Precious Things (20 page)

Maggie took a deep breath to interrupt.

‘I don't care that it's bringing in more commission,' Tim said darkly, reading her mind. ‘I would have preferred the time with you and the girls.' He took a deep breath as well, visibly trying to calm himself down. ‘Look, you're always complaining about how busy things are. I'm just telling you what's been going on with Pearl and trying to work out what we should do about it.'

‘But why can't you be the one to take a break, if you think we need to? Don't you think my projects are just as important?' Maggie asked crossly, knowing she was being unfair. Deep down, she knew he was right. Pearl did need her. Tim too, and Stella . . . What was the point of having children if you never got to see them or spend any time with them? She'd never expected it to be like this.

Tim's eyes pierced hers.

‘Of course your projects are important,' he said quietly. ‘I've always supported you working as much as you want, even when that meant putting Pearl in full-time care. You know how I love you being so passionate about what you do. But things have changed, Plum. Can't you see that? Apart from this treasure hunt you seem to be on, trying to find out about that collar or whatever it is, you're clearly not enjoying work all that much. And it's not like we need you to be doing such crazy hours . . . Every time we see each other, you're either complaining about how frantic you are or running out the door. I thought this could be a good solution for all of us. Why don't you consider it?'

Maggie's face crumpled as she dissolved into hot, angry tears. God, what had got into her? It wasn't Tim's fault – he was doing the best he could. He'd always tried to come up with solutions for them, and to accommodate her work. He was doing the lion's share of looking after the girls right now, too.

She stood stiffly as Tim circled his arms around her, and then let herself become enveloped in his warm, strong arms. They would find a way, she told herself, choking down a sob. And they would have to because – clearly – things couldn't go on as they were.

In that moment Maggie knew it with absolute certainty: something had to give.

ISABELLA: Rome, 1953

‘So what would
you
do then, Bella? Bed him, marry him for the title or let yourself be chopped up by the Sicilian mob?'

Bella was enjoying her place at the table's centre, in the back room of Locatelli's. She let Marco's question hang and drip like honey from a spoon. Flashing a glance at Christian, who was sitting at his customary spot at the head of the table, Bella turned back to Marco and drawled, ‘Bed him, of course.'

Laughter erupted from around the banquette. ‘But what were you expecting?' Bella asked, shrugging her creamy white shoulders. ‘I'm no mob bait . . . yet.' Bella laughed huskily, thinking to herself,
Femmes fatales, these Italians love them.

‘Saucy girl, I knew you'd say that,' said Alessandro in his thick accent, shaking his head. Amid the laughter, someone spilled a glass of Barolo over the white linen tablecloth and a waiter swept in with a napkin, covering the stain discreetly. As he disappeared through the archway and back to the main dining room, the din muffled his footsteps.

Reflections bounced off the long mirrors lining the banquette, picking up a dazzle of chandelier crystals. The people on the table's far side were obscured from Bella's view, but she could see the twelve heads illuminated by flickering candlelight. To anyone watching, they looked just like any other set of friends out for dinner, revelling in each other's company.
But looks are so deceiving
, Bella thought, sipping her wine. A thick chestnut curl fell over her eye and she let it obscure her gaze. Covertly studying Christian from under her eyelashes, she saw the straight line of his lips and could tell he was not amused.

‘But why?' asked Marco, persisting. ‘I heard he's a pervert. You know Sophie Milano says he's into all sorts of things? Violent things, apparently. During sex. And he likes to be spanked.' He paused, eyes wide.

Bella smiled. The unsettled feeling she'd had just a moment before dissipated as she sized him up. Despite being around the same age as her, Marco still seemed very young. Shifting forwards, Bella let her décolletage spill forth from the tight satin dress, and paused for effect. Once she was sure all eyes were upon her, she lowered her voice, ‘Yes, but he
loves
his mummy, doesn't he?'

Bella watched Marco's expression crack. His face reddened as the table broke out in laughter again. Bella tossed her hair and blew the poor boy a kiss, Alessandro hooting.
At least I'm still entertaining
, Bella thought.
They enjoy having me around . . .

Food was set down by a team of white-coated waiters, silence settling. Christian lifted his spoon, signalling his approval, and they began digging into the plates of tiramisu like greedy savages. Alessandro demolished his in three fast scoops. Bella could feel Marco's eyes upon her. Touching the corner of her mouth with a finger, she wiped away an errant dollop of mascarpone. Holding his gaze, she raised her finger and slowly sucked. In her peripheral vision, she saw Alessandro splutter with laughter, his wine spraying over the table.

