Shopping With the Enemy (12 page)

Just how hard could it be to escape from an exclusive, ultra-luxurious, six star hotel?

In a bright red swimsuit, flip-flops, Svetlana’s Chanel sunglasses and a broad-brimmed sunhat, Annie strode casually out of the front door of the hotel.

It was 2.37 p.m. and she couldn’t wait in her room any longer for the knock: the dreaded knock that would mean it was time for either the
procedure
or a trip to Dr Delicious.

Over her shoulder was a large straw bag. The magazine and a hotel towel poking from it were meant to show that she was heading for the pool.

But tucked inside the straw bag was a sundress and her handbag, packed with all the essentials for a break-out: money, cards, her mobile – even her passport, because she was considering running away not just to Milan, but all the way home.

Right, she was going to walk casually across the lawn until she found a nice, quiet spot away from the eyes of the staff but close to the gate at the end of the driveway. There, she would put out her towel and pretend to read her brand new copy of
Vogue Italia
, but as soon as she heard a car approaching, she was going to jump to it and slip out of the open gates before anyone could stop her.

After that, her plan was a little more vague.

Maybe she would find a bus somewhere. All she
knew,
her guiding principle, was that she had to get to a town and a plateful of food and a glass or six of wine and a huge, steaming, heart-hammering cafetière of coffee very soon, before she started eating grass, or the geraniums in the flowerpots – or began to consider hunting down songbirds.

The electric gates were in sight. Beside them was an elegant pale green painted wooden fence she’d not appreciated before, which probably ran the length of the grounds. It was well over six feet high and obviously designed not to keep intruders out but to keep semi-starved, half-delirious guests in.

She could also see a gardener with a rake in his hand and he seemed to have spotted her. Annie pulled the towel from her bag and began to lay it out across the grass, trying to make it look as if her intentions were entirely innocent.

But he was striding towards her. Maybe he was planning to herd her back towards the pool with several prods of his rake.

She sat down on the towel, opened up her magazine and pretended to read although he was drawing closer now.

‘Signorina?’ he called over as he approached.

Aw, he’d called her ‘Miss’, she couldn’t help being pleased. Obviously the sunglasses and the hideously expensive swimsuit’s superb, curve-minimizing structure were working their magic.

‘Ciao,’ she offered, ‘es una bella giornata.’

‘Si, Signora.’

Ah, back to ‘Mrs’. Evidently on closer inspection he’d come to a more accurate idea of her age.

Then he said something much more complicated and beyond her grasp of basic Italian, but as it ended with ‘piscina’, she guessed it was to do with the swimming pool and why wasn’t she over there instead of hovering suspiciously beside the gates?

‘La pelle inglese,’ she said,
English skin
.

This made him laugh.

‘Che hai?’

‘La pelle Inglese,’ she repeated, ‘seccato al sole.’

She thought that meant sunburn, but when the gardener looked at her in confusion, she wondered if maybe it meant sun-dried … Had she in fact seen it on the side of a jar of tomatoes?

Now she could hear a car in the distance. What if it was driving up to the hotel? What if it was her one and only chance to get through the open gates this afternoon? She had to get rid of the gardener sharpish.

With a flash of inspiration, she decided to play the luxury guest card. Surely in a place like this, even the gardener was trained to do the bidding of the pampered inmates?

‘No bevanda,’ she told him, hoping that meant
‘no
drink’ and she tried to look a little sad and pleading: ‘cosi caldo e no bevanda.’

Hopefully that meant:
so hot and no drink
.

The gardener jumped to attention: ‘No problema. Acqua con limone?’ he offered, as if there was a choice.

‘Si, grazie, grazie multo.’

As he sprinted off in the direction of the hotel to carry out her request, Annie heard the hum, which surely had to indicate that the gates were about to open. Leaving her towel on the lawn, she darted towards the nearest gatepost so that she would be hidden by the gate as it opened.

A taxi! Hallelujah! A real, live, Italian taxi was sweeping up the driveway. Of course she knew what this meant: within a few minutes, an empty taxi in need of a fare would be sweeping back out again.

