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‘Yeah, I know someone like that,’ I say.
Addie looks at her phone. ‘I have to go.’
‘Where?’
‘I’m helping my auntie at the pub.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Washing dishes.’
‘Two jobs and you’re still nicking stuff.’
Addie’s top lip curls and she tosses the empty tuna can into one of the bins before wiping her hands on the back of her shorts.
‘That guy you’re with – he your sugar daddy?’
‘No! And what do you know about sugar daddies?’
‘I know all about sex,’ she says. ‘I know what boys want.’
I find that funny, but I don’t want to offend her by laughing.
‘What are you doing in St Claire?’ she asks.
‘I’m trying to work out if I’ve been here before.’
‘Don’t you know?’
‘Not really.’
‘You got that anaesthesia thing?’
‘You mean amnesia. Yeah, maybe, or perhaps I was never here.’
8
Cyrus
There is an envelope waiting for me at reception. Unsealed. Unsigned. The message reads: If you want to know about the Arianna II, you’re asking the wrong people.
It includes an address – a berth number at St Claire Bay Marina, but there’s no indication of what time I’m expected or who will be there.
‘Did you see who left this?’ I ask.
‘No, love,’ says the receptionist, the same woman who signed us in last night.
‘Was it a man or a woman?’ I ask.
‘Cannae tell you.’
‘What time were they here?’
She begins lifting folders and pens, searching the counter. ‘Ah must’ve made a note of it somewhere,’ she says sarcastically. ‘Wrote it all down – what he was wearing, what he was driving, his date of birth, his favourite colour . . .’
‘A man, then?’
She is no longer amused.
