Lose Yourself (The Desires Unlocked Trilogy Part Two) (23 page)

‘Hey,’ Leonardo says, gently tapping her hand. ‘I have to go.’

She pouts. ‘It feels like you just got here.’

‘I could only get away for the night.’

Valentina squeezes his hand tightly before releasing it. ‘Thank you so much for coming, my dear friend.’

Valentina is alone again. She walks down Old Brompton Road, past all the museums, sunlight speckling her skin, her mind in turmoil
.
Now she has got into the rhythm of her walk, she doesn’t want to stop. Could Leonardo be right about the idea of a threesome? And, even if he is, how on earth is she going to make it happen? She has not heard from Theo since he disappeared last night. She is loath to ring him after he dumped her at the exhibition. Valentina keeps walking as if, at the end of her march, she will find her answer. She walks all the way into Knightsbridge and past Hyde Park. Tomorrow she is supposed to return to Milan, which means that tonight is her last chance. Of course, there is also the issue of her father . . .

She comes to a halt and looks around her. Where is she now? She has no idea. Behind her is Hyde Park and ahead stretches another park. The road is thick with cars as they race past her. She can see a Tube station sign ahead of her and she goes towards it: Green Park. She takes out her
London A to Z
and looks at the back cover. Green Park is on the jubilee line – the same line as Finchley Road station, near where her father lives. It seems quite providential that she should be standing outside this particular Tube station. Maybe the first step to working out what to do about Theo is to work out who she really is? To do that, she has to face her fear and see her father. She knows she will regret it if she doesn’t. She has the rest of the day to herself. Antonella and Mikhail are busy sightseeing, and Isabella is at work. There is no need for her to go into the gallery now that she has sold all her work.

Her phone buzzes. She takes it out of her pocket, praying that it is from Theo, but instead it is a message from an unknown number:

Hi Valentina. Sorry about last night. I was drunk ;) Want to come to a party at my place tonight? Theo tells me it’s your last night in London. Please come! Let me know and I will text you my address. Anita xx

Despite the fact the message is from Anita and not Theo, she feels that, indirectly, it is him who is communicating with her. Anita had texted that Theo told her it was Valentina’s last night in London. How did he know? He must want to see her again. If she goes back to Milan without Theo’s love, when will she ever see him again? She cannot suffer the indignity of begging him to come back, and so she has to win him back, even if it means hurting Anita.

It is at that very moment, as Valentina struts into Green Park Tube station, her mind made up to face her father once and for all, that she also knows she is not going to let Anita take her man. It is her time of reckoning.

The raptures of her night begin in a little
restaurant in Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Such a meal they eat, the like of which she has not tasted in years – not since before the war, when she was a girl. A plate of endives and huge giant prawns, creamy mushroom soup, followed by garlicky snails and freshly baked baguette, all accompanied by a plummy red wine. She wonders how the French are able to source all this food when the diet in England is still limited. Felix tells her it is because of the Americans and the Marshall Aid Plan. He says that, less than a year ago, the residents of Paris were starving, their only source of meat, rabbits.

As they eat, Maria begins to understand just how clever her lover is. He tells her all about the politics of the day in France: how, since the Berlin Blockade had begun earlier that summer, the Americans had been panicking that France would be overtaken by communists. And so, not only had they started pumping money and American goods into the country, but also the Americans themselves had been coming in their droves.

‘To experience the sophistication of Parisian life,’ Felix says, disdainfully, as he removes a buttery snail from its shell and pops it in his mouth. ‘But their politicians want us to learn their American ways – what it is to be a good worker.’

‘Do you think that there will be another war?’ Maria asks Felix. ‘The women in the tripe queue think so. So does Guido, although he says we shouldn’t be so afraid of the Russians.’

‘Are you and Guido close friends?’

‘Not at all.’ She blushes, wondering why she is thinking of the Italian. She has almost managed to banish all thoughts of London – and even Venice – for the past two weeks, so completely entranced has she been by Felix and their lovemaking. ‘But he seems to know a lot,’ she explains.

‘He is just a young boy,’ Felix says, his voice scathing. ‘He knows nothing about what is really happening in the world.’ He pauses, mopping up the garlicky butter from the snails with a piece of bread. ‘There won’t be a war. Neither the Russians nor the Americans can risk it.’

‘But Berlin is blockaded by Stalin. Isn’t that just the beginning?’

‘If Stalin wanted a war, it would have started by now.’ Felix pours some more red wine into both their glasses.

‘Let’s not talk about war anymore,’ he says. ‘It is war that corrupts all that is beautiful. And I want tonight to be sublime.’

She sips the wine, and its sweet berry tang heartens her, makes her feel more comfortable in her erotic undergarment.

