The Liberation of Alice Love - Abby McDonald [0]
Copyright © 2011 by Abby McDonald
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Originally published in the UK by Arrow in 2010.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
McDonald, Abby.
The liberation of Alice Love / by Abby McDonald.
p. cm.
1. Theatrical agents--Fiction. 2. Identity theft--Fiction. 3. Identity (Psychology)--Fiction. 4. London (England)--Fiction. 5. Rome (Italy)--Fiction. 6. Los Angeles (Calif.)--Fiction 7. Psychological fiction. I. Title.
PS3613.C38696L53 2011
812’.6--dc22
2010048510
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
About the Author
Back Cover
For my mother, Ann—for everything.
Chapter One
It began with a vibrator. A smooth, stainless steel, jewel-encrusted vibrator that—according to the ribbon-trimmed user manual—cost over seven hundred pounds. Even Alice, who valued her orgasms as much as the next woman, had to wonder what delirious pleasures it could possibly deliver to justify that kind of expense.
“Yes, is that customer service?” She blinked awake, almost surprised by the sound of a real, human voice. With the soothing hold music and afternoon sunlight spilling through the attic windows, Alice had been lulled into a daze, tracing the embossed script on the heavy cream box, back and forth, back and forth. She sat up. “There’s been some kind of mistake,” she explained. “One of your…products was delivered today, but I didn’t order—No, I don’t…Je ne parle pas…anglais? Parlez-vous anglais?” The bored-sounding French voice on the other end of the line gave way to another surge of Schubert. Alice let out a long sigh of defeat.
It had arrived that morning: the inconspicuous brown box addressed to her in neat lettering from a company in Paris. Already late, Alice had stuffed it into her bag with a handful of other post; now the box’s luxurious contents sat in the middle of her antique desk, utterly out of place surrounded by ordered stacks of contracts and her mug of chamomile tea.
It was a mystery.
“What’s that?” A familiar head appeared around her open door, blond hair falling in a floppy fringe over warm blue eyes.
Alice jumped. Sweeping the box into a drawer, she quickly leaped up. “Rupert!” Her voice was strangled with embarrassment. “Oh, nothing, just…a mix-up. What are you doing here?”
“I’ve got some things to sign—thought I’d come down in person.