Florence, Italy
The hotel concierge appeared as calm and reassuring as ever but he was actually very annoyed indeed. Really, that Englishman had been nothing but a nuisance since he arrived and now he had committed the ultimate faux-pas of dying in his room.
The police had been called and taken discreetly upstairs via the service entrance and service lift so as not to disturb the other guests. Found by the chambermaid, the Englishman lay on his bed wearing some offensively patterned underclothing and his socks; an adult film was still playing on the television. The man inspired even more derision in death than he had in life among the hotel staff.
A weary detective had arrived an hour or so later with the official police doctor. There seemed to no reason to believe anything other than that the man had drunk too much, got too excited at the film (of which there was some evidence) and his heart had given out. Apart from the empty bottles in the room, there was a packet of pills, yet to be identified but suspected to be those which counteract impotence. Both the doctor and the detective shrugged their shoulders and headed off for some coffee while the room was cleared. Hotel staff members were questioned as to the guest's behaviour and the police were given a picture of an ill-mannered man who consistently over-imbibed. Later, the doctor was able to confirm his suspicions about the pills and state that in his opinion the self-medication combined with large amounts of alcohol had caused the man's death.
The police, having far more important things to deal with, contacted the one remaining family member and made arrangements for the body to be returned to England. The Englishman was soon forgotten by all concerned.
London, England (almost three weeks earlier)
Miss Rigby opened her eyes slowly, one at a time, and was delighted to find that every detail of her bedroom was clear to her. The subtle stripe on the blinds, the colour and design of the art deco bowl on the dressing table, the title and author's name on the book resting on her bedside table and, oh dear, the layer of dust on the bedside lamp.
No more spectacles for Miss Rigby! Now the perfection of her eyes would match the perfection, attained by several plastic surgeons, of the rest of her body.
She stretched her newly slim legs, wiggled her de-bunioned toes and waved toned arms above her head in abandon. Humming I Feel Pretty, she threw back the bedclothes and stood at her bedside, gazing at her reflection in the dressing table mirror with satisfaction. Then she spotted, sans glasses, a few stray white hairs at her temples; this would not do at all.
Just one hour later, white hair vanquished (at least temporarily), Miss Rigby was dressed casually for a raid on her wardrobe followed by a visit to the local charity shop. Someone would benefit from the clothing clearance; Miss Rigby's heart might be damaged but it was big.
She almost emptied the cupboards and drawers of her previous appearance, showered and dressed in sleek jeans, a brand new cashmere sweater and some rather foxy leopard-print loafers before gathering up the bags of clothing and leaving the house.
Having sprinkled the third world with her largesse, figuratively speaking, Miss Rigby spent the rest of the morning, not to mention a large sum of cash, on some new additions to her wardrobe. At last, weary of fawning shop girls, she returned home.
Closing the front door behind her, she stood and looked around. It seemed only right that her house should look as good as she did so she made the decision there and then to have the entire place redecorated. Some of the furniture could go to the poor, she thought, with the rest going into storage and she would move out while the refurbishment took place - perhaps even take a short holiday.
For six days, she was busy organising an interior designer, decorators and storage; further largesse to the needy took place in the form of a sofa and armchairs. In addition there was new furniture to arrange, an alternative home and a short break to Italy. On the seventh day, like the Creator, Miss Rigby rested.
The day arrived when the house was emptied of all its contents, barring a kettle and necessary refreshments for the workmen. Miss Rigby, armed with her new luggage, handed over a set of keys to the interior designer and took a taxi to the flat she had rented. She would have just two days there before leaving for Florence and those days would be spent with beauticians and her hairdresser. She was going to give the Italians bella figura in spades.
The cab-driver who came to collect her for the trip to the airport only just managed to withhold an appreciative whistle as Miss Rigby approached the taxi. The simple, but obviously expensive, dress hugged her hour-glass figure; smooth shapely legs ended in dainty feet clad in pointed, kitten-heeled shoes; the discreetly coloured mane of hair was swept back casually and large sunglasses concealed those perfect eyes while moist, full lips gave the cabbie a swift smile.
