Chloé Esposito
BAD
Mad
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Michael Joseph is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com
First published 2018
Copyright © Chloé Esposito, 2018
The moral right of the author has been asserted
Cover images © Amanda Conley/Trevillion Images and © Getty Images
ISBN: 978-1-405-92883-0
For Lisa
Vengeance is mine, I will repay.
Romans 12:19, King James Bible
Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t.
Hamlet, William Shakespeare
Love is my religion – I could die for that.
John Keats
Disclaimer
DAY ONE: The Traitor
DAY TWO: The Thief
DAY THREE: The Puppy
DAY FOUR: The Nun
DAY FIVE: The Hooker
DAY SIX: The Cop
DAY SEVEN: The One
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
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There’s something you should know before we go any further: last week was mad. That’s an understatement really. I had the best sex of my life. I discovered a penchant for guns. Now everyone thinks I’m my identical twin (because she died and I stole her life). Several people expired.
I wouldn’t say it was out of character; it’s not like I’m a fucking saint. But until last week I wasn’t a killer. I was just like you. Sure, there were petty crimes: shoplifting, arson, embezzlement. But otherwise, I did what you do: I bottled it up and drank. I worked in classified advertising. I had a flat in N19. I hadn’t murdered anyone (although it had crossed my mind). I wasn’t involved with the Mafia. Interpol wasn’t on my ass. But a lot can change in a few short days and I guess this is now the new me.
My head’s still spinning. I don’t know where to start. I should probably start at the very beginning, but all I can think about is the end and Nino breaking my heart.
It all began last week with an accident.
It wasn’t my fault. Not really, you see. So do me a favour, don’t judge.
My twin is the reason I went to Sicily. Beth was desperate for me to come. Paid for my flights and everything. She lured me with free champagne and the promise of some sun. I wouldn’t normally have gone. I know better than anyone that hanging out with my thunder-twat twin is water torture at best. But I’d just been fired for watching porn and my dickhead flatmates threw me out. It was Sicily or a cardboard box. So stupidly I trusted her, and off I went.
Bad plan.
When I arrived at her villa in Taormina the place was magnificent. I’m talking Condé Nast Traveller porn. The most fuck you of fuck-you cribs. Sixteenth-century landscaped gardens, marble statues, fountains, flowers. And the swimming pool … you can’t even imagine. Of course I was jealous. Wouldn’t you be?
And then there was Beth’s baby, Ernesto. The kid she had with Ambrogio. If only you’d seen him. He looked like me. He could have been mine. Should have been. ‘Ma ma,’ he called me. ‘Ma ma ma.’
It was more than I could take.
My eyes turned monster-green.
Then Beth told me why she had invited me. She didn’t just miss me. Ha. As if. She asked if I would swap places with her so she could go out for a night. She didn’t want Ambrogio to notice. I knew something funny was up. I never should have agreed to it, but she bribed me with golden Prada sandals, so what’s a girl to do? I waited and waited, all dressed up like Beth, until it was almost midnight. When she finally reappeared we had a terrible fight.
We were standing by the edge of the pool and somehow – I don’t know how – she slipped.
She cracked her head on the tiles and disappeared under the water.
Air bubbles
and then
nothing.
I know.
I know what you’re thinking.
I should have jumped in and saved her.
But you don’t know how I’ve suffered.
So I let her die and stole her life.
I stole her clothes. I stole her son. I stole her fucking husband. I stole her millions and her villa. It should have been mine anyway. Ambrogio didn’t notice a thing (at least not at first).
It was better than winning the lottery.
All of my wildest dreams had come true.
It turned out that Ambrogio was in the mob and had some interesting friends. His partners, Nino and Domenico, are hitmen in Cosa Nostra. They helped us bury my sister’s corpse in a hole in a nearby wood.
Everything was looking peachy.
They all thought the corpse was me.
But the reason my twin had wanted me to swap places was so she could escape the mob. She didn’t want her precious son to end up with a bullet in his head. She wanted to leave Ambrogio and elope with her lover, Salvatore. The two lovebirds were plotting to kill me and leave the island for good. Beth thought a body (my dead body) was the only way that they wouldn’t come after her. What. A. Bitch. What a fucking snake. But, at the very last minute, Salvatore refused to help her murder me.
Alvie: one. Beth: nil.
In your face.
But then I slept with Ambrogio and, reader, I had to fake it. It was like throwing a twig down the Channel Tunnel. ‘Micro-cock’ is kind. Oh, the years I’d wasted fantasizing about my sister’s guy …
He knew it was me straight away.
