Desperate to be alone, Susanne had gone to her room; Harry had attempted to follow her, but she’d been firm.
‘Please, I just want to be on my own for a bit, to speak to my son and then have a nap. We didn’t exactly get much sleep last night. Go on, seriously, I’ll be fine.’
Then she’d phoned Cody, and for the first time, he’d said the words she’d longed to hear since he’d boarded the plane to Edinburgh: that he loved and missed her, and that he was ready to go home.
‘Mum, Dad’s brilliant and everything, and it’s great here… there’s so much to do, but I want it to be just us again.’
‘I want that, too, darling,’ she’d answered, her voice thick with emotion.
Four more days; another ninety-six hours of weirdness and secrets; of bizarre behaviour from her oldest and dearest friend. It was unfathomable to think of Dale rifling her drawers, taking things from her room; and exactly when and how did the opportunity arise? It would take a herculean effort to say nothing, to let it go – until they were home and could discuss it like civilised adults, without an audience or entourage.
39
Brandon
Rome, June 2019
‘Mind if I sit here?’ The voice is clipped, English.
Brandon raises his head to find its owner is tall and floppy-haired. Without waiting for an answer, the man pulls out a chair opposite and begins casting around for a waiter.
‘The service here is a bit patchy, but the calzone is to die for,’ he says, removing his sunglasses and setting them down. Undeterred by the fact that neither Brandon nor Star have uttered a single word in reply, the young man presses on.
‘So, are you travelling, or on holiday? I’m Harry, by the way.’ His smile is confident as he extends a lean, tanned arm. Brandon is momentarily dazzled by the sun glinting off his Rolex; most of the backpackers he meets sport cheap, disposable brands or none at all, given that most people tell the time with their mobile phones.
Brandon shoots a look at Star and judging by the way she has straightened her back and is flicking her hair around, her interest is piqued, too.
‘I’m Brandon – this is Star,’ he says, shaking Harry’s hand, which, despite the fierce June sunshine, is cool and dry.
‘Nice to meet you, Harry,’ Star beams, her voice breathy as she fixes her eyes on his and offers her hand. Then she’s distracted, halfway out of her seat, waving at someone. ‘Brandon, look: there’s Joe and Sander,’ then to Harry, ‘love those two. We keep bumping into them – this is the third time in two weeks.’ She calls out to them and they turn and wave.
‘Well, hello, it’s the beautiful people,’ says the blonder of the two men as they sidle up to the table. And who is this?’ Theatrically, he lowers his sunglasses and gazes in Harry’s direction.
Harry smiles and introduces himself, adding, ‘And you are?’
‘I’m Sander – and this is my boyfriend, Joe. Mind if we join you? I’m gasping in this heat.’
There are more handshakes; a round of drinks arrives, glasses misted with condensation, then another, and somehow, an hour passes by, during which time nobody eats anything – and the pace of drinking accelerates.
‘So,’ Harry says, on his third beer, eyes flicking between Brandon and Star, ‘you didn’t answer my question. What’s a beautiful couple like you doing in Rome in June? I can tell you’re not on holiday, you look far too at home for that.’
Brandon laughs. ‘Actually, we’re travelling. Around Europe. And Star,’ he gives her a gentle poke, ‘is my sister, not my girlfriend.’
Harry’s eyes glitter with amusement. ‘Oh… OH! Things are looking up around here,’ he says, ‘well, chin-chin to that!’ He clinks Star’s glass with his own, his eyes holding hers.
Slick with sun cream, Star dozes on the roof of their apartment as is her custom on her days off from the restaurant, while Brandon reflects on their impromptu gathering at Café Paolo.
To the casual observer, Harry, Joe and Sander are the same, each bearing the tell-tale signs of middle-class wealth and privilege. Young men on a gap year, funded by doting parents or part-time jobs fitted around uni; their clothes, accessories, manners and accents paint a familiar picture. Would anybody suspect that he, Brandon, is from a different world? Probably not, he decides, wondering how he can use this to his advantage.
Star sits up. ‘Brandon, get me a drink, will you? My head’s throbbing. We only went out for a quick Coke, but then ended up having such a good time. I think I had about three beers.’
