by Bella Mackie
Someone has sent me big, stupid Amir with his powerful cars, a definite date when my grandparents will be out late at night, and a windy dangerous road. And unlike that stupid man in the fable, I fully intend to take advantage of them all.
* * *
I have a little over thirty-six hours before I carry out my plans. I could spend the time following the couple around to learn more about them, but honestly, they’re just not interesting enough to make it worthwhile. So I go to the beach for the rest of the afternoon, splashing out on a sunbed at a private beach, and drinking rosé as I read a book about a woman who kills her husband after years of gas-lighting and emotional abuse. I couldn’t get on with The Count of Monte Cristo – too close to the bone, I expect. I did flick to the back though. A terrible habit for sure, but my cheating nature was nevertheless rewarded with this line: ‘All human wisdom is contained in these two words, “Wait and Hope”.’
Wait and hope. I’ve been living this line since I was a teenager now, and finally the waiting part is coming to an end. I put my hands on my hot chest, and try to feel if my heart is pounding faster than usual. But no, I’m breathing as normal, as if today is just another day and I’m not about to commit a terrible crime. How strange. My mind is going over and over the plan, and the anticipation is rising like steam ready to burst out of my ears and yet here I lie, shielded by dark glasses, heart refusing to betray me by bursting out of my chest. My body is ready, even if my mind is behaving like a teenager getting ready for a first date.
Later that evening, before I get into bed, I send Amir a text from my newly acquired burner phone. That’s what Edward Snowden called a phone that you buy to try and stay untraceable. A little grand in my case, given that I am not aware of any state secrets. But a good tip nonetheless, and a twenty-minute trip to a less salubrious part of London plus sixty quid in cash got me this rather quaint old flip phone, which I added credit to so that I could text. It won’t make its way back to England but it’s serving a useful purpose. I ask Amir if he’s around tomorrow and whether he could sort me a car for a couple of days. I’ve told him that I’m travelling further into the countryside for the night and would feel safer in a bigger car, which is sort of true, I suppose. The best lies have a kernel of truth, making it easier to stick to your story and less likely to get caught up in different versions. My friend Jimmy has a terrible lying face, the corners of his mouth automatically turn up in a smirk when he fibs. It’s sort of endearing, but it makes it impossible to trust him with anything, given his tendency to get caught out when confronted.
When I wake up, I check my phone immediately. As I suspected, Amir replied in the early hours of the morning. A big night out at Glitter, I imagine. I text right back, thanking him for his offer of a night out but explaining again that I’ll be leaving this afternoon. I know I’m not getting away with just a straight key handover, so I suggest meeting at an ice cream parlour on the Calle Ribera at 2 p.m. I know I won’t hear from him until at least midday, given the amount of champagne I imagine he imbibed last night, so I hop in the tiny shower and throw on a sundress I hope makes me look slightly dowdy in Amir’s eyes. Certainly it’s devoid of any shimmer or stretch, and so is practically a boiler suit in comparison to what most of the women in this place choose to wear. In my short time here, it has come to feel as though a mix of sequins, gold buttons, and animal prints form some kind of unofficial uniform. Well that, and the blow-up, rubbery lips that make these women look as though they’re in the midst of a terrible allergic reaction to the iced coffee they sip on as they sunbathe.
I don’t plan on coming back to this apartment, though I’ve booked it out until Saturday. I might be being too optimistic, but I don’t want to allow doubt to creep in at this crucial moment. I tidy up, throw the bedsheets in the washing machine and wipe down the surfaces. I pack up my small bag, and then lay out what I’ll need for the rest of the day. In my crossbody bag (it’s Gucci, one of the first things I bought when I started my new job, and even the ladies of Marbella would be impressed), I place my burner phone, wig, euros, folded-up plimsolls, a torch, latex gloves, a travel-size perfume bottle of liquid and a box of matches. Everything else goes in the holdall, including my real phone, passport, and credit cards.
