The Golden Locket (Unbreakable Trilogy, Book 2) (33 page)

For everyone except me, that is. What kind of Valentine’s Day is this going to be, with no lover? No Gustav?

There’s already an unmistakable vibration of excitement throbbing through the city as the big party approaches. There are lamps and stars and streamers decorating the buildings, the costume shops are bursting with even more colour and texture than usual, their windows crammed with spooky eyeless masks adorned with sequins and feathers. Some are full face, to be worn beneath the traditional tricorn hats. Others are just intended to hide the eyes.

Already I’ve seen groups of children darting out of the paved alleyways, which are filled-in erstwhile waterways and are known as
calli
. The kids cross my path, dressed as clowns, devils or princesses. Halloween back in London is like a dressing-up box full of auntie’s cast-offs compared with this finery, where the entire population enters into the spirit.

I am jostled off the lumbering hull of the
vaporetto
by the other tourists, baying now for pasta and beer. I stand aside to let them pass, and stare up at the rusty red façade of my hotel.

Despite the encroaching sea fog and constant threat of rain, I’m a film star compared to the urchin who was in Venice last year with no money, no family, no friends, just one little camera and, later, a little whip for company. Last year I stumbled off a train in the middle of the night. This time I got off the plane at Marco Polo airport and was whisked into the Weinmeyers’ private boat, a wooden craft with white leather upholstery that looked just like the Riva boats I’d seen moored away for the winter in boathouses at Lake Lugano.

At my destination a couple of liveried bellboys handed me out of the boat and into the hotel, and that’s when I missed Gustav the most, not because I needed him carrying my bags, but because of the admiration and respect that follow him wherever he goes. Well, now it’s up to me to attract some respect of my own.

I push through the revolving doors of the Hotel Danieli. When I was in Venice last time I used to walk past this place on my way to my pensione in the Castello area just behind San Marco. I’d peer in at the rich guests floating down the majestic staircase to take aperitifs in the cocktail bar to the left of the foyer, with its potted palms and the grand piano tinkling out show tunes. Even now I half expect a snooty concierge to take me by the scruff of the neck and chuck me out.

Now I’m the rich guest here on business, floating up the stairs to her palatial bedroom with its double bed and rich carpets, ornate furniture and Murano glass chandeliers, the walls hung with watery silk.

I walk straight across the room and fling open the shutters to take in the view over the lagoon, the boats and gondolas rocking on the water striped with lights from the hotel and other buildings lining the
fondamenta
below me. I gaze at the grand façade of Santa Maria della Salute glowing orange in the sunset, the lights from the opulent hotel Cipriani just beyond.

‘Why the big sigh, Serena?’

I spin round and, to my complete shock, there is Crystal, gliding out from the marble bathroom holding a hairdryer and a pair of tongs. I gape like a gargoyle and then burst into tears.

‘Crys, what a fantastic surprise!’ I gulp noisily. ‘You come all this way to do my hair?’

‘Crystal. And it’s a good thing too. Those tresses are a disgrace! All wet and windblown. You need constant grooming and, since Gustav had already booked me to come over here to assist the pair of you on this trip, he reckoned that you’d still need looking after. I’m sorry to see that you appear to have mislaid him somewhere along the way.’

‘We’ve split up, Crystal. Did he also mention that?’

‘He said you were here alone. That is all.’ Crystal snaps the hairdryer into the socket as if clapping it in irons. ‘I don’t believe you’ve split up. It would kill him.’

‘Those Levis are too much trouble.’ My voice strangles with more tears. I take one of the thick curtains in my fingers, draw it across me and start to stroke the velvety, soundproofing brocade. I used to hide behind the curtains when I was a child. ‘But it’s killing me too.’

Crystal waggles the tongs plugged into the wonky socket then licks her finger on the wand to test the heat. ‘Nevertheless, love like that only comes once in a lifetime. Gustav will never let you go.’

I push the curtain away from me. ‘Crystal, I love you, but be honest here. Gustav may have finished with me, but he still needs to control me. So he sent you to keep an eye.’

‘And admit this, young lady. You wouldn’t have him any other way. I’m here because what fool would turn down a large sum of money to come to Venice? Especially at Carnevale, when this city is full of dark people in dark corners, doing dark deeds. Beautiful young women on their own have to be very, very careful.’ Her aubergine lips rise at the corners in her version of a smile. ‘More pertinently, I gather it’s your cousin you’ve fallen out with?’

