But Alice . . .
Lisa hesitated, the weight of the backpack heavy on her shoulders. What about that, her friend, terrified and sweating? The maid would be back in twenty-four hours and would hear her. That extra time could let Lisa run far, far away. Before they knew about the passport, before anything.
But she just could not do it. What if there was a problem? If the maid didn’t come back? If the maid had a heart attack, to take it to a stupid extreme? In that case, Alice might die, and a horrible death too, thirst and starvation.
It sounded unlikely, but maybe it was true. Lisa couldn’t say if Alice had lots of friends - and even then, who amongst them would drop by and go into the house if it was shut up?
There was a bank of payphones in the arrivals hall. They took coins, but she didn’t have euros, and anyway it would be expensive. She went to the bureau de change and switched her money. Thank God for the EU; she could stick with euros now for a little while, wherever she went.
There were a few kiosks, and they all spoke English. Just as well, since she only had a few words of Italian. She bought a phone card for thirty euros; she could have got more, but maybe they could trace those things. She had written down the airline and police numbers before she left Hong Kong. The police were easy enough.
‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I’m calling to report a robbery on the Peak. Ms Alice Kennedy.’
‘Excuse me? Address please?’
She gave the address twice.
‘The householder is bound and gagged in a closet in her second bedroom.’ What could she say to make them believe her? ‘Her husband is with Cathay Pacific, a pilot.’
‘Who is speaking?’
‘Somebody who knows. And who is telling Cathay that the police were informed.’ She hung up. She was under no illusions; they’d have her voice recorded now, and they’d know exactly where she was. As soon as possible she had to go to ground, and dye her hair again. But none of that mattered. It was about getting Alice free.
She could not trust the police. The passport in her pocket had a number for Cathay Pacific, an emergency number to reach Alice’s husband. That was good. With a stab of fear, Lisa dialled the country code and the number.
A computer replied.
‘For quality and training purposes, your call may be recorded.’
Lovely - of course it may. She waited for a human.
‘Cathay Pacific.’
‘Hi, I’m calling to reach Ronald Watson, a pilot of yours. It’s a family emergency.’
There was a pause on the end of the line.
‘Is this about his wife?’
Lisa breathed in sharply; the pit of her stomach crunched and her entire body prickled with adrenaline.
‘Yes,’ she said, in a half-whisper. ‘She was assaulted—’
‘Her journalist friend notified the airline already, thank you. Ronald’s on his way home.’
‘Oh, she did?’
‘He did - it was Mr Murray. He seemed to know Lisa Costello would go to see her.’ Another pause. ‘I didn’t get your name, miss.’
The voice was starting to change tone, get suspicious. Lisa replaced the receiver and ran blindly out of the airport. There were cabs everywhere, buses too. She fished in her pocket for a few euros and caught the bus, shoving them at the driver. He was used to tourists; he gave her change and waved her to a seat. It was packed already with students and families, and a few seconds later pulled blessedly away.
Lisa watched the city as it rolled past her windows, trying to bring back the experience of being here as a poor girl; where she’d been, what she’d done. How long would she be the story if she stayed on the run? How long would it take them to forget her? The temptation was to make for some little nowhere place, a village in Umbria or a hilltop town in Lazio, rent a minute studio and try to get a cash-in-hand job. But it wouldn’t work. In small towns not much happened, and you got noticed. She didn’t want to be noticed, to be the conspicuous Englishwoman. In that situation, she would soon be rotting in Regina Coeli jail.
So what, what now? Stick in the anonymity of tourist-trap Rome? They would get round to the call to Cathay Pacific, and anyway, they’d know she had Alice’s passport. So they would be looking here. But she thought she might stay anyway, for a little while, move around until her money ran out; maybe by that time they’d have forgotten her, and she could get a job.
It was bad, all of it. Lisa longed to be free, but now she was in Europe, the future rattled down on her like a runaway train; the best she could hope for a long, grubby existence of grinding poverty, working tables for less than minimum wage, with no identity, no way to open a bank account or buy a house. It was not a good life. Was it better than taking her chances in jail? Yeah. But not by much.