In the back of the cab, as she took out her smartphone from her handbag, she suddenly remembered that she'd seen the driver before and her smile changed to a grimace. She tapped the armrest with her manicured fingernails as she checked her messages then made a note on the phone of the cab's number. It was something that would have to wait; patience was a virtue she had not yet mastered but here was the opportunity to practise.
When her flight was called there was some jostling by male passengers hoping to get a seat near her. As she turned into business class, several of these men looked crestfallen as they headed to their right into economy class, while two others looked triumphant as they followed Miss Rigby to the left. Their quarry was too quick for them and seated herself next to an elderly lady while the men were obliged to sit several rows away, craning their necks to observe her.
A cup of coffee (politely accepted) and a light snack (politely refused) later, the plan was circling their destination airport. The two men were obliged to leave the plane before Miss Rigby, who had offered to assist the elderly lady, descended the steps to the obvious appreciation of some airport workers who, dismissive of political correctness, made grand gestures of approval and that hissing sound peculiar to the Italian male.
A car had been sent for her so she managed to avoid the over-enthusiastic taxi drivers and arrived fresh and calm at her hotel on the northern bank of the Arno, near to the Ponte Vecchio. Florence basked in the warm sunshine of an early spring and the view from Miss Rigby's balcony was of Renaissance splendour.
Her bags unpacked, valuables placed carefully in the room safe, she picked up a light cashmere shawl and her bag and left the room. She greeted a passing maid charmingly as she made for the lift and smiled with just the right degree of friendliness to the male lobby staff as she passed out of the front door and headed for the Piazza della Signoria.
Passing the long queue at the Uffizi, she congratulated herself on having bought a ticket in advance. Although she had visited the museum twice in the past, there was always something one had missed. But there was no time to linger as, if she wanted to sit comfortably at her destination, she had only minutes to spare. Waking briskly through the piazza, she ignored the shops on her route and then turned right into a narrower street; there was her favourite wine bar. Fortunately, she arrived just as they were opening the bar area beyond the patisserie and was able to settle at one of the smaller tables without a problem.
By the time her order of fresh Tuscan bread topped with sliced pear, pecorino and basil was brought to her, along with a glass of red wine, she had been joined by two charming elderly gentlemen. The men, one American and one Florentine, engaged her gently in conversation and she enjoyed both her lunch and their amusing anecdotes.
After such a pleasant and civilised start to her trip, she wandered through the streets slowly before returning to her hotel and an afternoon nap. The only blight on the day was a brief glimpse in the hotel lobby of someone she though she knew but she told herself she must be wrong and dismissed it.
Refreshed by her rest, that evening Miss Rigby descended the stairs at the hotel wearing a pretty silk skirt and cashmere cardigan. The male hotel staff watched her discreetly and nodded to each other in approval as she passed through the lobby with a smile and went out to join the passeggiata. There was a smart cafe where she knew she'd be comfortable so she ambled along with the crowds, window-shopping as she went.
A little while later, seated outside the cafe with a glass of Prosecco and a few little snacks, she was disturbed to see that she hadn't been mistaken earlier in the day. The man she had seen in the hotel lobby was now entering the cafe and she was certain of his identity. Granted, some years had passed and he had now thickened and lost some of his hair, but it was undeniably him. She felt a burning in her throat and she gripped the chair with a fierce strength.
Taking a few deep breaths to calm herself, she sipped rather shakily from her water glass and forced herself to think. As her head cleared, she watched the passers-by and wondered what secrets each of them had; it was unlikely their secrets were like her own.
A glance in her compact mirror told her she looked pale but otherwise perfectly normal; she replaced the mirror in her bag with shaking hands and called over the waiter, speaking to him as calmly and as charmingly as she could about the bill, then she paid and left. Trying not to run, she hurried through the streets towards the river and only when she could see the Ponte Vecchio did she slow down. Leaning on the parapet over the water, she took her mind back all of fifteen years to the days when she had been a very different Miss Rigby.
