I bite my lip, riding the waves of anticipation and lift the heart’s lid.
Diamonds the size of planets dazzle me. Perhaps that’s an exaggeration: meteors, or comets. Either way, they’re fucking enormous. And I bet you a fiver they’re real. Oh my God, look at this thing. I’d kill for some bling like that. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I can only stare. They’re mesmerizing. I want them. I need them. I wish they were mine. Eleven diamonds in ascending size are set in white gold in a beautiful necklace. The diamond in the middle is shaped like an egg. My fingertips want me to touch it, want me to stroke it, try it on. They reach into the box and lift it up from its satin lining. The necklace feels heavy, loaded like a gun, the stones weighing down like bullets. I let it dangle, limp yet alive between my fingers, and watch as it glitters in the sparkling light. I think of the Crown Jewels in the Tower of London. When I can drag my eyes away from the diamonds, I glance at the door.
What if someone comes in? I don’t care. Fuck it. I’m going to try it on.
I pull my hair away from my neck and drape it over one shoulder. My chest looks bare in my reflection in the mirror. Naked. Too white. I lift the necklace with trembling fingers and hold it up against my skin. It looks surreal. Dreamlike. Unreal. I feel like a fucking princess. I undo the clasp, pull the ends of the necklace back together at the nape of my neck. I try to fasten it, but my fingers feel clumsy. I struggle and strain, but I can’t do it up.
“Here, let me,” comes a man’s voice from behind me.
Ambrogio! How the hell did he get in here?
“No, it’s OK—” I say, trying to take the necklace off, but Ambrogio takes the clasp and fastens it around my neck.
“Let’s see,” he says, standing next to me in the mirror. “They look great on you, Alvie. Molto bella.”
The diamonds hang around my neck and I want to be sick. I want to rip them off and throw them across the bedroom floor. He smiles.
I turn to face him, avoid making eye contact by looking at his shoes. He has lovely shoes; they look like soft Italian leather, expensive-looking designer brogues. He reaches up toward my face and tucks a lock of hair behind my ear, so he can get a better view of the diamonds, I guess. His fingertip feels warm against my cheek. I cover my chest with my hands.
“You look beautiful.”
“Oh!”
I look up into his eyes and then look away. I’m sure he can read my burning embarrassment. Why did he have to walk in at this moment? Why is my heartbeat racing so fast? He’s standing a little too close to me now. I can smell his scent, the coffee on his breath. For a crazy moment I think he’s going to kiss me. I don’t move a muscle. I close my eyes. I can’t believe I’m standing here in Ambrogio’s bedroom. I can’t believe what he just said.
“Hey, guys,” says Beth, strolling in. Breezy.
“Oh, I was just leaving,” Ambrogio says.
He gives me a smile and then turns to leave. I watch his back walk away through the doorway. He closes the door. Where the fuck did she come from? Sneaking up on us like a stalking cat.
“I thought you were out,” I say, reaching for the necklace. This better go to me in your will, I don’t say.
“Oh, I was,” Beth says quietly, whispering almost under her breath, “but I wanted to come back and see you.”
“Really.”
“To make sure you are ready for later.”
“Uh-huh.”
“That you haven’t changed your mind.”
Finally, there’s a click as the clasp unfastens. I pull off the necklace and hand it to Beth. I notice her fingers are trembling slightly. There’s a quiet desperation in her dark green eyes.
“It’s fine,” I say. “Whatever. It’s fine.”
The sooner this is over and done with the better. Then I’m taking the shoes and going home, wherever that is. I never, ever want to see her again.
Chapter Twelve
Couldn’t you at least tell me where you’re going?”
“I just can’t, Alvina, I’m sorry,” she says.
“If you don’t tell me, then I’m not doing it.”
She gives me a look and then looks at the shoes. I look at the shoes. She knows how much I want them. I sigh. I just want to get her off my back, off my mind, out of my life, this time forever. Why the hell did I even come out here? I’m taking the shoes and I’m leaving.
