by Primula Bond
Pierre’s face is in front of me, the light and shade passing across it like clouds across the sky. His black eyes, dancing with amusement, smouldering with fury.
The cruiser thrums westwards towards Hammersmith. The taxi that was idling outside the boathouse, perhaps dropping off other residents, consulting a map, taking a new fare, slides into gear and rumbles away.
I allow one more image in, Pierre inside me.
Then I remember his other words.
I was inside her. I was inside a woman again, Rosie. Do you know how much I’ve longed for that? To fuck a woman again?
Does he really not remember what he said when I was holding him in my hand, bringing him to climax? He says all he wants is a friend. He doesn’t want romance. He says he’s not built for it. But he can’t have it both ways, unless he wants to live life as an automaton.
So who’s it going to be? Who will that woman be?
Why shouldn’t it be me?
And I lie there, long into the night, alone in the deckchair.
CHAPTER SIX
I’m stepping through the light and shade that pass through the walls of what we call the cloister, the glass corridor that encircles the clinic’s garden. On the far side of the garden I can see Pierre sitting on a bench in the sun. His left leg is out of the cast now, bandaged all the way up. The right leg is naked, skinny and white from months away from daylight.
I took my three-day holiday as granted by Nurse Jeannie and slept during the days, worked at night. I feel calmer now. So calm that I managed to disobey his ‘order’ and change my rota. I don’t want to be friends. If I want to disappear from his bedside I bloody well will.
But this morning the admin office have given me some post for him and it’s no good, as soon as I see that dark head resting on the back of the bench, nodding to some music from his iPod, the sun full on his face, my stomach turns in a somersault.
All the garden doors are open today and, as I pass the first room at this end of the ward, the room where the concussed superstar is staying, I hear a familiar high-pitched voice. So whatever investigation was being carried out into her activities, she hasn’t been suspended.
I still haven’t seen this Hollywood actor in the flesh. On screen he’s not all that. Big, muscular, balding, usually cast as a gangster. And loaded.
I should just walk on by, but I don’t give a shit about rules and regulations. In fact, the only rule I’m starting to think about is how much notice I should give to quit.
The actor’s room is pretty much identical to room 202, and on the identical bed, leaning back and uncrossing her legs, is Dr Venska. I watch for a moment as she begins the sexual initiation on her new victim, someone who has merely had a bump on the head, not fractures to his lower limbs.
She doesn’t see me. She’s moved on. Whatever has happened between her and Pierre, and he’ll never tell me what’s truth and what’s fiction, it’s over.
Birdsong and sunshine beckon me across the dry grass. Pierre’s obviously had a good wash. I wonder whose shift it was today? His black hair is slicked back against his head. He still hasn’t shaved, though. Black stubble sculpts his cheeks and his chin, and makes him look like a wounded pirate. A pirate in sunglasses.
The smile when he looks up and sees me is so wide, so bright, it nearly knocks me sideways.
He pulls one of the earbuds out and starts to heave himself up from the bench as I approach.
‘No chair?’
‘Moved on to crutches,’ he pants, reaching for one that’s propped against the bench. ‘My aim is the walking stick.’
‘Don’t get up. You’re not strong enough,’ I say, pausing a few feet away. There’s an awkward pause as he gives up and settles back into the seat.
‘I’ve been practising on the crutches while you’ve been absent. When I get one of those ugly grey sticks it’ll be the symbol of my independence. My freedom.’
‘Freedom?’
‘When I’ve graduated from the crutches to the stick, they’re saying it’ll only be a couple more weeks. I’ll come back for physio as an outpatient, but there will be no further medical imperative for me to remain here, comfortable as you all make me. In fact, staying here is doing me more harm than good.’
He extends his arm, inviting me to sit down on his bench. I hesitate.
‘More harm? You’re getting better every day.’
‘I know. I feel great.’ He looks down at his legs, wiggles his white toes. ‘But I’m becoming too dependent. Helpless. Institutionalised.’