‘There are two good things about the Americans being here,’ Felix says, as he feeds her one of his snails. ‘One is their jazz music, and the second is their interest in movies – a fact that is most beneficial for me.’

‘What kind of film are you making at the moment?’ Maria asks him, shyly.

‘Since my life is full of love at the moment, it is, of course, a love story, Maria,’ he says, grinning at her.

After dinner, they go to a bar close to their hotel. Felix leads her through the smoky throng; all the while the little golden ball spins around inside her. She feels as if she is tiptoeing on eggshells, her breath caught in her mouth. There is a powerful odour of strong tobacco, cheap wine and unwashed bodies in the bar, and yet there is something cosy about the place. Felix finds a tiny table in the corner, orders a bottle of wine and they squeeze in. Maria notices that most of the crowd are radiating from the other corner of the bar. There is a great deal of talking and it is hard for them to hear each other over the babble of voices.

‘So,’ Felix says, indicating the crowd, ‘do you know who is holding court with all those young men and women?’

Maria shakes her head.

‘None other than the great existentialist writer, Jean-Paul Sartre,’ Felix tells her.

Maria has no idea what existentialism is but she is too embarrassed to admit it. ‘Do you know him?’ she asks, craning to see over the mass of heads, but it is impossible to do so unless she stands up and makes a show of herself.

‘Yes, actually, I do,’ Felix says, filling up her glass. ‘But I do not like the man. He is a womaniser, of the worst sort.’

‘What is the worst sort?’ she asks, curious.

‘He has no humility. It is grating.’

Before they can continue their conversation, their table is surrounded by a group of people, all greeting Felix at once, as if they have not seen him for a decade. And maybe they haven’t, thinks Maria, although – according to Jacqueline – he often visited Paris during the two years he’s been in London. She squirms in her seat, embarrassed by the fact they are ignoring her, and equally embarrassed Felix doesn’t introduce her immediately.

Finally, a woman of about thirty, with burnished copper hair cut in a short crop, turns to her. ‘Hello,’ she says. ‘Who are you?’

‘Maria.’

‘Nice to meet you. I’m Vivienne. Are you Felix’s new girl?’

The way she says it makes Maria feel awkward. She wonders how many ‘new girls’ Felix has presented to his friends, yet, at the same time, the wine is beginning to work its magic and she is starting to relax. She can hardly believe it. Here she is, right in the thick of it, in the most chic and edgy place in Europe . . . and with such a clever, sexy and talented man – a man who knows Jean-Paul Sartre; a film-maker, no less.

Conversation flies around the table at breakneck speed. Maria’s French is good but, nevertheless, she is finding it hard to keep up. She gathers that most of the people at the table are fellow film-makers, writers, musicians, artists and playwrights. She is particularly intrigued by one man, who says practically nothing, constantly making little pencil drawings in a tiny notebook, which he keeps bringing out of his coat pocket and putting back in again. Most of those at their table are busy chatting among themselves and, apart from Vivienne, only one other person talks to her: a small, plump man with round spectacles, called René, who tells her he is a poet. After a couple of hours in the bar, Vivienne suggests they go dancing.

‘Le Tabou has closed down, but there is Club Saint-Germain. Let’s go there,’ she suggests. ‘Boris Vian is playing his trumpet tonight.’

‘I prefer his writing,’ Felix comments.

As Felix speaks, his eyes roam over the bar, as if he is searching for someone, until they come to rest on her. He stares straight at her, as if he is seeing her for the first time. There is a hunger in his gaze that pierces her, makes her a little frightened, but also arouses her as well. She is suddenly more aware than ever of the little gold ball lodged within the soft folds of her flesh. She shifts in her seat and it rolls in a tiny circle within her, grazing her, minutely stimulating her. She holds her breath. How is she supposed to endure the night with this attire on? She knows she is free to go to the toilet and take it off, and yet she doesn’t want to disappoint her lover. She wants to show him she is adventurous, like he wants her to be. And, despite the slight discomfort, it is also a little exciting to be wearing it with no other underwear, and to be sitting with this group of strangers and not one of them know what she and Felix are up to.

It is only when she stands up that Maria realises just how intoxicated she is. She looks across at Felix, wondering if she could suggest they go back to the hotel now, but he is wrapped up in conversation with René and one other man.

Vivienne links arms with her. ‘Do you like dancing, Maria?’ she asks her. She has clear green eyes, the colour of sea glass.

Maria is about to tell her that she is, in fact, a dancer, when something stops her. She can’t say that now, can she? She has turned her back on dancing, for good. At one time, dancing was like life for her, and yet she doesn’t have what it takes to be a great dancer. She failed. Maybe a woman has to choose between love and life. If that is the case, she chooses love.

‘No,’ she replies to Vivienne. ‘I don’t dance.’

‘Oh, but you must,’ Vivienne trills. ‘It is not your usual dancing. It’s jazz. It’s really energising . . . fun . . .’