The bus pulled in to the Colosseum. There was a stand right next to the giant monument, full of tourist info. Lisa asked for the address of a cheap albergo, someplace she could stay on a budget. There was one in Monti, she was told, safe and clean, but with shared bathrooms.
She hoisted up her backpack and walked there. It wasn’t as clean as all that, but it was twenty euros a night and would do for now. The door to her room seemed heavy enough and had a key chain. She wanted a shower, but someone was using the bathroom in the hall. She wanted a lot of things. She bolted her door, slid the chain on, and flopped on her bed, fully clothed.
Alice was safe. But they knew she’d been there. Somebody apparently knew she would come. A man, a Mr Murray. She could not remember anybody by that name right now, but it would come back. Right now she needed to sleep. She put down her head, and surrendered to darkness.
When she woke, the shadows were long outside her small window. It was still light, though, maybe late afternoon. Nobody was around the hotel. She took a fresh set of clothes and the small, scratchy towel they provided and went to the shower room. It was cramped, and the tiles were cracked, but the hot water was utterly blissful. Gratefully, she shaved and washed her hair, cleaned her teeth, even washed her face with the small, functional bar of cheap soap they provided. She was awake now, the fog of tiredness gone from her. Time to think, time to plan. She pulled on new clothes and went back to her room, running a cheap plastic comb through her wet hair.
What the hell had happened with Alice?
Somebody had found her. Somebody had told Cathay Pacific, but not the police. Mr Murray . . .
Oh God. The comb stopped in her hair. Sam Murray. That was the guy. The journalist from that trashy tabloid, the one Josh had insisted on inviting.
It came back to her then, all in a rush, a flashback from just days ago, but a world away from her new life, a person she had been a million years before, when she was still rich, still married to Josh, and he was alive, and her future was golden . . .
There they were. Her bridegroom of a couple of hours, and one of her bridesmaids. God, the ultimate cliché. They were in the bushes, having sex. And Josh’s hand was cupping her ass and his other hand was on her shoulder, and the tip of his tongue was teasing her earlobe. He was doing to that bitch Melissa Olivera what he’d always done to Lisa, and she had loved it, that possessive way he had of taking her, fondling her like a chattel. It was sexy, until he started to treat her that way out of the bedroom too.
Not that she hadn’t suspected. How could you not, when his bitchy family made remarks all the time, and the press went on about Josh Steen marrying beneath himself, and magazines like Sam Murray’s ran those cute photo-spreads comparing mousy little Lisa to the golden California butterflies Josh had dated. Josh was away on set more and more frequently, and Lisa was left behind with the ladies who shopped, bored out of her mind, buying things she didn’t need or want on Rodeo Drive and spending hours in the gym or at the beauty parlour. Why wouldn’t he get bored with her? He had fallen for her because she was different, then spent all of his very considerable energies making her exactly the same.
And when that happened, he wanted a challenge. The safe, easy lay of a married woman. Th
e thrill of screwing one of his wife’s friends - nominal friends, anyway, a girl she hung out with, because Lisa had no true friends in America, certainly none amongst Josh Steen’s circle.
But still. Even though it was all over before their private jet touched down in Thailand. Even though she’d only gone through with the marriage to spare him embarrassment. Even though Lisa had been planning a divorce, it still hurt to see him with Melissa, on their wedding day.
Funny how much it hurt.
It was his final act of control, perhaps, his statement that he was everything and Lisa was nothing, that he was never going to change, not for her, not for anybody. Josh Steen loved his mafia movies, didn’t he? He thought of himself as a real Michael Corleone, with the goomah in the rented apartment giving him wild sex and getting paid in Bulgari necklaces, while the wife and kids stayed home and provided a respectable backdrop.
He’d had everything in Phuket: the pliant English wife with no past, no scandals; and the sexy-as-hell American girlfriend who’d say yes to anything, even a highly charged fuck on Lisa’s wedding day.
So then there had been nothing to do but go away. And she had done, stumbling backwards, not letting Josh see her at first, grabbing a flute of champagne from a passing waiter, and then doing the thing he hated most of all.
