Lose Yourself (The Desires Unlocked Trilogy Part Two) (31 page)

‘Why? What happened?’

‘Once I showed her all the evidence, she agreed to give me the picture. Just like that! I guess she is so stinking rich she can afford to be principled.’

‘That’s a bit harsh.’ Valentina remembers something else Anita had said to her now, when they were talking about her grandmother and the erotic film: ‘It changes who we are to learn the secrets of our ancestors.’

‘Maybe, like you, she wanted to make amends for the actions of her grandfather,’ Valentina suggests.

Theo shrugs. ‘You’re right. I guess I have no right to judge anyone after what my own grandfather did, selling off all those poor Jewish people’s priceless treasures to the Nazis for a pittance.’

‘But he had little choice, remember, Theo, and he has spent the rest of his life trying to retrieve all those pictures and return them to their rightful owners.’

Every family has dark secrets – skeletons in the closet. She is still astounded that her grandmother appeared in those early erotic films, and yet all the evidence seems to indicate it is true. And then there is the huge fat lie about her father . . .

‘So, Valentina,’ Theo says, carefully putting the attaché case back down on the floor, ‘my career as an art thief has finally come to an end. Do you think you will still find me attractive when I am just a fusty old academic again?’

‘Of course I will,’ she says, kissing him on the lips. ‘In fact, I can’t wait!’

She pulls back all of sudden, feeling a clench of anxiety in her stomach as she remembers something. ‘Theo, I forgot to tell you: there’s more about Glen.’

Theo pulls her into his side. She puts her hands on his bare chest, her fingers in his soft hair.

‘What is it, darling?’

‘He followed me . . .’ She pauses, deciding not to tell him that she and Glen first ran into each other outside Philip Rembrandt’s house. She is not quite ready to explain all about her father to Theo. She wants some time, just the two of them, before she unleashes the mess of her family history on him. ‘He said that, if you didn’t give him back the money for Mrs Kinder’s painting or let him have the Masson drawing, then he would take me.’

‘How dare he!’ Theo growls in disgust. ‘He tried that on with me at the gallery and I told him to get lost. He claimed he’d already made an arrangement with Guilio Borghetti’s son before I came along. I told him that, if he left us alone, it would be the last picture I ever took. He is welcome to every single piece of the lost Nazi hoard after last night. I thought that he was happy with that.’

‘Well, I don’t think he is,’ she tells him.

‘That’s it!’ he says, angrily. ‘I don’t care about the consequences; if he turns up again, we’ll just report him to the police.’ Theo looks so deadly serious that she has no doubt he will do just that.

‘But couldn’t you get into trouble?’

‘No, not really; not now I’m finished with it all. Remember, none of the paintings I have taken are actually officially reported stolen.’ He pulls her even tighter to him, so that her chin is resting on his chest and she can breathe in his delicious scent. ‘And, furthermore, I am not letting you out of my sight now. Not until I return the painting to Guilio Borghetti’s son in Sorrento.’

She is breathless at his words. He doesn’t want to let her out of his sight. So their reunion is not just momentary, it has a future. She cuddles into him, pressing her lips against his skin, feeling more satisfied and safe than she has felt her whole life.

‘Theo?’ she whispers into his chest. ‘When did you know that you wanted me back?’

‘I have never stopped wanting you, Valentina. Although I didn’t realise that until I saw you again, that first time in the Lexington.’ He takes a breath. ‘God, it was all I could do not to take you into my arms, but Anita was there and I was at a delicate stage with her in my negotiations for the Masson . . .’

She twists around to look up at him. ‘Why didn’t you tell me in the Tate what was going on with Anita? Why did you put me through all that uncertainty?’

‘Because I had already laid my heart open to you.’ He pauses. ‘You were the one who needed to be sure of your feelings, not me. I told you to trust me. That’s what you had to do.’ He continues to speak, all the while stroking her hair. ‘In a way, it was providential that Anita was around because, although I never would have said it of you, maybe it forced you to show me your feelings . . . it threatened you.’ He looks at her questioningly and she blushes.

