Lose Yourself (The Desires Unlocked Trilogy Part Two)

by Evie Blake

  The scars of the war appear even deeper in Boulogne. The quays and all the neighbouring buildings are destroyed. She feels a twinge of fear in her heart. She is now in Felix’s country. She is now completely in his hands. After a wait of several hours, they board the train for Paris, squeezing into a compartment that they are forced to share with a couple and their five children. This experience seems to make Felix even more stern and taciturn, although Maria finds it a relief to chat with the mother, who is Italian – from Turin. She has spent the war years in England, her husband being English, but now her father is dying and they are returning to Italy to be with him in his final days, and hopefully to bring her mother back with them to their house in Surrey. Maria plays snap with the two eldest children as the others sleep, all apart from Felix, who is watching her with lowered lids as the train trundles through the night.

  At Gare du Nord they say their goodbyes to the Italian family. The mother hugs her tightly, inviting her to their home in Surrey whenever she pleases. They disappear into the night, the mother’s Italian echoing after her, pulling on Maria’s nostalgia for home.

  Felix leads her across the city of Paris. Unlike London, there are neon signs in the shop windows and young men and women bustling along the dark pavements. She feels a sense that the night has only just begun – so different from the dour evenings of post-war London. These people have just woken up; they are coming alive: intense-looking men with glasses and little beards, and gamine young women with loose dark hair, blunt fringes and heavily made up eyes. They are lost in their own dramas and hardly give her and Felix a second glance. She cannot help looking at them. They look so different from London folk.

  Felix takes her south of the River Seine, into a district he calls Saint-Germain-des-Prés. They walk past cafés he tells her he likes to frequent. He names them, one by one: Café Flore, where Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir used to go before they became too well known; Deux Magots; Rhumerie Martiniquaise; and the Bar Vert. She wants to stop, eat something, have a glass of wine, but he hurries her along, telling her he wants to check into the hotel first.

  She follows Felix down narrow cobbled streets, gently dipping between tall houses that lean this way and that. Everything is dark grey: the roofs, the walls, the cobbles, the shutters, the paintwork. Finally, he approaches a dilapidated-looking hotel.

  Her stomach knots with excitement. It has been barely two days since he took her virginity on the river, since her disastrous performance as Psyche, and only twenty-four hours since they eloped. During all that time he has not touched her, apart from to hold her hand. Not on the train from Victoria to Folkestone, or in the bed and breakfast, not on the boat across the Channel, or the train from Boulogne to Paris. At the sight of the hotel, all thoughts of food are gone. What will happen now? Should she insist on her own bedroom? She knows, even before they walk through the door, she will not.

  They enter a dimly lit lobby, thick with the odour of tobacco and cheap cologne. Maria takes in the peeling paint on the walls and the worn carpet. It is hardly the Ritz. She trails behind Felix as he approaches the concierge, a large woman with red hair piled on top of her head, and lips painted scarlet to match. She is smoking a cigarette and reading a newspaper. As soon as she looks up and sees Felix, her eyes light up.

  ‘Monsieur Leduc! So long it has been since we saw you last. Welcome, welcome.’ She gushes in French, leaning across her desk, kissing Felix on both cheeks.

  ‘Good evening, Madame Paget. I would like to introduce you to my companion, Signorina Maria Brzezinska.’

  In his native tongue Felix’s voice seems to have dropped an octave, and he appears even more refined a gentleman than he was in London.

  Madame Paget looks at her with steely eyes, and Maria feels herself wilting under her gaze.

  ‘Good evening,’ Maria says, shyly in French. Despite the fact that the French Jacqueline taught her is nearly as good as her English, Maria and Felix always speak in English. Is it because they met in London, or is it the language of their love?

  Madame Paget brusquely kisses her on either cheek. ‘Welcome,’ she says, immediately turning her attention back to Felix. ‘So is it your usual room you require?’ she asks Felix.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’

  She takes down a key as he signs the register. ‘Things have changed, you know, since you were last here.’

  ‘How so?’ Felix asks her.

