‘Here you go!’ she said, cranking up the good cheer as she slid the pint of ice-cold cider in front of Abby. ‘And two G&Ts.’
‘Oh my god, thank you so much Becky! You’re a star,’ said Abby. ‘Next time I’ll give you a hand. Seriously, how did you even manage to carry so many drinks without spilling them?’
She should have spilt some. Ari made a mental note to adjust her behaviour for next time.
‘Karaoke time!’
A whoop went up in the pub.
Jack swayed as he scanned the room, sipping his fifth pint. Froth stuck to his peppered beard. He tried to straighten the red paper crown he’d pulled from his Christmas cracker, but ripped it instead. ‘Who’s first?’
A round of nervous laughter. No one screamed. No one fell to the floor, clutching their blue shirts or sequined cardigans as the red spread from their flesh. Bruno, the pub’s resident bearded collie, lay down and lolled out his tongue.
This was the moment Ari had been dreaming of. She set down her vodka-less orange and channelled Jack’s sway. It was three in the afternoon, but the lights were dimmed in the basement, and Ari had to peel her shoes off the floor with every step as if it were three in the morning.
‘I’ll go first!’ she said with an excitement that she almost felt.
‘To our star intern!’ cried Jack, and downed the rest of his pint.
‘Be-cky! Be-cky! Be-cky!’ the others chanted.
Ari dashed them a smile and said, ‘But… I’ve always dreamed of singing a duet with the most handsome boy in the room.’
Was this the sort of move that a Becky would make?
‘Oooh…’ went the others. ‘Brun-o! Brun-o! Brun-o!’
She held out her arms. ‘Bruno, here boy.’
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Bruno bounded into her arms and slobbered over the coral cardigan with gold buttons that she’d bought to perfect Becky. She ruffled his fur, and then…
Thump. Thump. Thump.
It wasn’t unusual for other guests to look for somewhere to sit in the basement, but she knew, she knew that it wasn’t that simple. There was a buzzing in her head. She clenched her jaws. Bruno bared his teeth. Ari bent over, as if to comfort him, and freed the razorblade she’d stuck to the inside of her right boot.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Black leather boots, polished to a shine. Grey suit trousers, custom tailored. A matching jacket, perfect for hiding a Glock or two. Down, down the stairs came the man. She locked her eyes on him until his face, too, came into view.
Ah. It was an all-too-familiar man.
He gave her a little wave and marched in her direction.
‘Hi there!’ he said.
‘Becky, is he your friend?’ said Jack.
‘Becky,’ said Connor, ‘is actually my sister.’
He put his arms around Ari and pulled her close, lining up his ghost-blond hair and her night-black, his crystal-blue eyes and her amber-yellow.
She looked up. The map was there once again, marking her presence within a hand-drawn outline of a pub near Covent Garden. There was no running away from fate. She must fulfil her duty.
‘Twinsies,’ said Ari. ‘Anyone can see the resemblance.’
‘I see,’ said Jack, sounding like someone who didn’t. ‘But I’m afraid there are no plus ones for this year’s Christmas party. We can’t–’
‘Oh no, no, no,’ said Connor. ‘I’m here to take Becky home because our mother has just died. Just now. Very tragic. Choked on a bauble. At least it was in the festive spirit.’
‘Oh…’
Ari was in half a mind to slit his throat with the razorblade for ruining Becky’s life. She was fifty percent sure she’d come out as the surviving Agent, but Bruno was still by her feet, and it’d hurt the poor pup’s skin to scrub the blood out of that beautiful body of grey and white fur.
‘That’s… terrible,’ she said, putting on a sad face, because Connor’s sense of humour really was. ‘Even though we are estranged, it’s still… a shock to hear that she’s no longer with us. Please, enjoy the rest of the afternoon without me.’
She bent down to give Bruno one final ruffle. She’d never see him again.
*
‘Read this,’ said Connor once they were seated in his dusty black Ford Fiesta, with a scratch to the right wingmirror to make it even less remarkable. He chucked a parcel wrapped in brown paper into her lap. ‘The Chief wants to see you.’
She let out a gasp. ‘Are you telling me my mother is still alive? And I don’t have to be traumatised by baubles?’
‘My mother is still alive, if that helps,’ he said softly. ‘Ari, the mission’s dangerous. Don’t underestimate it.’
Ari ran her razorblade down the edge of the wrapping and looked inside. Within was a book with a sparkling cover that depicted two men draped over a platinum-haired beauty in a period dress. It was hard to tell which period; Ari wasn’t exactly well-versed in dresses. The title was in a writing that wisped and curled: ‘Rosalind by Any Other Name’.