We’re arguing in Beth’s bedroom, getting changed for our swap. I feel like we’re back in our old room at Mum’s house, Beth demanding she have the top bunk bed, taking the biggest slice of fruit cake, claiming the Hearsay CD for herself. If you don’t let me have it, I’ll tell Mum what you did to that hamster/that squirrel/my doll. Do this, Alvie. Do that, Alvie. Do my homework. Polish my shoes. Tweedledum and Tweedledee. Jedward.
We stand side by side in the full-length mirror. There’s one obvious giveaway.
“You need a tan,” says Beth. “Come with me.”
Beth pushes me toward her en-suite in my underwear. She rummages through her beauty cupboard and pulls out a bottle of St. Tropez instant tan. I shiver as she rubs the cool, slimy liquid all over my arms and legs, chest, and back. It smells of biscuits. It looks too dark.
“You ever wax your legs?” she asks.
“This is not going to work.”
I watch Beth undress and hang up her clothes. Her post-baby belly wobbles slightly like mine, not the Pilates-flat tummy she used to have. We both have an inch or two of muffin top. She’ll probably get hers lipo-ed off. I would if I could afford it. But I’ll just keep eating cookies and doughnuts and triple chocolate salted caramel and bacon brownies until I suffocate in my own stomach flaps and my body fat engulfs me like a glutinous pink alien. Something to look forward to. Still, it’s better than Pilates.
Beth pulls on the little black dress I wore yesterday. It looks better on her. She shimmies around so I can help with the zip. It glides past bronzed shoulder blades to the base of her neck; it’s white beneath her hair where the sun hasn’t reached it. I study the fine white hairs on her skin. She’s so vulnerable at this angle.
“It’s really unfair. You ask me to be you, but you won’t tell me why,” I say.
“I won’t be gone long.” She spins back around to face me. “Just stop with the questions, OK?” she says.
There’s another bruise, on Beth’s other arm, in exactly the same place. Greenish-blue and purple all at once. I don’t know how I missed it yesterday. Perhaps it’s new?
“Does this have anything to do with the bruises?” I ask. Surely it can’t have been Ambrogio? He is Prince Charming.
She pretends she hasn’t heard me and disappears through a door. I follow her like Alice in Wonderland chasing the White Rabbit. We emerge into a room lined with hundreds of dresses, all perfectly coordinated in a textile rainbow. It’s my very first walk-in closet, so beautiful, I gasp. There are Polaroid pictures of all of her outfits, stuck up on the walls and dozens of drawers; my sister is Cher from Clueless. I think of my room at the slobs’ place in Archway; my clothes lived in hessian sacks from the Laundromat, overflowing in piles all over the floor.
“Just wear this dress.”
She flings a floral frock in my face: violet chiffon with a tiny waist and full skirt, the kind of thing I wouldn’t wear if you paid me. How did I let her talk me into this?
“Really?” I ask, making a face. I can’t wear that. It might look nice on Beth, but I’d look like a four-year-old going to church.
“Really,” says Beth.
I check the label on the dress.
“What size is this?” I ask, trying to get out of it. . . .
“It’s a 38,” she says. “Don’t worry, it’s right; we’re both a size 10.”
I sigh. I pull on the dress, my arms thrashing through layers of petticoat: waving around like I’m drowning in tulle.
/> “For fuck’s sake, you could at least tell me what this is about. And the bruises. You still haven’t told me about the bruises.”
Beth rolls her eyes.
“I did. I told you yesterday, remember? I fell off the ladder in the garden.”
“Twice?”
“What? What do you mean, twice?”
“Well, that’s a new one.” I prod at her arm. “That bruise wasn’t there yesterday.”
“Ow!” she says, pulling away. “Don’t be stupid. I only fell once.”
She rubs her arm where I prodded her, glaring.
“Well, we both know that’s bullshit.” I can tell when she’s lying. She’s not very good. “I heard you last night. You were crying,” I say.
“Just leave it, OK?”
Beth turns away. She finds some nail-polish remover in a drawer of her dressing table. She hands me the bottle with some cotton wool. I don’t think she’s going to tell me. Perhaps she really did fall off a ladder? She was picking some organic kumquats or something. She wanted to make some sugar-free kumquat and quinoa jam. Perhaps that bruise was there in the amphitheater and I’m going mental? Perhaps all that crying was Ernie.
