“I have to—” I start. But I don’t know how to finish. Have to what? Scream? Yes, I have to scream. She shouldn’t be this late. I know it, and Ambrogio knows it. What if something has happened to her? I fucking hope not. I can’t stand much more of this.
“Sorry, darling,” I say suddenly, remembering who I’m supposed to be. I run my fingers through his hair and massage the top of his skull as though he were a cat. His hair feels silky and soft. “I’m sure they’re on their way back.”
He nods and I kiss him on the forehead, taste salty skin. Good cat. “I’ll see you inside,” he says, standing up. He doesn’t smile; he just turns and leaves. I watch his back disappear. Again.
Great, now Ambrogio’s in a huff with me . . . but it’s not me he’s annoyed with, he’s annoyed with Beth. I wait for him to go back in the villa and shut the door, flop down on the sun lounger, scream silently inside my head.
I’ve done nothing but call Beth for the past three hours, listening to her voicemail, again and again. “Hi, you’ve reached Elizabeth Caruso. I’m sorry, but I can’t take your call right now. Please leave a message.” Then hanging up and ringing again, over and over like a crazy stalker. But her phone is off. I have no idea why her phone would be off. She’s got a new iPhone, so the battery shouldn’t have died. She must have turned it off on purpose. Bitch.
I grab the bottle of Absolut vodka and glug it down. It’s warm. Alcohol burns the back of my throat. I swallow some more. Then some more. And some more. Until I’ve finished the rest of the bottle. I slam it back down on the paving stones: the sound of concrete scraping glass. The garden spins around and around like I’m caught in a vortex being sucked down a drain. That’s a better feeling than sober.
If I sit here any longer, I’m going to explode.
A high-pitched whine pierces the silence; a mosquito trills inside my ear, the top note on a violin. I hit myself hard on the side of the head. I’m being eaten alive. Clouds of mosquitoes hover over the pool. Do they have malaria in Sicily? We’re practically in Africa. I leap up from the sun bed and head out into abominable darkness. It’s proper black out here in Taormina, not like that monochrome orange-gray we get back in London. I miss light pollution. There are so many fucking stars.
I try Beth’s number again, but—of course—her phone is still off. What was I thinking? I’m such an idiot. How did I get myself into this mess? I kick off Beth’s shoes and leave them under the sun bed; they were already pinching. Of course, Beth’s feet are smaller than mine. Skinnier. Daintier. I feel like Anastasia or Drizella, the ugly stepsisters in Cinderella. I feel like the pumpkin that turns into the coach.
I walk with bare feet through coarse grass. I push past a rosebush; my dress snags on a thorn. I pull it. It rips. I didn’t like it anyway. Trees block my path like malevolent corpses; their long, gnarled fingers clawing up at my skin. What is Beth playing at? I should never have agreed to this. I knew it was a mistake from the very start. A spider’s web sticks to my face; something fast scurries up my neck. I scream and wriggle and whack at my back. I think it’s hiding in my hair.
I reach the road at the bottom of the garden. I don’t really know where I’m going from here. I take a deep breath—rotting leaves—and turn back toward the villa. I should have just slept with him when I had the chance. Beth deserves it. That was it, my only shot. I wanted to, hell, I really wanted to, and Ambrogio did too. I could feel it. He wanted me. We could have been fucking right now: our bodies pressed together on the sun bed, Beth’s husband whispering “I love you” in my ear. It would have been great. But no, here I am, being a good girl, doing exactly what she wanted, Beth always getting her own fucking way. A marionette. A puppet. Shit! There’s a crack. Something hard and sharp, then something slimy, squeezes up between my toes. I just trod on a snail. I run across the grass and try to wipe it off. Gross! Gross! Gross!
When I look up, I’m in Salvatore’s garden. Security lights flick on and I’m dazzled: a fox caught in headlights. I freeze. I don’t breathe. I look around, moving only my eyes, but the lights are automatic; there’s nobody here. The driveway is empty; Salvatore has taken his car and gone out. I can move again. I can breathe. I crunch over gravel and follow the driveway toward the house. Slowly. Carefully. His villa isn’t as obscene as Beth’s, but it’s still very impressive. I press the palms of my hands up against a window and look inside. It’s Salvatore’s entrance hall: modern, arty. Exposed brickwork, palm trees in ceramic vases, paintings on the walls . . .
