Mad

by Chloé Esposito

  Come on. Come on. Hurry up. I’m standing here like a lemon.

  There he is. Oh my God! How could I have missed him? The world stops spinning. The scene seems to freeze. I focus in on his beautiful face. He’s so cool. So handsome. The shades inside. The A-list tan. His shirt crisp and white as hotel bedsheets. A distracting bulge in his too-tight jeans.

  Beth is such a bitch.

  “Alvina!” Ambrogio waves, whipping off Wayfarers. “Wow! I didn’t recognize you. Over here!”

  I wave back and smile. I know what he means, I usually look a bit crap.

  “How are you?” he says.

  His skin is bronzed, there’s a hint of stubble. He has a lovely chin. A lovely smile. Actually, he’s got a lovely everything. He’s perfect. I want him. He should have been mine. I totter over in my heels, swerve, skid, and nearly fall over. I collapse into his arms. Mmm, now I remember his aftershave. Armani Code Black: sensual, exotic. He was wearing that when we first met.

  “You look great! Have you lost weight?”

  I mumble something incomprehensible, like Bleurgh.

  “You’re drunk.” He laughs.

  “Beth told me . . . Champagne . . .”

  I’d forgotten about his Italian accent; it’s impossibly cute. I look into his brown eyes and I’m sinking, drowning, falling in deep: Nutella or Nesquik or molten hot chocolate. And suddenly I’m back all those years ago in Oxford. My first time . . . our only time . . .

  Shit. What’s that? Louis Vuitton logos? Is she here? Is she following me? I take a sharp breath. My frantic eyes dart around the crowd. But it isn’t her. It’s somebody else. I need to get out of here. It could get awkward. Not that I couldn’t floor her if it came to a fight. I definitely could. Definitely. Possibly. Probably not.

  He puts an arm around my waist and, with the other, picks up one of my bags; he is warm. Skin tingles all over my body. I lean on his shoulder and breathe in his scent: an oriental fragrance, tobacco, leather. I already want him. This is going to be hard. I concentrate on walking in a straight line to the car. It’s more difficult than it sounds.

  The crowds part to let us through. Everyone’s staring, yet again. Who are they looking at? Me or Ambrogio? It must be Ambrogio. I understand. I can’t take my eyes off him either. We take the elevator to the ground floor. I’ve always wanted to have sex in a lift. Has he gotten better-looking? How is it possible? It’s been two years. But men are like that; they get better with age, like foreign cheese, good wine, and George Clooney. It’s so unfair. I look shit. I bet Beth’s already had lipo and a tummy tuck, lip fillers, a boob job, and everything lasered. I probably won’t recognize her. She’ll be the spitting image of Megan Fox and ninety percent plastic, at least.

  The Lamborghini is parked on the pavement by the entrance to the airport. Strange. It is very, very shiny and very, very red. It has fuck-me curves like you wouldn’t believe. I study the logo on its gleaming bonnet: a golden bull on a slick, black shield. It’s the kind of bonnet on which bikini-clad glamour models pose. I wonder if the girl comes free with the car? Perhaps the model’s in the boot, clawing to get out? We’ll discover her later with scuffed-up nails, her French manicure ruined, her gel tips scraped off. I’ve never been so close to a car this expensive and I hesitate before touching it. Ambrogio notices, laughs, and tries to explain.

  “She’s a 1972 Miura. Come on in, Alvie; she won’t bite.”

  No, the car won’t bite, but I might. . . . Oh God! I study his Marlon Brando lips: luscious, pouting, fleshy, fat. I could kiss them or bite them or rip them off. I would kill for a snog, just a taste of his tongue as his soft, warm lips press into my own. He would taste like the cocoa on tiramisu. He would feel like the breeze on a gondola.

  He throws the cases into the trunk (no glamour model). He holds the passenger door wide open and I slide onto leather. It smells exclusive. It is foreplay on wheels. I’ve decided that I like Lamborghinis; they’re now my favorite kind of car; the Batmobile is a very close second, followed by the DeLorean Time Machine. There’s a parking ticket stuck on the windscreen and a fat policeman approaching our ride. He hurries over, huffing and puffing, his shirt buttons straining, his comb-over flapping. He rips off the ticket and tears it up, then opens the door for Ambrogio to get in. Weird.

