Rustling vestments.
“Salve,” says the priest. “Elisabetta! Good to see you! As always!”
He kisses my hand. I can smell the espresso he downed and the cigarette he smoked before starting his shift. “Good to see you, Father. How are you?” I know how to speak to priests. I used to watch Ballykissangel.
“Much better now I’ve seen you.” He smiles, looking deep into my eyes and clasping my hand a little too tight. Creepy. Flirty. Inappropriate. I wish he’d let go of my hand. What is he doing? Is he searching for my soul (and failing to find one)? Is he reading my mind? Does he know I’m not Beth? Did Jesus just tell him?
A shiver runs down the length of my spine. The church is cold. The priest turns away.
“Ambrogio,” he says, shaking his hand and embracing him like a long-lost son. “Come stai?”
“Bene, bene, grazie, Padre.”
Ambrogio turns toward me and puts his hand on my shoulder.
“Amore, why don’t you wait for me here?” He gestures to the pew. “I’m going to confession. I shouldn’t be long.”
I watch Ambrogio and the priest walk arm-in-arm toward a dark wooden box at the side of the church. The confession box looks like a giant wardrobe. Is heaven like Narnia? Does God look like Aslan or Mr. Tumnus? What are they going to talk about in there? I hope it’s not me. They pull a scarlet velvet curtain across the little door. The scream of a metal grille. I think about Adam. That guy never called me. Is Ambrogio going to have sex with the priest?
I imagine them kneeling as I’ve seen people do in films. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. I wonder how many Hail Marys I’d get? I hope this isn’t going to take too long; I’m already bored. What am I even doing here? I stare up at Jesus, nailed to the cross, and I know exactly how he feels. Hurry up. . . .
I sit and study the statues and paintings. It’s a little unnerving, to tell you the truth. There are lots of pictures of people on fire. Everywhere you look there are women in flames. Screaming silently, writhing in pain. I think that’s supposed to be a picture of purgatory. There’s a Renaissance painting of Jesus and Mary, a stunning Tuscan landscape extends behind them: rolling hills, lush green trees, and a pale blue lake. It doesn’t look much like first-century Judea. For some reason Mary always reminds me of Beth. I wonder if Mary had a sister.
I hear a noise coming from the confession box. Someone says something that sounds like “Caravaggio.” Ambrogio and the priest are shouting in Italian, or at least Ambrogio seems to be. I have no idea what they’re saying. I’m going to need to learn Italian if I’m staying in Sicily. Although, I guess Beth never bothered. If you say things loudly and slowly enough in English then people tend to get it.
Ambrogio pulls the curtain aside and storms out of the confession box.
“Elizabeth! We’re leaving,” he says.
His voice reverberates and booms, echoes around the walls of the church. Even the floor seems to shake.
“Come on. Let’s go,” Ambrogio says, grabbing my hand and yanking me up. Oh, shit, he seems cross. Did the priest just tell him that I’m the wrong twin? Is he angry with me or with the priest?
“Hey!” I say, falling over my heels. He doesn’t let go. He drags me along toward the front door and pushes me out to the blinding sun.
“Fucking priest,” says Ambrogio when we are outside. He slams the church door shut behind us. Well, that answers that. I hope.
“What happened?” I ask.
We walk around the corner to Bar Mocambo and sit out at a table overlooking the square. Ambrogio orders two shots of grappa. He’s shaking with rage. I’m shaking with fear.
My hand trembles as I reach over to Ambrogio’s packet of cigarettes lying on the table. I take out two smokes. Then I remember: I am Beth, so I’m right-handed. I struggle to light them with the wrong stupid hand and mess up the lighter. Ambrogio looks up.
“What? Still smoking?”
“Yeah. I’m stressed-out.”
Somehow, I manage to light one for Ambrogio and place it in between his lips. I light one for me and take a drag. Ahh, formaldehyde and tar; that’s better.
“Since when did you start smoking?” He frowns.
“Since now,” I say, trying to sound cool. I don’t think he knows. I think it’s OK. “So, what was all that shouting about?”
He gives me a look: Not here, he scowls. The waiter arrives with two shots of grappa balanced on a little tray. I check out his ass. Not bad at all, but not a patch on Ambrogio’s. We down our shots. It’s not very nice. I think I prefer Malibu.
