Mad

by Chloé Esposito

  A crowd of baseball caps and rucksacks pour out of a coach and click-click at the view. They wear ill-fitting T-shirts and socks with sandals. They swarm around the entrance like a plague of locusts. I fucking hate tourists. I know, strictly speaking, I am one, but I still fucking hate them. We didn’t get any in Archway; I guess that was a plus.

  Beth knows the security guard; tall and blond with a twinkle in his eye. He looks about twenty-five years old, dressed in his uniform of starched white shirt and khaki shorts. Not hot. He ushers us through past the queue, winking at me too, enjoying his double vision. Pervert.

  “We’re kind of friends,” Beth says. “I come here a lot . . . I find it inspiring.”

  Inspiring? Please. Could she be more pretentious? Inspiring for what? Writing chick lit? I’m sure the muse has better things to do than wait around in amphitheaters for my twin to show up. She’s not an author; she’s a trophy wife. If Beth writes another romantic comedy with a love-struck heroine and happy ending, I will kill myself. Or perhaps she just means she’s fucking him? But no. Not my twin. That’s more my style than Beth’s. Not that I’m easy.

  She leads me up some crumbling stairs to the back of the auditorium. I pant as we climb endless steps. I really can’t be bothered; it’s far too hot. I want another vodka and iced limonata. But when I reach the top and turn to face the view, I see the point.

  “Holy shit.”

  “Do you like it?” Beth says.

  This is what people call “Earth porn.” A stage reveals nature at her most dramatic. I can almost hear Michael Palin’s voice-over: something about Corinthian columns, Euripides, Sophocles, and Aeschylus.

  “What’s that mountain?” I say, pointing at an enormous, black mountain-shaped thing.

  “It’s not a mountain. It’s a volcano. Mount Etna? Remember?”

  “Oh yeah.” Of course. How could I forget?

  “Is it dormant?” I ask, straining my eyes to study the summit: Etna smolders against a cloudless sky.

  “No, but don’t worry.”

  I’m still going to worry. I saw what happened to those people in Pompeii.

  “The Italians call it Mongibello: ‘beautiful mountain,’” she says.

  “Told you it was a mountain.”

  It doesn’t look very “bello.” To me it looks deadly. I shiver and look at the sea. Columns frame the volcano’s slopes as she flows from her crater right down to the ocean. And yes, the Mediterranean really does shimmer; I guess Beth was right about that. I take a deep breath, taste salt in the air. Mamma mia . . . this is even better than in the magazines. I could take a photo without any color filters and post it now on Instagram. But thousands of people have already taken thousands of identical photographs, so I’m not going to waste my time.

  We sit side by side on hot stone, looking out over ancient Greece. I turn to face Beth and glimpse something blue on her arm for the first time; it’s a bruise, a big one; the size of a man’s fist. She’s tried to hide it with makeup, concealer, but some of it’s rubbed off on her dress.

  “Shit, Beth! What’s that?” I ask, pulling up her sleeve to take a look.

  “Nothing,” she says, pulling it back down again. “Doesn’t matter, forget it.”

  “It’s not nothing. How did you do it?” I look into her eyes.

  “Fell off the ladder in the garden,” she says.

  Well, that’s a lie. Beth shakes her head.

  “Alvie, listen, I need to ask you something. It’s important. OK?”

  Changing the subject. I don’t think so.

  “Fucking hell, Beth. Did Ambrogio do that?” I say, but I don’t believe it, not for a second. He’s too hot to be a wife beater. I doubt he drinks Stella or owns an old vest.

  “Alvina! Please. Just listen,” she says.

  Beth didn’t deny it, but why won’t she tell me? She’s getting more and more high-pitched.

  “Oh God, what is it?” I ask at last. It’s far too hot for this conversation. I fantasize about a bathtub filled up with ice.

  A Japanese girl with a Hello Kitty T-shirt and a backpack that’s bigger than she is appears out of nowhere and gestures to her iPhone.

  “Please?”

  I look at Beth, but she doesn’t move.

  “If I must,” I say, standing up. She holds up two fingers in a victory sign and beams into the lens. She’s cute. I position the camera so her head’s out of the frame and you can just see her knees and her feet: pink platform sneakers and white crochet socks. I click. The girl skips off and I sit down again.