  “Signor Caruso!” says the policeman with a deep, low bow. “Mi dispiace! Mi dispiace!” Ambrogio ignores him.

  Very weird.

  “Beth sends her apologies,” says Ambrogio. “She did want to come and meet you at the airport, but as you can see, it’s a two-seater.”

  “Oh no, don’t worry. It’s fine,” I say, looking away as he holds my gaze. Don’t blush, Alvina. Don’t say anything fucking stupid. This isn’t “awkward.” This is fucking excruciating, but at the same time, I suppose I love it. I need to calm down. I need to chill out. I close my eyes and breathe in deep, count backward in my head from three hundred: 300, 299, 298. . . .

  It’s not working.

  The engine starts and my whole body trembles. This engine is powerful. My seat vibrates; it’s rather nice: a thoughtful design feature? There’s a high-pitched shriek as the wheels skid. We swerve out of the airport and before I know it, we’re halfway up the Autostrade. Ambrogio’s playing “Nessun Dorma” at full volume.

  “Pavarotti,” he shouts with a wink. “It’s great you could come. Beth was delighted you could make it at such short notice. Have you visited Sicily before?”

  That’s it, Alvie: small talk. You can do it. Just play nice. . . .

  “Erm. No. I’ve been to Milan, obviously, for your wedding. . . .” A pause. I blush. Probably best not to mention that. “And Beth and I went on a school trip to Pompeii. . . .” I am twelve years old. Our eyes meet. He reaches over and squeezes my hand. What?

  “Nice nail polish,” he says with a grin.

  I look down at my luminous lime-green nail varnish. I’m not sure if he likes it or if he’s taking the piss.

  “I travel a lot. All the time,” I say quickly. “I was in L.A. last weekend, New York the weekend before that, Sydney the weekend before that. . . .”

  “You flew to Australia for a weekend?”

  “Er . . . yes?” I say. What’s wrong with that? I hear Beth in my head, tut-tutting about carbon.

  “Cool.” He laughs. “Anyway, we’re both delighted you could come.”

  I lose the power of speech.

  I lean back in the leather, sink down in my seat. Seeing him again . . . it’s all too much. Seeing him alone . . .

  The Sicilian landscape reclines before us; curves to rival Sophia Loren’s. We power through her at 180 kph. He floors the accelerator. The engine purrs. I get the feeling Ambrogio’s showing off for me, and I like it. The corners of my mouth twitch into a smile. I grip the edges of my seat with my claws like a cat. Vineyard after vineyard blur through the windscreen. Olive grove after olive grove merge into one. Faster, faster, faster, baby. Let’s drive to the horizon and never look back. I want to get lost in this glorious landscape, just me and Ambrogio. I want this island to swallow us whole.

  We turn off the motorway where a sign says Taormina.

  “Nearly there.” Ambrogio grins, running his fingers through shampoo-ad hair.

  We climb a steep path; he doesn’t slow down. Faster, faster, never stop. I want him to keep on driving and driving. I never want this moment to end.

  “The villa’s at the top of this hill.”

  We’re surrounded by acres of Technicolor citrus orchards; it’s like being in an oil-painting: yellow, orange, and green. Their zest is overwhelming: sharp, delicious. The lemons are the size of melons. We drive through the trees to the top of the hill. I imagine Ambrogio pulling into an alcove (I’ve always wanted to have sex in a car); only this time it would mean something. This time it would matter. This time he wouldn’t leave me for my twin.

 
But he doesn’t pull over.

  He turns into the driveway—electric gates open as if by magic—and kills the engine.

  “We’re here!”

  Chapter Six

  Taormina, Sicily

  Holy fuck; my sister lives here?

  Dollar signs flash in my eyes. The villa is ridiculous. This place must cost a bomb.

  “Do you own this?”

  “I inherited it from my parents.”

  Oh yes. I remember, Beth said. They died. Poor Ambrogio. He was only thirteen. Thirteen and a millionaire. Actually, that’s awesome. He probably didn’t mind. And lucky for him, he’s an only child, no snotty big sister to split it with.

  “Benvenuto!” he says.

