If Beth weren’t here, it would be seriously romantic.
The terrace looks out over a sheer, steep drop. This would be a great place to kill yourself. Terra-cotta rooftops, palm-tree canopies, and far, far below, a pebble beach. Scalloped bays like crescent moons twinkle with fairy lights, getting smaller and smaller until they disappear. Then, in the distance, there’s Mount Etna. Again. She’s omnipresent on this island; there’s no getting away from her. I’m relieved to see that she’s not yet erupting. The last of the sunset sears her silhouette; jet-black slopes glide down to the sea. She’s majestic. Prehistoric. A sense of eternity. Something sublime and yet fucking terrifying.
Really, if it weren’t for Beth, the whole thing would be perfect.
Everything is white inside the restaurant: tablecloths, curtains, columns, chairs. Diamanté chandeliers. A gleaming show-off grand piano. I study the table: pristine napkins, cut-crystal glasses. I don’t want to touch anything; I’ll smudge it or smear it. The cutlery sparkles; I pick up a knife and leave fingerprints. White candles flicker. Elegant vases. Crimson geraniums the only splash of color.
If only Beth would just fuck off.
I look over to the bar at the end of the restaurant. It’s glittering white, like inside a snow globe. White leather sofas. Polished tiles. Shelves lined with bottles reflecting in mirrors: Campari, Grappa, Sambuca, Amaretto. A waiter appears with a polished silver tray; a white tea towel draped over his arm. It could be the same one or somebody else; they all look alike. To be fair, I’d sleep with any of them. It wouldn’t make any difference. Smart black trousers, starched white shirts. There’s something about a man with a drink on a tray . . . it’s super sexy. He sets down two glasses filled with blood-red juice, sticks of celery, and long black straws. Ambrogio picks up his vodka martini and takes a sip; I watch his throat move in and out as he swallows it down. I wish I’d ordered that now.
Cheer up, Alvie. Pull yourself together. You’re supposed to be on holiday. You’re supposed to have fun! Just look where you are! This is a nice place. At least we aren’t Siamese.
“Excuse me, ladies,” says Ambrogio, standing up suddenly. “I’ll just go and powder my nose.”
Does he mean coke? Or is he taking a whiz? If it’s cocaine, I want some.
He walks across the restaurant. Everyone turns to stare. It’s like he’s some kind of megastar celebrity: Cristiano Renaldo or David Beckham. I watch his back disappear past tables and diners dripping with diamonds, bouffant blow-dries, impeccable Italian suits. Waiters with trays piled high with spaghetti. The swaying leaves of palms. Ambrogio has a lovely back, a lovely bum. Like Channing Tatum.
“Alvie,” says Beth. She has a look like she’s going to tell me off. “Stop thinking about Oxford.”
“I wasn’t!” I say. That’s really unfair. I literally wasn’t.
“OK, fine, well, stop thinking about Ambrogio then.”
I give her a look back. “I was thinking about Channing Tatum.” Kind of.
“You know what I mean.”
“I will think about whatever or whoever I want. Who are you, the thought police?” I light another cigarette. Beth snorts a laugh. “Where are we, 1984?”
“No,” she says, flicking her hair. She has fabulous hair. “We’re in the best restaurant in Taormina and I don’t want it to be awkward.”
“S’not awkward,” I lie.
“Do you know how difficult it is to get a reservation here?”
“No. Tell me. What do you have to do? Sell your soul? Bring peace to the Middle East? Solve the Theory of Everything?”
“What? No, you just have to know somebody.”
“Right.” So . . . she sucked off the manager.
Beth sighs. “Just make an effort, OK? You haven’t said anything since we left the villa. I want us to enjoy this supper.”
“What do you want me to say? I was admiring the scenery. It’s very nice.”
“Good. I’m glad you like it,” she says.
“I do,” I say.
“Good.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
I blow smoke at the sea and glare at the seagulls.
“Look,” says Beth, “just stop thinking about Ambrogio. He’s not who you think he is. That night, in Oxford, he thought you were me. . . .”
My sister’s always had impeccable timing; she chooses this moment to drop that bombshell? It can’t be true.
“I don’t believe you. He probably just said that to get you off his case.” That, or she’s lying to my face. “He said . . . he said . . .”