‘That’s what I told your relatives at the wedding. They were worried about you.’
‘I doubt that. They wouldn’t have a clue how petrified I was even stepping outside the clinic that day, let alone driving through London, speaking in public.’ He looks away from me, across the garden. ‘I’m willing to bet they were too busy rehashing old grudges.’
I start to deny it, but why should I?
‘Polly seemed a little bitter, but Serena, she was genuinely concerned. I was trying to explain. I don’t think they realise exactly how badly injured you are, or how traumatised – I hope that was the right thing to say?’
I stop. I’m not about to tell him Serena’s final piece of advice.
What he really needs is some tender loving care.
Pierre takes his glasses off. His black eyes are clear. The whites white, not streaked with red. The shadows have gone.
‘My little warrior. You really do have my back, don’t you?’
I sit down gingerly on the bench. ‘About that. About being your warrior –’
‘I wanted to thank you, again, for helping me, Rosie. A lot of people have commented on how efficient you were.’
‘Efficient?’
He laughs, resting his hands under his legs and raising them up and down. I can see the weak muscles flickering under the wasted skin.
‘And attractive, of course. Everyone wants one now. An attractive companion.’
‘You make me sound like, I don’t know, some kind of accessory, like a lapdog.’
‘They were thinking more along the lines of a sex doll, I think. The more dirty-minded ones. Ah, good. I can still make you blush.’
‘And you can still make me cross!’
‘Where’s your sense of humour, Rosie? I’m teasing you!’
‘You kissed me, Pierre. Did it really mean nothing to you?’
‘Oh, Rosie. I hoped you’d understand.’ His eyes are steady, unwavering, cool, as he looks at me. ‘Of course it meant something. I like you. You’ve made my life here so much happier, and you’re gorgeous, too. But it can’t – I can’t – it was just a kiss. It could so easily go further, Christ knows I have no willpower, but I’m not the man for you. I can’t be trusted. You need someone who’s not going to break your heart again.’
I stand up silently, slowly. I’m not going to flounce out of this. I’m going to walk calmly away and –
‘What’s that you’ve got there?’ Pierre says, reaching for the envelope I’m still holding. ‘Is that for me?’
I shove it at him. ‘I expect it’s something from your studio. A score, maybe. Some sheet music?’
His fingers brush mine as he takes it.
He shakes the envelope, rips it open.
‘How do you know what’s in there? You steam it open or something?’
‘No. I was just guessing. You were an impresario in your other life, after all.’ I bunch my hands into fists again to avoid either touching him or punching him. ‘But I’d have thought it’s still too soon for you to be thinking about work?’
‘You’re the one who made me realise it was time to get off my sorry ass, Rosie. Remember?’ The envelope rests in Pierre’s hand. ‘That bitch Margot has stolen my entire summer. She’s not stealing any more of my precious time.’
But he’s staring at the ripped envelope as if something nasty might crawl out. So not entirely the old confident Pierre Levi after all.
‘What’s stopping
you?’ I ask sharply, looking over his shoulder. ‘Why don’t you read it?’
My shadow falls across him.
‘Whatever’s in this envelope could be my ticket out of here.’
I look away from him. Autumn has come early. The first clouds we’ve seen for weeks cross the sky. A tiny chill taints the air.
‘I don’t want you to go.’ Someone has spoken, and that someone is me.
I expect you to fight for him.
‘What did you say, Rosie?’
‘Sometimes it’s easier not to talk, Levi. Just to act.’ My legs are shaking. ‘So why don’t you just shut up and kiss me again?’
I step back to the bench and sit down next to him. I take his face in my two hands, make him look at me. He starts with surprise. He runs his lips across my forehead, into my hair.
Pulls away.
‘I’m no good, Rosie. I’m leaving soon. It’s not going to work.’
‘You kissed me the other night, Pierre. That was real. Why are you resisting? Look me in the eye and tell me that you don’t want me. That you don’t want something more –’
Just then the garden door creaks open and slaps against the post. Pierre and I turn our heads as one towards the intrusion.
