“You didn’t need to slice it open! Sei pazza,” he says.
Nino nurses his bleeding hand. It’s on the same side as his bleeding arm. He looks wounded, hurt. Pitiful, like a rabbit on the side of the road. Like a puppy that someone’s just kicked. How could you?
“Stop it,” I say.
“Me stop it?”
“Yes.”
“Stop what exactly?”
I roll my eyes.
“Can’t you just . . .”
“What? Just what?”
“Be more Nino.”
He sighs.
“It can’t have hurt that much. Not really. And anyway, don’t you think it’s kinda romantic?” He doesn’t say anything. “I got one for you too, look! They come as a pair.” I pull out the other necklace with its little glass vial. I’m really quite pleased with them. They’re vintage, antique, but it doesn’t look like they’ve ever been used.
“No, not for me,” Nino says, eyeing the vial. “I don’t wear necklaces.”
“Oh. OK.” Fair enough, I suppose. It isn’t really his style.
I lean in and kiss him, a long, deep, lingering kiss on the mouth. He kisses me back. He can’t be that cross.
“You be more Betta,” he says with a laugh. “I never knew you were half this crazy.”
I think that’s the first time that I’ve seen him smiling. I thought I’d like it, but I don’t want to be Betta: the second choice, the number two, the fucking plan B. I want to be Alpha. I want to be me: Alvina Knightly. I’d almost forgotten. It’s only been a few short days, but it feels like forever. I get the feeling that Nino would like Alvie. I need to tell someone; it’s driving me nuts. And I’m sure that he would understand. Nino and Alvie forever and ever, killing and fucking and fucking and killing! I’ll tell him tonight in the bar.
“I’ll call reception and get you a Band-Aid,” I say.
◆
When Matthew has gone and Nino has got his bandage wrapped tightly around his red finger, we stand at the foot of the bed.
“Let’s get dressed and get something to eat,” I say. “I think there’s a restaurant in the hotel?” Nino looks like he could do with some food. He’s a little bit pale from the blood loss.
He takes my bathrobe and pulls it down off my shoulders; it falls down my body and into a pool on the floor at my feet. I am completely naked.
“Oh!” I say. What’s all this? Does he want to have sex? Not again? Oh my God, he’s worse than me.
“Wait,” he says.
“What?”
I stand and watch him search through our suitcase, the one with Beth’s jewelry and Ambrogio’s clothes.
“Wear this,” he says.
He holds up Beth’s diamond necklace, the one that I tried on before. It looks even more beautiful here in the lamplight, the diamonds sparkle like trillions of stars. I catch my breath. Beth caught me last time. But Beth’s not here. Now they’re all mine.
“I want you to wear it.” Oh my God. He fastens the diamonds around my neck; the stones burn as cold as ice on my skin. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, nude apart from the dazzling jewels that seem to blaze upon my chest, so bright they hurt my retinas.
I look down at the diamonds and stroke the largest, at the center of my chest between my breasts. He’s so romantic. I’m actually speechless.
Nino kisses me on the forehead. “Why don’t you go downstairs and get us a drink? I’ll meet you in the bar once I’ve taken a shower.”
“OK,” I say. “See you later.”
◆
I’m waiting for Nino in the Rivoli Bar. I run my finger around the rim of my martini and smile at the barman. Beth’s diamond necklace sparkles in the lamplight; the rocks the size of a baby’s head. Her rings are flashing, effervescent. I can’t see them, but I’m sure Beth’s diamond earrings are equally dazzling (I put those on to go with the necklace). Everything about me is scintillating, sparkling. I look like a million dollars. I breathe in deep—synthetic magnolia—and begin to relax. A swig of vodka martini: shaken, not stirred, like Ambrogio used to order, like in James Bond. It tastes of freedom and clear blue skies. There’s a spiral of orange peel and a single olive in a tiny silver chest for me to add, should I care to do so. I dump them both in and stir.
I fucking love being a millionaire.
I run my palms along the cool, smooth bar. The Rivoli is silent, empty except for me. It’s a quarter to one in the morning. I can’t remember what day it is. It’s probably Monday, but it doesn’t make any difference. I spin on my barstool: mahogany, leopard-print, golden cherubs, Louis XVI armchairs, and tables so polished they’re dark, shining mirrors. There’s a trolley stacked high with different-sized tumblers, Champagne flutes, shot glasses, fifty different types of spirit. A silver cocktail shaker has “Ritz London” engraved in letters so tiny, I can hardly read them.