Tucking her bag under her arm, Annie broke cover and ran for the gap between the gates. They were closing surprisingly quickly and for a hideous moment, when her flip-flop snagged and didn’t keep pace with her foot, she thought she was going to be trapped: a chubby Englishwoman in a reinforced swimsuit impaled on the electric gates.

As she tried to wrench the flip-flop free, the thought flashed through her panicked mind that they’d probably keep her there for ever – as a
warning
to all those who didn’t want to complete the programme and tried to get away. But then she was out.

A wide open view of the countryside lay before her: fields of green and gold, hilltop villages shimmering in the afternoon haze and a big blue sky.

She allowed herself a brief moment of elation and considered jogging away from the gates hastily before the gardener or anyone else had time to work out that she was missing.

But she had to wait for the taxi. She could already hear the crunching as it travelled back down the drive. Then came the hum of the gates.

Forgetting that she was dressed only in a swimsuit, she rushed at the car, waving it down and yelling in her Italian for Beginners: ‘Buon giorno. A Milano, per favore! Rapido! Pronto! Presto!’

Only when she was safely in the back seat did she realize that the driver wasn’t just smiling from ear to ear because he was a happy man. He was smiling hard because she was dressed in a swimsuit and on the run from Camp Detox.

‘Many peoples try to leave,’ he began. ‘When I here in taxi, always peoples try to leave. But you – first one in a
costume de bagno
.’

Chapter Fourteen

Milan

Annie on the run:

Brown and blue print maxi sundress (Diane von Furstenberg)

Strappy sandals (Hobbs)

Sunglasses (Chanel, via Svetlana)

Total est. cost: £790

‘SOMETHING ELSE FOR
Madam?’

The waiter raised an eyebrow and Annie knew what he was thinking: that she was the greediest woman who had ever eaten at his restaurant. Well she didn’t care.

Had he been locked up in a gilded, frescoed, marbled hell and denied anything but water with
bloody
lemon juice or celery and courgette cocktails?

‘Maybe just one more coffee, please,’ she replied.

She was sitting at an outdoor table in the haze of contentment she had promised herself. In front of her were two drained coffee cups, an empty wine bottle, and the bowl, scraped clean, which had once contained a mound of creamy, chocolate-drenched profiteroles.

Before that she’d eaten a dreamy thin-crusted pizza and the portion of garlic-infused, pasta-layered lasagne of her dreams.

Caffeine, alcohol and sugar pumping furiously around her deprived system, she watched as the people in this Milan square went by in the afternoon sunshine.

First of all she was just watching vaguely. But then details began to spring out more clearly. There was a blonde girl with long bright hair in a shiny black leather jacket. Her black ankle-length trousers set off a pair of purple suede pumps and Annie admired her purple tote bag and the white, black and purple silk scarf tied loosely around her neck.

Mmmm … a thoughtful outfit all very nicely put together. Only blondes or black-haired people looked truly brilliant in black. She’d suspected that for years.

Now here was an extremely well-dressed Italian
man:
white chinos, blue and white striped shirt, then a thick tan belt with a silver buckle around his hips and tan loafers on his feet. That was another great outfit.

Mmmm … matching bag and shoes … matching shoes and belts. These careful little details got a bad rap for being too matchy-matchy, but really, in the right kind of way, they pulled an outfit together.

She sipped at her third espresso, loaded with a teaspoon of brown sugar, and watched more closely.

Look at those two lovely girls, strolling arm in arm, laughing. One wore a floaty white tunic printed with bright pink flowers, with white leggings and silver gladiator sandals. The other was in the acid shade of yellow that totally complements tanned skin and dark hair. Oooh and she had a miniature bright blue satchel strung across her body. Now that looked good; that really did set the dress off.

Annie smiled. This was fashion-watching and she was enjoying it. She couldn’t think when she’d last just sat still, watched people go by and soaked up their inspiration.

A pair of elderly ladies began to cross the square, arm in arm, just like the girls. They were elegantly turned out for their evening stroll, one in a beige linen suit with cream-coloured trim, holding a crocodile clutch, her hair up in a fierce beehive
showing
off a huge pair of pearl and gold earrings.

