Mad

by Chloé Esposito

  Five pints of Snakebite, three drinking games, and one bottle of Malibu into an evening of drinking in the Corpus Christi College bar, and I was seeing double. All I’d eaten during the day was a packet of dry roasted peanuts. I was smoking my way through a twenty-pack of menthols that I’d found in the loo, wearing the dress my sister gave me: body-con fuchsia, so tight I couldn’t breathe. Beth was wearing one just like it. I was concentrating hard on not falling off my stool when Beth stopped talking and looked at the door. A man walked in.

  “Who’s that?” I asked.

  At first he was a blur, but as he approached, a Mediterranean demigod emerged as if through dry ice at the back of the stage at a Backstreet Boys concert. He was Hollywood handsome: blue jeans, white shirt—open at the top two buttons—and tuxedo jacket. Dark hair fell in waves to his shoulders. His teeth were shiny and Colgate-ad white. What was he doing in Oxford? All the other guys looked like Gollum from The Lord of the Rings. And why was he so tanned? Beth reached out her hand and pulled him in for a hug. I watched in disbelief. My sister knew him?

  “Alvie, this is Ambrogio. Ambrogio, this is my twin sister, Alvina,” Beth said.

  “Twin sister? No way; that’s crazy. You’re identical, right?”

  We looked at each other and shrugged.

  “Beth never mentioned she had a twin,” Ambrogio said.

  Beth made a face. She hadn’t told me about Ambrogio either: not something I’d forget.

  “Unbelievable!” he said. “You two look exactly the same. . . .” I shook the hand he offered me. His skin was warm and smooth. “Pleased to meet you. Which college are you at?”

  He spoke with an accent I couldn’t understand. I thought he might be Spanish.

  “Oh, she doesn’t go here,” Beth said, “she’s just visiting for the weekend.”

  I forced a smile and nodded. “That’s right.”

  “Oh. You’re at another university? What are you reading?”

  “Erm, no, I’m not,” I said to the floor. “I work at Yo! Sushi.” I couldn’t go to college because I didn’t get any qualifications. I didn’t get any qualifications because I got expelled. It wasn’t going well. And what an odd question. I’d recently finished reading The Satanic Verses, but he didn’t need to know that. “What are you reading?”

  “I’m doing a master’s in history of art.”

  We left the bar. Ambrogio and Beth linked arms as they walked and I trailed a few feet behind, listening to Beth flirting and giggling and staring at Ambrogio’s Diet Coke–ad bum. We walked through wind and sideways rain to a subterranean sweatbox called the Orange Dolphin or Turquoise Goldfish or Golden Aardvark or something. It smelled of BO. The ceilings dripped. There was a little puddle of vomit in the middle of the dance floor. I think the DJ must have been deaf/dead/shitfaced because he played “The Power of Love” by Celine Dion thirteen times in a row. Nobody else seemed to notice. In Oxford, this was what people called a “nightclub.”

  I drank some WKD and some shots of tequila. The music was so loud I couldn’t hear what anyone was saying. Neither could anyone else. We stood in a circle sipping luminous alcopops through straws. Beth went to the bar to buy another round of Bacardi Breezers and I smiled at Ambrogio. He smiled back. We swayed out of time to the music for a bit, then he put his arms around my waist and pulled me toward him. It was clear from the start that Beth fancied the pants off him. Well, guess what? So did I. And she’d known the guy for less than a week. So fuck it. He was a free man and all mine for the taking. I held him tight.

  “You’re beautiful,” he whispered, and I melted.

  No one had ever said that to me before. They always said it to Beth. His breath felt hot against my ear. His aftershave was dreamy. I rested my cheek on Ambrogio’s chest and we danced. It was probably only for twenty seconds, but it felt like forever. Time does funny things like that. “The Power of Love” blasted around us. The dance floor seemed to disappear. All too soon, they turned the lights on and suddenly the music stopped. Beth said it was time to go home. A group of us staggered down the street and into some kind of fast-food establishment. I ordered cheesy chips with beans and Ambrogio ordered a burger.

  “I don’t want anything,” said Beth. “I’m going back to halls. Are you coming?”

  I looked at my cheesy chips and then looked at Ambrogio. “I’ll see you up there in a bit.”