I’m still waiting for Nino.
I’m starving, so I order beluga caviar from the bar menu: fifty quid. It arrives on a silver plate in a doll-sized portion. Glossy black eggs like tiny eyes. There are three miniature blini, a quarter of a lemon in a net, a cup of chopped shallots, a cup of chopped parsley, and some strange yellow powder. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to do, so I just look at it: abstract art by somebody famous I’m supposed to appreciate. I eat the free peanuts instead.
A man enters the room. It’s not Nino. He sits at the opposite end of the bar and orders a whiskey straight up. Spins on his stool. Plays with his phone. Behind the man, hanging up on the wall, is a gorgeous gilt scene: a woman reclining with a swan against a radiant sunset. The sun’s rays spread out across a brilliant sky, a golden-orange glow. Scalloped clouds swirl. The woman is naked, bare-breasted, beautiful, with free-flowing hair and an open mouth. The swan lies on top of her, majestic, regal, his wings wide open. It’s only once I’ve finished my martini that I realize the woman is being raped by the swan. I remember that from the History Channel: the woman is Leda, and Zeus is the swan. It’s fucking disgusting. I suddenly feel sick.
I look at the empty doorway. Scan the room; it’s quiet, empty. I watch the second hand on Beth’s Ladymatic. Tick-tock, tick-tock. Time is passing oh so slowly. It slows and stops like a melting clock by Salvador Dalí. I look around at the room and everything’s frozen still like a painting. The colors are oil paints. The windows, the furniture, tables and chairs, they’re all painted on. It’s all two-dimensional. Nothing is moving. And I know Nino isn’t coming. That’s why I’ve been waiting. He’s not going to come.
I snap out of it.
Shit.
“Can I use your phone?” I say to the barman. “I want to call the room.”
“Of course, madam,” he says. He hands me the receiver. I snatch it away and punch in the numbers: 1012. I listen to it ring out and then dial again. Nothing. Perhaps he’s already on his way down? But somehow I know he isn’t. I sign for the drink and run out of the bar, along the corridor, up the stairs. What if he’s taken the lift and I’ve missed him? I take out the key card and open the door.
“Nino?” I say.
I can’t see any of Nino’s things: his clothes, his shoes, our bag. The suite is empty. I scour the rooms for the suitcase, fling open the wardrobes, look under the bed. I yank open drawers and search for the money. I check all the tables for the Lambo’s valet ticket. Search on the floor. Nothing. Everything’s gone.
Shit.
Nino’s hat is on the bedside table; the black fedora with the ribbed gray band. I pick it up. It smells of him. It’s the only sign he was ever here. I grab the phone and collapse on the bed, call the concierge.
“Valet, please.” Someone connects me. “Hello, this is Room 1012. Is our car still there?”
A pause . . .
“I’m sorry, madam, but your husband’s just taken the car. . . .”
“I see,” I say, and hang up. “Fuck.”
I run to the window and push it out wide, look down at the street. It’s cold and it’s raining. There’s the red Lambo; the valet is just getting out. Nino’s there with the cases, the money.
“Nino!” I shout. He opens the car door. He doesn’t look up.
I kick off my heels and sprint out of the room, race down the hall. I can’t let that asshole get away. The lift is too slow. I’m taking the stairs. I race down the steps, stumbling, tripping. I pass reception without making eye contact. The men at reception look up and stare. Matthew smiles when I rush past. Fucking Nino. Fucking fuck. I really thought we had a future. I thought we had something special. The doorman bows low as he opens the door.
I step out on the street. The rain pounding down. I’m two seconds too late. My fingertips graze the back of the Lambo as Nino floors the accelerator. I run and run as fast as I can, the raindrops hitting me hard in the face, sliding down my neck, chilling my back. The car speeds away down Piccadilly. The back of his head. His slick black hair. He doesn’t even turn around. I’m still holding his stupid fedora. I throw it after him, then sit down in a puddle on the pavement and cry. That’s it! He’s gone. I can forget the proposal. I can forget the plan. It’s just me, on my own, lonely and alone once again. Not even Beth to hate. And I’ve killed everyone else.
