Velma & Louise

Chapter 1 – Louise

My adventure began the day I fired Dad’s antique revolver at Mathieu—the gardener’s infuriatingly gorgeous son. His green eyes widened with fear, and the rush of power that surged through me was intoxicating. I’d never fired a gun before—though I have since. Not often, but enough to know the feel of cold metal in my long fingers. Piano fingers, my mother used to call them, though I never practised enough to fulfil her dream of a concert career. Her dying wish? Hardly. More likely she hoped Dad wouldn’t shack up with her sister Gillian the moment she was in the ground.

'Mais pourquoi?' Mathieu squealed, his voice so high-pitched he could have fronted a boy band, seconds before tumbling backwards into the turquoise pool. After betraying me the way he did, why was he surprised? Men are unbelievable. Or should I say, boys? The Riviera sun scorched my face as he thrashed about in the water. A warm mistral blew through my long pink hair—probably adding to the scene—and I still wish I’d taken a selfie for Snapchat.

The sharp scent of freshly cut grass told me Casimir was busy landscaping somewhere. Just as well. I didn’t want him watching me kill his only grandson. But I’m getting ahead of myself. I do that a lot. Let’s leave my father’s eight-bedroom villa in sunny Cimiez and go back to the real beginning: a grey, rainy day. Damp leaves. Overflowing bins. The Royal Free Hospital in North London. Hampstead? More like Belsize Park. A huge, grey concoction of concrete and glass. A matchbox world without fire. Gleaming lino and the stench of sweet disinfectant.

To be fair, the hospital was top-notch. All the modern equipment you’d expect and, more importantly, all for free—just as the name promises. Perhaps that’s why Dad took me there and not to the Lister. Or perhaps he didn’t want the greasy-haired consultant who’d just fixed up Gillian’s Barbie-doll face again poking around his teenage daughter’s unwanted pregnancy.

Unwanted to Dad, yes—but not to me. I’m still fuming, even after all this time. Lance and I had it all planned: a place in rural Spain where I’d have the baby. A retreat for pregnant women in need of support. I pictured arid landscapes the colour of rye bread, air filled with dust and wild rosemary. Big-bellied women wrapped in Harrods blankets. Ridiculously expensive—both the retreat and the blankets—but Dad’s wallet was often left on the dresser near the bolted front door. A fifty here, a twenty there. As far as I know, he never noticed. Too busy keeping Gillian from having another breakdown. I wanted enough money saved for when I told Lance he was going to be a father. In the end, I never did. Things change. Life rarely goes as we plan. I’m sure I’m not the only one with unfulfilled dreams.

When the old-fashioned car slammed into us from behind, Gillian’s face hit the freshly polished passenger window hard. The crunch of bone mixed with her corpse-reviving screams woke me from daydreaming. I was in the back, having just fastened the seatbelt across my new purple leather jacket, so I was fine. Dad was out of the car before I even knew what had happened. He didn’t check on Gillian—typical. I had little love for my neurotic aunt —aunt and stepmother, don’t ask—but he really should have made sure she was all right.

'You crazy old cow!' he shouted at the shaking driver who’d hit us. This was Dad being nice. I joined him outside to look at the damage: a massive dent across the passenger door. The once mirror-smooth black steel now resembled a dried-out riverbed, all cracked and irregular. A miracle if Gillian’s legs weren’t smashed to pieces. Her face would be fixed up again—this much I knew. An amputated leg would be worse.

'I’m so sorry,' said the unfortunate woman who’d caused the accident, before erupting into phlegmy coughs. At first I thought she was about eighty—her face as droopy as a child’s birthday balloon two weeks after the party, her hair a halo of barbed wire. Why were crazy old bats like that still allowed to drive? Now I know she was somewhere in her late sixties then. Still ancient to me, though apparently not by today’s standards. Whatever her age, she looked ridiculous—and reeked of stale smoke. Or was it vomit? Draped in a bright-blue robe with wide flapping sleeves, she reminded me of those Moroccan tribesmen herding goats in a National Gallery painting.