“Let’s go for a sail, take our minds off this shit,” says Ambrogio, slamming his glass back down on the table. “Come on. We can talk properly out there.”
Oh no. Not a boat. Not a yacht on the water. Not me and Ambrogio alone at sea. I watch that scene play out in my head and it doesn’t end well at all for me. Perhaps he’s bluffing? Perhaps he knows? He’s just playing me along until he gets me alone. I don’t want to go. I know I can’t trust him. He was going to kill me. That was the plan! He’ll knock me out and throw me into the water, the second he gets a chance.
“Can’t we just stay here?” I say. It’s safer in public with all of these people. Surely he can’t touch me in the middle of town? In the middle of the day?
“We’re going!” he says, standing up.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Ionian Sea
More Champagne, darling?” Ambrogio asks.
He tops up my glass with a bottle of something old and expensive-looking.
“Mmm, Krug 1983,” I say, reading the label. Is that “Kruhg” as in “pug” or “Kroog” as in “Hoover”? He gives me a look. I switch the glass from my left hand to my right. Knock back the Champagne in one go. He crunches the bottle back into the ice bucket. That ice won’t last long out here in this heat; it feels like the sea is about to catch fire. It’s as though we’re sailing on smoldering coals. I’m definitely getting a tan.
“I think this one’s better than the ’86, don’t you?”
I have absolutely no idea. “Oh yes. Definitely,” I say.
“It’s the Grand Cuvée; it’s got a lower dosage and more refined texture. The Pinot Noir tastes like apples, don’t you think?”
It tastes like Lambrini. “Yes, apples, definitely, apples,” I say.
Ambrogio smiles; he seems pleased I agree. I’m glad he’s calmed down a bit now, at least. I don’t think he’s plotting to lose me at sea. I wonder why he was so cross with that priest. I need to find out what’s going on. I want some more Champagne.
Our towels are spread out along the deck. The dark wood scalds the soles of my feet. I’m wearing one of Beth’s tiny bikinis; it’s by Agent Provocateur. It’s basically dental floss (lucky I did my bikini line). With these sunglasses on, I look pretty convincing, but I’ll keep my sarong on just in case. Ambrogio lies next to me in his vacuum-pack Speedo; our bodies pressed close together. Ambrogio’s as hot as a Bondi Beach lifeguard (not that I’d ever watch Bondi Rescue or daytime TV). His skin feels hot. He’s practically naked. Man, oh man, I want him so bad. All this danger is turning me on. (I know, I know, it’s pretty messed up, but that’s an actual thing, it’s not just me. Like during the Blitz in 1941, Londoners spent all the air raids shagging. Fear is a natural aphrodisiac. I’m getting off on the menace.)
A light wind has picked up, I’m pleased to say; there’s just enough breeze to keep us cool as the yacht bobs along the languid Ionian. It’s a perfect evening; the azure sky is empty, endless. The sea stretches out, infinitely blue. The water sparkles and twinkles around us as the sun sinks toward the distant horizon. This is heaven. Paradise. Bliss. Better than all those travel brochures. Better than A Place in the Sun (OK, so maybe I watched it just once or twice). I look out at the water, clear as diamonds, and begin to relax. I can figure out all of this craziness later,
but for now I just want to chill out.
“Would you like some more oysters?” Ambrogio says.
“Oh yes. They’re lovely,” I say.
You know, I never thought I’d like them (they’re ugly little critters with their wrinkled gray shells and slimy brown organs) but they were my sister’s favorite food and, surprisingly, quite nice. Plus there’s the zinc! Apparently.
“The Languedoc oysters are so skinny these days; these Italian ones really taste of the sea.”
“Mmm, yeah.” Whatever you say.
He brings over a heavy, ice-filled platter and squeezes some lemon juice over the oysters. He adds some shallots and a dash of Tabasco. A little chopped parsley and ground black pepper.
“Open wide.”
I open my mouth and swallow it whole. I feel like a seal at a Sea World show.
“Yum,” I say, giggling just like my twin: carefree, girlie. Ambrogio’s right. They do taste of the sea. But in a good way.