He chased me through the night. I ran for my life. I thought he would kill me, so I did it first. I smashed in his head with a rock.
I ran to Salvatore’s villa when Ambrogio died. I told him it was self-defence, and it kind of was, in a way. Salvo, thinking I was Beth, helped me dispose of Ambrogio’s corpse. We lost him over the edge of a cliff. Made it look like suicide.
Then I slept with Salvatore. Two hundred pounds of sculpted muscle? I couldn’t help myself. But he noticed I didn’t have a Caesarean scar on my stomach like Beth.
Busted again.
I couldn’t trust him to keep my secret. There was way too much at stake. So I went to Ambrogio’s partner, Nino, and told him that Salvo had killed his boss. Nino was sexy. Nino was loyal. He said that Ambrogio was like a brother to him.
So that did the trick.
Nino murdered Salvatore and then I slept with Nino too.
I am going to be honest with you.
He was the best human man that I’ve ever slept with (and there have been a few). I dreamed of becoming an assassin at Nino’s side. His partner. His bride.
I thought I’d found The One.
We came up with a plan to work together and make ourselves a fortune. We decided to flog a Caravaggio, some priceless art that Ambrogio had. The buyer was a dodgy priest who worked for the Sicilian mob. But the bastard claimed that the painting was fake. He wasn’t going to give us the money.
So I killed him as well.
We escaped to London in Ambrogio’s Lambo with two million euros in a suitcase.
It doesn’t give me any pleasure to tell you that Nino was a mistake.
When we got to the Ritz he stole the car. He stole the fucking case.
I know I may never see Nino again. But, if I do, I promise you that all of hell will break loose.
I watch the road through the rose-tinted windscreen. Tarmac shimmers in mirage-heat: a molten river of quicksilver. It feels like we’re sailing, not driving. The sky is wide and impossibly blue, as blue as Damian Lewis’s eyes or the Italian rugby team’s home strip. I’ve never seen skies as blue as this, except for in movies. The olive groves, the rolling hills, the stunning Tuscan landscape, all dazzle as though they are freshly painted oils squeezed from the tube.
The hot leather seat sticks to my skin. These tiny Balenciaga hot pants barely cover my lips. A bead of sweat slides down my chest and snakes down in between my breasts. I take a swig of warm Prosecco. It’s easily forty degrees.
‘Want some?’ I ask. I pass Nino the bottle.
He shakes his head, ‘Niente.’
I grip the steering wheel tightly and study my scuffed-up fingernails. I need a manicure. The baby pink has all chipped off and the dried blood underneath the tips has turned an ugly rusty red. My sister’s fuck-off diamond ring glints like a tiny bomb.
TayTay’s playing on the radio. ‘Out of the Woods’. I love that song. I turn it up and sing along. The bassline feels like sex. I check my reflection in the rear-view. I look good in Beth’s Gucci shades. I suit her clothes. I suit this life.
Nino passes me a cig and I sigh out smoke.
Now we’re so fast we’re not sailing, we’re flying, speeding along at over 180. I watch the needle on the speedometer flicker, faster, faster. THIS IS THE FUCKING LIFE.
I blast the horn just for the hell of it.
‘Betta, shut the fuck up.’
Betta, Betta, always fucking Betta.
I’m getting sick of being my sister, but Nino thinks I’m his dead boss’s wife. If I tell him I’m the other twin, I’ll risk everything. Risk my life. He might start asking difficult questions, like if I was involved in Ambrogio’s murder. Better to keep on being Betta. Better to play along.
Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive.
I’m a bona fide black widow.
We’re heading north out of Tuscany. Towards the lakes and the Swiss border. Through Provence, Bourgogne, Picardy and, finally, London. Away from Taormina. Away from my sister. Away from the cops and the copious corpses. Away from the guilt. The fear. The sleepless nights. So. Many. Dead. I stretch my arms up overhead, love that delicious release in my shoulders and neck, the sweet drugs coursing through my veins, that feel-good glow in my head. The aftertaste of coke drip-dripping down the back of my nose to my throat. I smile at Nino, lick numb lips. I can still taste him from our last kiss: his salty tongue, the Marlboro Red. I can smell the aftershave he’s wearing and his sexy sweat. I can smell the money, stashed away in the priest’s old leather suitcase. I get a rush just thinking about it. It makes me so wet …
‘Do you know how rich we are?’
‘Two million euros,’ Nino says. He grabs the worn brown Gucci case and smooths the cracked leather. ‘Allora? How long is that gonna last?’
‘We can make some more,’ I say. ‘Nino, baby, we are immortal. We make a great team. Don’t you think?’
