Under A Dancing Star

by Laura Wood

  “We might have to get you some overalls. Don’t want to get those new clothes dirty.” He releases my wrist and takes a step back, putting some much-needed distance between us, allowing the air to rush back into my lungs. “Especially if you’re going to end every lesson looking like you’ve rolled around in the paints.”

  “There’s no need to talk to me like I’m a child,” I say stiffly.

  “I wasn’t,” he says with a grin. “It’s simply an observable, objective fact, like the ones you’re so fond of.”

  “Well, if that’s the case I had better go and get changed.” I keep my voice deliberately detached. “Thank you for the lesson.”

  “Do you want to know what I think?” Ben asks slowly.

  “Not desperately.”

  “I think you don’t dislike me as much as you would like to believe,” he says, using that smooth voice I’ve heard him use on other girls. The flirtatious eye-twinkling is happening too.

  “Oh?” I raise my eyebrows. “Is this the famous charm I’ve heard so much about?” He looks startled. “I don’t dislike you, so you can save the performance, Ben,” I say, mildly amused now. “I’ve already seen it in action and I’m sure it’s very effective on some people, but I don’t think it will work on me.”

  Something that I can’t identify flashes in his eyes. “Oh really?” he asks softly.

  “Really.” I nod.

  “What a shame.” His voice is low as he moves a little closer, and the tingling feeling of anticipation between us grows again, my heart thumping irregularly in my chest. Soon, we are standing so close that I feel sure he’ll be able to hear it himself. I tilt my chin and look up into his so-blue eyes. The exact same blue as the margins of a swallowtail butterfly, I realize.

  “Do you want me to kiss you, Bea?” he asks softly.

  I take a sharp breath. Do I want him to kiss me? My body certainly seems to think so, given that it’s currently swaying towards him like a flower towards the sun.

  “Absolutely not,” I say, relieved to hear that my voice is crisp, steady.

  “Well I won’t, then.” His voice is still low, intimate. “At least” – the corner of his mouth tugs up – “not until you ask me to. Nicely.”

  I step smartly back, unable to believe that seconds ago his smirking mouth looked so appealing. “That won’t happen,” I say firmly, disliking the jangling, nervous feeling in my belly.

  “We’ll see,” he replies with maddening carelessness.

  I give him the coolest, calmest smile I can muster, then swing around on my heel and stalk off. His self-satisfied laughter chases after me as I disappear into the tree-lined avenue, determined to put as much space between us as possible.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Rounding a corner at some speed I walk smack into Ursula. She is wearing wide, red silk trousers and a peacock blue shirt. Large sunglasses with blue frames are perched on her nose and her lips are scarlet. She looks like a particularly glamorous butterfly.

  “Oh, sorry,” I say, reaching out a hand to steady her.

  “Careful!” She springs back, looking at my paint-stained fingers, though they’ve pretty much dried now. “Why is it,” she asks, arching an expressive eyebrow above her sunglasses, “that you are always running about covered in paint?”

  “Technically, this is only the second time,” I say. I’m still rattled from the strange moment with Ben, and the adrenaline has faded, replaced by a curious, bone-deep tiredness. I’m not sure I’m up to verbal sparring with Ursula. Her moods are mercurial; one moment she’s withdrawn and the next she’s full of life and enthusiasm.

  She watches me for a moment. Then she turns.

  “Come with me,” she says, heading further down the path we’re on, before disappearing along a small rough track that forks off to the right. She doesn’t check to see if I follow but of course I do, surprised by the brisk pace she sets and finding myself stumbling through the trees towards a building I haven’t seen before.

  It’s a small, squat and rather ramshackle affair made of light timber. A veranda wraps around the outside and a set of rickety wicker furniture with faded cushions is clustered at the front beside a table full of bottles and dirty glasses.

  “Come, come,” Ursula calls over her shoulder and I follow her towards this intriguing building. I thought I had found all the villa’s secrets, but this just goes to show that there are still hidden corners waiting to be discovered.

  “Where are we?” I ask, looking around at the dappled space, hemmed in by ilex trees. This is obviously a man-made clearing but it feels a little like the woodcutter’s cottage from the fairy tales.