“Do you have the, er . . . green?” she asks, looking at my fingertips, a frightened expression on her pretty face. Beth’s never worn anything but baby pink. She’s going to have a seizure.
“Yup, right here,” I say, reaching for my handbag. I grab the nail varnish and throw it in her lap.
“Will you do it for me, Alvie? I can’t do it myself . . .” says Beth.
“No, do it yourself—it’s better if it looks a bit crap. Authentic,” I say.
Beth picks up the varnish as though it might bite.
“So why were you crying then?” I persist.
“Crying? What crying?”
“Last night,” I say.
“Ernie was crying. I think he had colic.”
“Colic?” Yeah, right. It sounded like someone being tortured.
I scrub at my nails with the cotton-wool pad until all of the neon green has come off: the acrid stench of moisturizing acetone-free vitamin E-enriched nail-polish remover flooding my nostrils. Then we sit and watch Beth’s nails dry. It’s like watching paint dry, but more boring because Beth’s here.
“Interesting color,” she says, wiggling her fingers. “Now let’s do our hair up exactly the same,” she says, forcing a smile.
Beth stands in front of the mirror with a hair dryer and curling iron. I watch as she magics her hair into a Malibu Barbie–style blow-dry. Blond locks cascade down her back in loose waves. It takes hours of maintenance and days of treatments at top salons to achieve that balance of sexy and disheveled; it’s perfect. I think about my greasy locks and three-inch roots.
“It’s not going to work,” I say. “My hair’s a mess.”
Beth stops what she’s doing and frowns. I untie my hair and it falls over my shoulders. She examines a mousy strand; it hangs, limp, between manicured fingertips.
“You’ve got split ends,” she says, horrified. “I’ll call my stylist. She should be able to pop over and fix it.”
Beth’s got an answer for everything.
She grabs her mobile from her handbag and jabs at the touch pad. I flop down on the bed and study the array of perfumes and potions on Beth’s dressing table. This is Wonderland: Drink Me. Eat Me. Rub Me All Over Your Naked Body. The bottles look like miniature artworks, tiny sculptures in porcelain and glass. I wonder what age-defying alchemy they contain and think of the half-empty bottle of Clean & Clear I left on the sink at the slobs’ place. Great, I’ll probably have a breakout now. That’s just what I need. I bet Beth never gets spots.
“It’s no good,” comes a voice from behind me. “She’s booked up till Thursday. We’ll have to think of something else.”
Lucky. Maybe Beth will change her mind? This is never going to work.
Beth pulls out a drawer from a mahogany chest and rifles through lingerie: pink silk, diamanté, intricate lace in dazzling white. There’s even a pair of fluffy pink handcuffs still with their tags that’s probably never actually been used: an ironic gift from her bachelorette weekend in Puerto Banús? I wonder if they made her wear sparkly “L” plates and drink Piña Coladas through penis-shaped straws? I would have done if I’d been invited. That’s probably why I wasn’t invited.
“Found it!” she says, pulling out an industrial-strength bra. “My Wonderbra: wear this and no one will be looking at your hair.”
I can see the logic. I struggle out of the dress and into the bra. It’s the first time in my life that I have cleavage. It looks fucking unbelievable. I feel like I could dance onstage for money, rock the Moulin Rouge or the Crazy Horse. My eyeballs pop out of my head and roll around on the floor. I feel sorry for Ambrogio.
“What about Ambrogio?” I ask, staring at my chest in the mirror. “You don’t think he’ll notice?”
He’ll notice these, that’s for sure.
“Here’s a hairband and a brush.” She hands me the dryer. “Tie it up like this. . . .”
She pulls my hair up into a ponytail, then winds it around into a topknot. She’s tugging at my hair, yanking it, pulling it.
“Ow! Get off. I can do it,” I say, moving away. I pull the dryer to my side of the mirror. It would be so easy to strangle her with the cable; I could twist it around her neck and finish her off in two minutes flat. Shall I do it? Beth does her hair up exactly the same. With my hair pulled back like this, you can’t see my roots. It really does look just like Beth’s.
