The Liberation of Alice Love(26)
Author: Abby McDonald

Quickly, she put down her cleaning supplies and crossed to her desk, finding the ever-expanding file of statements and letters from banks and the solicitor. Pulling one at random, Alice perched in her chair and pored over it again:

03 APRIL. SELFRIDGES. LINGERIE 783-21. 56.99

04 APRIL. PRET A MANGER. CHKN SLD 4.99

08 APRIL. LNDN TRNSPT OYSTER 15.00

She’d checked through all this before, several times over, but before, she’d only been looking to see if it was her making the transaction or not. She’d registered the items, of course, but then Alice had been more concerned with the dates, times, and totals: cross-referencing with her own schedule to discount or add it to the list of fraudulent payments. Now, those same printed lines took on new meaning:

03 APRIL. SELFRIDGES. LINGERIE 783-21. 56.99

The data never lied. On a Wednesday afternoon, Ella had been in Selfridges, buying lingerie. They’d met for dinner that evening too—Alice’s own diary told her. Ella had said she’d been in the center of town for a product presentation and told a story about Jeanette, the flamboyant Italian account manager who wore transparent blouses over a shocking pink bra and reduced the men in the meeting to drooling idiots:

LINGERIE 783-21. 56.99

Pulling her keyboard closer, Alice quickly tapped in the product code and clicked through to an online catalog. The underwear appeared on the page. It was a matching set of silky briefs and a bra embroidered with delicate whorls of lace. Shocking pink. Italian made.

Alice stared at the screen for a long time. A new feeling was slowly creeping through her, replacing the helplessness and frustration she’d been trapped in for so long. Power.

Ella’s story had been lies—just another in the litany of untruths—but now, for the first time, Alice knew the truth. It wasn’t much, just the passing of a random weekday afternoon, but it was something. It was fact. And she had more of them: two months worth of statements, to be precise, spilling over with irrefutable, undeniable details about Ella and how she’d spent her time—and Alice’s money. Looking at the bulging file with new eyes, Alice was filled with a curious kind of excitement. She may not know anything for certain about her former friend, but Alice could know this much.

She pulled the file closer and began to read.

Chapter Ten

Alice hadn’t spent her entire adult life as an organized, purposeful woman for nothing; soon, she was focused on her new project with the same single-minded thoroughness and matching stationery that she applied to all her goals in life. Carefully compiling a chronology of ATM withdrawals and debit charges in a new leather-bound calendar, Alice spent the next days poring over bank statements to reconstruct her former friend’s movements. The secret life of Ella Nicholls wouldn’t remain secret for long.

“You want it like that, hmm? How about…there?”

Alice paused with her key in the lock. They were still home.

“Vitolio!” A squeal rang out through the flat, followed by several thuds, and then some moaning.

She had to give them credit for stamina, at least. Alice had left at eight that morning, chased out by the grunts and moans from Cassie’s room. Now it was past noon, and her hopes of a lazy Sunday on the sofa with the paper were clearly still a distant dream.

Alice peered inside. She supposed she could go into town to loiter in a bookstore, or another identical branch of Starbucks, but she’d already spent the morning in a local coffeehouse, drinking her body weight in herbal teas while a chic hipster type hovered over her shoulder, willing her to leave. Her attempt to unwind with a novel hadn’t lasted long either: now she was itching to collect another batch of bank statements to double-check for clues.

The main living area seemed to be clear, so Alice darted to her room, ignoring the noises down the hall. She was hunting through her folder when her phone rang. Alice let the ringtone play for a while, hoping it would alert Cassie and Vitolio to her presence. But no: they continued unabated.

She eventually picked up, putting one hand to her ear to block out the noises. Whoever had converted the warehouse had failed on soundproofing—that was clear.

“Hi, Flora

“Hey!” Flora exclaimed with her usual high-pitched enthusiasm. “Where are you right now?”

“At Cassie’s.” Alice perched on the very edge of her bed. The single, fold-out bed, with approximately two feet of space on every side.

“Fab! Want to grab some lunch? I have to go check on an exhibition space in Notting Hill, but I could pick you up on the way.”

Alice paused, reluctant to give up her vision of a restful weekend. Alone. “I did have plans…” she semi-lied.

“Oh.” Flora’s voice fell, but she quickly recovered. “That’s no problem. We could catch up for drinks later this week. Make it a girly night out? Ooh, we could go to a day spa, and get facials and manicures and everything.”

“Perhaps?” Alice felt her guilt return. These exchanges with Flora were growing more frequent, but still they kept to the same familiar pattern. Flora longed for close bonding, Alice resisted, and guilt—or surrender—soon followed. Usually both. “I’ve been so busy with straightening everything out. I’ll call you,” she promised.

“OK,” Flora agreed immediately, as always. “See you later!”

Alice hung up and returned to her file. She’d made quick work of cataloging Ella’s presence, managing to plot out her daily movements in an alternative calendar to compare with Ella’s stories. Still, there were large gaps still taunting her, whole weeks that there were no ATM withdrawals or debit charges, or anonymous transactions marked only by number sequences or a business name. It was those that Alice was focused on deciphering next. Who knew what revealing information lay behind a fifty-two-pound payment to R. Jenkins Services or a hundred-and-six-pound charge at 32 Westbourne Gardens?

Suddenly, there was a loud slamming noise. Alice emerged from her room to see the outline of two fleshy bodies pressed up against the glass brick wall of Cassie’s room, writhing with particularly forceful passion. Wonderful.

She reached for her phone again, averting her eyes. “Hi. Flora? It turns out I can make lunch after all.”

“Oh, fantastic! I won’t be long at the gallery, I promise. And then maybe we could go shopping…” As Flora exclaimed her unbound enthusiasm, Alice’s gaze drifted back to her file. Westbourne Gardens? That was near Notting Hill, wasn’t it? Well, at least she could multitask.