Free The Time of Our Lives by Jane Costello Page B

indignantly.
    ‘
Señorita
, I do not believe you are right.’
    ‘I
am
right. My purse is gone! This is one of the oldest tricks in the book, according to . . . Google! This is egg white – you can instantly see that,’ I say, dipping
my finger in the offending substance. ‘This is how confident I am,’ I add, poised to lick my finger.
    ‘DON’T!’ Nicola shrieks. ‘Imogen, that does not look like something you’d use to make a meringue.’
    I hesitate and sniff it instead.
    A horrible realisation occurs to me: she might be right. It smells distinctly natural, and not in a good way. The implications of this seize me as the police officer addresses me again.
    ‘
Señora
—
ita
. . . Eduardo is one of the most respected café owners in Las Ramblas. He saw what happened and stepped out to help you.’
    ‘Then where’s my purse?’
    ‘In your hotel room? In your pocket? I don’t know, and that is not my concern. Why don’t you look again?’ he suggests.
    I swallow, really hoping it isn’t in my bag. I open it up and put my hand inside. Then freeze.
    ‘Um . . . sorry about that,’ I whisper, as Eduardo shakes his head. ‘Crazy bloody Eenglish.’
    ‘You certainly know how to make an impression abroad,’ Nicola says, suppressing a smile.
    ‘Oh, please don’t,’ I reply, emerging from a chemist with a bumper pack of baby wipes. ‘I’m covered in this stuff. Meredith, don’t come near me –
it’s dangerous for pregnant women.’
    ‘Huh? Is it?’
    I am midway though giving myself a walking bed-bath when my phone rings. ‘This could be Roy,’ I gasp, thrusting the wipes at Nicola. I grapple with my phone – still covered in
bird poo and baby wipe slime, before pressing ‘Answer’.
    ‘So sorry to phone again . . .’
    ‘Hello, Mum,’ I sigh, grabbing at more wipes.
    ‘ . . . but I’m certain you’d want to hear about this.’
    I freeze. ‘Has something happened to Florence?’
    ‘Of course not. Good Lord!’
    ‘Sorry. Can I speak to her?’
    ‘Yes, but first . . .’ Her words trail off and I wonder if she’s attempting to instil a sense of suspense.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Sorry, I was just getting it. The article in
Woman & Home
.’
    I throw my mountain of filthy baby wipes into a bin. ‘You phoned me about an article in
Woman & Home
?’
    ‘It’s about urinary-tract infections,’ she continues. ‘I had to give you a ring because I know how you suffer.’
    I frown. ‘I’ve had two in ten years.’
    ‘It’s more than that, Imogen.’
    ‘It isn’t.’
    ‘Definitely.’
    If my hand wasn’t now covered in bird poo, I would be biting my fist. ‘Okay, Mum,’ I manage instead.
    ‘Well, I’ve got the solution. You’ve got to take an antibiotic every time you’ve had sex. Lesley Garrett swears by it.’
    I am too stunned to answer this point on so many levels, I barely know where to start. Not least of what on earth makes her think I’m having sex.
    ‘You’ve phoned me to tell me Lesley Garrett’s tips for getting rid of UTIs?’
    There is a small silence. ‘Imogen,’ she says, in her I’m-only-trying-to-help voice, ‘you’ve got a tone.’
    I close my eyes and breathe in. ‘I’m sorry. I’m very grateful. I’m just a bit tied up.’ Realising my necklace is caked in bird poo, I wedge the phone between my
chin and shoulder and release the clasp. ‘Can I speak to Florence, please?’
    I examine the necklace as I wait for Florence, trying my best to expunge the offending substance. Finally, I hear a rustle at the other end, followed by her voice. ‘Hi, Mummy.’
    ‘Hello, darli—’
    The necklace is ripped from my hand before I can work out what’s happened, and in the second or two it takes to realise that it’s no longer between my fingers, all I can do is look
up and witness the outline of a young, teenaged boy sprinting through the crowds.
    ‘I’ve got to go!’
    There is no strategy or logic behind my decision to race after him. Instinct, quite simply,