‘She grabbed the wrong end of the stick and banged me over the head with it. She thinks I’m after Pierre!’ Hot tears rush up into my eyes. I turn back to the window, untie the scarf and wind it round my fingers so tight the blood stops coursing. ‘And Gustav believed her.’

Crystal comes round behind me, takes off my coat and brushes the shoulders before hanging it on a padded hanger. She is dressed in a tight-fitting black polo-neck sweater and pencil skirt, her hair combed tightly back in a bun at the nape of her neck as if she’s an off-duty flamenco dancer.

‘Did he actually say that?’

I stare at her, comb my tired mind. ‘He didn’t want me anywhere near him.’

‘That’s not the same, and you know it. From where I’m standing, Polly Folkes is the real reason you’re here. It’s not Gustav who wants you gone. He’s treading on eggshells to get this right with his brother, he saw you stamping all over them, and he lost it. I told you Pierre was his Achilles heel. He never sees, until it’s too late, how Pierre’s
raison d’être
in life is to ruffle feathers.’

I allow her to push me down on the padded stool. She unwinds the scarf from my knuckles, rolls it up to prevent creases, and starts to brush my hair, dragging my head backwards briskly as she does so. I close my eyes, exhausted.

‘Wise owl. You always hit the nail on the head, Crystal. Although it’s more than feathers this time. More like applying dynamite to a skyscraper. Because then there was Margot.’

Crystal’s hairbrush pauses halfway down. ‘She’s finally reared her ugly head?’

‘On my iPad, yes. She must be in New York, because I saw a woman looking just like her at the theatre where I was working last week. She was like this prima ballerina, dancing with Pierre. When I later remarked that she looked like Margot, Pierre said I was imagining things, but I didn’t imagine this message on my iPad, Crystal! It’s a film of Margot plastered in the same theatrical make-up and holding her wedding flowers. It was a nasty little warning intended for Gustav via me.’

‘Have you never heard of webcams or media messages? She could have been delivering her message from anywhere in the world. Melbourne. Moscow. Or Marrakesh.’

‘Which means Pierre may not have filmed it or known she was sending it. But at the very least he gave her my email address, or showed her my iPad when I left it at the theatre. And even if she’s somewhere else now, she was definitely in New York last week.’

The hairbrush snags on my hair. ‘Where is this iPad now?’

‘In the apartment. On the sofa. I dropped it and left it there. It’s got all my notes on it but I didn’t want to touch it or see it again, Crystal.’

‘Reckless and foolhardy to leave it there, Serena, but it means Gustav will have found it by now.’ She starts brushing my hair again, hard, so that my head jerks back against her stomach. ‘Have trust in him, Serena. He will deal with this. Meanwhile, you are here, which is the best place to be, and you have work to do. Gustav will come for you when he’s ready.’

We regard each other in the mirror as her words sink in. She continues brushing my hair until I’m calm, twists it into a loose ponytail and then lays a simple black sheath dress on the bed. I reckon it would suit her better than me, but it’s beautiful and once I put it on I will be dressed to kill.

‘The Weinmeyers have finally arrived at their palazzo from New York and you are invited to dinner. They want you to stay with them, but I did explain that you had booked yourself in here for the whole week. I will also be dressing you for their infamous Valentine’s ball, the highlight of Carnevale. I understand you will be treading a fine line between working girl taking photographs of the festivities and honoured guest enjoying herself, and I am here to make sure you stand out from the crowd.’ She brushes imaginary fluff off the dress, and arranges the vertiginous Louboutins to stand side by side. ‘So I’m here for as long as you need me. Hair, make-up, wardrobe. Apart from that I’ll be invisible.’

I touch her as she moves to open the door. ‘It’ll be no fun going alone to the ball, Crystal. Gustav should be here.’

‘
Mademoiselle
, I will bet my priceless collection of voodoo dolls that Gustav Levi is yearning, even as we speak, to be here with you. And if you want my opinion that message from Margot, if he finds it, and if it’s authentic, will spur him on, but first he’ll need to get to the bottom of it. He’ll drag an explanation out of Pierre, too, if Pierre is to blame for playing with fire like this.But he won’t come for you before everything is clear in his head. And no, you shouldn’t call him. So spread your wings and get on with your work until one of you makes the first move.’ She taps my hand where it rests on her thin arm. ‘You look worn out, but what a transformation from that tangle-haired kid who wandered into his life on Halloween night. Really. Even jet-lagged you are sleek, elegant, clear-eyed. And beautiful.’