Brandon huffs but gets up regardless and disappears into the flat below. He returns with a glass of iced water and a packet of crisps. Grinning, Star tears open the packet.
‘Thanks, Bran. They were nice, don’t you think? I mean, for posh blokes. I love Joe and Sander, they’re so sweet and funny.’
‘Some might say affected,’ Brandon mutters under his breath.
‘And Harry… do you think he’s good-looking? I can’t decide.’
‘He obviously thinks so – arrogant twat. Anyway, Star, guys like him don’t hang around with people like us. And don’t even think about going after him – he’s too old for you.’
‘He’s twenty-four! I asked him. Three years younger than you… how can he be old? Honestly, you treat me like a kid sometimes,’ Star pouts, holding the crisp packet to her lips and tipping her head back to receive its salty crumbs.
‘I wonder why,’ Brandon rolls his eyes. ‘The point is, Star, we’re not like other people, are we? Think about it. All those fucking Trustafarians on a gap year, or whatever. Then they go back to Mummy and Daddy and it’s all on a plate for them. Car, career, flat. You tell me which of those boxes we can tick, huh? Oh, hang on, that’s right. None of them.’
Star is on her feet now, beside a vent belching out the stench of fried food. ‘All right! It’s not my fault. Why are you being like this?’
Brandon’s head lolls back, he blows out his cheeks. ‘It’s just… sometimes, when I meet smug bastards like Harry, I get the red mist. Star, I can’t stand the injustice of it all. I bet I’m just as clever as him – and I’m much better looking. And yet, he’s all set, isn’t he? He was telling me how much he hated the public school he went to, but that it pretty much guarantees him a career in finance or politics. He actually used that word, guarantee. In fact, this trip – which his old man has paid for – is his last fling before he starts a new job in September, working for a fucking fund manager!’
‘Brandon, please calm down. Why are you so upset?’ Star says, her voice small.
But Brandon is on a roll. ‘He’s already been through France and Spain and in a week, he’s off to Tuscany to stay in his godmother’s villa. It’s got a pool and everything. Says he’s meant to be learning Italian but hasn’t picked up a word yet.’
Then Star is on her feet and hugging him tightly. He feels her bird-like frame through the vest she’s wearing and picks up the faint tang of sweat from under her ribbon arms.
‘You’ve got me. Brandon, we’ll figure something out. All this anger. We already lost Mum because she… she couldn’t handle things. I can’t lose you as well.’
‘I’m sorry. I guess drinking in the afternoon does nothing for my mood.’ He pushes Star away. ‘I need to cheer up, take a shower and pick out something to wear. I’m meeting some fat, rich American in Piazza Navona tonight.’ He shudders. ‘The mood I’m in, god knows how I’ll get through it.’
Given Brandon’s expectation, the evening had been okay – pleasant, even. Tandy Taylor – all five foot nine and two hundred pounds of her – had been chatty, amusing and only mildly flirtatious. By the time she’d paid for cocktails and dinner in one of the Piazza’s smartest and most expensive restaurants, the evening barely felt like work at all. As they left, arm in arm, Brandon braced himself for the night’s usual conclusion to play out. Instead, Tandy had kissed him on both cheeks, and gazed at him for the longest time. ‘What in hell’s name are you doing this for? Brandon, you can
be anything you want. Here, take this for the ride home.’ She’d pressed a wad of cash into his right hand, adding ‘Thank you, dear. I’ve had a lovely evening, best I can remember since my divorce. Now go on… Goodnight.’
Weaving through familiar backstreets, Brandon feels the money, fat in his pocket. He’d counted it as soon as Tandy had been ensconced in a taxi: 250 euros. A decent haul for dinner, drinks and swapping a few funny stories. At least she hadn’t wanted sex.
Taking the fire escape up to his apartment, he expects to find Star in front of the television in her PJs, but the place is in darkness. Maybe someone at the restaurant had called in sick and she’d been summoned to cover their shift? Putting on the dull overhead light, Brandon finds a note by the kitchen sink:
Got a text from Harry. Gone for a drink.
P.S. Don’t be cross!
P.P.S. Don’t wait up!