She’d made a scene.
Her bridesmaids were all from Josh’s side of the altar, with only her fat friend Lilly dredged up from home to stand for her. Lilly had played with her as a child, and had been happy to take an all-expenses-paid trip out to the Far East to be at this wedding, but they were hardly close. Lisa smiled as she remembered seeing Lilly in her bridesmaid’s outfit of sage and cream chiffon and silk; she’d insisted on sleeves, in an attempt to spare her embarrassment, but the girl still looked like an overdone Christmas pudding.
Lilly was outside smoking while the other girls went through their choreographed rehearsal.
‘Wotcher, Lisa,’ she’d said, dragging deep on her cigarette. At the time Lisa thought it was the best thing she’d heard all week.
But Lilly had retired to her bungalow after the reception dinner, saying foreign food didn’t agree with her. So Lisa was out there alone in the lush tropical garden, and she wasn’t the only one who’d seen Josh’s paws all over Melissa. Lots of young trophy wives, and their catty mothers, were putting their heads together as Lisa walked past by herself. Some of the single women even sniggered aloud. Guess they saw this marriage being stillborn. Josh Steen would be a prize catch, out on the market again where he belonged, instead of stuck with this bitch . . .
She’d heard the whispers, and the sniggers. And she’d tossed back the glass of champagne, telling herself she didn’t give a damn any more, and if he wanted to blow up this wedding that was fine with her.
‘Hey, Lisa.’ It was Fiona Greenberg, Josh’s cousin and another of her bridesmaids. ‘Maybe go easy on that, huh? I mean, you did have wine at dinner.’
There was a cruel little smile playing around Fiona’s mouth. Like she was determined to add to the humiliations this day was heaping on the bride. Lisa glanced around and saw several knots of wedding guests staring at her. By a palm tree, lounging casually, observing her, there was a man by himself, wearing a relaxed suit with an ice-blue shirt, tanned, with five o’clock shadow round a square jaw. She remembered it clearly, because she hadn’t seen him before, and Josh had forced her to make small talk with most of his boring little friends.
‘Hey, Fiona,’ Lisa said, loudly and clearly. ‘Why don’t you just get lost?’
The older woman drew back. ‘Excuse me?’
‘No, I don’t think I will. This is supposed to be my wedding. It’s not for you to tell me what to drink. Look at you,’ she said, gesturing to Fiona’s pudgy arms and double chin. ‘I didn’t tell you not to eat the ice cream at dinner. Maybe you’d like yourself a little better if you didn’t stuff your fat face every other second. And then you wouldn’t need to snipe at me.’
‘I can’t believe you!’ Fiona said, going red-faced with fury. ‘You’d speak to a member of Josh’s family like that?’
‘Hey, you got no trouble speaking to his wife like that.’ Lisa stared her down. ‘Why are you still here? I thought I told you to fuck off.’
There was a chuckle, and she looked past the stumbling form of Fiona, tripping on her heels and chiffon, one hand over her pudgy mouth, to see the stranger by the palm tree grinning broadly at her.
‘Waiter,’ Lisa said, snapping her fingers. Somebody immediately materialised with a silver tray and more champagne; she chose rosé this time, and slugged down half of it, right on the spot. Wedding guests were staring. She laughed. Some of her other bridesmaids hurriedly withdrew. They were looking for Josh, she knew, looking to give him the bad news: Lisa was making a scene; Lisa’s mask was slipping; Josh was going to look very bad indeed, and his million-dollar wedding was about to turn into a farce . . .
Should have thought about that before you decided to bang Melissa, Lisa decided, and laughed again. The alcohol was surging through her body, making her feel light-headed, damn the consequences. She didn’t have to take it. Maybe that was Josh’s belief, that she had to take whatever he threw at her, whenever he threw it.
Only it wasn’t going to happen. She looked defiantly around her wedding, at all the well-dressed people she didn’t even like, and silently said goodbye to them; first thing tomorrow she’d be on a plane on her way home, and Josh Steen would be getting an annulment. Because God only knew, she wasn’t about to consummate this union.