Marco was part of the film crew trailing Christian for the documentary. He'd only just joined their group a scant few days ago, so he hadn't seen anything yet. It was only Friday night, which meant
the weekend-long festivities were just beginning. Bella almost felt sorry for him. If Marco was scandalised so early on, it was certain to be a baptism by fire. She only wished she could stick around to watch.

Chancing a look towards Christian again, Bella saw he was watching her. Feeling suddenly cold, she fixed her smile in place. Christian cleared his throat, and all eyes at the table turned expectantly in his direction.

‘Oh Bella, Bella . . . All I can think about is your poor little girl. What is she, seven months? Yet I imagine she's already accustomed to your procession of lovers. There'll be no point learning their names. Perhaps we should come up with a collective noun to describe the lot of them. What do you think, my friends? A daddy of men,' he said, smiling. ‘That makes sense.' There were polite titters around the table.

Christian leaned forward. ‘Tell us the truth, Bella. Do you know who the father is? Or are you going to keep us guessing?'

Bella stared across the floral centrepiece, stifling her panic. A vase filled with dahlias the colour of dried blood and a miniature aviary of taxidermied birds sat between them. Glassy-eyed partridges and doves, arranged upon glossy green leaves. Bella thought about Venus flytraps and the sharpness of teeth, and did not move. This was the second time he'd mocked her this evening.

Christian raised his eyebrow a fraction. ‘Well? What do you say to that, my bella?'

‘Of course I know,' Bella snapped, recovering. She told herself he was just teasing. ‘But Christian, you're one to talk. The
palazzo
needs a revolving door for all
your
lovers. Speaking of which, where's Giles this evening?' It was an attempt at lightness, but Bella could feel the question drop like a stone. Christian made a small grimace. Seeing the jubilant look on Audrey's face beside him, Bella realised it was a misstep, and all the fuel Audrey needed. She already hated Bella.

‘Very funny,' said Christian, suddenly sanguine. Everyone at the table seemed to relax, their shoulders falling as the danger seemed to pass. ‘He's in Florence, setting up my next show. Some of us still have work to do, Bella, while you have your adventures.'

She laughed, but the noise sounded high-pitched, even to her own ears.

‘We've got the gallery on board,' Christian continued. ‘Now I just have to finish the paintings. Will you be at my launch?' Alarm bells started ringing inside Bella's head – why wouldn't she be? She hadn't missed one of Christian's openings in years.

‘It's in March,' said Christian. ‘I expect all of you to be there,' he said, looking around. It wasn't a question. ‘You too, Marco. Can you stretch to March?'

Marco nodded hopefully.

‘Oh, and Bella – you must come,' he said, almost as an afterthought. ‘You know how much the press loves salivating over my muse.'

My invitation
, Bella thought,
there it is.
Suddenly, she could breathe again.

Christian leaned forward. ‘Try not insulting anyone this time,' he said. ‘Or stealing any rich heiress's husband. It's bad for business, you know.'

So he still hasn't forgiven me
, Bella thought. Christian didn't mind footing the bill, but he never let you forget it if you didn't behave
exactly
the way he wanted you to
.

Ever since their relocation to Rome, Christian had established quite a reputation for himself among the young aristo set. Their odd band of travellers was made up of a jumbled assortment of Christian's lovers, past and present (he liked keeping them close), his half-sister Audrey and her boring husband, Matthew. It was some time ago that Bella had graduated from lover to muse, his number one model, although – she hated to admit it – he'd been using her less and less recently.

Christian was a ‘genius'. His modern abstract paintings captured the moment – or so the reviews said. But as far as Bella could tell, they were ugly and indecipherable, and failed to move her. She really didn't understand the art world, despite living one foot within it. Was it a nose or a breast she was meant to be looking at? And why should anyone care? Studying the paintings at Christian's most recent show,
a suave older gentleman in a tuxedo had come up to stand beside her. Offering her a cigarette, he had looked her up and down. ‘What's this meant to be, then?'

‘Exactly,' Bella had responded, liking the way the much older man's eyes crinkled when he smiled (he must have been fifty, at least – only a little older than Christian). She could tell he was like her: up for anything.

In a split second, he was whispering in her ear. ‘Shall we?' he'd asked, steering her away.

