The Liberation of Alice Love - Abby McDonald [75]
Vivienne looked uneasy. She obviously hadn’t thought this far ahead. “I, uh, haven’t yet found a suitable match for you. It’s important to pick just the right one, to get you started.”
“Of course,” Alice agreed. “What about Kieran Bates or Julia Wendall?” she suggested two younger clients, who’d yet to find a footing on the audition circuit.
“Perhaps.” Vivienne’s noncommittal smile was back. “I’ll…think about it.”
“Wonderful.” Alice felt anger rise again, sharp in her chest. It was clear that Vivienne never intended for her to do anything more than print neat, predictable contract terms up in her office all day long. She rose. “Anything else?”
“No, that’s fine for now.”
“Then I’ll get back to work.”
Alice withheld the urge to slam the door on her way out or stomp up the stairs like a petulant teenager, but as she stood in the middle of her office—surrounded by ordered stacks of paperwork, the pretty window box, and the threadbare rug she’d scouted in an antiques shop—she found herself shaking with an unfamiliar frisson in her veins. She wasn’t just angry, she was frustrated too; trapped up there with the intercom waiting to sound, and her inbox constantly refilling, and those bloody “final notice” bills still piling up from Ella’s sprees.
Ella.
Her gaze fell on the postcard, propped up against her overflowing inbox: a message from the woman who had never really existed. Ella had gone through the trouble of finding a convincing card, Alice noted with equal parts resentment and admiration as she reread the short, scribbled lies. The Italian scene was genuine, the elegant print along the top of the card declared it compliments of the Hotel d’Angelo, and even the postmark read “Roma.”
Alice stopped, staring at the postmark in the corner of the card. It was smudged, but unmistakable. Roma, l’Italia. Maggio 6.
The data never lie.
Her intercom sounded again with a fierce buzz, but instead of answering, Alice simply turned it off. She stared at the card, her mind already conjuring the vivid scene. Ella had been there, in Rome, herself. She had stayed at the hotel, found the card perhaps on the desk bureau, or tucked among the complimentary stationery; she had written and mailed it, before strolling off to sample the local frescoes or buy a cup of that wonderful gelato. Alice could see her, carefree and happy, as clearly as if she were there herself.
Before she could take a moment to reconsider, Alice reached for her computer keyboard. A few quick clicks later, she had the number.
“Hello, FlyMe Travel?”
“Yes.” Alice gripped the phone with fierce determination. “I’d like to book a ticket to Rome. Leaving today.”
Chapter Seventeen
Embarking on her hastily improvised travel plans, Alice waited for her voice of reason to appear and quell the reckless spark in her veins. To her surprise, it stayed silent. She booked a last-minute ticket to Rome leaving that evening, sped home, threw a handful of clothing and toiletries in her small case, and scribbled a vague note to Flora, arriving breathless at the airport as if she took off on spontaneous European jaunts every other weekend. It wasn’t until the plane made its descent and she emerged, blinking, from the chaos of Italian customs that it struck Alice just how irresponsible she was being. Flying all this way on a whim because of a single postcard? It was ridiculous; it was foolish.
It was thrilling.
“Hotel d’Angelo, per favore. Via San Antonia,” she instructed the taxi driver.
“Sì, signorina!” The short, wiry-haired man swerved away from the curb. “Your first time to visit?” he asked, as Alice quickly buckled herself in.
“No, no.” She smiled tiredly at him in the rearview mirror. “I’ve been before.”
“Ah, good.” He nodded approvingly, cutting into the main flow of traffic to a hail of horns and screeching tires. “Is such a city, you must see again!”
They sped into the dark, the neon lights of the industrial airport landscape soon giving way to black, open countryside and the gentle shadows of hills and farmland. The