The timing of his approach has to be right. Move in too soon and he risks the imminent arrival of her date and she’ll tell him to get lost; wait too long and at the speed she’s tipping back alcohol, she’ll be morose and maudlin and will tell him to piss off anyway.
Brandon straightens his jacket and rakes a hand through shoulder-length hair. Most of the women he meets like it long, winding their fingers into it, exclaiming over its thickness – a mark of his youth, a reminder of what was once theirs.
His walk across the room is purposeful. ‘Good evening. Mind if I sit here?’ he says, taking a seat opposite the woman without waiting for an answer and adding, ‘What are you drinking? Chardonnay? Think I’ll join you.’ He motions to the waiter.
‘Hey, Marco, can you add a couple more drinks to my bill, please? Two glasses of chardonnay when you have a moment.’
‘Ha! No need to ask if you’re a regular. So that’s his name.’ The woman’s voice is low; her accent has the layered intonation of the well-travelled. ‘He’s been giving me the evils since I got here. People often judge a woman who drinks alone.’ Her eyes glitter and her matte scarlet mouth curves into a mischievous smile.
‘Yes, I’ve always thought that rather unfair,’ Brandon says. ‘Why is it more acceptable for a man to drink alone than for a woman? After all, it’s 2019, not 1919. I’m Brandon, by the way.’
‘Hello, Brandon.’ She extends a slender arm. Emeralds and diamonds sparkle from a hand older than its corresponding face. ‘Simone,’ she says, holding his gaze.
There’s a pause in the conversation while Marco sets down two glasses of wine before retreating with a barely perceptible smirk.
‘I have a friend in England called Simone; she’s very chic, too. Well, she’s not really a friend, exactly,’ Brandon says, ‘she’s my agent.’
‘Oh god, spare me from another starving actor,’ Simone groans, a look of resignation crossing her carefully made-up face.
‘Actually, I’m a model; it’ll do for now, until I figure out what’s next.’ Brandon lifts his chin and shakes back his hair – all the better to be admired.
‘So that makes you, what? Seventeen?’
‘Not quite,’ Brandon says, flashing his most engaging smile. ‘It’s helpful in my line of work that I look younger than I am, but as you ask, I’m twenty-seven.’
More laughter, a shrug and then the gluttonous draining of one glass, before starting the next.
This woman can drink, Brandon observes, weighing up whether to call it quits; she may as well have cynic tattooed on her forehead.
‘You sound English, West London, perhaps?’ Brandon says, going back to basics.
‘Originally. And you?’
‘Same, London – but I’ve moved around a bit. I’ve been in Rome for three weeks.
I flew out for an audition with a high-profile designer. Unfortunately, I didn’t get the gig, but thought I’d stick around anyway. Rome’s so beautiful and I love being a tourist.’
‘Nice work if you can get it.’ She leans forward, with sudden interest. ‘Who’s the designer?’
‘I’m afraid I’m sworn to secrecy. In fact, they made me sign a confidentiality agreement because it was linked to a launch… fragrance, accessories… that sort of thing, I’m sure you understand.’
Simone rakes scarlet nails through expensively highlighted hair and nods. ‘Of course.’
Brandon leans closer. ‘That’s a beautiful ring you’re wearing. Your husband is a very generous man and has excellent taste.’
‘My husband,’ Simone enunciates the word with emphasis, ‘is a very dead man and had nothing to do with it – although indirectly you could say he paid for it, thanks to his life assurance policy.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that – it must be difficult for you.’ Brandon attempts empathy, but Simone’s expression registers only boredom.
Wow, what a hard bitch. Brandon takes a sip of the cold wine while he considers his next move. Can he really be bothered to escort this wealthy, bitter widow to her room, and shag her for a few hundred euros, or for a new suit bought hastily on her credit card in Via dei Condotti the following day?
He considers the overdue rent on his cramped and shabby apartment.
Needs must. He attempts a warm smile. ‘Being alone can be stressful and exhausting. I can help you to unwind if you like.’
Simone feigns surprise before letting out a throaty laugh. ‘Oh, don’t worry. You can drop the act. Model, my eye! I had you pegged the moment you came over here, for god’s sake. Buy me another drink and I’ll think about it.’
