Trapped (3 page)

‘OK?' said Wendy. ‘Settle yourself in, have a kip, a wash, whatever. If you want to go for a wander around town later, that's fine. Dinner's at eight-thirty if you want it, and tomorrow morning you start your duties.'

Cate collected her suitcase and, returning to her cabin, was suddenly overcome with exhaustion. It was only eleven in the morning but she had been travelling since before dawn. It took Cate a few seconds to clean her teeth and wash her hands and face. Then she checked her phone and fired off a few quick text messages to Monique, her father and Louisa to tell them she had arrived safely and was happily installed on the boat. Naturally she couldn't resist telling them that she was actually working for
the
Nancy Kyle. Then, with the overhead fan
wafting cool air onto her bunk, the last thing she did, before she fell asleep, was to carefully lock her cabin door and check that the porthole was firmly closed. As her father was always saying, ‘You can't be too careful.'

Cate woke completely refreshed from her deep sleep. The sun was still shining through the porthole and she propped herself up on her elbow to look around at her new home, trying to ignore the small but persistent stabs of homesickness. She had already had a text back from Louisa moaning about the weather, telling her she was so lucky it hurt, and asking her if she had met Nancy yet, which made Cate feel a lot better.

The cabin was painted in white and lemon, which gave it a warm feel, and despite its cell-like proportions – around two metres by four metres – it felt cosy rather than claustrophobic. She swung her feet down to the floor and took a couple of strides over to the kettle, unpacking her rucksack as it boiled. First out was her pride and joy, her pearl white mini laptop, which her father had bought her for her sixteenth birthday, together with decent headphones and a tiny camcorder.

Despite only being fourteen, her brother Arthur was already
a computer genius. He'd installed Skype so that they could talk at any time, had customised the laptop and added some ‘Arthur specials'. These included unbreakable internet security and a tracking system, no larger than a two pound coin, that she could keep on the laptop in case it was stolen, or use as a portable device in her bag or even on her mobile. Arthur claimed that, when it was switched on, he could use internet GPS to work out where she was to within a few square metres with just a few clicks. She wasn't quite sure why she needed that, but agreed to it to keep Arthur happy.

It was four-thirty. It would be three-thirty in London now and with a bit of luck Arthur would be online and ready for a chat.

Cate tapped in her security code, plugged in the tiny dongle for internet access and clicked on the communication icon at the bottom of the screen. Suddenly Arthur was there, in his bedroom in West London. His bright bespectacled face lit up her screen, his delight in seeing her evident.

‘Sis! How's it going?' His familiar voice was a wonderful sound. The two of them were close, closer than most other brothers and sisters. Throughout their parents' divorce, and in whichever strange country they found themselves, they'd always had each other to laugh or cry with and to depend on. Right now, Cate wanted to reach through the screen and hug him.

‘It's great, Arthur, really gorgeous,' said Cate, smiling at her brother instead. ‘And you'll never guess what?' She didn't give her brother any time to answer. ‘I'm only working for Nancy Kyle! It's Nancy Kyle's yacht!'

‘Who? Hang on, I'll Google her,' he said and Cate had to suppress a giggle. For Arthur, the world of fashion and celebrity was a complete no-go zone. ‘God – I see who you mean. That Nancy Kyle. Cool. Super-cool. Wait till I tell my mates! Wait till you tell
your
mates!'

‘I can't believe it either,' said Cate, ‘but, Arthur, the boat is fab – like being in a film. And the navigation computers – well, you'd just be in heaven.'

‘What about the crew?' asked Arthur.

‘They're OK,' said Cate. ‘The captain's an Aussie. He's tough but seems fair and the stewardess, my direct boss, seems really pleased to have someone to help her out. I haven't met the chef yet. How're you all?' asked Cate.

‘Honestly,' said Arthur, in mock exasperation, ‘we're fine and dandy, just like we were when you left ten hours ago.'

‘Yeah, I get the message. I'm missing you, that's all,' said Cate. ‘Look, I'm going for a run now. I want to explore the area a bit, get my bearings. I'll call you tomorrow maybe. Oh, and if you bump into Louisa, feel free to tell her about
Catwalk II
. I promise I'll email her properly soon.'

