reading

Chapter One

Monday, 24 August 2015, 8 a.m.
Archway, London

From: Elizabeth Caruso

ElizabethKnightlyCaruso@gmail.com

To: Alvina Knightly

AlvinaKnightly69@hotmail.com

Date: 24 Aug 2015 at 08.01

Subject: VISIT

Alvie, darling,

Please stop ignoring me. I know you received my last two emails because I put that recipient-tracker thing on, so you can stop pretending. Despite being at risk of repeating myself, I would like to invite you, yet again, to come and stay with us at our villa in Taormina. You would LOVE it here: 16th-century original features, the smell of frangipani in the air. The sun shines every single day. There’s a pool to die for. We’re around the corner from the ancient Greek amphitheatre, which frames Mount Etna to the west and the shimmering Mediterranean to the east. Even if you can only manage a week – I know you’re a slave to that ghastly job – it would be wonderful to see you. I can’t believe you haven’t met Ernie yet; he’s getting bigger each day and is the spit of his Auntie Alvina.

But seriously, I need you. I’m begging you. Come. IT’S BEEN TWO YEARS.

There’s something I need to ask you and I can’t do it by email.

Beth x

PS I know what you’re thinking and no, it isn’t still awkward. Ambrogio and I have forgotten all about it, even if you haven’t. So stop being a mule and come to Sicily.

PPS How much do you weigh at the moment? Are you still 9 stone 5? A size 10? I can’t lose the baby weight and it’s driving me insane.

Fucking hell; she is intolerable.

The smell of frangipani in the air blah, blah, blah, the ancient Greek amphitheatre blah, blah, blah, the shimmering Mediterranean blah, blah, fucking blah. She sounds like that presenter on A Place in the Sun: ‘Alvina Knightly seeks a pied-à-terre in the stunning coastal region of Eastern Sicily.’ Not that I would ever watch that kind of thing.

I am definitely not going. It sounds boring, old-fashioned. I don’t trust volcanoes. I cannot stand that kind of heat. It’s sticky. Sweaty. My English skin would burn in two seconds; I’m as pale as an Eskimo. Don’t say ‘Eskimo’! I can just hear her now … They don’t like that name. It’s not politically correct. Say ‘Inuit’ instead.

I scan my bedroom: empty vodka bottles, a Channing Tatum poster, photos on a pinboard of ‘friends’ I never see. Clothes on the floor. Cold mugs of tea. A vibe that would make Tracey Emin’s cleaner freak. Three emails in a week. What’s going on? I wonder what she wants to ask me. I suppose I should reply or she’ll continue to break my balls.

From: Alvina Knightly

AlvinaKnightly69@hotmail.com

To: Elizabeth Caruso

ElizabethKnightlyCaruso@gmail.com

Date: 24 Aug 2015 at 08.08

Subject: Re: VISIT

Elizabeth, darling,

Thank you for the invitation. Your villa certainly sounds stunning. Aren’t you and Ambrogio and, of course, little Ernie lucky to have such a splendid home in what sounds like the perfect location? Do you remember how as children, I was the one who loved the water? And now you have the swimming pool …

(and I have the bath with the blocked-up drain.)

Isn’t life funny? I would, of course, love to see it and meet your gorgeous little cherub, my nephew, but it really is flat out at work at the moment. August is always our busiest month, that’s why I’ve been so tardy in responding. Apologies.

Let me know when you’re next visiting London; it would be good to catch up.

Albino

No matter how many times I type my name, Alvina, predictive text always changes it to fucking Albino. (Perhaps it knows how pale I am and it’s taking the piss?) I’m just going to change it by deed poll.

Alvina

PS Do send my regards to your husband and give Ernesto a kiss from his auntie.

Send.

Elvis Presley’s twin brother was stillborn. Some people have all the luck.

I drag myself up and out of bed and step in a pizza I left on the floor. I only ate half of it late last night before passing out around 4 a.m. Tomato sauce all over my foot. A piece of salami between my toes. I peel off the meat and shove it in my mouth, wipe the sauce off with a sock. I get dressed in the clothes that I find on the floor: a nylon skirt that doesn’t need ironing, a cotton T-shirt that does. I look in the mirror and frown. Urgh. I rub the mascara away from my eyes, apply a slick of purple lipstick, run my fingers through greasy hair. That’ll do; I’m late. Again.

