by Evie Blake
At exactly the same time, they reach the gate to number eighteen. When he turns to look at her, he is just as he is in her dreams: a tall, dark stranger, with brooding eyes and full lips – a man straight out of one of the gothic novels Pina reads; a man you cannot refuse. And so, before Felix even speaks, Maria is his.
As she turns off the Finchley Road, into the leafy street in Hampstead, the sun comes out, streaking the oily road with rainbows. Yet inside Valentina is feeling blacker and blacker. Her anger is gone. All she feels now is fear. What if he slams the door in her face? Can she really handle the cold reality of her father rejecting her? What with everything else going on in her life right now, why on earth is she putting herself through this?
Yet it is precisely her torment over Theo that has led her to find her father. After another restless night trying to figure out how she could prove her love to Theo, she has come to the conclusion that she still cannot completely trust him. He has asked her to trust him. He told her he loved her. Yet she can’t work out why he is going to continue to see Anita. As the hours ticked by, and she listened to the soft snores of Antonella in the bed beside hers, Valentina realised that another twist of fate could not be ignored: the fact that she went to see Garelli the very day she was leaving for London, only to discover that her long-lost father lived in London. Maybe here is the key to the puzzle of her own heart? If she can face her father, and her fear of him rejecting her, she might begin to trust Theo and ultimately win him back by showing him this. But she is still wavering. She wants Theo back, but she is afraid of exposing herself. She wishes Anita was off the scene and she had no competitor.
As the grey dawn began to seep through the gap in the curtains, Valentina got out of bed listless and on edge. She decided to distract herself by watching the old film footage of Maria Brzezinska dancing in the Ballets Jooss’s Pandora. Despite the name of the dancer and fact that she did bear a striking resemblance to herself, Valentina just couldn’t believe that she was her grandmother. This ethereal, creative spirit was at odds with the shy wife and mother she had heard of. In any pictures of her grandmother that she had seen, Valentina remembered a small, plump woman. There was nothing about her that suggested she was once this waiflike creature, flitting about the stage. Moreover, if it really was her grandmother, why did she never tell her daughter that she was a dancer? Why did she keep that part of her past secret? Valentina tried to follow the dance, but the footage was disjointed and then, all of sudden, stopped when the character that looked to be her grandmother was lifted into the air by one of the other dancers.
Valentina turned off the film footage and put aside her laptop. She lay on her back on the couch. She wanted to wake Antonella and confide in her. She wanted to tell her about seeing Theo. Yet she knew that her friend would instruct her to forget about him, especially since he was going out with someone else. She may be promiscuous and adventurous, but Antonella is not into stealing men off other women, just as Valentina had thought she wasn’t, either. And yet she can’t quite believe that Theo is serious about Anita. Something has reached beyond her concern for the other woman’s feelings. She knows it isn’t a nice thing to want to break them up, but she can’t help it.
Valentina’s pace slows to crawl. She pulls the address Garelli wrote down for her out of her coat pocket and reads it again. She is only a few houses away. A man is walking towards her. Her stomach clenches and her palms feel sweaty. He looks to be in his sixties, tall, with thick grey hair and spectacles. It could be him. She is not certain how much he has changed since she was six. She walks towards him mechanically, her throat tight with fear. Just as he approaches her, she looks into his face. He has very dark skin and thick, bushy eyebrows. Close up he looks nothing like the old photographs she has of her father. She quickly glances away, embarrassed, her heart rate slowing with relief.
Now she is outside her father’s house. It is a narrow, terraced house with sash windows and a small front garden. It is a miniature house, but looks well maintained – cared for. This handsome little house doesn’t fit with the new image of her father, the wandering investigative journalist, the man who doesn’t care about his own children . . . So how does he find it in his heart to care about a mere house?
