I pick a bright-yellow dress by Roberto Cavalli with golden trim at the collar and sleeves. There are some yellow wedges in patent leather that match to perfection. Bright and beautiful sunshine yellow matches my mood. As long as everyone thinks I’m Beth, I’ve got nothing to worry about. There’s no law that says you have to save people’s lives. Four little minutes: what’s that? Nothing. In a court of law, I think I’d get off.
If I can just stall my mother, I’ve hit the jackpot. No more fucking Alvina Knightly. I’ve got it sorted; I’m a millionairess. I twirl in the mirror and admire the dress. I look like a reality TV star, someone glam off Geordie Shore. I’m married to the hottest guy on the island, the guy I deserve. Who cares if he was going to kill Alvie. I’m not Alvie. I am Beth. I am safe. I’m the one who’s in control here. I’m the one who’s still alive. As long as Ambrogio still thinks I’m Beth, then I’ll be all right. I’ll be the best goddamn Beth that I can be. I’ll be even more Beth than Beth. There’s no way I’m going back to Archway, not when I can have all this!
And at last, I am a mother! I just gained a son without going through labor. But then again, so did Beth; she had a cesarean (too posh to push).
All my Christmases have come at once!
I take my time to apply Beth’s makeup, humming to myself under my breath: Kylie’s classic: “I Should Be So Lucky.” Chanel foundation, Juicy Tube lip gloss, Benefit mascara . . . a generous spritz of Miss Dior Chérie. I find Beth’s brush on her dressing table and scrape my hair back into a bun, just like yesterday. It looks pretty good, but I must remember to call that stylist. I’ll find Beth’s iPhone later on. Perhaps I’ll get a manicure too? A facial, a massage, and one of those wraps where they cover you in silver foil like an oven-ready turkey. I wonder how long this fake tan will last. I must make sure I sunbathe today. I check the mirror: no sign of Alvina. I’m good to go.
I stumble down the corridor, unsteady on the wedges. This is the hardest thing about being Beth: the six-inch heels. She always dressed like she was fresh off the catwalk: London fashion week, Paris, Milan. I hold on to the walls to steady myself. I find a window that looks down to the pool. I take a sharp breath and peer out: there on the patio is the space where Beth’s body had been. It’s empty. It’s clean. The pool looks tranquil, as if nothing has happened. The blue water sparkles in the morning sun. Perhaps I’ll have a swim later on? I can do whatever I like.
A sudden rush through the whole of my body; a tingling from my head to my toes. A thrill. An explosion. All of my wildest dreams have come true. I lean out of the window and take a deep breath. I can already feel that it’s going to be hot, seriously fucking scorching hot. I guess Beth had warned me in her email, Bring your bikini and a sun-hat; it’s murder out here. Today, you know, I don’t mind the heat; it’s perfect weather for working on my tan. Beth was as bronzed as Tom Hanks in Cast Away. I won’t get caught. I will not lose! This is my game and I’m going to win, knock it outta the park.
I wander around the villa until I find the kitchen. This place is a huge labyrinth. I look around for David Bowie. The gym. The cinema. The living room. The music room. The library. Eventually I locate it; the kitchen’s enormous. It’s traditional Sicilian: yellow and white tiles and a wood-paneled ceiling, shining copper pans hanging down from a rail. The scent of fresh lemons and something baking. Hand-painted ceramics arranged on a dresser. It looks like it’s from a Cath Kidston advert. It all looks squeaky clean.
There’s a woman standing with her back toward me. Is it Beth? I freeze. My whole body tenses. But she’s got the wrong hair: curly and black. She turns and sees me staring.
“Ciao, signora,” she says with a smile.
Now I remember. It must be Emilia. Emilia and Ernesto have been to the park. My face cracks. I can’t speak Italian (just the swear words . . . and “pizza” and “cappuccino”) so I just say, “All right.” Lucky Beth never bothered to learn Italian. That could have been awkward.
“How are you?” she says.
“Good,” I say. Never been better. I am Elizabeth. Everything’s great.
