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Mad Page 17

by Chloé Esposito


  She takes several dozen tiny eyelashes and sticks them onto my lashes with glue. It takes forever. I hope Cristina knows what she’s doing. I want to be able to open my eyes. I need to be able to see. She layers a little melted wax onto the skin below my eyebrows. With one quick yank, she pulls off one strip and then another and another. I scream! It’s hot! And it fucking hurts!

  When she’s finished, we look in the mirror.

  “You like?”

  “I love.”

  Tweet. Tweet. Tweet.

  It’s a message from Taylor Swift. In reply to Elizabeth Caruso. @ElizabethCaruso Hey there, Elizabeth! Great to meet you! Hugs xoxox

  ◆

  “Emilia? Emilia!”

  “Sì, signora?” A voice from the far side of the villa.

  “I’m taking Ernesto out to the shops.”

  Ambrogio’s out somewhere with his mates. It’s time for a little retail therapy.

  “Sì, signora,” says Emilia.

  “I’ll be back by three.”

  “Sì, signora. Ciao, signora.”

  “Ciao,” I say.

  I like saying “ciao.” It makes me feel cool. It’s just the way they talk over here, so it isn’t pretentious. Chow, chow, chow.

  I lay Ernie in his pram: a Silver Cross “Balmoral.” Beth said the duchess of Cambridge has one just like it for Princess Charlotte.

  “Let’s go shopping!” I say.

  Ernie smiles up at me, pleased, his big, blue eyes are wide with delight. I ruffle the soft, gold curls on his fat, round head. He giggles, dribbles, flaps his chubby little arms up and down like a newly hatched chick.

  “Ma, ma, ma.”

  I stroke his pink cheek.

  “Cutie pie.”

  I feel a surge of motherly love. I still can’t believe that he’s all mine. I always wanted Ambrogio’s baby. I’ve dreamed of this moment for eight whole years! And now here he is! My very own child. I can’t help feeling it’s meant to be. I lean over the pram and take a selfie of me and Ernie all snuggled up. I post it on Elizabeth’s Facebook, “Me and my gorgeous boy!!!!” I push the pram down the drive and onto the road.

  It’s a beautiful day. I pull on Beth’s shades to shield my eyes from the dazzling sun, then pull down the cover over the pram to shelter Ernesto. See, I am a good mother. I don’t want him to get sunburnt. I even brought some tap water in a baby bottle (for if he gets thirsty) and some Belgian chocolates I found in the kitchen for an afternoon treat (I’ll eat those if he doesn’t want them). Shit, I forgot the sunscreen! And the nappies! And the wet wipes! And a spare change of clothes! And his teddy bear. But it’s OK. We won’t be gone long. I’m sure he’ll survive. I’ll take good care of my baby. Take him to Disney World. Enroll him at Eton. Violin lessons. Cricket. A butler. A horse. All the things that I never had. He’ll be spoiled rotten and then some more. He’ll be glad I’m his mum.

  The wheels of the pram make a whirring sound as we roll down the hill. I feel like skipping. Ernie’s singing something incomprehensible; it could be an attempt at “Ba-Ba Black Sheep,” but I wouldn’t put money on it. I’ll get him singing lessons when he’s a bit older. Perhaps he’ll be a famous opera singer? The lead in Nabucco one day? The new younger, slimmer Pavarotti? He’s half Italian, after all. And his father’s a looker.

  I take a deep breath. Ahhh, crisp, clean air, the scent of lemons. No, I never, ever want to go back to London: car fumes and rubbish bins, dog shit, grease. Why would I leave when I’ve got all this? I could be the luckiest girl in the world. Beth’s Mulberry wallet (soft as peaches) is in my handbag (Beth’s handbag) and it’s bursting at the seams: €713.50 (I counted it) and three shiny credit cards. I’m a little bit worried about not knowing her PIN. But I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

  We turn a corner and walk along a narrow winding street: ancient buildings with crumbling walls in pastel pink. Trees filled with blossoms in deep, shocking violet. A marble church with sculptures of cherubs. The view is postcard picture perfect. Etna’s in the distance, framed by some palm trees. Beyond the volcano, a turquoise sea. The scent of frangipani. The sound of birdsong. This place is fucking paradise.

