Michael Robotham - Shatter

I hate the cliches about marriages having ups and downs and changing over time. Julianne is a better person than I am. She is stronger emotionally and has more invested in holding this family together. Here’s another cliche- there’s a third person in our marriage. His name is Mr Parkinson and he took up residence four years ago.

The hotel receipt is pressed between the pages of a book. The Hotel Excelsior. Julianne said it was a short walk from the Spanish Steps and the Trevi Fountain. I dial the number. A woman answers, the night manager. She sounds young and tired. It’s four a.m. in Rome.

‘I want to query an invoice,’ I whisper, cupping my hand over the phone.

‘Yes, sir. When did you stay here, sir?’

‘No, it’s not for me. It’s for an employee.’

I think of a cover story. I’m an accountant calling from London. I’m doing an audit. I give her Julianne’s name and the dates of her stay.

‘Mrs O’Loughlin settled her account in full. She paid with her credit card.’

‘She was travelling with a business colleague.’

‘The name?’

Dirk. What is his last name? I can’t remember.

‘I just wanted to ask about a room service charge for breakfast… with champagne.’

‘Is Mrs O’Loughlin querying her bill?’ she asks.

‘Could there be a mistake?’

‘The room charges were shown to Mrs O’Loughlin when she settled her account.’

‘Under the circumstances, it seems rather a lot for one person. I mean, look at the order: bacon and eggs, smoked salmon, pancakes, pastries, strawberries, and champagne.’

‘Yes, sir, I have the details of the order.’

‘It’s a lot for one person.’

‘Yes, sir.’

She doesn’t seem to understand my point.

‘Who signed for it?’

‘Someone signed the docket when breakfast was delivered to the room.’

‘So you can’t tell me if Mrs O’Loughlin signed for it?’

‘Is she disputing the bill, sir?’

I lie. ‘She has no recollection of ordering that amount of food.’

There is a pause. ‘Would you like me to fax a copy of the signature, sir?’

‘Is it legible?’

‘I don’t know, sir.’

Another phone is ringing in the background. The night manager is alone on the desk. She suggests I call later in the morning and talk to the hotel manager.

‘I’m sure he will be happy to reimburse Mrs O’Loughlin. The charges will be refunded to her credit card.’

I recognise the danger. Julianne will see the refund on her card statement.

‘No, it’s fine. Don’t bother.’

‘But if Mrs O’Loughlin feels she has been overcharged-.’

‘She may have been mistaken. I’m sorry to have troubled you.’

A dozen women have taken over a corner of the bar, pushing chairs and tables together on the edge of the dance floor. The bitch is dancing, grinding her hips like a pole dancer, her face flushed from laughter and too much wine. I know what she’s thinking. She’s thinking every man in the place is looking at her, desiring her, but her face is too hard and her body even harder.

Mercifully, it’s not youthful innocence that I am after. It is not purity. I want to wade in filth. I want to see the cracks in her make-up and stretch marks on her stomach. I want to see her body swing.

Someone shrieks with laughter. The middle-aged bride-to-be is so drunk she can barely stand. I think her name is Cathy and she’s late to the altar or going around for a second time. She bumps into some guy at a table, spilling his pint, and then apologises with all the sincerity of a whore’s kiss. Pity the poor bastard putting his prick in that!

Alice walks to the jukebox and studies the song titles beneath the glass. What sort of mother brings her pre-teen daughter to a hen night? She should be at home in bed. Instead she’s sulking, plump and sedentary, eating crisps and drinking lemonade.

‘You don’t like dancing?’ I ask.

Alice shakes her head.

‘Must be pretty boring if you don’t dance.’

She shrugs.

‘Your name is Alice, right?’

‘How did you know that?’

‘I heard your mother say it. It’s a nice name. “Will you walk a little faster?” said a whiting to a snail, “There’s a porpoise close behind us and he’s treading on my tail. See how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance! They are waiting on the shingle- will you come and join the dance? Will you, won’t you, will you, won’t you, will you join the dance?” ’

‘That’s from Alice in Wonderland,’ she says.

‘Yes it is.’

‘My dad used to read that to me.’

‘Curiouser and curiouser. Where’s your dad now?’

‘Not here.’

‘Is he away on business?’

‘He travels a lot.’

Her mum is being spun across the dance floor, sending her dress twirling and knickers flashing.

‘Your mum is having a good time.’

Alice rolls her eyes. ‘She’s embarrassing.’

‘All parents are embarrassing.’

She looks at me more closely. ‘Why are you wearing sunglasses?’

‘So I won’t be recognised.’

‘Who are hiding from?’

‘Why do you think I’m hiding? I might be famous.’

‘Are you?’

‘I’m incognito.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘In disguise.’

‘It’s not a very good disguise.’

‘Thanks very much.’

She shrugs.

‘What sort of music do you like, Alice? Wait! Don’t tell me. I think you’re a Coldplay fan?’

Her eyes widen. ‘How did you know?’

‘You’re obviously a girl of very good taste.’

This time she smiles.

‘Chris Martin is a mate of mine,’ I say.

‘No way.’

‘Yeah.’

‘The lead singer of Coldplay- you know him?’

‘Sure.’

‘What’s he like?’

‘A good guy: not conceited.’

‘What’s that mean?’

‘Big headed. Up himself.’

‘Yeah, well, she’s a cow.’

‘Gwyneth is OK.’

‘My friend Shelly says Gwyneth Paltrow is a wannabe Madonna. Shelly shouldn’t talk ’cos she told Danny Green that I thought he was fit only I never said that. As if! I don’t fancy him at all.’

Someone stands in the open doorway and lights a cigarette. She screws up her nose. ‘People shouldn’t smoke. It causes gangrene. My dad smokes and my two uncles. I tried it once and puked over my mum’s leather seats.’

‘She must have been impressed.’

‘Shelly made me do it.’

‘I wouldn’t listen to Shelly so much.’

‘She’s my best friend. She’s prettier than I am.’

‘I don’t think she is.’

‘How would you know? You’ve never seen her.’

‘I just find it hard to believe that anyone could be prettier than you are.’

Alice frowns sceptically and changes the subject.

‘What’s the difference between a boyfriend and a husband?’ she asks.

‘Why?’

‘It’s a joke. I heard someone say it.’

‘I don’t know. What’s the difference between a boyfriend and a husband?’

‘Forty-five minutes.’

I smile.

‘OK. Now explain it to me,’ she says.

‘That’s how long a wedding ceremony lasts. The difference between a boyfriend and a husband is forty-five minutes.’

‘Oh. I thought it was going to be rude. Now tell me a joke?’

‘I’m not very good at remembering jokes.’

She’s disappointed.

‘Do you really know Chris Martin?’

‘Sure. He has a house in London.’

‘You been there?’

‘Yep.’

‘You’re so lucky.’

She has a small almond-shaped birthmark on her neck below her right ear. Lower still, a gold chain with a horseshoe pendant sways back and forth as she rocks on her heels.