  ‘So many more foreigners in Paris now. Americans everywhere,’ she says, disdainfully, looking Maria up and down again, as she twists the key in her hand. ‘Everyone wants to come to Paris and, in particular, to our little district. They call themselves existentialists, but they have no idea what it means. All they really want is to dance all night and get drunk.’ Madame Paget sniffs, staring at Maria, her gaze arctic with disapproval. ‘And they closed down Le Tabou, did you hear?’

  ‘So where does everyone go now?’

  ‘There is a new club, just opened. All the great jazz will be there. It’s Vian’s place: Club Saint-Germain.’ She hands the key to Felix. ‘Enjoy your stay,’ Madame Paget says to Maria.

  Maria heads towards the old cage lift, waiting dutifully at the gate for Felix as he gathers up their bags.

  ‘She is different,’ she hears Madame Paget say to him.

  Her words unsettle her. Different from what or whom? Has Felix brought other women here? Of course he has, and what is wrong with that? He is so much older than her. How can she be so naïve as to think not? She should be glad to hear Madame Paget call her different. Doesn’t that mean she could be the one?

  The room is tiny, the walls in as bad a condition as the lobby. It is completely dominated by a large brass bed. Maria notices that at least it is made up with clean crisp sheets. The room might be tatty but it is spotless. There is a sink in the corner, and a small window under the eaves of the sloping ceiling. She walks over to the window and opens it, leaning outside. Her chest constricts with excitement as she looks out across the skyline of Paris. It is a dream to be here, and with the man she loves – the man she hopes will marry her one day . . . maybe here in Paris?

  ‘Darling . . .’ Felix murmurs behind her. ‘Welcome to my Paris.’

  She turns around and he is standing with his back to the closed door, looking at her, his eyes pensive.

  She walks towards him, hypnotised, yearning to be kissed.

  He surprises her by taking her hat off and laying it carefully on top of the bed. He kisses her forehead gently.

  ‘So, can I trust you?’ he asks her, softly.

  She looks up at him, nodding earnestly. ‘Of course you can.’

  ‘And, most importantly, do you trust me?’

  She looks into his eyes. They are a brown of a hundred shades, flecked with green, amber, chocolate and charcoal. She picks up his hands, holding them tightly. ‘Yes, I trust you,’ she says with all her heart.

  He doesn’t smile. In fact, he looks even more serious. ‘Good,’ he says. ‘That is important, otherwise I made a mistake.’

  ‘Mistake?’ she asks, shuddering involuntarily.

  ‘Bringing you here.’

  ‘But you haven’t made a mistake. I would do anything for you.’

  ‘You really mean it, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How could I wish for any more?’ It is a rhetorical question as he gathers Maria up in his arms and buries his face in her neck. ‘Promise me that you will always love me?’ He sounds so needy and desperate that it shocks her.

  ‘Of course, darling, of course.’ She kisses the top of his bowed head. He raises his face to her and presses his lips against hers.

  She wants him to make love to her again, as he did in the boat when he took her virginity. She can feel that tightening of her stomach, softening between her legs.

  He pulls apart from her, and now he looks different: no longer vulnerable and wounded. Now his eyes are gleaming and he looks at her with pride. ‘There is something about you,’ he says. �
��You have this effervescence, this incredible spirit.’

  He pulls her summer coat off her shoulders and begins to unbutton her blouse – one button by one. Her nipples stand to attention. His admiration makes her stand tall. She is no longer shy. He unlatches her brassiere, and now her top half is completely naked. She wriggles out of her skirt, letting it drop around her ankles. She takes off her shoes and stands in front of him in her stockings. She wants to offer her heart and body to him.

  ‘Maria,’ he says softly. ‘Would you like to be my student now?’

  He steps even closer to her. He is still fully clothed; he doesn’t take anything off – not even his tie. He unclips her stockings one by one, so that now all she has on is her knickers, nothing else. She is scared, yet excited. She has done this already with him in the boat, but that was spontaneous, instinctive, whereas this feels choreographed, like a dance she must learn.

  ‘Sit on the bed.’ His voice is commanding, yet his eyes are pools of yearning.

  She walks over and sits on the end of the bed. It sinks beneath her, the springs obviously ancient and worn.

