Someone has sent me big, stupid Amir with his powerful cars, a definite date when my grandparents will be out late at night, and a windy dangerous road. And unlike that stupid man in the fable, I fully intend to take advantage of them all.
*
I have a little over thirty-six hours before I carry out my plans. I could spend the time following the couple around to learn more about them, but honestly, they’re just not interesting enough to make it worthwhile. So I go to the beach for the rest of the afternoon, splashing out on a sunbed at a private beach, and drinking rosé as I read a book about a woman who kills her husband after years of gas-lighting and emotional abuse. I couldn’t get on with The Count of Monte Cristo – too close to the bone, I expect. I did flick to the back though. A terrible habit for sure, but my cheating nature was nevertheless rewarded with this line: ‘All human wisdom is contained in these two words, “Wait and Hope”。’
Wait and hope. I’ve been living this line since I was a teenager now, and finally the waiting part is coming to an end. I put my hands on my hot chest, and try to feel if my heart is pounding faster than usual. But no, I’m breathing as normal, as if today is just another day and I’m not about to commit a terrible crime. How strange. My mind is going over and over the plan, and the anticipation is rising like steam ready to burst out of my ears and yet here I lie, shielded by dark glasses, heart refusing to betray me by bursting out of my chest. My body is ready, even if my mind is behaving like a teenager getting ready for a first date.
Later that evening, before I get into bed, I send Amir a text from my newly acquired burner phone. That’s what Edward Snowden called a phone that you buy to try and stay untraceable. A little grand in my case, given that I am not aware of any state secrets. But a good tip nonetheless, and a twenty-minute trip to a less salubrious part of London plus sixty quid in cash got me this rather quaint old flip phone, which I added credit to so that I could text. It won’t make its way back to England but it’s serving a useful purpose. I ask Amir if he’s around tomorrow and whether he could sort me a car for a couple of days. I’ve told him that I’m travelling further into the countryside for the night and would feel safer in a bigger car, which is sort of true, I suppose. The best lies have a kernel of truth, making it easier to stick to your story and less likely to get caught up in different versions. My friend Jimmy has a terrible lying face, the corners of his mouth automatically turn up in a smirk when he fibs. It’s sort of endearing, but it makes it impossible to trust him with anything, given his tendency to get caught out when confronted.
When I wake up, I check my phone immediately. As I suspected, Amir replied in the early hours of the morning. A big night out at Glitter, I imagine. I text right back, thanking him for his offer of a night out but explaining again that I’ll be leaving this afternoon. I know I’m not getting away with just a straight key handover, so I suggest meeting at an ice cream parlour on the Calle Ribera at 2 p.m. I know I won’t hear from him until at least midday, given the amount of champagne I imagine he imbibed last night, so I hop in the tiny shower and throw on a sundress I hope makes me look slightly dowdy in Amir’s eyes. Certainly it’s devoid of any shimmer or stretch, and so is practically a boiler suit in comparison to what most of the women in this place choose to wear. In my short time here, it has come to feel as though a mix of sequins, gold buttons, and animal prints form some kind of unofficial uniform. Well that, and the blow-up, rubbery lips that make these women look as though they’re in the midst of a terrible allergic reaction to the iced coffee they sip on as they sunbathe.
I don’t plan on coming back to this apartment, though I’ve booked it out until Saturday. I might be being too optimistic, but I don’t want to allow doubt to creep in at this crucial moment. I tidy up, throw the bedsheets in the washing machine and wipe down the surfaces. I pack up my small bag, and then lay out what I’ll need for the rest of the day. In my crossbody bag （it’s Gucci, one of the first things I bought when I started my new job, and even the ladies of Marbella would be impressed）， I place my burner phone, wig, euros, folded-up plimsolls, a torch, latex gloves, a travel-size perfume bottle of liquid and a box of matches. Everything else goes in the holdall, including my real phone, passport, and credit cards.
I lock the apartment and take the key – just in case. In a fit of paranoia, I wipe down the door handle with my sleeve and realise I need to be better at this. If I’m going to carry on without being caught, a quick wipe down of random surfaces isn’t going to cut it. Ah well. This is the test balloon. The car is parked a good thirty-minute walk away, far away from the bustle on the main drag. I didn’t want it to be recorded in a car park, and this was the closest I could get to the apartment without risking it being towed away within seconds.