The Girl on Paper (13 page)

‘
Trato hecho
?’ asked Pablo.

Billie grinned at him. ‘It’s a great deal! Trust me, your girlfriend’s gonna think you’re a god,’ she promised, grabbing his keys.

I shook my head.

‘This is ridiculous! This thing is going to give out after ten miles. The belt is probably totally worn down and—’

‘Tom.’

‘What?’

‘This kind of scooter doesn’t have a belt. Stop playing macho man; you don’t know the first thing about mechanics.’

‘I bet no one’s even been on it for twenty years,’ I said, turning the key in the ignition.

The engine spluttered a few times before settling into a low hum. Billie climbed on behind me, put her arms round my waist and laid her head against my shoulder.

The scooter sputtered off into the night.

Pale morning light filtered in through the curtains. Billie opened one eye, stifling a yawn, and stretched out languorously on the bed. The digital clock showed it was after nine. She rolled over. A few feet away on a separate bed, Tom was curled up in the foetal position, still fast asleep. They had arrived at the hotel in the dead of night, exhausted and aching all over. Pablo’s ancient scooter had given up the ghost a few miles before they’d reached their destination, and they’d had to finish their journey on foot, calling each other every name under the sun as they slogged towards the resort.

Wearing underwear and a camisole top, Billie hopped out of bed and crept towards the couch. Along with the two queen-size beds, the suite had a central fireplace and a spacious living room furnished with a mixture of traditional Mexican furniture and hi-tech gadgets, like a flat-screen TV, wireless internet and an impressive set of decks. Shivering, Billie slipped on Tom’s jacket, wrapping it around her like a
cape, then walked out onto the balcony.

The sight that greeted her as she stepped outside was enough to take her breath away. When they’d collapsed into bed the night before, it had been pitch dark, and they had been far too worn-out to appreciate the view. But this morning was a different story.

Billie stood on the sun-drenched balcony that looked out over the tip of the Baja peninsula, that magical place where the Pacific Ocean met the Sea of Cortés. Had she ever seen such an incredible landscape? Not that she could remember, anyway. She leant on the balustrade, smiling to herself. A row of little houses lined a white sandy beach lapped by a sapphire sea, the mountains towering behind. The name of the hotel – La Puerta del Paraíso – promised a door to paradise, and she had to admit it lived up to its billing.

She looked into the telescope mounted on the balustrade. It was meant for budding stargazers, but instead of looking up at the sky or at the mountains, she pointed the lens at the hotel swimming pool. Three infinity pools, each on its own level, led down to the beach and seemed almost to merge with the sea itself.

Exclusive little islands were dotted about on the water, where the beautiful people sunned themselves under straw parasols.

Looking into the distance, Billie did a double take.

I swear that guy in the stetson is Bono! And the tall blonde with her kids, she looks exactly like Claudia Schiffer
…

This was enough to keep her entertained for a few minutes, until a cool gust of wind made her curl up in a wicker armchair. As she rubbed her arms to warm herself up, she felt something in the inside pocket of the jacket. It was Tom’s wallet. It was old and tattered, made of rough leather, with corners that curled. She had no scruples about opening it, curious to explore the
contents. It was stuffed full of bills, the result of pawning the picture. But she wasn’t interested in the cash. She pulled out the photo of Aurore that she had noticed the night before and turned it over to find a handwritten message:

Hmm, a quotation that the pianist must have copied from somewhere. It was self-obsessed, tormented and full of pain, aiming for a Gothic-Romantic effect.

Billie replaced the photo and examined the rest of the contents. There wasn’t much, just some credit cards, Tom’s passport and some Advil tablets. And that was it. But what was this bulge at the bottom? On closer inspection, she discovered a cut in the lining that had been sewn up with thick thread.

She took out her hairclip and used it to unpick the stitches. Then she shook the wallet upside down until a metal object fell into her hand.

It was a spent cartridge from a shotgun.

Her heart was racing. Realising that she had just violated someone’s secret, she quickly shoved the cartridge back into the lining. Then she felt there was something else in there too. It was a yellowing, slightly faded Polaroid. It showed a young man and woman hugging in front of a metal gate and a row of concrete high rises. She recognised Tom immediately; he couldn’t have been more than twenty at the time, and the girl a little younger, more like seventeen or eighteen. She was beautiful, with South American looks. Tall and slim, she had strikingly light eyes, which glittered in the photo despite its poor quality and age. Judging from her pose, she had been
the one taking the photo by holding the camera up above them.