I lock the apartment and take the key – just in case. In a fit of paranoia, I wipe down the door handle with my sleeve and realise I need to be better at this. If I’m going to carry on without being caught, a quick wipe down of random surfaces isn’t going to cut it. Ah well. This is the test balloon. The car is parked a good thirty-minute walk away, far away from the bustle on the main drag. I didn’t want it to be recorded in a car park, and this was the closest I could get to the apartment without risking it being towed away within seconds.
It’s boiling already, and sweat is running down my chest and pooling underneath my bra. I dump the holdall under the driver’s seat and check it’s not visible from all angles. Then I walk back into town, taking a different route by mistake and ending up by the sea. After a couple of hours whiling away the time at a café where a coffee seems to cost five euros, Amir finally texts. Hi bbz, I’m steaming off of last nite, you missed a proper big one! Will be at the Oceania club from 3 to get on it again, meet me their 4 a drink and I’ll sort you out! :)
His reply almost makes me rethink. I cannot engage with a grown-up who seems not to possess the ability to use basic English, even in text. It’s just bad manners, and on top of that, it implies a level of ignorance that you might forgive in a teenager but is appalling in an adult. You can only blame a poor education for so much. My secondary school was hardly Hogwarts but I still took the time to learn the difference between their and there. I doubt Amir did even that. Not for the first time, I wonder what he does to earn so much money, I doubt it’s entirely kosher, but who am I to lecture on morality? I consider using my little rental, and decide to stick with Amir’s offer. I’ll just have to be stern, shut down all offers of alcohol, and leave as soon as I get the car keys. Ugh. I resent having to rely on a man (and worse, a man who wears wrap-around shades) for help in a matter that really should be done by me and me alone, but I have to be realistic. And Amir won’t be getting anything good from this interaction. If it all goes to plan, he’ll be none the wiser. If it goes tits up, he’ll be in a world of trouble. This cheers me up a little, and I drain my coffee.
I arrive at the Oceania club just before 3 p.m. The place is enormous, a palace of vacuous frivolity. I assume it’s mainly one big bar, but souped up, on steroids. The driveway is littered with sports cars in lurid colours, each being dealt with by harassed-looking valets in white jackets. A Rolls Royce parked haphazardly in front of the entrance displays the number plate ‘BO55 BO1’. I wait at reception while a girl with a tan which the sun would reject outright as being beyond its powers speaks on the phone in estuary English. Eventually she turns her attention on me. I imagine she’s unimpressed by my brown hair, sans extensions, and my flat sandals. I’m wearing red lipstick, which I always wear when I feel like I need a shield of sorts, but apart from that, I look fairly plain. I like plain. I have a somewhat beautiful face and I don’t feel arrogant saying it. Women always backpedal when they slip up and admit they think they’re attractive, a lifetime of being told by men not to be ‘up ourselves’. Be as beautiful as possible but make sure it seems effortless and, crucially, never acknowledge it. Run away from any man who says that you’re beautiful but you don’t know it. The same men want you to be constantly up for sex but never take charge of your own enjoyment. I am pretty nice looking. Not tall, but slim and in proportion. Dark hair, symmetrical features, a nice full mouth without being too pouty. I like looking at my reflection but I’m not obsessed with it. I know my appearance helps me out in life but I’m not my mother, too reliant on her beauty and left to flounder when it’s not enough. My look is probably incredibly disappointing to the men in Marbella compared to the peacocks you see around here. Coco Chanel supposedly once said that you should take off on
e accessory before you leave the house. These girls would scratch old Coco’s eyes out with their acrylic nails before they did that. I tell Miss Tan that I’m meeting Amir, and her face changes. Clearly, he’s a valued customer, as I’m whisked through marble hallways and past a library bar stuffed with fake books and objects which look old but I’m willing to bet are bulk-bought from a supplier who churns out this crap for those wanting to look authentic but care nothing for true provenance.
We emerge outside, into the blinding sun and what looks like a theme park for adults. There are several linking pools, each with a bar in the middle, where people have swum up and are enjoying cocktails underneath straw parasols. House music blares and waiters walk briskly between loungers, topping up drinks. Some people have whole beds, laid out under canopies, where several people lie around smoking and chatting. Nobody is sporting anything more than swimwear, apart from me and I have no intention of joining them. I spy an actual belly chain of all things. Jewellery for the waist, for when you run out of places to flaunt your diamonds. Coco Chanel would die.