That’s when I see it: a statue of a woman, a woman who looks exactly like me. She’s life-size and made out of marble, standing on a plinth in Salvatore’s front hall. She has my face, my body, my build. But then I realize; it’s not me, it’s Beth. Salvatore has made a sculpture of my sister. Either he has a very fertile imagination, or he’s seen my sister in the nude. The fullness of her breasts, the curve of her hips . . . she’s perfect. It’s like looking at Beth naked, Beth made of stone. No wonder Ambrogio doesn’t like his sculptures. I wonder if he knows. I want to reach my hand through the pane of glass and touch her lips: they’d be cool, smooth. I think she’s going to speak, to laugh, to move. It’s fucking weird. He must be fucking my sister! I can’t believe it. Surely not Beth? That’s just not her style. I don’t get it.
The growl of an engine makes me jump. Headlights flood the driveway and I freeze. I’m made of stone, just like that statue. Is that Salvatore? Who’s in that car? Tires screech to a halt at the bottom of the driveway. Shit. What do I do? I’m not supposed to be here. I hesitate, then make a run for it, pushing into the bushes between Salvatore’s garden and Beth’s. Sharp branches dig into my flesh. Thorns scratch my back. Then I hear it—fucking finally—Beth’s voice: breathy, husky. She sounds strange; is she drunk? Then a man’s voice: Salvatore? What are they saying? Shouting? Arguing? They’re fighting about something by the car. I catch a few words. Salvatore says, “Crazy.” Beth says, “My sister.” Someone slams a door. What the hell is going on? “You promised,” says Beth. I don’t hear the rest. They go on fighting for a few minutes longer, until the engine revs and tires scream. A BMW coming toward me, spitting up gravel, so close now I can smell its hot engine. Feel its force as the Earth seems to shake. I crouch down low behind some leaves; if I don’t move, then he won’t see me. But I can see him.
Salvatore opens the door of his car and steps out. He’s wearing jeans and a tight black shirt, taut on his broad chest and shoulders: a bear or wild animal; a beast of a man. I hear his footsteps crunch over gravel. I hold my breath. Please don’t see me; don’t look up. He pauses, turns, and looks toward the road. What is he waiting for? Beth has gone. A key clinks metal and he pushes the door. When I hear it shut, I remember to breathe.
Chapter Fifteen
Beth! She’s back. I’m going to find her. I crawl through the bushes and into Beth’s garden, yanking leaves from my hair and a twig from my chest. Fabric rips. The dress is ruined. Beth will be cross. That’s the least of my worries. I sprint across grass, stumbling under branches, swerving past trees. I pause for a moment to catch my breath and still there’s spinning in my head. The lawn undulates and swirls. Why did I drink all that vodka? The whirr of wheels and rapid footsteps. I make out a figure pushing a pram: black against black. A glance at Beth’s villa tells me everyone’s asleep: all of the lights are off.
“Pssst,” I call. “Over here.”
Beth’s silhouette stops, then turns, looks around, but something’s not right. She’s not walking straight. She’s wobbling, tripping, unsteady on her feet. She parks the pram by the sun beds and then—somehow, slowly—meets me by the edge of the pool in the dark.
“Beth, what the fuck? Where have you been?”
She doesn’t answer. Her head hangs low.
“Beth? What’s the matter? Are you wasted?” I say.
I’m whispering, but I want to shout, grab her by the shoulders and shake her an
d shake her. Man, I need a cigarette. Where are my smokes? I’d kill for some nicotine. The stench of chlorine. The sour taste of vodka cloying my throat.
“I’m fine,” she says at last, looking up. Her eyes look funny; she can’t really focus. Has she been crying? Oh God, not again. Talk about emotionally unbalanced. I haven’t cried since 1995.
“Shh. Be quiet. You’ll wake Ambrogio.”
My shoulders tense. Something bubbles up inside. How the hell is it still this hot? It’s the middle of the night. The patio’s radiating heat. Humid air presses down on my shoulders, presses down on my chest and I’m starting to sweat. A mosquito buzzes: whining, insistent. I feel it bite and prick my neck.
“Fuck Ambrogio. I hate him,” Beth says.