‘I am surprised, even at myself,’ she admits. ‘I thought I was a true libertine but, when it came down to it, I wanted you all to myself.’

‘I am quite happy about that, Valentina, because I don’t think I want to share you anymore, either.’ He kisses her forehead.

‘So we are lost to each other?’ she asks him.

‘Yes, we have both of us stepped over the edge into that dangerous abyss called love.’

He begins to unwrap her dressing gown, so that it falls open. She climbs up on to his silky lap and looks down at him, drinking in his face, committing it to her heart.

‘So, will you come with me to give back the Masson to Borghetti? I’m flying to Naples tomorrow morning, early.’

‘But I’m supposed to go back to Milan this evening,’ she protests, weakly.

He pulls her down to him and kisses her. ‘Oh no, Valentina, this afternoon you are going to be very busy making love to me. I am afraid you are going to miss your flight . . .’

‘If you say so,’ she says, not even pretending to resist.

She leans back and strokes his balls through his silk pyjamas. She slips her hand underneath the waistband and feels his cock rising in her hand, the urgency of its need to be within her again. She kisses him deeply, drinking his love into her as sweet as honey on her heart.

‘Theo?’ Valentina pulls away for a second, feeling strangely bashful.

He looks up at her expectantly.

She is so nervous of his response to what she is about to ask him that she drops her gaze, stares down at the tiny folds in his stomach. ‘Can I be your girlfriend now?’ Her voice is barely above a whisper.

‘No, absolutely not,’ she hears him say, so fast, with no reflection whatsoever.

She feels a lump form in her throat. It is hard to disguise her disappointment. So, he has not forgiven her, then.

‘Valentina,’ he says, lifting her chin with his fingertip and gazing into her eyes.

She looks into a blue ocean of possibility.

‘I don’t want you to be my girlfriend, because I want you to be my wife.’

Back in the hotel room in Paris, she opens up the
case that Felix had given her. It is half empty, filled with clothing and trinkets that Felix had bought her. She wrenches the red cape off, rips her ivory evening gown from her and kneels down, tipping the contents of the case on to the floor. Stockings, silk chemises, gloves and scarves fly everywhere in a carnival of colour. The bottle of L’Heure Bleu clatters on to the floorboards. The glass shatters into thousands of tiny bright crystals. Its rich perfume assaults her. The images that arrive with its scent begin to make her tremble. Finally, after the stony silence of her return drive to Paris, René’s offer of help and her rejection of him, the self-control it took not to wail like a baby and take refuge within his chubby arms, after all this, she cries. It is not just a young girl with her first broken heart who is crying, it is also the gut-wrenching sobs of a woman betrayed. Tears streak down her face, off her chin and roll between her naked breasts, on to her quivering belly and between her legs. She empties the case and, when she has done so, she climbs into it. The red silk of its lining is cool against her fevered skin. She lies on her side, raises her knees to her chest, and folds in on herself. She tucks herself up in the great big suitcase, and closes her eyes.

In her dreams, she becomes a tiny feral thing. She is in hibernation. The case suddenly slams shut. She is in darkness, the only sound the beating of her heart. Yet she is not frightened. It is comforting to be invisible to the light of day. She holds herself tight as she feels the case being lifted. Who is carrying her? Where are they taking her? The case sways back and forth and it is like being rocked in a cradle. She has little space and yet she is comfortable, as if she fits perfectly in this place. It surprises her, for she was always afraid of confined spaces. Yet it is as if being locked in a piece of luggage is where she belongs. She feels so safe that the rocking lulls her and she falls asleep.

When the case is opened, the first thing she tastes is salt on her lips. She opens her eyes, blinking in the bright light of day. She looks up at a wide cerulean sky and sees a seagull circling above her. She hears the sea crashing against the shore, a regular beat against the rocks, never stopping, on and on. She waits for the tide to come in and carry her away in her suitcase. She sees herself bobbing forever upon the ocean, until it finally swallows her up and she can be nothing. The crashing of the sea against the rocks becomes more and more frantic, urgent – and then she hears a voice.

