The Liberation of Alice Love (18 page)

“Which do you think?” Her mother asked, surveying the selection. Alice’s heart rose with the importance of her task. She studied the bottles, discarding a few unattractive options, and finally reached for a small, heavy glass bottle. She’d picked it for the neatness of the plain, square shape, but as she unscrewed the cap and sniffed deeply, her mother made a sigh.

“Oh.” Natasha closed her eyes for a moment as she breathed the deep, luxurious scent. Alice watched a rapturous expression drift across her face, then she blinked, looking at Alice with a new softness. “Yes,” she told her. “This one’s just right. It’s for special occasions.” Natasha held the bottle almost reverently. “For only the most important people.”

She never smelled her mother wearing that perfume again, but it didn’t strike Alice until she was older that whatever those wonderful occasions, and whoever the important people were, they did not include her. From the way the bottle sat, untouched, on the dressing table until the day Natasha packed her things for good, Alice guessed that no other day in Sussex lived up to the precious contents either. But to Alice, it didn’t matter. That scent was a moment they’d shared—something she had chosen just right—and just the faint aroma made her feel the way she had in the bedroom that day: teetering on the edge of glamour and adventure and other impossibly adult pursuits.

“
Signora?
You like?”

The woman’s thickly accented voice brought Alice back to the present and the gleaming little shop in the center of Rome. She blinked.

“The perfume? Oh, yes.” She breathed again, the faint echo of jasmine and dark spices drifting around her in a cloud of luxury. “This is perfect.”

The woman gave a satisfied smile. “I know it.”

She poured the mixture into a fresh vial, screwing a gold cap on tightly and laying it gently with the stopper in a slim box, surrounded by wafts of tissue paper and padding. The box itself, she wrapped with more paper, and fastened with a thick velvet ribbon before presenting it, ceremoniously, to Alice. She didn’t look at the price as she scribbled her signature on the debit slip; nor, she decided, would she gasp at it later, when it appeared on her statement. Striding out of the shop with a lightness in her gait and a contented smile on her face, Alice breathed in and remembered.

Chapter Eighteen

The lobby was deserted when she returned to the hotel, so Alice delayed her plans for investigation and rested instead, drifting into a light sleep with the balcony doors thrown wide and a cool breeze slipping over her naked body. It might have been the satin-soft touch of the linens, or the intoxicating breath of perfume, but for some reason, her dreams were shockingly erotic, and when Alice woke, possibility was thick in her veins.

She felt different.

Older, somehow, but freer too. She studied her reflection in the mirror as if seeing someone else. Her body seemed lush and vivid, backlit by the burn of sunset, framed by dark, rich fabrics. And, Alice thought for the first time, perfect.

She dressed slowly, in the delicate lace lingerie that had only that month begun to fill her wardrobe—following the example of Ella’s receipts. Spritzing her bare wrists and neck with another light cloud of scent, Alice carefully applied her makeup, leaning over the mirror with the windows still wide, and the drapes drawn fully back. Somebody could easily see her, from another building across the courtyard or even the street beyond, but Alice found that she didn’t care. She slicked on a layer of lipstick, arching her back as she met her own gaze, deliberate in the polished glass.

Yes, she felt different.

The dress was bright red silk, another of Ella’s excellent selections. As Alice skipped lightly down the hotel steps and hailed a convenient taxi, she saw an adolescent boy in the street stop to blink at her, his ice cream, momentarily forgotten, dripping dangerously low. She laughed, blowing him an impulsive kiss, and slid into the car. “Via Veneto, Per Sempre,” she declared, naming a new bar she’d overheard two glossy-haired shoppers discuss. It was apparently the most stylish, exclusive spot in the city, and Alice felt it a crime to waste her new dress on anywhere less.

***

“Martini,
per favore
,” Alice decided, perusing the elegant script of the cocktail menu just a short while later. Not for tonight her usual halfhearted mixers or weak, fruity drinks. She wanted something with an edge, something that would burn going down. Snapping the menu shut, she slid it across the lacquered bar. The bartender caught it with a deft movement and nodded his head slightly.

Alice turned and made a slow sweep of the room. The designer shoppers hadn’t failed her: from the veined marble floor to the glitter of the dangling chandeliers, the space oozed luxury. Brown leather booths were set back along one wall, and in the far corner, a white-haired man was gliding his fingers along the keys of a grand piano, lending the night a jaunty soundtrack of classic Rat Pack tunes. After too many months of flashy London bars, with ear-splitting DJs and after-work happy hours, Alice watched the scene with blissful relief. Even the people seemed more sophisticated: clustered in small groups, casually clutching wineglasses and tiny evening bags, the women all immaculately polished and the men—well, the men…

Alice’s gaze lingered on a group in the corner. They were dressed in suits, sharp and effortless, the tabletop littered with martini glasses. Two women sashayed over, returning from somewhere, and the men immediately stood to help them shimmy back into the booth, exchanging flirtatious comments and teasing smiles. It was all so perfect, so effortless, that Alice half expected the name of an expensive liquor brand to descend and hover tantalizingly above their stylish heads.

