Maestra: The most shocking thriller you'll read this year

by L. S. Hilton

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘Too old.’

  ‘Or them?’

  ‘Too fat. Too fucking fat.’

  We collapsed shrieking. It seemed like the funniest thing in the world.

  ‘Or them?’

  ‘Promising.’

  Mercedes was doing some frantic false eyelash signalling to a raised alcove, obviously the VIP section. Two men sat at a table with an ice bucket of vodka, both texting while a waiter unloaded a tray of sushi. They were young and presentable looking, though we were too far away for the watch and shoe check.

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘I’ll go and say hello.’

  I clutched her back. ‘You can’t! I’ll be ashamed!’ This was how it was meant to feel, wasn’t it, being a girl? ‘We’ll sit down and wait for them to come to us.’

  ‘What if they don’t? What if someone else gets in first?’

  ‘They will. Watch.’

  *

  And then somehow, an hour later, we were in a Porsche cabriolet driving stupidly fast towards the old port at Antibes, with Dom Perignon drying on my yellow dress and Mercedes necking one of them madly in the back. Everyone was smoking and a little podgy guy whose name no one knew was doing coke from a Guerlain compact in the parcel shelf.

  ‘I wanna go to Saint-Tropez,’ yelled Mercedes, surfacing for a second.

  ‘I wanna see the Picassos!’ I yelled back.

  Then we were veering crazily over the cobbles of the old town, nearly knocking over a weary paparazzo kneeling on the dock, the podgy guy had vanished and Mercedes was being carried down a gangplank, legs waving like a beetle.

  ‘Take your shoes off!’ I called after her.

  ‘Friggin’ ’ell, Lauren,’ she screeched, ‘get in here!’

  The driver of the Porsche and the owner of the boat, which was as bright and new and shiny as his money, was called Steve, and if I was a Russian hooker he’d have smelled like Christmas. But I’d noticed that he hadn’t touched the vodka or the coke, so nor had I, and while Mercedes made some low-rent porn noises with his friend offstage he made me a hot chocolate and we looked at his three Picassos, which were rather good, and he told me about his contemporary art collection, because of course he collected contemporary, then Mercedes and Thing reappeared and we all stripped off and got into Steve’s hot tub on the deck of Steve’s enormous boat and drank some more Dom and he tried to look as though this was happy. Maybe it was. Maybe being happy is, just for once, not being on the make.

  We lurched into the Hôtel du Cap about three, carrying our shoes wincingly over the gravel and past the impassive night porter. Once we’d opened the door to the suite with painful care, it seemed necessary to crawl commando style to our bedroom, but Mercedes caught the table with her shoulder as she performed a teddy roll, bringing down the baroque vase of lilies with a crash that seemed loud enough to be heard in Saint-Tropez. We froze, but the only sound was our sudden harsh breathing. For a few seconds I felt as though I had swallowed a balloon, but James didn’t stir behind his door. There wasn’t even any sound of snoring. Which meant that by the time we were safely in our own bed we were helpless with giggles. I don’t ever remember having fallen asleep laughing before.

  A shaft of strong white sun cutting between the heavy drapes woke me about nine. I slipped out from beneath the sheet and looked into the sitting room. The lilies had magically been replaced and The Times was fanned out on the table, but there was no other sign of life. James must still be sleeping. I fumbled in my bag for a couple of Nurofen and hauled myself under the shower, letting the water stream through last night’s make-up. There was just today to be got through – maybe I could persuade him to go to the Picasso museum in Antibes? He would enjoy feeling cultured. After last night I almost felt a bit sorry for him. Wrapped in a huge towel, I went to wake Mercedes.

  ‘Come on, he’s not up. We’ll leave a note and get some breakfast in the garden.’

  We slipped robes over our bikinis, and with sunglasses and crystal goblets of sweet fresh orange juice everything felt sort of fantastic. I thought it looked more considerate to order breakfast for three, but though we took our time with the exquisite warm croissants and tiny kilner jars of quince and fig preserve, James didn’t appear. Looking at the other guests breakfasting, and the hotel gardeners in their red jackets raking the paths and practically polishing the grass, I almost forgot him, as though we were there in our own right. And that was fantastic too. Mercedes lowered her glasses, cringing a bit at the strong sun.