Shit shit fuck fuck shit
Fuck fuck shit shit fuck fuck shit
Shit fuck shit fuck shit.
◆
My fingers trail the wallpaper, cool and smooth, as I glide down the endless corridor. My feet seem to be moving all by themselves. Finally, I see the door to the suite. I steady myself on the doorframe, fumble with the lock. The key card clicks and the little green light flashes on. I push into the suite. Everything’s the same, except slightly different. Pixelated, like being inside a video game. My vision is blurry with tears. It’s suddenly quiet. It feels way too big. All this space, just for me? I flop down on the sofa. Dazed. Numb. Now what am I going to do? I can’t stay here after tonight; I don’t have the money. I can’t go back to the slobs’ place now. The slobs would never let me, even if I begged them. I think of my old room in Archway . . . I wonder what it’s like now, all cleared out. A space on the wall where my Channing poster once hung. A grimy rectangle marking its edges. Blu-Tack remnants in the corners. I wonder what became of him? I bet the slobs threw him out with the sex toys. (I should never have left Mr. Dick in Taormina.) There’ll be a new bucket on the floor, to catch the rain. My stuff will be gone, but otherwise, I guess, my room will be exactly the same, same old futon, same old carpets, as though I never left, as though nothing has changed. Perhaps nothing has and it’s all in my head?
Sicily’s already beginning to fade, to evanesce, like a bad dream. . . . I grab my phone and scroll through the photos. Me and Ernie. My selfie with the priest. The bodies in the rain. It really did happen! I’m not going mad. I hug a red velvet cushion into my chest and rest my head on the side.
Nino’s left the TV on. It’s some twenty-four-hour news channel: BBC World. The story is about the refugee crisis: Syria, Calais, Campedusa. The sound’s turned down but at the bottom of the screen, a bright-red banner reads: “BREAKING NEWS: Experts confirm that the missing Caravaggio painting The Nativity with St. Francis and St. Lawrence has been found damaged in a house fire in Taormina, Sicily. The FBI have been searching for Caravaggio’s masterpiece, worth $30 million, since 1969, when it was stolen from the Oratory of San Lorenzo in Palermo.”
I burned thirty million dollars?
I scream.
I run and jump at the screen, pull the television off the wall. It crashes onto the carpet. The power cuts out. I jump and jump and jump on the screen: CRACK, CRACK, CRACK. I lean, bent double with my hands on my knees, and catch my breath. Thirty million dollars? Thirty fucking million? I yank open the minibar and grab a bottle of gin: Bombay Sapphire. Is the bottle blue or is it the gin? I down it in one. It’s not very nice. I feel a bit better.
Beth’s phone makes a noise: Tweet, tweet, tweet. Who’s that, now? Not Taylor again. I reach into my handbag and grab the phone: six missed calls and two texts from my mum: “Beth, where are you? I’m outside your villa. It’s burned to the ground! The firemen are here, but it’s completely destroyed. CALL ME BACK. ARE YOU OK?” “Beth, darling, I’ve got your son. Don’t worry, he was safe with Emilia, but I’m going to take him back to the hotel and give him some mashed-up bananas.”
And I scream.
And scream.
And scream.
I grab a golden candelabra and swipe it across the table; a lamp, a bowl of fruit, and a crystal figurine fly across the floor. I tip over the armchair and sofa. I run and jump at the curtains, yanking them down. There’s a rip and they’re in a red pile on the floor. I wrap myself in the curtains, curl into a ball. No money. No villa. No car. No Nino. No yacht. No baby Ernesto. I want to disappear.
A rap at the door sounds like gunfire. Shit. What now? Fuck off. Go away. Who could that be at this time of night? My mind races: could it be my mum? Oh God no, please, please not my mum! But how would she know where I am? Nino? But no, he’s long gone. Elizabeth? No, don’t be stupid, Alvina; it couldn’t be Beth. Those guys from Sicily who were following us? No, didn’t I kill them? The fucking police? Calm down, Alvie. You’re paranoid. Another loud knock, a drill to the brain. I take a deep breath.
“Coming,” I say.
I climb out of the curtains, fluff up my hair, rub my palms up and down my face. I slide the door open, inch by inch. It’s Matthew. Thank fuck. Maybe I’ll kill him? It might cheer me up? He stumbles backward when he sees me.
“Everything OK, madam? I thought I, er . . . er . . . er . . . heard a noise?”