‘Enjoying yourself?’

Billie jumped, dropping the Polaroid. She turned round.

‘Enjoying yourself?’ shouted a voice.

His eye glued to the telescope, Milo was scrutinising the attractive physiques of two half-naked nymphs who were soaking up the sun at the edge of one of the swimming pools, when Carole burst onto the balcony. He started and turned round to find his friend looking at him disapprovingly.

‘You know that thing’s meant for studying Cassiopeia and Orion, not for ogling girls!’

‘They might be called Cassiopeia and Orion, you never know,’ he said, pointing out the two pin-ups.

‘You think you’re so witty.’

‘Look, Carole, you’re not my wife and you’re definitely not my mother. Anyway, how did you get into my room?’

‘I’m a cop, remember? A hotel-room door is no obstacle to me,’ she said, throwing a canvas bag down on one of the wicker chairs.

‘I call that breaking and entering!’

‘Call the police then.’

‘You think you’re pretty funny too, don’t you?’ He rolled his eyes, obviously irritated, and changed the subject. ‘Anyway, I asked at reception. Tom and his “girlfriend” have already checked in.’

‘I know, I asked too. Room 12, twin beds.’

‘Does that make you feel better? Twin beds?’

She sighed. ‘You can be a real jerk when you put your mind to it.’

‘And Aurore? Did you ask about her as well?’

‘Of course!’ she said, walking over to the telescope to have a look for herself, turning it towards the shoreline. She studied the long stretch of fine white sand for a few seconds, watching the waves lap the shore. ‘And if I’ve got my facts straight, Aurore should be right… there.’

She focused the lens for Milo to have a look.

Near the water’s edge, in a sexy one-piece, the very lovely Aurore was climbing onto a jet-ski with Rafael Barros.

‘He’s not bad at all, is he?’ remarked Carole, looking into the telescope.

‘Really? Him?’

‘You’d have to be pretty picky not to find him attractive! Look at those broad shoulders, and those abs. The guy has the face of a Hollywood star and the body of a Greek god!’

‘Are you done?’ growled Milo, nudging Carole out of the way so he could look into the lens again. ‘I thought you said this was for Orion and Cassiopeia.’

She smiled to herself, while he looked for a new object to spy on.

‘The brunette over there, the one who looks totally wasted, with the breast implants and all that hair, is that—’

‘Yes, that’s her!’ Carole cut him off. ‘When you’re done having fun with that thing, you can work out how we’re going to pay for this room.’

‘I’ve no idea,’ admitted Milo dejectedly.

He looked up from his new toy and lifted the sports bag so he could sit down opposite Carole.

‘This thing weighs a ton – what’s in it?’

‘Something I brought for Tom.’

He frowned, waiting for an explanation.

‘I went to his place yesterday morning before I came to see you. I wanted to check the house for other clues. I went into the bedroom and guess what? The Chagall’s gone!’

‘What?’

‘Did you know there was a safe behind it?’

‘No.’

Milo suddenly saw a glimmer of hope. Maybe Tom had some hidden savings that would help them pay off some of their debts.

‘I was curious, and I tried out a few combinations.’

‘And you managed to guess it,’ he finished for her.

‘Yes, by entering 07071994.’

‘Did that just come to you? Divine inspiration, was it?’

She chose to ignore the sarcasm.

‘It’s just the date of his twentieth birthday: July 7, 1994.’

At the mention of this date, Milo’s face darkened and he muttered, ‘I wasn’t with you guys then, was I?’

‘No, you were in prison.’

Milo felt arrows of remorse pierce his heart. His demons still lurked in the background, ready to resurface the moment he let his guard down. His head was filled with clashing images: the luxury hotel around him and the walls of a prison cell, the wealthy paradise and hellish poverty.

Sixteen years ago, he had spent nine months in a penitentiary in Chino. It had been a dark time in his life, but the painful purging process had nevertheless marked the end of the bad years. Ever since, he had felt as though he were teetering on the edge of a precipice, that despite all he had done to put his life back together, he might at any moment go over the edge. His past was a ticking time bomb that was constantly threatening to explode and shatter everything he had worked so hard to rebuild.

He blinked several times to banish the memories that were trying to pull him under again.

‘So what was in the safe then?’ he asked, trying to keep his tone neutral.