Simone’s hotel is three blocks from the bar. When she takes Brandon’s arm, he knows it’s for balance and not affection as she’s tottering in four-inch heels through the quiet cobbled streets.
‘I have a view of the Pantheon from my suite,’ she says, making small talk as they arrive outside the smart but anonymous hotel.
The night manager’s greeting is brief as he hands Simone her key. Brandon has come to expect this. In his experience, hotel staff are adept at looking the other way and saying little.
On the fourth floor, in a room hushed by luxury and with barely a word exchanged between them, Brandon undresses Simone with a practised hand and enacts his soulless seduction.
Sometimes the women he meets are timid, nervous, even apologetic to begin with, becoming bolder as their confidence and arousal grow. But Simone is savage in her desire, digging her nails into Brandon’s back and biting his shoulder as she cries out in ecstasy.
‘Hey, easy, tiger,’ he admonishes softly, when what he wants is to slap her spiteful face and shove her hard across the room.
Performance over, despite his growing revulsion, Brandon strokes Simone’s toned thigh and tells her she is beautiful.
‘And so I should be, the amount of time I spend in the gym,’ she says with a sardonic laugh, before adding, to his relief, ‘I’m tired now and I need my beauty sleep. Stay or go… I couldn’t care less which.’
Brandon’s smile is benign as he swallows the words, just pay me so I can get the hell out of here.
As if reading his mind, Simone reaches for her robe and goes to the safe before peeling large bills from a wad of cash.
‘Four hundred euros as agreed,’ she says, her voice clipped. ‘I’ll be leaving Rome in three days so I doubt our paths will cross again.’
Dressing with his back turned, Brandon affects disappointment. ‘That’s a shame. Where are you headed next?’
‘Florence. I have friends there. You should visit – the art is breath-taking.’
Brandon smiles. ‘So I’ve heard. Maybe I will. Take care of yourself, Simone.’ He drops a kiss on her forehead and leaves without another word.
It’s eleven thirty by the time Brandon arrives home laden with takeaway and a bottle of cheap white wine. He climbs two flights of stairs to the cramped apartment above the tacky souvenir shop, closing his eyes to the cracked plaster and peeling paint, and wrinkling his nose at the smell of disinfectant as he approaches his own front door. Jesus, if his rich-bitch clients could only see where he lived!
Star is still awake, watching an ancient romcom on cable. Meg Ryan’s face fills the screen, her cornflower-blue eyes blurred by tears. Absently, Brandon dumps his jacket on the back of a chair and sets down a bag bulging with boxed pasta on the cheap laminate counter.
‘Don’t say I never give you anything.’ He opens the wine and takes two glasses from a shelf.
Star yawns and rubs her eyes. ‘I ate at the restaurant. What is it?’
‘Your favourite. Shit – what a waste of money. I got paid though. Fuck, I earned it tonight – the bitch scratched me. Take a look, will you?’
Star visibly sags. ‘In a minute… I’m watching this.’
‘Nice. So that’s the thanks I get for busting my arse.’ Brandon scoops the now-congealing food into a bowl and nukes it in the microwave. He scans the room, a sneer blighting his handsome face. ‘We need to clean up
tomorrow. This place is a tip. Can you wash my shirts for me, too? I can’t work if I don’t look good.’
Star huffs. ‘What did your last slave die of? I’m your sister, not your cleaner.’ She stomps to the kitchen area of their cluttered open-plan living-and-kitchen space and grabs one of the glasses of wine Brandon has poured. ‘Cheers.’ She takes a sip, relaxes and finally relents: ‘Ah, go on then. I’ll iron you a couple, too. So, was she horrid then?’
‘Actually, she looked pretty good, it was her personality that was shitty. I’ve had it, Star. I can’t keep it up.’
Star explodes into giggles. ‘Well, that’s inconvenient in your line of work.’
Brandon makes a face. ‘Very funny. You know what I mean. I can’t go on like this. We can’t. Bumming around, moving from one city to the next, living hand to mouth. I can’t stand the women. Sometimes, I look at them – these spoilt fucking bitches – and I just want to wring their scrawny necks.’