  We turn another corner onto Via Umberto. No, this is paradise: shopping heaven. Shops stretch out as far as the eye can see: designer stores, little boutiques, art galleries, restaurants, bars. Beautiful people sit out on parasol-pretty terraces, watching other beautiful people pass by hand-in-hand. This is the perfect place for a honeymoon. I hear them chitchat in singsong Italian, blow cigarette smoke into well-dressed crowds. I taste their secondhand nicotine and smile. Ah, this is the life.

  There’s an ATM beyond the café. I try the first of Beth’s shiny cards. Push it into the narrow slot and jab at the touch pad. I’m going to try the same PIN code that unlocks her iPhone. If I knew Beth, she wouldn’t want to remember more than one. What was it? “Wannabe.” 1-9-9-6. “SCORRETTO” flashes red on black. An angry bleep. It spits out the card and I chuck it into the bottom of Beth’s bag, pull out the next one: 1-9-9-6. “SCORRETTO.” Nope. Another angry bleep. It spits out the card. Shit, this last one better work. I pull out the remaining card with trembling fingers. It’s a gorgeous, glossy black with glitzy silver lettering: Signora Elizabeth Caruso. Platinum. Premium. If this one doesn’t work, I’m totally screwed . . . 1-9-9-6. YIPPEE! I knew it! I check Beth’s balance and nearly pass out. She has €220,000 just in this current account. I withdraw €500, just because I can. The notes shuffle out and I grab a thick handful, smooth and crisp. They look delicious. They smell brand-new. It’s all I can do not to rub them against my cheek or my face. It’s all I can do not to lick them. I open the wallet and shove them in; now it’s so fat that it won’t close. I take out Beth’s credit card and kiss it.

  I’m suddenly torn: do I want to sit out at a starched linen table and order Prosecco and a dish of green olives, or do I want to go shopping? Decisions, decisions . . . What do you think, baby Ernie? A street artist sits with his wares on display, pictures of actors, singers, politicians. They’re actually quite good; he’s very talented. They have a real likeness, almost photographic. You can tell who it is meant to be. There’s Nicole Kidman and Gwyneth Paltrow, Channing Tatum and Tom Cruise. Whoa! Wait a minute. Channing Tatum? Shopping it is!

  “Ciao.”

  “Ciao.” The man looks up.

  “How much for the picture of Channing Tatum?”

  “Venti euros.”

  “What’s that? Twenty?”

  “Sì. Twenty.”

  “I’m not paying that. That’s way too much. I’ll give you ten.”

  “No, is twenty.”

  “Fine. Eleven. That’s my final offer.”

  “Is twenty. Is twenty.”

  “OK then. Twelve. Take it or leave it.”

  “No.”

  “Thirteen?”

  “No.”

  “Fourteen?”

  “No. Mamma mia!”

  “Fifteen then? That’s my final offer.”

  “Venti euros! Twenty! Twenty!”

  “Fine. I’ll give you sixteen euros. Not a single cent more. And I want it gift wrapped.” Even though it’s just for me.

  “No. Is not possible.”

  “Seventeen?”

  “No.”

  “Eighteen?”

  “No.”

  Motherfucker.

  I should just snatch the thing and run, but the pram might slow me down.

  “Right! That’s it! I don’t want it anyway. Look, just watch. I’m going away!”

  I turn on my heel and march down the street, pushing the pram at breakneck speed. The vendor doesn’t even flinch. He takes a swig of his Nastro Azzurro and looks the other way.

  RAAAAAAAAGH! I fly back down the street and sprint toward him. “NINETEEN EUROS! OK? Are we done here?”

>   The man looks up at me and frowns. “Twenty euros for the picture.” Tough cookie. He isn’t going to back down.

  I look at the portrait of Channing Tatum: his beautiful face, his puppy-dog eyes. I really miss my poster of him. If I need to replace him, I guess this is it.

  “OK. All right. Nineteen euros, fifty cents. How about that? It’s a great deal.”

  The man stands up and shakes my hand. YES! I knew he’d crack eventually. Alvie: one. Street-art guy: nil.

  “Bene, bene. Finalmente.”

  He reaches up and takes the picture. I find a twenty in Beth’s purse.

  “Oh, do you have any change for a twenty?”

  “No change. I’m sorry. Mi dispiace.”

  He shrugs and gestures to a wad of bank notes folded up inside a tin. There’s no silver to be seen. He doesn’t have any coins.

  I thrust the twenty in his face and snatch the picture. It rips a bit. “OK, fine. Whatever. Fuck it. Here, just take it. Take it all!”

  “Arrivederci, signorina,” he calls after me.

