Rich Again

by Anna Maxted

  As Mark had said, on spying a pair of high-street slacks, ‘My life just got five per cent less glamorous.’

  Claudia’s most heinous crime, however, had been to introduce him to that posh twat Alfie Cannadine. This was the guy who’d saved her from the pervert when she was a kid. Claudia hadn’t said a word (sly) but he knew immediately there was something between them. Alfie looked at her that way. It was the expression of a man in love, and Ethan wanted to puke. As for Claudia, she blushed as she said his name. Ethan suppressed the urge to hit her across the room.

  A few moments’ polite chat established that the guy was divorced – young, free and single. Ethan realized his great luck. This berk hadn’t wanted to contact the love of his life because he’d read in Harper’s Bazaar or Posh Twats’ Weekly that she was in a relationship with Hollywood’s young hero. Jesus, grow some stones! This cretin had no idea what Ethan could see now, at his own bloody wedding: Claudia would have dropped the great Ethan Summers for this bumbling goofball in a second. Thank fuck for chivalry!

  It would be a real pleasure to slice this braying waste of space into a lot of small pieces. ‘Do excuse me! I’m using the steak knife. Forgive me. Once I’ve shucked out the brain, I’ll switch to the vegetable knife. Oops a daisy, my grip is all wrong!’ But no, he would not harm Alfie. He’d leave the guy alone to live his worthless life. It was hard, very hard, to control one’s urges, to refrain from a spontaneous killing spree, but it was a question of intelligence. It was the difference between failure and success.

  Ethan’s lip curled as he considered the disorganized serial killer. ‘Disorganized’. That said it all. They couldn’t control themselves. Fucking babies. They made a mess and got caught.

  Ethan was a superior, unparalleled operator because he had patience, precision; he understood the importance of sticking to a plan, rather than being dumbly distracted.

  Now he was all riled up.

  Céline Dion made it better, though she made you pay through the nose. She was worth it though. He’d nearly cried when she’d kissed him hello. She was his type of woman. He preferred her image – in person, she was actually sweet – she had a look that could kill a man at ten paces. He supposed he was influenced by ‘My Heart Will Go On’. He’d watched Titanic an embarrassing number of times. Ethan Summers’s shameful secret was that he couldn’t stand to watch a film rated 18 – which precluded Sick Day. He’d had to have emergency hypnotherapy before the preview.

  Jack had kept his speech short – was he rude, thoughtful, or merely brain-damaged? He had praised Claudia as a ‘wonderful daughter’ – as if he knew; he had mentioned Emily – respectful silence; and the children – oohs and aahs; and he had declared that he’d always enjoyed Ethan’s work, and that it was great to finally ‘have some talent in the family’.

  Everyone laughed. Damn. Had people laughed at his speech? Was Jack’s speech funnier? His was more poignant.

  The food looked spectacular (Oliver was cooking), crunchy raw beet salad with feta and pear to start. It wasn’t bad. The hotel hadn’t been thrilled about their kitchen being taken over, but it had been a toss-up between allowing Oliver to cook, or losing the booking. He’d covered their ‘loss’ – people were all about money. They had no sense of occasion, no soul, no grasp of decency. He tried not to drum his fingers to speed up time.

  ‘I can’t eat,’ said Claudia. ‘I’m too excited! I can’t focus. It’s all passing me by in a blur. I can’t believe we’re married, Ethan.’

  ‘Nor me,’ he’d replied, injecting his voice with great enthusiasm. ‘I can’t wait for us to be alone.’

  She giggled. ‘How early do you think we can leave?’

  ‘After the first dance?’

  They were staying at the Malibu house before, in theory, jetting off to the beach of Costa Careyes, in Mexico.

  He could feel the heat off her; his nose tickled with the scent of her perfume. It made him want to run to the ocean to breathe fresh air. The first dance was ‘Satellite of Love’ – nothing more than a moving hug. He wasn’t about to put on a big fancy show. This was a wedding, not Dancing with the Stars.

  You had to know when to keep it real.

  ‘I have a surprise for you back at the house, Mrs Summers,’ he murmured.

  ‘Ooh,’ she murmured back. ‘Is it a big surprise?’