  Beth scowled. Ambrogio swayed; I think he might have been drunk. Drunker than me, or I wouldn’t have noticed. We sat down at a table for two to eat our food. I reached for the ketchup.

  “Ciao,” said Ambrogio with a wave. “See you later.”

  Beth rolled her eyes and stormed off.

  I don’t remember eating a thing, I was staring at Ambrogio. His Disney-prince eyes, his kiss-me lips. He didn’t look real. He looked like an advert for some kind of supplements that make you younger and better-looking. He looked like an extra from Zoolander.

  “Let’s go,” he said, standing up and taking my hand. I couldn’t believe what was happening to me. Why had he picked me, not Beth?

  Next thing I knew, I was in Ambrogio’s room, listening to “Umbrella” by Rihanna and thinking it was fate like Romeo and Juliet. It was obvious we were meant to be together. It was clear this was our destiny. I just hoped that we weren’t star-crossed lovers like in that play. That had ended badly.

  There was a lava lamp on Ambrogio’s desk by his unmade single bed. Something red bubbled and blobbed in a column of silver and glass. I watched it morph like magma or lava . . . (Oh, lava lamp; I guess that’s the point) boiling, simmering, hot. I was hypnotized. Mesmerized. When I looked up again, Ambrogio was taking off his top.

  “I know I’ve just met you,” he said to his navel as he struggled to unbutton the buttons on his shirt. “But I really fucking love you.” He gave up on the buttons and pulled off his shirt up over his head. He unzipped his fly and pulled down his pants. I stared in shock. I don’t know why. I guess I’d never seen a man naked before. Of course, I’d seen pictures and photographs. I knew what to expect. What they looked like. But not in real life. Not close-up. Not like this. It was crazy. Electric. I suddenly felt wide-awake. I sobered up. Kind of.

  “What did you say?”

  “I love you,” he said, reaching for the skirt of my dress and pulling it up.

  His words hit like bullets and lodged in my chest. No one had ever said that before. “You love me? Really? Are you sure?”

  “I swear to God. Will you marry me?” he asked. He yanked off the boxers that were caught on his foot and tripped over his feet and onto the bed.

  “Stop it,” I said, turning away. He was slurring his words. “You’re drunk, you don’t mean it.” He was taking the piss.

  “Yes, I do. I really do.” He reached for my bra and tried to undo it, but the clasp was too difficult so he gave up.

  “You prefer my sister, just admit it. Guys never like me. They think I’m weird; the weird sister. The loser. The freak.” I got up off the bed and looked around for my shoes. There was only one, like Cinderella. He stood up too and grabbed my waist, pulled me toward him, and held me tight. I could smell the Jägermeister on his breath. He was so close I could taste him.

  “I like weird.”

  I looked into his eyes and we kissed.

  It all goes a bit hazy after that, but in the morning, when I woke up, I could tell I wasn’t a virgin anymore because there was blood on the sheets and Beth seemed pissed off.

  I left Oxford in a hurry. I had a shift at twelve at Yo! Sushi in London and couldn’t afford to be late. Again. I was already on my last warning. And I needed the money. So I wrote my number on the back of an envelope and stuck it next to him on the pillow: “07755 878 4557: ALVIE. CALL ME X” He’d looked so peaceful, I hadn’t wanted to wake him. I just snuck out quietly and pulled the door to. I tiptoed down the corridor, beaming, a wid
e smile across my face. I don’t know why they call it “the walk of shame.” If anyone had spotted me early that morning, sneaking out of his room at eight a.m., they would have thought I was a “dirty stop-out,” or judged me for my messy attire. No shoes on (because I had lost one; surely no shoes is better than one?), wrinkled dress and tangled hair, makeup smeared across my face, love bites, cum stains, morning breath. But I didn’t feel dirty, or shameful, embarrassed. I’d met the man I wanted to marry. I felt elated, ecstatic, fucking euphoric. Happy for the first time in my life. You know what I felt? I felt whole.

  Later that week when he hadn’t called me, I phoned my twin just to check what was up. Beth said Ambrogio had asked her out and that they were a couple. An item. Officially together. She said she was head-over-heels in love. She’d forgiven him for his one-night stand. She was practically planning the wedding.

  ◆

  Thursday, 27th August 2015, 10 a.m.