  ‘D’you think he’s OK?’

  ‘Sure. Maybe he got breakfast upstairs.’ Though we had left him a note, and he seemed the type to want the full value of my company at least.

  ‘I’ll just run up and check,’ Mercedes offered.

  When she came back she was carrying two of the hotel’s monogrammed towels.

  ‘I knocked on his door, but he didn’t answer. Let’s go swimming!’

  9

  It might sound funny, but I knew there was something wrong when James didn’t appear for lunch. Mercedes had immediately fallen back asleep in the sun, the strings of her bikini top trailing untied across her back, and I had passed the time reading a biography of Chagall that I’d brought in case we had the chance to go up to Saint-Paul de Vence. At half past twelve, I started to worry, and though I tried for a few minutes more to concentrate on the book, I knew something was strange. What if he was ill? He had been going on about his gruesome diarrhoea. He might need a doctor. The last thing we needed was bother. I tied my robe and went back up across the lawn, too impatient when I got inside to wait for the lift. On the second floor I barrelled down the corridor, muttering ‘Désolée’ at a maid who was bent over a vacuum cleaner. I went straight to James’s room and as soon as I saw him, I knew.

  I had never seen a dead body before. But there was a vacant immobility to the flesh, a strange hollowness to the features, which signalled a total absence of vitality. James didn’t look as though he was sleeping. He just looked dead. His huge body in the white sheets was covered in a cotton nightshirt; with his rinded, thick-nailed feet sticking out he resembled a grotesque elderly putto. I knew, but still I went through some motions I had learned from films – I went and fetched a blusher compact from my make-up bag and cautiously held the unsnapped mirror over his face. Nothing. I couldn’t bring myself to try to open his eyes, but I gingerly lifted the ham of his arm and tried to feel for a pulse.

  ‘James?’ I hissed urgently, trying to control a gulping scream. ‘James!’ Nothing.

  I walked round the bed to pick up the phone and call reception, but I checked myself. I felt dizzy and like I wanted to vomit, but I couldn’t lose control. He’d been drinking – he didn’t usually drink, maybe he couldn’t. I took a huge, shuddering breath. I saw it all, the swift, discreet staff, the ambulance, the police station. If they did an autopsy they would find whatever stupid cocktail of tranqs Mercedes had given him, and it would be manslaughter. I saw the newspapers, our names, my mother’s face. The unimaginable impossibility of prison. I suddenly heard the sound of the vacuum getting closer. The maid was on her way to clean the room. I jogged to the main door, fumbled with the hangers of breakfast and safety cards, dropped them, scrabbled for the ‘Do Not Disturb’. In a place like this, that would give us hours. I sat slowly on one of the white sofas. Breathe, Judith. Think.

  I had never sent our passports to reception; I had just forgotten. I had scrawled LJ on the breakfast tab, just notional initials. We had called each other by our club names, worn sunglasses most of the time. The staff had seen us coming and going, but this was the South of France – they would simply assume we were whores, rented as a double act for a weekend. If we could get out, they had no way of tracing us beyond our descriptions, and this was a major hotel, with staff who were trained not to be too observant, I guessed. Fingerprints? I had no idea, really, how that worked, but I certainly had no criminal record and to my knowledge nor did Leanne. Didn’t
they have some bureau where they were held? Some mega-tech international DNA databank?

  I couldn’t think that. I’d often dipped into my roommates’ medical textbooks but I wasn’t sure if there were any visible signs of sudden cardiac arrest. He was obese, it was hot and he’d had sex – surely that would be the obvious conclusion? I thanked God for the fact that nice girls always swallow: there wouldn’t be much evidence of me on the sheets. By the time anyone worked out there was more to it than that, we would be back in our lives. And if anyone came looking . . .

  The night porter had seen us coming in last night. We could say we had come out for a laugh, that we couldn’t really go through with it. Two silly girls taking an old man for a ride. We could say that James had been angry when we didn’t want to follow up on the promised sex, told us we had to go home today and we’d gone out on the town without him. We didn’t say goodbye because we thought he was sleeping, furious. Plausible. I took my mobile from the robe pocket and texted Leanne to get upstairs immediately. My thumb slipped greasily across the screen. He had a wife – Veronica. They would find her, through his passport, perhaps she would want to keep things quiet, to avoid scandal. Surely she would have been expecting a heart attack in the not too distant future anyway.