My hands are trembling. My teeth are clenched. How dare she say that about Ambrogio? He is perfect. She doesn’t deserve him. Beth stole him from me and now I bet she’s going to chuck him like an old kebab. She’s sleeping with that sculptor; that’s what this is about! What a slut! But why take the kid?
Beth starts to sob.
Ernie starts to cry, a high-pitched, desperate, desolate cry, like somebody strangling an unwanted cat. I guess they do sound kind of similar. I still don’t know who was crying last night. For fuck’s sake, this is the last thing I need: a hysterical child. A hysterical Beth. She’s unbelievable, my sister. This swap’s the only reason she’s invited me here. I knew it was too good to be true.
“Shut up, Beth.” I take a step closer.
“I wish I was a million miles away. . . .”
Beth speaks in a strange, slurred voice I’ve never heard before.
“I wish I was dead,” she says to the floor.
I step in a little closer. She nearly falls over. I grip her arms with both my hands and squeeze her tight. She’s laughing, now, laughing and crying all at the same time.
“Fuck Ambrogio and fuck Salvatore. You can have them both.” I feel her breath hot on my cheek. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” She laughs in my face, an awful, hollow, joyless laugh. “At last, somebody who wants you back.” Her eyes seem to flash in the full-moon light.
“You’re a bitch!” I say.
“You’re crazy!” she says. “Fuck you too. You think it’s easy having a sister like you? I always tried, I really did. The one time I needed you! Everything’s fucked!”
She’s shouting now, so angry she’s shaking. Something’s very, very wrong, my perfect sister doesn’t swear.
“What do you mean, a sister like me?”
“You’re a freak! You’re a loser. Everyone knows.”
Volcanic rage bubbles up inside.
“What do you mean, everyone?”
“You nearly gave Mum a nervous breakdown. Why do you think she wanted to emigrate?”
“Because she married—”
“Do you think Ambrogio would ever choose you? You’re so fucking deluded. You think I stole him? I bet you tricked him. You probably pretended to be me to get laid!”
Where did that come from? So unfair. Lashing out because her life isn’t perfect.
“No, I didn’t! What is it, Beth? What’s going on?”
“Sure. Whatever.”
“He got me pregnant,” I blurt out. “Yeah, that’s right. I never told you. You stole this life from me, Beth! That should be my baby! He should be my husband! This should be my fucking house!” I gesture to the villa, to the gardens around us, galvanized silver in the light from the moon.
“I don’t believe it! You weren’t pregnant. Same old Alvie Knightly bullshit. Same old stupid made-up lies.”
“I was! I was! I lost the baby. You stole Ambrogio! And I . . . and I . . .”
I shake her and shake her and shake her and shake and she’s slipping, slipping, slipping through my fingers. She falls—silent—backward toward the swimming pool. There’s a stomach-churning crack. Everything happens in super slow motion, time stretching out like a stringy piece of gum. Her head smashes against the edge. Her body crashes into the water. Splash! I’m soaked through. Cold water shocks my body and I scream. She sinks down, down, down into the water and I stand—frozen—watching her disappear.
Shit. Now what?
I watch Beth’s life flash before my eyes: the money, the husband, the baby, the car. She stole Ambrogio from me. She stole everything, right from the start. And I let her! No wonder my sister called me a loser. Well, I’ll show her. Two can play at that game. I’ll steal him right back. I’ll steal her life. This is everything I deserve. This is poetic justice.
I crouch down low behind a sun bed, pray that nobody will see. I suddenly feel wide-awake. Every nerve ending’s alive. I’m buzzing, rushing. Out of my mind. I’ll wait four minutes by Beth’s Ladymatic. If your heart stops for four minutes, you’re officially dead. I read that somewhere recently. Or perhaps it was on the Discovery Channel? I watch that sometimes if I can’t sleep.
The four minutes pass like decades; every second drags. I look around for security cameras, but there are none; that’s strange. I scan the garden; every shadow is Ambrogio. I glance next door, study the villas: will Salvatore run out? But it’s safe. It’s still. Ernie’s stopped crying. The cicadas continue to sing.
I watch the second hand crawl.
One minute: Bubbles rise to the surface. Will Beth come up for air? If she swims up, do I hold her down? Or pull her back up? I hear my heart beat in my chest BU-BUMP! BU-BUMP! I watch the pool for signs of life. The bubbles stop.