Miss Dumpy-and-Dowdy, Miss Frizz; those were some of the kinder names by which she was known. For some reason she had agreed to out with him one evening. He was, in those days, loud and coarse and "one of the lads" and the evening, as she might have expected, ended in humiliation. Afterwards, she had stayed at the firm only another two months and then moved away from the town to London where she had found work and started to write in her spare time.
In the city, her transformation had begun. It was a slow start as she lacked the means to make herself over completely, but a moderate inheritance changed all of that. After the death of her father, more money was forthcoming and, from the dull chrysalis, a butterfly began to emerge. When her mother died, her life changed; the transformation was completed, all the people she had known prior to her move to London had been removed from her address book and those who now occupied that book had known her only in her current persona. So confident had she become that she felt astonished and afraid of how disturbed she felt now.
Walking slowly back to the hotel, she struggled to control her thoughts and it was only when she stepped over the threshold of the building that she felt reasonably calm. As she passed through the lobby to the lift, she smiled at the staff who had already agreed that this English lady was most charming and had such fine manners;
so unlike the ugly Englishman staying on his company account.
Unable to face dinner, she retired to her room and sat thinking for some time before coming to a decision. A restless night followed but she rose quite early the following morning and left the hotel to go to Fiesole. As the little bus climbed the hill towards Michelangelo's home, she emptied her mind of negative thoughts and gave herself up to the beauty of the view. That morning had, serendipitously, given her the room number of that loathsome being. He had been talking to the concierge as she left and had mentioned both the room number and the length of his stay. Luckily he had not noticed her as she passed, although the concierge had done so.
She ate a light snack and some coffee at a cafe in Fiesole before spending some time wandering around the Etruscan remains and sitting thoughtfully in the square over a cold drink. The timelessness of her surroundings relaxed her and removed her, temporarily, from the present. On the bus ride back she gave up her seat to an elderly gentleman, to the obvious approval of a nun sitting nearby who then proceeded to tell her the history of Fiesole in rapid Italian. Grasping a few words here and there, Miss Rigby nodded sagely, smiled and gave what she hoped was the correct response. Back in the city, she left the bus and returned to her hotel.
Two Years Earlier
She stood outside the crematorium, staring at the immaculate gardens around the building, surrounded yet separate from the small group of people invited to her mother's funeral. Her mother had made it clear for some years before her death that the funeral was to be private so the attendees included only a handful of cousins and three of her mother's neighbours. A choir had been hired and her mother's vicar, though an occasional visitor at best, had given a decent send-off.
Cars arrived and took the mourners off to a good pub nearby, rather an irony as the deceased didn't drink alcohol. As the only child, Miss Rigby was obliged to grit her teeth and make small talk for the next hour before leaving the pub and returning to her hotel, changing and going to the family home to begin stripping it of its ornaments and furniture. She'd had boxes and containers delivered earlier and marked as "sale, "cousins", "neighbours" and "charity". There was nothing she wished to keep, barring some old photographs which she had already taken to her hotel, one or two pieces of decent furniture and a couple of rather nice Indian rugs.
By midnight, the bottle of wine she had wisely taken with her was half-empty and her mother's clothes had all been folded neatly into cases and bags for the charity shop. Binbags contained what couldn't be recycled. The sitting room was filled with boxes containing tea sets, Toby jugs (which her mother had disliked but nonetheless hoarded), Victorian vases and endless mugs commemorating the coronations and jubilees of past monarchs.
Sitting down with a sigh of relief, Miss Rigby poured herself some more wine and raised the glass. "Rest in peace, mother!" Then she laughed, in fact she laughed so much that tears poured down her face and she could scarcely swallow her wine. Despite their rather difficult relationship, her mother had trusted Miss Rigby. Silly mummy! As she recovered, still bursting into giggles, she told herself that tomorrow the entire place would be cleared, she would hand over the keys to the estate agent and this part of her life would be over for good. She'd just finish the bottle and then call for a taxi to her back to the hotel.
The following day, the house finally empty, polite words exchanged with the cousins and neighbours, the estate agent instructed, she returned to the crematorium. The ashes had been placed in a container ready to be scattered in the gardens outside.Accompanied by the funeral director, she carried the plain wooden box and went over to a large rose bush where, having tested the direction of the breeze, she poured the ashes into the earth. At least her mother would not be anywhere near her father; the poor man had had enough of her during his life.
