Evie blushes and is about to bat away the compliment when she thinks better of it. ‘Thanks, Dale – that’s so nice of you to say.’ She settles back, feeling the water evaporate from her skin, basking in the warmth of Dale’s admiration.
Then, Dale springs up, suddenly serious. ‘Evie, I don’t want to ruin the moment, but something really odd happened when I was inside just now…’
34
Dale
After comparing hangovers with Evie, Dale had gone inside to make coffee but before she’d had the chance to run water, clatter crockery or signal her presence in any other way, she’d been aware of an argument coming from the room next door. So she’d listened intently, straining to catch Harry’s voice mixed with Star’s girlish tones, as they’d bickered about a missing dress belonging to Susanne, before Star had stomped off to her room, leaving Harry alone.
After making coffee and microwaving a day-old croissant, Dale had hurried into the garden, impatient to dissect this new nugget of information with Evie – only to find her in the pool, giddy – and topless! – triumphant at having swum an entire length without putting her feet down. Not wanting to break the spell, Dale had stripped right down and joined her, enjoying her friend’s sudden burst of confidence.
Now, lying on the loungers, their skin warming deliciously in the sun, the normal rhythm of Dale’s breathing returns – as does the thought of Harry and Star’s altercation.
‘Evie, I don’t want to ruin the moment, but something really odd happened when I was inside just now,’ Dale says, her voice low.
Evie leans up, shielding her eyes from the sun’s glare. ‘Go on... what happened?’
‘Well just now, Star must have come out of the shower, because she and Harry were rowing in the sitting room. I don’t think they knew I could hear them, but Harry said something strange.’
Evie waits for the punchline.
‘He said something like, “Susanne’s been looking for the blue dress”.’
Evie nods. ‘She asked me last night if I’d seen it. I said I hadn’t; I didn’t even know she had one.’
‘Yeah, neither did I,’ Dale says, ‘but why on earth would Harry mention it to Star? What could possibly be of interest to either of them? When it comes to Susanne’s clothes, the only thing Harry cares about is how quickly he can get her out of them.’
Evie winces. ‘So, how did Star react?’
Dale frowns. ‘Well, she wasn’t happy. I think she said, “Get off my case, you know the score. Why do you always blame me?” and then she stomped off. What on earth is that all about?’
Evie nibbles her thumbnail. ‘Don’t know… it’s definitely weird. Maybe we should mention it to Susanne later – tactfully though, we don’t want to make a big deal out of it.’
Susanne is last to surface, groomed and elegant as ever, but today there are shadows under her eyes and her mouth is set and miserable. Not the expression Dale had expected to see after a night of partying and abandoned lovemaking.
‘You look fed up, hon; come and talk to us,’ Dale says, taking their chance as Harry and Star have gone into the village on foot and will therefore be out some time.
‘I’ve lost something,’ Susanne says, her tone mournful. ‘My St Christopher has gone.’
Dale frowns. ‘What do you mean, gone? When was the last time you had it?’
Susanne shrugs, muttering that if she knew that, it wouldn’t be lost.
‘Well, where do you normally keep it?’ Evie asks.
‘In my room, in the top drawer of the dresser. I haven’t worn it for a while, but just now I was going to put it on and it wasn’t there.’
‘Oh, Susanne, I know how much it means to you. It’ll turn up. We’ll help you look,’ Evie says.
‘It fell off the other week; the catch is a bit loose so maybe it just happened again…’ Susanne muses. ‘At least I know it’s got to be here somewhere; I didn’t take it to Florence.’
‘I remember, you did drop it out here once and we looked for it—’ Dale narrows her eyes, her instincts kicking in.
The blue dress, and now the St Christopher, both missing: Dale seizes the opportunity to ask Susanne if the dress has turned up.
‘No – why?’ Susanne says, clearly picking up on the knowing looks passing between Dale and Evie.
For the second time that morning, Dale repeats the conversation she’d heard between Harry and Star.
Susanne frowns. ‘So, let me get this straight. You’re implying Star’s a thief? Why on earth would a young girl take a frumpy old frock – and a necklace that’s worthless to anyone but me? It doesn’t make sense.’