When Star settles back down in front of the film, he crams angel hair pasta into his mouth and reflects on the evening. Simone had dismissed his cover story about being a model. What the hell? He’d done plenty of modelling… just not for a while. Eight years earlier, he’d been ‘one to watch’, the Covent Garden agency had said. But they’d been full of crap, promising regular work and delivering a total of five jobs in eighteen months. When the modelling failed to launch, he’d tried promotional work. But spritzing fragrance in Selfridges and directing footfall at exhibitions had turned out to be boring and poorly paid, and he’d ended up on the books of an escort agency.
The clients were an even split, with about half the women wanting sex, and the other half needing only handsome and charming company on their arm for the evening. He’d stuck with it for a while, until one night, while escorting an octogenarian to the theatre and sitting through a distinctly average performance of Noel Coward’s Private Lives, his sinuses burned with the unmistakeable smell of urine. Despite an intense urge to throw up, he’d done his best to conceal the dark, spreading stain on the poor woman’s dress with his programme as he and his date filed out onto the Charing Cross Road for a taxi. The next day, he’d sent his boss a two-word text: I quit.
So now he hustled menopausal women in hotel bars – and what of it? At least both parties knew what they were getting.
Brandon dumps his sticky bowl in the sink and runs the hot tap over it. Tomorrow he’ll tidy up a bit, buy some fruit and flowers, try to make it a bit more homely for both their sakes.
‘I’m going to jump in the shower and go to bed,’ he says to the back of Star’s head.
‘Okay, na-night, Brandon,’ Star says, her eyes still fixed on the movie.
33
Evie
Tuscany, August 2019
Evie wakes to an eerie silence. Wondering if it is earlier or later than usual, she opens her right eye; her left remains resolutely shut, sealed by the dried mascara she’d neglected to remove the night before. Sitting up, she offers a silent prayer that the jackhammer in her head will stop, before the sour fuzziness in her mouth reminds her that she’d got up in the night to throw up. Twice. Well, she hopes, at least she’d got that indignity over with.
Star sits up on the marble worktop, swigging cola from a can. Panda-eyed, she too has slept in her make-up. Her face breaks into a huge grin.
‘Oof! You look how I feel, Evie, mate. Have a Coke, that’ll sort you out. My mum used to swear by it for a hangover.’
Evie swallows hard and shakes her head. ‘Think I’ll just make some tea. Do you want one?’
‘Go on then,’ Star jumps down from the counter and goes outside.
Evie had expected more mess, but there’s little clearing up to be done. Through her brain fog, she recalls grabbing a bin bag to get rid of the rubbish and filling the dishwasher, before stumbling off to bed, leaving Harry and Susanne still drinking in the garden.
Yes, it was all coming back to her now. They’d kicked off with proper champagne, which had been fabulous, then they’d gone onto prosecco – also lovely – but then someone (Dale?) had produced a litre of gin and that had disappeared, too.
At around ten o’clock, drunk and cross, Dale had gone to bed. Unlike Evie, who in her deluded, tipsy state had mistaken herself for Beyoncé, and danced her socks off with a girl half her age. Twerking indeed! What had she been thinking?
Then later (although timings are a bit fuzzy at this point), Evie remembers Harry being vociferous about not hitting it off with Dale. Hearing him criticise her had felt disloyal and very uncomfortable indeed. Because recently, Evie had become truly fond of Dale – in ways she’d never imagined possible, loving her no-frills honesty, instead of being a little afraid of it as she was when they first met.
‘Cheers, Evie,’ Star says, taking the hot tea from her and blowing on it.
Overhead, clouds smother the weak sunlight and a light wind whispers through the garden’s once green shrubbery.
Evie’s smile is rueful. ‘Look at this poor garden – it was so lush when we arrived, now everything looks sad and parched. Can’t believe that this time next week, I’ll be at home in Tunbridge Wells. Where do you think you’ll be?’
Star shrugs. ‘Oh, I don’t know… no plans, really, just see how things go.’
‘Well, do you think you’ll patch things up with Sander, keep travelling for a while?’ Evie asks, surprised by the younger woman’s lack of concern for her future.