‘Maria!’

She opens her eyes. Above her stands Vivienne, looking down at her in the suitcase, her expression, for once, grave.

‘Maria, what are you doing in there?’

She shakes her head. She doesn’t have the energy or will to speak. She just wants to be nothing, to fade away.

‘Come on,’ Vivienne says, kneeling down by the case and picking up her limp arms, pulling her up. ‘Get out of that suitcase. There you go,’ she says gently. ‘Let’s get you dressed.’

Vivienne escorts her out of the little hotel bedroom in Saint-Germain-des-Prés
,
propping her up by the elbow. She leaves behind the empty suitcase, all her dresses and jewellery, all of her mistress’s things.

Her friend guides her through the chaotic streets of Paris and back to her own apartment in the seventh arrondissement. Maria is oblivious to all the life around her. She feels numbed to the core. She feels as if she is dead.

Once inside her tiny apartment, Vivienne bustles around her. ‘Have you eaten?’ she asks her.

Maria shakes her head, biting her lip and trying not to cry again.

Vivienne lays the table with bread and cheese, and pours them both a glass of red wine. ‘Come on; get that down you,’ she says, handing Maria a glass of wine. ‘You’ll feel better.’

Maria takes a sip. It is true, the wine fortifies her a little, but she is still unable to speak. She is too ashamed.

As if she reads her thoughts, Vivienne speaks first. ‘You don’t have to tell me what’s wrong,’ she says. ‘René told me.’ She doesn’t look at Maria, but concentrates on tearing off a hunk of bread. ‘I cannot believe that Felix is protecting
that
woman,’ Vivienne says, passionately. ‘She is scum. All those women are whores who slept with the German bastards.’

Maria can hear the loathing in Vivienne’s voice.

‘But what if some of those women who you call horizontal collaborators fell in love with Germans?’ Maria says, tentatively. ‘Surely you cannot help who you love? And, besides, Matilde did not love the German she slept with. She did it to save Felix’s life.’

‘In times of war, I believe you must stick to your principles; you have to make sacrifices, Maria,’ Vivienne says, sternly. She leans forward, gently brushing a stray of Maria’s hair from her cheek. ‘You are very young and think that love can rule you, but, you know, if it does . . . Well, then it’s not a good kind of love.’

Maria thinks about what Vivienne says. Her love for Felix had completely taken her over. She had given up her dancing, Jacqueline, even to a certain extent her mammas because of him.

Felix. She sees his face for a moment, when he is telling her he loves her and how he feels like a young man again. Yet he is not. He is a married man, over twice her age. And now she sees him as she saw him last night: asleep within Matilde’s arms. She shudders and closes her eyes.

‘He tricked me,’ she whispers to Vivienne.

‘No, no, my darling,’ Vivienne says. ‘Felix loves you, I am sure about it, but . . . you know, he still has feelings for Matilde, as well.’

‘He said he despised her.’

‘Yes, but if he really did then he would turn her out . . .’

Maria had not told René why she made him drive her back to Paris in the middle of the night, and she wonders now whether he guessed and whether he had told Vivienne. She is too ashamed to tell her that she saw Felix and Matilde in the same bed together. She hopes her friend doesn’t know.

Vivienne leans forward in her chair. ‘You don’t know what they did to him,’ she says, picking up Maria’s hand and squeezing it.

‘During the war?’ Maria asks.

‘We all thought Felix was dead,’ Vivienne continues to explain. ‘He was subjected to severe torture in Lyon. No one had survived before.’ Vivienne drops her hand, her eyes filling with tears. ‘You know about my Marcel, don’t you?’

Maria nods. ‘I am so sorry,’ she whispers.

‘Well, now you know why I hate Matilde . . . Although I would not be responsible for her being hurt, either.’ Vivienne wraps her arms around her waist and sits back. ‘I am not like that. I could not do what she did. I loved Marcel,’ she cries, wiping the tears from her eyes. ‘Matilde made me feel like I failed him . . . I hated her for it.’