She takes a deep breath and is just about to walk up the steps to the front door when something catches her eye. She sees a figure in the periphery of her vision; someone lurking behind her. She spins around and, to her utter shock, standing on the other side of the road and staring at her quite blatantly is none other than Theo’s art thief rival, Glen. She takes in his height and his blond hair, shining like a gold crown in the sunlight. He looks like some kind of futuristic avenging angel. Despite it being a warm day, he is wearing a heavy long black coat. His hands are shoved in the pockets. He doesn’t move, or walk away. She realises that he is standing there waiting for her. She wonders how long he has been following her. Could he have trailed her all the way here, to a place that is so personal?
Her emotions flip and now her terror at meeting her father turns to rage at this man for intruding in her life yet again. She marches across the road until she is right in front of him, yet he doesn’t move to accommodate her and her heels are tipping off the edge of the kerb. He is so tall that she is forced to look up at him. She is glad she is wearing sunglasses so that the sun doesn’t glare into her eyes, and she can look at him with the loathing she feels without him actually seeing it so blatantly.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Hello, Valentina; how nice to see you again,’ Glen says smoothly, in a crisp English accent. ‘You are most welcome to my home city.’
‘How dare you follow me? You stay away from me.’ She is so angry that she points her finger in his face.
‘My, my! You are in a bit of a temper, my dear,’ he replies. In a flash, his hand springs out and he grabs her pointing finger, squeezing it tight.
Pain shoots down Valentina’s hand and arm. ‘Let go of me,’ she hisses.
His eyes glitter. ‘I must say,’ he says evenly, still gripping her hand tightly so that she feels like her finger might snap off, ‘I am so glad we have run into each other like this. It is so convenient.’
‘What do you want?’ she asks, twisting to get away from him. ‘If you don’t let go, I’m going to scream.’
He smiles and then drops her hand. ‘I do apologise. I didn’t mean to hurt you,’ he says, in a way that makes Valentina feel that his intention was just that.
‘Stay away from me,’ she hisses. ‘Otherwise I’ll report you to the police.’
He crosses his arms. ‘Well, now, we know, Valentina, that you and your boyfriend don’t want to get the police involved in our affairs.’
‘He’s not my boyfriend.’ She laughs, suddenly glad to have the upper hand. ‘Theo and I are over – have been for months.’
Yet Glen shakes his head, looks down at her, all knowing. ‘Oh, no. Anyone can see that you two belong together. You are one of the great love stories, my dear. I have every confidence that one day you will be wearing Theo’s wedding band on that little finger there.’
He prods her sore hand and she thrusts it into her pocket defensively.
‘You’re wrong. He has a new girlfriend. Why don’t you go and harass her?’ She turns on her heel and starts to walk back down the street. She can’t go and visit her father now – not with Glen stalking her. She can hear his footsteps behind her and, no matter how fast she walks, he keeps up. She feels anger coursing through her and she stops, spinning around. ‘What do you want? What?’
He saunters up to her, so that his lips brush the tip of her head. She feels his breath on her forehead and she can smell him: that overwhelming male musky scent that had been so suffocating the first time she met him at Marco’s party in Milan.
‘You can give Theo a message from me,’ he says, smiling at her, sweetly.
‘Why don’t you tell him yourself?’
‘Because he won’t listen to me, Valentina
, but I am confident he will listen to you.’
She shrugs, trying to appear as if she doesn’t care. ‘Well, OK; what’s the message?’
‘Tell him he owes me one million dollars.’
She snorts derisively but Glen looks serious.
‘Tell him that’s what Gertrude Kinder had agreed to pay me for retrieving the Metsu painting,’ he says, referring to the Dutch Master Theo had found before Glen could, and had returned to its rightful owner free of charge. ‘That’s my livelihood.’
Valentina crosses her arms. ‘Don’t you think it’s immoral to demand such a huge sum of money from a little old lady for giving her back something she owned in the first place?’
Glen laughs nastily. ‘Don’t get all moral with me. I see the way you live, the things you do, Valentina . . .’ he sneers. ‘You are a very naughty girl.’
She feels disgusted by his innuendo. ‘That’s completely different.’
He cocks his head to one side. ‘Well, we all have our moral codes. And I don’t see what is wrong with being paid for doing a dangerous job. My very liberty is at stake. Besides, do you know how rich Gertrude Kinder is? Why shouldn’t she pay me?’