  “Leo calls it the summer house,” Ursula says, coming to a halt on the veranda. “Rather grand, I know. It’s a sort of folly he had built a few years ago and then promptly forgot about. It was almost falling down when we arrived. He and Filomena have been letting me use it while I’m here.”

  As we get closer I see that the building does look a bit unloved. The roof has been patched up, and the timber veranda is missing several floorboards. From where I’m standing, I can just see through the window to a large, square room with an unmade bed and a small desk pushed to one side. There are hundreds of sheets of paper scattered across the floor.

  “There is water around here,” Ursula says, gesturing with her hand and, following her, I see that to the side of the house is an old-fashioned water pump. “You can wash.”

  Ursula disappears again, leaving me to clean up. The water that comes up from the earth is freezing cold, and as I wash my hands, removing the smears of paint that reach up almost to my elbows, I am left breathless by its icy touch. There’s a bar of Italian soap next to the pump and it leaves a lingering scent of mint and verbena on my skin, a clean, sweet smell that lifts my spirits. I wash my face as well and notice that while there is paint on my shirt my trousers seem to have escaped unscathed. I scrape my hair back from my face and tie it into a knot, feeling as presentable as I think I’m going to without a change of clothes.

  When I make my way back round the veranda, I find Ursula mixing drinks at a small trolley, her sunglasses pushed back on to the top of her head, an unlit cigarette clamped between her lips. “Ah,” she says, from the side of her mouth. “Here. Take this.”

  She holds out a glass with a healthy splash of some dark, coffee-coloured liquid in it and I take it from her. She reaches into her pocket with her free hand and pulls out a lighter, lighting her cigarette and inhaling deeply, before gesturing towards one of the low wicker seats.

  “Please, sit,” she says, exhaling a thin stream of smoke from between her lips. “Would you like a cigarette?”

  “No, thank you.” I shake my head, somewhat thrown by all this hospitality. The chair is wide enough that I can pull my feet up, so I kick my shoes off and curl in properly. I take a thirsty swallow of my drink, and gasp as the rough flame of it slips down my throat and settles in my chest. Ursula smirks and I try to look unmoved as she drops into the seat across from me, mirroring my pose.

  “What is it?” I ask, nodding at my drink.

  “Nocino,” Ursula says. “It’s made from walnuts. I get mine from a woman in the village. She swears her family has the best recipe.”

  We sit quietly for a while; the only sounds are from the orchestra of birds and crickets whose music carries through on the tiniest whisper of a breeze. After the initial burn of the drink I do not find the taste unpleasant, and I sip more cautiously this time, feeling my limbs relax. The cool of the shade here is a welcome relief from the heavy heat.

  “So, you have had your art lesson with Ben,” Ursula says, finally breaking the silence.

  “Yes,” I say as she watches me keenly over the top of her glass.

  “And did you find the experience instructive?” she asks.

  “Not really,” I say, ignoring her suggestive tone. “I’m afraid all it did was confirm my belief that there’s not an artistic bone in my body.”

  “Hmmm,” U
rsula murmurs, taking another drag on her cigarette and half closing her eyes in a curiously feline expression. “I was wondering whether you learned about more than art with Ben.”

  I take another swallow of my drink. “Nope. In fact, we barely spoke about anything. I’m not sure if we like one another very much.”

  Ursula gives a small, unwilling laugh. “I cannot tell if you really believe that or not,” she says.

  “Of course I believe it,” I say, pushing down my doubt. I hesitate. “We did have a bit of a strange moment just now.” I decide I need to share it with someone, and that someone might as well be Ursula. “He asked if he could kiss me and I said no. But that was the end of it.”

  Ursula stubs the cigarette out in the chipped china saucer on the table beside her and shrugs again, a shrug that shimmers through her whole body. “I just think that perhaps someone should warn you about him.”

  “Warn me?” I ask, startled.

  She settles back in her chair. “Yes, warn you.” She reaches for her cigarette packet and toys with another cigarette before leaving it untouched.