  ‘Oh yes, honey,’ he replied, softly kissing her hair for the benefit of the crowd and camera. ‘It’s huge. It’s the surprise of your life.’

  HOLLYWOOD HILLS, 11 P.M.

  Claudia

  It was terrible to be thinking ‘if only’ as a white Hummer limousine sped you towards your wedding night.

  She loved Ethan. She did. But marrying him was a rational decision, it wasn’t a call of the heart. She’d done it because the children loved him, and he loved them, and he’d been a dear friend of Emily, and he’d been so incredibly sweet, and he was the safe bet: he was here, in LA, an important fixture; he was known; he wasn’t going to disappear.

  Why hadn’t Alfie said? It was so stupid, such a waste. Now it came out that the marriage to Polly had fizzled a while ago – ‘a duty marriage’ according to the Daily Mail; she had looked it up on Google – he had been a single man for six months. He hadn’t even given her a hint of it. And no one had told her.

  She couldn’t stand it. She had to say something. While Ethan was talking to his agent – a man who reminded Claudia of a velociraptor – she’d cornered Alfie and asked him. She had nothing to lose. His reply had stunned her.

  ‘Your father warned me off. He said you were happy now, and to leave you alone.’

  What?

  She felt a great anger rise inside.

  Alfie had added, ‘He was trying to protect you, Claw. He was trying to do the decent thing. I know about Martin. I’m so sorry.’ She’d paled. ‘He just didn’t want you to be hurt again.’

  ‘But …’ she’d said, and the rest of the sentence had remained unspoken: you wouldn’t hurt me because we love each other.

  They had stared at each other helplessly. She felt suddenly ridiculous in her big stupid white dress, and a great heavy ring on her finger, while his ring finger was newly naked. She had a crazy thought of running away. She gazed into his eyes and, very gently, he shook his head, and kissed her. Ah, so soft, so full of regret, of missed opportunity.

  She smiled to herself, then realized that her husband was caressing her neck.

  ‘We’re here,’ he said. And then, a little sharply, she thought – but then, didn’t most men find the wedding day a grinding chore? – ‘You won’t mind if I don’t carry you over the threshold.’ It was a statement, not a question. He paused, and so did she. ‘I don’t want to strain my back.’ ‘That’s fine. I can walk.’

  It was weird. They were both oddly flat, and it felt awkward. How ridiculous! She felt a curl of fear. Oh God. He hadn’t seen how she was with Alfie? She felt ashamed. It was really low – emotionally unfaithful. She’d make a big effort for their wedding night – oh dear, was that bad, to think of making an effort? The truth was, while he was beautiful, and chiselled, and muscular, and tanned, with piercing eyes and even features, he wasn’t her type. She was attracted to him, but she didn’t find him attractive in the primal way she was drawn to Alfie. If you had to draw up a scientific checklist, Alfie was the uglier by far – a biggish nose, broken several times from playing rugby, hair like straw – but she preferred quirky to perfect.

  She was exhausted.

  She had all this flimsy, lacy, flirty underwear, but at heart she couldn’t be bothered. She wanted to curl up in thick brushed-cotton pyjamas, read a trashy magazine, sip a mug of hot chocolate – Ethan’s air con was polar, they disagreed about temperature and it was irritating. She wanted to stretch out in a king-size bed, alone. But it was her wedding night, and a girl was expected to perform. Ethan, she knew this already, did not tolerate failure. Even if he was comatose from tiredness, she knew he’d want to have sex, because he wouldn’t be ab
le to exist comfortably knowing that he was one of the sad 43 per cent of not-passionate-enough couples who didn’t fuck on their wedding night.

  He kissed her, briefly, on the lips. ‘Go make yourself nice, I’ll be with you in a minute.’ He winked, was gone. He was oddly secretive, but then, as a public figure, the paparazzi forever prying into your business, a little privacy in your personal life was surely essential to keep you from madness.

  She hurried upstairs – to his bedroom. It was laughably enormous; it was a workout just to reach the bed. She had her overnight bag; she would have a quick shower. Ethan liked a woman to be ‘clean’. It gave her a funny feeling when she recalled him saying that, as if women were naturally unclean. Now and then, she allowed herself a fantasy about Alfie, and they didn’t mess about wasting time with showers, they just did it. Well. Here she was. Mrs Summers: the envy and hate object of millions of women all over the globe.