‘Hello,’ said a male voice. Lisa looked up; it was the guy by the palm tree. ‘Want to talk?’
‘Depends. Who are you? Another of Josh’s slimy friends?’
He grinned again, and she quite liked the smile.
‘Yes to the slimy. No to the friend.’
‘Intriguing,’ Lisa said, and she couldn’t help smiling back, just a little. ‘I don’t recognise you.’
‘You wouldn’t. Want to go for a walk? They’re staring at you out here.’
‘Yeah? Well sod the lot of them.’
He crooked an eyebrow. ‘Brit expression, but I can guess what it means. I don’t think your husband will like it.’
‘I hope it doesn’t look like I care,’ Lisa said. But she allowed herself to take a walk with him, past the palm tree, down one of the estate’s little gravel paths. They were in some kind of shrubbery garden now, with a little ersatz Italian fountain, and shielded from the prying stares of the guests.
‘I’m a journalist. Hand-picked by Josh to cover the wedding of the century. Except it doesn’t seem like you’re all that enthused by it.’
‘A journalist. Society columnist?’
‘I do celebrity puff pieces for a mass-circulation tabloid,’ he said, honestly enough, and she liked that about him too, and she laughed.
‘Lisa Costello.’ She held out her hand.
‘Sam Murray,’ he said, and he was very handsome, but she knew she was buzzed from the wine. She wasn’t going to do anything stupid. Her judgement with men was not that great, obviously. ‘USA Weekly. Anyway, isn’t it Lisa Steen now?’
‘No. It’s not. And it’s not going to be.’
‘Getting divorced, or keeping your own name?’
She didn’t answer him; he was a journalist, after all, and she at least owed it to Josh to have it out. She’d spent five years of her life with him, and some of that time had been happy.
‘I wish I had a cigarette,’ she said. She took another pull at the wine. Fuck Josh for doing this to her, seriously. She didn’t care if she was behaving badly in front of a journalist. She was tired of being a show girl, another of his trophies, and she was going to get good and drunk.
‘You smoke?’
‘Used to. I gave it up. I gave up everything fun.’ She drank some more, then looked at Sam Murray. ‘What about you? Your life ever take a wrong turn?’
‘More than one. That’s why I’m here.’
&nbs
p; ‘It must pay well.’
‘It does,’ he said. ‘I still hate it. I could say the same thing to you, I suppose.’
She drank some more and felt the euphoria being replaced with anger. How dare Josh - seriously, how dare he - go bang someone else on her wedding day? How dare he treat her like one of these anonymous servants he paid to wait on his wedding party or fly his jets or clean his pool? It was like he’d given her a job description, girlfriend, with promotion to wife, and she was here just to shut up and obey his orders.
‘You mean because Josh is so rich?’
‘That’s exactly what I mean. You seem angry at coming into a home where you’ll be able to spend millions of dollars on whatever the hell you want.’
‘Money’s nice,’ Lisa said. She was slurring a little now, but she didn’t care. ‘Freedom’s better. I’m only twenty-eight. I could do things, lots of things. I never tried hard enough to stick at anything.’ She looked at the older man, and his eyes were on her, assessing her, like he was trying to figure her out.
‘And are you going to stick at this marriage?’
‘You’ll see,’ she said, delighting herself with her own mysteriousness. ‘What about you, Mr Slimy Reporter? If you hate your job, why don’t you just get out? It’s not jail, you can leave when you want, I guess.’
He sighed, a long, deep sigh that seemed wrenched out of his body, and even though she was a little drunk, Lisa felt sorry for him.
‘Why don’t any of us do what we know we should do? You tell me. Life. It gets in the way sooner than you’d think.’
She held his gaze. He was right, he shouldn’t be a celebrity hack. There was something different about him. Maybe he should be a spy, or a soldier.
‘Well, things can change. I’m going to change things. For me,’ she said, and she stumbled because she was unsteady, and he caught her. He was thickly muscled, and very strong, and she enjoyed that second’s contact, that feeling of his hand on her elbow . . .
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