'I really am very sorry,' she said again. I knew then she was American—the way she drawled, as if yawning. Dad knew it too. I could tell by the condescending glance he gave her, and by what he said next.

'Typical,' he snorted. 'Come here from other countries and know nothing about our rules of driving or safety. Pathetic.'

He turned his back on her and stroked the crater in his beloved Range Rover.

'Now wait just a minute,' the old woman said in a surprisingly firm voice. 'There’s no need to be rude. I’m sure we can settle this little incident like adults.' She turned to inspect the damage on her own car. I’d never seen one like it—dull brown and shaped like a block of Cheddar. Probably as old as she was. 'Oh, my,' she groaned. 'Do you think it can be fixed?'

Dad whirled around, his chubby face reddening, little veins spattering through the whites of his eyes—never a good sign.

'Little incident? You’ve got some nerve. And bugger your stupid car. You’d better get your insurance papers ready. This isn’t a matter of hammering out a dent. A new door at the very least.'

The moaning from inside our car took us all by surprise. We’d forgotten Gillian. That was about to change. She forced open the smashed door, stumbling out like a drunk grasshopper on her trademark heels. Dad’s mouth fell open. For once, he said nothing. The metallic tang of blood filled the air—like sucking on a penny. Gillian’s eyes were already half-shut by swelling, smudged green eyeshadow pooling under angry red lids. But it was her nose that shocked me the most. Or what was left of it.

Chapter 2 – Velma

Red-faced British buffoon. What did he call me?

Crazy old cow.

I suppose part of that statement was true—but still. How rude. I should have had the brakes fixed. Maybe if I hadn’t stopped at the hospital shop to swipe that painting magazine… but having just vomited, I needed cheering up. A little shoplifting does wonders for one’s mood. Just ask Lindsay Lohan.

Back to my car. Too late now. I loved that old Morris Minor—quality and style. Fixing it would’ve cost a fortune, and with everything else going on, it wasn’t exactly top of my list. My bucket list. Do you know why they call it that? When they used to hang people, they made them stand on a bucket and, when they dangled, they really did kick it—seconds before checking out.

As I soon would, or so they told me at that ghastly hospital. After a lifetime of smoking Gauloises, you’d think it would be lung cancer, but no—colon cancer. Nasty business. At seventy, I felt short-changed. Some said I deserved it. Perhaps they were right. Everyone on my rancid council block in Kentish Town agreed, so it must be true.

Nasty old witch.

If only my broom really defied gravity, I’d have swooshed away and avoided all that was to come. The pain. Some of it physical, most of it from remembering the past—all that wasted time. Was it worth it?

When my doorbell croaked that morning, I saw his red face through the peephole. No one else ever called. Even the postman left everything on the doorstep. Sometimes the kids got there first and dumped my mail in the bins, their trainers slapping through dried urine as they ran. Doesn’t matter now.

'Can I come in?' he said—though his handmade brogues were already halfway down my dark hallway. His blue suit shone like a comet in my gloomy flat. He glanced at my faded prints of Arizona—the only relics of my youth. Did he frown, or was that simply his default expression? He sniffed, cleared his throat a few times. I rolled my eyes and fell onto my wine-red leather sofa—a glorious colour; hides many sins.

'I take it you’re not a smoker,' I observed, stating the obvious. I lifted my nose. Nothing. Non-smokers are far too sensitive. I dragged the heaped ashtray closer from across the stained coffee table and gestured to the armchair opposite.

'About your car insurance details,' he boomed, still standing, unsure where to perch. 'I’m sorry to tell you your renewal date was three months ago.'

I lit a cigarette. His eyes darted to the filthy window—closed, of course. I inhaled deeply.

'Been meaning to deal with that,' I chuckled. 'Can’t they backdate it?'