“What did he say?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
Beth raises her eyebrows.
“Well, that’s what he told me.” She shrugs.
I feel my heart begin to quicken, my stomach tighten. My palms slick and slippery with sweat. I want to scream. I want to throw her off the fucking cliff. That night was special. It’s all I’ve got. How dare she try to take it from me?
Armani Code Black. We both look up. Ambrogio’s approaching the table.
“Everything OK?” he asks, sitting down next to Beth. He drapes his napkin over his lap. “Shall we order? I’m starving.”
I glare at my sister.
“Make conversation,” she mouths.
What the hell am I supposed to say? Oh, Ambrogio, darling, funny fucking story: my sister just told me some interesting news. That night, eight years ago, in Oxford, you remember? The first time we met? That one-night stand? Well, apparently, according to Elizabeth . . . how shall I put this? You thought I was her? Hilarious, isn’t it, because all this time, I’ve been under the impression that you slept with me because you wanted to, because you wanted me. Me! Not my sister! Imagine that! But you mistook me for my twin. Easy to do. No bother about that. You got drunk, you fucked me, you got me pregnant, and all along . . . you thought I was Beth.
“Polite conversation,” she mouths.
I slurp up my cocktail until it’s all gone, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand; my purple lipstick stains my skin. It looks a bit like a bruise.
“So,” I say, turning to Ambrogio, “what is it that you do, exactly? You know, for a living? Something to do with art?”
Beth shakes her head and looks down at the ground. She kicks me under the table, hard.
“Ow!” I say. What’s wrong with that?
Ambrogio frowns and forces a smile.
“Yes,” he says, clearing his throat. “I’m an art dealer. I buy and sell art from all over the world. It’s really not that interesting.” He laughs. I watch him fold his napkin into a dove and then unfold it again. The silence is agonizing. He turns to Beth. “Darling, do you want anything in particular, or shall I just order for the table?”
Ambrogio turns to me and smiles and then turns back to Beth. Beth is still scowling.
“So you’re an art dealer?” I say. “That sounds really interesting.”
“Yes,” he says.
I nod and smile, encouraging him to go on. This is called polite conversation.
“Sometimes . . . people . . . well, you know, they die. And sometimes . . . these people . . . they have art. Art that other people want to buy. I’m just the middle man,” he says with a shrug.
End of subject. End of conversation. Beth looks relieved.
Prosciutto e melone is first on the menu. The melon is sliced into miniature gondolas with Parma ham draped languidly across. It looks mouthwatering, juicy, sweet, and delicious. The melons are local to the island. Apparently the ham is twelve months old. Then it’s tuna carpaccio: slices of tuna, finer than rice paper, spread out on a plate, a deep bloody pink. It’s drizzled in lemon and virgin olive oil, garnished with parsley and Pachino tomatoes. Soppressata di polpo is prettier than flower petals. Octopus tentacles undulate like corals. White with pink edges;
the scent of the sea. Edible flowers in purple and blue. Spaghetti alle vongole smells incredible; white wine, garlic, clams, tomatoes. The aroma is heady, distinctive, addictive. Lobster, langoustine, swordfish, crab. Then for dessert, it’s honeycomb semifreddo, drizzled with salted caramel sauce, white chocolate hearts, and lashings and lashings of real gold leaf.
I can’t eat any of it. I’ve lost my appetite.
◆
It’s too cold to sleep. I’m tossing and turning. Wriggling and writhing. Chattering and shivering. My head is a swirling mass of neuroses. My feet are like ice. That night, in Oxford, he thought you were me. How could she say that? What if it’s true? I throw off the blanket and sit up in bed. Flick on the light. Glare at the air-conditioning unit, a scowl cracking my cold, numb face. Why does it have to be arctic or sweltering? Can’t there be some kind of middle ground? I jab at the buttons on the zapper to turn the air-conditioning off, but the batteries are dead or I’m too far away. I jump up and march over, punch all the buttons until the little green light flashes off. The fans stop whirring and the cold blast of air dies down in the room. At last. That’s better. Perhaps now I can sleep?
