Liberate Yourself (The Desires Unlocked Trilogy Part One) (21 page)

‘Maybe I should explain what sadomasochism actually is? Would that help?’

Valentina nods, trying to banish all lustful thoughts from her head, which is hard given the subject matter.

‘It’s not as bad as you might think, being the dominant party. I do believe that if the dominants among us didn’t find an outlet for their natural instincts in this contained environment, some of us could be aggressive, and abusive, in our everyday lives.’ He pauses, looking at her intently. She can’t help imagining Leonardo the dominant, angry, ripping his shirt off, devouring her right here on the cream couch . . . She blushes at the thought, and looks down into her wine glass. ‘It’s almost like a form of therapy, Valentina. And it is very honest and brave to admit to these instincts.’

She takes a sip of her wine, lifting her eyes to meet his gaze.

‘But what about submissives? Isn’t that a destructive emotion, particularly for women?’ She drops her eyes, looking at him from beneath her eyelashes. Why on earth did she wear this provocative hot pants suit? It makes her feel so sexy.

‘Not at all. Many women want to be submissive because in fact it appeals to their vanity. They are the centre of attention. It is quite egocentric, actually.’ Leonardo speaks passionately. This is something he knows a lot about, Valentina thinks. She finds it attractive. The idea that he is some kind of sex teacher. ‘When your dominator does things to you, it becomes
purifying,’ he continues. She raises her eyes, looking at him in surprise. ‘Being a submissive is about trust. A submissive woman often taps into a hidden, secret side of herself.’

Valentina arches her eyebrows at him sceptically, yet she decides to say nothing.

‘What attracts you, Valentina? To dominate or be submissive?’

She looks him square in the face.

‘Neither.’

‘Come now, Valentina. I have been honest with you. We are talking now about choice. Not having something forced upon you, but choosing to have things done to you, or choosing to do them to someone else with their consent.’

Valentina takes another sip of her red wine. Already the first glass has affected her, and maybe that’s why she throws caution to the wind and decides to answer Leonardo honestly.

‘I suppose I would choose submission,’ she says, averting her eyes.

Leonardo is silent for a second.

‘So,’ he says eventually. In that one word she can hear that his voice has dropped an octave. ‘I like to dominate. If you were to take pictures of me with, say, Celia, I think you would find that very erotic.’

She is not sure whether it is a question or a statement. She looks up at him, and he is staring at her with obsidian eyes, not a shard of brown left. She feels her stomach clench. She would much rather it were Theo sitting here suggesting this,
and yet she can’t help feeling incredibly attracted to Leonardo. There is a part of her that is craving for this man to touch her. He reminds her of Theo, with his easy sexual grace, and yet he is different. He doesn’t want her to be his girlfriend, he doesn’t want to possess one iota of her, and yet she can tell by the way he is looking at her that he wants to sleep with her. If she were to do something, she thinks, right now on this cream couch – let him unzip her hot pant suit and straddle her; let him have sex with her – would she tell Theo? Yes, of course she would; she would tell him so that he could see once and for all she was not relationship material.

‘Let me think about it,’ she says, trying to sound professional, indifferent, yet at the same time feeling her pulse speed up. Celia the submissive and Leonardo the dominator, together in the Velvet Underworld. And where would she fit in? A witness to their drama . . . or a participant?

It is a relief to be back outside, cycling through the night streets of Milan, listening to Lou Reed on her iPod. Part of her wishes she hadn’t agreed to this photographic assignment. Has she bitten off more than she can chew? Yet another part of her is finding the whole experience revelatory. Her nighttime fantasies now have the possibility of becoming real.

She listens to Lou Reed, encouraging her to walk on the wild side.

And what about Theo? If she were to take pictures of Leonardo and Celia together, would he judge her for it?
Because she knows deep down it wouldn’t be just pictures she would be taking.

It is well after midnight by the time she gets home. She wheels her bike into the courtyard of her apartment block. She doesn’t notice the figure leaning by her front door until she has her keys out.

‘Signorina Rosselli?’

She starts with fright, immediately on the offensive, pushing her keys through her fingers ready to attack.

‘Who are you?’

The man steps out of the shadows and the street lights illuminate his face. He looks to be in his late forties, with a head of thick curly grey hair, and a tired face. He is the same man who watched her take off in the taxi the other day.