His eyes bulged. 'Are you serious? Driving without insurance is an offence, and no, you can’t backdate it.' Red blotches bloomed on his cheeks as he gestured pompously. I kept thinking of those nodding-cat dolls in Chinatown windows. 'I called my man at Range Rover. He owes me a favour and he’ll fix it on the quiet, but it’ll still be close to ten thousand.'

It was my turn to cough—just as I had when I smoked my first French cigarette at fifteen. My thirteen-year-old sister and I had gone into town for flowers for one of Mother’s society dinners when we ran into Marlon—tight jeans, Stetson, nineteen, trouble. He offered us perfumed cigarettes from a narrow blue box.

Can I offer you a Gauloise?

I took one. My little sister’s face curdled with scorn. Why did she hate me so?

The smoke shot through my soul—though it might have been his eyes. Blue? Green? Who cares. I was hooked—on the cigarettes and him, and not necessarily in that order. What would’ve happened had I never met him? Would I have stayed? Would I have avoided running away at sixteen after that stupid affair with Mother’s antique pearl necklace? Wondering about the past is about as useful as a boat full of holes.

'Did you hear me?' the buffoon’s voice dragged me back. Ash dropped from my cigarette onto the furry carpet. I didn’t pick it up.

'I heard you,' I said, smiling through smoke. 'What can I say?' I stubbed out the cigarette, shrugged bony shoulders. 'I’ve no insurance.'

He crossed his meaty arms and leaned back, eyes roaming my grey-brown living room. His gaze snagged on the painting magazine I’d borrowed from the hospital shop. All right—I stole it. You’ll get used to my little quirks. His lips moved silently as he read the by-line, the way small children do. I can read silently. Can you, dear reader? If so, read with me now:

When Henri Matisse (1869—1954) first visited Morocco in the winter of 1912, he was truly unfortunate. The moment he was installed in the Hotel Villa de France in Tangier, the rain began to fall.

At that point the buffoon lost interest—perhaps the print was too small—and his eyes shifted to my easel. More precisely, to my latest oil painting.

Sunset over Battersea.

My home is old and ugly—as am I—but my paintings are gorgeous. Don’t take my word for it; check the Heatherley’s School of fine Art website, where several masterpieces of mine appear. I’ve been a student ever since I settled in London thirty years ago. I paint in oils, just like my hero, Matisse. The tutors say my colours are phenomenal, though they question my imitation of Matisse. What do they know? Imitation is the sincerest form of admiration—and I certainly admire Matisse.

'Is that meant to be a Matisse?' he asked, stating the obvious. Reading my mind, perhaps. His frown deepened. I searched for another cigarette, but the blue box lay crumpled and empty.

'Yup,' I replied. 'The man himself. Love his work.'

'Mmh.' He narrowed his eyes, studying me through the dusty air. A rare shaft of British sunlight slipped through the draughty window, setting the dust dancing like diamonds. He looked from the painting back to me, gears turning in his pompous head. 'How good are you with teenagers?' he asked.

'What?' Where was he going with this? 'I don’t have any, thank God.' I rolled my eyes. I’d never wanted children—especially after Marlon. My jaw tightened at the memory of his reaction to my pregnancy at sixteen.

Get rid of it.

'My current wife never had a child,' the buffoon continued. The word current bothered me. Shouldn’t it be present? I pictured him in a Tudor beard and velvet cap. His hands clenched and unclenched, red hairs glinting in the sun. 'Louise’s mother died a few years ago, and my wife isn’t blessed with…' He searched for a word. 'Motherly instincts.' He looked out the window, drifted into thought, then refocused on me. Decision made. 'We own a beautiful house in Cimiez. Do you know where that is?'

Patronising idiot.

'Yes,' I said. 'As a matter of fact, I do.' We stared at one another. Silence stretched. I cracked first. 'Are you near the Matisse Museum?'

I’d never been, but I knew it well enough—Matisse’s former home high above Nice, flooded with the light artists worship.