  “Alvie?” says Beth. Oh, OK, here we go then. Let’s have it. This is the real reason I’m here. She didn’t just miss me. I’m not giving her a kidney; she can forget it. She should have looked after her own. Beth’s mouth is set in a grim line. I study the freckles that speckle her nose and wonder if mine are exactly the same. They probably are, not that anyone would ever bother to check. . . . “Tomorrow, I need you to be me, just for a few hours. Will you do it?”

  “What?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon, after lunch, I need you to swap places with me. It won’t be for long. No one will know. Please, say you’ll do it?”

  WTF?

  So that’s why she’s invited me here, sounded so desperate, paid for the tickets: “I need you. I’m begging you. Come . . .” She’s unbelievable, my sister.

  “Like when we were at school, remember? We’d swap classes all the time and no one ever noticed,” says Beth.

  “But that was when we were younger, when we looked the same. Of course people will notice. Look at you and look at me. . . .”

  “Alvie, we’re identical. Identical. Get it? I know we don’t think we look alike, but everyone else does. It’ll be easy. You say you’re going out for the afternoon, that you want to take Ernie out for a walk. We’ll swap clothes, do our hair up the same, but I’ll leave.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Why? Where are you going? What are you doing? Why the big secret?” My sister’s got this all planned out. . . .

  “Please, please, don’t ask questions. I really need this, Alvie, I do. If I could tell you, I would. You’d understand.”

  “So tell me and I’ll understand!”

  How dare she? Spoiled brat. Expecting me to ask “How high?” when she yells “Jump!” “Do this, Alvie. Do that, Alvie.” I curl my fingers into fists. I feel my shoulders tensing.

  “No!” She leaps up. I think she’s going to leave but she looks up to the sky and raises her voice. “Oh God, Alvie, please! I need you.”

  Her lower lip begins to wobble. Is she actually going to fucking cry? We’re kids again, arguing, fighting over a toy, Beth always getting her own fucking way. I set my jaw.

  “Alvie, please, you have to do this.” Her big green eyes fill up with tears. “For me?”

  Oh, for fuck’s sake . . . If I do this, perhaps she’ll leave me alone? If I do this, she’ll owe me. It could come in useful. She knows she’ll have to pay me back. I wonder what she’s going to do. Rob a bank? A drive-by shooting? Perhaps it’s a Prada heist? But no, not Beth. She’s too much of a goody-goody. Far too well behaved. She’s probably just going to her local library to avoid paying a late fine.

  I look down at Beth’s feet.

  “The shoes,” I say. “I’ll do it, but I want the shoes.” I regret it as soon as I’ve said it. It’s a terrible idea; there’s no way Ambrogio will fall for her trick. He’ll know it’s me in two seconds flat.

  “Which shoes, these ones?”

  She sticks out her legs and cocks her ankles. We look down at the glittering stiletto sandals, sparkling, golden, at her feet. They look like disco balls on crack. I love them more than life itself.

  “Of course!” she says, jumping up and beaming. She flings her arms around my neck, plants a wet kiss on my cheek.

  “But I’m only swappi
ng for the afternoon,” I say.

  She owes me. Big-time. More than just shoes. Although they are gorgeous.

  “And a bit of the evening . . . a few hours, that’s all.”

  She puts her hand on my shoulder, tears in her eyes.

  She smiles a sad smile.

  “Thank you, Alvie.”

  She loves me again.

  We walk back to the villa as the sky turns terra-cotta. Beth insists upon linking arms; it’s almost like we’re BFFs. But we’re not friends. We haven’t been friends since Oxford, since I slept with Ambrogio. I know that and she knows that. She’s pretending because she wants something, something only I can give her.

  Perhaps if I do this, she’ll forgive me? Perhaps if I do this, we’re quits?

  Chapter Nine

  I lean out of my Juliet balcony fuming and chain-smoking cigarettes. It’s evening now, so slightly less ovenlike, but I still feel like a lobster being boiled alive. Fucking Beth, what is she playing at? This is insane. “Do this, Alvie. Do that, Alvie. . . .” She’s not exactly being a team player. She’s not exactly playing fair. Beth was the one who liked netball and hockey . . . all those vapid team sports with group hugs and high fives. I was more of a long-distance runner. The farther the better. Away from my family. Away from the world. I never liked cooperating unless coerced. There’s no i in “team,” but there’s a “me” if you look hard enough. And there are two i’s in Alvina Knightly.

