Bad

by Chloé Esposito

  ‘They very strong painkillers. Codeine and paracetamol. Be careful not too much.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever.’

  ‘OK. Ciao, Beyoncé.’

  Trastevere, Rome, Italy

  I push inside the chemist’s. My face feels like it’s been run over by a speeding double-decker. I grab another fistful of pills and swallow them one by one. I rub my eyes. They’re all puffy and swollen. My throat is sore and dry. I can’t breathe in through my nose. I can’t move my face. I grab a bottle of Lucozade. I need a drink before I crack like a Patagonian salt plain. My nose had better look bang tidy when these bandages come off.

  I browse the aisles. Now, what do I need? I’ll buy myself some essentials. I find some hair dye (fuchsia pink), a cock ring, some Durex Play lube and some flavoured condoms, a hairbrush, some toothpaste, a toothbrush (electric), some lipstick, concealer, mascara and – YES – some seriously cool mirror shades. I pay the girl with some cash from my clock and then head out of the shop.

  I climb up the stairs to my flat and make my way to the bathroom.

  I dye my hair over the sink. Pink water twists and swirls down the plughole as I rinse it all out with the mixer tap. I wring out my locks in the red-stained sink, then dry my hair with the dryer. I style it in the brightly lit mirror. Candyfloss locks swish down my back. I look like that Troll, Princess Poppy. I peel off the plaster over my nose and check my hooter out again. DAMN, THAT’S FINE. I mean, hell yeah. Who’s that? Neon pink hair and a beak as sweet as a Maraschino cherry. I am a strawberry whipped-cream sundae. I am Angel Delight. I plaster concealer over the bruises starting to purple over my nose. It hurts a bit, but it could be worse. The pills are working. I’m feeling all floaty. I slap on some lipstick. Slick on mascara. Slip on the shades and you know what? It’s an awesome disguise. I’m a twelve out of ten. I swallow some more of the painkillers. I’m ready to fucking rock.

  Chapter Seven

  I’m hungry after the anaesthetic. I take my new nose out for something to eat. This place looks nice: Taverna Trilussa, an old-fashioned Italian restaurant. Ivy climbs up painted walls. There’s a canopy and a pretty terrace. Wooden shutters and candle lanterns. I’m going to check it out. I push through the doors and step inside. The room is crowded with diners, eating and drinking and talking. Shouting. Arguing over their Bolognese. The air is heavy with sensual smells coming through the kitchen door. Oh my God, my mouth is watering. I’ll eat anything. Everything. A waiter comes over and smiles at me. He’s cute, like a young Matt LeBlanc.

  ‘Buonasera, signorina.’ He looks me up and down.

  ‘Chow,’ I say. ‘A table for one?’

  ‘Of course. Please, follow me.’

  I let him lead the way. Tight black trousers. Taut glutes. Buns like a nutcracker.

  We cross the teeming restaurant, squeezing past the tables and chairs to a little spot in the corner. He pulls out a chair for me to sit down and drapes the napkin over my lap. His fingers brush my inner thigh. On purpose? An accident?

  ‘An aperitivo for you, bella? A glass of Prosecco? An Aperol Spritz?’

  ‘I’ll take a vodka, straight up,’ I say.

  He nods and licks his lips. ‘Sì, bellissima.’

  I pick up the extensive menu and study the endless lists of dishes. I have no clue what I should choose. I usually order margheritas from the local Holloway Domino’s.

  I scan the room instead. This place is ancient. There are dark wooden beams across the ceilings and framed oil paintings hang on the walls. There are barrels and lamplight and Renaissance murals, wrought-iron grills and shelves lined with books. It’s cosy. Authentic. Traditional. Not as glam as that place in Taormina I went to with Ambrogio and Beth. But it’s cool. Anonymous.

  The waiter returns with my drink on a tray.

  ‘Your vodka,’ he says with a wink.

  I take a sip through the plastic straw. It’s cold and crisp with a knock-out kick. Mmm, that’s nice. Refreshing. I neck some more painkillers.

  ‘So, what’s good to eat?’ I ask.

  I look into amaretto eyes.

  ‘This place is famous for cacio e pepe, pasta with pepper and cheese.’

  ‘Awesome. Cheese is good. I’ll have that.’

  ‘An excellent choice. Fantastic.’