Large drops of rain started to fall as she handed back the container, thanked the funeral director and headed quickly for the car. Just one more night at the hotel and she would leave that town never to return.
She never had, returned that is. There was no reason to do so. Christmas cards were exchanged with the cousins and, no doubt, they would cease in due course. Having not seen Miss Rigby since her father's funeral several years before the death of her mother, it was clear that those relatives were rather surprised at her appearance. She had noticed them trying to confer discreetly about her new-found glamour but they had no part in her life now and their opinion was of little interest to her.
Miss Rigby's flight took off on time from Italy and soon she found herself quite excited about how her house would look when she returned to London. In the meantime, she would have to go back to the flat she'd rented.
Pleased with the work being done at the house, she spent the next few days catching up with her mail and making plans. A small notice in the evening newspaper called her attention to the untimely death of an English sales representative in a Florence hotel; the man wasn't named. Miss Rigby lingered over the newspaper for a few minutes and then put it out for recycling with a look of satisfaction.
At last, she was able to return to her own home and she found herself quite as delighted with its transformation as with her own. She settled down into a routine, spending her mornings completing the crime novel she had begun several years earlier. After editing and re-editing, she pronounced herself satisfied and made an appointment to see a literary agent. The meeting seemed to go well and, on her way home, Miss Rigby picked up the free daily newspaper. On an inside page was a report about the death of a taxi driver, apparently found in the back of his own cab with his trousers around his ankles and a half-finished bottle of whisky. Miss Rigby tutted and shook her head but wore a curious look on her face that turned into a grin.
Some weeks later, a message came from the literary agent that the crime novel was unlikely to find a market. Miss Rigby pursed her lips and decided that she would therefore publish it herself. Meetings with a lawyer and a printer ensued. An artist was found to illustrate the cover and, within two months, the book was published. A publicist was hired and books sent to reviewers; the response was favourable and sales built slowly but surely. Within a year of publication, the film rights were sold to a well-known producer and Miss Rigby found herself to be a welcome guest at a variety of literary and show business events. She was also pursued by a publishing company wanting to cash in on her success but she decided to go it alone, as she had always done. There was even a brief affair with a well-known film actor who, she discovered all too soon, spent even more on his appearance than she did.
The round of parties, literary festivals, film festivals and other events took their toll and Miss Rigby found herself having to spend more and more time with her hairdresser and beautician. There were interviews and a photoshoot for British Vogue, wearing Stella McCartney. Following the release of the film, soon considered a critical and financial success, she was exhausted by the amount of travelling and the number of public appearances to which she was obligated and she was becoming concerned about her face. Was it her imagination or was she becoming a little raddled?
There was nothing for it but to check into the clinic and have everything fixed. But before that, there was just one little matter to deal with.
The doctors assured her that there was nothing major required but rest was prescribed, along with facial massage and other treatments; two weeks at the clinic would repair the damage.
Relaxing in her bathrobe at the clinic, her feet being attended to, she read the newspaper. there was a small article about the downfall of a literary agent who had been found with class-A drugs and was likely to spend some time in prison. Miss Rigby raised her eyebrows (as far she could) in disapproval but could not conceal a smile.
Her appearance now entirely corrected and perfected, Miss Rigby finished packing her bags and stood at the window looking out at the tree-lined street. It had all started with dear daddy, of course; the poor man was so unwell and very unhappy and had just asked for a little help to leave this world. Now she told herself that living well was the best revenge, and, to be fair, she'd been lenient with the literary agent. There would be no more killings. Probably.
She settled in the taxi, looking forward to an evening at home; perhaps even with some fish and chips and a boxed set. It was funny how an evening like that seemed like a luxury now. Even as she thought this, her smartphone beeped; it was a message from her agent that a certain famous actor was in town for just one night and would like to invite her to dinner. She sighed and sent a reply before switching off the phone: "Miss Rigby regrets she's unable to dine today."
