Chelsea Wives. Anna-Lou Weatherley

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СКАЧАТЬ realised it wasn’t the sound of a car alarm at all; it was a ringtone. Somebody’s phone was ringing.

      Fuck, man; it was his phone.

      *

      Mylo opened his eyes with a start and let out an involuntary groan. The stream of light that tore through the room from a crack in the curtain told him it was morning. Early morning. He sat up, disorientated, his brain slowly registering his surroundings. He was at home, in his studio apartment, a poky affair on 86th Street in Jackson Heights, NYC. He rubbed the corners of his mouth with his thumb and forefinger; his mouth was as dry as the bottom of a budgie’s cage. Feeling through the dimness, his hands clumsy, he scrabbled for his cell on the small bedside table. It wasn’t there. Where the hell had he put the damn thing?

      Tearing back the covers, Mylo swung his legs over the edge of the bed and only then noticed the naked girl next to him. She was lying face down, her straggly peroxide blonde hair fanning the pillow like straw. He had no idea who she was but he had a sneaky suspicion she wasn’t Britney.

      It must’ve been some little party they’d had the night before though, he surmised, surveying the damage to his bijou digs; the floor was covered with empty bottles of Jim Beam and discarded items of clothing; a black lacy bra, his Calvin Klein shorts, an empty pack of Trojans …

      He caught sight of the time on his snide Rolex (he hoped to upgrade to the real deal one of these days); it was 5:55 a.m. Jesus man. Whoever it was, they had better be dying.

      ‘Beep beep beep beep – beep beep beep beep.’

      The blonde in the bed moaned lightly and rolled over to her left exposing Mylo’s BlackBerry. Silly bitch had been lying on it.

      He snatched it up.

      ‘Yeah.’ Mylo rubbed his gritty eyes with his thumb and forefinger. ‘Who is this, dude? It’s six o’clock in the frickin’ morning.’

      The voice on the other end sounded distant and unfamiliar.

      ‘Can I speak with Mylo? I’m afraid I don’t have a surname.’

      The accent was clipped. British, he thought.

      ‘Yeah, it’s Mylo. It’s just Mylo. No surname. You know, like Madonna and Prince and stuff. Anyway, who did you say this is?’

      ‘I apologise for calling you so early. I do hope I didn’t disturb you.’

      ‘Nah man, it’s no biggie. I was only just about to have a three-way with a trio of the hottest, most famous chicks in Hollywood.’

      He could almost hear the caller smiling.

      ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, Mylo – may I call you Mylo?’

      ‘Whatever, man, it’s my name, right?’

      ‘Well, Mylo, correct me if I’m wrong but I’ve got you down as a Ferrari man, no?’

      Mylo rubbed his throbbing temples. He needed hydration. Grabbing a used mug from the sink he ran it under the cold tap and gulped back the contents.

      ‘Ferrari? What the … listen, is this some kind of sales pitch? ’Cause if it is, I’m hanging up right about now.’

      The caller interrupted.

      ‘Now don’t tell me, you’re an F430 man? A thrill-seeker, yes? You like a responsive machine with superior speed and lots of pizzazz. Or are you more of a connoisseur? In which case you’ll prefer the 612 Scaglietti; elegant and sophisticated, a thoroughbred race horse of a drive. But you know what I’m thinking, Mylo?’

      ‘Dude, I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about … who is this?’

      The voice ignored him.

      ‘I’m going out on a limb here, Mylo, but I’m thinking the Ferrari 599 is the car for you. A GTB Fiorano. Red. A classic 12 cyclinder configuration, iconic in its style. The ultimate performance car. Superlative, purposeful yet refined luxury. Just on the right side of flashy. Perfect for pulling the ladies and making that all important first impression. Am I right, Mylo, or am I right?’

      Mylo scratched his head, bewildered. The Ferrari 599 was indeed his dream vehicle. Just thinking about what a pussy magnet a piece of machinery like that would be gave him a semi hard-on. Still, how did the dude know about his love for the big F? Mylo came back down to earth with a start.

      ‘Listen, er, whoever you are. I know you’re probably on commission or some shit, but the birds are frickin’ tweeting right about now and I got just about fifty bucks to my goddamn name …’

      ‘Look outside your window, Mylo,’ the caller said. His clipped British voice had taken on a slightly malevolent tone to it now which prevented Mylo from immediately hanging up.

      ‘Listen, dude, how’d you get my digits anyway?’ He could not recall handing his number out to anyone who didn’t own a pair of silicone breasts in months.

      The caller’s voice softened.

      ‘Let’s just say I’m your Fairy Godfather, Mylo. So be a good boy and look outside your window. Tell me what you see.’

      Intrigued by the strange, authoritative voice, Mylo walked towards the window, tentatively pulling back a little of the curtain fabric from the window so as not to expose too much of himself; what if there was some sick fuck waiting to blow a frickin’ great hole in his cranium? Perhaps it was the husband or boyfriend of some chick he’d screwed – after all, he never thought to ask any of them if they were single. Mylo was nervous. And then he looked down onto the pavement.

      In place of his old 1991 Chevrolet Caprice, which he’d inherited from his mother upon leaving home some two years ago, parked on the kerb was a gleaming, glossy red Ferrari 599, sparkling like a ruby in the dust against the rest of the standard family saloons that belonged to the neighbourhood.

      ‘What the …?’ Mylo shook his head in disbelief. ‘I’m still frickin’ dreaming, right?’

      ‘You see it, Mylo? You see the car?’

      The emotionless voice on the other end of the phone brought him spinning back to reality.

      ‘Yeah, dude. I see it. It’s the 599. It’s a fucking awesome ride, man, but what’s it doing parked outside my apartment?’

      There was a slight pause before the caller casually announced, ‘It’s yours, Mylo.’

      Mylo absentmindedly took another swig of water from the mug and glanced at the catatonic blonde, her peachy butt proudly on display. He still had to be dreaming, right?

      ‘I ain’t ordered no goddamn car, man. You got the wrong address or something.’

      ‘86th Street, Jackson Heights, New York, USA – that’s right isn’t it? That is your address, if I am correct.’

      ‘Yeah, dude. That’s right. But like I said, I didn’t order no Ferrari. Man, I can’t even afford to order pizza right about now.’

      The caller laughed but it had a hollow, almost sinister ring СКАЧАТЬ