The Girl on Paper (16 page)

With her rucksack on her back, Carole leapt between the rocks along the jagged coastline. She stopped to look up at the sky. The downpour had lasted less than ten minutes, just long enough to soak her from head to toe. Her clothes drenched, her face streaming with rain, she felt the warm water seeping under her T-shirt.

I’m such a klutz!
she thought to herself, wringing her hair out with her hands. She’d remembered to bring a first-aid kit and a snack, but no towel or change of clothes!

A pleasant autumn sun had chased away the clouds, but it wasn’t warm enough to dry her off. She started running again at a swift, steady pace, drinking in the beauty of each little cove against a backdrop of cactus-covered mountains. At a bend in the steep track leading down to the shore, a man burst out from behind a bush. She tried to run round him, but caught her foot on a root. She let out a cry as she fell
spectacularly into the arms of the stalker.

‘It’s me, Carole!’ Milo reassured her as he gently caught her.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ she shouted, freeing herself from his grasp. ‘Did you follow me? What the hell is wrong with you!’

‘Jeez, will you calm down a minute?’

‘And you can stop gawping at me!’ she screamed, suddenly aware of her wet clothes clinging to the contours of her body.

‘I’ve got a towel,’ he offered, rummaging in his bag. ‘And some dry clothes.’

She grabbed the bag out of his hands and went behind a tall umbrella-shaped pine tree to change.

‘Don’t even think about trying to get an eyeful, you creep. I’m not one of your Playmates, you know!’

‘I’d have my work cut out trying to see you behind that thing,’ he replied, catching the damp T-shirt and shorts she had just thrown off.

‘Why did you follow me?’

‘I wanted to spend some time with you. And I also wanted to ask you something.’

‘Go on then, do your worst.’

‘Why did you say that the story of the
Angel Trilogy
saved your life?’

She fell silent for a moment, before responding bitterly. ‘One day, when you’re a bit less of a jackass, maybe I’ll tell you about it.’

He had rarely known her to be so vindictive, and was taken aback. Still, he tried to carry on the conversation.

‘Why didn’t you ask me to come with you?’

‘Because I wanted to be on my own, Milo. Is that so hard to understand?’ she asked, pulling on a cable-knit jumper.

‘But what good does it do to be lonely? Being alone is the worst thing in the world.’

Carole came out from her shelter, dressed in men’s clothes that hung off her.

‘No, Milo. The worst thing in the world is being stuck with guys like you.’

He felt as if he’d been punched.

‘What exactly are you so mad at me for?’

‘Drop it. We’ll be here all night if I have to list everything,’ she said, starting back down towards the beach.

‘No, no, go right ahead! I want to know,’ he admitted, falling into step with her.

‘You’re thirty-six years old, but you act like you’re eighteen,’ she began. ‘You’re irresponsible and immature. You’d like to think you’re a player, but you’re pathetic. All you live by is the ABC…’

‘Huh?’

She spelled it out. ‘Ass, beer and cars.’

‘You done?’

‘No.’ She turned to him as they reached the sand. ‘You’re not the kind of guy a woman can rely on.’

‘And what does that mean?’

She stood in front of him with her hands on her hips, looking him straight in the eye.

‘You’re one of the “good-time guys”, one of those cowboys women can have a bit of fun with when they’re feeling lonely. They might spend a night with you, but they’ll never think of you as the father of their kids.’

‘That’s not what they all think!’ he protested.

‘Yes, it is, Milo. Any woman with an ounce of sense would say exactly the same. How many nice girls have you ever introduced us to? None, that’s how many. There’ve been heaps of them and they’re always the same: strippers,
half-hookers
and poor little lost girls you pounce on in crappy clubs, picking off the weak ones!’

‘OK, and how many guys have you brought home? Oh no, that’s right, we’ve never seen you with a man! Kind of weird, don’t you think, honey? Past thirty and no love life to speak of?’

‘Maybe it’s just that I don’t send you a fax to let you know every time I’m seeing someone.’

‘Whatever! You saw yourself as the writer’s wife, didn’t you? Getting a mention on the back cover. Wait, here it is: “Tom Boyd lives in Boston, Massachusetts, with his wife Carole, their two children and their Labrador.” That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?’

‘You need your head looked at. Maybe cut out the wacky baccy.’

‘And you won’t tell the truth. You’re like a goddamn Wonderbra.’

‘Does everything have to come back to sex? You sure got a problem there.’

‘It’s you who has a problem with it!’ he retorted. ‘Why don’t you ever wear dresses or skirts? How come you never put on a bathing suit? Why d’you come up in a rash if someone brushes against your arm? You like girls or what?’

Before Milo could finish his sentence, she slapped his face, hard, with the force of a punch. He grabbed Carole’s wrist just in time to stop another one.

‘Get off me!’

‘Not until you calm down!’