‘Sure thing,' said Arthur.

‘Thanks. Give my love to Monique and Dad.
Ciao
.'

Arthur planted a sloppy kiss on his screen and Cate laughed and logged off. She packed her laptop carefully back in her bag, and took out her beloved running gear – her cut-offs, a cropped top and her air trainers. There was no better way to get to know a new place than by going jogging, she thought.

Ten minutes later, she was climbing up the spiral staircase to the outer deck. As she passed the middle deck she heard the
beat of music playing, and the spicy scent of food cooking. Suddenly starving, she headed for the galley, the obvious source of the smell.

The man inside the immaculate galley had heard her coming, and his head was up, watching her as she knocked on the open door.

‘Hi there, you must be Cate,' said a tall man, in a lilting West African accent. ‘I'm Marcus the chef, at your service. Welcome aboard.'

His dark face was handsome and open. He was well over six foot tall and, Cate guessed, nearly forty. Beneath his T-shirt, his arms had the bulky muscles of someone who regularly worked out.

‘Hi,' said Cate, smiling back at him, glad of a friendly face. ‘I start work tomorrow. I was on my way out but I smelt your food and . . .'

‘Hungry, eh?' said Marcus, loping across the room in a couple of strides. He reached up to a cupboard set high above the sink and brought out a loaf of French bread and some crackers. Then he produced pâté, soft cheese and cold roast chicken from the fridge and placed them on a thick round wooden board. ‘I bet no one's given you a bite to eat since you got here,' he said. He pushed the board towards Cate and handed her a knife and a small jade-green plate which was embossed with a picture of
Catwalk II
.

Cate found herself telling Marcus about her need to have a break from London and to get back to the sunshine and the sea while she ate.

‘I guess if anywhere is home then London is and I do love
it,' she explained. ‘I do a lot of martial arts and running and that keeps me fit and alert, but I know that, well, there are other places where it isn't such a struggle to stay cheerful – if that makes sense.'

Marcus nodded. ‘Sure does,' he said. ‘I worked in London for a year once and the traffic damn near drove me crazy. Had fun though.' He smiled fondly at some distant memory. ‘You Brits sure know how to throw a good party – and have a good crisis as well.'

Cate wasn't quite sure what he meant by that last remark, but in any case she had finished her food and was itching to get out and explore the town.

‘Thanks for that,' she said.

‘You're welcome.' Marcus smiled. ‘You go out and have fun. Staff dinner is a hot meal in the main salon at eight-thirty and breakfast is a cold, self-service job in the mess room in the basement. In fact, you can eat there any time you like – just help yourself. When Nancy is on board we staff eat in the mess room all the time, but while the cat's away, we dine in style!' Marcus winked at Cate and began carving some meat, deftly slicing it into razor thin slices.

‘See you later,' said Cate, and she headed out into the heat of the late Antibes afternoon.

From the circular walkway that ringed the marina she headed towards the old city walls. Suddenly she stopped and turned her entire body towards the sun. It beat down on her face and her bare arms and legs with all the subtlety of a blowtorch, but to Cate, heat starved after a particularly dreary English early summer, it was wonderful.

Cate felt a sudden surge of pure happiness. She was in the South of France, on a boat with people who seemed pretty decent and working for one of the most famous women in the western world. It didn't get much better than this, Cate figured. Talk about striking gold!

She took a little leap over a low wall, put on her Ray-Bans, twisted her hair up under her baseball cap and set off through one of the several archways in the ancient walls that separated the old town from the sea.

Cate walked up the cobbled street, past restaurants crammed with late afternoon diners and turned right onto the main street that ran up from the harbour towards the centre of the town. On either side there were more restaurants, and fish shops, patisseries displaying mouth-watering tarts and cakes, and wine shops with vibrant window displays.

The road climbed upward. She passed a covered market, where the last of the stalls were being cleared away, and started to power-walk up the steep hill until the street began to flatten out. She wanted to follow the coast, so she turned left and headed out onto the promontory that stuck out into the crystal blue Mediterranean.

