Greatest Love Story of All Time Read Free Page A

Petersburg. Whatever the grandeur of her past, however, the reality of her present was not so impressive. Apart from making enormous pots of stew for the local homeless shelter, she appeared to have no job and even less desire to discuss the matter. I knew that I was probably paying her gas and electricity bills but I couldn’t give an arse. I loved her and her barmy ways: I wasn’t prepared to lose her over a detail as minor as money. I
wanted
her there. Apart from anything else, Duke Ellington worshipped her.
    ‘How are you anyway, Stefania?’ I asked, as she removed my house key from the bunch of spares.
    ‘I am blessed,’ she replied, putting the keys down and placing her hands flat on the work surface. Just to emphasise the fact, she closed her eyes.
    I smiled. This was textbook Stefania. ‘Oh, good. Are you in love?’
    ‘Do not be silly.’ She kept her eyes closed.
    ‘Well, then, what is going on?’
    ‘Today I make the perfect seaveed lasagne. It is touched by ze hand of God, I tell you, Frances.’
    ‘That’s amazing. Congratulations.’
    Stefania nodded. ‘Sank you. It is truly amazing. As I tell you, I am blessed.’ She scooped up Duke Ellington, who put up no fight whatsoever, and left my house, shouting, ‘Take peace viz you to Kosovo, Frances!’
    On the train to Gatwick, Dave was unlike his usual self. He was quiet and serious, even rougher round the edges than usual. ‘You OK, Dave?’ I asked, fishing a fag out of his mouth before he got us thrown off the train.
    ‘Yep,’ he said briefly. ‘Yep, all good. Just up late with the missus. Tired.’
    This was obviously Serious Dave, the Dave who’d lost one of his fingers in a war zone. I resolved to be Serious Fran during the trip, although I was less keen on losing part of my hand. As if he’d read my mind, Dave picked up my bandaged thumb and raised an eyebrow. ‘Duke Ellington?’ I nodded. ‘He’s a little fuckwit, that one.’ Dave grinned, and returned to his paper.
    I’d been sitting at the MAC counter in Duty Free for about fifteen minutes when Dave strode in lookingagitated. ‘What’s up?’ I asked him as a pearlescent black eye shadow was brushed into my eye sockets.
    ‘Stella,’ he replied, staring at my glam-rock aesthetic with confusion. ‘Get out of here, Franny, we’re in trouble.’
    I shrugged guiltily at the makeup girl as Dave strode off. She gazed at me stonily. Not only was I leaving in the middle of her story about having it off with a minor league football player but I was scarpering without buying any makeup. ‘Sorry,’ I tried. ‘We’re journalists. There’s an emergency in progress.’
    ‘You – you are
journalist
?’ she asked, with a raised eyebrow.
    Damn her! ‘Yes,’ I said, drawing myself up to my full height of five foot four. ‘Actually, I’m a foreign correspondent.’
    The girl looked me up and down and smiled. ‘No. I think you lie,’ she said, handing me a face wipe.
    When I met up with Stella in the Ladies, I saw why we were in trouble. She was crouched around the toilet bowl with a grey face and shaking hands. ‘Crayfish,’ she muttered in anguish.
    ‘Oh dear, I, erm …’ I said, dabbing ineffectually at her brow. It was cold and clammy. I withdrew my hand swiftly and ran as she heaved.
    I left the loos to find Dave outside, his phone in his hand. ‘She’s not flying, is she?’ he said. I shook my head. ‘No. Let’s get on to the office urgently. Ifsomeone leaves now they’ll get here in time.’ He peered at the departures board. Our flight was to leave in under two hours. ‘No, they won’t. I think we should go alone, Fran,’ he said.
    ‘
What?
’ I froze. ‘Dave, I’m a gimp. I’m just a junior producer! I’m the lowest of the low – I wouldn’t have the first idea how to do Stella’s job! I … can’t. It’d be like asking Stephen Fry to stand in for one of Girls Aloud just because he’s an entertainer. No way.’
    Dave smiled briefly.