‘I’m a free spirit like my mum. Maybe it’s all over with Sander. We’re only young. I mean, I never thought we’d get married or anything. Sorry, Evie, I feel like I really need a shower.’
And then Evie is alone, feeling guilty for pushing Star; she hadn’t meant to pry.
‘Morning, lovely,’ Dale’s voice booms behind her, ‘hope your head feels better than mine. We were caning it last night. At least you had a good time. Sorry I was in such a foul mood – drinking makes me crabby sometimes. Anyone else up?’ Dale folds herself into the seat beside Evie, nursing a pint of water.
Evie smiles. ‘I feel a bit rough, too. I was sick in the night,’ she admits with a shudder. ‘Star’s in the shower, no sign of Susanne and Harry yet.’
Susanne and Harry. She says it as if they’re any other couple. But they aren’t and seeing them around together feels weird and jarring.
‘Urgh, Evie… I think I was on Susanne’s case about Harry last night.’ Dale plunges her head into her hands. ‘I can’t help it. I’ve known Susanne since we were in ankle socks and Clarks shoes, and there’s something very wrong with all this.’
Evie puts a finger to her lips. ‘Shh… if the windows are open, they’ll hear us!’ she whispers, aware that Dale’s voice carries. ‘I know what you mean, but Susanne’s an adult and our friend and we can’t tell her what to do. For what it’s worth, I’m worried, too. I haven’t known Susanne long, but this whole thing with Harry seems so out of character. I’m amazed she’s so smitten; it would be awful if he messes her around and breaks her heart. And,’ Evie glances from side to side, ‘his relationship with Star seems odd, too. They’re so comfortable with each other, as if they’ve been friends all their lives. Yet they say they met in Rome.’ Evie throws up her hands. ‘Let’s hope it’s a holiday fling and nothing more than that.’
Dale shrugs. ‘Amen to that. That’s what I’m counting on, too.’ She gulps water. ‘Okay, I need a caffeine fix now. Can I get you anything, love?’
Evie shakes her head and watches Dale trudge towards the house. Headache abating, she begins to wander the garden, inhaling the herbs and shrubs that have become so familiar. Who would have thought that she, Evie Jones, would ever summer in Tuscany, in a smart villa with two beautiful and successful women, and a wealthy young Adonis? What on earth would her mum have thought of it all?
She walks down the stone steps to the pool, and stands on the edge, willing herself to jump in as Dale or Star would do. But it is simply not in her DNA to be impulsive. Always so careful, so cautious. All
her life, she’s been a spectator – observing others living to the max, while she has merely existed. Well, things have to change. She has to change. She’ll be forty next birthday; high time, then, to start embracing life and taking a few risks!
With a growing urge to jump, Evie stands poised on the edge, daring herself to strip off and dive in.
‘Sod it,’ she says aloud, pulling her T-shirt over her head, releasing the clasp of her bra and unbuttoning her shorts before she can change her mind. Then, with a whoop of joy and surprise, she takes the leap. Gasping and spluttering at first, she treads water, before striking out for a full length of the pool.
‘I did it!’ She cries as Dale returns, a mug of coffee in one hand and a day-old croissant in the other.
Dale beams and stops dead in her tracks. ‘What?’
‘I swam a whole length without putting my feet down – and I jumped right in! In my knickers and everything!’
Dale is laughing now, approval written all over her face, enjoying Evie’s triumph with her. ‘Yessss, Evie – way to go!’ Dale cheers, coffee and croissant parked as she strips down to her underwear and leaps in after her friend.
‘Now that’s what I call a hangover cure!’ she says after thrashing half a dozen lengths in quick succession while Evie continues her careful, determined stroke.
By the time they get out of the water, the heat has intensified and the clouds have become wispy. Dripping, they lie on adjacent sunbeds, letting the sunshine caress their semi-naked bodies.
Suddenly, Evie is self-conscious lying beside Dale’s athletic form.
As if reading her mind, Dale says, ‘Don’t know why you bang on about your weight all the time, Evie – you’re perfect as you are. Really feminine, and you’ve got great boobs. Who knew?’
The Perfect Liar: A completely gripping thriller with a breathtaking twist Page 15