P.P.P.S. Just don’t!
xxx
Cross?! Was she insane? They’d spent less than two hours in the guy’s company and somehow, Star had deemed Harry good dating material. And it really wasn’t a case of him coming on like the heavy-handed big brother; it was common sense. They were in a strange city, in an alien country – just the two of them – and it was his job, and his alone, to keep her safe.
He pictures Harry, plying Star with alcohol and getting her wasted in some over-priced bar, then luring her back to some seedy apartment. Trying to ignore the vein throbbing in his left temple, Brandon goes to his room, takes off his ‘date’ suit and carefully hangs it up. Then he hears the apartment door rattle open and bang shut.
‘Star? Is that you?’
‘No, it’s Lady Gaga. Yes, of course it’s me, silly.’
Striding into the living room in his underwear, he finds Star, bright-eyed and in a scarlet dress, strappy heels in one hand.
‘Where the fuck have you been?’ he hisses.
‘I left you a note. Didn’t you see? Anyway, I had a lovely time, thanks for asking,’ Star’s tone is facetious and her eyes glitter. ‘We went to that place on the corner – the one with the conservatory thing at the back. Quite posh, actually. Then he took me for gelato at that place where all the scooters park up.’
Brandon exhales. ‘And that’s it. Dinner and ice cream. Nothing else?’
Star rolls her eyes. ‘I know what you’re thinking but Harry was the perfect gentleman. He’s really nice. Brandon, it’s not his fault that he’s from a rich family, any more than it’s ours we’re from a poor one. I really like him. You will, too, once you get to know him.’
‘Oh, I doubt that somehow,’ Brandon says, stalking off to bed and slamming his door.
40
Brandon
Brandon had to hand it to Harry; the guy was a superb networker. In the course of a brief and accidental drinks meeting, he’d snaffled the phone numbers of Star, Joe and Sander and had wasted no time in hooking up.
A few days after Star’s date, Harry texts inviting her to dinner: Bring your gorgeous brother this time. I’m sure he’ll only worry if we meet alone.
Brandon scowls. ‘How nauseating. He’s right, though – at least if I’m there I can keep an eye on him, make sure he doesn’t try anything.’
Star shakes her head. ‘No one will ever be good enough for you, will they? Harry’s nice. I told you, he didn’t even try it on with me. Hey, maybe that’s it. Perhaps I’m just an excuse and it’s you he’s interested in.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Brandon snaps.
By dusk, almost half the tourists have melted away and they’re moving freely through the city’s narrow streets, bound for a pop-up restaurant on the banks of the Tiber.
Star wrinkles her nose. ‘Yuk, it stinks!’
Brandon nods. ‘Rivers tend to. Are you sure this is the place? Looks kind of shitty for a rich mama’s boy like Harry. Are Joe and Sander coming? None of this smells right to me – and I don’t mean the river.’
And then the unexpected: a gang plank to a shambling single storey building where Star and Brandon are asked for their names and located on a list before their hands are rubber stamped and they’re handed a printed card with half a dozen rules on it.
Now Brandon has a swagger in his walk. ‘Well, good old Harry. It’s a speakeasy. How the hell does he know this place?’
Star beams. ‘Because he’s posh and he’s got connections, maybe? Look, there they are!’ She trots across a stone courtyard furnished with rustic tables groaning with fruit, blossoms and seemingly hundreds of tall church candles. The sounds of jazz draw their attention to a small band and three couples in head-to-toe black, sunglasses covering their eyes, shuffle around a minuscule dance floor. Groups of diners shine like extras in a Dolce & Gabbana commercial.
‘Cool,’ Brandon says, cheering up immensely.
They spot Harry, Joe and Sander already at a table, and walking over to them, Brandon pumps Harry’s hand. ‘Thanks for the invite. Man, this place is incredible. How on earth did you find it?’
Waving away Brandon’s questions, Harry hugs Star before letting out a low whistle. ‘Wow, look at you – trés chic, mademoiselle.’
Star flushes with pleasure and gives a little wiggle, playing to the gallery.
Joe and Sander stand to greet them, full of smiles and compliments.