  If only they knew the mundane reality. She couldn’t reconcile herself completely to a man who had had his teeth whitened. Not that a man should have yellow teeth, but bright white? It was a bit much sometimes. She understood that he had to beautify himself for his job, but somehow, all this unabashed preening and pampering felt unmanly. It was more the American way than the British way.

  Ethan’s bathroom cabinet doors ran the length of the vast room and were mirrored mosaic; crazy-paving-style shards rather than neat little squares. It was a beautiful yet disturbing effect; it reminded her of Gaudí, the Ice Queen, a smashed window, all at once. Every cupboard was stocked with expensive male grooming products. She had a hunch that Alfie used Head & Shoulders and a bar of soap.

  This was ridiculous. She’d feel better after a good sleep.

  But duty called.

  She shrugged out of her wedding dress, struggling with the buttons at the back – he should be doing this – and turned on the bath taps.

  She peered closely at herself in one of the shards of mirror. Here she was, alone, unconnected. It was a feeling that had tailed her all her life, but you didn’t expect to feel alone a few hours after a minister had pronounced you man and wife. Carefully, she removed the tiara and the diamond necklace. It had been kind – surprising – of Innocence to lend them to her. They had a good relationship now, for them.

  Oh my God, a hair on her chin. How could it have been missed? She looked like a witch. At least, her husband would think so. When you married a man who’d had love scenes with Angelina and ex-girlfriends who populated the Pirelli Calendar, you had a lot to live up to.

  He must own a pair of tweezers. She pulled open a mirrored cabinet door, then another. A thousand fragmented Claudias did the same. She felt uncomfortable surrounded by so many broken reflections of herself.

  There were an endless number of lotions and potions. But no tweezers. Maybe higher up. Electric toothbrushes. Cutthroat razors. She’d try that door at the top. If she stood on the edge of the bath, she might just reach it. She mustn’t slip. Felicia had died in the bath. A heart attack, and she wasn’t a blood relative, but sometimes you got superstitious.

  Nothing. It was empty.

  Fine. It would be a silly place to keep tweezers anyway. Wouldn’t you keep them nearer to hand?

  She carefully stepped down and scurried, naked, to his bedside cabinet. Also mirrored. She pulled open the bottom drawer. Ah, there we go. Tweezers. It was full of magazines: a Vanity Fair supplement with Bill Murray on the front dressed as a rhinestone Elvis. Someone had doodled ‘fatty’ across his face in Biro. There was a ripped-out newspaper report – a quote from Morgan Freeman, on presenting Ethan Summers with an award, ‘Very occasionally, there is a crossover between a great actor and a great film star.’

  What was that? It looked like two furry-looking gobstobbers floating in a screw-top jar of brown liquid. Props from a film set? Gross. There, in the corner, was a little red velvet bag. She had a vague sense of memory associated with it. A déjà vu. She picked it up, and, slowly, opened it. Inside was a bracelet, a thin gold chain with a fat little gold heart hanging off it. Her heart was beating fast, and her hands trembled as she turned it over and found, yes, a small dent in the metal – a bite mark from a five-year-old girl who had broken a tooth trying to establish if there really was chocolate inside the heart as that bad boy Alfie had promised.

  How did Ethan have it? How was that possible? It had been stolen when she was ten or eleven years old. Her legs felt like jelly. It had been a present from Felicia and it had been stolen. She still remembered crying under the bedcovers that evening, the sound of her own sobs drowning out the boom of the music, and then, suddenly, horribly, being aware of a much closer sound – realizing, with a lurch of fear, that someone was in the room, an intruder. Wanting to throw off the covers and run screaming away but not daring – waiting – sobbing – fearing that Orinoco had escaped from prison and come back for her to finish what he’d started. Would he shoot her dead through the bedclothes or would he rip off her pyjamas first? Hearing him come closer, angrily rifling through her bedside drawers, and then, amazingly, incredibly, he was gone, caught, and it wasn’t Orinoco after all, it was some little thief, a kid. She hadn’t realized he’d stolen the bracelet until months later. The cold creep of fear entwined itself around her as her mind screamed its warning: So how did Ethan get your bracelet?