  Taormina, Sicily

  If recreational drugs were tools, then alcohol would be a sledgehammer—no, scrap that—a steam hammer (Newton’s second law: more force). I don’t recall drinking, but that BANG! BANG! BANG! inside my head is a surefire sign of a hangover. The vodka fairy must have visited and kicked my ass; I don’t remember much of last night. I don’t know where I am. A soft cotton bathrobe feels warm against my skin, there’s a pink silk pillow I don’t recognize. I yawn, stretch, rub my eyes with my fists. I slept well. (Passed out, more likely. Stop doing that, Alvie; it’s not good for your liver.) My retinas shrink and writhe in their eye sockets. My eyes open to blinding light; I shut them again. Where the hell am I? This isn’t my bedroom. This isn’t my bed.

  I sit up bolt upright and scan the room; this is Beth’s bedroom. This is Beth’s bed. I look across the mattress, but there’s nobody there. I feel the sheets, but they’re cold. Where’s Ambrogio? Doesn’t he sleep here? Did I sleep with my sister’s husband? (Again.) I shake my head; I’d remember that. The room looks exactly the same as it did yesterday, when Beth and I were getting changed. There’s a nightie on the pillow with little pink roses embroidered on the hem.

  Beth!

  Realization seeps in like blood trickling through wet hair onto paving stones. Beth. I killed her. Did I push her, or did she slip? I can’t remember. Am I a murderer? Holy shit, what have I done? I leap out of bed and run to the window, look out through the slats in the blind. The garden at the front of the villa is empty. I can’t see the pool from in here.

  Where is she? What am I going to do? And where the fuck is Ambrogio? Wasn’t there something about a plan? Keep calm, Alvina, I say to myself. Keep calm and carry on. Play it cool. Act normal. You can do this. You’re a rock star. Just think: what would Beyoncé do? I breathe in deep.

  OH MY GOD . . .

  I did it!!!!

  Euphoria bubbles up inside.

  I feel so high I could fly to the sky and I’m soaring up now, floating, drifting, looking down on her body, looking down on the Earth. I could dance, I could sing, I could fucking explode. I’m free! At last! I want to laugh. I want to cry tears of joy. That rush. That high. Like riding too fast on a scooter. An involuntary smile spreads across my face; I cover my mouth with my hands.

  Elizabeth is dead! Long live Elizabeth!

  That was Alvie lying there with blood in her hair, a wet black dress with one strap ripped and skin shining white in the dying moonlight. She looked serene. She looked beautiful. Alvina. No one will miss her. There’s no husband concerned by her whereabouts. No baby crying to be held. No friends back in England expecting her to write, to call, begging her to come home. It’s better this way. It’s good that Alvina has died.

  I always tried, I really did! What the hell was my sister on about? Her voice in my head.

  No, I’m here and I’m staying. I’m up for the fight. I’ve got nothing to lose and everything to play for. Ambrogio’s the one who should be afraid. Well, guess what, mister! Now I have the plan. I plan to live my sister’s life and enjoy every single fucking second. Just as long as he thinks I’m Beth, I’m golden. Everything’s rosy. Nothing to fear. But the very second he suspects, it’s goodbye, dream boy. Arrivederci, Ambrogio. If I’ve killed once, then I can kill twice. He’s the one who should be freaking. I’m not going to be afraid. (Wow, I’m even more badass than I thought. I’m Lisbeth Salander. I’m Joan of Arc.)

  My handbag sits on a chair by the dressing table. Beth’s handbag. My handbag. Ambrogio brought it in last night. Now I remember, it was on the pram. I pick it up and look inside: my Primark wallet, my cherry Chapstick, and something else . . . loose in the bottom of the bag . . . Beth’s diamond necklace! What’s that doing there? Why did she take that out for a walk? I could stand here forever trying to figure it out, but I really need to pee.

  I stand at the sink and study myself in the mirror.

  “Hello, Elizabeth,” I say.

  I turn on the shower and step inside. I still feel dirty from last night. I scrub at my body with a loofah, use a whole bottle of Molton Brown. I might as well shave my legs and do my bikini line while I’m in here. Beth was naked from the eyebrows down. I find Beth’s razor on a little shelf and lather on some shaving foam. I step out of the shower in a cloud of hot steam and wrap myself up in a towel.