She was thrashing around like a madwoman, tugging with all her might until she threw her opponent off balance. Eventually she tumbled backwards onto the sand, bringing Milo with her, his weight landing squarely on top of her. He was about to lift himself off when he found the barrel of a pistol pressed to his head.

‘Get off!’ she ordered, cocking her gun. She had managed
to get it out of her bag. She might sometimes forget to pack a change of clothes, but Carole never forgot her weapon.

‘Right away,’ Milo said quietly.

Bewildered, he slowly got up and watched with sadness as his friend ran away from him, both her hands gripping the butt of the pistol.

He stood, dazed, in the little lagoon surrounded by white sand and turquoise sea, long after she had disappeared.

That afternoon, the shadow of the MacArthur Park projects stretched all the way to the very tip of Mexico.

Perched on the cliff top, the high-class restaurant overlooked both the swimming pool and the Sea of Cortés. The landscape was as impressive by night as it was in daylight, gaining in romance and mystery what it lost in clarity. Brass lanterns hung from the trailing vines, and candles in coloured holders bathed each table in a warm glow. Wearing a silver sequined dress, Billie walked ahead of me toward the entrance area. We were greeted cheerfully and shown to the table where Milo was waiting for us. It was clear he’d been drinking, and he couldn’t explain why Carole wasn’t there. A few tables away, sitting in the middle of the terrace like jewels in a crown, Aurore and Rafael Barros were displaying their
new-found
love.

The atmosphere at dinner was gloomy. Even the usually bubbly Billie seemed to have gone flat. She looked tired and pale, and was feeling sorry for herself. Earlier that evening I had found her huddled up in bed in our room, having slept all
afternoon. ‘The journey must have caught up with me,’ she guessed. Whatever the reason, I had a hard time convincing her to come out from under the covers.

‘What’s happened to Carole?’ she asked Milo.

Judging by his bloodshot eyes and deflated expression, it looked as though my friend might be about to fall under the table. Just as he began to mutter a few words of explanation, the peace of the restaurant was shattered by the strains of a tenor voice.

A group of mariachis had rushed up to our table to serenade us. With two violins, two trumpets, a guitar, a guitarròn and a vihuela, the band made an impressive amount of noise.

Their outfits were a sight to behold: black trousers with embroidered seams, short jackets with silver buttons, smartly knotted ties, belts with eagle-shaped buckles, shiny boots, and, of course, sombreros the size of flying saucers.

After the mournful wail of the soloist came the rest of the band singing with a rather forced jollity, as though it were a duty rather than a pleasure.

‘Pretty tacky, huh?’

‘You have to be kidding!’ exclaimed Billie. ‘These guys are pure class.’

I looked at her doubtfully. Clearly we meant very different things by the word ‘class’.

‘Gentlemen, look and learn!’ she said, turning to Milo and
me. ‘What you’re seeing here is the ultimate expression of masculinity.’

The lead singer smoothed his moustache and treated his adoring audience to another number, with accompanying dance moves.

The concert continued along the same lines for a good part of the evening. Moving from table to table, the mariachis churned out their repertoire of folk songs on the themes of love, courage, beautiful ladies and arid landscapes. To me it was an old-fashioned, irritating spectacle; to Billie, the embodiment of the proud spirit of a people.

As the show neared its end, a far-off hum could be heard. All the diners turned to look at the sea in unison. A light appeared on the horizon. The whirring noise became more and more deafening and an old seaplane could be seen silhouetted against the sky. Flying low, the metal bird swooped over the restaurant to drop flowers onto the terrace. Within seconds, hundreds of roses of every colour came raining down, carpeting the shiny wooden floor. This unexpected floral shower was met with rapturous applause. Then the seaplane reappeared above our heads before launching into a chaotic choreographed display. Luminous plumes of smoke came together to form an unconvincing heart shape which quickly blew off into the Mexican night.

The crowd roared once again when all the lights were turned out and the maître d’ walked toward the table where Aurore and Rafael Barros were sitting. He was carrying a
diamond ring on a silver tray. Then Rafael got down on one knee, while a waiter stood to one side, ready to uncork the champagne when Aurore said yes. Everything was perfect, planned down to the tiniest detail – just as long as you liked your romance piled on thick and appreciated off-the-shelf, mail-order moments.

But wasn’t this exactly the kind of thing Aurore couldn’t stand?

I was sitting too far away to hear her response, but close enough to read her lips.

‘I’m sorry,’ she whispered, though whether these words were meant for herself, the audience or Rafael Barros, I wasn’t sure.

How come guys didn’t put a bit more thought into it before popping the question like this?

There followed an unbearably heavy silence in which it seemed that the entire restaurant was sharing the embarrassment of this fallen demigod, who was now nothing but a sad case kneeling on the floor, a pillar of salt frozen in shame and shock. I’d been there too, some time before him, and at that moment I felt more sorry for him than gleeful at getting even.