I go to work.

I grab the mail on my way out of the house and rip it open as I trudge down the street sucking on a Marlboro. Bills, bills, bills, bills, a business card for a minicab company, an advert for takeaway pizza. ‘FINAL DEMAND’, ‘BAILIFF’S NOTICE’, ‘URGENT ACTION REQUIRED’. Yawn, yawn, more of the same. Does Taylor Swift have to deal with this shit? I shove the letters into the hands of a homeless man sitting outside the Tube: no longer my problem.

I push through the crowds in the line for the turnstile, slam my Oyster card down on the reader. We shuffle through the station at 0.0000001 mph. I try to write a haiku in my head, but the words won’t come. Something deep about existential struggle? Something poetic and nihilistic? But nothing. My brain’s still asleep. I glare at the adverts for clothes and jewellery that cover every spare inch of wall. The same smug, airbrushed model with the same smug, airbrushed face stares down at me just as she does every single morning. She is feeding a toddler in an advert for follow-on milk. I don’t have a toddler and I don’t need reminding. I definitely don’t need to buy follow-on milk.

I stomp down the escalator, push past a man taking up too much space.

‘Hey, watch it!’ he yells.

‘Stand on the right! Dickhead.’

I am a great artist trapped inside the body of a classified advertising sales representative, a reincarnation of Byron or Van Gogh, Virginia Woolf or Sylvia Plath. I wait on the platform and contemplate my fate. There must be more to life than this? Stale air kisses my face and tells me that a train is approaching. I could jump now and it would all disappear. Within the hour, paramedics would have scraped me off the track and the Northern line would have resumed service.

A mouse runs over the metal rails. It only has three paws, but it lives a life of freedom and adventure. Lucky bastard. Perhaps that train will crush its little skull? It darts out of the way in the nick of time. Damn.

I perch on the shelf at the end of the carriage. A man with a cold sore invades my personal space; his shirt is translucent with sweat. He holds the yellow rail above my head, his armpit an inch from my nose; I can smell his Lynx Africa mixed with despair. I read his Metro upside down: murder, drugs, war, a story about somebody’s cat. He presses his crotch against my thigh, so I stamp on his foot. He moves away. Next time, I’ll knee him in the balls. We stop for a few minutes somewhere in London’s lower intestines and then start again. I change trains at Tottenham Court Road. The carriage empties its bowels and we disembark as amorphous excrement. I am defecated at Oxford Circus.

Mayfair, London

Outside, the air is as thick as lard. Traffic noise and police sirens. I inhale a lungful of nitrogen dioxide and start to walk. Big Issue sellers, charity muggers and hordes of bored-looking students. Five Guys, Costa, Bella Italia. Starbucks, Nando’s, Gregg’s. I do the three and a half minutes to the office on autopilot. Perhaps I’m sleepwalking? Or maybe I’m dead? Perhaps I did jump and this is Limbo? I keep on walking and turn left down Regent Street, thinking about Beth. I am not bloody going.

A pigeon craps on my shoulder: grey-green goo. Great. Why me? What did I do wrong? I look around, but nobody’s noticed. Isn’t that supposed to be lucky? Perhaps it’s a good omen for my day? I pull off my jumper and fling it into a bin; it had moth holes anyway.

I push through revolving doors and grimace at the man behind the desk. We’ve both worked here for years. We don’t know each other’s names. He looks up, frowns, then goes back to his crossword. I don’t think he likes me. The feeling is mutual. I trudge downstairs with leaden feet. I am wasted here, wasted. I don’t sell the big glossy fold-out ads at the front of magazines for sexy brands like Gucci or Lanvin or Tom Ford. That would be heaven. That’s the big bucks. Then I’d get to sit upstairs. No, I work in classified. I sell the crappy little blink-and-you’d-miss-them ads that nobody reads at the back of magazines: hair-regrowth supplements, Viagra for women or obscure gardening paraphernalia that even your gran wouldn’t buy. It’s sixty-one quid for an eighth of a page. I don’t know how I got here and I don’t know why I’ve stayed.

