Pierre

by Primula Bond

  I wipe the surface with one of the cloths I always have tucked into my belt, and put the vase back down again.

  ‘No rest for the wicked. Lots to do today. So they’ve signed you off, then, Mr Levi. That’s really great.’

  My smile feels stitched on, like one of Jeannie’s sewing projects.

  ‘Pierre. In five minutes I’ll no longer be a patient. Call me Pierre, for God’s sake.’

  ‘No longer subject to the rules.’ I pick up the lilies. ‘So what are your plans? Mr Robinson said you were leaving the country?’

  ‘Not quite yet. I’ll be staying at the Mayfair house to see the sale through, and I still have some more sessions of physio before I’m fit to fly. But yeah. It looks that way. There’s nothing keeping me in London. My aim is to get back to LA, if they’ll have me.’

  ‘Nothing keeping you here? You really are the hard-hearted bastard they all say you are!’ I bang my fists on the shelf, making the vase tinkle. ‘None of this has meant anything? Our stories? That lovely day we spent at your brother’s wedding? That amazing kiss? My, you know, my nocturnal visit, trying to treat you to something nice, trying to show you how I felt?’

  I’m tired after so many late nights. I’m confused and jittery. Tears are blurring my vision. I knock one of the lilies. A flurry of pollen drops off the jutting stamen onto my uniform. I stare down at the orange dust on my breasts as if it’s acid about to burn right through to the skin.

  ‘Here, let me, Rosie.’

  ‘It’s Rosa.’

  Pierre is beside me.

  ‘Pollen’s the very devil to get rid of, Rosie,’ he says. ‘You’ll only make the stain worse.’

  He takes the cloth out of my hands and holds it over my breast. We’re so close. I can hear him breathing. I can see the pulse pumping in his throat. My own heart is hammering, sensations thrilling through my body, urging my fingers to slap him, no, touch him, my mouth to kiss him, my legs to open for him.

  ‘Jeannie will kill me for spoiling this new uniform.’ My voice is deceptively cool and clear. Not a trace of the havoc boiling inside me. ‘Now I’ll have to change.’

  I keep my eyes on his mouth. He has a beard now, and it suits him. It makes him look fuller, fitter, taller. Stronger. Sexier.

  I take the cloth and rub at the orange stain, sure enough making it worse.

  ‘You can do no wrong in Nurse Jeannie’s eyes,’ Pierre murmurs. ‘Maybe she’s the one who can make you happy.’

  ‘She’s lovely, but we’re just friends.’ I keep very still, my breasts bouncing with each heartbeat. ‘Pierre, please –’

  ‘What have you done? Broken her heart already?’

  ‘Didn’t you hear what I just said?’ I bring my fists up to his chest. ‘Honest to God, if you weren’t lame I’d give you a slap!’

  ‘It’s no good. I told myself I wouldn’t touch you.’ Pierre shoves the cloth at me. ‘It wouldn’t be fair. To either of us.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t it be fair? Go ahead and touch me! You touched me before. You kissed me! What’s stopping you?’ I tug him round to face me. ‘What are you afraid of?’

  ‘You touched me, Cavalieri. Stealing into my room after cover of darkness, taking advantage of a sick man in his bed. Not the other way round.’

  ‘Yes, but it was meant to be nice. It was meant to show you –’

  ‘Which is why I’m trying to let you down gently. Again. I really don’t want to upset you, Rosie. Not today.’ He lifts the parting gift I left in his room. ‘I only wanted to say thank you for this.’

  It’s a walking stick, strong aluminium but neat enough and light enough to be folded into four sections and carried in a bag or pocket. And it’s not grey and plastic. It’s decorated with a leopard-skin design. On the card I’ve written:

  To Pierre. Not everything has to be ugly. Goodbye, and good luck. Rosie.

  He walks slowly towards the entrance, his shoulders slumped. He’s so calm. So distant.

  ‘Well, at least you’ll think of me when you’re limping around breaking hearts in California.’

  A cab is waiting for him. Pierre stops by the car. ‘That’s it, you see, Rosie. This stick you gave me sums it up. All I can do is limp. I’m in constant pain. I’ll probably never run, or jump, or dance. Someone will always have to nurse me.’

  ‘What a load of rubbish! Look how far you’ve come already!’