‘I am sorry to frighten you,’ he says. ‘My name is Inspector Garelli.’ He shows her his badge. ‘I know it’s very late, Signorina Rosselli, but I need to ask you a couple of questions about your partner, Signor Theo Steen.’

‘Is something wrong?’

‘No, no . . . it’s just routine,’ he says. ‘Can I come in?’

Valentina doesn’t think twice. There is no way she is going to let this pushy police officer into her flat at this time of night.

‘No, it’s too late. I’m tired. Call me tomorrow.’ She doesn’t care if she sounds rude. Something tells her not to let this man into her apartment.

‘Oh, okay.’ He is surprised, yet he accepts what she is
saying. So he doesn’t have a warrant. ‘I just want to ask you where Signor Steen is.’

‘I have no idea,’ Valentina says sharply.

‘Of course you do, Signorina Rosselli. What boyfriend goes off without telling his girlfriend where he is going?’

‘He is
not
my boyfriend, Inspector Garelli,’ Valentina snarls, before storming into her apartment and slamming the door in his face. She leans against the door, catching her breath. Inspector Garelli has made her mad. Her body is taut with frustration. Damn Theo. She doesn’t want to be pulled into his private life. She doesn’t want to care. She connects her iPod to the speakers, and turns Lou Reed on full blast. And she dances. One minute she is Celia, the submissive. The next she is Anna, the dominatrix. She becomes herself in love. And then she fights it and becomes herself against love. Hot as ice, and cold as fire.

SHE WAITS A DAY, TWO DAYS, THREE, A WEEK. YET HER
sailor doesn’t come to her. She spends as much time as she can in her apartment, sitting on her tiny balcony watching the narrow canal below. A whistle, the splash of an oar in the water, a sailor’s cap sends her heart into a spin, but it is never him. Santos Devine has disappeared into the twisting canals of Venice, obviously preoccupied with trading his silk or whatever other adventure he is busy with that is more interesting, more enticing than
her
. She tries her best not to care, to forget him. Yet it is impossible. Every night as she falls asleep she sees his roguish face. She knows that he is bad for her. Not considerate like the Doctor, big hearted like Igor or kind like Signor R. She knows that for Santos Devine she is probably just one more pretty girl in yet another port. Yet still she hopes that maybe he sees something in her that he has looked for all his life, like she sees in him.

She tries to distract herself with her clients, but it is not the
same. She considers going to Ponte di Rialto again at nighttime and picking up a stranger, maybe two, like the time with the Scottish captain and his Caribbean first mate. Yet when she sets off she is hunting for Santos’s face among the men she meets, and when she makes do with someone else, it never ends to her satisfaction. She is left even more frustrated than before, wandering home wearily in the small hours and facing further anger from her husband. He tells her he cannot control her, and it is true. Up until now she always waited until he went away to undertake her secret adventures, but recently he is not travelling so much and she has to get out. He threatens her. Tells her he will lock her up. She screams back that he cannot cage her like a bird. As he lashes into her, her maid, Pina, stands by trembling in horror.

This morning she has enraged her husband yet again. She risked staying out all night, confident that he would have fallen into a whisky-induced slumber by midnight. As she creeps across the landing, her shoes in her hand, Signor Brzezinski comes up the stairs behind her, charging like an angry bull. He must have been sitting up waiting for her all night, for he is still in his dinner jacket and unshaven. She braces herself as he brings his hand up and slaps the top of her head, sending her flying. She cries out in pain. She scrambles to her feet, but he hits her again, this time punching her in the chest and winding her. She totters backwards and collapses again. He says nothing, just spits at her in disgust before storming into his bedroom.

She staggers to her feet and stumbles into her own room. There are tears in her eyes, but they are tears of frustration rather than pain. Yet she is relieved it is not worse this time. There is a gentle knock on her door, and her little maid enters. What is the child doing up at such an hour? Pina is fully dressed, although her hair is still unbraided and her eyes look heavy with sleep. When she sees her mistress, they begin to fill with tears as well.

‘Oh please, madam,’ Pina whimpers, as if she is the one who has been hit. ‘Please don’t anger him so.’

‘He cannot keep me prisoner, Pina. I will die if I cannot get out. I will, you know!’