  ‘I bought it for you, as a wedding gift.’

  She shrieked and jumped. Ethan was right behind her. ‘God, you scared me. I … was looking for some tweezers. Sorry.’ She felt uncomfortable, being naked when he was fully clothed. ‘But … how did you know it was mine? It was stolen. How would you possibly know?’

  There was a strange expression on his face. Why wasn’t there anything to cover herself with – a blanket, a robe?

  ‘Well, darling, when it was stolen there was a photo of it in the paper and—’

  ‘But, Ethan, it was never in the paper. I never told anyone. I was afraid of getting into trouble.’

  ‘Oh FUCK IT. You know, if you’re that afraid of getting into trouble, Claudia, why do you always go looking for it? You had to push it, didn’t you? You had to uncover the truth. Well, here’s the truth, darling. I stole it. Me. Yes, me. I was the thief in your pretty pink bedroom, listening as you snivelled under your covers. You were irritating then, and you are irritating now. Do you know, I nearly stabbed you, purely to make the noise stop?’

  His look was one of polite enquiry. She stared at him, terror welling up inside like a cyst. In one second, she knew. He had killed Emily.

  ‘Why?’ Her voice was a croak.

  ‘Don’t move.’

  She swallowed. ‘You have everything now. You’ve done … so well. You’ve … bettered yourself.’

  ‘Bettered myself? You patronizing cow!’

  ‘No … no! I meant … I’m sorry. I’m sorry if you went to prison … but it wasn’t personal. You had’ – she got the feeling she should shut up – ‘you had broken into our house.’

  He was standing – too close – the picture of civility in his white dinner jacket. ‘It wasn’t personal,’ he repeated, laughing. ‘It wasn’t personal, she says.’

  She couldn’t look at his face. The world’s favourite movie star was a psychotic killer. And, somehow, she was his wife.

  ‘Claudia, you are so right. It wasn’t personal. But it should have been. Look at my face! LOOK at it!’

  Trying not to flinch, she looked.

  ‘Well?’

  She couldn’t give him the answer he wanted. She didn’t know the answer. She wanted to cry, but she didn’t want to be stabbed. ‘I don’t know,’ she whispered. ‘Please, can I put on some clothes?’

  ‘Claudia! It’s our wedding night. Don’t you want to have naughties?’

  She jerked her head forward, one tiny movement.

  His hand caressed her neck, and she shivered. His other hand went to his pocket. A gun? A knife?

  A lighter. He was going to set fire to her hair, watch her burn. She bit back a whi
mper.

  He lit a cigarette, then shoved the lighter back in his pocket. ‘You nearly fucked your own dad, and now you’re fucking your brother! You like to keep it in the family, eh girl?’

  ‘What …’ She could barely speak. This was rubbish. It had been a one-night stand. Martin had never seen her mother again. Ethan, whoever he was, was not her brother. ‘Ethan, I don’t … I don’t have a brother!’

  He slapped her, hard. She gasped. Her cheek stung with pain.

  ‘Not Ethan, Nathan! I’m Nathan, you callous bitch! I was your brother! I am your brother! You’re disgusting! You disgust me! You’re worse than Emily! You were there! She wasn’t born yet, but you were there. How dare you forget me! How dare you! How could you?’

  He was shaking her, violently. Her neck would snap.

  ‘Stop! Eth—Nathan! Nathan – oh God. Of course I remember you, of course I do!’

  He let her go. She was still shaking. ‘You remember?’ he said quietly.

  Slowly, as if she were approaching a feral cat, she reached out and forced herself to stroke his cheek. Her head was spinning. She nodded, and staggered to stop herself falling over.

  Abruptly, he turned and walked across the room. Jesus. What now? He returned, smiling, with a white waffle dressing gown. ‘Here.’

  Trembling, she put it on. He sat down on the bed and patted it. She sat beside him, clearing her throat. ‘I have this image in my head. I am a little girl, standing in a big hall, with a herringbone-wood floor, and I am watching a carrycot being taken out of the front door. And I feel so, so sick and alone.’

  She looked at him. Tears were rolling down his cheeks. Maybe it would be OK. He would cry in her arms. He would fall asleep. She would call the police. He would be taken to a … mental institution. A nice one.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘That’s it.’