Pierre

by Primula Bond

  It gets me high, more than any drug.

  Who wouldn’t want to do it all again, lap up that kind of approval? The more exuberant the yelling for encores, the louder the hands clapping in my ears, the more I tingle, the faster the crescendo of triumph rises.

  Punters are sauntering into the bar now, sitting in ones and twos around the little club, settling down with their cocktails. I can tell, both from their familiar faces and from the relaxed way they chat to my two friends the cocktail waitresses, that these are established members. The new boys will be too busy in the dungeon with their strippers.

  Humphrey, one of the elders or masters or whatever they call the senior officials, appears at the arched entrance and nods. The pianist picks out the intro and we slide into the first song.

  For a second my throat is strained with nerves until the flow of languid notes loosens me. I sway like the diva I become every night. I’m wearing the beaded flapper dress Pierre Levi picked out for the wedding, because I’m a sentimental fool, but I’m barefoot. Just a tiny red beaded bangle around one ankle. I can’t sing if my feet hurt.

  The silver microphone waits for me, glinting under a single spot.

  My throat expands, my chest swells like the sparrow I’m meant to be. The raw silk dress pulls against my breasts as the breath fills me. I lift the phallic mike out of its cradle, brush its rounded head against my mouth, taste the metal mesh. My mate in this adventure.

  Now my voice is clear, like crystal. A saxophone joins it, the piano and double bass all rise in tandem up a scale so true that it makes my hair stand on end.

  ‘Why … do … birds … suddenly appear,’ I croon, holding the first syllable till the audience hushes, ‘every time …you are near …’

  Until that first performance in Antonio’s club just off the Piazza dei Populo I never knew that success could be so physical. When the repertoire was over I was jelly. If I had tried to walk or curtsy, I’d have fallen over. That’s why I stood there, leaning against the piano, and when at last the applause started I had my private orgasm in front of a hundred people.

  The melody starts so slow, so sultry, barely more than talking in your sleep. I make it hard for my audience to pick out the words, force them to lean closer to catch them, remain transfixed until the end of each long-drawn-out passage.

  I make it as angelic, yet as filthy, as I can, so that the music infiltrates the bloodstream before you know it.

  I pull the song along with me, turning myself in a tight circle, making eye contact with every single person. They’re shadowy behind their little red candles but I want them to think they’re the man for me, just for tonight. That I’m singing this song about them.

  I like to linger on the better-looking ones. I like to see if the way I bend and show my breasts, the way the dress wrinkles up my leg, makes them imagine me lying beneath them, opening myself to them. I like to make them fidget in their seats, see them move their hands slyly under the table.

  Antonio knows the way I motivate myself, but if Jeannie, or my sister, or Pierre, or Robinson Junior, or even Daniele, knew what went through the little mouse’s head when she’s performing, how I transform myself into a wanton, dirty whore in my head, I’d knock them down with one of those cocktail umbrellas.

  So they sprinkled starlight in your eyes.

  Not so much tonight, though. My soul is in the song. I’m lost as I turn slowly, but I haven’t the heart to entice or tease anyone tonight.

  Just like me, they long to be …

  Some other people arrive. They’re late. It’s too hot in here. I’ve nearly reached the end of my set. Three bulky figures stand in the archway, heads together, either greeting each other or saying goodbye. One of them is Antonio, who murmurs something to the other men, blows me a kiss and exits.

  I turn through one more circuit. The song carries me round. I’m energised by the music, by the words, the emotions I have to pour forth, but it’s been a long night.

  The second man is Robinson Junior, who raises his thumb at me but seems to be leaving with Antonio.

  The instruments all bow out of the last bar. The saxophone sighing, piano trilling two last sleepy notes, the double bass yawning one last deep farewell. I complete my turn, reach for the mike stand to finish the last bar, facing out towards the archway, and there, sitting at the back of the lounge bar, is the third latecomer.

  Pierre Levi.

  Our eyes lock, and his face goes still, drops in theatrical astonishment as he recognises me, then he opens like a flower into an enormous smile.

  I blow the last words through my lips.

  Close … to … you.

  He lifts the silly walking stick and flicks it like a magician’s wand. It unfolds obediently, clicking comically to its full length. The other punters are on their feet, applauding. I’m raising my arms in thanks. I’m staring at Pierre in case he vanishes. He’s standing too, listening as he leans on the stick, he’s clapping, then he falls back into his chair as if someone has shoved him. He sits there, not clapping, one hand covering his mouth, and to my horror I see tears coursing down his cheeks.