‘Time for our final session, Mr Levi!’
Dr Venska stands in the doorway of his room. Framed by the white paint and the blackness of the interior she looks even more pallid. Her white outfit is tighter than ever, and the lace top is see-through. She’s not wearing a bra and the red points of her nipples prick through the fabric. She’s wearing arctic-white pedal-pushers that look sprayed on.
‘I don’t recall asking for any more analysis, doctor. As you can see, I’m busy,’ Pierre replies, looking back at me. His black eyebrows are drawn together as if he’s wrestling with a tough question. We move away from each other, and he twists around to face her.
‘If anything you need more sessions, not fewer. You’re far from cured. It’s very risky abandoning your treatment half-cocked.’
I can feel Pierre shaking with amusement. I can’t believe she’s used that term deliberately. I doubt she has any sense of humour at all.
Dr Venska is staring straight at me, bringing to life everything they say about daggers. Her bleached hair is tightly pinned up today, making her sharp features look as if they could grate cheese.
‘I don’t need my head read today or any other day,’ Pierre goes on, putting his sunglasses back on as he glances up at me. ‘I was in the middle of something with Cavalieri here.’
‘Which can wait. Come on, Mr Levi. You know how good these sessions are for you,’ Venska purrs, stepping out on to the grass. ‘You don’t need this little cleaner helping you with anything.’
‘I don’t appreciate you describing her in that way, doctor. I told you, I don’t want or need any more face time. In fact, I’m through with my treatment.’
‘It’s not up to you to decide that.’ Venska’s voice has risen dangerously. ‘It’s my policy to do a final assessment on all patients.’
‘Final assessment? You’re leaving?’
Pierre is biting his finger. If it wasn’t for the cute dimple carved into the black bristles I would have assumed his mood had darkened. But his shoulders are shaking with suppressed laughter.
‘I’ve had a better offer. From Hollywood. So I’m officially signing you off as my patient.’
Venska folds her arms and taps one foot.
The silence elongates. I break away from Pierre and push past Venska to go into the bathroom to change the towels. I may as well make some show of doing the job I’m supposed to be doing.
When I come back out they’ve moved from the garden into the room. Venska is sitting on Pierre’s bed.
‘Ironic that I’m going into the world of entertainment and you? Well, that world seems to have forgotten you,’ she is saying in answer to something he must have asked. She pauses, waiting for Pierre to respond, but he remains by the garden door, leaning on his crutches. He’s wearing his sunglasses again but I can tell he’s looking not at her but at me.
‘Our superstar down the corridor?’
‘That’s right. He’s been a most fascinating case study. And lucrative, too. Would you believe he’s younger, stronger, richer, more influential than you, oh, and able to summon up an erection at a moment’s notice?’
The insult is as visibly striking as a blow. Pierre’s head jerks backwards.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Oh, just that you, you know, a girl can only try for so long without getting bored. What do you think, Rosa? Like to have a go? I can tell you’re gagging for it.’
‘Leave her alone!’ Pierre takes a step forward. His features are carved like stone.
‘Unless you’re a professional sex worker you’d be on a hiding to nothing.’ Dr Venska looks down at her thighs, opens them slightly and runs her hands between them. ‘This man was dead from the waist down when he was admitted to this clinic.’ She waits, but Pierre doesn’t speak. ‘Impotent.’
‘I think your actual definition was “unresponsive”?’ I butt in, unable to contain my fury at the way she’s handling him. ‘Which sounds like a subjective observation rather than clinical?’
‘This is all bollocks. I was temporarily paralysed, that’s all!’ Pierre shouts, shifting the crutch under his arm to get a better grip ‘I was a mass of broken bones. It was painful enough using my cock for pissing, let alone for fucking. I was terrified I’d never have a woman again.’
He stops, bites off whatever he was going to say next.
‘So then the terror inhibited you, and the inhibition stopped you getting aroused, and all you needed was tender loving care.’ I clutch the towels closer to me. ‘It’s not rocket science!’