Perhaps I’ll run away and join the circus? I’ve always wanted to be the guy who throws daggers at the woman on the spinning wheel. (Why is it always the guy who throws the daggers?) I can picture the big top with its rainbow colours, the clowns, the jugglers, the horses, the lions. I can hear the crowds roll up, roll up, cheering, applauding, screaming in terror as knives fly through the air. The prickly sting of perspiration. The high of my adrenaline rush. I can see her now, spinning, spinning: blades slice through the wheel and just miss his face. Come on, Alvina, that’s never going to happen. You’re living in cloud cuckoo land. And you can’t make any money writing haikus. My sister always said I’d make a great traffic warden. It would be fun to work in an abattoir.

I push through the doors to the basement. Angela (the ‘g’ is hard) Merkel (not her real name) looks up as I enter the room and raises a well-plucked eyebrow. She has an air that promises today will be torture: like a root canal or kidney stones.

‘Good morning, Angela.’ Go to hell, Angela.

I sit at a wood-effect desk in a room filled with cookie-cutter cubicles and no windows. Despite being ‘adjustable’, my swivel chair always seems to be the wrong height or shape or angle; I’ve long since given up fiddling. There’s a peace lily that needs watering. The air is stale and dry.

A strawberry Hubba Bubba stuck beneath my computer monitor looks like a pink-grey rat brain. I pop it in my mouth and start to chew. It doesn’t taste of strawberries, but then it didn’t last week either.

I am exactly twelve minutes late. I think I’m supposed to be on a conference call with Kim (Jong-il, not his real name) but I can’t be bothered to dial in. Kim is as pleasant as an ingrowing toenail. I contemplate picking up the phone and harassing people; my job entails cold-calling strangers over and over until they take out some kind of restraining order or finally purchase advertising space. They pay up to make me shut up and go away. Instead, I turn on my PC. Bad idea. My inbox floods with ‘Urgent’ emails: ‘WHERE ARE YOU?’, ‘REPORT TO HR’, ‘EXPENSE POLICY VIOLATION’. Urgh, God, not again. I activate my out-of-office so I don’t have to deal with anyone’s bullshit.

Twitter’s still up from Friday from when I didn’t log off. I glance over at Angela; she is waterboarding one of my colleagues in the far corner of the room. Fuck it. I take a peek at what’s trending, but it all looks boring. Taylor Swift hasn’t replied to any of my tweets complimenting her on her recent outfits. Not even a favourite. Perhaps she’s busy? She’s probably on tour.

‘So bored at work I’m gonna watch porn #Ilovemyjob.’ Tweet.

I meant it as a joke, but now I’m curious. I call up YouPorn on my phone and scroll through genitalia: ‘Threesomes’, ‘Fetish’, ‘Fantasy’, ‘Sex toys’, ‘Big boobs’. Oooh, ‘Female-friendly’. Then my phone rings: ‘Beth Mobile’. Bloody hell, she’s persistent. Why is she calling me at work? I am busy and important. I scan the office, but nobody’s noticed. I try to send it to voicemail, but my fingertip slips and I answer it instead.

‘Alvie? Alvie? Is that you? Are you there?’

I hear her voice calling my name; it’s small and far away. I screw up my eyes and try to ignore her. I want to hang up.

‘Alvie? Can you hear me?’ she says.

I grab the phone and slam it against my ear.

‘Hi, Beth! Great to hear from you.’ Seriously, she’s made my fucking day.

‘At last. Finally, I –’

I grit my teeth.

‘Listen, Beth. I can’t talk now. I’ve got to run to a meeting. My boss is waiting. I think I’m getting a promotion! I’ll call you back later, OK?’

‘No, wait, I –’

I cut her off and get back to the porn: cocks, tits and asses. Someone with both tits and a cock. Cool.

‘Good morning, Alvina! How are you today?’

I look up and see Ed (Balls: face like a testicle) peering over his cubicle. Oh God, what now? What does he want? Apart from a personality transplant.

‘Hello, Ed. I’m fine. What do you want?’

‘Just checking how my favourite co-worker is doing on this fine Monday morning.’

‘Fuck off, Ed.’

‘Right, yes, of course. I was just, er …’

‘Yes?’