One of the men looked up suddenly, catching her eye. Alice turned away out of habit, but curious, she forced herself to look back. He was still staring at her. She gave him a hesitant smile, growing bolder even as she felt his eyes sweep over her. He was blond, with hair a touch too long that fell in a tousled cut over the collar of his stiff white shirt and charcoal suit jacket. Rising from the booth, he began to walk toward her.

Alice felt a rush of anticipation, hot and unfamiliar. She turned back to the bar, so that when the blond man reached her side, she was coolly sipping her cocktail.

“
Scusi.
” Leaning slightly on the bar, the man smiled at her and began to speak.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know Italian.” She gave him a sideways glance. Up close, he had an angelic air to him, all blue eyes and cheekbones and lightly tanned skin, younger than her, perhaps, but not enough to matter.

“No? That’s a relief.” He switched into English, tinted with an unfamiliar accent. “My Italian is appalling,” he continued, smiling even wider. “I offend people here without even trying.”

“Really?” Alice arched an eyebrow, as if she were a Hitchcock blond. “Just think what scandal you could achieve if you really meant it.”

He laughed, while she glanced away and took another sip, feeling a new power spark in her veins. Not merely flirtation, but something edged with a challenge. Risk. She had never been the most beautiful woman in the room, and by no means was she that night, but it struck Alice with a curious certainty that in this dress, this perfume, this reckless impulse of hers, she might just be someone to be reckoned with.

Slowly, deliberately, Alice angled her body toward him. “I can’t quite place your accent,” she mused, carefully crossing her bare legs.

“Me either.” He grinned, edging just that smallest step closer to her. “Some French, some Spanish. My work takes me all over.”

“Which is?”

He gave a bashful sort of shrug that nonetheless had a practiced air: “Fashion, advertising. I’m Rafael.”

Alice shook his hand slowly. “Pleased to meet you.” She met his eyes in a steady gaze, her hand lingering in his for a moment longer than necessary. “I’m…Angelique.”

“Angelique.”

The name had left her lips unbidden, but as he repeated it, his accent almost caressing the consonants, Alice felt a sudden thrill. The brief impulse she’d pressed down weeks ago rose back up, stronger in the gleaming lamplight. This time, instead of unease, Alice saw only the possibilities unfold.

She could be anyone, anyone at all.

“So what brings you to Rome?” Rafael made a gesture to the bartender, and then turned back, fixing Alice with a deeply fascinated expression. It was easy to tell that his was a studied charm—effortless now, but no doubt accumulated from years of rehearsal—but Alice was almost glad. He was playing his part, just as she deciding on hers.

“The art,” she declared, as the lie began to take root in her mind. “I’m a collector, and I advise a few clients…” Alice gave a casual shrug that mirrored his own response. “This is only a brief trip: I came from London last night, and tomorrow I fly on to Miami.”

Rafael looked at her with interest, the kind her usual plain response of lawyer never received. “You were here to see an artist? Or acquire a classic?”

“Mmm.” Alice took another sip of her cocktail, buying time. She could see this Angelique take form, already vivid in her mind: a jet-setting woman who drifted between continents at a moment’s notice, armed only with red silk and flair.

“I deal in modern art, mainly,” she decided, giving Rafael a flash of smile. “I came to see a new work, by a friend actually, but, well…” She sighed. “It wasn’t what I’d hoped.”

“No?” The barman delivered Rafael a short, amber drink, and he tipped him generously from a silver billfold.

“No.” Alice straightened her posture a little. Angelique would never slouch. “His earlier paintings had such vibrancy, such life, but his latest series…They seem almost derivative.”

Rafael nodded. “I see that a lot with the companies I work with. In the beginning, it’s all innovation, you know? Then, as soon as they have the reputation, it all just gets flat and repetitive.”

“Exactly,” Alice agreed, exhilarated. He believed every word she said. Why would he not? She’d had no reason to doubt Ella’s casual untruths; she’d taken her at her word.

It was almost amusing, the trust they placed in perfect strangers.

He glanced behind them, to where his friends still sat. “I have some people with me. If you’ve got the time, I’d love to introduce you.”

“Of course.” Alice took the hand he offered to help her down from the stool, following him across the room with a swing in her step.