We’re leaving the cops and the mobsters behind us, our future before us, bold and bright. Alvie and Nino together for ever, killing and fucking and fucking and killing.
‘Hey,’ I say, ‘do you wanna pull over? I feel like some roadside fun.’
He nods.
I turn down a country lane and kill the engine dead. Nino gets out and opens my door. Offers his hand for me to take. We walk round to the front of the car then Nino undresses me.
My cheek slams hard into hot metal, singeing on the bonnet. My hot pants are down around my feet. Nino’s hands are on my tits. God, I love my badass boyfriend. I know it’s only been a week, but I feel like I’ve known him for ever. I stretch my arms up over my head and claw the shiny scarlet paint. His body’s heavy, pressing down into my dripping, naked back. I feel his heart pound through his chest, his stubble sharp against my neck. His skin is scorching, sizzling. I can taste salt and sex.
He pounds me pounds me pounds me.
‘Nino, Nino, Nino,’ I say.
I wish he would say ‘Alvie’.
We come together. I see red. Our bodies jerking, shaking. For a split-second we’re not here – we’re in a different universe. I have no sense of who I am; Nino and I are one. The French call this la petite mort, ‘the little death’ or something. Like part of me has died inside. But I’ve never felt so alive. So what the hell do they know?
Then we crash back down to Earth. Back to reality. But you know what? That’s pretty cool. Right now, I dig being me. Nino pulls out and I stand up, dizzy, spinning and light-headed. I hear his boots crunch into gravel. I hear him sighing, ‘Betta.’ I reach down for my hot pants and pull them back up sticky legs. I lean against the Lambo and watch him spark up a fag.
‘Where have you been all my life?’ he says.
‘Waiting for you,’ I say.
His fingers brush my bottom lip.
I look into his eyes.
All this … all this feels like a dream. I feel safe. I feel wanted for the first time in my life. Being here right now with him … I’ve never felt like this before. It’s almost too good to be true.
I can just hear Beth now:
‘Alvie? Why are you vomiting in the sink?’
Because I’m shitting in the toilet.
‘What, at the same time?’
Yeah, at the same time. It’s called alcohol poisoning. It’s super exciting. You should try it sometime. Bitch.
I crank my heavy eyelids open, just a crack. I’m blinded by Daz-ad brilliant white: the porcelain bowl. I close them again; that hurt. I rest my cheek on the cold, hard rim and ride the waves of nausea. I am a surfer acing barrels in Hawaii, gliding over swell and crashing into white water. Oh no, here it comes, again. I vomit what’s left of my dwindling stomach acid again and again and again.
‘I’LL GET YOU FOR THIS, NINO. THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT.’
Gin, wine, vodka martini, carrots (weird, I didn’t eat any carrots?). My breath echoes around the inside of the bowl. My head pounds and spins.
‘I’m never drinking
Ever again. This time I
mean it.’ Whatever.
My first haiku of the day …
Genius, Alvie, you’ve still got it. Who cares if no-one likes my poems? Keats wasn’t appreciated in his lifetime. Beth always said I was wasting my time, but I don’t do it for the critics.
I finally flop face down on the floor. The bathroom tiles rise up to meet me and smack me – WHACK – on the side of the head.
Did I actually just fall off the toilet?
My mouth floods with blood from a cut on my lip. I feel like death, but at least I’m not dead – eating burgers on the john like Elvis Presley. My body shivers on the black and white tiles. Urgh, what’s that? Oh, it’s me. BO mixed with Toilet Duck or ocean-breeze bleach. I’m naked apart from Beth’s diamond necklace. I crawl, commando, like an infantry soldier, on to the warm and fluffy bath mat: my desert island in a hostile sea. I’m in a slick-looking en-suite bathroom made entirely of marble and glass. Everything’s shiny. Everything’s new. There’s a hot tub and a walk-in shower big enough for two. I lie on my back and stare at the shower. I’d like to get in, but I’m not sure I’d make it …
There’s a hiss as a tiny white plug-in air freshener spritzes the room with synthetic magnolia. My eye is caught by the widescreen TV hanging up on the wall. I grab the remote and turn it on. I have a vague feeling I should check out the news, a strange sensation in the pit of my stomach that isn’t alcohol-related; let’s just call it a hunch …
An unflattering picture of me at Beth’s wedding.
I turn up the volume to max.
‘The body of a woman, believed to be that of British citizen, Alvina Knightly, twenty-five, was discovered this morning in a wood near Taormina, Sicily. Our Italian correspondent, Romeo D’Alba, reports.’