“Wait,” she says. “I haven’t finished.”
She dabs on a blob of Crème de la Mer and massages it into my face and neck. She applies Diorskin foundation with a minuscule sponge. Next, she finds some finishing powder by Chanel and an enormous brush. Her face is the picture of concentration. It must be a difficult task.
“Put this all over your face and décolletage,” Beth says, handing me the powder. I think that’s French for “tits.” She sweeps on bronze eye shadow and pulls out a wand of volumizing mascara: Benefit “They’re Real” in “Blackest Black,” as though black weren’t already black enough. My eyes water as she jabs at my lashes. She takes a Juicy Tube out of her makeup bag and squeezes it onto my parted lips. It smells sickly sweet; it tastes like caramel. Then Beth finds a perfume bottle, decorated with a tiny silver bow: Miss Dior Chérie.
“Wear this,” she orders, handing me the perfume. “And go easy. It’s my very last bottle; it was discontinued in 2011.” I spritz my neck: Patchouli and orange. Damn, now I even smell like Beth.
“And these,” she says, pulling off her watch (a mother-of-pearl Omega Ladymatic with tiny diamonds where numbers should be) and her eye-popping engagement ring. That rock cost more than the GDP of a developing country. I want it. It looks good on me. Fuck me, I want it. “And these, Ambrogio had them made when I had Ernesto.”
She hands me a pair of diamond earrings: the finishing touch. The earrings, in the form of teardrops, look really expensive. I could buy a flat in Archway if I sold them. I don’t want to know what Beth would do to me if I lost one. She watches as I put them on.
I pull the frock back on and we stand, once again, side by side in the mirror. This time, I look like Beth and Beth looks like me. Our transformation is complete. Even I’m confused. I move my hand and wave it a bit so I can check which one’s me. I guess this is happening then; this is actually happening. Oh my God, she’s so annoying. At least it’s just for a couple of hours. . . .
“Your handbag,” she says in an upbeat voice that sounds more strained than chirpy. She gestures to our bags on the bed. Why do I feel like a marionette? Beth is my puppet master. My life plays out before me, like I’m dancing onstage, my limbs controlled by invisible strings.
“Beth,” I begin, but I know it’s futile before I even start. �
�I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“Alvie,” she snaps, her eyes piercing mine like needles. “Let me make the decisions, OK? We know who has the better track record. . . .”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” I say, although I know precisely. Look at me and then look at you. Look how rich, happy, and successful I am and then look how shit your life is in every possible way. BITCH! BITCH! BITCH! My hands are shaking. I could punch her or slap her or throw her out the window. If I smash that mirror, I could use one of the shards to slit her throat. I try to control it. I can usually control it.
“Oh, nothing,” she snaps.
I clench my jaw.
Beth empties her handbag out onto the bed: a Mulberry purse in the softest peach leather, a pair of oversized Gucci sunglasses, and another caramel Juicy Tube. I pick up Beth’s beautiful Hermès tote and stroke it. I give her my battered Primark wallet, a packet of Marlboros, and a cherry Chapstick. She spots my signature purple lipstick in the bottom of my bag. It’s the one I was wearing yesterday when Ambrogio picked me up.
“Ooh, can I have some of that?” she asks. “Please?”
I give her the lipstick. She pulls off the cap and twists up the lipstick, picks a bit of fluff and a crumb off the end.
“You haven’t had, like, a cold sore or anything, have you?” she asks, turning the lipstick around to examine it.
“Are you asking if I have facial herpes?”
“I guess . . .”
“Fuck off.”
She sighs and applies the lip color, looking deep into her eyes as she pouts in the mirror. Goddammit, the purple looks better on her.
“We’ll need to swap ID. Just in case.”
She gives me her passport, so I give her mine. This all seems a little over the top. Why is she being so thorough?
“And you might need these,” she says without looking up. She tosses me the keys to the villa.
“Keys? I don’t think so. I’m not going anywhere. And anyway, you’re only—”
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