  He smiles and reaches for the menu. His fingers brush my hand. My wrist. A mistake? No, I don’t think so.

  I watch him as he walks away. He’s hot: an eight out of ten. He’s definitely the fittest guy in here. All the other waiters are passes. Then it hits me. I know why I like him. He looks a bit like Nino. Black hair, dark eyes. Lean. Mean. Trim. Perhaps Nino looked like that twenty years ago, when he was a young hitman?

  Urgh. Right. Nino. So. How am I going to kill him? I need to think. Need to work on my plan. I’ll make a list. Draw a diagram. I need to brainstorm or something. I’ll write down every crazy idea. Do some blue-sky thinking. Everything I come up with counts. Nothing is off limits. I reach into my bag and find a red pen. But I don’t have any paper. I look around for a napkin or something, but no, there are just cloth serviettes. Whatever, they’re white. They’ll have to do. I spread one out on the wooden table and write in capitals at the top:

  ALVIE’S VENGEANCE ♥

  I draw a picture of Nino in the middle. It’s just a stickman. I’m not great at art. It doesn’t look a thing like Nino, more like Tom Hiddleston. I draw the hangman’s noose round his neck, then the rest of the gallows like I’m playing that game. Then, in thought bubbles all around, I write an extensive list: shoot him, stab him, run him over, push him off the edge of a cliff, learn martial arts and karate-chop him, whack him over the back of the head, strangle him, lock him inside a car and asphyxiate him with carbon monoxide, douse him in chlorine trifluoride so he spontaneously combusts.

  ‘Your pasta, signorina,’ says the waiter, whispering gently in my ear.

  I whip the napkin off the table and shove it back on to my lap. Hopefully he can’t read English. I smile up at him and ask, ‘Do you know where I can find a hardware store? A B&Q? Something like that?’

  ‘No, I’m sorry. Not in this area.’

  ‘I need to buy some rope and a hammer . . .’

  I take a look at the dish.

  I prefer extra-large as a general rule. But oh my God, it’s massive. The waiter places a frying pan in front of me on the little table. It’s filled with a creamy mass of spaghetti; the sauce smells like cheesy heaven. The waiter produces a pepper mill that’s almost as tall and broad as he is. (It does not escape my attention that this thing is totally phallic.)

  ‘Would you like some?’ he asks.

  ‘Uh-huh,’ I breathe. ‘I like it extra-hot.’

  The waiter stands right next to me and grinds the pepper on to my plate. His hip is pressed against my arm. His cock is at eye level. There’s a definite bulge where his penis must be. I’d hazard a guess at nine inches? I’m overpowered by Lynx Apollo. The pepper mill goes GRRRR.

  ‘It’s OK?’ he says.

  I say, ‘Yes.’

  ‘Buon appetito.’

  I shove a forkful in my mouth. This stuff is better than sex. The pasta’s perfectly al dente, firm and stiff to bite. The sauce is creamy and salty and dangerous. Oh fuck, that’s good. Oh God, that’s great. Within two minutes I finish the plate.

  ‘Urgh, you’re such a pig,’ says Beth. ‘Are you going to throw it all up now?’

  My sister thought gluten was the devil and carbs were the Antichrist.

  ‘No. I want some more,’ I say. I’m comfort-eating. Sue me. I need something warm and gooey inside. Something that feels like a hug. I used to eat to forget about Dad. To distract myself from Beth and Mum. I smile and look up at the waiter. ‘I’ll have another one.’

  The waiter’s eyes are wide.

  ‘Oh, and another drink.’

&nbs
p; He clears the frying pan away.

  ‘Another tonnarelli con cacio e pepe?’

  ‘Another one just like that.’

  I watch him run back to the kitchen, slouching in my wooden seat. I finish off the rest of my drink and slowly lick my lips. That dish was unbelievable. The ultimate in food-porn. I think of the Mac ’n’ Cheese Pot Noodles I used to eat back home in Archway: they don’t even compare (the Bombay Bad Boy flavour was nicer. Or the Original Curry one).

  I drum my fingers on the table. I’m not Beth. I’ll eat what I like. I might even have pudding.

  The waiter comes back with my drink on a tray.

  ‘Your vodka, signorina.’

  I take a big swig. He watches me swallow.

  ‘You know, I’ve worked here seven years and you’re the most beautiful lady I’ve ever served.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ I say.