“How are you? How is Ernie?” I walk over to the pram and take a look inside. He is sleeping like a baby. His mouth hangs open and a little bit of dribble runs down his chin. I can’t believe how beautiful he is. He’s perfect. He’s gorgeous and he’s all mine. I wonder if he’ll notice that I killed his mum. I reach over and stroke his soft cheek with my finger. His eyelids flicker, but he doesn’t wake up.
“Ah! He sleeps!” Emilia says, reaching over to embrace me the Italian way: a peck on each cheek and a bone-crunching hug. Emilia smells lovely: lavender soap? I’m glad I remembered Beth’s perfume.
“That’s good.” I smile, letting my eyes crinkle with warmth, the way I’d seen Beth smile when talking to the nanny.
“Where’s your sister, Alana?”
Oh God. Really? Why does she care?
“Alvie had to go home, back to London,” I say. “Some crisis at work. She has a terribly important job. She’s the head poet at the Times Literary Supplement.” Emilia looks back at me blankly. “Cappuccino?” I say.
“I’ll make it, signora,” she says with a smile.
I don’t really need any caffeine; I’m already buzzing, wide-awake. I’ve forgotten I have a hangover. That never happens. Sometimes hangovers last for two or three days. Sometimes four. Once I spent a whole week in the hospital. Emilia busies herself with a silver pot and a bag full of coffee beans. I don’t take my eyes off her. She may not always be available and I need to know how to make a coffee in my own damn kitchen. There’s no Nescafé granules and no kettle; I wouldn’t have a clue where to start.
Emilia locates a small silver contraption up on a shelf and then dismantles it. She fills the base with water from a filter. Into another machine, she pours chocolate-brown beans and then flicks a switch. There is a deafening whirr and the crack-cocaine scent of freshly ground coffee. My mouth waters. She scoops out a spoonful of finely ground beans and places it into the silver thing. Next, she turns on the gas and lights the burner with a long thin match. I watch where Emilia keeps the matches, just in case I ever need one: they’re in a little ceramic dish to the left of the stove.
“Due minuti,” she says.
I think that’s two minutes.
“You want milk?” she asks.
I nod. The contraption bubbles. Emilia pours out a centimeter of coffee into a minuscule cup and then adds a teaspoon of steamed milk. Is that all? That’s not going to cut it. I’m used to Starbucks ventis: two liters of froth in a bucket with a caramel swirl. That cup’s the size of a thimble.
“Thanks,” I say. Great.
I take a sip. Holy shit. It’s like drinking acid.
“Ugh! I need some sugar,” I say.
She looks at me like I’ve just landed on this planet. “But, signora, mi dispiace! Always you say, sugar is evil?”
“Yeah, well, I’ve changed my mind.”
I shovel in a couple of spoonfuls and stir away the bitterness. She looks at me strangely, her head cocked to one side. Hmm, Emilia, I’ll have to watch out for that one. If this were a novel, she’d be the one to bust me. It’s always the staff in mystery stories who know exactly what’s going on: the butlers, the maids, the nannies or housekeepers. Twitching the curtains. Listening at the door. They’re the eyes and ears of the establishment. No scandal escapes them. No secrets get past them. Yes, I’ll need to keep an eye on her.
“Where’s Ambrogio?” I ask.
“Swimming,” she says. I look out the window at the pool. Still as a millpond. “In the sea.”
Ah, yes. I’d forgotten about the sea. Now what shall I do? I need to release some nervous tension; I’m a slinky spring at the top of some stairs. Perhaps I’ll go for a walk and explore my new neighborhood? I can practice wearing my new shoes.
“I think I’ll take a walk . . . to th
e amphitheater!” I say. Beth used to go there. She found it “inspiring.” And perhaps that security guard will be there; he could shed some light on what was going on with Beth.
“I’ll see you later.”
I lean over the pram and give Ernie a kiss, his tiny cheek is warm and soft. I walk out of the kitchen and into the hall. I’m doing pretty well with the high heels. But then I remember: I need to make that long-distance phone call. Oh God. This is going to be painful. I’m going to have to wake her up; it’s the middle of the night in Sydney. The last thing I want to do is talk to my mum.
Chapter Twenty
What do you mean, she’s gone?”
“Gone as in dead, Mum. Sorry.”
There’s an awkward silence. I squeeze the handset closer to my head and twiddle the curly wire around my fingers. “Hello?”