We lie side by side on the deck. Ambrogio strokes my hair and I snuggle into him. I rest my head on his pillow-like chest. I feel safe, protected, like a chick in a nest. He has no idea that I am Alvie. I like being Beth. It’s growing on me. I can see us growing old together, Ambrogio and me. Alvie and Ambrogio. Ambrogio and Alvie: AA, like the roadside assistance group, like Alcoholics Anonymous. I picture countless hours spent sailing his yacht, his million-fucking-dollar yacht. Afternoons turning to evenings. Evenings turning to night. We would lie, side by side, right here on this deck, watching suns set and bleed into the ocean, watching moons rise and stars burn out. It’s perfect, dreamlike. Almost too perfect; it doesn’t feel real. But it is real and I’ve earned it. Just like L’Oréal: because I’m worth it. I worked hard for this shit. It’s all I’ve ever dreamed of. I deserve it. I do.
“Do you fancy sailing to Lampedusa?” Ambrogio asks, running a warm hand along my shoulder to the base of my neck.
What the hell is Lampedusa? “Erm,” I say, looking around. Is it some kind of lighthouse?
“You can see it starboard.”
I look toward the left.
“No, that’s port. Starboard,” he says. “What’s with you today? Did you bang your head?”
Damn. I know. Beth would have known that. I smile sweetly and look off into the distance, toward the right. I shake my head. I can’t see anything.
“No, you’re right. Let’s just stay around here. One island looks very much like another. After a while all the beaches look the same. It’s boring.”
We lie back and watch the graceful seabirds dance high in the sky, waltzing and swirling in twos and threes, their bright white feathers as pale as ghosts. Perhaps we’ll have a baby, Ambrogio and me. A little girl, to go with the boy. She’ll look like me, but be half Italian. Darker hair. A better tan. And what about the name? Something Italian-sounding: Sophia? Angelina? Monica Bellucci? Yes, that would be perfect. Our perfect family. Our perfect home. I’ll take thousands of pictures and post them on Instagram. Facebook. Twitter. Tweet about my gorgeous family. My beautiful life. Look how sexy my husband is. Look how cute all my kids are. I’ll have more followers than Kim Kardashian; I’ll get hundreds of thousands of “Likes.”
And with all this money, I won’t need to work. I’ll eat and drink and shop and eat. Emilia can help me with the children. Perhaps we’ll hire some more staff too? I’ll finally have time to work on my poetry. A collection of haikus. An award-winning book. Perhaps I’ll buy a handbag dog? A little Chihuahua to replace Mr. Dick? Or perhaps a pet bear, like Lord Byron. That would be cool.
“Beth?” he says.
“Yes, my darling?”
I turn to look at my handsome husband. My wonderful, beautiful, gorgeous man. I still don’t know where Beth got those bruises. Why was my twin so cross with Ambrogio? Why was she running away from him? The diamonds in the handbag? That row with her neighbor? What is Ambrogio going to say? He suddenly looks serious. Is he going to kill me? He’s going to wrestle me, strangle me now and throw my body out into the sea!
“I’m so sorry about your sister, about the way things turned out.”
Oh, that. I see.
I sit up on my elbows and squint into the sun. I find Elizabeth’s Gucci shades and pull them back on.
“Oh. Yes. Me too,” I say, turning to face him. I pull my lips down into a pout. Crinkle my nose up like Beth used to do.
“I mean, the way that it happened, not being able to bury her properly . . . I know we were going to have a proper funeral, no expense spared. I feel terrible about it.”
I reach across and take his hand. It feels good.
“I understand,” I say, stroking his fingers. Can we change the fucking subject? I was starting to have fun.
“It’s just—it couldn’t have happened at a worse time, you know, with this deal? With the Caravaggio? I don’t know what we’re going to do now. We need to make another plan.”
I literally could not have less of a clue. “I know,” I say, “the whole thing’s just . . . messed up.”
“We’ll have to think of something else. We’re running out of time. This is our one shot. Our only way out. We can’t afford to make a mistake. You know what could happen . . . what they might do. . . .”
“Mmm, yeah. Sure,” I say.
Ambrogio sighs and sits up on his elbows. He takes a sip of his Champagne.
“I mean, in a way, it’s better that she’s dead, you know, like euthanasia?”
My skin bristles; my shoulders tense. “No, darling, I don’t know what you mean.”
“Well, you know you were always saying what a freak she was . . . how sad her life was. At least this way her suffering has ended. Perhaps it’s for the best.”