  My phone buzzed. Leanne was at the door. I opened it and pulled her into the suite.

  ‘Sit down. Don’t say anything and for God’s sake don’t scream. He’s dead. No joke, no mistake. Whatever you gave him, it was too much. He’s in there.’

  I had never seen anyone go white before – part of me was interested to see that the blood did indeed drain from her face, leaving it greenish under her tan. I went to the bathroom, fetched one of the fine linen towels hanging by the bidet to wrap round my hand and fetched her one of the mini bottles of cognac from the bar, no glass.

  ‘Drink this.’

  She swallowed obediently in one gulp, and began to sob, burying her face in the sleeves of the robe. I took the bottle and padded through to James’s room. I didn’t look at the thing on the bed, just set the empty down on the bedside cabinet. There was already alcohol in his system, so that couldn’t hurt.

  I tried to make my voice as gentle as I could.

  ‘Leanne, this is bad. It’s very bad. We can’t tell anyone, do you understand? If we do, it’s a crime, even though we didn’t mean it. We would go to prison. Tell me you understand.’

  She nodded. She looked incredibly young.

  ‘I can handle this. Do you want me to handle this?’

  She nodded again, grateful, desperate. I hardly believed it myself, but my instinct was all we had. I just needed to keep my actions as quick as my thoughts. Leanne started gasping, the hiccupping in her throat moving towards hysteria. I gripped her arms tightly.

  ‘Look at me. Leanne, look at me! Stop that. Breathe. Come on, just take a deep breath. And another one, that’s it, come on now. Better?’

  She nodded again.

  ‘OK. Now all you have to do is exactly what I tell you. They don’t know who we are – it will be OK. Listen! It will be OK. Get dressed, something neat and smart. Put everything in your bag. Check the bathroom carefully, no make-up, bottles, anything.’ I didn’t think that really mattered but having something to concentrate on would keep her quiet. She shuffled into our bedroom like a hospital patient.

  I went back to James. If I kept my eyes away, it was alright, but I had a queasy fear that one of those fat dead hands was suddenly going to reach out and grab me. Looking round the room, I saw his navy linen jacket hanging on a chair. Using the towel again, I reached inside and found his phone, which was switched off. All the better. There was a wallet with credit cards, driving licence, a few fifty-euro notes and a silver Tiffany money clip. Probably a gift from Veronica. I took out the cash. Most of it was in pink 500-euro notes, some yellow 200s. I counted it, disbelieving, and counted again. Then I remembered. This was the Eden Roc. The hotel was famous for only accepting cash – I remembered reading some vulgar restaurant reviewer boasting about it. God knows how much a suite here cost, but James had obviously withdrawn all the money ready for the bill, plus what he had promised to me. There was just over 10,000 euro. I took two of the fifties from the wallet, added 200 and placed them back in the money clip in the jacket. For a mad second I thought of removing his huge gold Rolex but that would be way too dumb. The rest of the money I rolled up tightly and stuffed in the pocket of my robe.

  Leanne was sitting patiently on the bed in her jeans and a grey tee, staring at her feet in their platform wedges. I tossed her my beige canvas Alaïa jacket. It was a sacrifice, but I guessed I could get another one now.

  ‘Put that on, and your glasses. I won’t be long.’ She tried, but she started shaking and couldn’t get her arms into the tightly seamed sleeve.

  ‘If you start having hysterics, I’m going to hit you. Stop it. Just be fucking grateful I had the sense not to call the police.’

  I scrabbled my things into my weekend bag, including the trashy lingerie I’d worn just the day before. Heels, make-up, phone charger, books, hairbrush, laptop. Then I took out the Chanel bags from their carriers and stuffed our other bags inside, shoving the branded pouches back on top. This way we wouldn’t look as though we were leaving, just sauntering off for a bit of Saturday shopping. I wondered what time check-out was. If it was noon tomorrow, or even eleven, we’d have lots of time with the Do Not Disturb up. I dashed back into the sitting room. The note I had written, a jaunty ‘Gone for a swim! See you downstairs, darling x’ was on the Eden Roc pad. I removed it, and the sheet underneath for good measure, in case the pen had left an imprint. I scrunched them up and shoved them in my pocket.