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,
Fuck. THIS. SHIT. IS. BAD.
Technically that’s still a haiku. It’s not Shakespeare, but I’m really hungover. You can’t expect me to do my best work at a time like this.
My cigarettes are by the sink; I spark up and suck on a Marlboro. I didn’t think they’d find her body, at least not so soon. Am I screwed?
But they don’t know who it is.
A balding man in a beige suit stands among oak trees and chestnuts, holding a microphone just below his wobbly double chin. (How the hell did he get on TV? He looks like a Scotch egg.) He gestures behind him to a clearing in the woods, waving a white flabby hand. A hole in the ground cut off by police tape, a heap of earth and a ton of bricks, piles of rubble, smashed-up concrete: my twin sister’s grave.
‘The property had no planning permission. The unfinished building was poorly constructed, hidden deep in the Sicilian woodland. But it was an unusual scent that alerted the attention of Antonia Ricci’s Alsatian this morning. Signora Ricci, please tell us what happened when you took your dog, Lupo, out for a walk.’
The camera pans out to reveal a woman standing at Romeo’s side. Antonia is small and anorak-clad, her golden hair a frizzy halo. Her face is long with an aquiline nose. She looks a bit like her dog, I suppose. Lupo stands, panting, between her legs, his great, pink tongue lolling floppy and wet, his ears pricked up stiff and pointy. Romeo thrusts the microphone in Antonia’s face. She looks fucking terrified.
‘Lupo … he sniff … he bark at the building. He is upset. I try to pull him … to pull him away, but he no move. He is a very good dog.’
Lupo barks.
‘Shh. Lupo.’
She gives him a treat.
‘He dig and dig and dig. He want to catch something under the building. Me, I think it is a topo, a … squeak-squeak?’
‘A mouse?’
‘A mouse. But I scared. The house, it look strano … strange … and then I discover a long blonde hair here. Here. It is here.’ She points at the ground. ‘I hear the stories. I know. I know Cosa Nostra … So, I call the police.’
Romeo nods and reclaims the microphone. He eyes the dog now sniffing at his crotch.
‘No. Basta,’ says Antonia, tugging hard on Lupo’s lead. ‘Mi dispiace.’
‘The police arrived at seven thirty this morning. They recognized the site as typical of the infamous Sicilian Mafia, the Cosa Nostra. They were unsurprised to find a dead body hidden within the concrete foundations.’
The camera pans out to Sicilian woodland. The dog lifts up one of its hind legs and pees on the rubble.
‘LUPO. NO.’
‘The discovery of Alvina Knightly’s body and her suspected murder call into question the apparent suicide of her brother-in-law, Ambrogio Caruso, twenty-nine, who died only three days before. The police are investigating evidence that Ambrogio Caruso was, indeed, murdered too. This is Romeo D’Alba, BBC News, live in Taormina.’
Great.
I turn off the TV with the zapper.
They’ve got my body and Ambrogio’s. It’s just a matter of time. They’ll be after Beth. Hopefully only for questioning, to see if she can shed some light. But Beth’s twin and her husband have snuffed it. Is she going to be their number-one suspect? What if they think Beth’s their guy?
Beth. Oh God, that’s me.
Unless … Can I be Alvie again? Even if I’ve officially croaked? URGH. This is a mess.
I stagger up and off my bath mat. The toilet flush sounds like a tsunami. I lean over the sink and run the cold water and splash some up into my face. I glance in the mirror. Bad idea. I look like the one that crawled out of a graveyard, like Uma Thurman in Kill Bill 2. Blood on my lips and smudged mascara, wet hair messy and matted and limp. My skin is kind of grey. I’m Morticia Adams or the undead. It reminds me of the state I was in a week ago back in Archway.
Awesome.
Fucking fabulous.
All the way back to square one. No money. No job. No home. No boyfriend. I needn’t have bothered in Sicily. All that time and effort wasted. Seven days of damned hard work. Why did I even go to Taormina? All I wanted was a holiday. A bit of sun to work on my tan. Beth practically begged me to get on that plane and it’s not like I had a choice. I had hit rock-fucking-bottom. There was nothing in London for me, just a deluge of debt and a scratch card habit. The threat of herpes and STDs. I lived in a vermin-infested cesspit, a natural breeding ground for scabies, while my perfect twin had married my guy and moved to the Burj Al Arab.
No, you know what? This is square minus one. I took one step forward then two steps back. Now ‘Alvie Knightly’ is counting worms and Italian cops are on my ass. What do I do? Look on the bright side? That I don’t even fucking exist? I need to find Nino and get my moolah then disappear … to Monaco. But how the hell am I going to find him if I’m stony broke?