She said what? How could Beth say those things about me? I want to slap her, but she isn’t here. I want to drag her down to the bottom of the sea and kick her and punch her! Two-faced cow! How could she? How dare she? Slagging me off behind my back to the man of my dreams! Lying about me! Bitch!
He gives me a reassuring smile, so I smile back and pretend to agree. “Yes, it’s for the best.”
I stare at the seabirds. I think that’s an albatross.
“Beth?” he says again.
Oh my God, what is it now?
He stands up suddenly and gives a twirl. “You didn’t say anything. Don’t you like my new Speedos?”
I gawk at Ambrogio’s swimming trunks. His tight butt cheeks are an inch from my nose. They’re just plain blue Speedos. “Oh, are they new?”
He turns around and shows off his bum.
“Yes. You really don’t remember? I couldn’t decide between the red and the blue. . . .”
“So you bought the blue.”
“So I bought them both! These are the blue. Don’t you like them?”
He runs his hands over his Men’s Health abs and smooths the fabric of his shorts.
“They’re nice,” I say. “I mean, they’re perfect.”
“You prefer the red ones, don’t you?” he says.
“No. I don’t. I like them both.”
He leans in and kisses me full on the mouth: a soft, warm, lingering kiss. He tastes of apples—oh, the Champagne.
“Can you ever forgive me?” he asks under his breath, kissing my jaw, my throat, my collarbone. “About your sister?”
Oh, Ambrogio . . .
“I already have.”
I run the palms of my hands along his hot, bronzed, muscular back and breathe in deep. His scent is pure sex: Armani Code Black, pheromones, tobacco. It’s driving me nuts. Whatever happens, I’m not going to sleep with him . . . not here. Not yet. I don’t feel ready. I need more time to get into character. I need a chance to “transform.” If I sleep with him now, I’m totally screwed. There’s no way I fuck at all like my sister; Beth was a doormat in bed. Guaranteed.
Ambrogio feels under the straps of my bikini, reaches down and cups my breasts in his hands. My nipples harden. I bite my lip. He leans in toward me, kissing my neck, pulling me closer. I pull away.
“Merda!” says Ambrogio, jumping up suddenly.
He runs over to the helm of the yacht. Cliffs loom mere meters away. What the fuck?
“Help me,” he says, grabbing hold of the wheel and steering it frantically.
I get up and run over. How did we miss that? Oh my God, we’re going to crash. It’s the Costa Concordia all over again. We stand side by side and tug at the steering wheel. Then I realize. My sarong: it’s gone. It’s still on the deck over there where I left it. I look down at my body, suddenly self-conscious. I’m freaking out. I need to distract him. I jump on the steering wheel and pull it down hard. Ambrogio grabs it and pulls it back up.
But it’s too late.
CRASH! BANG! BOOM!
The yacht lurches, shudders, and shakes. Are we going to capsize? There’s a crack as the rudder smashes into some rocks.
“Merda!” he says, again. “I hope we’re not stuck!”
But we are. Stuck fast.
“I’m so sorry. I fell.”
Ambrogio looks out across the sea, but there aren’t any boats.
“Come on,” he says, eventually. “Let’s jump in. We can swim to the shore. It isn’t far.” He takes my hand and leads me to the edge of the yacht. I peer down into the dark-green water; it looks very deep. It looks really scary. “We’ll have to go back and get help.”
He disappears and I hear a SPLASH! Before I know it, he’s swimming away. He looks just like a dolphin, slick and shiny in the water. He looks like a far better swimmer than me. Ambrogio turns around in the sea and shouts:
“Come on, Beth! Jump in! Let’s go.”
I stand at the edge of the yacht and look down. I don’t have much choice. I can’t exactly stay here on the fucking Titanic all by myself. The water looks deep and scary. Scenes from Jaws flash through my head. Row upon row of razor-sharp teeth. Floating limbs. Bits of gristle. The saltwater crimson with gallons of blood. I scan the horizon for fins. Nothing there. OK, here goes. I close my eyes and pinch my nose. One, two, three—jump! I cannonball into the water. It looked so warm from up there on the boat, but it’s not! It’s freezing, glacier ice. My arms and legs are thrashing, crashing, flailing about like an electrocuted frog. Come on, Alvie, you’re a mermaid. Ambrogio’s watching. Swim like Beth.
Mad Page 18