  Ambrogio opens my door and takes my hand. The seats are so low I need it, especially in these heels. How do people walk in these things? He pulls me up and I steady myself on the top of the car, shield my eyes, and blink into the sun.

  “Wow.”

  It looks like the set of a luxurious fashion shoot: Vogue or Elle or Vanity Fair. I expect to see Gisele Bündchen reclining on a sun lounger: gold lamé bikini, daiquiri, tan. Where are the cameras? The lightbulbs flashing? The photographers clicking? I’m reminded of the faraway fantasy worlds of Condé Nast Traveler and the Sunday Times Travel, of all those dream properties in A Place in the Sun; except, clearly, I am here, so this must be real.

  Ancient pink buildings with terra-cotta roofs sprawl across acres of garden: manicured lawns, manicured flower beds. The flowers are so beautiful they’re singing: red geraniums, purple fuchsias, every shade of blue, frangipani, bougainvillea, jasmine. It’s paradise, Eden: roses and cactus flowers, violets and camellias. Towering palm trees wave in the breeze, their green leaves exploding like fireworks.

  Then I see the pool: cool, deep, seductive. Lava-stone tiles frame opal blue. Inky water sparkles in the stark Sicilian sun; flecks of light blind me as I stare. Palm trees and roses reflect in its mirror: a Hockney painting, an oasis. Cream linen deck chairs and parasols surround it, quiet and neat on the paving stones. The water looks calm and far too inviting; it’s all I can do to stop myself from jumping in. I want to splash around like a hot girl in a pop video, pretend I’m a teenager on spring break.

  I turn around and gawk at the house. The villa itself doesn’t even look real, like a still from a golden-age Hollywood movie, something romantic by Federico Fellini or the set from Roman Holiday. I look around for Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck. Crumbling walls are covered with ivy, emerald leaves shining almost too green. The sign by the door says LA PERLA NERA. I catch a glimpse of marble through an open window; curtains billow in the breeze like tethered clouds.

  I don’t know how long I stand here staring.

  I think I’m dreaming.

  Someone calls my name.

  “Alvina?”

  I see myself (myself on a good day) running toward me, arms outstretched; my stomach flips. It must be Beth. It’s strange, two years is a really long time. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be half of a whole . . . a double . . . a carbon copy . . . an extra in my own fucking life.

  “Alvie! You made it! Oh my goodness! You’re here!” My twin leaps onto me; a violent embrace. “I can’t believe it! You came!”

  “Thanks for the flights. You shouldn’t have,” I say, struggling to inhale through her arms and exuberance. Beth smells sweet, like breathing in cotton candy. She kisses me on both my cheeks and then releases me. At last.

  “What? Don’t be silly. I can’t believe you’re actually here. Come on, let me show you around.”

  Beth takes my hand and I follow after her. She leads me into the cool of a beautiful lemon tree, chattering like a songbird merrily all the way.

  “You look amazing. Make yourself at home. I can’t wait for you to meet Ernesto; he’s asleep right now, but he’s all yours when he wakes up. How was your trip?”

  Why is she so happy to see me? Overbright. Jumpy. Almost nervous. I’m about to reply when a single cloud floats and covers the sun. The garden is suddenly cooler and darker. A lone man dressed in head-to-toe black with blackout sunglasses and a black-and-gray hat glides like a bat from the villa to a car parked up on the gravel. He opens the door of a shiny black people carrier and steps inside. A light breeze flows across my neck and down my spine. I shiver.

  “Who is that?”

  “No one.”

  Yeah, right.

  I watch the car crunch over gravel and crawl soberly off down the long, snaking drive. The electric gates slide silently open. The man and the people carrier drive around the corner and disappear.

  “Come inside,” says Beth, then keeps on talking.

  Is she talking even more than usual? Or am I just not used to her incessant chatter? Ambrogio hauls the suitcases from the trunk and follows just behind. I’m not really listening; I can only stare. There’s too much to look at; all my other senses fade. Elizabeth’s body. Elizabeth’s face. Elizabeth’s hair. My eyes rest on my twin’s tanned shoulder. Her skin is glowing, iridescent. I look into her eyes: viridescent, alive. Her sun-kissed hair is highlighted blond. She looks amazing. I don’t even think she’s had any work done. It all looks so real. Perhaps it’s good genes? No, it can’t be. It must be the money. The money definitely helps. She literally looks half my age.