'Three minutes’ walk,' he said casually. He eyed my empty cigarette pack, and his fist tightened. That’s when I knew—he was a former smoker. It hit me like a drag of nicotine itself.

'Shall I open another pack for you?' I offered sweetly. He declined.

'What I’d like,' he said, 'is to make you an offer.'

I sank deeper into the decrepit sofa, dust swirling around me. 'I’m listening.'

He cleared his throat. 'My daughter is facing a dilemma.'

I nodded, hands folded on my lap. He stared at my paint-stained nails. 'She’s pregnant.'

I raised an eyebrow.

'I feel it’s the wrong time for her to have a child. We were about to take her to the South of France for the summer. Come October, my wife was to escort her to a clinic in Davos where the baby could be born in privacy—they offer an excellent adoption service. With my wife now in hospital, our plans have changed.'

I nodded again—mainly to keep from screaming and punching him square in his florid face. 'And what does your daughter think of this plan?'

His eyes narrowed, lips tightening. I hid my clenched fists beneath my thighs.

'My daughter’s fifteen. She doesn’t know what’s good for her.'

I cleared my throat. 'You know she can legally have an abortion here in the UK—without your consent.'

The word abortion soured his already putrid expression. He folded his hands, tilting his head, studying me like an overripe avocado in a bowl of cherries.

'That may be so,' he said, 'but as I’ve said: she doesn’t know what’s good for her.'

'Obviously,' I muttered, trying not to sound caustic. I coughed up phlegm into a tissue tucked up my sleeve. 'You’re a good father—looking out for her best interests.'

His face lit up. He straightened. 'Yes, you see? I knew you’d understand. She has her whole life ahead of her. A baby would only—'

He hesitated, seeking the appropriate word.

'—complicate things,' I finished for him. I wondered if one of my blunt kitchen knives could pierce his thick hide. I didn’t hear his next question until he’d repeated it twice.

'What do you think?'

I shook off the pleasant vision of murder. 'Of what?'

'My offer. We would both benefit—you especially.'

And there it was. The real reason. The words get rid of it rang through my mind again.

'You’d spend the summer at our house in France, all expenses paid. You could visit the museum every day. Personally, I find one visit’s enough, don’t you?'

I gave a tight smile while mentally scanning the room for something heavy enough to bash his brains in.

'Yes,' I heard myself say. 'That sounds fantastic.'

He beamed. 'Splendid! I knew you and I would see eye to eye.'

My jaw ached from smiling. I glanced again at the magazine cover—Matisse’s painting of Moroccan life. A cloud darkened the sky; the room fell into shadow. Outside, dense flocks of birds criss-crossed like smoke signals. A storm was on its way.

Chapter 3 – Louise

Sitting in my business-class seat on the British Airways flight from Gatwick to Nice, I was furious. What on earth was Dad thinking? And why couldn’t he have put her in economy? He’d always done that to Myriam, my Hungarian nanny, when I was little—Mum and I together near the front, Dad somewhere nearby, barking orders at the cabin crew, and poor Myriam banished behind the blue curtain that divided us from 'the poor people'. Dad’s words, not mine.

Velma. What a ridiculous name. She’d introduced herself while Dad helped us check in. His BA Gold Card got us both upgraded. The sour-faced woman behind the desk practically licked Dad’s polished shoes, though her expression never changed.

Once aboard, I reclined my leather seat as far as it would go—which you’re not supposed to do before take-off—and closed my eyes, hoping to block out Velma’s gravelly voice beside me. It didn’t work.

'Miss,' she croaked, pressing the call-button again. Every time she lifted her arm, a nauseating whiff of stale cigarette smoke wafted across. I prayed I wouldn’t be sick. The little paper bag wouldn’t hold everything I felt like donating. The cabin crew attendant, a frosty spinster old enough to be my gran, appeared. Her bun was so tight it stretched her mouth sideways.