Well, that was before he got up, strode across the room oozing wounded pride, and out of nowhere threw me a right hook worthy of Mike Tyson.

‘And so the bastard came up and smacked you right on the nose,’ summed up Dr Mortimer Philipson.

‘That’s pretty much it in a nutshell,’ I agreed, while the doctor cleaned up the wound.

‘You’re lucky. It’s bled a lot, but your nose isn’t broken.’

‘Well, that’s something.’

‘Having said that, your face looks like it’s taken a bit of a battering. Been in any scraps lately?’

‘I had a disagreement with a guy named Jesus and his followers in a bar,’ I replied vaguely.

‘You also have a cracked rib, as well as a nasty sprained ankle. It’s badly swollen. I’ll put some ointment on it, but you’d better come back tomorrow morning so I can put a compress on it. How did you wind up with that?’

‘I fell onto the roof of a car,’ I replied, as though it was the most normal thing in the world.

‘Hmm … you live dangerously.’

‘For the last few days, you could say that.’

The hotel’s health centre was no small-time clinic, but a modern complex with state-of-the-art equipment.

‘We treat the biggest stars on the planet in here,’ the doctor responded when I pointed this out.

Mortimer Philipson was approaching retirement. His languid air didn’t seem to match his tanned, strong-featured face and his bright laughing eyes. He had the look of Peter O’Toole playing a somewhat older incarnation of Lawrence of Arabia.

He finished rubbing my ankle and asked a nurse to bring me a pair of crutches.

‘I’d advise you not to put any weight on that foot for a few days,’ he warned as he handed me his card, with my appointment for the next day written on it.

I thanked him for his help and, using my sticks, dragged myself slowly back to my suite.

The bedroom was filled with a gentle light. Pale flames flickered in the fireplace in the middle of the room, casting a glow over the walls and ceiling. I looked for Billie, but she wasn’t in the living room or the bathroom. I could hear the chorus of a Nina Simone song coming faintly from somewhere.

I pulled back the shutters that looked onto the balcony and found her lying, eyes closed, in the overflowing Jacuzzi. The curved sides of the pool were covered in blue mosaic tiles, and it was fed by a cascade of water pouring from a large swan’s beak, illuminated in all the colours of the rainbow by an advanced lighting system.

‘Coming in?’ she challenged me, keeping her eyes closed.

I moved closer to the hot tub. It was surrounded by twenty or so little candles, forming a wall of tiny flames. The surface of the water shimmered like champagne, with golden bubbles floating up from the bottom.

I put down my crutches, unbuttoned my shirt and pulled off my jeans, and slipped into the water. It was very hot, almost unbearably so. Thirty-odd jets distributed around the inside of the tub massaged you in a way more invigorating than relaxing, while seductive music played out from waterproof speakers in each corner. Billie opened her eyes and reached over to stroke the plaster that Philipson had just stuck on my nose. Lit up from below, her face appeared translucent, while her hair seemed to have turned white.

‘Does the returning soldier need a little light relief?’ she teased, snuggling up to me.

I tried to brush off her advances. ‘I don’t think it’s a good
idea to repeat the kissing episode.’

‘Look me in the eye and tell me you didn’t enjoy it.’

‘That’s not the point.’

‘It worked though, didn’t it? Just a few hours later, your beloved Aurore was back on the market in spectacular style.’

‘Maybe. Aurore’s not in the Jacuzzi with us now though, is she?’

‘How do you know she’s not watching us?’ she asked, slipping into my arms. ‘All the rooms have telescopes on the balconies and everyone spends all day checking each other out. Haven’t you noticed?’

Her face was now only a few inches away from mine. Her eyes were pale blue, the pores of her skin had opened up in the steam and beads of sweat were forming on her forehead.

‘Maybe she’s looking at us right now,’ she carried on. ‘Don’t pretend that doesn’t turn you on just a little bit.’

I couldn’t stand this game; it was so unlike me. And yet, spurred on by the thought of our previous kiss, I couldn’t stop myself placing one hand on her hip and the other behind her neck.

She gently pressed her lips against mine and then my tongue reached for hers. It was just as magical as before, but it lasted only a few seconds before something overwhelmingly bitter forced me to stop.

There was a strong, sharp taste in my mouth that caught the back of my throat and made me pull away suddenly. Billie looked stunned. It was then that I noticed her lips had gone black, her tongue tinged purple. Her eyes had lit up but her skin was becoming paler and paler. She was shivering, her teeth were chattering and she bit her lips. I scrambled out of the Jacuzzi, helped her out and rubbed her down with a towel. I could feel her legs wobbling, on the verge of folding beneath her. Racked by a violent coughing fit, she pushed
me away so she could bend over, suddenly overcome by the urge to vomit. With visible discomfort, she brought up a thick, sticky paste before falling to the floor.

But what I was looking at wasn’t vomit. It looked like ink.