The hotel concierge appeared as calm and reassuring as ever but he was actually very annoyed indeed. Really, that Englishman had been nothing but a nuisance since he arrived and now he had committed the ultimate faux-pas of dying in his room.
The police had been called and taken discreetly upstairs via the service entrance and service lift so as not to disturb the other guests. Found by the chambermaid, the Englishman lay on his bed wearing some offensively patterned underclothing and his socks; an adult film was still playing on the television. The man inspired even more derision in death than he had in life among the hotel staff.
A weary detective had arrived an hour or so later with the official police doctor. There seemed to no reason to believe anything other than that the man had drunk too much, got too excited at the film (of which there was some evidence) and his heart had given out. Apart from the empty bottles in the room, there was a packet of pills, yet to be identified but suspected to be those which counteract impotence. Both the doctor and the detective shrugged their shoulders and headed off for some coffee while the room was cleared. Hotel staff members were questioned as to the guest's behaviour and the police were given a picture of an ill-mannered man who consistently over-imbibed. Later, the doctor was able to confirm his suspicions about the pills and state that in his opinion the self-medication combined with large amounts of alcohol had caused the man's death.
The police, having far more important things to deal with, contacted the one remaining family member and made arrangements for the body to be returned to England. The Englishman was soon forgotten by all concerned.
London, England (almost three weeks earlier)
Miss Rigby opened her eyes slowly, one at a time, and was delighted to find that every detail of her bedroom was clear to her. The subtle stripe on the blinds, the colour and design of the art deco bowl on the dressing table, the title and author's name on the book resting on her bedside table and, oh dear, the layer of dust on the bedside lamp.
No more spectacles for Miss Rigby! Now the perfection of her eyes would match the perfection, attained by several plastic surgeons, of the rest of her body.
She stretched her newly slim legs, wiggled her de-bunioned toes and waved toned arms above her head in abandon. Humming I Feel Pretty, she threw back the bedclothes and stood at her bedside, gazing at her reflection in the dressing table mirror with satisfaction. Then she spotted, sans glasses, a few stray white hairs at her temples; this would not do at all.
Just one hour later, white hair vanquished (at least temporarily), Miss Rigby was dressed casually for a raid on her wardrobe followed by a visit to the local charity shop. Someone would benefit from the clothing clearance; Miss Rigby's heart might be damaged but it was big.
She almost emptied the cupboards and drawers of her previous appearance, showered and dressed in sleek jeans, a brand new cashmere sweater and some rather foxy leopard-print loafers before gathering up the bags of clothing and leaving the house.
Having sprinkled the third world with her largesse, figuratively speaking, Miss Rigby spent the rest of the morning, not to mention a large sum of cash, on some new additions to her wardrobe. At last, weary of fawning shop girls, she returned home.
Closing the front door behind her, she stood and looked around. It seemed only right that her house should look as good as she did so she made the decision there and then to have the entire place redecorated. Some of the furniture could go to the poor, she thought, with the rest going into storage and she would move out while the refurbishment took place - perhaps even take a short holiday.
For six days, she was busy organising an interior designer, decorators and storage; further largesse to the needy took place in the form of a sofa and armchairs. In addition there was new furniture to arrange, an alternative home and a short break to Italy. On the seventh day, like the Creator, Miss Rigby rested.
The day arrived when the house was emptied of all its contents, barring a kettle and necessary refreshments for the workmen. Miss Rigby, armed with her new luggage, handed over a set of keys to the interior designer and took a taxi to the flat she had rented. She would have just two days there before leaving for Florence and those days would be spent with beauticians and her hairdresser. She was going to give the Italians bella figura in spades.
The cab-driver who came to collect her for the trip to the airport only just managed to withhold an appreciative whistle as Miss Rigby approached the taxi. The simple, but obviously expensive, dress hugged her hour-glass figure; smooth shapely legs ended in dainty feet clad in pointed, kitten-heeled shoes; the discreetly coloured mane of hair was swept back casually and large sunglasses concealed those perfect eyes while moist, full lips gave the cabbie a swift smile.