“Beth? Beth? You’re breaking up, honey. I didn’t hear a word you just said.”
I take a deep breath. This is going to be torture. I haven’t spoken to my mother for months and months. Or maybe a year. I mostly avoid her telephone calls, not that she ever picks up the phone. She doesn’t know how to use email. She doesn’t know Facebook or Twitter exist. I once got a postcard from Ayers Rock, but that was December 2009. I wince at the Australian twang in her voice. Everything she says sounds like a question; there’s an upward inflection at the end of each line. It’s like having a relation from the cast of Neighbours: Madge Ramsay or someone. Is she still in it?
“It’s Alvie, Mum,” I spell it out for her slowly, like I’m talking to a difficult child. “There’s been an accident. She’s dead.” As in dodo.
The line goes quiet for about a minute. I think she’s been cut off.
“Hellooooooooo?” I say. “Mum?”
“Oh my goodness . . . Who is it that’s dead?”
Fucking hell. “Al-vi-na.” I sigh.
“Oh, I see,” she says at last.
I can sense the relief in her voice from the other side of the world. Oh my God. I knew it! It’s true. She’s always hated poor old Alvie. What did I ever do to deserve it? It’s so unfair. She’s not even sad. Hardly upset. I blink back tears.
“The funeral’s today, so you probably won’t make it. Definitely won’t make it.”
“How did it happen?” my mother asks, talking over me. She sounds a bit sadder now, I’m pleased to hear, though I still wouldn’t call it distraught.
“There was an accident in the swimming pool. She was drunk,” I say. That sounds about right. Alvie always liked a drink. Or two. Or three. She liked to drink until she was numb and the world was a better place. And then drink some more. And some more. And some more. And not remember how she got home. And sometimes (often) not make it home at all. (Places I have slept that weren’t a bed: corridors, ditches, bushes, stairwells, elevators, buses, ponds.)
“Drunk,” Mum repeats. “The swimming pool. I see.” She sounds far away, more distant now, farther than the southern hemisphere, or Jupiter or Mars. “Typical Alvina. I can’t say I’m surprised. She was always—”
“Like I said,” I interrupt her, “the funeral’s today. . . .” I stretch the telephone wire between my fingers until it’s taut and straight as a hangman’s noose. She’s not surprised. She half expected it. She’s probably even glad.
“I’ll book some flights.”
Shit.
“No! Mum, you don’t need to come.” My voice is raised; I try to control it. “You won’t make it in time and, anyway, really, there’s nothing you can do.”
There’s a pause as my mother considers this. I hold my breath. I hear her brain cells whirring like the cogs are churning. It’s a long way. It’s a lot of money. It’s only Alvina that’s died, not Beth.
Please don’t come, Mum, I’m willing her silently. Do not fucking come.
“Can’t you hold off the funeral, dear? I don’t understand.”
“It’s just the way they do things over here. It has to be today. It’s a Catholic thing. You’ll definitely miss it. I’m sorry,” I say, letting my voice break with just the right amount of “sad.” I wish this phone call would end already. If it were Beth who’d died then she would come, no question. If it were Beth who’d died, she’d be on the next fucking plane. I should just hang up now. Shall I cut her off?
“Well . . .” she says, thinking it through. “If you say so, dear. I really should be there. But I am very busy with the parish cake sale and . . . well, it’s just a shame I’ll miss my own daughter’s funeral.”
“Hmm.” Like she cares. Unbelievable. She’s practically dancing—no, twerking—on my grave.
“I’m just sorry I can’t be there for you . . . are you OK?”
“I’m fine,” I say. “I mean, well, obviously . . . we’re all in shock.”
“Of course,” she says. “It all sounds awful, but, Beth, I’m just so glad it wasn’t you.”
Oh my God, not again. I can’t take any more. First Ambrogio and now my own mother. I shove my fist in my mouth and bite hard. The pain distracts my eyes from crying, but not for long. At least my mum wasn’t plotting to kill me. Unless she was in on that plan with Ambrogio? I can’t trust Ambrogio. I can’t trust my mum. I grit my teeth and hold my breath. Hold it together, Alvina. Come on!