Dale sighs with exasperation: the more she thinks about it, the more she feels certain Star is responsible for the lost dress and the missing necklace. ‘I agree it sounds daft, but we don’t know anything about her. Star just appeared while we were in Florence. And all that bollocks about splitting up with Sander – who might not even exist, by the way; it’s not like any of us have even met him. I’m sorry, Susanne, it just doesn’t ring true with me.’
‘So, what do you suggest then? Put her on the spot and ask her if she’s taken them? Yeah, that’ll make for friendly relations with Harry – she’s his friend, remember?’
Oh, for god’s sake! Dale wants to scream. It is as though Susanne has been brainwashed – or lobotomised.
Dale gets up, motioning for Susanne and Evie to follow her. Then she goes to the front door and peers down the lane in the direction of the village; there are no signs of either Star or Harry.
‘Evie, keep watch,’ Dale orders, seizing the opportunity to search Star’s room.
‘Dale, don’t. Please!’ Susanne protests.
But Dale is adamant. ‘Try and stop me!’ And then, with Evie on lookout duty, she and Susanne are in Star’s room – Harry’s room, which Star has reduced to a pigsty. Clothes are strewn on the unmade bed, shabby flip-flops and sandals lay askew on the floor. A tangle of necklaces, bangles and earrings disgorge from the kind of jewellery box that a teenager would use, and an array of grubby make-up palettes fill an open drawer.
‘How can she live like this?’ Susanne says.
Dale shrugs. ‘People do when they’re travelling and living out of a backpack. Okay, no sign. I can’t think where else to look – between all their junk, this place is a tip.’ She wrinkles her nose in disgust.
And then Dale sees it: on the floor of Harry’s wardrobe, nestled between a surprising number of men’s shoes (some of them oddly smart). A black tin box. The kind businesses use for petty cash, or lovers keep for hiding letters. A tin made for secrets. Dale gives it a gentle shake; there’s a metallic rattle from within.
‘Damn! It’s locked. Of course it is,’ Dale says, a note of triumph in her voice, ‘but I’m telling you, Susanne, this is where you’ll find your Grandma Amy’s necklace. One second, I’ve got an idea.’ Dale dashes to her room, then to the kitchen and back, hoping she’s solved the problem.
But annoyingly, it isn’t like she’s seen in dozens of films; the lock doesn’t conveniently release after Dale has jiggled it with first her luggage keys, then her tweezers and lastly, a tiny, sharp kitchen utensil that none of them can identify, and after what seems an age filled with utter frustration, Dale returns the tin to Harry’s wardrobe.
‘Okay, let’s just ask her. If Star has seen either the dress or the pendant her reaction will give her away.’
By now, Evie has deserted her post and all three of them are huddled outside Harry’s room. But the conversation is cut short as they hear voices, and Star and Harry spill through the front door, weighed down by several bags of groceries.
‘Remind me not to go shopping without the car again,’ Harry moans, heading for the kitchen as Star trails after him. ‘We bought quite a lot in the end… feels like my hands are bleeding.’
‘Yeah, we bought loads,’ Star echoes. ‘By the way, I’m making dinner tonight. It’s definitely my turn.’
But Dale has got the
bit between her teeth now and wastes no time in tackling Star head-on. ‘Thanks, Star, but we need to ask you something. Susanne has lost a necklace – her St Christopher – and we wondered if you’d borrowed it.’
Star looks nonplussed. ‘Why would I?’
Dale shrugs. ‘I don’t know, you tell me. But it’s missing and Susanne hasn’t seen it since before Florence.’
‘Well, I haven’t bloody got it!’ Star snaps.
Dale’s expression is stern. ‘She’s lost a dress, too. Do you know anything about that, Star?’
‘No, of course not!’
Harry raises a hand. ‘Whoa! That sounds an awful lot like an accusation, Dale, and it’s really not fair. I can’t imagine why Star would borrow anything without asking.’ He pauses and shoots a look at Susanne. ‘But just to be sure, why don’t we look in her room, see if she’s hiding anything? Or rather, my room – to be specific – which I was happy to give up for a few nights. The least I could do was to be a good host, seeing as how it’s my godmother who owns the place.’
