Twitter. Not much doing on Facebook, apart from various posts about how excited people were about their New Years' Eve plans. She sighed, picking up the remote again and eventually settling on an Eastenders omnibus. By the looks of it, someone was dead. It was probably another dramatic shooting. She liked the programme, the writing could be brilliant, but she had to have the appetite for it otherwise it was a bit depressing.

Her gaze was drawn to the shelf where she'd hidden the letter. What was that first clue referring to? Need for speed. Road. Some sort of transport then. No. Her decision was made. She was not going on some mad scavenger hunt. Today she was relaxing, given how tired she'd felt recently and how her ribs had been aching. It would be criminal not to make the most of being one of the lucky few people in the store with the whole Christmas and New Year period off. At interview she'd asked for her pre-booked holiday to be honoured if she was offered a job. At the time of applying, the role had been a symbol of independence, perhaps even rebellion. But after the break-up it had quickly become a necessity, a way to pay the rent.

So she would definitely not think about the fact she was supposed to be in Bali right now. Must not dwell on the idea of lying on a sun-drenched beach in a designer bikini, with a warm breeze stirring the tropical palm trees and a chilled cocktail in her hand. It was fine. She didn't need any of that stuff. She could lie on the sofa in her warm flat - thanks to hitting the radiator with a spanner a few times to crank it into life – and please herself. Relax. Chill. Revive.

Perfect.

Three hours later and she was seriously bored. She'd read a photography mag, got out her favourite old-style Nikon camera and cleaned the lenses and painted her nails in seasonal gold glitter varnish. She’d also tweezed her eyebrows, sorted out her wardrobe and even resorted to scrubbing the bathroom for entertainment.

Her phone pinged and she snatched it up.

Hey love, the city party has fallen through and after a vote we're going to the C&R. See you there at 8ish, don't forget there's a tenner charge on the door. Will save you a seat if you're late!

D x

She groaned. She loved going to the local with her friends but was there practically every week, so it was hardly somewhere special to celebrate the New Year. Although she guessed beggars couldn't be choosers and all that. It wasn't like she had any better offers.

Her eyes strayed to the Isaac Asimov books, or rather, what was hidden between them. She could see what it was all about, couldn't she, and be back to the pub for eight? It was only just past four now. If she left soon she could fit it in.

She stood up. Sat down. Bit her lip. But how involved was this going to be, and who was behind it? What did they want, or expect from her? No, maybe it was better not to poke the bear.

Opening the text from Davey, she re-read it. Perhaps she should phone him, ask his advice? She knew his response would be go for it though, follow the clues. Everyone needs love.

Tapping her hands on her knees, she stared at the walls. She needed to talk to someone level-headed, sensible. Someone lovely who would advise what was best for her, not get swept away in romantic notions. She'd consider phoning Zoe, one of her best friends from uni, but Zoe was in the States at the moment so the call would cost a fortune. Besides, she was completely loved up with Greg, engaged to be married, so she was hardly going to be objective about the whole thing. She was as worried about Frankie's single status as everyone else. If she was over in the UK now, she'd be one of the let's put Frankie on every dating website going brigade. What was so wrong with being single, though? She was barely past her mid-twenties, and had loads of time to settle down if she wanted to.

The other option was Rayne, another uni friend, the third part of the triangle she and Zoe formed. Vivacious and a little rebellious, Rayne was fantastic for a night out, but Frankie hardly ever saw her nowadays. Journalism was consuming her friend at the moment; she always seemed to be chasing down a story. Personally, Frankie thought it was all about getting over her first love, Adam, but had never said that to her. Rayne could be pretty forthright, if not scary. That was definitely a conversation to be had over several bottles of wine.

So, who to call? What was that saying; the old ones are the best? Yep, that was it. She picked up her mobile, going to the favourites menu.

'Kate, it's me. Have you got a minute?' Her childhood friend might be happily in love with her long-term boyfriend, a strapping South African, but was still fab at offering clear, non-soppy advice.