We hang up the phone and it’s just what I wanted. My mother’s not coming, I’m not totally screwed. But part of me is completely livid. She didn’t take much persuading. How dare she not come to my funeral? The parish cake sale? Who gives a shit? This confirms my lifelong suspicion; my mother never did like Alvina. Right from the start, it was all about Beth. She always thought we were Jekyll and Hyde. I absolutely refuse to cry. My mother is dead to me now.
There’s an antique vase on a polished wooden table in the corner of the room. It’s hand-painted blue with pretty white flowers and a delicate pattern around the rim. I pick it up carefully, both hands around its base, and hurl it onto the mosaic-tiled floor.
It shatters into a thousand pieces.
◆
It’s only two minutes’ walk to the theater, but I wish I’d got a cab. The air is still and furnacelike. It’s far too hot to move. I kick up dust on bone-dry ground and try to walk like Beth: chin up, shoulders back, calm and confident. As opposed to Tuesday’s badly dressed crowds, there’s hardly anyone here. It’s eerie, forlorn, practically deserted. I join the other two tourists in the queue and try to blend in. It doesn’t work; they turn and stare. I’m far too well dressed. Or perhaps it’s the lollipop-lady yellow? I’m about to scowl and give them an evil eye, but then I remember, I’m supposed to be Beth. I try my sweetest “Hey there!” smile. They look a little bit frightened. They turn their backs and whisper.
The sea is an ugly greenish blue; clumps of seaweed crowd the seafloor like bruises. Sunlight reflects off the water and burns my retinas. The sky is unbearably blue.
“Elisabetta! Elisabetta!”
A man runs over and joins me at the back of the queue, out of breath. He has pale blue eyes and messy blond hair, unusual for a Sicilian. It must be that security guard, the one we saw yesterday. He’s wearing a uniform. It’s definitely him.
“Elisabetta? Is that you? Or . . . are you the other one?” We make eye contact. I pause. Look away.
“It’s me, Elizabeth,” I say.
“Of course it is, is everything OK?”
“Sure,” I say, “How are you doing?” What’s his name? Beth never told me. I can’t exactly ask him now. I wish he were wearing a name badge.
“Bene, bene. Where is your sister?” he asks with a grin. He looks over his shoulder to search for my twin, missing his free entertainment.
“Oh, Alvina went home,” I say, feigning casual. I’m suddenly too hot. My palms feel clammy; I wipe them up and down Beth’s bright-yellow dress. I wish I could have a drink.
He frowns. “Already? But she only jus
t got here.”
“Yeah, I know. Crisis at work . . .”
He studies my face. I look at my shoes. I pretend to yawn and cross my arms, look distracted by a poster of Nabucco.
“So . . . are you . . . are you really OK?” he asks, again. “Why are you still here? I thought the plan was to get away? I thought you were leaving last night?”
I look down to where he’s touching my arm: bitten-down nails, a digital watch. I don’t want him to touch me; I don’t know where he’s been.
“I’m fine,” I say, pulling away. Get out of my space. Why does he care? What does he know about this plan?
“You are Elisabetta, aren’t you?” he says.
His voice trails off. His eyes trail my body, right down to my toes. Breathe, Alvie. Breathe. It’s fine. This is a very “Beth” outfit. I couldn’t possibly look any more like my twin. So why am I shaking? Why is there a bead of sweat sliding down my chest? Why is my heart pounding loud in my ears? Shit, I hope he can’t hear it.
“Yes, it’s me. I already told you. Alvie had to go home.” Oh my God, what’s his problem? I shouldn’t have come here. It was a mistake.
He sighs and shakes his golden head; he suddenly looks worried. He reaches his arms around my neck and pulls me in for a big bear hug. I can smell the styling gel he’s used in his hair; that means he styled it? It must be the just-got-out-of-bed look. I stand, stiff as a corpse; I don’t like being hugged by total strangers. But then I remember: he isn’t a stranger; I’m supposed to be Beth; we’re supposed to be friends. Apparently, I’ve told him everything. Apparently, he knows all about this plan. So I hug him back. I need to find out what this guy knows; I decide to take a gamble.
“I was going to leave late last night,” (I think) I say, pulling away.
“I know, so why are you still here? It’s dangerous, Betta.”
Mad Page 15