  I’m sure he says that every night, but you know what? I’ll take it.

  ‘And you’re the only one who has ever ordered two pans of cacio e pepe.’

  Now that I can believe.

  ‘Yeah, well. It’s really good.’

  ‘I like a woman who can eat.’

  ‘Uh-huh? Fucking watch me.’

  I could eat him alive, don’t try to stop me. Lips like wild strawberries . . . creamy skin like panna cotta. Perhaps I’ll take him home for later in a doggy bag?

  He disappears to fetch my food. I slurp up my drink. Whoop! Whoop! That vodka’s gone straight to my head. I giggle for no reason.

  So, where did I get to with that plan? I yank my napkin off my lap and spread it back out on the table. I read through all the different ideas, then write some other ones: feed him a lethal dose of drugs (ricin? heroin? cyanide?). I wonder if Nino’s at supper right now. Some little place around here, maybe? Poor bastard, he doesn’t know it, but he fats himself for maggots. I have another scan through the napkin. It’s almost a comprehensive list. I draw another thought bubble: drown him in a swimming pool/bathtub/lake.

  ‘Your pasta,’ the waiter says with a smile.

  There’s a strange look in his eyes. Is that fear or admiration? I think I’m freaking him out. Another frying pan appears with another mountain of spaghetti. ‘Eat me, eat me,’ it seems to beg.

  ‘Greedy cow,’ says Beth.

  I grab my fork and stab the pasta, scooping a load into my mouth.

  ‘You don’t want pepper?’ asks the waiter.

  ‘S’OK.’ My mouth is full of food.

  I cannot eat this fast enough. I shovel pasta faster and faster, fork after fork after fork. It’s far too hot, but I don’t care. I want it in my face. I swirl hot sauce around my mouth. Oh my fucking God.

  I didn’t know that I was starving till I tasted that.

  ‘You know,’ he says, looking into my eyes and leaning in towards me, ‘I finish my shift in forty minutes.’

  I wonder what they do for dessert.

  ‘Maybe you come back to mine? We drink some wine. Listen to music. I live just round the corner . . .’

  Actually, I’m pretty full.

  ‘I can’t eat anything else,’ I say. ‘Can I just have the bill?’

  ‘OK, no wine. Music? Romance?’

  I shake my head. Look down at my belly. But then I get a better idea. I cock my head to the side and smile.

  ‘Meet me here at my apartment.’

  I give him the address.

  * * *

  *

  ‘I want you to run at me and punch me.’

  Diego looks blank. He stares at me.

  ‘I want you to try to jump me. Attack me. But don’t touch my nose.’

  He shakes his head. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Look,’ I say. ‘Diego, this is foreplay. It’s sexy. It’s how I get off.’

  I roll my eyes. He still doesn’t get it.

  I call up YouTube on my phone and show him ‘Five great self-defence moves’.

  ‘Oh. You want to wrestle?’ he says.

  ‘Yes. Yes. Wrestling.’

  I push the sofa out of the way and move the armchair and coffee table. Table legs scrape across the floor. I shove it up against the wall. Ace, that’s better. Now we have space to roll around. I need to practise some killer moves and I can’t do it on my own. It takes two to tango.

  ‘So, I’ll stand here and look that way . . . and you come at me from behind.’

  ‘OK. Va bene,’ Diego says. ‘Non c’e problema.’

  It’s good he’s doing it in Italian. Authentic. Just like Nino would. His accent’s cute. The same as Nino’s. Perhaps he’s from Sicily too?

  ‘Ready?’ I say. I face the wall.

  ‘Uno, due, tre . . .’

  ‘No, no, no. I don’t want a countdown. It’s important that it’s a surprise.’

  ‘But you know I’m coming?’ he says.

  ‘But I don’t know when.’

  I stand and study the living-room wall. The wallpaper is a pretty magnolia. I trace the pattern with my finger: a fleur-de-lys design. Silence. Nothing. No attack. After a while, I turn back.

  ‘Are you coming or what?’

  Diego takes a run-up and jumps me, leaping on to my chest like horny Lab. We crash to the ground. He pins me down, his heaving body crushing mine. Oh my God, my stomach’s exploding. Too much spaghetti. I need Gaviscon. We roll around and around and he hits me. Whacks me hard in the side of my neck.