  He smacks the stick on the ground. ‘Not far enough, Rosie. It’ll never be far enough. I’m always going to be the patient. That’s why you have to see this for what it is. You and me. If there was anything there, any kind of spark between us, it was only because we were cooped up together in this place. A holiday romance. Nothing more.’

  ‘A holiday romance?’ I can hardly breathe. ‘That’s all this is? That’s why you’re being so fucking cold –’

  ‘What we have, it’s so precious, so unique to our situation right here, right now. It would just disintegrate, Rosie. It wouldn’t survive the outside world.’ He nods sadly, like a bloody priest delivering a sermon. ‘Which is why I wanted to say that you and Robinson – it’s OK with me, you know.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s big, and strong, and rich and successful. I shouldn’t have turned up at your house unannounced, but I bottled it the last time. I wanted to apologise for, well, for everything. My behaviour the other day. Being so crass and cruel in front of Venska. For not thanking you properly for the sweet way you try, over and over, to make me feel like a man again.’

  ‘Sweet? Is that all you can say about it?’

  He shrugs vaguely, his eyes staring past me, back into the clinic. ‘Actually that blowjob was more than sweet. It was fucking explosive.’

  I come round in front of him. Put my hands on his chest to stop him getting into the cab.

  ‘You see? You can be nice after all. Please. Just listen. Me and Robinson –’

  ‘Should only be a stopgap, until you find the real deal. You’re a beautiful girl, Cavalieri. And a friend. And as a friend I’m telling you, Robinson can be a real shit with women. Just like me.’ Pierre leans heavily on the walking stick and pushes his black hair out of his eyes. ‘But if you’re the one to tame him, and he treats you right, then he’s a lucky guy. You might even break his heart, too.’

  ‘I doubt he has a heart to break.’

  ‘That’s what they used to say about me.’

  The taxi driver, still in his seat, springs open the door and Pierre is already half turning. He catches his foot on the step of the cab. The driver doesn’t move to help him. I hesitate, then walk over, take Pierre’s stiff leg, go to help him into the seat. He reaches to close the door.

  And a sudden, red-hot rage surges through me. I kick it open again.

  ‘Here’s another parting gift for you, Levi.’ I fling myself into the seat. ‘It’s true about me and Robinson Junior. He took me back to his penthouse apartment and he fucked me.’

  Pierre’s face hardens into dark, rigid lines. He slams the window between him and the driver.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Let’s see if you’ll bleed if I cut you. I’m going to give you every graphic detail.’

  The door bangs shut. The driver puts the central locking on and pulls away. I go to hammer on the window, but Pierre grabs my wrists.

  ‘If you’ve got something to say, say it. I haven’t got time to piss about.’

  He’s hurting me, but I refuse to show it. The cab speeds away from the clinic.

  ‘You kidnapping me?’

  The taxi rumbles, up towards Kensington High Street. The heat batters down on the metal roof, and the traffic is muted behind the windows. It’s too small in here. We’re squashed up against each other. I reach for the door, but it’s locked, and we’re going too fast, and again Pierre snatches at my hand and twists me round to face him.

  ‘So. Alone at last. Tell me, Rosa. Every last filthy detail.’

  ‘He’s rented this apartment near Tower Bridge. High up,
maybe thirtieth floor. You can see the buses and cars rumbling across the river below you.’

  ‘I know. I’ve been there.’

  ‘If you’re doing it up against the window, being taken from behind, everyone can see you. Like in that film Shame. Where the sex addict sees a naked woman pressed up against a high window and it fires him up to take a female colleague to a similar hotel room but he can’t get it up because he genuinely likes her. She’s not anonymous. He can only get aroused with hookers. Sound familiar, Levi? So he hires one and takes her really hard, furious, panting, grunting against the window, all harsh daylight and white skin and wobbling thighs, and no hiding his cock from the camera. Shocking, really.’

  ‘I know. I’ve seen it.’

  ‘Your friend Robinson had Royal Blood playing on the music system. Heavy on the bass, pounding through this big glass room. What are the words? Love has been here and gone. Such a horny beat. The same tempo as sex.’

  ‘I know. I’ve heard it.’

  The taxi is moving fast along Kensington High Street towards the park. Pierre’s hands still grip my wrists like handcuffs.