  I am Narcissus, looking at Beth. Falling in love. Sick with envy.

  I follow her through a pergola with pink climbing roses, over mosaic tiles, Moroccan rugs. Inside the villa it’s bright and spacious: a majestic atrium, the scent of magnolia. I’ve never been to the Ritz before, but I think it must look exactly like this. Everything seems to be made of white marble; specks of silver shimmer like diamond dust in shafts of light. Chaise longues and armchairs are all upholstered in cream and gold. Beautiful tapestries and portraits of ladies hang up on the walls: Renaissance noblewomen in sumptuous silk robes, beads in their hair and sparkling jewels: emeralds, diamonds, and shimmering pearls. I follow Beth past gilded mirrors; our faces reflect to infinity.

  “Sixteenth century . . . original features . . .”

  Beth was right, I already love it here. I mean, who wouldn’t? I never, ever want to leave.

  We climb a flight of marble stairs; I stop to admire a picture hanging on the wall. It’s a portrait of a boy, his skin white and luminous against a shadowy background. Black on white. White on black. He is sleeping, peaceful, sweet, angelic. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life. Beth sees me looking.

  “Oh, do you like it?” she says with a smile.

  I’m about to answer, but she’s already turned and sprinted upstairs.

  I watch her feet disappear up the staircase: glitter platform sandals with gold ankle straps. They’re the same ones I saw in the window of Prada. They’re the second most beautiful things I’ve ever seen in my life. I think I’ll throw away those old Reeboks. It’s not like I need any trainers. It’s not like I do any sport.

  “Your room,” she says, beaming.

  Beth flings open the double doors and leads me into a sun-filled guest bedroom; it’s on the first floor with a poolside view. It is vast, palatial: the ceilings twice as high as my old room in Archway. The bed is enormous; there’s room for at least three people in here (I should be so lucky . . . ). On the wall is a painting of the crucifixion, all primary colors and sunny blue sky. Christ looks radiant; in Taormina everyone is happy. There’s a Juliet balcony with wrought-iron railings and an antique screen in the corner of the room. I trace my fingers over Japanese brushstrokes: a stylized image of a bird in flight. A bouquet of flowers stands on the dressing table; their sugary scent fills the room.

  I hold my breath; it’s all too much. This can’t be real: it’s a beautiful dream. In a minute, she’ll pinch me and I’ll wake up. I’ll be back in Archway surrounded by slobs, searching for a passport I’ll never find. I
rub my eyes and I blink.

  “I bought you some things in case you need them,” says Beth. “I thought you might be traveling light.” She flutters voluminous Benefit eyelashes, bites her glossy bottom lip. “I hope you don’t mind. . . .”

  I salivate. Six or seven oversized bags line up against a wall. They’re shining white, with PRADA written along each side, tied up with ribbons in pretty black bows. Beth has hit the shops. Is this all for me? So that’s why she wanted my dress size. Wow.

  “Oh, you shouldn’t have,” I say. Is that the right way to respond?

  “Just a few essentials, really . . . swimming costumes, sarongs, sun hats, skirts. Let me know if there’s anything else you need.”

  I empty the bags out onto the bed: dresses and camisoles still with their tags. A summer skirt in floral print. A little crochet cardigan. The bikini alone cost €600. I usually shop at T.K. Maxx! I run my fingers over luxurious fabrics, stroking, caressing. . . .

  “It’s so wonderful to see you,” she says.

  I stop and look up. I’m not sure I buy it. No one’s ever been this happy to see me, except for maybe my grandma’s old dog, but that was because he liked humping my leg: “Fenton! Fenton! Get off Alvina!”

  “So you don’t mind about—”

  “The wedding?” she asks.

  I look away. I was going to say Oxford. “About the wedding?”

  She hugs me, again. “You know, I’ve forgotten all about it.”

  “OK,” I say. Her hair smells amazing, like a meadow full of flowers. Perhaps she really has forgiven me. Perhaps she does love me after all?

  A cuckoo’s call floats in on a breeze through an open window.