Felipe depresses a button on his dashboard. It engages a mechanical ceiling panel that slides shut soundlessly, hiding the sunroof from view. The noise lessens a little but it still sounds like the world is ending outside. We’re forced to move slowly because visibility is down to a few feet in every direction.
It’s dark as night as we make a bewildering number of turns down narrow one-way streets — high beams on. For a moment, I see the dim, hulking shape of the Duomo reappear in the rear window of the limo before we do a sharp left and the cathedral is lost to sight.
There are few cars on the road and no people. Milan could be a rain-slicked ghost town at the end of time. The rain surges beneath the wheels of the car as if we have become seaborne.
I see Felipe’s eyes rest on me momentarily in the driver’s mirror before they flick back to the road ahead. ‘You look like the drowned cat,’ he says, an edge to his voice. ‘We are alone at last, querida . As we planned.’
Planned? Is Irina involved with him in some way?
I lean forward, flipping Irina’s long, wet hair over my head, towelling it vigorously to forestall any immediate need for conversation. I pretend I don’tnotice Felipe’s impatient exhalation, the gear change he executes with a little too much force. Through the damp and obscuring strands of Irina’s hair I feverishly scan the interior of the car for clues that might assist with the conversation we are supposed to be having.
It’s unlike any other car I’ve seen before. There are lights in shiny chrome fittings near each of the headrests, and a mini-bar built into one of the doors. Two bench seats face each other, upholstered in a full-grain tan leather and offering more leg room between them than most people would actually need. Each seat is bisected by a wide, space-age-looking armrest that extends down to the floor. The limo is filled with the heady smell of white flowers and there’s gleaming chrome and wood inlay everywhere I look. There’s also a small silver serving tray on the armrest opposite mine, and on it, a faceted crystal carafe that’s three-quarters full. Beside it stands a tall, matching drinking glass filled to the brim with a colourless liquid. No ice. No condensation.
The whole thing is about a million miles away from Ryan Daley’s four-wheel drive and its smells of diesel fuel and mud-encrusted guy stuff. I suddenly wish so badly I was there with him — eating candy bars all over the front passenger seat, our breathfogging up the windows — that I have to close my eyes and take a deep and shaky breath.
I sit up and tuck Irina’s damp, unbound hair back behind her shoulders, place the wet towel on the seat beside mine. I lean forward and pick up the faceted crystal tumbler and study its contents, lift it to my nose. It looks like water, but it smells like some kind of spirit … vodka maybe? That’s all I’m getting.
I place the glass back on the tray. Only a teenage Russian supermodel would contemplate drinking vodka before 8 am during the worst storm of all time. And K’el thinks that we’re alike? I must have been some kind of major prima donna back in the day.
Felipe catches my movements in the driver’s mirror. ‘For you,’ he says. Any trace of the coldness I imagined in his eyes before has vanished. Now, he seems almost excited. ‘It is exactly as we planned. Drink. It will … relax you.’
I glance back at the tray. That’s the plan? A clandestine tipple before the day begins? I hadn’t known I was tense, but I feel the line of Irina’s shoulders relax. Something as simple as one lousy drink, I can handle. When I was Carmen, I’d chugged eight bourbon and Cokes in one sitting and they’d done nothing tome, nothing. Oh, I’d pretended to be unconscious afterwards, but Ryan had known all along that it was an act. To me, alcohol is like accelerant poured on a bonfire: easily consumed, leaving no aftertaste, no ill effects. I could drink
It’s dark as night as we make a bewildering number of turns down narrow one-way streets — high beams on. For a moment, I see the dim, hulking shape of the Duomo reappear in the rear window of the limo before we do a sharp left and the cathedral is lost to sight.
There are few cars on the road and no people. Milan could be a rain-slicked ghost town at the end of time. The rain surges beneath the wheels of the car as if we have become seaborne.
I see Felipe’s eyes rest on me momentarily in the driver’s mirror before they flick back to the road ahead. ‘You look like the drowned cat,’ he says, an edge to his voice. ‘We are alone at last, querida . As we planned.’
Planned? Is Irina involved with him in some way?
I lean forward, flipping Irina’s long, wet hair over my head, towelling it vigorously to forestall any immediate need for conversation. I pretend I don’tnotice Felipe’s impatient exhalation, the gear change he executes with a little too much force. Through the damp and obscuring strands of Irina’s hair I feverishly scan the interior of the car for clues that might assist with the conversation we are supposed to be having.
It’s unlike any other car I’ve seen before. There are lights in shiny chrome fittings near each of the headrests, and a mini-bar built into one of the doors. Two bench seats face each other, upholstered in a full-grain tan leather and offering more leg room between them than most people would actually need. Each seat is bisected by a wide, space-age-looking armrest that extends down to the floor. The limo is filled with the heady smell of white flowers and there’s gleaming chrome and wood inlay everywhere I look. There’s also a small silver serving tray on the armrest opposite mine, and on it, a faceted crystal carafe that’s three-quarters full. Beside it stands a tall, matching drinking glass filled to the brim with a colourless liquid. No ice. No condensation.
The whole thing is about a million miles away from Ryan Daley’s four-wheel drive and its smells of diesel fuel and mud-encrusted guy stuff. I suddenly wish so badly I was there with him — eating candy bars all over the front passenger seat, our breathfogging up the windows — that I have to close my eyes and take a deep and shaky breath.
I sit up and tuck Irina’s damp, unbound hair back behind her shoulders, place the wet towel on the seat beside mine. I lean forward and pick up the faceted crystal tumbler and study its contents, lift it to my nose. It looks like water, but it smells like some kind of spirit … vodka maybe? That’s all I’m getting.
I place the glass back on the tray. Only a teenage Russian supermodel would contemplate drinking vodka before 8 am during the worst storm of all time. And K’el thinks that we’re alike? I must have been some kind of major prima donna back in the day.
Felipe catches my movements in the driver’s mirror. ‘For you,’ he says. Any trace of the coldness I imagined in his eyes before has vanished. Now, he seems almost excited. ‘It is exactly as we planned. Drink. It will … relax you.’
I glance back at the tray. That’s the plan? A clandestine tipple before the day begins? I hadn’t known I was tense, but I feel the line of Irina’s shoulders relax. Something as simple as one lousy drink, I can handle. When I was Carmen, I’d chugged eight bourbon and Cokes in one sitting and they’d done nothing tome, nothing. Oh, I’d pretended to be unconscious afterwards, but Ryan had known all along that it was an act. To me, alcohol is like accelerant poured on a bonfire: easily consumed, leaving no aftertaste, no ill effects. I could drink
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