  ‘The music was so loud I couldn’t hear him, I could only feel it when he came up behind me. He pulled my dress off, tossed it over the sofa. I think that was the only piece of furniture in there.’

  ‘Christ. You really have been to his apartment.’

  Pierre’s face is intent, listening, like an animal primed for danger.

  ‘He was going to do it like Michael Fassbender in the movie. He slammed my arms above my head, on the window. The air conditioning was so cold on my skin. I was all goose bumps. Prickling, sensitive goose bumps. I had to press my tits against the glass. I like to rub until the nipples are burning.’

  ‘This isn’t you, Rosie. You sound so angry.’

  I try to wrench my wrists away from him, but he has them fast, and heat is building up my arm. The taxi turns into the park and starts to drive across it, towards Bayswater.

  ‘Men like their women bitter, don’t they? Makes them grateful for what they can get.’

  ‘Rosie. You can stop this now. I –’

  ‘It didn’t matter what he did to me. How he treated me. I’m just the carer, after all.’

  I wait for his response, but his face is expressionless. Just a muscle twitching in his cheek. A flare of dark light behind his eyes.

  ‘Your words, Levi. Not mine. So your friend, he was naked now. He doesn’t go for foreplay. Maybe we were hot enough already. His cock was there, shoving into my buttocks. Big, hard, everything a girl could want. Off he went, grinding, pushing my thighs apart, pulling me so I was bent forwards, leaning on the window for support. Suddenly the track ended, embarrassing when that happens, and in that moment or two of ghastly silence you could just hear my hands, squeaking against the glass. Just his breath against my hair.’

  Surprising rain drops start to fall on the taxi roof. Haphazardly at first, then breaking into a summer storm.

  ‘The next track started. “Figure It Out.” Loud enough to make your ears crackle.’

  ‘I know,’ growls Pierre, dragging at my wrist so I’m a little closer. ‘I’ve heard that one, too.’

  I look away from him, out of the car window, the city divided from us by a curtain of rain. I can see my reflection in the glass, just huge staring eyes, no other features.

  ‘So I bent over and I was that hooker in the film, hands splayed against the window as if I was trying to get out. I was in that room while your friend, a virtual stranger, banged me.’

  Pierre flinches. His eyelids narrow. He’s pulled me closer to him so that I’m jammed up against his leg. It must hurt, but he shows no feeling at all. The taxi is at the north gates of Kensington Gardens, indicating to go right towards Marble Arch.

  ‘No blinds in those apartments. No curtains. Bright spotlights in the ceilings and darkness outside, so the whole of London can watch. All those other bright windows, eyes searching the night, people walking beneath us, boats on the Thames, cars crossing the river. I wanted to shout at all of them, “Come on, watch me!”’

  ‘I’d love to watch you, Rosie,’ murmurs Pierre, loosening his fingers. There are four dents on each one and a thumb-shaped bruise underneath. ‘But only me. Not the whole of London.’

  ‘Do you know what Daniele used to say when we were in bed? Me dicen tu fantasia.’

  ‘And what is your fantasy?’

  The heat is dying down now. In fact, I’m starting to shiver. Pierre puts his arm round me.

  ‘I wasn’t quite wet. The resistance, the hint of pain, was all the hornier.’ I shift forward on the seat, but he keeps hold of me. ‘We moved. It was really uncomfortable, pinned by him, pushing awkwardly against the window, my thighs were aching. A red bus trundled across the bridge. A neat row of faces on the top deck all turned to look out.’

  I keep my eyes on my reflection, just as I am in this story.

  ‘The track changed to a drum solo, frenzied, tribal, and Robinson was thrusting in time to it, banging me up against the window, lifting me with the force of it. In the glass we looked like animals humping and then he was coming, shouting. I couldn’t hear him because the drumming was repeating itself, over and over, stuck in a riff like a runaway train on broken tracks.’

  I’m wandering in my story now, losing concentration. At some point I’ve started crying, because tears are trickling down my cheeks. I’m talking about this other guy and yet all I’m conscious of is Pierre’s arm around me, his fingers fanned over my side.

  ‘Did you come, Rosie? Did Robinson Junior make you come?’

  I close my eyes, get myself back to the story.