Pina makes her sit, rearranges her hair to hide the bruise beginning to blossom on the top of her forehead. And later that morning, while Signor Brzezinski is busy with his papers, she begs Louise not to leave the house.

‘Tell him I have gone to visit the Countess,’ Louise instructs her.

‘He’ll know that’s not true. Please don’t go, madam.’

Louise takes the girl’s child-sized hand in hers.

‘I have to, Pina. It is my only hope.’

And Belle hopes all the way to her apartment. Hopes she will see Santos Devine leaning against the wall by her front door, waiting for her. Yet each day she is disappointed, and she pays the price for her disobedience when she returns home, her pale skin mottled by bruises beneath her evening gown.

Today the Doctor is with her. She tries to enter into the spirit of things, but when he opens his bag and shows her his instruments, she doesn’t feel scared or excited any more. In fact today she wants him to hurt her,
really
hurt her with one of those sharp tools. Maybe that will stop the pain that sears her heart ever since she met Santos.

‘Now, Belle,’ the Doctor begins kindly. ‘I believe you have been feeling poorly of late.’

‘Yes, I have, Doctor,’ she says flatly.

‘Well I am going to make you better. Please turn around.’

Instead of turning her back to him so that he can blindfold her and tie her to the bed, Belle gets up off the mattress. She drops her silk chemise so that she is naked apart from her stockings. She feels open and careless, as if she could walk the streets of Venice without a stitch on her, not caring who sees her or what they do to her. She walks over to the Doctor, and she can see him taking in her bruised body. She supposes he has never seen her this bad. His face pales, and he looks even sadder than normal. Belle bends down to pick up his doctor’s bag. He looks at her, startled, unable to speak. She has broken the spell of his game. She puts the bag down on the bed and rummages inside it. She pulls out a pair of curve-ended scissors and hands them to him.

‘Doctor, please, I want you to make me better,’ she says, looking into his eyes with ferocious intensity.

The Doctor blinks behind his spectacles, the force of her gaze too much. His expression is puzzled. Eventually he
regains his composure and assumes his character again.

‘Yes, Belle, I will make you better,’ he says, looking at the scissors in his hand.

She puts on the blindfold herself, and lies down on the bed for him. She waits for the feel of the sharp instrument on her skin.

‘Please,’ she begs. ‘Make the pain go away.’

She senses the Doctor hovering over her.

‘Belle,’ he says. ‘What’s wrong?’ And he sounds a little different, less steady.

‘Doctor, please cut out my heart.’ Her voice cracks.

She waits for the sensation of the metal piercing her skin, of the blood spilling out of her, and of the release she is hoping for. Instead the blindfold is pulled off and the Doctor sits down on the bed next her, the scissors no longer in his hand.

‘Dear Belle, what is wrong?’ he asks, stroking her hair ever so gently.

‘Oh Doctor,’ she cries out. ‘I’m in love.’ And she bursts into tears, burying her face in his bare chest.

The Doctor holds her in his arms, patting her back until her crying abates. She pulls away and looks up at his cloud-grey eyes, so like her dead father’s.

‘Oh Doctor, what am I to do?’

‘Ah, poor, poor Belle. I am sorry to say that I have no cure for love.’

‘Please, Doctor, tell me what to do.’ She clings to him. ‘I
am in love and yet he does not come. I have waited and waited for him.’ She clasps her hands. ‘I cannot bear it any longer. I shall throw myself in the canal. I cannot go home again without seeing him . . .’

‘Now, now, Belle,’ the Doctor says sagely, rubbing her back. ‘Calm yourself, my dear. All is not lost.’

She looks at him hopefully.

‘The only medicine I know for love is love itself. Why don’t you go and find this man? You are Belle, famous courtesan of Venice! You cannot let love defeat you!’ The Doctor proudly pats her bare bottom. ‘I am sure you can seduce this man, especially if you love him.’

‘But where will I find him?’

‘Look and you shall find, my dear. Venice is small enough.’

She is so grateful for his encouraging words that she dries her eyes and embraces him. They are both naked, and yet it is the embrace of friendship.

‘I am sorry, Doctor,’ she says humbly, looking down. ‘I have been selfish and spoilt your time today. Would you like to start again?’