‘Er … I was just wondering when you might be able to …’

‘Pay you back that fifty quid I owe you?’

‘Yes!’

‘Well, not today, obviously.’

‘No. Obviously not today.’

‘So fuck off.’

‘Right. OK then. Bye-bye.’

His head pops back down again. Finally. God. I’ll need to avoid him this week at the water cooler. I almost wish I hadn’t borrowed it now. I only needed the money to get a vajazzle; in hindsight it wasn’t that urgent. I had a super-hot date with a crazy-hot guy I’d met in the Holloway Poundland. I thought a bit of glitter would add some sparkle to our first night of passion. But the sequins went everywhere, all over the bed, all over his face, all in his hair. He got one stuck behind his eyeball and had to see a doctor. I kept finding sequins for weeks and weeks after, in my shoes, in my wallet, on a pack of chicken nuggets in the bottom of the freezer (I have no idea). The worst thing was that he didn’t even appreciate all the effort I’d gone to: his name spelled out in pink diamanté all the way across my crotch: ‘AARON’. Apparently it should’ve been ‘ARRAN’, like some stupid island in Scotland. So what if I spelled it wrong? It’s the thought that counts. By the end of the night, it just said ‘RUN’.

I get back to the porn. I lower the volume to mute the moans, but it’s still very loud. Moaning and groaning and grunting and swearing. ‘I like that ass, baby.’ Someone shouts, ‘Whore!’ A ‘MILF’ is just getting fisted by a man in a mask when I notice a figure in my peripheral vision; Angela is looming over my cubicle. Shit.

‘You’re tweeting about porn from the company account?’

‘That was the company’s account? Oops. My bad,’ I say.

‘You’re fired,’ says Angela.

‘YOU ARE SOOO FUCKED, BITCH,’ says YouPorn.

I grab my handbag, the peace lily, a stapler and the copies of Heat and Closer from under my desk. I go home again.

Chapter Two

Archway, London

Seagulls the size of illegal dogs squawk overhead. Gang-raped foxes scream. Drunkards with lexicons limited to ‘fuck’ and ‘cunt’ shout at passers-by. It’s a lovely area, the kind of place estate agents describe as ‘up and coming’ because it couldn’t possibly be any more ‘down and gone’. Everything is a dirty grey: sky, walls, streets. Diseased trees grow plastic bags and empty cans of Pepsi. They’ve been digging up the road for the past eight years. It doesn’t actually smell of dead rat, but you wouldn’t be surprised to catch a whiff. Even the squirrels look rabid.

I’m not sure why I took the stapler. It isn’t mine. I don’t really want it. It’s not like I have people or things to staple. I throw it on someone’s front lawn.

The homeless guy runs after me with my ‘FINAL NOTICE’ letters.

‘Hey, you! You! You!’ he shouts, stumbling, breathless.

I ignore him and stomp down the street.

People often mistake our doorstep for a rubbish tip: I regularly discover empty lager cans, kebab wrappers, used condoms and broken toys in the mornings. Once there was a fully nude, decapitated Barbie doll. The body lay, pink and prostrate, on the pavement, like some kind of Toy Story crime scene. There was no head to be found. We do, at least, have a killer view of the Archway Tower, unofficially the ugliest building in the UK. Ace.

I push through the front door; it always sticks, so you have to shove it. The hinges creak. Someone’s spray-painted ‘TWAT’ in messy graffiti. I don’t think it was me.

Living in a flat-share is cheaper than renting a studio, but slightly more expensive than a cardboard box under a subway. The latter, however, has become an increasingly attractive option, especially when queuing for the bathroom at some godforsaken time in the morning, only to discover that one of the slobs has neglected to flush:

You look up at me

With one eye; you want to stay.

I flush you away.

The first haiku of my day! You’ve still got it, Alvina. You poetic genius, you. The Nobel Prize is within reach. Never give up on your dreams.

The flat is on the top floor of a botched Victorian house conversion and falling apart. A piece of the roof fell through the ceiling into my bedroom last week. I emailed the landlord, concerned about the rain. He offered to buy me a bucket. The wallpaper is peeling off at the seams, the carpets are beige and threadbare. At least I have a roof over my head (partially) and a bed to sleep in (a futon from IKEA), so I try not to complain, especially not to Beth; she’d never understand.