  ‘Take off your underwear.’

  She wiggles out of her knickers, feeling self-conscious yet, at the same time, a little excited by his gaze upon her naked breasts. Her nipples are still erect, begging to be touched.

  ‘Now,’ he whispers. ‘Slowly, very slowly, open your legs. Show me yourself.’

  She hesitates and, watching his lips, the way his tongue flicks over them, she slowly opens her legs.

  ‘Oh, my darling,’ he whispers, walking over towards her and kneeling down in front of her. ‘I am going to play you now, and you are going to sing for me.’

  He leans forward, trailing his finger down the inside of her thigh and bringing it right up between her legs. She gasps as he pushes his finger inside her.

  ‘You like this, don’t you?’ he asks her.

  ‘Yes,’ she whispers. ‘Oh, yes.’

  He pulls his finger out and licks it. ‘You taste so sweet – still virgin fresh.’ He puts his hands on either one of her knees and pushes her legs open wider still.

  Maria lies on her back on the bed and closes her eyes. His head is between her legs as she feels his tongue begin to explore her, touching her in places so sensitive she never knew they existed. At the same time, he brings his hands up, cupping one of them under her bottom while, with his other hand and middle finger, he pushes deep inside her again. She wants to feel more than his finger inside her. She wants him to make love to her, to feel that unity with him like she did on the little rowing boat. Yet Felix remains on his knees, caressing her with his mouth and his hands, working her up into an ecstasy of sensation. She is lost in the wilderness of his attention – completely at his mercy. He is on his knees, lapping at her, and she has an image of him as if he is a big black panther and she is somehow his prey. And yet he is adoring her, is he not? He does not stop, not for a moment; steadily, precisely, he brings her closer and closer to a place of pleasure she has never entered before. He pulls away his head, taking breath.

  ‘Come on, my little one,’ he purrs. ‘Open up to me. Be mine.’

  He bends down and, once his tongue touches her again, the tip of it circling her relentlessly, she feels herself sliding on to the thin ice of her abandon.

  ‘Felix!’ she cries out, and with his fingers he presses down on her in unison with his tongue. The pressure is so intense, so fine. She lets go, her body flying into rapturous spasms, her entire being begging for him to enter her, and yet he doesn’t.

  She is unable to move for a few minutes. Her whole body is in shock and her mind is reeling from what he has just done to her. She opens her eyes and is surprised to see that Felix is sitting on the bed, staring down at her. He is still fully dressed. She blushes, aware of her nakedness and her exposure.

  ‘Darling Maria, will you be mine?’ Felix asks her.

  She is not sure if he means metaphorically or if he is actually proposing to her. She doesn’t care, for her response is immediate. ‘Yes, oh yes,’ she gushes, for this man has initiated a craving deep inside her. She wants to be one with him for all eternity. She is his.

  The crowd from the gallery is spilling out on to the streets of Soho. Valentina feels a clench of nerves inside her stomach. She and Antonella follow in the wake of Aunty Isabella, the essence of Milano chic in her Armani dress. For once, Valentina is wearing a designer dress, as well: Balenciaga, lent by Isabella. At first, Valentina was wary of wearing so much colour but, having looked at herself in the mirror before they left Isabella’s house, she was surprised to see how well it suited her. She considers that it might be to her advantage to look a little different from usual, to draw Theo’s attention.

  The dress is a vibrant floral print – blue, yellow and pink – made up of a series of panels, with a cinched-in waist, cup sleeves and a very, very short skirt. Normally it is Antonella who is showing off her legs, not Valentina, but, as Isabella instructs the two girls, Valentina’s best asset is her legs, whereas Antonella’s is her chest. Thus, she has dressed her niece in a scarlet wool-mix dress from Dior, which gives her hourglass figure even more emphasis.

  Tonight, Valentina has departed from her normally sleek bob, backcombing her hair and using gel to create a jagged, bed-head look. She totters into the Lexington Gallery, feeling slightly as if she is a spectacle – especially as her ankle boots are far higher than she would normally wear. Yet she needn’t have worried, compared to the rest of the gathering, she looks almost understated.