‘No, really, I don’t think I can.’

Maria considers what the little gold ball would do to her if she actually started to dance. She is certain that she would completely lose all control.

Club Saint-Germain is smokier, darker and more packed than the bar. She tries to stay close to Felix but it is impossible. She wants him to take her home. Walking through the cobbled streets of Paris in her high heels with the little golden ball swirling around inside her has stimulated her even further. Deep inside her pelvis, her muscles are in spasm. It is all she can do not to collapse and cry out, hysteria bubbling out of her in laughter and tears. Has he no mercy? Surely he must know what this is doing to her. But every time she catches his eye, gives him a begging look, he smiles with delight before turning away and talking to René.

Eventually she has her chance when their group take to the dance floor; even the stout René jives away with abandon, while Vian and his fellow musicians blast out the latest sounds from New York.

Felix remains standing, leaning against the wall of the club, smoking a cigarette and watching the dancing crowd, as if surveying it from afar. Maria slips in next to him, nuzzling into his side. He puts his free arm around her waist and draws her closer to him. He hands her the cigarette and she takes a puff.

‘I thought you’d be out dancing with the others . . .’

‘I can’t dance, Felix,’ she whispers, handing him back the cigarette. ‘And certainly not with that thing inside me.’

He turns his head and whispers in her ear, ‘Are you on the edge yet, Signorina Brzezinska?’

He puts out the cigarette and brings his free hand over and rests it on her stomach, slowly spreading his fingers across her belly so that the very tip of his middle finger touches the outline of the velvet strip beneath her red dress.

Her breath quickens; she cannot speak for a second, she is so aroused. ‘Please,’ she whispers, ‘can we go back to the hotel?’

‘Not yet,’ he says. ‘I need to meet someone first.’

‘Who?’ she asks, impatiently.

‘I’m sorry, darling; I can’t tell you that,’ he says. He turns and looks at her. ‘I can see your nipples through your dress,’ he comments, grinning cheekily.

She blushes, her cheeks as crimson as the dress. ‘Oh, no.’

‘Don’t worry; it is so dark in here, no one will notice. Only me. I can see how turned on you are, my darling. I love you for this . . .’

His words are like a balm to her frustration. She can do this. She can hold on for a little longer. If she stays quite still and can just stop that ball from rolling around and around her, taking her further and further away from their surroundings and into her own rapture . . .

Felix is staring at her as if he is looking at her for the first time. Despite the fact they are in company, he leans forward and kisses her on the lips. The effect is devastating; just the touch of his lips on hers is causing a ripple effect within her body. She pulls away.

‘What is it?’ he asks.

‘You can’t kiss me,’ she whispers.

‘Oh, I see.’ His smile spreads. ‘OK, darling . . . I understand. Let me just find this person and deal with him. I’ll be back as soon as I can, and we’ll leave.’ Felix pulls his arm away from her waist and disappears into the dancing crowd.

She stands awkwardly on her own, trying to keep as still as possible. She feels self-conscious – aware of men looking at her. To her relief, she spies Vivienne weaving through the crowd towards her.

‘I just love jazz,’ Vivienne says, breathlessly, her cheeks flushed from dancing. ‘Isn’t Vian amazing?’

Maria nods, taking a swig of her drink.

‘So, how long have you and Felix been together?’ Vivienne asks her.

‘Two weeks,’ Maria says. ‘But I knew him in London before we came to Paris.’

‘I thought you were Italian?’

‘Yes, but I have been living in London. I met Felix there.’ She doesn’t want to expand. The last thing she wants Vivienne to find out is that she was a dancer. ‘Are you from Paris?’ Maria asks Vivienne, changing the subject.

Vivienne shakes her head. ‘No, I’m from Lyon. I met Felix through the Resistance.’

Maria is stunned by this information. ‘You were
both
in the Resistance during the war?’

Vivienne looks surprised. ‘Has Felix not spoken to you about his time in the Resistance?’

Maria is embarrassed that she knows so little about her lover, and yet her curiosity overcomes her pride. ‘To be honest, he has told me very little about himself.’

‘Oh my goodness! So you don’t know the whole story?’ Vivienne asks her, her green eyes flashing.

‘No,’ Maria whispers, ashamed.

Vivienne picks up her hand and squeezes it, looks at her warmly. ‘I’m sorry,’ she says, looking genuinely concerned by Maria’s embarrassment. ‘I just assumed you knew all about Felix, but I guess he doesn’t shout it from the rooftops.’

‘Shout what?’

‘Your lover is one of the bravest members of the Resistance. He’s a hero, darling.’

‘Oh.’ Maria swells with relief. So Guido really had been so wrong. Felix wasn’t a collaborator. He was, in fact, the opposite – just as she had always believed.