In the back of the cab, as she took out her smartphone from her handbag, she suddenly remembered that she'd seen the driver before and her smile changed to a grimace. She tapped the armrest with her manicured fingernails as she checked her messages then made a note on the phone of the cab's number. It was something that would have to wait; patience was a virtue she had not yet mastered but here was the opportunity to practise.
When her flight was called there was some jostling by male passengers hoping to get a seat near her. As she turned into business class, several of these men looked crestfallen as they headed to their right into economy class, while two others looked triumphant as they followed Miss Rigby to the left. Their quarry was too quick for them and seated herself next to an elderly lady while the men were obliged to sit several rows away, craning their necks to observe her.
A cup of coffee (politely accepted) and a light snack (politely refused) later, the plan was circling their destination airport. The two men were obliged to leave the plane before Miss Rigby, who had offered to assist the elderly lady, descended the steps to the obvious appreciation of some airport workers who, dismissive of political correctness, made grand gestures of approval and that hissing sound peculiar to the Italian male.
A car had been sent for her so she managed to avoid the over-enthusiastic taxi drivers and arrived fresh and calm at her hotel on the northern bank of the Arno, near to the Ponte Vecchio. Florence basked in the warm sunshine of an early spring and the view from Miss Rigby's balcony was of Renaissance splendour.
Her bags unpacked, valuables placed carefully in the room safe, she picked up a light cashmere shawl and her bag and left the room. She greeted a passing maid charmingly as she made for the lift and smiled with just the right degree of friendliness to the male lobby staff as she passed out of the front door and headed for the Piazza della Signoria.
Passing the long queue at the Uffizi, she congratulated herself on having bought a ticket in advance. Although she had visited the museum twice in the past, there was always something one had missed. But there was no time to linger as, if she wanted to sit comfortably at her destination, she had only minutes to spare. Waking briskly through the piazza, she ignored the shops on her route and then turned right into a narrower street; there was her favourite wine bar. Fortunately, she arrived just as they were opening the bar area beyond the patisserie and was able to settle at one of the smaller tables without a problem.
By the time her order of fresh Tuscan bread topped with sliced pear, pecorino and basil was brought to her, along with a glass of red wine, she had been joined by two charming elderly gentlemen. The men, one American and one Florentine, engaged her gently in conversation and she enjoyed both her lunch and their amusing anecdotes.
After such a pleasant and civilised start to her trip, she wandered through the streets slowly before returning to her hotel and an afternoon nap. The only blight on the day was a brief glimpse in the hotel lobby of someone she though she knew but she told herself she must be wrong and dismissed it.
Refreshed by her rest, that evening Miss Rigby descended the stairs at the hotel wearing a pretty silk skirt and cashmere cardigan. The male hotel staff watched her discreetly and nodded to each other in approval as she passed through the lobby with a smile and went out to join the passeggiata. There was a smart cafe where she knew she'd be comfortable so she ambled along with the crowds, window-shopping as she went.
A little while later, seated outside the cafe with a glass of Prosecco and a few little snacks, she was disturbed to see that she hadn't been mistaken earlier in the day. The man she had seen in the hotel lobby was now entering the cafe and she was certain of his identity. Granted, some years had passed and he had now thickened and lost some of his hair, but it was undeniably him. She felt a burning in her throat and she gripped the chair with a fierce strength.
Taking a few deep breaths to calm herself, she sipped rather shakily from her water glass and forced herself to think. As her head cleared, she watched the passers-by and wondered what secrets each of them had; it was unlikely their secrets were like her own.
A glance in her compact mirror told her she looked pale but otherwise perfectly normal; she replaced the mirror in her bag with shaking hands and called over the waiter, speaking to him as calmly and as charmingly as she could about the bill, then she paid and left. Trying not to run, she hurried through the streets towards the river and only when she could see the Ponte Vecchio did she slow down. Leaning on the parapet over the water, she took her mind back all of fifteen years to the days when she had been a very different Miss Rigby.