‘The present I gave him for his twentieth birthday.’

‘Can I see?’

She nodded.

Milo picked up the bag and put it on the table to open it up.

‘Are you going through my stuff?’ I said angrily, snatching my wallet out of Billie’s hands.

‘No need to stress out.’

Still half asleep, I was finding it difficult to emerge from my comatose state. My mouth was dry and my body ached all over. My ankle was still agony, and I felt as though I had spent the night in a tumble dryer.

‘I hate people that snoop around! You really do have all the character flaws under the sun, don’t you?’

‘Oh, and whose fault is that?’

‘People have a right to privacy, you know! I know you’ve never opened a book in your life, but, if you ever do, have a look at Solzhenitsyn. He once said, “Our liberty is based on what others do not know about us.” Have a think about that.’

‘Well, I was just trying to even things up a bit,’ she said in her defence.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You know everything about my life, so surely it’s normal for me to want to know a bit more about yours?’

‘No, it’s not normal! Nothing about this is normal! You should have stayed in the pages of my book, and I should never have agreed to come here with you.’

‘Well, someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning!’

You’ve got to be kidding me – now she’s the one getting annoyed with me!

‘Look, you might normally be able to charm your way out of arguments, but it won’t work with me.’

‘Who’s the girl?’ she asked, pointing at the Polaroid.

‘The Pope’s sister – are you happy now?’

‘Come on, surely you can come up with something better than that. Even in your books you’d make more of an effort.’

She’s got some nerve
…

‘That’s Carole. We’ve been friends since we were kids.’

‘And why do you keep a photo of her in your wallet like a relic or something?’

I gave her a black, scornful look.

‘Fine! Fine!’ she shouted, storming back inside. ‘I don’t give a shit about your precious Carole anyway!’

I looked down at the yellowing photo in my hand. I had sewn it into my wallet years ago, and hadn’t looked at it since.

Memories started to drift up to the surface. My thoughts became confused, taking me back sixteen years, to Carole tugging impatiently at my arm.

‘Stop! Stop moving, stay still, Tom! Cheeeeese!’

Click. I could hear the whirr of the instant camera as it spat out the photograph.

I saw myself grabbing the photo as it came out, while Carole protested.

‘Be careful! You’ll get fingerprints all over it; it’s still drying!’

I remembered her chasing after me as I shook the Polaroid to get it to dry faster.

‘Let me see! Let me see!’

Then the magic of the next three minutes as she leaned against my shoulder, waiting for the image to slowly emerge, laughing hysterically at the final result.

Billie set the breakfast tray down on the teak table.

‘OK,’ she admitted, ‘I shouldn’t have gone nosing around in your stuff. I agree with your Solzy-thingybob. Everyone has the right to keep a few secrets.’

We had both calmed down a little. She poured me a cup of coffee while I buttered her a slice of bread.

‘What happened that day?’ she persisted, after a moment’s silence.

But there was no longer any desire to pry or unhealthy fascination in her voice. Perhaps she could sense that, despite appearances, I wanted to confide in her about that part of my life.

‘It was my birthday,’ I began. ‘My twentieth birthday.’

That summer, the heat was unbearable. It was overwhelming, turning the streets into furnaces. On the basketball court, the sun had warped the surface, but that hadn’t stopped a group of bare-chested guys who thought they were Magic Johnson from slamming the ball through the hoop time after time.

‘Hey, freak! Wanna show us what you’ve got?’

I didn’t even look up. I didn’t even really hear them. I’d turned my Walkman up to full volume. Loud enough that the pulse of the bass and the pounding beat drowned out the taunts. I walked along the wire-mesh fence until I reached the parking lot where a lone tree with a few sad leaves offered a patch of shade. It was not exactly an air-conditioned library, but it was fine for reading. I sat down on the dry grass, leaning
back against the trunk of the tree.

Protected by my wall of sound, I was in my own world. I looked at my watch: one o’clock. I had another half-hour before I had to catch the bus to Venice Beach where I sold ice creams on the boardwalk. Enough time to get through a few pages of one of the eclectic selection of books recommended to me by Miss Miller, a young and rather brilliant teacher at my college who had a soft spot for me. In my bag,
King Lear, The Plague
by Albert Camus, and Malcolm Lowry’s
Under the Volcano
nestled beside the thousand or so pages of James Ellroy’s four-volume
LA Quartet
.