I thought my life was already a train wreck, but now, I guess, it just got worse.
I peer into bloodshot eyes and sigh. Come on, Alvie. Think. What would Beyoncé do? Nino’s out there running free. He’s got the Lambo and the suitcase with the money. But I’m Gloria Gaynor: I’m a survivor. I’m going to make him pay. I’ll get my revenge, just like Hamlet. (But a girl – Hamlette? No, that sounds like omelette.) I’ll find him and I’ll kill him. Just watch me. If only he wasn’t so fit …
I tiptoe through the lounge like I’m walking on eggshells. Miniature bottles litter the carpet: Smirnoff, Glenfiddich, Jack Daniel’s, Pimm’s. Half empty, topless, sad. I down 50 ml of Bombay Sapphire, the lone survivor in the fridge. I sucked the rest of the minibar dry before passing out late last night. Hair of the dog, that’s what they say. It burns my insides just like paint stripper.
There’s a complimentary chocolate shortbread perched on a tray by the teacups and saucers. Chrome silver kettle. Sachets of Twinings. I pop the biscuit in my mouth and chew. It seems to relieve the bitter taste of betrayal, sweeten the heinous stench of treachery. Et tu, Brute? It’s like he stabbed me in the back with my own damn knife.
Nino, oh, Nino,
I’m coming for you. Nino,
Oh, Nino, you worm.
I see his black fedora hat abandoned by the armchair. I pick it up and try it on. Marlboro Reds, leather, sex – I close my eyes and breathe his scent. I remember the first time I saw him at Beth’s villa and the way the whole world seemed to stop. Nino driving his people carrier with my twin sister wasted in the trunk, Metallica blaring on the stereo. His muscular forearms inked with tats. His naked body. The chiselled abs. The perfect twelve-inch dick. I frown. No, I don’t miss Nino, just his cock.
I can see him now, the back of him anyway, speeding away in Ambrogio’s car, racing off down Piccadilly, red tail lights on the Lambo flashing. Man, I loved that ride. Screw you, Nino, you thieving dog. That car was the love of my life.
‘If you expect nothing from somebody, then you’re never disappointed …’ I should have listened to Sylvia Plath. I should have been a nun.
I whip off the hat and chuck it on to the sofa, catching the scent of a bouquet of roses standing tall in a vase by the door. How did they survive my late-night rampage? The raping and pillaging like a Viking. I was Keith Moon or Keith Richards or some other rock star trashing my room. I was a typhoon, a tornado: Hurricane Alvie.
It’s going to take me all week to recover. I’d kill for some coke. Or a Lemsip.
Right. I’ve had enough of this. Where the hell is Beth’s iPhone? It’s got to be here somewhere.
I search the scarlet-velvet crumpled curtains in a pile by the wall. Candelabras, crystal ornaments and copies of glossy magazines are all sprawled across the living-room floor. At least there’s no chicken. Or tiger. Or baby. I feel like I’m filming The Hangover Part IV. Man, I wish this was a movie, then I’d press pause or hit rewind. I’d go right back to the beginning and strangle that bitch in the womb.
Finally I find the phone poking out from beneath a rug. I grab it and open the app I downloaded, the one that tracks Nino’s mobile phone. That was a stroke of genius, Alvie. One of the best tricks I know. I took Nino’s phone while he was in the shower. He’d just been on it, so it was unlocked. I installed the software just in case. Man, it’s lucky I did. Somehow I knew not to trust him. Somehow I guessed he was full of shit. I could have waited for him all night downstairs in that bar drinking vodka martinis. Now Nino’s location will show up whenever he has signal. I check the app for the first time. The last place that cockwomble showed up was somewhere inside Heathrow Airport. But that was hours ago. I click refresh once, twice, three times, four. Nothing. It’s not fucking working. His GPS isn’t showing up.
Right. That’s it. I’m totally screwed. I’m never going to catch him now. That app’s my only viable lead. I kick the kettle into the fireplace and throw a teacup at the door. It cracks and breaks into two pieces, like my stupid heart. How the hell am I going to find him?
That I, with wings as swift as meditation or the thoughts of love, may sweep to my revenge.
I take another look at the screen. He could be on a plane by now. Maybe his phone’s on airplane mode. I’ll check again later. It’ll be OK. Relax, babe. Take a chill pill.
There are eight missed calls and one new email from my mum to Beth. I click into the message and read.