Bella had felt like a freshly plucked flower, or something rare. A black rose. He was the most handsome man in the room and he'd singled her out. What's more, he seemed enraptured by her. No one could tell she was three months' pregnant in this dress; it was worth every lira, Bella thought. The man's fingers gently touched her hip and she allowed herself to be led. Far from the noise of the grand white parlour and into a smaller, tapestry-lined room.

He peeled the tight satin from her hips like a man peeling the skin from a piece of ripe fruit. Bella let the man's smooth hands navigate their way across her body as he leaned in to bite the side of her neck. Giving herself over to the pleasure of it, she felt him roaming over thighs, arse, womb . . . and realised she was panting. Who knew when she'd next be with a man again? Bella felt light-headed with desire. The thought of getting rid of the baby had occurred to her, but abortions were dangerous – especially in this religion-obsessed country. Besides, she'd always wanted children. She just hadn't expected it to happen so soon.

The moon cast a pale blue light over the shadowy contents of the room and Bella felt the cheek of her bottom slam against the rough texture of a tapestry. The dust-sheeted piano tinkled in protest, and she smothered her cry against the man's suited shoulder. Dress pulled up to her waist, for a moment Bella had the impression she was being defiled underwater. The man drove himself inside her ever more deeply, thrusting her up against the wall and she came so hard that she momentarily saw stars. Afterwards, Bella pulled down her frock, realising she hadn't even asked his name.

When they rejoined the party, a middle-aged Italian woman clicked up to her in a pair of needle-sharp heels. Slapping her companion hard across the face, she looked set to round on Bella when the man caught her hand midair. The light glinted against the gold on his ring finger, and Bella wondered why she couldn't even summon up the good sense to feel ashamed. She saw Christian's gaze fixed upon her, and thought of Christian and Audrey and their regular attendance at Sunday Mass; on their knees, confessing their sins – more Catholics, she was surrounded by them – and felt unrepentant. She supposed that was the moment when things started to go downhill.

Tonight in the restaurant, Bella blinked and tried to forget the curl of disgust on Christian's lips. He was right: she
was
a slut. But was that such a bad thing, when it made her feel so good?

‘Pssht, Christian,' Bella said, opting for brazen. ‘People love a good gossip, and they
adore
talking about sexual transgressions. What do the French call it?
Nostalgie de la boue
: the longing for mud.' She looked over the rim of her glass and realised her vision was doubling a bit; she was tipsy. It was a new sensation – it had been so long since she'd drunk quite so much in an evening . . . before the little one was born, at least. ‘Of course I'll come to your opening.' Bella wondered what she'd wear. Nothing seemed to fit any more, and Christian hadn't bought her any new clothes in such a long time. ‘Will you put us up?'

‘Doesn't he always?' replied Audrey, leaning in close to her brother, muttering something under her breath which Bella failed to catch. Christian said something short, and Audrey broke away, needlessly smoothing her short, brassy blonde waves. She studiously ignored Bella.

It had been several years earlier that Bella and Christian had met. Audrey and Matthew had been staying with one of Bella's friends in Santa Fiora when they had invited her to a party. Audrey introduced Bella to her older brother, Christian the talented painter, and both of them hit it off immediately. Launching into a passionate affair which explored the limits of what Bella thought she was capable of (in bed, out of bed, outside, in front of others), Christian had peculiar tastes, and an unquenchable appetite. But while the sex stopped when Christian grew bored, they
went on to form a creative partnership – the artist and his muse – which outlasted the physical. For that, Christian moved on to Alessandro, a twenty-something chauffeur with the body of Michelangelo's David, but Bella still remained his favourite model. For now, at least. Audrey had never really forgiven her for it. Christian seemed blind to the fact, but it was obvious to Bella: Audrey was obsessed with him.

Bella shot Audrey a look, trying to maintain Christian's attention. ‘And I'm eternally grateful for your hospitality,
cara
,' she told him, pouting.
Butter
, that's what he used to call her. As in, it wouldn't melt . . .

He looked down at his glass and didn't respond.

Say something – quickly
, she thought. ‘Indeed,' she continued, in a honeyed voice. ‘What would my
bambina
and I do without your kindness?' thinking,
It hasn't been so forthcoming of late.
With a wave of her hand, she took in the rest of the table, raising her voice. ‘Indeed, what would any of us do?' The assenting murmurs followed quickly – just as she knew they would.