  Beth and Ambrogio are talking on the patio. I can’t hear what they’re saying. He whispers something in her ear, then leans over and kisses her on the lips. She ruffles the hair on the top of his head, then walks back to the villa. God, they’re such a smug married couple. I’m so glad I’m not married. Some husbands last for sixty years. Can you think of anything worse? I’ve never been able to stand a guy for longer than a night.

  Once upon a time . . .

  And they both lived happily

  Ever after: LIES!!!!!

  Beth believes in fairy tales; I bet she watches porn on fast-forward to see if they get married at the end. I prefer watching porn on rewind, cocks sucking up spunk like vacuum cleaners; it’s fucking hilarious.

  I watch Ambrogio pace the crazy paving at the edge of the pool and shout into his mobile. He’s gesticulating as though the person on the end of the phone could see. Oh, perhaps he’s on FaceTime? I watch him, smoking cigarette after cigarette and blowing white clouds high into the evening sky. The tobacco tastes sweet. He turns, sees me watching, and waves with a smile. I take a sharp breath and wave back. Who am I kidding? I’d love to be his wife. I wish I’d had his baby. Who cares if he’s a wife beater? He is Adonis.

  I have my heart set on an Italian man (ideally Ambrogio, although Salvatore now ranks at a very close second. I’m pretty sure Channing has Italian ancestry. It’s that or German . . . or Native American . . . or perhaps it’s Welsh?). I think it must be the language. I go weak at the knees for anything Italian-sounding. Just listen: “Figlio di puttana,” mellifluous, no? It means “Son of a bitch.” “L’anima de li mortacci tua,” beautiful! “You’re really starting to piss me off.” “Vaffanculo,” surely the poetry of Petrarca himself? It means “eff off.” You can listen to an argument about prostitutes and piss and it sounds like a sonnet sequence about courtly love. You don’t want to know what “Ti prego, scopami in culo” means. . . . (I learned Italian swear words by watching Italian porn.)

  I stub my cigarette out on the rail of the balcony. It falls to the floor and I kick it over the edge. I make my way back into the bedroom. I’m feeling pretty sticky; this heat is insane. It’s really impossible to cool down. I can feel my blood bubbling and boiling, my brain roasting, my internal organs all simmering and frying. Perhaps I’ll take a shower? I choose some of the Louis Vuitton lover’s beauty products and head into the en-suite. It’s one of those walk-in wet rooms with a rain shower: blue mosaics and sparkling silver. It couldn’t be more different from the slobs’ place in Archway, the hairs in the shower drain, the moldy old shower curtain, the avocado bathtub with the blocked-up drain.

  The shower gel is Chanel No. 5 and I’m loving the scent of roses and jasmine as cooling water washes over me, clearing my mind, caressing my back. Mmm, Ambrogio . . . his piercing eyes, the square of his jaw. I can’t resist touching myself; seeing him again has made me think naughty thoughts. Earlier today, in the Lamborghini, I got the feeling he liked me too. I’m pretty sure he was flirting. My fingers brush my pulsing clit, my lips are wet and smooth, warm and slippery to touch. I push two fingers deep inside, rub my clit hard with my thumb. I feel the pressure building, building, feel the warmth spread higher, stronger, but no. It’s not enough. I’m not doing Ambrogio justice.

  I push through the door and back into the bedroom, dripping wet. I grab Mr. Dick from inside my handbag (I’ve put some batteries back in), then run back to the bathroom. I stick him behind me, hip-height, ninety degrees on the wall. Usually Channing with no clothes on pops up in my mind, but tonight it’s Ambrogio, standing behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist, his biceps pressing into my breasts, his strong, broad fingers massaging my clit, firm yet gentle, round and round. He says something sexy in Italian, like “cappuccino.” I ease back on the dildo, but it’s Ambrogio pounding me from behind, making me wet, sending me weak at the knees. I close my eyes and drift away on wave after wave of perfect pleasure. It’s pretty intense. The water crashes and splashes around me; I nearly slip and break my neck.