From: Mavis Knightly
MavisKnightly1954@yahoo.com
To: Elizabeth Caruso
ElizabethKnightlyCaruso@gmail.com
Date: 31 Aug 2015 at 09.05
Subject: Where are you?
Elizabeth, darling, where on earth have you got to? I’m out of my mind with worry. I’m here in Taormina with your son and the nanny and nobody knows a thing. The police are crawling all over the place, asking questions about your sister. There seems to be a bit of a hoo-ha because she was buried in that wood. I told them what you said on the phone about how it was an accident, but I don’t think they believed me …
I called my mother up last week and told her that Alvie was dead. I said she was a terrible swimmer and fell into the swimming pool, drunk. She didn’t seem at all surprised. Relieved more like …
Anyway, enough about that. I was so sorry to hear about Ambrogio. What a shock. You poor, poor thing. I can only imagine your suffering. He really was the most wonderful husband. The perfect son-in-law. So rich. So dashingly handsome. I’ll never forget the sight of his backside as he waited for you to walk down the aisle. I told the police, there’s no way it was suicide. A man as good-looking and wealthy as that does not go killing himself willy-nilly. I showed them a photo of you on your honeymoon, that lovely shot of you both on the beach enjoying a sunset daiquiri. ‘Ambrogio Caruso,’ I said to the officer, ‘is married to my daughter, Beth. Would you kill yourself if she was your wife?’ He agreed you were something else. He even went as far as saying you got your good looks from your mum. I didn’t deny it, I have to admit. If he had seen your father, Alvin, there wouldn’t be any doubt in his head. They’re very flirtatious, Italian men. I must say it makes a nice change. In Sydney, women of a certain age are simply invisible. But I’m still a woman. I still have needs. And I appreciate the compliment. You make an effort to look after yourself … the chemical peels, the regular waxing, the colonic irrigation. One tries to maintain one’s appearance. I’m not going to the knacker’s yard yet.
Anyway, do come and see me, my dear. All this stress isn’t good for my nerves and I can tell the cortisol’s interfering with the HRT.
Yours unconditionally,
Mummy xxx
PS I did try calling you on your mobile, but there seems to be some kind of technological malfunction. It just rings and rings and then goes to voicemail? Will you call me back, angel, please?
I delete the email. Shake my head. She’s unbelievable.
There’s a knock at the door.
What’s that? The police?
‘Who is it?’ I say.
I eye the window. I guess if I had to, I could climb out. What floor is this? Oh, the penthouse … Genius. That’s a great plan, Alvie. You’re stark bollock naked. It’s central London. Middle of the day. No one’s going to spot you up there on the roof running around in the buff.
‘Sorry, madam, midday check-out was, erm, well, at midday.’
‘Right. I see. And what time is it now?’
‘One thirty.’
Shit. ‘I’m coming.’
I’ve got to disappear before they see this suite. Nino and I have paid the bill (in cash last night with a fat wad of euros), but that covered our stay, not a full fucking refurb. I’ll have to do a runner.
But I don’t have anything to wear. Nino’s fucked off with my clothes in the suitcase. Along with all the cash. What’s he going to do with my sister’s dresses? Gucci, Lanvin and Tom Ford. I doubt they’d suit him, honestly. Ha! I want them back. And my Channing Tatum picture. I can’t believe he took that too. It isn’t like he needs it.
I grab my dirty dress from yesterday (Beth’s little black Chanel) and head into the bathroom for a shower. I step into the steaming water. Sing ‘You Oughta Know’ by Alanis at the top of my lungs. I wrap my hair up in a turban, pull on a robe and head into the suite. I light myself a cigarette and then pace up and down the room like a lion in a cage at the zoo. I need some wonga to go and find Nino: flights, hotels, vodka, etc. But all my own cards are maxed out and I can’t use Beth’s without drawing attention. What am I going to do?
I catch a glimpse of Beth’s diamond necklace sparkling round my neck. Beth’s diamond earrings. Beth’s Omega watch. I’ve still got her wedding and engagement rings on … They all worked a treat last week, when I was posing as my twin. I fooled almost everyone, but now I guess I don’t need them.
I wonder how much I’d get if I pawned them.
I’ll do it. Right now. I’m gone.
I’m about to open the door and run downstairs out into Mayfair when I stop – my hand on the doorknob – and freeze. What the hell am I thinking? Seriously? Poor little darling unarmed Alvie against that vicious monster Nino. He’s a professional mobster hitman. He’s got twenty years of experience. God only knows how many people he’s killed. Definitely more than me. It could be in the hundreds. Or thousands. Come on, what chance do I have? I must have lost the plot.