‘It’s not who she is that is the problem or the fact he was married, it’s that he never told me,’ Maria says. ‘And last night . . . I . . . saw . . .’

Vivienne leans forward and puts her hand to Maria’s lips. ‘I know; I guessed that’s why you ran away,’ she sighs. ‘But I still believe it is you that Felix loves. Life is different now.’ Vivienne offers her a cigarette.

‘What do you mean?’

‘War has made a mockery out of all that we held sacred before: life . . . and love. We cannot expect to live within the same moral codes anymore.’

‘So do you think I should be his mistress?’ Maria asks her, shocked that Vivienne could accept such an idea.

‘That depends on you, my dear,’ she says, softly. ‘But I would not judge you for it. The love and passion you and Felix share is too rare a find to give up easily, even if there are other complications.’

‘But . . . but . . . what if there was a child . . . ?’ Maria asks her. She knows what it is like to grow up without a proper father. She doesn’t want that for her children – to be seen as different, to be illegitimate.

Vivienne puts out her cigarette. ‘You would manage. It would be worth it.’

Maria thinks of Vivienne’s two dead daughters. She feels a wave of compassion for her friend. How can she be so selfish to talk about herself when Vivienne has been through so much?

‘I am sorry,’ she says, putting her hand on Vivienne’s arm, ‘about your girls.’

Vivienne looks at her for a moment, and Maria sees such raw pain in the other woman’s eyes that it takes her breath away.

‘I thought I could live in Paris again,’ Vivienne says, quietly. ‘I mean, it is the city for writers, especially for women writers. And yet I think I should have left when Felix did. I don’t know why he came back.’ She inhales deeply on her cigarette. ‘Maria, remember all this tragedy has nothing to do with you. None of it. You have brought hope and sunshine into our lives.’

Maria balances her cigarette between her shaking fingers. ‘I am just an ordinary girl.’

‘And that is precisely why you are so special,’ the other woman says, stroking her hair, tenderly, as tears trail down her cheeks.

‘What were their names?’

Vivienne doesn’t need to ask Maria who she means. ‘Lucille and Tina,’ she says, burying her face in her hands, her voice breaking down.

Maria wraps her arms around the older woman.

Outside, Paris is burning under a midday sun while Vivienne’s apartment ticks in shadowed silence and the two women cry in each other’s arms for all that they have lost.

Later, after they have dried their tears and sobered up with coffee, Vivienne asks her if she wants to go out. They could go to a jazz club and listen to some music, get drunk together and drown their sorrows, but Maria turns her down. She wants to sleep now; she needs to block out her heartache.

‘Why don’t you come to America with me?’ Vivienne suggests as she applies her lipstick, looking in her compact mirror as she speaks.

‘America?’

‘Yes; I am moving to New York. I have been offered a writing job with
Harper’s Bazaar
, and I think I shall take it. I need to say goodbye to Paris for a while, lay a few ghosts to rest . . .’ She pauses, unscrewing the lipstick and slipping it into her purse, clicking it shut. ‘So?’ Vivienne asks, turning to her with falsely bright eyes. ‘Will you come to New York with me?’

‘I don’t know anyone there. What will I do?’

‘You know me . . . and haven’t you made some American friends since you’ve been in Paris? There are so many of them here. It is nearly impossible not to have a few Yankie admirers, especially a pretty young thing like you.’

She thinks of Richard, and blushes at the memory of what nearly happened between herself, Felix and that man. ‘No,’ she tells Vivienne. ‘I don’t know any Americans at all.’

‘Well, think about it,’ Vivienne says. ‘It could be a new beginning, for both of us.’

That night, when Vivienne returns and gets into bed with her, Maria wraps her arms around the older woman and breathes in the scent of Vivienne after a long night out: Chanel, alcohol and tobacco. She promises herself that she will cut all ties from her brief life in Paris, and go with Vivienne to New York. Maria will start all over again. She will leave Felix and her love for him behind in France. Her heart is broken but she must survive. Her mammas would expect nothing less from her.