  ‘Right, we’re going. Have your phone out. When we get to the lobby, start texting, keep your head down. Don’t hurry.’

  The maid was still hovering in the passage. I thought I was going to throw up when she spoke to me.

  ‘Voulez-vous que je fasse la chambre, madame?’

  I managed a casual smile. She was not much older than me, but her face was sallow and pitted. I guess she didn’t get to see much Riviera sun.

  ‘Pas pour l’instant, non merci.’

  We passed on, took the lift to the lobby and stepped onto the drive.

  ‘Vous avez besoin d’une voiture, mesdames?’

  It was the same bellboy I had tipped yesterday. Damn.

  ‘Non merci. Nous avons besoin de marcher!’ Pissed English slags walking off their hangover, I hoped he was thinking.

  Then we were walking down the drive, Leanne’s ankles lurching precariously on the slope. The hotel was a fair way out of Cannes, and for a while we walked along an empty road, banked on both sides with white walls and security gates. We passed several green plastic wheelie bins, so I lifted the heavy lid of one and pushed the torn-up scraps of paper inside. It was the hottest time of day and the cord handles of the carrier were digging weals in my fingers. I had a headache and I could feel a wet patch of sweat on my back. Leanne plodded silently beside me.

  ‘It’s fine, Leanne, it’s going to be fine. Just keep going.’

  Eventually, the road wound round to the seafront. Up to the left we could see the windows of the hotel emerging serenely from palm fronds like a showgirl’s eyelashes. The bay was busy with jet skis and sailboats, further out the ferry to Sainte Marguerite island was crossing. We stopped at the first small bar, where I ordered two Oranginas and asked the waiter politely but not too correctly if he could possibly help us order a cab to Nice airport. He did a bit of French grumbling, but as I was paying for the drinks a white Mercedes pulled up.

  Leanne stared dully out of the taxi window. I remembered her bawdy defiance back in the National Gallery and felt a little twinge of schadenfreude. Who needed good old Rashers now? Maybe it was something in the submissive way she inclined her head, but I suddenly remembered the Friday that the bailiffs came.

  My mum wasn’t a drunk. Mostly, she held down whatever job she had that month; mostly, she
got up in the morning. Sometimes, though, it just got too much for her, and then she drank. Not joyously or recklessly, just a steady sip towards blissful oblivion. Which actually might have been a perfectly reasonable response to her life. I remembered I’d just got her to bed when the bell rang, tucked up under her pink chenille bedspread with a cup of tea and a plastic tub on the nightstand in case the room started to spin when she closed her eyes. I must have been about eleven.

  ‘Who’s that, Mum?’

  She was a bit beyond speech, but she eventually got it out that it was the hire purchase on the telly. She’d not paid the bill for months; the company had obviously sold on the bad debt.

  ‘Do you want me to take care of it, Mum? I’ll take care of it.’

  ‘Thanks, love,’ was all she managed.

  I opened the door, still in my school uniform. I tried saying there was no one home but me, so I couldn’t let them in. They weren’t bad blokes, for all the bouncer outfits. Just trying to make a living, same as all of us. They even said they were sorry, as they carried it out of the kitchen. We didn’t use the front room; it was just another cold space that cost money. That left us with the fridge and the cooker and the table and the sofa. I thought fitted kitchens were posh, then – at least, we didn’t have one. They came back for the fridge, though they took the food out first. They were even quite gentle, laying the bread and jam and vodka on the sofa. One of them had returned with a packet of frozen sweetcorn from the freezer compartment. I cannot say how lonely that room looked. The neighbours had come out to stare; it would be all round the estate tomorrow. I stared back, shivering in my polyester school shirt, trying to look proud. I was glad Mum was too out of it to see, she might have made a scene for them all to gas about. That would not happen again, I’d thought then. That was never, ever going to happen to me again.