I release the doorknob and slump down in a heavy heap on the floor.
I could have had it all.
I was this close. This fucking close. The villa. The car. The yacht. The baby. The priceless Italian Renaissance art. I was living the life. La dolce vita. Two million euros was just the start. He took everything from me when he left me here last night. Hot tears pool and spill from my eyeballs. I blink, blink, blink them away.
What’s that smell? Miss Dior Chérie? That’s strange, even after my shower I can still smell Beth’s perfume: saccharine, sticky, sickly sweet. I must have put too much on.
My sister’s voice whispers in my ear. ‘I’ll get you for this.’
Say what? Is that Beth?
I open my eyes and sit up. I look around, but the room is empty. There’s nobody here except me.
‘You killed me.’
‘Not really. You kind of slipped.’ Do I really have to listen to this? ‘You are no longer my problem.’
‘Ha. I will be. Just wait.’
‘What the fuck? Are you threatening me? You’re dead. I saw it with my own eyes …’
‘I’ll get my revenge.’
I stand up and lean against the wall, a cold sweat breaking on my face, my breathing short and ragged. I turn on all the lights in the room: the glittering golden chandeliers, the standing lamp on the writing desk, the light on the coffee table. I grab an ivory letter opener.
‘I’m going to make you pay,’ she says. ‘You killed my husband in cold blood, you had my lover murdered …’
Damn, she’s right. I did do that. I guess that’s why she’s cross.
‘OK. Just wait. Just wait,’ I say. The ‘dagger’ quivers in my hand. My voice is faint and quiet.
‘Oh, I can wait. I’ve got nowhere to go. You stole my life, remember?’
She laughs a cruel and joyless laugh, like the nightmare clown in It. Where the fuck is it coming from? I stand in the middle of the room and turn round 360 degrees. She isn’t in here, is she?
‘Firstly, you’re dead. You’re dodo. Get it? You’re just a stupid voice in my head. Secondly, what are you going to do? Talk at me? Terrifying.’
Silence. Nothing. Not a peep. Not a laugh. Not a sigh. Not a sneeze.
‘Beth?’ Where did she go? I creep towards the mirror. ‘Beth, it’s not funny. Are you still there?’
I step in closer, peer into my eyes. I’m so close now that my breath fogs the glass. ‘Beth? Beth. BETH?’
‘ “Vengeance is mine, I will repay.” ’
‘ARGH. Shut up, you zombie cunt.’
I flop back down on the floor.
‘You’re going to let Nino walk all over you, just like Ambrogio did. They fuck you, then they leave you. You can never make them stay.’
‘No. There’s no way. I am not.’
‘Look at you. You’re so pathetic. You never could get it together.’
‘I’m finding Nino if it’s the last thing I do.’
I sit up a bit taller and sniff.
I spot the bouquet of roses, laughing, taunting, mocking me. Nino never bought me flowers. Come to think of it, no one did. I spot a small white envelope tucked away inside the vase. I jump up and seize it.
OMG. They’re from him.
What does he want? What does it say?
CARISSIMA ELISABETTA, IF YOU CAN CATCH ME, WE CAN WORK TOGETHER.
That’s it. No kiss. No ‘Darling, I’m sorry’. No ‘My love, I made a mistake’, or ‘I want you back’, or ‘I’m a terrible person’. If I can catch him? If? If? There’s no fucking ‘ifs’ about it. I’m his nemesis. I’ll do more than catch him. Ha. I’ll murder him in the fucking face. Seriously? How patronizing. I don’t need to work with him. That fuckturnip ruined everything. Does he think I’m going to let it go? Roll over like a poodle and let him fuck me? Lie down flat like a welcome mat? No.
I am ALVINA KNIGHTLY.
He’d better be terrified.
O, from this time forth, my thoughts be bloody or be nothing worth …
Revenge should have no bounds.
I grab the flowers in thick, fat handfuls, the thorns on the stems all digging in, scratching, piercing and drawing blood. I hurl the roses down on the carpet, petals flying in every direction, water spraying, my thumb dripping blood. I jump up and down in Beth’s Prada sandals, up, up and down till they’re mush.
‘How much?’
‘Two hundred and twenty-six thousand pounds and ninety-eight pence.’
The man has a singsong Scottish accent, like Ewan McGregor in Moulin Rouge. The jewels sparkle on a black velvet cloth that’s spread out on the walnut table.
‘And again. I didn’t catch it.’
‘Two hundred and twenty-six thousand pounds and ninety-eight pence.’
‘Fuck.’
‘Bless you.’
