Free No Cure For Love by Peter Robinson Page A

glance when she walked through the ‘Nothing to Declare’ exit, it wasn’t because he thought she was smuggling something in.
    The airport was noisy with the clamour of waiting relatives. Sarah’s plane had arrived at the same time as a Jamaican flight, which explained the colourful costumes and the steel band. Here to greet a visiting dignitary or a sports team, she guessed.
    She stood by the barrier holding on to her pushcart and scanned the crowd for Paula. There she was, waving both arms in the air behind a group of Indian women in colourful saris.
    Sarah pushed forward, muttering excuse-mes as she went. The arrivals concourse was so crowded that it was impossible to get through without bumping into people. She almost ran over a small child and earned a dirty look for catching an elderly woman a glancing blow on the shin before she reached Paula. They hugged briefly, then Paula pushed Sarah back to arm’s-length and examined her.
    ‘Let’s have a look at you, then, our Sal.’
    The broad Yorkshire accent came as a shock to Sarah, though she didn’t know why it should. She had spoken that way herself once, but now it sounded awkward and primitive to her, the mark of a certain class. She felt embarrassed for thinking such thoughts and cursed the English class system for always leaving its mark, no matter what you achieved. Had she been born to the upper classes and bred for success, Sarah thought bitterly, she wouldn’t always be so consumed by self-doubt and lack of confidence, wouldn’t always feel the bubble was about to burst.
    ‘Well,’ said Paula, ‘I must say it’s a big improvement on the last time.’
    ‘What is?’
    ‘Don’t you remember? The make-up, the frizzy hair, the leather?’
    Sarah laughed. ‘Oh. Yes, of course.’ She didn’t remember, though, which was hardly surprising given the condition she had been in during her last visit home. That was before California, before the U.S. tour with Gary and his band, but it wasn’t before the drugs and the drinking; though she hadn’t recognized it immediately, the craziness had already begun. She didn’t remember anything very clearly about that period of her life. Nor did she wish to.
    This time she was wearing stonewashed jeans and a red sweatshirt, carrying her quilted down coat of many colours over her arm, and her blonde hair was trimmed neat and short. She also wore no make-up, a real treat after having the stuff plastered on every day at the studio.
    ‘Mind you,’ Paula went on. ‘You could do with putting a bit of meat on your bones. Have you been slimming and going to one of them health club places like they do in Hollywood?’
    Sarah laughed. ‘I run every morning on the beach, but that’s about all.’ In fact, only yesterday morning I stumbled across a dismembered body, she almost added, but stopped herself in time. No point getting into that with Paula. ‘Anyway,’ she said, ‘it’s illegal to sell fatty foods in California.’
    ‘Is it?’
    ‘Only kidding. Though sometimes you’d think so.’
    ‘Well, you looked a bit better padded last time I saw you on television. How long ago did you make that programme?’
    ‘Not long. Television puts at least ten pounds on you, didn’t you know that?’
    ‘How would I? I’ve never been on telly. I’m not the star in the family.’
    ‘I just thought people knew, that’s all,’ Sarah said. ‘Anyway, I hope I don’t look that fat on the series.’
    ‘I didn’t say fat did I? Just a bit better padded.’
    ‘Well, thanks.’
    ‘Don’t mention it. Anyway, I suppose you look healthy enough,’ Paula went on. ‘Though for the life of me, I can’t see where you’re hiding your tan.’
    ‘Which way?’
    Paula pointed and Sarah started pushing the cart through the throng. ‘I don’t tan well,’ she said. ‘I never did. You know that. The sun just burns me.’ Besides, she might have added, the studio prefers my ‘porcelain’ complexion; they say it goes with the