I climb endless stairs. Somebody’s bicycle is blocking the hall. There’s the unmistakable stench of weed. I climb some more stairs and then some more. I live with a couple of slobs called Gary and Patty, or Jerry and Patsy, or Geoff and Pinkie, or something. They stay in a lot and hot-box the lounge, listening to bands I’ve never heard of. They both wear the same black drainpipes, black T-shirts with skull motifs and big black hoodies with ironic dayglo accessories. I don’t really wear black.

The slobs are snogging on the sofa when I get in. Gross. They wipe their soggy mouths and look up. Red eyes. Stoned already. Some inane shit blares on the television: home sweet home.

‘Hi,’ I say, hanging my keys up on the hook.

‘All right,’ say the slobs.

Empty Wotsits and Skittles packets litter the carpet. There’s a half-empty bottle of Dr Pepper. I skulk past them into my room and shut the door. Bolt the lock. They’re a chatty pair.

The bed’s still unmade from this morning. I kick off my shoes and crawl under the duvet, yawn as wide as a cat; I think I’ll take a nap. There’s nothing else to do. I’ll just lie here and wait for the zombie apocalypse: something to cheer us all up.

The walls are paper thin; I can hear what the slobs are saying next door:

‘Oh my God, I just found her Facebook profile. This is freaking hilarious.’

I think they’re talking about me.

‘Wait, that’s not even her,’ says Gary.

‘It is! Just like insanely Photoshopped and about five years ago,’ says Patty. ‘How many people do you think there are called Alvina Knightly?’

They’re definitely talking about me.

‘Ha ha! Look at this. She lives in Highgate?’ says Gerry.

‘She works as a poet at The Times Literary Supplement?’ says Patsy.

‘She’s in a relationship with Channing Tatum?’ says Geoff.

‘She’s so freaking weird!’ say both of the slobs unanimously.

I sharpen my imaginary knife …

‘Send her a friendship request,’ suggests Pinkie. ‘Just for jokes.’

‘Done,’ says Geoff.

I die a little bit inside. It’s cruel of them to laugh at my lies. Name me one person who doesn’t embellish on social media? Stretch the truth? Exaggerate? It’s just little white lies, my Instagram life. So what if I’m not a famous poet? Who cares if I don’t have a job? At least I have a goal, some aspiration. What do they have, apart from chlamydia? Crabs?

They are momentarily distracted by Geordie Shore: one of the housemates is screaming at one of the other housemates about something. Another housemate enters and starts screaming at them both. Eavesdropping has made me cross. I give up trying to sleep. My phone is in my bag; I grab it and stare at the screen. It’s a Samsung Galaxy S5; the hottest phone on the market. I got it on sale at the Carphone Warehouse. I know everyone else has an iPhone, but I like to be different. Anyway, it looks like an iPhone, plus it’s cheaper.

Poker? Solitaire? Pinterest? Minecraft? One of those games where you have to kill everyone? Grand Theft Auto: Vice City? Dead Trigger 2?

Tinder.

Time to judge some losers on a dating app. (No one judges me. I use Beth’s photo. Clever, huh? I’m not just a pretty face.)

Left.

God, no!

Left.

Gag reflex.

NHS specs.

Too thin.

Creepy grin.

Looks like a frog.

I’ve seen fitter dogs.

Ears like a jug.

Teeth like a pug.

What’s with that hat?

Nude with cravat.

Hitler ’tache.

Contagious rash.

Crossed eyes.

Ate all the pies.

Tattoo on face.

Human race?

Toilet selfie.

Looks too elf-y.

Left.

RIGHT! Holy fuck! RIGHT, RIGHT! RIGHT! Hello, Harry, 27, from 3 miles away. How are you, sir? Oh sweet Mary mother of Christ, yes! He’s a right. That’s Mr Right, right there. Come on, baby, I’m gonna swipe you. Oh yes, I could eat you up, Harry, 27, from 3 miles away. You’d better fucking swipe me back.

Fifteen minutes later: nothing.

Half an hour later: still nothing.

One hour later: still nothing. I hate Tinder.