I’d thought maybe fifty or sixty thousand. Seventy at a push. But this is amazing. This is a fortune. Perhaps today is my lucky day?
‘Would you like me to write it down?’
He produces a Mont Blanc pen from his pocket and scribbles the sum on a piece of white card. He draws an extravagant, curling pound sign – larger than necessary, with a flourish – as if to make a fucking point.
I’m going to push him, hold out for more. I’m not letting any more men screw me over. I’ve learnt that the hard way from Nino.
‘Three hundred thousand.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Let’s call it three hundred and we have a deal.’
I spit on my palm and stick out my hand, ready for the man to shake. The old guy scratches his balding head. The fine white hairs are frizzy and dry; he needs to buy some conditioner. (I know there’s more to life than hair, but it is a good place to start …) Flecks of dandruff land on his shoulders like a sprinkling of snow on Christmas morning. I wish he’d stop scratching. Now it’s a blizzard. I could build a snowman.
‘I’m afraid that figure is too high, ma’am. We make very, very precise calculations whenever we conduct a valuation …’
Blah, blah, fucking blah.
‘You want the diamonds? You give me the money. Otherwise I’m leaving.’
Nice.
I’m getting better at negotiating. It’s all about leverage and balls.
The man peers over the top of his half-moon glasses and leans in towards me. ‘In that case, madam, I wish you good day.’
He folds tweed arms across his chest and taps his brogue on the wooden floor. Oh, I think he wants me to leave. The bastard’s calling my bluff.
‘Nice one, Alvie,’ says Beth.
I look around his jewellery shop. It sells antiques as well as watches, vintage brooches and diamond rings. There are paintings on the walls and sepia photos. Victorian lace. An ivory box. There’s a human skull, which looks quite fun, with a creamy pate and broken teeth. Alas, poor Yorick. I don’t want that, though (not if it isn’t Nino’s.) And it looks kind of bulky to carry around.
I spot an ancient cuckoo clock sitting on a dusty shelf.
‘Two hundred and twenty-six thousand pounds and ninety-eight pence and I want that clock.’
I point at the shelf. The man turns to look. I don’t know why I said that really. I don’t even like it to tell you the truth. It’s ornate and carved and far too fussy, with annoying Roman numerals and stupid leaves stuck all around. It’s varnished wood with copper chains and pendulums all hanging down. There’s a little door at the top for the cuckoo bird to pop its head out. It looks like something my gran would have bought on a trip to the Schwarzwald in 1928.
‘You’ve got yourself a deal,’ he says. ‘I’ll transfer the money right this minute, directly into your account.’
I hand the man Elizabeth’s jewels and slap him hard on his shoulder.
‘No, I’m going to need that in cash.’
A cloud of dandruff puffs up from his jacket. I wipe my hand on my dress.
After a while, the man comes back with a dozen or more thick rolls of banknotes. I count every single one. It’s right, down to the very last penny. I open the clock and shove the money inside. Spark a celebratory fag. Whoop! Whoop! I can’t believe it. Two hundred and twenty-six thousand pounds and ninety-eight p all for me. I stride out of the pawn shop, beaming, into the Burlington Arcade. I practically skip my way past the shops. Ooh, look, I like that bracelet …
But now is not the time to shop.
No, I need that money for Nino, the vodka, the flights. Etc. Etc.
I need to find Nino and the rest of the cash. Two hundred bags of sand ain’t bad, but it isn’t justice. Just a start. Who gives a shit about Beth’s stupid villa? Who cares if I burnt it down? I’ll buy myself another one. I’ll get another classic car.
I burst out of the arcade and on to Piccadilly. Car fumes and coffee from a nearby Caffè Nero. The scent of caffeine reminds me of Nino. He used to like it strong and black. No milk. No sugar. (I don’t know how he could drink it like that.) The memories come flooding back and I close my eyes. I can almost taste him, the bitter espresso hot on his lips. The earthy tobacco. The smell of worn leather. His horseshoe moustache scratching rough on my skin.
No. No. He’s gone. He’s gone. I shake my head to throw his image out of my brain. I swear to God: I swear off men. I have had enough. I’m going to be a born-again virgin. (Hmm, is that an actual thing? Perhaps my hymen will grow back? I’ll be as tight as a weasel’s ass.)
I glance again at the iPhone app, but it still says the airport. Now that I have got some cash I can be on my way.
‘TAAAAAAXIIIIIIIIII,’ I say, sticking out my arm.
No. Fuck you, Nino. You’re dead to me now. I can taste the money – and the little bits of chocolate still stuck in my teeth from that complimentary shortbread I ate at the Ritz.