I bow my head gratefully. ‘That was Gustav’s influence. He treated me so well, Crystal. Wardrobes full of clothes. Meals out in all the best restaurants. This lovely little locket that I can’t undo.’

Crystal’s eyes gleam like a blackbird’s as she fingers the golden locket, runs her long fingernail over the little rim of pearls and the hidden embossed ‘S’.

‘You are good for him, too. Your chaotic, youthful exuberance has breathed new life into him. So stop speaking in the past tense. Get a proper sleep tonight. Tomorrow you focus on what you do best: watching, observing, with your camera in hand. “Windows and Doors”, wasn’t it? The title of your next show? It’s time for you to get back to work.’

The
acqua alta
has flooded the Piazza San Marco the next morning. Venice is in peril, they say, from the elements, which are determined to return the city to its watery foundations. Nature is laughing at mankind thinking he can build houses, churches and museums on stilts and then wonder why it’s permanently in danger of sinking. But what it means is that this early in the morning there are few people about, because everyone is waiting for the waters to recede.

When I open my bedroom door after taking my breakfast of warm pastries and heart-joltingly strong coffee, I see a pair of Hunter wellies that Crystal must have put there. I pull them on, shove my new Breton beret low over my forehead to keep my hair somewhat in check, then steal down some back stairs and out of a door near the hotel kitchens to start my safari through the city.

Crystal has also provided some soft ballet pumps to put in my bag in case I decide to enter an establishment that might not welcome the sight of ungainly boots. But I have no intention of entering any establishment. Windows and doors by their very nature are the apertures to an invisible world within. The observer remains outside. All I want to do is wander like I did when I was last here, round corners, through alleyways, over bridges, until I’m far away from the Ciprianis and the Harry’s Bars and the increasing activity and pounding music in the piazza.

I step across the raised wooden duckboards forming walkways across the cold grey water that has flowed in from the lagoon, flooded the piazza and streamed through the alleyways that branch off the main square until it’s halted by steps or a bridge.

‘Windows and Doors’. I tried to get started on my collection in Manhattan as soon as we arrived, zooming in on various windows up at sky level, trying to catch the life going on inside, but being up close and personal with my portrait subjects I haven’t had the time in the last month to give my voyeur instinct free rein. Walking around at street level now, what’s intriguing are the intimate characteristics of a door or window when it’s firmly closed.

Here in Venice I almost feel I should be recording the smells and sounds, too. Unlike other cities, there is little traffic noise to deafen you, so when you see a pair of pale-green peeling shutters, a hand edging through a lace curtain to pinch off a petal from a long wooden box of red geraniums, you can also hear the snap of a bed sheet, the sudden flurry of an argument or a baby’s cry, a few scales on a piano or the crash of cooking utensils on a tiled kitchen floor. And always the smell of pizza dough, oregano, coffee, brandy and custard, and further north, the salty tang of the sea and of shellfish being hauled out of the brine.

I wander through the cold, quiet morning until I am lost, and that’s the way I like it. My head is heavy and aching slightly after too much rich food and copious wine with the Weinmeyers and their Italian friends last night. It was a hugely entertaining evening despite having to constantly swerve the topic of Gustav, and then politely insist at the end on returning to, and paying for, the Hotel Danieli. I wanted privacy. I didn’t want to lie down in the admittedly adorable tapestried chamber that they had prepared in the attics of their palazzo, with its ornate Romeo and Juliet stone balcony overlooking a side canal. I didn’t want to wait for the tap on the door.

‘We will get our hands on that lovely body of yours one day, sugar,’ complained Mrs Weinmeyer as they handed me into their private boat. ‘We haven’t flown you all the way over to Europe just to look at your pretty face.’

‘We can always corner her at the ball, Ingrid, or get one of our guests to warm her up for us, especially as she’s flying solo!’ said Mr Weinmeyer with a chuckle as he laid his hand on his wife’s ass. ‘Anything can happen at one of our balls.’