Ian sniggered. “Don't they use them on each other?”
“I don't know what they do…”
“Really?”
“Yes. Really.” She leaned back and pointed the piece of naan at him. “Don't go there.”
“All right. On a positive note, I checked Twitter. There’s been no new posts about you since last week. Looks like the idiots have moved on to someone else. Maybe you won't need that mace.”
“I put it in the drawer beside the bed before I went to Copenhagen. They’d arrest me again if I tried to bring it onto the plane.” She took a bite of the naan. “Spicy.” She waited until she swallowed the last of the naan. “I’m glad all the Twitter lort is over.”
“Will you miss Twitter?”
Alice ran her finger back and forth along her lips. “The crap? No. The good stuff? I guess. You know, maybe I should...”
Ian wagged his finger at her. “Resist the temptation.”
She scowled at him. “Please don't do that.”
“Sorry.”
“Besides all that, there’s something still bothering me.” She drank some beer and stared at the glass.
“Go on. What?”
“I haven’t heard from FMP, you know, the production company. They didn't return my call from before I went to Copenhagen.”
“I’d call again. Be proactive.”
“I don't know.”
“No point in hiding from it. It won’t change anything. Best to find out quick,”
Alice ruffled her hair with both hands, then brushed it from her forehead. “They know what happened. It was on the TV, never mind Twitter or FaceBook. They would have seen all those hash tags. Champagne terrorist, TV Girl Alice, lock her up. Even my name was trending at one point. #AliceMadsen. You can be certain they picked up on it.”
“But you had nothing to do with it. You’re as much as victim here as others.”
She pushed her plate aside with the food unfinished. “That doesn't matter. People died. Others have life changing injuries. Yet I survived unscathed except for a broken bottle of Laurent Perrier.” She swirled the beer around in her glass. “Lort, or shit if you prefer, well, thing is, it sticks. And it takes time to get rid of the stink. A long time.”
55
Cole spent several nights watching Alice in her bedroom without seeing anything worthwhile. His frustrations grew and he wondered whether he could afford Trixie again.
On Saturday, after a night down the local without getting too plastered, Cole watched as the on-screen Alice pulled her jumper off. Then she undid her bra and tossed it onto the bed. “Turn around,” he muttered. “Please turn around.”
Her jeans slid to the floor and she stepped out of them. She stood there, her back to the camera, wearing a flimsy thong. Cole found it difficult to breathe. In that minute, nothing existed for him outside the view of Alice’s bedroom on his computer screen.
He swallowed hard when her thumbs hitched into the straps of her thong. She wiggled. Then she ran the thong down her legs and cast them aside. She stretched with her hands above her head.
Cole shouted at the computer. “Turn around. Turn around.”
The bitch was doing this on purpose. Like she saw the camera. She was doing it for Cole. A private show. Teasing him. He glanced to the left side of the screen towards the mirror in the bedroom, hoping for her reflection, but the angle was wrong. Several seconds passed.
Then Cole whistled. His eyes widened. He stared open mouthed at the screen. Get the fuck in there. He still whistled as he watched her walk to the full length mirror and admire herself. Then she felt her breasts. Cole stopped whistling. Alice put her hands between her legs. “Go on,” he said. “Do it. Do it, you bitch.”
But Alice walked from the mirror into the bathroom. “Slut. You teasing slut.” Several minutes later, Alice stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel. Much to Cole’s disappointment, she slipped into a robe as soon as she patted herself dry. No chance of her walking around naked then. Once he saw the footage had recorded, he downloaded the clip onto his hard drive. Then he watched it again. He paused the clip on a fetching full frontal of Alice, ran a finger over her digital body and knew he had to have the real thing.
56
Alice took the District Line to Wimbledon Park and walked to Revelstoke Road. As she rounded the corner, she saw a mini-skirted Kristin had arrived outside the house with the ‘For Sale’ board outside.
They hugged and walked to the front door, which opened as they reached it. Mark Flanagan beamed at them, “Oh hello, Alice.”
“Wasn’t expecting you. This isn't your branch.”
“I’m working locally for the day. The boss likes us to be familiar with the wider market. Anyway, I like to look after my clients.” He extended a hand to Alice. “You know, with personal attention.”
Alice took his hand and flinched at his limp and clammy grip. “Yeah?”
“You look great. And your friend?”
“This is Kristin.”
Kristin shook hands with Flanagan. “I live nearby. In Southfields.”
“Lovely area. Lovely. Come on in, I’ll show around.” Flanagan turned his back and walked ahead into the kitchen.
Kristin looked at her hand, turned to Alice and grimaced. Alice shrugged and wiped her hands on her jeans. For the next 20 minutes, Flanagan gave them a sales pitch as he talked up the features of every room. The house was pristine, as if someone had attended to every detail. The only exception was the main bedroom, where the duvet looked crumbled, and Flanagan took the time to smooth it out, flashing a cheesy grin at Kristin as he did.
When they had seen