Two hours later: it’s a MATCH! Oh my God. Oh. My. God. Breathe, Alvina, breathe. My inner goddess does a triple cartwheel followed by an arabesque like a fucking thirteen-year-old Belarusian gymnast. Breathe, Alvina, breathe. What happens now? Is he going to message me? Have I got to message him? What are the rules? What do I do? I can’t believe I got a match.

Ping.

What’s that? What the fuck is that?! It’s a message! What’s he say? What’s he say? Come on, come on, what’s he –

‘Hello sexy.’

Holy crap. He’s a true romantic … a master of seduction! He thinks I’m sexy. We’re going to have sex. Oh wow. Hyperventilating now. My lady bits clench like my grandmother’s gums around a Turkish delight. What do I say? ‘Hello sexy’ back? OK, OK, here goes:

‘Help stay.’

Send.

What? No! Help stay? No, that’s not what I meant! Fucking predictive text. Help stay? Oh God, please say I didn’t just send that. My inner goddess has me curled up in a ball in the dirt on the floor and is kicking the shit out of me with steel-capped Dr Martens. I am vomiting and bleeding from my spleen. Help stay? He’s going to think I’m desperate. He probably has commitment phobia and I’ve already scared him off. That’s it! It’s over! My life is over. He’s going to dump me. My one chance of happiness, gone, for ever. Fuck, fuck, fuck! What do I do now?

My inner goddess offers a, frankly feeble, suggestion to save my ass: write ‘Hello sexy’ again, followed by a smiley face. Or an ironic winky face? Is that subversive? Or the mark of a retard? Whatever, just do it, Alvina. Here goes …

‘Hello sexy ;)’

Send.

Pause.

Anticipation hangs over my head like a tropical rain cloud that’s about to burst, leaving me drenched to the skin in a see-through top, mascara streaming down my cheeks like a bedraggled Alice Cooper.

Why hasn’t he replied? It was the wink, wasn’t it? He thinks I’m an imbecile.

Ping.

He replied! Amazeballs.

‘I like ur tits.’

Oh. OK. That’s sweet, isn’t it? Paying me a nice compliment. Such a gentleman. Right, now reply, Alvina.

‘Thank you.’

Send.

A kiss? Shall I send a kiss?

‘X’

Send.

Pause.

Why hasn’t he replied? He’s not going to reply. Was the kiss way too forward? Oh, great job, Alvina, well done. Now he thinks you’re easy. Why not just write ‘Fancy a fuck?’ and be done with it? ‘Here’s a picture of my vagina …’?

Ping.

‘Wanna meet? Do you swallow?’

Ha ha! What’s that? Do I … Do I … Do …

My inner goddess takes a fistful of aspirin, then slits her wrists in a warm bath. The blood drains from her veins till the water turns magenta.

Unlucky for him, I’m still sober.

‘No, I bite.’

Send.

Log off.

Log on again.

‘Wanker.’

Send.

Delete app.

Should have said I was a vegan (that’s so hot right now, just look at Beyoncé and Jay Z). I always think of the comeback when it’s way too late. Oh well, at least my inner goddess is dead; she was really starting to piss me off.

Facebook.

I log in and scroll through the posts; it’s a tic rather than an interest. No one has said anything witty since 8.21 a.m. when I last had a look. There’s one new friendship request, from one of the slobs. Reject. Someone I don’t know has invited me to play Candy Crush Saga. Fuck off. I ‘Like’ someone’s picture of a wet Persian kitten in a bathtub: ‘Fugly’, then update my status: ‘Finally quit my job!’ I add the ‘feeling blissful’ emoticon. Post.

Harry, 27, has made me think about sex, not that there’s anyone to do it with. My favourite sex toys in descending order are: 1st: Real Feel Mr Dick vibrating 11-inch dildo; equal 2nd: Rampant Rabbit, the Mighty Pink One, and Rampant Rabbit, the Throbbing One; 3rd: Silicon Pink Plus Phallic Vibrator; 4th: Vibrating Jiggle Balls; 5th: Rampant Rabbit, the Little Shaking One. (I didn’t really see the point in that last one, I had to fake it.)