  ‘OW. That hurt. Get off,’ I say. I’m panting, wincing, throat aching, head spinning. ‘What the hell was that?’

  ‘You say you want me to attack you?’

  He sits and cradles his throbbing hand.

  ‘Not like that. For fuck’s sake,’ I say.

  ‘That was shit,’ says Beth.

  We stare each other out.

  ‘So . . . what now?’ he says. ‘We have sex?’

  I get up and rub my neck. ‘No, not yet. No way,’ I say. ‘I haven’t finished with you.’

  Diego stands in the middle of the lounge and I watch my YouTube tutorial. You have to go for the eyes and the groin. You have to jab with your elbow.

  ‘OK. OK. I’m ready,’ I say. I chuck my phone on the coffee table. ‘Are you ready?’

  ‘Sì.’

  I take a run up from the far side of the room and knee him in the balls.

  ‘RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH.’

  ‘AAAAAAAAAARGGGHHH.’

  He doubles over.

  ‘What? Was that good? Did it hurt?’

  Diego looks at me with tears in his eyes. He flies out of the front door.

  ‘Hey, where are you going?’

  * * *

  *

  I make my way to my bedroom and jump into the king-size bed. I lie spread out like a roadkill octopus, staring up at the tassels on the lamp. All of that eating and fighting have killed me. I feel like a beached whale. Not a regular one, like a blue whale or a killer, an obese whale that died of heart failure on the beach on its way to Weight Watchers. The one the other whales took the piss out of. The one that couldn’t get a date. They’ll have to knock a hole in the wall and lift me out with a forklift truck. Then I’ll be all over the news and everything will be fucked. Oh why did I eat all that pasta?

  ‘I won’t say, I told you so,’ says Beth.

  I wish I could be more like Gwyneth and survive on berries and pollen.

  The sheets feel cool and silky smooth. Someone’s left a mint chocolate square in the middle of my pillow. I tear off the tinfoil and eat it. (I didn’t have dessert.) I study the carvings on the ceiling. Angels and roses and swirling seashells. It’s made of crumbling white plaster. The style is Renaissance, antique. There’s a gorgeous fireplace in the corner. A polished marble mantelpiece. Chandeliers with fake wax candles cast a warm, inviting glow. Ancient glamour.
Golden age glory.

  ‘Cuckoo,’ says my clock.

  It’s 1 a.m. At least in London. It’s probably two (or three?) out here. That could get confusing. I should probably wind it forward an hour (or two?). It’s not much use carrying that thing around if it’s fucking wrong . . .

  I know I should be out there now, scouring the Piazza di Santa Maria. Running around central Rome and executing my plan. But I’m knackered. Drained. Beyond exhausted. It’s been a long day. A long couple of days. I’m still recovering from surgery. I had to kill that mugger in Bucharest. I’ve eaten three kilos of cheese and pasta. I’ll get up and find Nino later. I’ll find him before he finds me.

  (I’m not lazy. I’m energy-efficient, like a German car.)

  Ah, Nino, I can almost taste you. I know you’re around here, somewhere. I can feel it in my bones . . .

  I stretch out across the bed. The fan is on right overhead, the breeze caressing my hot skin. I pull up my dress and spread my legs. Fingers slide along my thighs. I’m still not wearing any pants. I need to buy some new knickers. I wish he were here, right here, right now. I really want to kiss him. Oh what I’d give to sit on his face. To ride him until sunrise. I’d bite his lip so hard it split. I’d suck his soul inside me. I am Nino. He is Alvie. We’re like Cathy and Heathcliff; I want him to haunt me (when I finally kill him that is). I can still taste that chocolate I found on my pillow; I wish it was Nino’s blood.

  Why do I desire the things that destroy me?

  I close my eyes and sigh.

  My fingers trace around my breasts. I massage their soft circumference, my nipples hard, erect. I tease and squeeze them with my fingers. First I’d fuck him, then I’d kill him. It would be so fucking hot. My fingers stroke my parted lips. The skin is sleek and wet. I touch myself and push inside. I’m aching. Longing. Desperate. I arch my back and stretch it out. Oh yeah, that’s good. That’s great. Oh man, I want to come. I picture Nino deep inside me, his big hard dick throbbing, erect. I want his cock against my G spot. His hot breath on my neck.