Susanne runs a hand through her hair, eyes downcast, embarrassed by the whole thing. ‘She didn’t mean it to come out that way, Star. Did you, Dale?’
But Star continues to stare Dale down. ‘Go on then. I insist you check my room,’ she says, her voice laced with sarcasm.
Dale’s eyes blaze. So, Star is calling her bluff; clever. Which probably means that the necklace has been stowed elsewhere. Fuming, she pushes past everyone, and into Star’s room, making a business of checking shelves and drawers before throwing open the wardrobe and going straight to the black tin.
‘What’s in here?’ she says, holding it aloft.
Harry squares his shoulders and seems to grow taller. ‘Not that it’s any of your concern, but it’s where I keep my passport,’ he says icily before digging around inside the bedside drawer and producing a tiny key. Once unlocked, Harry flips the tin’s lid and reveals a UK passport and a few coins.
Dale steps back, deflated. ‘Sorry, I thought…’
Shit! She’d been so sure. This wily pair, with their well-worn double act: every day she became more convinced that they were working together. But to do what, exactly?
‘I’m going out,’ Dale says, suddenly desperate to escape. Five minutes later, she’s in the SUV, speeding down the hillside.
35
Brandon
Tuscany, August 2019
Sick of slumming it in the hostel she’s in, Star is getting antsy and is on Brandon’s case.
He gets it, he really does. She’s come out of the deal pretty badly, all things considered. But she needs to be patient now that he’s on the trail of something; something big, he can feel it.
In the greenish shadows of the hostel’s run-down bar, Brandon studies her young face. Pale, blotchy and without any make-up, it tells him all he needs to know. Guilt and pity stir in equal measure. He needs to instil hope – and fast.
‘Star, you’ve got to be patient. Susanne isn’t like the others. I’m onto something this time,’ he says, clamping a joint between white teeth and taking a stash of euros from his wallet. ‘Here, take this and make sure you have dinner at a decent restaurant tonight; eat some steak or something, you look like you need a treat.’
The cash earns him an eye roll and an exasperated sigh. ‘Thanks, but you know I hate red meat. Anyway, do you think I care about food? Eating alone is shit. Why can’t we have dinner together?’ Star whines. ‘It’s okay for you. Living in some swanky villa with a load of rich bitches.’
‘I told you: it’s only Susanne who’s wealthy. The other two are just normal working women.’
‘Brandon, I can’t do this much longer; hiding in the shadows while you wait for some spoilt cow to fall in love with you.’
Brandon grits his teeth. ‘Star, please. Look, it’ll be better in a few days, when Joe and Sander get back from Amalfi. And then… just a couple more weeks – that’s all I need. I swear the stupid bitch is falling for me.’
‘Yay!’ Star’s thin arm shoots up in an ironic fist pump. ‘Then where does that leave me?’ she snaps. ‘We should have stayed in Rome – at least there I had a job and we had an apartment together.’
‘You can be a waitress anywhere. We lost the apartment, remember? You’re not thinking straight. We knew what we were getting into when we took this gig.’ Brandon’s tone leaks frustration. ‘I can’t do it anymore. Screwing vile old crones for cash and clothes. You have no idea what it’s like for me. Sometimes, I swear I could puke all over their bony bodies. What happened to us… it was fate; some weird fucking golden opportunity. Well, I am grabbing it with both hands. Here, finish this. I’ve got to drive soon.’
Brandon passes Star the joint and watches her take a hit, looking over his shoulder, more from habit than concern. Guido, who is polishing and stacking glasses behind the bar, is happy to turn a blind eye when no one else is around.
Star slumps lower on the faux-leather banquette. ‘But I don’t see how this woman can help us. She’ll go back to England soon and you’ll be just some fuzzy holiday romance.’
‘No, not this time. I haven’t figured out the details yet, but I’m working on it and I’ll make sure you’re okay. You know I’ll always look after you.’ He moves a strand of blonde hair from her face. ‘Look, I’ve got to go; the schoolteacher hitched a ride at the last minute and I’m taking her back. Jesus, she’s painful – she’s always watching me and hanging around like a bad smell. Still, I’ll sort her. As for the mouse woman… maybe I’ll shag her as well, just to keep her quiet.’ His laughter is high-pitched, verging on girlish. ‘I’m joking!’ he adds quickly, seeing the look on Star’s face.