‘I don’t think there’s much point in me telling Theo that he owes you all this money . . . even if I actually see him while I am here in London,’ she adds.
‘But I have an offer for him,’ he says. ‘I know why he is here. I know what he is after.’
Valentina casts her mind back to the conversation she had with Theo yesterday. He had of course told her that he and Glen were after the same picture.
‘You can tell him that, if he lets me have the Masson . . . well, then I will let bygones be bygones. Otherwise—’
‘Otherwise what?’ she interrupts, hotly.
‘I will have to take you.’
Valentina widens her eyes at the man’s audacity. ‘What makes you think I will let you “take” me? I don’t belong to any man; I never have and I never will.’
‘Believe me, you will have no choice in the matter.’
There is something in the way Glen says this that frightens Valentina, although she is determined not to let him see her unease.
She puts her hands on her hips and gives him her coldest stare. ‘I have a piece of advice for you,’ she says. ‘Stay away from me. If you have messages for my ex-lover, deliver them yourself. It’s nothing to do with me.’
Before he has a chance to respond, Valentina jumps on to the back of a double decker bus that has just pulled in at a stop on the Finchley Road. She climbs up the tiny stairwell, her heart pounding, wondering if he has got on behind her. Yet, when she sits down and looks out of the window, she sees Glen still standing on the street looking up at her. His eyes are black with menace. Despite Theo’s assurances that the man is harmless, Valentina’s skin is prickling with apprehension.
She is still spooked later that evening, reluctant to go out with Antonella. However, after a two-day hangover that had her bedbound most of the time, Antonella is determined to make up for lost time.
‘We’re only here another few days, Valentina; we have to go out. Besides, Aunt Isabella has got us tickets for The Crazy Horse’s “Forever Crazy” tonight.’
‘Isn’t that a Parisian burlesque show?’
‘Yes, but it is in London for the first time, on the South Bank. I’ve always wanted to go.’
Valentina remembers now she saw a poster for the show as she was travelling back by Tube this afternoon. It was a close-up of the women’s faces and they all had the same wig on: Louise Brooks-style black bobs, just like her.
‘Isn’t that the sort of thing you go to with your boyfriend? Not two women on their own.’
‘Three,’ says Antonella, kneeling down and unzipping her suitcase.
‘Are you telling me that your aunt is coming with us, as well?’ Valentina asks, astonished that the older woman would be interested in the burlesque show.
‘Of course; she bought us the tickets.’ Antonella starts pulling clothes out of her suitcase. ‘Now, what to wear? We have to look stunning, of course . . .’
‘I don’t think there’s much point trying to compete with those beauties,’ says Valentina, remembering the poster.
Antonella twists around and smirks at her. ‘Quite the contrary; Aunty says that there will probably be groups of young men there, so we should be prepared to do a little flirting during the interval.’
‘Your Aunt Isabella said this?’
‘Yes; she is on the hunt.’ Antonella giggles.
Valentina rolls her eyes. ‘Why doesn’t she do something a little more demure, like internet dating?’
‘She’s tried that – said she only met a load of perverts that way. She says it’s better to actually size someone up in the flesh first, before you send any signals.’
Now Valentina feels even less like going out. The last thing she wants to be part of is a girls’ pick-up night with Antonella and her flamboyant aunt.
She flops down on the bed and considers telling Antonella about Glen . . . Theo . . . her disastrous non-meeting with her father, but she doesn’t quite know where to begin.
‘Where were you all day?’ Antonella suddenly asks her, as if reading her mind. ‘I went over to the gallery in Soho, but you weren’t there.’
Valentina fiddles with the eiderdown. ‘I was just walking around, thinking.’
Antonella stops pulling clothes out of her suitcase, and looks over at Valentina. ‘Have you decided?’
For a moment Valentina thinks Antonella is talking about Theo, but then she realises she hasn’t told her friend about meeting him. ‘Decided?’ she says.
‘Are you going to go and see your father?’
She looks down, unwilling to tell Antonella the truth: that she went to see him earlier that day and ran away. ‘Maybe.’