  ‘He was gripping my hips so as not to slip out, staying stiff, still rocking. I thought he was going to start all over again. I closed my eyes, I wanted to visualise the man I really want, and it worked, I was closer than I thought, and in a quick burst I came, then my knees buckled, he was slipping out of me, and I just fell down on the hard floor. He tried to help me up but I shook him off and he walked off.’

  ‘We’re nearly there. Is this story true?’

  I look at him. Our faces are really close. Too close. His black eyes are blurred through my tears. I look at his mouth. My words ring in my ears. Are they hurting him? Because he knows he couldn’t have done any of that. He’s not the man he was. They all say it. He’s only just walking unaided again, let alone slamming a naked girl against a plate-glass window and fucking her brains out.

  ‘Would you care if it was?’

  The taxi slows down and bumps over some cobbles. I have no idea where we are now. A fresh wave of tears tips over, and now he’s hushing me, stroking me, then somehow he’s kissing me. His mouth runs across mine, pauses, straining to stop, then presses harder, that hot breath mingling with mine.

  He holds my face tenderly. His eyes are closed now. I close mine and rock towards him, tasting him, waiting for his kisses, thrilling to the tip of his tongue on my lips. He sighs, rests his forehead on mine.

  ‘I know it’s not true, signorina. Because Robinson told me.’

  I feel the heat of his skin on mine even as I burn with shame.

  The taxi brakes squeal to a halt outside a tall house, but the rain is so heavy now I can’t see where we are.

  ‘You didn’t tell me your fantasy,’ Pierre says, looking down into my eyes.

  ‘Why are you asking me? What’s the point if you don’t want me?’

  ‘Tell me, Rosie.’

  I shake my head. He is still holding my face, staring into my eyes.

  ‘My fantasy is that the man making love to me in the apartment, in my house, wherever we find ourselves, is you, Pierre. No one else. You. There. I’ve said it.’

  Pierre’s eyes are huge, and soft, and growing wet. He opens his mouth, takes a breath, clears his throat. ‘Rosie. I’m not ready –’

  There’s a sharp rapping at the window.

  ‘Pierre! Honey child, hurry up!’

  I keep my eyes
on our joined hands, resting on his jeans. My heart is pounding in my ears.

  ‘Pierre? Not ready for what?’

  His eyes are huge and dark, black pools of pleading.

  ‘To stay goodbye. Stay with me just a few more minutes. I can show you where everything happened. Maybe you’ll understand me better.’

  A tall blonde woman is tugging at the taxi door. She’s wearing a pale-pink linen dress and holding a pink umbrella above her head. All I can see is the skinny arms and legs. For a crazy moment I think it’s Dr Venska. But then a pair of slanted blue eyes stares at me through bright-blue tortoiseshell sunglasses and I see that, although she has similar colouring, this woman is older and much more expensive looking.

  I know this street. I often pass along Baker Street on my way home from the singing lessons that my new employers have set me up with to keep my voice ‘tuned’, as they call it. The teacher, a retired opera singer, has given me vocal exercises to improve my range and breathing techniques to enable my voice to carry further and for longer.

  ‘For those open-air festivals, darlink!’ she cries, waving me off from the steps of her neat white house in St John’s Wood. ‘They are all the rage! Just you wait until you’re up there on the stage as darkness falls, thousands of fans waving their mobile phones in the air!’

  The lessons give me a lift. Singing always does that. Transports you, temporarily, from everything that’s on your mind.

  ‘Hi, sugar!’ the blonde woman is trilling, embracing Pierre as he stumbles out of the taxi.

  ‘Hi, Ingrid,’ he says. ‘I’d like you to meet my friend. My colleague. My carer. This is Rosie.’

  ‘Rosa,’ I correct him, stretching my hand through the car door. ‘Rosa Cavalieri. And I’m afraid I don’t know what I’m doing here. I really have to go.’

  All at once Pierre and the woman are both pulling me out of the taxi, into the rain.

  ‘What you’re doing is helping me.’ He turns towards the big, dark painted house that we’re standing in front of. ‘While I put the past behind me.’

  ‘The opposite, Pierre. You’re confronting it.’ The lady puts her pale, freckled hand on his arm. ‘Which is what the doctors told you to do.’