  This is the man who said he didn’t have a heart.

  I can’t go to him yet. I spread my arms, turning this way and that to include the other men watching me, then I curtsy and bow as far as the tight little dress will allow.

  I’m a harlot. On and off this stage. I’m going to do what I damn well feel like.

  So I step down, thread my way between the tables towards Pierre Levi’s chair, sit on his poor, aching knees, wind my arm around his neck and kiss him.

  * * *

  A molten heat floods through me, making me shake as I walk, topless, towards the bed.

  Pierre Levi’s here. Despite everything that’s been said and done, promised and denied, he’s in my house. In my bed.

  We kissed each other raw in the taxi speeding across London. We kissed all the way here from Piccadilly, hungry for each other, our lips, tongues, teeth, more impatient now we had an end in sight. We couldn’t stop. The streets rushed past as we kissed. His leg was between mine and I gripped it between my thighs, rubbed myself against him, desperate to get him home, desperate to get him into my bed and feel him inside me.

  He suggested his place, but I persuaded him to come to mine. I worried about getting him across the gangplank on to my deck, down through the hatch in to my cabin, but we are safely installed.

  I’ve never had a man in here. One or two mates, one or two would-be suitors, but they’ve never got this far. I’ve never had sex with a man in this low white bed. I can’t think why not, because seeing him lying there, his handsome face shadowed by the candlelight, the moonlit river making ripples over him through the little windows, it’s the most romantic place on earth.

  I feel shy. Suddenly so shy. I’ve lit a row of candles along the shelf in here so it’s smoky dark in my cuckoo-clock cabin. He can’t see how flushed I am, how I’m trembling.

  ‘Come here, Cavalieri.’

  Pierre reaches for me. The nickname warms me, reminds me of the closeness that’s been tantalisingly out of reach all these weeks.

  ‘Just tell me one thing, Pierre. What changed your mind?’

  He pulls me down beside him and holds me so tight I can hardly breathe.

  ‘Always asking questions, Rosie. You’ll think I’m very shallow when I tell you.’

  ‘Try me.’

  He lies back and stares up at the domed wooden ceiling.

  ‘Sometimes your life, your view of someone, can change on the flip of a dime. I’ve always liked you, Rosie, you know that. You’re cute. You’re intuitive. You make me laugh. Over these months you’ve grown on me.’

  ‘Like ivy? Or a vine?’

  He chuckles. ‘My climbing rose.’

  ‘The rose you were all for cutting down. You told me you didn’t want me.’

  He sighs and runs his fingers through my hair.

  ‘It seemed easier to push you away than take that risk.
But tonight was like, I don’t know, the wool being ripped from my eyes. A thunderbolt. Performance is my passion. When Robinson and I walked into that jazz bar tonight we didn’t recognise you at first. You’re my butterfly, shedding that white uniform like a chrysalis, a princess emerging.’ He tips my face up and kisses me on the nose. ‘Robinson clocked you. But it was your voice that got to me, girl. It has this intoxicating mix of huskiness and purity.’

  I blush with pleasure.

  He kisses me, tenderly at first, then pressing harder. I can feel the temperature rising, between us and in the air around us. He’s here, at last. My body tightens with desire as the kisses go harder, deeper. Words evaporate.

  I let him pull me on top of him. I lift my leg to straddle him and feel the stiffness jutting under the sheet. I hang there for a moment and then lean down, pressing my lips on to his until I feel the wetness of his tongue, just like when he kissed me on that rooftop, but how much better to know we’re nearly there, we can go the whole way tonight, I can satisfy the desire burning through me like hunger.

  We’re still kissing, tongues curling round each other, sucking on each other. He reaches down and rips my knickers off, brings his hands back to my bottom and starts to stroke, fingers spreading over my butt cheeks, running down the crack, pushing their way between my legs.

  ‘I’m afraid of hurting you, Pierre,’ I whisper, even as I’m kneeling over him, wet already.

  ‘I’m not made of porcelain, Rosie. Just need tender loving care, that’s all,’ he whispers back.