‘You’ve nothing to lose, Valentina.’
But that is where her friend is wrong. She has everything to lose, starting with her composure, which has taken her so many years to construct, which Theo has already begun to unsettle. ‘Don’t you think it’s too late?’ she says, quietly.
Antonella pulls out a scarlet minidress and holds it up to her busty frame, looking at herself in the mirror. ‘It’s never too late, Valentina.’
Valentina has to admit she has actually been looking forward to the Crazy Horse’s show. She remembers her mother telling her about seeing the burlesque dancers perform in Paris, years ago. She told her that the cabaret harks back to the original shows in the early fifties, when Paris was a cultural hotbed. Valentina wishes she could go back in time and see the real thing.
The first number opens, revealing nine almost-nude girls in Coldstream Guard get-ups, complete with bearskin hats, strutting and saluting in regimented time. To Valentina, they seem like mannequins not real women: tall, long legged, with perfect bottoms, neat breasts and deadpan faces. It is all a little surprising and not quite what Valentina expected. Despite Isabella and Antonella’s obvious enthusiasm, Valentina is not finding the dances as erotic as she expected. What makes something sexy? Valentina wonders. She would like to see diversity: a shorter woman, a softer belly, a pair of broader thighs or a bigger chest. The Crazy Horse girls are just too alike. But one dance she does really enjoy: a naked girl sweeps her arms in a circle in the air and an arched light follows her hand, like a sudden rainbow, yet white – filled with the black silhouettes of flowers. The dance is slow, melodic and poignant, its gentle simplicity making it far sexier than the more explicit dances.
Despite the fact she enjoyed the show so much, Isabella is disappointed by her fellow audience members.
‘Oh dear,’ she says as the lights come up. ‘There isn’t a single man in sight.’
Indeed, nearly all of the audience is made up of couples or groups of women like them.
‘Come on, girls,’ Isabella walks between Valentina and Antonella, linking arms. ‘Are you hungry?’
They leave The Crazy Horse Spiegel tent a
nd make their way along the South Bank towards Westminster. There is a wind blowing off the Thames and it cuts into Valentina. She shivers just as she feels the first few drops of rain on her head.
‘Oh, this dreadful English weather,’ Isabella groans, pulling them into a brisker pace.
They eat in a Brazilian restaurant, discussing the Crazy Horse show over caipirinhas.
‘It’s strange, isn’t it, how most women enjoy looking at other women’s naked bodies and yet they are not necessarily gay?’ Antonella says as she pulls apart their plate of nachos. ‘I mean, they find it sexy. I’m straight, but I still think looking at a woman’s body can be sexy – how she uses it.’
‘As if you are looking at an image of yourself?’ Isabella suggests.
‘Yes; but tonight, those naked bodies just left me cold,’ Valentina comments.
‘Really?’ Isabella says as she and Antonella both look at her in surprise.
‘I loved it!’ Antonella exclaims.
‘You know,’ Isabella says, pausing to take a sip of her drink, ‘you are the image of your mother, Valentina. I feel like I have gone back in time and it’s me and Tina again, out on a night prowl.’
Valentina scowls, hunching over the table as she helps herself to Nachos.
‘Aunty, Valentina hates being compared to her mother,’ Antonella tells Isabella.
‘Why? She is an incredible lady . . . Although I haven’t seen her for years. Where is she now, Valentina?’
‘America,’ Valentina says, sullenly.
‘I know that . . . But where?’ Isabella persists.
‘New Mexico was the last place I heard. I haven’t seen her in a while.’
‘Eight years,’ Antonella says, tactlessly.
Isabella turns on Valentina, looking aghast. ‘But why? Did you have an argument?’
‘No . . .’ Valentina trails off. She wishes Isabella would drop the subject.
The last conversation she had in the flesh with her mother was so long ago that it is hazy now. It had been over her mother interfering in her love life and Valentina had lost her temper. She had probably overreacted, yet she didn’t deserve to be abandoned. She was only nineteen, after all. And yet, by leaving Milan and moving to America without Valentina, that’s what her mother had done, wasn’t it?