Star shakes her head, her expression a mixture of disgust and despondency. ‘Okay, go. Be careful… See you tomorrow?’
‘I’ll try and come. Take care, hon.’ He pecks Star’s cheek and feeling the weed begin to percolate, walks out into the afternoon sun.
Trying to ignore how stoned he feels, Brandon jogs across town making it back to Piazza della Cisterna right on time. But when he arrives, breathless and with a sheen of sweat on his nose and forehead, to his immense irritation, there is no sign of Dale. A gaggle of American pensioners begin to crowd him, all talking at once about what they’ve seen and where they’re bound for next. Itching to shove them back, Brandon thrusts his hands in his pockets and waits.
Then Dale is striding towards him, her expression closed, unsmiling. Why the smacked-arse face? He hides his annoyance behind the milling Americans, flouncing about the lack of personal space.
The weed ripples in Brandon’s solar plexus, creating a rush of vertigo followed by a pressing desire to be horizontal. Dale is bleating about a present for Susanne, but her voice sounds muffled and far away. Shit. Now he has to get in his car and drive home – and all the while listening to Dale banging on and on, bombarding him with her fucking nosy questions. The woman is a rottweiler.
When they arrive at the car it’s in full sunshine. Opening the jeep’s door, the back draft of heat feels like a physical blow. Knowing he’ll puke if he gets inside, Brandon blasts the air con.
Dale is watching him now, sizing him up. She asks about Jack and Sander - like she cares! Brandon arranges his features into what he hopes is a pleasant smile and corrects her. ‘It’s Joe, actually,’ he says, before telling Dale that they had a beer together, and that his friends are thinking of moving on. Like it matters. It’s a pain having to make small talk, especially when he’s trying so hard to keep it together.
The drive back is slow, blurry at first, but then he feels himself coming to and she’s telling him about the gift for Susanne again – a bracelet as a peace offering after their argument. Focus, Brandon: this is interesting. And then an admission; that she disapproves of him and Susanne together. No shit!
So then, acting his balls off, Brandon tells Dale that he and Susanne have really got something – a connection. And just for good measure, he lays it on with a trowel, about how
he’s fallen for her and how he’s scared of getting his heart broken, and he can tell she’s thinking it through.
Not that Dale has any right to be so fucking high-minded and judgemental. From where Brandon’s standing, it looks like they’re all freeloading at Susanne’s expense – especially Dale – as if some shitty wooden bracelet will redress the fact that Susanne is always the first one with her purse out.
So that evening, he stirs things up a bit, gushing about how he’s crazy about Susanne in front of her friends. He’s taking the calculated risk that Susanne will be flattered and wooed by the idea, rather than cringing with embarrassment and shame. If anything, it goes even better than expected, with Susanne openly making out with him, then they all get wasted and dance together.
But then the mouse woman pipes up that his godmother, Veronica, had phoned that afternoon, complaining that nobody has heard from him in weeks. Thinking on his feet, Brandon denies it, accusing her of exaggerating, and of being overly protective. Luckily, the subject gets dropped.
He even manages to play the hero and score extra points when Susanne’s necklace falls off while they’re dancing. Judging by the look of panic in her eyes, he can tell it must really matter to her. After all four of them scrabble around in the dust on their knees looking for it, he suddenly spots it. Susanne is over the moon – and so obviously grateful. In fact, just for a moment, even he feels good, too.
That night, Susanne begs him to fuck her faster and harder – and it kind of bothers Brandon, reminding him of the women he’d rather forget. But her clawing, cat-like aggression is fleeting and soon turns into the softer, tender passion he’s come to recognise, born out of loneliness and frustration from not getting laid enough – which, he has to admit, is pretty amazing, given how good she looks. A woman like Susanne should have been fighting men off with a shitty stick.
The Perfect Liar: A completely gripping thriller with a breathtaking twist Page 16