Miss Dumpy-and-Dowdy, Miss Frizz; those were some of the kinder names by which she was known. For some reason she had agreed to out with him one evening. He was, in those days, loud and coarse and "one of the lads" and the evening, as she might have expected, ended in humiliation. Afterwards, she had stayed at the firm only another two months and then moved away from the town to London where she had found work and started to write in her spare time.
In the city, her transformation had begun. It was a slow start as she lacked the means to make herself over completely, but a moderate inheritance changed all of that. After the death of her father, more money was forthcoming and, from the dull chrysalis, a butterfly began to emerge. When her mother died, her life changed; the transformation was completed, all the people she had known prior to her move to London had been removed from her address book and those who now occupied that book had known her only in her current persona. So confident had she become that she felt astonished and afraid of how disturbed she felt now.
Walking slowly back to the hotel, she struggled to control her thoughts and it was only when she stepped over the threshold of the building that she felt reasonably calm. As she passed through the lobby to the lift, she smiled at the staff who had already agreed that this English lady was most charming and had such fine manners;
so unlike the ugly Englishman staying on his company account.
Unable to face dinner, she retired to her room and sat thinking for some time before coming to a decision. A restless night followed but she rose quite early the following morning and left the hotel to go to Fiesole. As the little bus climbed the hill towards Michelangelo's home, she emptied her mind of negative thoughts and gave herself up to the beauty of the view. That morning had, serendipitously, given her the room number of that loathsome being. He had been talking to the concierge as she left and had mentioned both the room number and the length of his stay. Luckily he had not noticed her as she passed, although the concierge had done so.
She ate a light snack and some coffee at a cafe in Fiesole before spending some time wandering around the Etruscan remains and sitting thoughtfully in the square over a cold drink. The timelessness of her surroundings relaxed her and removed her, temporarily, from the present. On the bus ride back she gave up her seat to an elderly gentleman, to the obvious approval of a nun sitting nearby who then proceeded to tell her the history of Fiesole in rapid Italian. Grasping a few words here and there, Miss Rigby nodded sagely, smiled and gave what she hoped was the correct response. Back in the city, she left the bus and returned to her hotel.
Two Years Earlier
She stood outside the crematorium, staring at the immaculate gardens around the building, surrounded yet separate from the small group of people invited to her mother's funeral. Her mother had made it clear for some years before her death that the funeral was to be private so the attendees included only a handful of cousins and three of her mother's neighbours. A choir had been hired and her mother's vicar, though an occasional visitor at best, had given a decent send-off.
Cars arrived and took the mourners off to a good pub nearby, rather an irony as the deceased didn't drink alcohol. As the only child, Miss Rigby was obliged to grit her teeth and make small talk for the next hour before leaving the pub and returning to her hotel, changing and going to the family home to begin stripping it of its ornaments and furniture. She'd had boxes and containers delivered earlier and marked as "sale, "cousins", "neighbours" and "charity". There was nothing she wished to keep, barring some old photographs which she had already taken to her hotel, one or two pieces of decent furniture and a couple of rather nice Indian rugs.
By midnight, the bottle of wine she had wisely taken with her was half-empty and her mother's clothes had all been folded neatly into cases and bags for the charity shop. Binbags contained what couldn't be recycled. The sitting room was filled with boxes containing tea sets, Toby jugs (which her mother had disliked but nonetheless hoarded), Victorian vases and endless mugs commemorating the coronations and jubilees of past monarchs.
Sitting down with a sigh of relief, Miss Rigby poured herself some more wine and raised the glass. "Rest in peace, mother!" Then she laughed, in fact she laughed so much that tears poured down her face and she could scarcely swallow her wine. Despite their rather difficult relationship, her mother had trusted Miss Rigby. Silly mummy! As she recovered, still bursting into giggles, she told herself that tomorrow the entire place would be cleared, she would hand over the keys to the estate agent and this part of her life would be over for good. She'd just finish the bottle and then call for a taxi to her back to the hotel.
The following day, the house finally empty, polite words exchanged with the cousins and neighbours, the estate agent instructed, she returned to the crematorium. The ashes had been placed in a container ready to be scattered in the gardens outside.Accompanied by the funeral director, she carried the plain wooden box and went over to a large rose bush where, having tested the direction of the breeze, she poured the ashes into the earth. At least her mother would not be anywhere near her father; the poor man had had enough of her during his life.