Let’s hear it for dressed-up old ladies, Annie thought to herself and immediately wondered how her mum was doing.

Annie’s mother wasn’t quite 70 yet, but she was struggling with a fading memory. That was how Annie liked to think of it. The term ‘early-onset dementia’ was too poignant. Dementia was too irreversible a word and ‘early-onset’ sounded as if they had been cheated out of years of Fern’s life, which of course they had. So Annie consoled herself with the term ‘fading memory’ because her mum’s memory often came back in fits and starts.

There were flashes of perfect clarity. Annie could visit and find herself talking to her mum just like before, just totally normally. But sometimes when she arrived Fern would be clouded over, still recognizing her of course, but fretting in a circle of concern about all kinds of strange things: snails escaping from the garden … tins going out of date in the cupboards … the possibility of moss growing in the bathroom.

Annie looked down at her phone but knew a quick call wouldn’t work. Because Fern found phone calls confusing.

Instead, Annie sent a text to Stefano, the student nurse who rented a room very cheaply in her mother’s house on the understanding that he kept
a
watchful eye on Fern along with the home help.

‘How’s Mum tonight? Thinking of her, just wondered what she was doing. Annie xx’

As she waited for the reply, she watched a family walk past and felt a sharp pang of longing for her own.

‘How football and where hv u put laundry?!’ she fired over to Owen.

He was the first to reply: ‘Washing in machine. Better believe it baby.’

Then came: ‘It’s Strictly Come Dancing then bed for your Mum before I sneak out later’, from Fern’s Stefano.

‘Good plan’, she replied.

For a moment she considered contacting Lana. But Svetlana’s instruction had been clear: she was to wait for Lana to come running back to her. She just hoped it would happen soon.

Annie paid the bill, then through the wine and sugar fog tried to decide what to do next. One thing was for sure: she was not going back to Villa Enema. But should she go to the airport? Try and get home?

But she was in Milan on a bright and sunny Saturday.
Milano
, fashion capital: beyond this exquisite square there had to be all kinds of interesting shops and little boutiques, selling unique things.

She could stay here, get a hotel room for the night, have the Villa Verdina send her things. Sooner or
later
she would have to face Svetlana, though. The thought of that made her want to order another glass of wine.

‘I am weak,’ she whispered to herself: ‘the toxins won.’

Just then, someone she recognized walked into the piazza, not far from her table. It took Annie a moment or two to place the face and recall the name, but then she called out: ‘Inge! Hello!’

The chambermaid who had been so helpful turned and looked at her, eyes widening in surprised recognition.

‘Hello, have you got an afternoon off?’ Annie asked as Inge approached her table.

‘Miss Valentine? What you do here?’ Inge gestured to the empty bowls, coffee cups and wine bottle with astonishment.

‘I ran away,’ Annie explained with a grin.

‘You run away? Oh no! You can’t talk to me. They will think I help you!’

Chapter Fifteen

New York

Potential stoop sale customer:

Purple maxi-dress (Haute Hippie)

Flip-flops (Fitflops)

Sunglasses (vintage Gucci)

Handbag (this season’s Coach Hobo)

Bead, pearl and turquoise necklace (vintage costume jewellery)

Total est. cost: $430

‘I FEEL DUMB,’
Gracie admitted.

‘Why?!’ Lana exclaimed.

She looked admiringly over the set of stone stairs which led to the tiny apartment that Gracie shared
with
two other girls in this groovy part of not-so-eyewateringly-expensive Manhattan.

It had taken almost an hour to set everything out on the steps for the stoop sale. On each of the steps were treasures the girls had taken from their own personal collections: unwanted belts, headbands, hair decorations, homemade flower corsages and a large collection of second-hand shop jewellery finds. Bead necklaces, paste brooches, jangly bracelets all vied for attention from passers-by.

Cleverly, the girls had made each step a different price: just $1 per piece on the bottom step, rising to $10 per item on the top step. They needed to make $500 and if they could sell everything on the steps, they estimated they would be at least halfway to their total.

But as they perched on the top step expectantly, people were just walking past without so much as a glance in their direction.