  Valentina admires the peacock crowd, so different from Milan where there is an unspoken uniform of classic style. In Soho, it seems, anything goes. She supposes it must be because of the nature of the exhibition itself, since most people look as if they are attending a fetish club, not an art opening. Tattooed men and women, some with shaved heads, others with thick lustrous locks, or red, blue, purple hair, wearing body-clinging and revealing clothes in black, scarlet and white, mingle with tweed-jacketed art critics and combat-wearing photographers. She pushes through the throng, scanning the crowd for Theo, but she cannot see him anywhere. In the meantime, Isabella secures them three glasses of champagne from a passing waiter.

  ‘Salute!’

  The three women chink their glasses.

  ‘So, let’s take a look at this famous photography of yours, which so eloquently portrays my niece,’ Isabella says.

  ‘It’s this way.’ Valentina begins to weave through the crowd. At least it’s not like a Milan opening, she thinks, with people recognising her and tugging at her the whole time. At least in London she is just like everyone else. She likes this feeling of anonymity.

  There are her prints, hung in a perfect sextant in the left-hand corner of the space.

  ‘Oh, I can see them! Look, Aunty!’ Antonella cries out, leading the way in her scarlet dress, her breasts bouncing proudly before her and causing more than a few admiring glances. Antonella seems completely unselfconscious about the fact that she is standing in front of extremely explicit, naked images of herself.

  ‘Do you mind?’ Valentina whispers to her, suddenly considering her friend’s modesty.

  ‘Mind what?’ Antonella asks her.

  ‘Being displayed, naked, in front of all these strangers?’

  ‘Of course not, do you?’ She indicates the watery reflections of the naked Valentina in Venice – the first erotic pictures she ever took.

  ‘No. I don’t, actually,’ Valentina says, surprised that she is not embarrassed by them; but so much of the content in the show is explicit, and many are self-portraits, like Anita’s pictures, that any kind of modesty seems irrelevant.

  She feels a sharp nudge in her rib cage and looks at Antonella questioningly. Her friend is looking right behind her, at someone they obviously both know, her eyes wide open in warning. Theo? Valentina whips around and, to her horror, it is not Theo but Francesco who is in front of her.

  ‘Good evening, Valentina.’

&n
bsp; She says nothing. She doesn’t know what to say. She has no memory of telling him about her exhibition but she was so drunk last night she could have mentioned it.

  ‘How are you?’ he asks, looking at her with expectant eyes.

  ‘Fine. Tired,’ she says, listlessly.

  He moves in closer, putting his hand on her bottom. ‘Me, too. I wonder why that might be.’ He winks at her.

  She steps back. She can’t believe he actually winked and patted her bottom. In the atmosphere of this gallery – full of the new, the exciting, pulsing art scene of London – Francesco looks even older than he is. In his tired blue shirt and navy blazer, he is from another world. She sees him for who he is: he wants to hang on to her coat-tails. A part of her feels guilty about sleeping with him last night and leading him on, but stronger than that is her urge to get away from him.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she says, trying to move away. Both Antonella and Isabella seem to have dematerialised and she doesn’t recognise anyone around her.

  ‘I like your pictures,’ Francesco says.

  ‘Thank you.’ She doesn’t say any more.

  He is waiting for her to speak, to explain herself, but she just wants to get away from him.

  ‘I just have to speak with someone,’ she lies, and turns to walk away. But Francesco has his hand on her elbow.

  ‘Valentina, wait,’ he says.

  She turns to face him, reluctantly.

  His eyes are doleful. ‘Why did you walk out this morning? What happened? Did I do something to upset you?’

  ‘No; you did nothing wrong,’ she says.

  He begins to look more hopeful.

  ‘I’m sorry, I was drunk . . .’ she tries to explain. ‘I shouldn’t have—’

  But he interrupts, his face charged with excitement. ‘Don’t you think it’s incredible the way we just bumped into each other again, after all these years? Doesn’t that tell you something?’

  ‘Yes, it is quite incredible,’ she agrees. ‘But I always felt I would get the opportunity of seeing you again one day.’