I bet Beth doesn’t have any sex toys; she’s way too square for that. Plus she’s got an actual real live husband with a penis, so … I guess he does the job. But he isn’t ever-ready like Mr Dick. I open my bedside drawer and pull out my No. 1; he is my lover and my best friend. I consider sticking him on the wall (he has a super-strong sucker at the end of the shaft for easy application to shower tiles and doors), but I don’t think I’ve got the energy.

‘Sorry, Dickie boy, I’m just not in the mood.’

I give him a peck then shove him back in the drawer.

I smoke cigarette after cigarette and then another one and another one; I don’t want them or like them, I’m just bored out of my brain. I play with my lighter, watch the flame rise and flicker, red then yellow, in the stale, still air. It’s mesmerizing. I’ve always admired fire: an elusive enigma, a grande dame of destruction. I’m not a pyromaniac; I just like watching shit burn. It’s amazing to think that this one little Zippo could turn this whole city to ash; that’s power. Nero knew it when he set fire to ancient Rome. He watched from his palace on Palatine Hill, singing and playing the lyre, as the people ran screaming away from the blaze, flames licking their robes and singeing their hair. Nero waited until the flames died down, then he built his new palace in the heart of the city, where the fire had cleared the old houses away. You’ve got to admire Nero for that; the guy had chutzpah.

Prometheus was a dude too. He knew the rules were there to be broken. He really pissed off Zeus when he lit a torch from the sun and brought fire to man. Turned out Zeus didn’t want mankind burning shit down, just like my mother. She didn’t want me to burn Beth’s teddies or the neighbour’s cat or the shed with the dog locked inside. (The dog was fine. Mum heard him barking before the roof caved in. He just needed a bath to wash off the soot …) Some people don’t know how to have fun. My old headmaster was a killjoy too. What did he have to expel me for, just because I set fire to his car?

Who needs school anyway? Kids don’t need educating now that we all have the web. The Internet knows everything. It’s amazing what you can learn online without having to tolerate head lice and uniforms and soggy school dinners. This week alone I learnt that we are living inside a computer-generated hologram, that Matthew Perry was the actor who played Chandler in Friends (I couldn’t remember so I had to google it) and that when the male and female anglerfish mate they melt into each other and share bodies for ever. (Apparently the sea is so vast and deep that when a male finds a female he latches on tight, then loses his eyes and internal organs until the fish share one body and a single bloodstream. It’s kind of beautiful.) Good to know.

I’ve read way more than Beth has, with all her fancy degrees (not that it’s a competition). My brain is full. I graduated from the University of Life cum laude. It’s called being an ‘autodidact’ if you want to be a smart-arse, but there’s no need to be sesquipedalian.

I get up and make my way to the kitchen/bomb site. Tea, builder’s – none of that fancy stuff my sister orders: Darjeeling or Earl Grey or organic Rainforest Alliance fucking Arabica. I don’t care about getting fired; I’m still thinking about Beth, going over it and over it again in my head: I would like to invite you, yet again, to come and stay with us at our villa in Taormina. I need you. I’m begging you. Come.

Fuck off!

I wonder what she wants though. Probably some bone marrow or one of my kidneys. She’s not getting it from me, she’ll have to ask Mum.

‘Tea?’ I ask. The slobs look up at me funny and shake their heads. I fill the kettle, then flick the switch. Urgh, why is it sticky? Eventually, I find my mug – ‘I have nothing to declare except my genius’ – under the bacteria-breeding facility and wash it. It looks just as stained when I’ve finished as it did when I started. There’s one teabag left. I plop it into the bottom of my cup and glance at the slobs. They’re staring up at me, but snap their heads back towards Jeremy Kyle as soon as they catch my eye. Freaks. The bottle of semi-skimmed has less than a centimetre left. I pour in the water, then finish the milk.

‘Erm,’ says Gary as I head back to my room. ‘Can we have a word?’

‘Sure. What’s up?’ I ask, sinking down opposite. This had better be quick. Is that the guy or the girl?

‘We’ve been thinking,’ says Gary.

‘And we don’t think it’s working out,’ says Patty. Or Pam.

They wait with expressionless faces for me to respond. I don’t.

‘We think you should move out,’ suggests Geoff. Or is it Graham?