Two minutes: Shit. Where are the bubbles? I’ve got to get her out. She’s fucking drowning in there! BU-BUMP! BU-BUMP! What am I doing? If I don’t go now, it’ll be too late.
Three minutes: This is it. This is it. Keep calm, Alvina. Just keep calm and carry on. Hold your nerve, you can do it. BU-BUMP! BU-BUMP! BU-BUMP! BU-BUMP! I bite the inside of my lip and watch the water like a hawk. Just a little while longer. I’ve waited my whole life for this moment.
Three minutes thirty seconds: Oh my God. What have I done? I run to the pool and jump in. The water’s a scalpel cutting into my skin. Fuck, it’s cold. I can’t breathe. I can’t move. My arms feel heavy. My legs are like lead. I try to swim, but my dress weighs me down. BU-BUMP! BU-BUMP! BU-BUMP!
“Help me!” I shout through gulps of water. “Somebody help! Help! Help!”
I’ve forgotten how to swim. My limbs flail and flap; I’m going to drown. Water closes over my head. Darkness. Silence. I grab onto the edge, a mouth full of water. I’m panting, shaking, cursing; fucking hell. Her body has sunk to the bottom of the pool; I’m not strong enough to bring her back up. I dive down again, again and again, grab Beth’s hand, but it’s slippery, floppy; I can hardly hold on. I’m high on adrenaline, tripping on panic. I can’t . . . I can’t . . . I can’t pull her up. At last, the lights in the villa flick on and a figure runs out: Ambrogio.
“Help!”
The baby starts screaming. Again.
“What happened?”
“She’s drowning. . . .”
Ambrogio dive-bombs into the water and swims right down to the bottom of the pool. I grip onto the edge like I’ll never let go.
He comes up with a splash and with Beth in his arms.
“Help me,” he says.
I push myself up and out of the water. The world swirls; I’m going to be sick. I grab Beth’s arm with shaking hands. It’s a dead weight. I can’t hold on. Ambrogio lifts her body higher; it rolls onto the patio, heavy and limp. Her head lolls horribly from side to side. Has she broken her neck?
“Breathe,” I cry, shaking Beth’s shoulders, pounding her chest. “Breathe, breathe, please, breathe!” She’s a rag doll with no bones. I lay her down on the paving stones, put my mouth to her mouth—something I learned in first aid years ago—you blow, you blow, you blow, and you blow. Ambrogio jumps up and out of the pool. I’m waiting for the cough, for
the splutter of water. But nothing comes. I roll her over and whack at her back. “Breathe, please. Please, breathe!”
“Let me try,” Ambrogio says, pushing me away. He sits her up and leans her forward, whacks at her back. Whack! Whack! Blood trickles down from a crack in her head at the top on the right, her cheek is red, her neck is red. Blood curls across her chest and down her shoulders. Her head flops down to one side.
“Alvie, Alvie, can you hear me?” he shouts, “Breathe! Alvie. Fucking breathe!”
He whacks and whacks and whacks at her back. Beth’s eyes are blank and wide as a mannequin’s. They stare at nothing, dumb and dull. Unblinking. Unseeing. Unknowing. Dead. Bile rises in my throat and I retch, throw up. I vomit all over my feet, all over the ground, again and again until there’s nothing left. I shouldn’t have drunk all that vodka.
“Fuck, Beth,” Ambrogio says into the darkness. He turns toward me. “This wasn’t the plan.”
The Earth stops spinning on its axis. The planets stop orbiting the sun.
“The plan?” I say. What is he on about?
“You weren’t supposed to kill her here. You weren’t supposed to do it at all.”
I open my mouth but no words come out.
“Why couldn’t you just stick to the plan?”
We stand side by side by my sister’s body; stunned silence. There was a plan? What the fuck does that mean? The baby has finally stopped screaming; he’s cried himself to sleep, poor thing. It’s quiet. Even the cicadas seem to cease their incessant serenade. Something dark and liquid spreads from underneath my sister’s head, forms a pool on the crazy paving. I lie down next to her and try to cry. I’m watching a low-budget horror, a gory B movie or one of the Screams. This isn’t real life. This is a nightmare, a terrible dream. A plan? A plan? What kind of plan? Were Beth and Ambrogio plotting to kill me? Surely not Beth. I don’t understand. Am I paranoid? Or completely wasted? I must be hallucinating.
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