  “Ben is charming.” She pauses at my snort of derision here. “Or at least he can be,” she concedes, “but he’s not the sort to settle down, Bea.” Her voice is surprisingly gentle now. “He is kind, yes, he really is – but ultimately he is selfish. In short…” This time she does pull the cigarette loose from the packet and lifts it to her mouth. “He is not for you.” She says this with finality, and she turns away to light the cigarette.

  “Well, I don’t want him,” I say, irritated suddenly. “So your point is irrelevant. And,” I add, making some quick deductions, “I think perhaps you’re the one who wants something more from him.”

  She glances up at me. “I do like you, Bea,” she says, smiling suddenly. “I didn’t think I would. But I do.”

  I eye her warily, but in her gaze I see nothing but a blunt forthrightness.

  “Perhaps I did hope for more from Ben at one time,” she says slowly. “But now we are good friends. That is why I am well qualified to pass on this warning. You have obviously never been in love before… Believe me when I tell you that Ben is not a sensible place to start, unless you wish to be nursing a broken heart.” She exhales another stream of smoke. “I have given you my advice. What you do with it is up to you.”

  I sit for a moment, absorbing what Ursula has said. “Look,” I say finally, “you don’t need to tell me that Ben doesn’t want to settle down. What I don’t understand is why you would think that’s something I want either?”

  “Because you are the typical English young lady. You’re Leo’s niece so you must come from a good family, and isn’t that what you all do? Coming-out parties and good social matches and all that?” She wrinkles her nose distastefully.

  “That’s what my parents would like for me but believe me when I tell you that I’m very glad to get away from it,” I say shortly. “I am certainly not out here husband-hunting, if that’s what you’re getting at. My goodness, I’m only seventeen. I haven’t actually done any living yet.” Even I can hear the frustration in my voice.

  Ursula smiles at that. “I understand. Where Klaus and I come from they are very traditional too. We did not have a happy time there, but we had each other.” She pauses for a second. “We left as soon as we could. Then we were in Berlin for a while before we came to Italy and it felt so wonderful, so free. There was so much happening there creatively.” Her voice is ardent now, her eyes huge and dancing as though she is being lit from within, before the light drops away to be replaced by something haunting. “I would like to return there after the summer, but I think it will not be possible.”

  “Why?” I ask.

  “The situation is becoming dangerous in Germany. Particularly for people like Klaus and me, who have enough Jewish blood to be considered … problematic. If things continue as they are I think that people like us will soon find it difficult to remain. So many are leaving already.”

  I shiver. It is one thing reading the sober newspaper stories coming out of Germany, but they are hints only. This makes it feel very real.

  “I’m sorry,” I say inadequately, and she shakes her head.

  “Let us speak of Ben instead. If you want a fling, then that’s different,” she says, apparently happy to change the subject. “But even so – you do not have the experience needed to fence with a seasoned seducer like Ben.”

  “I think I can hold my own against Ben, thank you very much,” I say firmly. “He’s neither as clever nor as charming as he thinks he is. Although…” I hesitate. “Although you are right that I don’t have a huge amount of experience with … with seduction.”

  That is an understatement.

  “Oh well, darling.” Another sort of smile curls on Ursula’s lips and her voice is a purr. “If you need advice in that department, you’ve come to the right person.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  What follows is quite enlightening. My glass is topped up a couple more times over the next lazy hour, and Ursula and I talk.

  Or rather, she does. She spins stories of the various romantic liaisons she’s had, and each one is more scandalous than the last. I’m fairly sure she’s trying to make me blush, but there’s nothing new under the sun, as they say, and if one has observed the natural world as closely as I have… Well, let’s just say it’s a lot harder to shock me than she might think.

  “The honeybee mates in mid-flight, you know,” I say at one point. “But the male bee dies shortly afterwards as his reproductive organ is ripped from his body during coitus.” I take a thoughtful sip of my drink. “I wonder if it’s worth it.”

  Ursula’s eyebrows shoot up, and she looks as though I’ve rather taken the wind out of her sails. “I suppose you’d have to ask the bee,” she murmurs finally. She rises and stretches, then holds out her hand to me.

  “Come on,” she says. “Let me give you the tour.”