That’s it. There’s no further explanation. Either they’ve found another emo slob who wants to move in or they just don’t like me. Why don’t they like me? Perhaps it’s because I haven’t paid the rent. Unbelievable. I should be kicking them out, although I suppose they were here first.

‘Tomorrow,’ says Patty, with a practised scowl.

I wish I had a Samurai sword; it’s at times like these that they come in useful. ‘Of course,’ I say, ‘no problem. Actually, I was going to leave soon. I’ve got to go on holiday to Sicily so …’ Time to find that cardboard box. I knew today was my lucky day.

I scuttle back into my room and hurl myself on the bed. An old photograph eyeballs me. It’s a picture of me and my twin. Beth looks like a supermodel. I look like a tramp having a bad hair day. That photo was taken on Beth’s last day at school. She was all blow-dried and lip-glossed and Cheshire-cat smug. I had a hangover from drinking a whole bottle of Malibu on my own in a tree by our house. I honestly can’t see any resemblance; as far as I can tell, we don’t look alike.

I glare at the photo.

What do you want?

I can hear what she’s thinking from the other side of Europe: Come to Sicily, Alvina, come, come, come! We’re like two quantum particles forever entangled. She is a gluon and I am a quark. I am dark matter and she is … well, just matter, I guess. It’s spooky action at a distance. She hits her head and I get a headache. I break my leg and her knee hurts. She marries a hot, rich Italian guy and moves to Taormina, I get dumped on Tinder and move in with some slobs. I suppose it doesn’t always work.

My twin is ever-present in my head like an amputated limb – not a nice one you’ve lost in a road accident, a gangrenous one that has started to smell and you’re glad to chop off. Alvie ’n’ Beth, Beth ’n’ Alvie, it used to be, but not any more, not since Oxford, not since Ambrogio. Although Beth and I are identical, Beth has always been the attractive one. Beth was the pretty one. Beth was the skinny one. Beth was the first to walk and talk and potty-train and fuck. I force my face into the pillow.

‘Raaaagh!’

Facebook.

I have one new ‘Like’ for my status update from Elizabeth Caruso: that’s my sister.

Of course.

I reread the email I sent to Beth: ‘Let me know when you’re next visiting London’, ‘It would be good to catch up’ – the kind of thing you’d say to an annoying business associate, not to someone with whom you’d once shared a womb. Looking back over her email again now, it sounds like she genuinely wants to see me: ‘I need you. I’m begging you. Come.’ OK, Beth, bra-fucking-vo, you win. I suppose I could buy some factor-50. Hopefully Mount Etna is dormant. I start to type.

From: Alvina Knightly

AlvinaKnightly69@hotmail.com

To: Elizabeth Caruso

ElizabethKnightlyCaruso@gmail.com

Date: 24 Aug 2015 at 11.31

Subject: Re: VISIT

Hi Beth,

Sorry about before. I was having a really bollocks time at work. Now that I’m not working, I have time to come and visit you. You’re right, two years is far too long. I am, of course, dying to meet Ernie and your villa sounds gorgeous. I am free indefinitely (and could do with a holiday), so let me know when it might be convenient and I’ll check online for some cheap flights.

Alvie

Send.

I’ll stick it on one of my credit cards. It’s not real money, just numbers. I’ll worry about it later. It’s only a molehill in comparison to my mountain of debt, a fraction; I’ll barely notice it. (I did try writing to the bank manager to let him know they’d made a mistake with my statement but he didn’t believe me. Apparently they hadn’t mis-sold me any PPI or overcharged me on any service fees either. Bloody typical. Banker wankers. Bash the lot of them, that’s what I say.)

Chloé Esposito

MAD

MICHAEL JOSEPH

Disclaimer

Day One:

SLOTH

Chapter One

Monday, 24 August 2015, 8 a.m.
Archway, London

Mayfair, London

Chapter Two

Archway, London

Chloé Esposito

MAD

MICHAEL JOSEPH

Disclaimer

Day One:

SLOTH

Chapter One

Monday, 24 August 2015, 8 a.m.Archway, London

Mayfair, London

Chapter Two

Archway, London

Monday, 24 August 2015, 8 a.m.
Archway, London