'Sure, Hun,' Kate's warm tones filled her ear, and Frankie could picture her sparkling eyes, shoulder length chestnut hair and massive grin so clearly it was like they were sat next to each other. 'I've just taken the dogs for a walk,’ Kate said. ‘Hang on while I sort them out.'

Frankie waited, listening to the sounds of her friend talking soothingly to her two beloved dogs, finger clicking, doors opening and closing, footsteps padding nearer, rustling and then a sigh. 'Okay, I'm back. What's up?'

'So, I've got a bit of a dilemma.' Putting her phone on speaker, Frankie propped it on the arm of the sofa and lay back against the purple patterned cushions. She pictured Kate in her comfy lounge, blue jeans on, with wellies, anoraks, leads and dog collars filling the long hallway.

'Go on.' Kate's voice filled the room.

Frankie closed her eyes, wishing her friend was here instead of in a small leafy village just outside Milton Keynes. 'I got home from seeing dad yesterday, and-'

'He still being a bit overprotective?'

'Yep. It's driving me mad.'

'Ah, bless. Well, you can see why, Hun. I mean, after your mum, then what happened to you-'

'It's been a tough year,' Frankie cleared her throat, 'anyway, I got this letter and it's a clue, I'm supposed to go to Knightsbridge-'

'What? Who's it from? Read it to me.'

Frankie grabbed the letter and did so, adding in the bit about lack of postmark and scented paper. 'So what do you think?'

'Well, it sounds cool, but who do you think is behind it?' Kate's voice was cautious and Frankie was reminded of their teenage years in Southampton, the mornings they'd sit in the back of Kate's mum's people carrier, Kate's younger brothers chattering away while the girls talked about school and boys and Kate's mum would add in dry, no-nonsense comments. They were fond memories and sometimes Frankie missed those years, when life had been simpler, though they hadn’t known it back then. As teens, everything had felt intense and dramatic and like the world would implode if the boy they had a crush on didn’t like them back or the Topshop dress they were after wasn’t in stock, or if they got a C grade for an essay instead of an A.

‘You still there?’ Kate asked.

'Yes, sorry. I don't know who it is.' Frankie frowned, opening her eyes.

'Oh, come on! It'll be someone you know, it has to be. Delivered to your home address, your favourite perfume? And that don’t be late comment.'

'What do you mean?'

'Come on Frankie, you're late for everything. Whoever sent it knows you.' Pausing. 'D'you think the letter could be from Christian?'

Frankie's short square gold nails dug into her palms. 'Unlikely. I haven't heard from him since we broke up. Even when I went to get my stuff once I was up to it, he wasn’t around. He wasn’t interested in seeing me. I think he took me ending it with him pretty badly. So I doubt it very much. Besides, he's in Bali at the moment.'

'Oh, yes. You missed out there on the holiday in paradise. But then again, money isn’t everything.'

'Yes, that’s what I keep telling myself.' Frankie muttered, scowling at the peeling ceiling above her head.

'What’s that? Is everything okay?’

Yeah, just hunky-dory. I live in a rough part of London, have no money, a job I can barely tolerate, debts coming out of my ears, and will probably end up with severe pneumonia because of the insane damp climbing my walls. But apart from that, it’s all good.

‘Frankie?’ Kate’s voice was strained, ‘You’re worrying me.’

Self-pity is not attractive! Frankie gave herself a proverbial kick up the arse. You have your health back, your independence and the freedom to make choices. More than some people have. She made her voice breezy. ‘Ignore me, everything is fine.’

‘Okay. If you say so.’ Kate said dubiously, but let Frankie off the hook. ‘If it’s not Christian, who else could it be?’

‘I don’t know. Davey?’

‘I thought he was gay?’

'Oh, he totally is, but it could be his idea of a joke.’ She sucked in her cheeks, considering the options. ‘Or maybe a way to remind me romance isn’t dead?’

‘Sounds a bit mean to me. Or a bit extreme, sending you on what could be a wild chase across the city. Do you really think he’d do that?’

‘I- hmmm, maybe not. I don’t know. The hand-writing doesn’t look like his though.’ Her side was aching, so she repositioned the cushion behind her head and crossed her ankles, resting them on the opposite arm of the sofa.