  ◆

  Who is she talking to? I push my ear against Beth’s door. The wood feels cool and smooth on my cheek. The paint is glossy and white.

  “Please? Please? You have to do it.”

  Why’s she so whiny? What’s going on?

  “It has to be tomorrow. Salvo, please? We’re running out of time,” Beth says. Her voice is high-pitched, nasal, shrill. It echoes around her bedroom.

  I lean against the door, but it’s not locked and I trip into the room. Beth looks up when she sees me falling, shocked, off-guard, her eyes ablaze.

  “I’ll call you back.”

  She hangs up the phone.

  “Don’t you knock, Alvina?” Beth snaps.

  “No. Sorry. I, erm, I . . . Have you got any deodorant?”

  She rolls her eyes, stomps off to the bathroom. I look around her beautiful room, sit down on the bed. It’s really high up, not like my futon. The mattress feels firm, yet springy to the touch. The bedspread’s embroidered with butterflies.

  “Who was that? On the phone?” I call after her. Beth rummages around in her en-suite. Her phone’s on the bed, I could log in now and take a look. I could check her caller history. I know her PIN: 1996. But I wouldn’t have time.

  “Nobody. Nothing. Why? Were you listening?” She pokes her head out sideways through the bathroom door.

  “No. Just curious.” I pick up her phone and then put it back down again. I wouldn’t have time.

  “Actually . . . it was Mum. Did you want to say hi?”

  “God no.”

  “I can call her back,” she shouts from the bathroom.

  “No, don’t do that. It’s fine.”

  It wasn’t our mother, it was someone called Salvo. I heard her distinctly. Is that Salvatore?

  Beth emerges with a spray bottle of Dove Go Fresh Pomegranate. She throws it at me. Hard.

  “Here you are. Go crazy,” she says.

  Chapter Ten

  Well, this is awkward.

  We sit at a table for three in the pimpest restaurant I’ve ever seen. Is that Kanye West over there with P. Diddy enjoying the seafood platter? That looks like Drake at the bar doing shots with Snoop Dogg. I look from Beth to Ambrogio and then back from Ambrogio to Beth again. I try to smile. I feel like the kid whom the parents took out because the babysitter canceled. It’s that or your worst job interview ever. A waiter comes over and interr
upts the silence.

  “Buonasera, signori.” He bows at Ambrogio. “Signore Caruso, sei troppo fortunato! Che belle donne!” He grins at me and then grins at Beth. “Gemelle?” he says.

  “Sì, gemelle,” says Ambrogio with a sexy smile.

  The waiter grins even harder. He hands me a menu that I can’t read. Ambrogio says something in Italian and the waiter laughs.

  “Un vodka martini, per favore,” says Ambrogio.

  Beth says, “A Virgin Mary, please.”

  “Certo, signora,” says the waiter. He looks at me.

  “What’s that?” I whisper to Beth.

  “It’s like a Bloody Mary, but without the vodka.”

  “So just, like, tomato juice?”

  Beth nods.

  “I’ll have a Bloody Mary,” I say. I can’t just ask for vodka. That would be weird.

  “Certo, signora.”

  The waiter goes away.

  “Well, aren’t I just the luckiest man alive sitting here with you two belle donne. . . .” says Ambrogio, winking at me. No one replies.

  “You look beautiful tonight, honey,” he whispers to Beth. He brushes an invisible lock of hair away from her check and then kisses her softly, cups her chin oh so gently in his hand, looks into her eyes. It’s as though I’m not here. It’s as though they were all alone together on their very first date. Their honeymoon. They could start screwing at any second.

  “Ahem!” I cough loudly, then light a cigarette.

  They turn and stare. The silence is agonizing, the tension so tangible you could slice it open with a box cutter and watch it bleed all over the starched white linen.

  “I know a new joke. Do you want to hear a joke?” Ambrogio says, leaning back in his chair and smiling at me. He’s just remembered I exist.

  “No. We’re all right,” says Beth, picking up her menu and sinking behind it. Bitch.

  I look at the view to avoid making eye contact. We’re perched up high on a cliffside terrace. From up here, the water looks still, like mercury or molten silver. A cruise liner in the bay sparkles like a jewelry box against dark velvet. A soft breeze flows from the water, washing over the terrace, caressing my skin.