Pierre turns his head a fraction. I can’t tell behind the sunglasses if his black eyes are fixed on me or on something out in the garden.
‘So what would your conclusion be, Doctor Cavalieri?’
‘That you ultimately had nothing to fear. Because you had no trouble responding when I walked into the room, Mr Levi. The very first time you set eyes on me. And you’ve had no trouble since. Pavlov. Remember?’
‘Rosie, I –’
‘Oh, leave those fucking towels! Leave us, in fact. I’m sick of your cute little apple-pie face popping up everywhere I go!’ Dr Venska leaps up from the bed and comes towards me. ‘Why don’t you just get out!’
‘Because I asked Mr Levi a question earlier, and he hasn’t answered it yet.’
‘You need to leave, Miss Cavalieri.’ Dr Venska is so close I can smell the cigarette smoke on her breath. ‘I want to speak to Mr Levi alone.’
‘Or what? You’ll call security? Go right ahead. I’ll just tell them you’ve grossly offended him.’
‘Oh, zip it, both of you. I’m not worth it,’ Pierre mutters, collapsing into the visitor’s chair. ‘Which brings me to the answer to your question, Rosie. It’s no. I don’t want you. I don’t want anything more.’
I wrench my arm out of Dr Venska’s vice-like grip, rush out of the room, dump the towels and grab the bucket and mop, which clank around me like armour.
Dr Venska kicks the door shut in my face. I close my eyes to block the flow of tears. What just happened? For someone who avoids conflict, why did I go in there all guns blazing? I’ve been so stupid. It’s all been a game to him. They must be laughing their heads off in there. Look at the little cleaner thinking she could get close to someone like Pierre Levi.
Five minutes till the end of my shift. I push the mop along the floor towards my desk, creating a path of wetness. The swipe of dampness between Pierre Levi’s door and my desk dries and shrinks. When it vanishes completely that will be the end of anything between us.
I stare through my tears at the wet path, and a large polished brogue steps into it.
‘Can I help you?’ I ask, leaning wearily on the mop, staring at his foot.
‘You most certainly can, sugar! Got yo
ur hands full there, I can see,’ the man answers, pulling at the handle of the mop so that I am yanked towards him. ‘When do you clock off?’
I let go of the mop so he’s left holding it.
‘What I meant to say was, visiting time is nearly over.’
The man leans across the pile of towels and lifts my chin so that I am forced to look at him. He has hazel eyes with fair eyelashes and thick blond curly hair, and the kind of healthy, ruddy complexion of someone who lives life in the fast lane.
‘Well, I’m looking for room 202, but maybe you can help me find it?’
‘No need. It’s right there. But Mr Levi is occupied at the moment.’
We can hear Dr Venska’s raised voice and the man laughs.
‘Levi’s getting gold-star service as usual. But it’s time he was out of here. The women of London, not to mention New York, Paris, Amsterdam, you name it, they’ll be pawing the ground wondering when he’s back in circulation.’
I point to the yellow chair vacated weeks ago by the security guard.
‘He’s with his doctor, but if you would just take a seat, I’ll – well, I’ll see if someone can go in and disturb him.’
‘Can’t you just knock on the door for me? Can’t we just walk in on the old bastard?’
‘No. Like I said he’s busy, and I really daren’t –’
‘Just tell him it’s his old mate Robinson Junior.’ The guy ignores the chair. ‘I want to know if he got that card in the mail earlier.’
‘I delivered it to him myself, ‘I murmur, desperate to get away. ‘If you’ll just wait, another member of staff will be along to help you.’
‘I don’t want another member of staff, er, Rosa?’ The man called Robinson Junior peers at the name badge pinned on my breast. He takes a business card out of his jeans pocket. ‘I want you. But if you’re off duty, maybe you’ll come out for dinner with me instead?’
I shake my head. I should be flattered, but his words are bouncing off me like hailstones. All I feel like doing right now is having a good cry.