That’s when I hear it: a bloodcurdling scream. A sound like somebody skinning a cat. I stop dead in my tracks. Is that Beth? What the fuck? I rush over to my bedroom door and edge it open, just a crack. I peer out to the hall. It’s dark. It’s still. Then I hear it again. A scream. And then crying. It sounds like Beth; I’d recognize her whining anywhere. Her sobs build louder and louder in volume, more violent, intense. All the muscles in my body tense. This is seriously uncool. It’s gone one a.m.
I go back to bed and pull the pillow over my head. Stick my fingers in my ears. Why the hell won’t she shut up? I can still hear her shrieking. Piercing through the flesh and the bone and the feathers. Worming its way into my brain. What if he’s beating her? Hitting her? Now? People shouting: muffled, distorted. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but I’m sure it’s my sister and Ambrogio. More screaming. More crying. I’m going to have to get up.
I’m about to head out when I realize I’m naked. I like to sleep nude, like Marilyn Monroe. It’s inconvenient when there’s a fire alarm. I run over to my suitcase and grab a pair of knickers, rifle through my clothes until I find an old T-shirt and pull it on. Inside out. I stick my head out through my door and look both ways down the corridor. Nothing. It’s suddenly quiet. Perhaps I imagined it? Perhaps she’s dead! But then screaming. Again. Oh my God! He’s beating her up right now, isn’t he? I saw the bruises. I’m going to need to find a weapon. I step back in my bedroom and look around. If he’s attacking my twin, then I have to stop him! I’ll hit him right back! I’ll do it! Just watch! She might be a pain in the ass, but she’s blood. I don’t want him killing her. Not tonight!
I search through my bag for my Swiss Army knife, but I can’t find it. There’s an old iron poker by the grate in the chimney. I’ll use that. I grab the poker; it weighs heavy in my hands: long and black and twisted. Perfect. I hesitate, press my ear against the door. Hold my breath so I don’t miss a beat. There it is again! That screaming! It sounds like someone’s being murdered!
I push through the door and creep down the corridor, the poker raised above my head, my bare feet padding the thick pile carpet, my silhouette monstrous against the wall. There are so many bedroom doors; it’s like a hotel. Which one is it? I follow the sound. The screaming gets louder and louder and louder as I tiptoe along. I inch toward the edge of Beth’s door. My heart is pounding, my eyes are wide. What is going on in there? The poker’s shaking in my hands when the door swings open. Ambrogio steps out. Messy hair. Bare chest. A body like an Olympic swimmer. He’s wearing nothing but pajama trousers. I take a step back and shrink into the shadows. I wish I could vanish. I wish I was in bed.
“Oh, hey there, Alvie, I didn’t see you.” He looks me up and down and frowns.
“Hey, Ambrogio,” I say casually. “Where are you going?”
“To get a sandwich. Your sister’s just fallen asleep with the baby. I hope we didn’t wake you up? He can be quite loud.”
“No. No, it’s OK. I wasn’t sleeping.”
There’s a pause and I wonder if he is lying. I study his hands for signs of blood. There aren’t any.
“Well, good night,” he says at last. “Sleep well. I’ll see you in the morning.” He walks the other way down the hall, but then stops. “Do you need a hand with that poker?”
I look at the “weapon” in my hands. It suddenly looks ridiculous. What did I think I was going to do with it? I keep it hidden behind my back.
“Oh no, it’s fine. I was going to start a fire in my room, but I turned the air-con off instead.”
He stares at me like I make no sense.
“It got a bit chilly,” I say.
When Ambrogio’s gone, I wait and listen. I can hear myself breathing. All is quiet inside Beth’s room. The thin line of light that had outlined the door has disappeared. I stifle a yawn and rub my eyes. Whatever. I suppose it could have been the baby. I’m going back to bed.
DAY THREE
Wrath
“Sometimes, I Get So Mad
I Could Punch a Hole
Through the Mirror.”
@Alvinaknightly69
Chapter Eleven
It was Beth’s fault I never got any Christmas presents.
I grew up thinking Father Christmas hated me. Every year, I would write my wish list and send it to Lapland like all the other little girls and boys. Every year, when Santa didn’t come, Mum would say exactly the same thing: “Perhaps if you weren’t so naughty, hadn’t tried to kill the dog/set fire to the school/kick the headmaster in the gonads, you’d get some presents? Look at all the lovely gifts Beth’s got; she’s been as good as gold.” Beth. Beth. Mum’s little princess. Always the good one. Always the golden girl. Why did she have to be so perfect? She only did it to make me look bad.