Large drops of rain started to fall as she handed back the container, thanked the funeral director and headed quickly for the car. Just one more night at the hotel and she would leave that town never to return.
She never had, returned that is. There was no reason to do so. Christmas cards were exchanged with the cousins and, no doubt, they would cease in due course. Having not seen Miss Rigby since her father's funeral several years before the death of her mother, it was clear that those relatives were rather surprised at her appearance. She had noticed them trying to confer discreetly about her new-found glamour but they had no part in her life now and their opinion was of little interest to her.
Miss Rigby's flight took off on time from Italy and soon she found herself quite excited about how her house would look when she returned to London. In the meantime, she would have to go back to the flat she'd rented.
Pleased with the work being done at the house, she spent the next few days catching up with her mail and making plans. A small notice in the evening newspaper called her attention to the untimely death of an English sales representative in a Florence hotel; the man wasn't named. Miss Rigby lingered over the newspaper for a few minutes and then put it out for recycling with a look of satisfaction.
At last, she was able to return to her own home and she found herself quite as delighted with its transformation as with her own. She settled down into a routine, spending her mornings completing the crime novel she had begun several years earlier. After editing and re-editing, she pronounced herself satisfied and made an appointment to see a literary agent. The meeting seemed to go well and, on her way home, Miss Rigby picked up the free daily newspaper. On an inside page was a report about the death of a taxi driver, apparently found in the back of his own cab with his trousers around his ankles and a half-finished bottle of whisky. Miss Rigby tutted and shook her head but wore a curious look on her face that turned into a grin.
Some weeks later, a message came from the literary agent that the crime novel was unlikely to find a market. Miss Rigby pursed her lips and decided that she would therefore publish it herself. Meetings with a lawyer and a printer ensued. An artist was found to illustrate the cover and, within two months, the book was published. A publicist was hired and books sent to reviewers; the response was favourable and sales built slowly but surely. Within a year of publication, the film rights were sold to a well-known producer and Miss Rigby found herself to be a welcome guest at a variety of literary and show business events. She was also pursued by a publishing company wanting to cash in on her success but she decided to go it alone, as she had always done. There was even a brief affair with a well-known film actor who, she discovered all too soon, spent even more on his appearance than she did.
The round of parties, literary festivals, film festivals and other events took their toll and Miss Rigby found herself having to spend more and more time with her hairdresser and beautician. There were interviews and a photoshoot for British Vogue, wearing Stella McCartney. Following the release of the film, soon considered a critical and financial success, she was exhausted by the amount of travelling and the number of public appearances to which she was obligated and she was becoming concerned about her face. Was it her imagination or was she becoming a little raddled?
There was nothing for it but to check into the clinic and have everything fixed. But before that, there was just one little matter to deal with.
The doctors assured her that there was nothing major required but rest was prescribed, along with facial massage and other treatments; two weeks at the clinic would repair the damage.
Relaxing in her bathrobe at the clinic, her feet being attended to, she read the newspaper. there was a small article about the downfall of a literary agent who had been found with class-A drugs and was likely to spend some time in prison. Miss Rigby raised her eyebrows (as far she could) in disapproval but could not conceal a smile.
Her appearance now entirely corrected and perfected, Miss Rigby finished packing her bags and stood at the window looking out at the tree-lined street. It had all started with dear daddy, of course; the poor man was so unwell and very unhappy and had just asked for a little help to leave this world. Now she told herself that living well was the best revenge, and, to be fair, she'd been lenient with the literary agent. There would be no more killings. Probably.
She settled in the taxi, looking forward to an evening at home; perhaps even with some fish and chips and a boxed set. It was funny how an evening like that seemed like a luxury now. Even as she thought this, her smartphone beeped; it was a message from her agent that a certain famous actor was in town for just one night and would like to invite her to dinner. She sighed and sent a reply before switching off the phone: "Miss Rigby regrets she's unable to dine today."