  She shows me around the rest of the summer house – not that there is a lot to it – and it turns out that what I had seen spread across the floor in her room are the pages of her current manuscript, all written in a cramped, spiky hand. She writes outside, she says, then types the handwritten work up on the rusting typewriter on her desk.

  “I can’t exactly lug that thing around,” she says, gesturing at the lumbering typewriter. “And there’s something in the air here… I’m getting so much work done. It’s not just the place either; it’s the people. Filomena has made something special. The ideas, the arguments…” She trails off here, but I am already nodding in agreement. I understand the feeling she’s describing. It’s one I feel too.

  Eventually I decide to leave Ursula to her work and head back. I find I am slightly unsteady on my legs as I make my way through the grounds. On the terrace, I see Filomena deep in conversation with Ben. It’s strange seeing him so soon after this afternoon, and then my conversation with Ursula.

  “Bea!” Filomena calls. “Just the person I wanted to see.” Filomena looks calm as always, but Ben’s expression is unusually preoccupied. “Are you all right?” she asks, looking closely at my face. “You look flushed.”

  “A bit too much sun,” I murmur.

  “Ah.” She smiles. “Perhaps a rest before dinner?”

  I nod in agreement, trying not to sway. “Absolutely.”

  “We have more guests arriving to stay in the next couple of hours,” Filomena continues, “so I’d better get on.” With a wave that sets her golden bangles jangling she whirls into the house, calling for Leo in her musical voice.

  “How are you feeling?” Ben asks.

  “Fine,” I say, smiling at him generously. “Completely and absolutely fine.”

  A Cheshire Cat grin stretches across his face. “You’re drunk!” he exclaims delightedly.

  “You’re drunk!” I say, unthinking. “I mean, I am not drunk.” I shake my head again, trying to get a grip on the conversational thread that seems to be slipping through my fingers. “I have
had a drink. But I am not drunk.” Though, truthfully, the world does seem to have taken on a rather smudgy, fuzzy-edged appearance.

  The annoying smile remains in place and it makes me unreasonably angry that he seems so sure of himself. I squint at him, suddenly furious that his face is so perfect. Why does anyone need to have a face like that? It’s no wonder it leaves a girl feeling confused and off-balance.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks.

  “Your face,” I say, pointing an accusing finger at him, “is bothering me.”

  Before he can say anything else, I go inside and head up to my room. My head is spinning. One thing is certain, I decide – nocino is not my friend.

  Back in my room I pour a big glass of water from the pitcher on the nightstand, then I lie on my bed for a while, waiting for the walls to stop wavering around me. I curse Ursula and her drinks trolley to a dark place. A dull headache is starting to pound behind my eyes and my limbs feel tired and heavy. An image comes unbidden into my mind – Ben’s face right before he asked if he could kiss me. I close my eyes tightly.

  When I open them again the room is dark and I am disorientated for a moment. My stomach rumbles angrily. It must be dinner time.

  I lift myself on my elbows and give my head a tentative shake. It aches a little, but the fuzzy feeling is gone. After a quick, cold shower I am feeling much better, and I throw on a clean shirt.

  It’s only then that I notice the envelope propped up on my nightstand. I recognize the slightly florid handwriting immediately – it belongs to my mother.

  Sitting down on the bed I tear open the envelope and pull out the lavender-scented pages, running my eyes over the lines. There is the usual local gossip, an update on her social calendar, news of her friends’ much more well-behaved daughters and their achievements, which seem largely matrimonial. Finally, there’s a paragraph that sends a shiver down my spine.

  Your father and I passed a very enjoyable evening with the Astleys on Thursday. I think that we have managed to smooth over much of the unpleasantness from the horrible scene last month. By the end of the evening Cuthbert even admitted to finding your spirited nature rather charming! I believe there may still be hope there if you could learn to curb your wildness, Beatrice. Indeed, Philip made it clear that he would look very kindly on the match. Well, absence, as they say, makes the heart grow fonder; now let us hope the expression proves true for young Cuthbert! Really, Beatrice, eligible young men do not grow on trees and we need to begin approaching your future with far more seriousness.