  I shove Channing in the pram with the baby.

  A crocodile leather handbag sits pride of place in a clothes-shop window. A matching belt and clutch bag lie beside it on a replica of a Corinthian plinth. Emporio Armani. It’s unbelievably sexy. I already want it. I’m going to check it out. The store is called Marianna. I push the pram toward the front door. I want to buy myself something special, God knows I deserve it. After everything I’ve been through. After everything I’ve done. I don’t just want to wear Beth’s old clothes forever and ever. I want my own wardrobe. Something new. Unique. I’ll need something hot for dates with Ambrogio: his new hotter, better, sexier wife. Perhaps he’ll take me to that restaurant again? Or he might know somewhere else, a nightclub, perhaps, or a cute little bar right down by the sea. I can see myself gliding in a floor-length dress: luminous green or sunset orange. Something eye-catching. Something expensive. I want heads to turn and crowds to part, people to murmur, point, and stare: “Who’s that girl?” (But in a good way.) I want my share of the limelight.

  And then, of course, there are the accessories . . . I’ll need some new diamonds, obviously. Some earrings, a bracelet, and a few more rings. I’ve seen some beauties at Van Cleef & Arpels. I want a Valentino clutch bag. And thigh-high boots by Miu Miu.

  The shiny glass doors swish wide open and I step into the cool of the store.

  “Ciao, Betta!” squeals a shop assistant, tottering toward me on towering heels. Oh, shit, she knows me. “Ciao, Ernie!” she says.

  “Ciao!” I say, in my best “Beth” voice: breathy, husky. I force a smile.

  A size-0 shop assistant with shiny black hair and almost nonexistent bum comes over to greet us. Air kisses. Hugs. She bends down to the pram and coos at Ernesto.

  “Come stai, bimbo Ernesto? Mamma mia, che bello,” she says, tickling him under his double chin. He gurgles with delight like they’re long-lost friends. Does he know the shop assistant?

  She looks up at me and smiles: invisible braces, fuchsia-pink lips. She smells sickly sweet, like undiluted Ribena. Cheap perfume. I much prefer Beth’s. “Betta, I have the amazing new shoes! Come on! Look! You going to love it!”

  She doesn’t actually grab my hand and drag me across the floor of the shop, but it feels like that. I follow her across marble tiles and walls piled high with shoes on glass shelves. Sparkling. Shimmering. Shining. Spotlights, like tiny suns, illuminate row upon row of priceless handbags: Dolce & Gabbana, Gucci, Hogan, Roberto Cavalli, Tod’s. She stops and spins around toward me, an expectant smile on her youthful face. She gestures toward a new pair of shoes.

  “Look!”

  They’re made of red Perspex with black-and-white stiletto heels. They’re fucking hideous.

  “Oh. Right,” I say.

  ◆

  I bought them. Of course I did. I had no choice. I bought the shoes, even though I hated them, and the matching Perspex belt and the matching Perspex handbag—€4,498. I bought them, because Beth would have bought them. If I hadn’t fucking bought them, she’d have guessed I wasn’t Beth. I stomp down the crazy paving of Via Umberto grinding my teeth. The shopping bag handles cut into my palms. This stuff is fucking heavy.

  A dress. I’ll buy myself a dress. That’ll cheer me up nicely. An ancient fountain blocks my path. Water pours from the mouths of stone fish. Splashing me. Wetting me. Soaking my clothes. Water’s supposed to be relaxing, isn’t it? Fountains are supposed to sound tranquil, like in Japanese gardens: lily pads and Buddhas, but this one is pissing me off. I storm past the fountain and off down the road. I’ve got to find another clothes shop. I need to find myself a dress.

  I come to a store with two tiers of windows. The glass panes glint in the dazzling sun: they must have used liters of Mr. Clean to make them all shine bright like that. Glossy white mannequins wear shining silver, luminous yellow, dazzling white. Prada, Fendi, Pucci, Missoni. It all looks so perfect. I step inside. They’re playing some kind of electrical music: ethereal, magical, strange. A long, bright corridor leads toward the shining lights of the interior. The hall is lined with yet more mannequins, posing, watching with perfect faces. Polished mirrors. Sacred space. The mannequins inhabit square glass boxes: lifelike, immobile. I study their plastic heads. Their dead, blank eyes look just like Beth’s. They stare back at me. Move. They’re coming to get me, I’m sure of it. I catch a glimpse of Beth in a mirror.

  I jump.