  My mouth feels rancid. Two electric toothbrushes are charging on a shelf; I pick one at random. I’ve never wanted to brush my teeth so much in my life. The high-pitched buzz makes me jump, like a chainsaw in a garden, like a drill to the brain. I look in the mirror and scrub at my teeth. I am Elizabeth. I am Beth, I tell myself over and over.

  Then I stop. Shit, if I am Beth, then I’m right-handed. I switch hands. Try again. Brushing your teeth with the wrong hand is next to impossible. I feel as clumsy as a toddler, but I keep on going. I need to practice. I’ve got to get this right. Then a figure in the mirror makes me jump; it’s Ambrogio.

  “Good morning, darling,” he says behind me.

  Ambrogio’s voice is croaky, throaty. I stop the whirring, a mouthful of paste.

  “How are you feeling?” he asks.

  I spit the toothpaste into the bowl and turn on the tap. I study his face: bags under his eyes, stubble on his chin. He doesn’t look like he’s slept at all.

  “Emilia’s with Ernesto; they’ve had some breakfast and they’re playing in the nursery. She wants to take him to the park, if that’s OK with you.”

  What about the body? What about my fucking sister?

  “That’s fine,” I say. I want to see Ernie . . . to kiss him, to hold him. Baby Ernie! He’s all mine!

  “Listen, Beth,” he says. “Um . . . well . . .”

  I stoop down to the tap and rinse my mouth with lukewarm water, spit in the sink.

  “There’s a problem.”

  “A problem?”

  “Yes.”

  I find a towel and wipe my mouth. “Your mother,” he says.

  “My mother’s in Australia.”

  “I know, amore, but she’s a loose end. At some point, she’s going to wonder what’s happened to your sister.” He pauses and frowns at me in the mirror. “The last place Alvie will appear on any records is at Catania Airport, visiting you.”

  Shit. He’s right. My mother’s a loose fucking end.

  “So what are we going to do? Where’s the body?” I say. I dry my face with a towel.

  “The body’s with my guys, right here in Taormina.”

  “And?”

  “I think it’s best if we act as if nothing has happened. Just like before she arrived,” he says.

  “And my mother?”

  “You need to call her and tell her that Alvie has died. Invite her to the funeral.”

  What the fuck?

  “The funeral? What funeral? I thought we couldn’t have one.”

  “Say the funeral’s today. She’s on the other side of
the world; she’s not going to come. But if she does, it’s OK. Nino has the body over at his place, just in case. This is Sicily; we can organize a funeral off the record. It’s a pain in the ass, but we can do it. It happens all the time.”

  I run the water into the sink and rinse off the toothpaste. It swirls around and around in the bowl and spirals down, down, down into the drain: glugging, belching, disappearing. He’s probably right. My mother would come if it were Beth who’d died, but that’s one hell of a long way to travel to watch some strangers fill a hole in the ground with somebody you didn’t like. I dig my nails into the plastic grip on the handle of the toothbrush.

  “I’ll call her,” I say. I’ve got no choice. But if she comes, I’m screwed. She’s the only one who could ever tell us apart. “I’ll call her today . . . but I want to see it.”

  “Want to see what?” Ambrogio puts his hands on my shoulders, massages my neck. It hurts. I’m tense.

  “Where they put her. Where they bury her.” I want to make sure she goes in the ground.

  “You don’t want to see it; it won’t be nice.”

  “I need to see it.” I need to know that she’s not coming back.

  We make eye contact in the mirror where he’s standing just behind me.

  “I’m coming,” I say.

  He sighs, shakes his head. “OK. You can come. I’ll call Nino and tell him.” He wraps his arms around my waist and holds me close. “It’s going to be all right, Beth.” He is warm; he feels good, and suddenly, I believe him. Everything’s going to be A-OK. I still have the toothbrush in my hand; I put it back on the shelf.

  “Hey, why are you using my toothbrush? Use your own,” he says.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I stand in the middle of the walk-in wardrobe and look around: a kid in a sweet shop. Just look at all these gorgeous clothes! They’re all couture, expensive, designer. How could Beth afford all this? She can’t have made that much cash from her novel. Did Ambrogio buy them with his parents’ inheritance? Or does he make a killing dealing art? What shall I wear? Something black, surely? But no. Go on as if nothing has happened, just like before. That’s what Ambrogio said. All right, darling: whatever you say. . . .