‘We’re drinking martinis,’ Joe says, signalling to a waitress.
As drinks and antipasti begin to arrive, Brandon relaxes, lulled by the light-hearted and witty conversation that flitters between them.
‘So, Brandon, what’s your world?’ Harry asks, spearing an olive and popping it between full pink lips.
‘Good question. I guess I haven’t decided yet. In London I was modelling, but the work was too erratic. I scored a couple of good gigs in Milan, but you know… it’s not for me.’ Brandon is squirming now, his toes curled inside his good shoes. Escort and gigolo are not job titles he wishes to bandy about in present company.
Sander is triumphant. ‘I knew it! I told Joe you were a model. I’ve seen one of your shoots in GQ.’
‘Yes, probably.’ Brandon nods, knowing that this cannot be the case.
‘My handsome big bro!’ Star says, giving his shoulder a little rub of sisterly affection.
Harry flashes white teeth. ‘Clearly, good looks run in the family. Must say though, don’t think I’ve ever seen siblings less alike. How come?’
‘Different dads,’ Star says with a shrug. ‘Hey, anyone like to dance?’ And to Brandon’s relief, she tugs at Harry’s sleeve and leads him to an area of the floor where two men are dancing together, and a lone woman dressed as a unicorn is performing ballet poses.
‘This place is nuts,’ Sander says. ‘I love it, it’s perfect.’
Brandon nods, whilst keeping Star and Harry in his sights.
‘I can see that you’re very protective of her. Something’s happened, hasn’t it?’ Joe’s tone is tender.
‘It’s just us,’ Brandon says, desperate to change the subject. ‘Our parents are dead.’
Sander’s eyes widen. ‘Oh, god! Sorry to hear that,’ he says. ‘How?’
Brandon hesitates, fixes his eyes on Star while Harry flings her, laughing, around the floor. ‘Actually, do you mind if—’
Joe raises a hand. ‘Of course. Sorry, didn’t mean to upset you. So, where are you two headed next?’
‘Wherever the wind blows us, then home to south London when the money runs out,’ Brandon admits. ‘How about you guys?’
‘We’ll tour Italy for a while. Rome’s wonderful, but there are so many other places to visit. We’re off to Tuscany next. Come with us; it’s great travelling in a group, means there’s always somebody to play with.’
Brandon’s laugh is dry. ‘You know Harry’s headed that way, too? He’s spending the rest of the summer at his godmother’s villa, he told me last week when we first met.’
Sander raises blond eyebrows. ‘Nice work if you can get it. We, on the other hand, will book somewhere cheap and ch
eerful online, all very seat-of-the-pants, bargain basement.’
‘Which is just how we like it,’ Joe says, giving Sander’s knee an affectionate squeeze.
Feeling like a gooseberry, Brandon picks up the menu and pretends to study the cocktail list. Perhaps it’s time to leave Rome. People are beginning to recognise him as he cruises the same handful of bars at night. How long before the rumours begin? None of his female clients would welcome being the subject of gossip. In London, a well-preserved heiress had said something once that had stuck: the only thing sadder than a man paying for sex, is a woman paying for it. Brandon replaces the menu and looks up: Star is waving to him, gesturing for him to join her and Harry on the dancefloor. As if! He’d rather stick pins in his eyes.
After a fruitless search for a vacant taxi, Star and Brandon walk through the city and are stumble-tired by the time they arrive at the apartment.
‘Feels later than midnight,’ Star yawns, leaning against her brother for support.
‘That’s because you mixed your drinks and danced half the night,’ Brandon says, jiggling his key in the lock before he hears a satisfying click and they burst through the door with relief.
‘I expect you’re right. Ow, my feet – they’re twice their normal size,’ Star moans, looking down at them. ‘Oh, what’s this?’ She bends to pick up an envelope addressed to Signore Brandon.
Brandon frowns. ‘I’m not sure I want to open this tonight… But then again—’ He rips at the seam, releasing a single sheet of paper. ‘Great, that’s all we need,’ he says, reading the hand-scrawled note.
Star’s eyes widen. ‘What? What’s wrong?’
The Perfect Liar: A completely gripping thriller with a breathtaking twist Page 18