Every year it was exactly the same. Christmas Eve, I wouldn’t sleep all night. I’d stare at the ceiling, waiting, hoping, scared to breathe in case I missed the reindeers’ hooves tap-tap-tap on the rooftop, the tinkle of sleigh bells, the heavy thump of shiny black boots. At the first light of day, I would run downstairs and see all the gifts piled high beneath the tree. Sumptuous red ribbons cascading and flowing. Green and gold paper shining and crisp. A single stocking would hang from the mantelpiece, full to overflowing with candy-cane treats. I’d sit and watch my sister open present after present, hour after hour, simmering, seething, secretly planning what I’d do to Father Christmas if ever I saw him. While Beth was unwrapping My Little Ponies—twinkle-eyed ponies with rhinestones for eyes, Brush ‘n’ Grow ponies with real growing hair—or clutching yet another Care Bear, I was plotting my sweet revenge.
Perhaps I’d gouge his eyes out with an HB pencil? I sharpened mine up, just in case. I could use my compass to slit his throat? But his bounteous beard might get in the way. There was always the rat poison Mum kept under the sink that we weren’t allowed to touch. I could tempt him in with a mug of hot cocoa; he’d take a sip, then pop his clogs. I imagined him writhing around on the rug by the fireplace: fluffy white bobble on his floppy hat bobbing, shiny black boots kicking up in the air. He’d roll around and around in his crimson coat, vomiting, gagging, frothing at the mouth. Even that was too good for him. Knob.
Then one December, I went shopping in a mall with my mum and my sister. Children singing Christmas carols: “Jingle Bells” and “We Three Kings.” Trees piled high with tinsel and candles. Cinnamon wafting through the air. Mum and Beth were holding hands and I was trailing just behind. Now, Alvie, remember, behave yourself! I don’t want you causing another scene. Mum didn’t usually take me out, in case I embarrassed her. I didn’t know what all the fuss was about.
We turned a corner and there he was: I saw the fat, red bastard and I ran! I sprinted, screaming, mad as a bansh
ee, pushing past crowds to his elf-infested grotto, kicking up polystyrene snowflakes in my wake. I leaped onto Santa, ripping his beard, clawing his bespectacled face. I can still taste the stench of the rancid mince pies and the sour-smelling whiskey on his breath. Santa shouted, “Get ’er off me!” With superhuman strength, I kicked at his shins, my limbs flailing wildly, until Mum pulled me off.
It did the trick. The fucker always filled my stocking after that. Mostly with things like self-help books and fitness DVDs, but still, it was better than nothing. In hindsight, I know it was Mum.
◆
Wednesday, 26th August 2015, 11 a.m.
Taormina, Sicily
I push open the door and step inside, close it quietly behind me. Decorated in old-rose, cream, and gold, Beth’s bedroom looks like Coco Chanel’s boudoir in 1920s Paris. I cross the room over deep pile carpet, run my hand across a bedspread: cool, smooth silk. The air is vanilla-scented, temperature-controlled. A Jo Malone candle flickers on the mantelpiece; wax slips down its sides into a silver dish. Mozart’s playing in the background, like in the dressing room of a designer store. I look around for some speakers, but I can’t see any.
Beth’s popped into Taormina to buy something trivial. Ernie’s with Emilia in the playroom downstairs. I don’t know where Ambrogio is, out with his mates somewhere, I think. I’m not supposed to be in here, but I couldn’t help it. “I can resist everything, except temptation.” Who said that? I walk over to Beth’s dressing table: mahogany, antique. Jewelry boxes pile high like tiny presents wrapped in Tiffany turquoise, baby pink, blood-red. They say the best things come in small packages; I wouldn’t know. I pick the largest box on the table; red velvet feels soft against my skin, like the ears of a spaniel. It’s a heart-shaped box, heavy in my hands, heavier than I’d expected. I want to look inside. I glance over my shoulder toward the door. I’d closed it behind me on my way in. There’s nobody there. I hesitate; make eye contact with myself in the mirror, daring myself to do it. Go on, Alvie, you know you want to.
Mad Page 9