The road that wound around the point was crowded with tourists and cars, with mopeds weaving their way in and out of the traffic. To the right, honey-coloured houses rose precariously upward, clinging tightly to the hillsides. To her left, a frighteningly low wall seemed to be the only thing protecting motorists and walkers from plunging fifty metres to the rocks and sea below.

Cate began to run downhill. The road quietened as it
curved back off from the point, still following the coast but passing through the residential area of the Cap d'Antibes, a place Cate had read about so often in celebrity magazines. This was the land of the rich and famous, film and pop stars and Russian oligarchs, where large chateaux and tastefully exclusive low-rise apartment blocks nestled amongst greenery and manicured lawns.

Cate came to a beach and ran onto it with delight. At the edge of the golden sand was a sailing club – a clapperboard, wind-bleached building. The masts of dinghies, marooned on the sand, clanked and banged in the breeze. Beside them a group of teenagers had rigged up a volleyball net and were effortlessly batting a ball back and forth over the net.

Cate stood and watched them for a few minutes, suddenly missing her friends back home. One of the boys – tall with dark hair and blue eyes – noticed her and smiled. Cate smiled back uncertainly. He gestured with the ball – would she like to join in? When Cate shook her head shyly, he pulled a rueful face and carried on with the game.

Perhaps another day, thought Cate. She started off again, jogging past the club and then sprinting along the sandy beach until it ran out. Catching her breath, she turned right and began to climb up again, into the maze of little alleyways that criss-crossed the peninsula.

Pine trees towered above, releasing their sweet oily smell in the late afternoon heat. The noise and life of the beach faded behind her. A few birds flew lazily about and a cat slunk in and out of fenced-off gardens. Away from the sea breeze the temperature was even more intense. Cate ran carefully, mindful
of the jagged edges of the pavements. She had no real idea where she was going, but she had her little compass and she was on the narrow part of a peninsula. She couldn't get very lost.

Cate marvelled as she got closer to the huge mansions which loomed at the end of high-gated drives. There were warning signs everywhere – in French, English and Russian – telling passersby to beware of the dogs or electric fences or patrolling guards. Yet most of the houses were clearly shut up and the streets deserted.

Suddenly, two hundred metres ahead of her, a man appeared, crossing the road from one small alleyway to another. He was the same height and build as Marcus, and was wearing the same bright blue T-shirt. Although his dark face was partially obscured, the resemblance was so uncanny that, for a few seconds, Cate was convinced it was the friendly chef. She nearly called out to him but he vanished and, by the time she reached the crossroads and looked down the alleyway, it was empty. She walked along it for a few metres and poked her nose over the first gate she came to, then the second. She even checked down an overgrown path which ran alongside another house, before realising how ridiculous she was being – Marcus was on the boat getting supper ready.

She was still laughing at herself when she heard a noise that froze her to the spot. It was a rasping sound, with a low keening. It was the sound of pain and fear and it was coming nearer and nearer.

Instinctively, Cate pushed herself back into the side alley and stood completely still. As she stared back up to the top of
the alleyway, a fair-haired man crawled into her line of vision. His face was battered and bloody, one leg stretched out uselessly behind him. It was obvious that any movement took a huge effort and the gasping Cate could hear was a sign that he was not going to be able to carry on for much longer.

He finally gave up the struggle and collapsed onto the ground. As he did so, he turned his head towards Cate. For a few agonised seconds they made eye contact. Then his eyes closed and the colour drained from his already pale face.

Cate was about to rush to his assistance when suddenly she heard a clatter of footsteps coming up the hill. Two men, wearing black T-shirts and jeans, rushed to either side of the injured man and, to Cate's horror, turned him over onto his back and began to kick his body and legs.

Once, in Kosovo with her father, she had witnessed a teenage boy being beaten by a gang of villagers who had accused him of theft. It had been horrible to see – the boy whimpering and cowed, trying hopelessly to protect his bloodied face as the blows rained in. Cate had desperately wanted to help, even tried to get to him through the crowd, but her dad had held her back and eventually a group of Danish peacekeepers had waded into the fray and rescued the terrified boy. Later, her father had read her the riot act about interfering in dangerous situations and she knew he was right, but for months afterwards she had felt guilty that she hadn't helped.