“A noise? No.”
“Like a scream?”
“No, no.”
“Are you sure you’re OK?”
“I’m absolutely fine.”
“’Cause you look pretty f—”
“What?” I glare, willing him to say it. Go on, say it.
“Freaked out.” His eyes are wide. His hands are trembling by his sides.
“Well, so do you.”
I shut the door, make sure that it’s locked. I look freaked out? I walk over to the mirror and do a double-take. Elizabeth’s face stares back at me. Elizabeth’s face. Elizabeth’s eyes. My heart beats faster. I shake my head. Don’t be ridiculous, Alvie. Don’t be a dick. That’s insane. But I step in a bit closer, my nose an inch from the mirror. . . . I’m wearing Beth’s jewelry, her diamond necklace. Why did Nino give me that? I look into my eyes, they’re filled with tears. And it’s true.
I am Elizabeth. I am Beth.
A sick feeling spreads from my gut. What the hell? My heart beats faster. The reflection in the mirror screams a silent scream.
“Elizabeth?”
Oh my God.
I AM ELIZABETH.
I AM BETH.
My face, my eyes, my smile; it’s her!
I shake my head and look around in a panic, grab an urn from the mantelpiece, and hurl it at the mirror. It shatters into a thousand pieces; shards of glass smash into the fireplace, falling like rain. My heart beats faster. Where is my heart? I feel for my chest, underneath my bra. My pulse thumps: BU-BUMP! BU-BUMP! and it’s all right. It’s OK. My heart is on the right. It’s on the right side, not the left. Quit fucking around. You’re losing it, Alvina. Mad, mad, mad. You’re fucking out of your fucking mind. Too much coke. Not enough sleep. Too much blood. I need some fresh air.
I run over to the window, lean out, and look down at the pavement. Take a deep breath. The raindrops fall: heavy, fat. A leaden sky. A thick, black night. Nino. Nino. He did this to me. How could he leave? It’s all his fault. Of course he’s run; it’s exactly what I would have done if I’d thought of it first. In a funny kind of way, I’m impressed. You se
e, we’re the same, me and Nino, two peas in a pod. We’re made for each other. He’s Mr. Right. I’m Cinderella. Nino’s my Prince fucking Charming. He’s so picked the wrong girl to fuck with. I refuse to lose. He will not win. I’m finding Nino, if it’s the last thing I do.
“It’s not over, Giannino Maria!” I shout out of the window.
I’m finding that stronzo and leisurely . . . painfully . . . taking my time . . . I will find him and I will kill him.
Or marry him.
Nino needs to meet Alvie.
Epilogue
Alvina Knightly
Ritz Hotel,
150 Piccadilly,
London, W1J 9BR
Mr. Channing Tatum
c/o C A A
2000 Avenue of the Stars
Los Angeles, CA 90067
Monday, 31st August 2015,
3:56 a.m.
RE: Marriage
Dear Mr. Tatum,
My name is Alvina Knightly, but you can call me Alvie, or Al (though that sounds a bit like a man’s name) and I am not only your biggest fan, but also potentially your future wife. I have admired you from afar for some time (since the first “Magic Mike” movie came out in the UK), but it’s not just your chiseled abs and toned torso I appreciate, I also really like your dick. I also think you are a better actor than Ryan Gosling, though not quite as good as Matthew McConaughey; he’s really talented.
Let me tell you a bit about myself, so you can decide whether or not you want to marry me (you should, by the way). Like I said, my name is Alvina and I am 26 21 years old. At the moment, I live in London, England, at the Ritz Hotel (as you can see from this headed notepaper), but this is not my permanent address. I hope to find somewhere to live after I pawn my sister’s diamond necklace, which should be worth in the region of £70–80 grand and which she gave to me for my birthday. That should be enough for a deposit on a studio flat in Archway. There might also be some insurance money to claim for the villa I burned down in Sicily, but I’m not sure right now.
I am an amicable, friendly, and fun-loving people-person. I get on with everybody and love animals, kids, and tourists. I like opera, poetry, Lamborghinis, traveling, alcohol, killing and sex. Especially sex. I am very experienced in the bedroom department and have been told I give good head. To date, I have slept with 303 men, though this was over an eight-year period, so I don’t want you to go thinking I’m a slut.
Mad Page 34