“Everybody, this is Angelique.”

The group greeted her with smiles and air kisses as Rafael presented her, moving to make space for them in the booth. There was Anton and Paolo and Lucia and several more besides: a blur of sleek hair, sparkling jewelry, and infinite ease. Ordinarily, Alice knew she would have been intimidated by a collection of such glamorous, foreign strangers, but this was no ordinary night. She made the introductions with light smiles and a careless air, settling beside Rafael as if it were her due.

“Jeannine works in the art world too,” Rafael helpfully pointed out, nodding to the voluptuous brunette across the table. She was exchanging hushed, intimate comments with one of the men, her head tilted close to his as she gazed up through her eyelashes. At the sound of her name, she broke off the conversation.

“
Sì
, at the Galleria Menata, in the Parioli.”

“Oh, the Menata.” Alice adopted a knowledgeable expression. “I’ve heard good things about the place.”

Jeannine smiled generously. “I like it, but not for long. I shall move soon, I think. It gets—how you put it?—monotonous for the while.”

Alice relaxed back into the space beneath Rafael’s arm, slung over the back of the seating. “I know what you mean,” she agreed, as if she really did. “That’s why I work for myself now. I couldn’t stand the hierarchy, all the petty politics.”

There were murmurs of agreement. “A toast,” Paolo declared, sweeping back his dark curls with one hand. “To independence.”

Drinks were refreshed, the old piano player made way for a sultry singer, and all the while Alice built on the impulsive foundations of this Angelique’s imaginary life. Rafael’s body pressed against her. She fed her alter ego’s history with details plucked from Flora’s schooling at St. Martin’s, and Cassie’s varied travels, and snippets from stories she’d heard at work or read in passing newspapers, until she was confidently debating the merits of national arts funding with Anton and exchanging insider beauty tips with the lovely Lucia as if she really were the other woman, feeling not a moment of fear or doubt.

“A tiny backstreet salon in Paris,” she told the other women, describing a beauty spot she’d seen praised in last month’s
Vogue
. “It’s nothing to look at from the outside, but I swear, it’s better than anything in the Saint-Germain.”

“Really?” Lucia blinked.

“But of course, you don’t need my advice.” Alice gave an approving smile, as if she had the power to judge. “I’m sure your diary is overflowing with the best places.”

“True.” Lucia nodded, in that almost-arrogant way Alice had found was second nature to these women. “Still, I will check it out.”

Suddenly Jeannine exclaimed, unleashing a torrent of Italian. They all looked over. Paolo protested, and the pair of them became entangled in a quick-fire exchange, hurling retorts at the other.

“They were married for a short while,” Rafael explained in a low voice, his breath light against Alice’s earlobe. A shiver rippled down her spine. She leaned closer. Rafael’s hand dropped to her shoulder, softly stroking a tiny circle on her skin as he explained the fraught nature of his friends’ relationship. Alice was so distracted by the delicious sensation of his touch that she had to fight to register a single word.

“So we never know if they’ll get back together, or not.” Rafael stopped the stroking. Alice longed for more.

“Staying friends with an ex-husband is a terrible trial,” she offered. “I tried it, for a while, but it was all too messy.”

“You were married?” Again, Rafael looked at her with interest.

Alice flickered her gaze skyward in an appropriately world-weary way. “Twice, actually.” She felt his eyes still on her, so she decided to elaborate. “The first time, I was too young to know better—so naïve and idealistic. And the second, well…” She thought fast. What would this Angelique have done? “He was older, and I was madly in love. We tore each other apart, of course, but—” At this, she paused for an expressive sigh. “What could I do? When it comes to love, I just have to be bold, never mind the consequences.”

“So true.” Rafael gave her a slow look, full of intent. “We are but slaves to passion.” His hand slipped to her waist, stroking through the silk of her dress, and Alice caught her breath. His charm may be practiced, but their strange alchemy of attraction was real enough. As she drifted into a pleasant haze—focused only on the slow sweep of his fingertips on her hip—she wondered, How long had it been since she’d felt desire so close and real? How many months was it since she’d been breathless, sweating, caught up in nothing more than lust, deep in her stomach? Too long.

Tilting her head toward him, so her lips grazed his cheek, she whispered softly, “Shall we go?”

He drew back to look at her, and Alice held his gaze. Although her heart was pounding, and the risk was intoxicating, she stared back, bolder than she’d ever been in her life before. Alice didn’t proposition men or seduce strangers or even be so direct about the lust that was sharp in her veins, but Angelique? This was easy for her.

Rafael’s lips curled in a slow smile; he nodded. “Much apologies,” he told the group in a loud voice, already pulling Alice to her feet. “My friend has an early flight.”