‘Mr Amir is not here yet, please relax and have a drink.’ I’m almost pushed down onto a large white lounger, where I am conspicuous only in my solitude. I order a tonic water, in the hope that Amir will think I’m ‘already on it’, and wait. My new friend is only forty-five minutes late, time I spend watching the bronzed girls rolling down their already tiny bikinis to get more sun, and staring at the men with their shaved chests and mini bum bags preening and showing off – mainly it seems, to each other.
I spot Amir as he walks through the sun loungers. He’d be hard to miss, dressed as he is, in neon orange shorts and surrounded by a posse of lads – all of whom seem to signal that their main aim in life is to look as much like their leader as possible. Waiters appear from all sides, bringing towels, glasses, ice buckets and, bizarrely, a coconut.
Amir reaches the lounger where I’m sitting, and peers down at me over his sunglasses. ‘Hello, gorgeous! This is Stevie, JJ, Fatlad, Cooper, and Nige.’ He gestures to the posse, all of whom nod uninterestedly, already looking at the bikini girls next to us. I wonder why ‘Fatlad’ has been given such a harsh moniker, given that his body fat percentage looks to hover in the single digits. I can only see muscles, more than a person should rightly have unless they have a physical job and I rather doubt that Fatlad has a job of any kind.
Amir grabs the coconut and throws it to the gentleman he called Nige, who bounces it hard against his head to loud roars of appreciation. Not satisfied, Nige tries again, and the fruit breaks open. He climbs onto the sun lounger and holds the pieces high in the air, as bikini girls and muscle boys alike holler excitedly.
‘It’s his best trick,’ says Amir proudly. ‘He practised that for eight summers in a row until he managed it. We’re trying to get him on that talent show where dogs do magic.’ I feel a slight sense of panic spreading through my veins, as I envisage an entire afternoon spent watching these people practise their mating rituals around a tiny swimming pool presumably contaminated by oil, fake tan, and fag ash. I must be sterner in my mission and not allow Amir to dictate my day.
With this new resolve, I reach over and hold his wrist until he turns and focuses his full attention on me. ‘I’m really sorry, but you guys were a bit late, and I only have another hour before the next part of my journey. Did you bring the car here? Only I don’t have masses of time.’
He looks at me for a minute and then throws his head back and laughs. The beefy posse behind him echo his snorts, despite not being near enough to have heard what I said. I guess whoever pays for the drinks commands a full-time rapturous audience.
‘Babes, I don’t even know your name! Calm down speedy. I have a car for you here, but let’s hang for a bit, get into it, mix it up yeah?’ I suppress the shudder I experience upon hearing such nonsensical bollocks, and allow my shoulders to drop slightly.
‘My name’s Amy,’ I say smiling, ‘and I’d definitely be up for mixing it up for a while.’
I end up spending nearly two hours with Amir and his growing group. I try to lean into it, but it’s not easy. Champagne is sprayed, girls are lured over, music is turned up on request. Amir’s attention span is limited, to put it mildly, and I have to wait patiently as he jumps up and down several times, often just to shout ‘Tuuuuuune’ to nobody in particular.
I tell him that I work in corporate events, and emphasise that I just broke up with my boyfriend so I’m not looking for anything romantic. Luckily, Amir seems to be genuinely uninterested in anything like that. He’s clearly a guy who collects friends and chases a good time. Perhaps there’s not much else to it. Makes a change. I check my watch several times, and when I can’t stand it anymore, I tell him I’ve run out of time and really have to go. It’s the truth, I don’t have too long before I need to be in position at Dinero.
He rolls his eyes, but gets up and signals to JJ, who scurries over, practically knocking a bikini-clad lovely into the pool in his haste. ‘Get the Hummer brought round, mate,’ Amir orders, and takes a sip of champagne. ‘You’re a funny one, Amy. I didn’t think you was into our chat on the plane, didn’t think I’d hear from you again. But nobody can resist Amir in the end, haha.’ He puts his arm on my back, and steers me towards the building, where we walk through as waiters back against walls. ‘This car is a sweet ride, darling, but it’s powerful. It’s a beast, will you be OK with that, can you handle the ride?’ I assure him that I’ve got loads of experience with big cars, which is a total lie, and I don’t ask what a Hummer is, which is a wise decision. We wait outside for the car to be driven round, and Amir tells me to enjoy it, and not to worry about bringing it back until Sunday. It’ll be back well before that, but I just smile and thank him.