  I panic.

  I run!

  And I’m back in the street, gasping for breath, gulping down air. Suddenly faint, I hang my head between my legs. The ground is spinning. What the fuck? That was Beth! I swear it. I saw her! I look around, but she’s not here. Sweating. Hyperventilating. People staring. Where’s the pram? I suddenly realize I don’t have it. Ernie’s gone! My stomach drops. Where the fuck has the baby gone? I look all around, search back in the shop. Run back down the Via Umberto, pushing past tourists, tripping over my feet. That fucking fountain in my way. My blood pumping. My brain throbbing. My mouth dry. I need a drink. Oh my God, Beth would kill me . . . Which shop was it? There are so many. Have I left him inside there? Did somebody take him? I race from window to window to window, searching for that stupid handbag: crocodile leather? Or was it snake? Emporio Armani? Or D&G? Come on, Alvie; he’s got to be here! Somewhere. Somewhere. If I weren’t so fucking dehydrated, I think I would cry. Bottega Veneta. John Galliano. Emilio Pucci. Moncler . . .

  Eventually I see it across the street: Marianna. Emporio Armani: Crocodile leather. Thank fuck for that. I fall through the door, crashing, tripping, panting, sweating, everyone stares. The pram is still there, parked by the doorway. I thought I’d lost him, I really did. Baby Ernie’s fast asleep. The shop assistant opens her mouth and then closes it again. I grab the pram and head back to the villa. I can’t believe that I almost lost Channing. I’ll buy a dress another day.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  But why do I need to come?” I ask, running down the road after Ambrogio.

  We’re heading back into Taormina, past a little bar called Mocambo with chairs on a terrace. Checkered tablecloths. The scent of caffè. I was hoping Ambrogio would stay out with his mates a little while longer, so I could get my head straight. Make a plan of my own. But no, here he is. He showed up at the villa and, apparently, he needs my help.

  “Because he likes you,” says Ambrogio.

  “Who does?”

  “The priest.”

  This makes no sense, but if it’s important to Ambrogio, then I guess I should go. The dutiful wife. The adoring spouse. I’m going to be the perfect partner. I didn’t think Ambrogio was religious, but apparently today we’re going to church. I hope I’ve picked the right kind of outfit. What would Beth have worn to church? Is Prada appropriate for a priest?

  We cross a square called Piazza IX Aprile, ove
r black-and-white tiles, past a riot of flowers. There are wrought-iron lampposts with old-fashioned lanterns. The church is the Chiesa di San Giuseppe. It looks like a wedding cake melting in the sun. Little old ladies pour onto the square after Mass. A boy kicks a football too close to my head. Little fucker. That almost hit me. If I wasn’t Beth, then I’d kick it back hard right in his face. Another boy wearing a “Totti” T-shirt kicks the ball against the church wall. “Goal! Goal!” They run about laughing and cheering and shouting. I try not to scowl. Or swear.

  We leave the sun and sea view to the crowds of tourists all praying to the vista and step inside the cool of a seventeenth-century Baroque church. Pastel-colored paintings. Flying cherubs. I always feel funny when I go into a church, like I’m trespassing or something. A subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place. (The last time I was in a church was that cathedral in Milan, but I think I’ll keep that to myself.)

  Ambrogio leads me by the hand through the dimly lit nave. Incense. Dust. My eyes adjust. This is what limbo looks like: this chiaroscuro. I can smell several centuries’ worth of sins all stacked up.

  The priest is saying the liturgy at the front of the church. He’s tall, unusually tall for an Italian, thin and stooping, with a long, hooked nose. He sounds bored out of his brain. He’s said it a million times before. I guess the words have lost their meaning. There’s no emotion in his voice. I’d sound like that if I had to speak Latin every day for—by the looks of him—a hundred years.

  I follow Ambrogio down the aisle and we join the line of worshippers still waiting to take Communion. I have no idea what I’ll do when it’s my turn. The priest says, “Corpus Christi” and they each say, “Amen.” They open their mouths one by one, and the priest places a wafer onto each of their tongues. OK, it looks pretty easy. I let Ambrogio go first. The priest looks pissed off when he sees Ambrogio. He purses his lips and frowns. Odd. Then it’s time for my wafer. The body of Christ is dry, like eating a Pringle. I could do with some wine to wash it all down. Or the blood of Christ, I should say. Ambrogio and I sit down on a pew at the front on the left and wait in silence for the priest to come.

 

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