A tank appears on cue. The noise is startling, and I flinch momentarily. Amir laughs at this, and high fives JJ as he hands over the keys. This car is enormous. Tinted windows and matt black alloys. He makes me practise on the driveway with him a few times, pointing out the chrome finish and the triple suspension, or something. I clutch the steering wheel and hover my foot cautiously over the brake, wondering whether this is a good idea after all. But when I dare to put my foot down, I realise the power in this machine will serve me well. I tell Amir how great this will be for my little trip, and gush over how my friend will love the drive.
‘Girls love big cars, innit. Look proper sexy in them. Just don’t mess my baby up, I want to take it to the South of France next week.’ I feel momentarily guilty that I’m almost certainly going to, if not total his baby, then at least inflict some serious cosmetic damage on it. Still, nothing that a wad of cash can’t fix, and from what I’ve seen today, Amir has no problems on that front.
He tells me to drop the car at the club whenever I’m ready, and with that, he winks, gives me a bear hug and walks back inside. I sit in the car for a minute, enveloped in the lingering smell of his woody aftershave, marvelling at my luck. A man who knows nothing about me has given me a car without quibbling about insurance, proof of ID, or even a guarantee I know how to drive. My little hire car is safely tucked away in a side street and I am free to carry out my plan with even less of a footprint than I imagined. I wonder if it’s a trap, but since nobody knows my plans, I shake that thought off.
It’s now 6.30 p.m. Time flies when alcohol is being sprayed all over you. I know that Jeremy said that they would head to the casino after dinner, so I guess they will get there around 9.30. I’m not going to follow them around all evening – for one thing, I don’t want anyone to clock the car – so I drive very slowly towards Marbella, hoping to find some food that isn’t chicken goujons or soggy chips.
As I sip a bowl of soup, I breathe slowly and force my foot to stop tapping. Marie used to ask me to list the top five moments of the day, ‘To remember how lucky we are.’ I haven’t done this since she died, but today seems like a good time to take stock. Today, as terminally earnest people like to say, is the first day of the rest of my life. Perhaps it
’s the day my life properly begins. So much of it has been focused on getting here. My childhood was brief, my teenage years a frustrating waiting room on the way to adulthood. My twenties have been functional – a means to an end. I’ve not felt that lucky, sorry, Marie. You left me too early and fortune never smiled that brightly as a result. So I might not manage to list five top moments. But maybe one is enough for now? Let’s start small and see what happens.
At 8.45 p.m., I pay my bill and head back to the enormous wagon parked across the road from the restaurant. I wonder if there’s an inverse correlation between money and taste – Amir’s predilection for chrome seems to suggest there might be. As does Jeremy and Kathleen’s house, for that matter. But these people are new money, or ‘nouveau riche’ as Jimmy’s mum was guiltily fond of saying. Perhaps the older your cash, the better your eye. If I pull this off, I’ll be richer than Croesus, but thoroughly nouveau. Perhaps I’ll develop an eye for bronze and beige and bling, but I doubt it. That probably means taste is more to do with whether you’re ghastly or not. The Artemis family would certainly back that up.
I don’t put my destination in the satnav, just in case Amir looks, or the police do find the car. Instead, I have a little map which I bought at the airport for six euros. I’ve checked out the route many times now, and I’ve got plenty of time if I do get lost. I pull the wig out of my bag and wince at how bedraggled it looks from just one wear. Buy cheap, pay dear, as Jimmy’s mum says. Next time I’ll invest some proper money in a disguise. I drive up winding dark roads in silence, never going above 30 kph. There’s barely a car on the road, but I wonder whether the casino visitors will change that as I get closer. I’ll only get one chance at this, and if there’s any sign of another car, I just can’t risk it. Fuck. It has to work. It has to.