  ‘You’ve got it,’ I murmur into his mouth, flicking my tongue along his lower lip and making him groan. Such a sexy, hopeless, deep male groan.

  He digs his fingers into the tops of my legs so that I’m forced to spread them.

  ‘Touch me, Rosie. See what I’ve got for you.’

  I push the sheet down and there he is, rigid, bouncing against my inner thigh, nosing towards my core, knowing exactly where he wants to be. I groan, tipping my head back as I feel the warm shape.

  I look down at him, thrilling to the blackness of his stare, still glad of the semi-darkness. My hair falls over us like a tent. My breasts tempt him like juicy fruit and he smiles, a big, greedy smile as I kneel up, work him further between my legs, pause with him resting against me.

  His dark eyes are deep and gleaming as he admires me. Neither of us wants to rush. His hands rest on my bare hips. I move slightly. He pushes in.

  We might have to rush this after all.

  ‘Christ, you’re even sexier than I imagined,’ he breathes, running his hands up my sides, stroking my ribs, making me ache with longing. ‘Think of all the time we’ve wasted.’

  ‘Your fault. Not mine.’

  His fingers dig into my skin, trying to push me down on to him, but I resist, the muscles in my thighs keeping me kneeling up so that only the tip of him is inside me. I take one of his big hands and rub it over my swollen breast, make him feel the way my hard nipple pokes against his palm. My head falls back. I spread my knees, balance myself more comfortably so that my spine is arched and my breasts are pushing at him, jumping up with each heartbeat.

  We’re breathing fast as he brings his other hand up. Both my breasts are enfolded in his strong fingers and he starts to squeeze. I’m supposed to be in charge, but it’s his maleness I’m after; his mouth, that tongue, those teeth, those lips, I want them on me. I’m melting already, my legs shaking as my breasts throb and swell under his touch. I want to subside, open myself to him, but I want to watch his face, too. My body is clutching urgently, desperate to be filled.

  I can’t hold back much longer.

  The fluttering in my stomach tightens into a fierce clump of desire. His fingers stroke my breasts, caressing them, pushing them together. I arch myself, aching for his mouth, his hands, his cock. I push my burning nipples into his face. His tongue flicks across first one, then the other. His hands squeeze until my breasts sing with delicious pain. If I’m not careful I’ll be the one to come too soon. Then his lips nibble, his tongue lapping round, and he draws the burning bud into his mouth.

  I want this to last for ever. I glance over his head, across the black rippling river lit up by lamps from my deck and the sheets of light from the apartments opposite.

  I can just see my own reflection, ghostly in the window, the arch of my spine, my hair tumbling right down to my waist, I’m an actress in a sexy film, my lover’s pulling at me, making me shiver and pulsate with longing as I strain towards him, fall on to him, electricity streaking through to the emptiness.

  He is biting and licking and I have no more control over these urges sucking like a tide as my body sinks down and engulfs him. He releases my nipples, his fingers twine my hair to pull my face down so that he can kiss me again. Kiss me until I can’t breathe.

  We are both grunting like animals. I rise higher on my knees, sliding right up to the tip of Pierre’s cock so that I can see and feel the extent of his hardness. I let it rest there then I slide down again, loving the way his eyes are glazing over, his hands still resting on my breasts, my bottom tilted in the air. I watch his face and gasp deliciously as I’m filled a little more, the tension is ecstasy, but I can’t hold on to it for much longer, and slowly, luxuriously, I slide all the way to the hilt.

  It is tempting to ram it but I work into a slow rhythm, ease down again, moaning quietly, and the next time he is with me, pulling his hips back, waiting when I wait. Perfectly in tune.

  I wonder if Pierre thinks that, too. That we fit together. His eyes are on mine. I sigh more loudly and he moves, pushing further into me. I realise he can’t raise his hips off the bed because I’m lying on him and because he hasn’t got the strength, so I work it for him, his nurse, his carer, now his lover, I slide down, slowly at first, a little faster, up, down, wetter as he thrusts inside me, driving me on to spikes of pleasure.

  We move faster and my thighs part, opening me up to him, breasts bare and bouncing, my lover flat on his back, pushing right to the core of me, filling me, taking me. My thoughts scatter and I start to come, arching my back, aware that all the time Pierre’s black eyes are watching me, deep and dark and fathomless, empty of everything except the delicious sensations crashing through us, strong sucking waves overpowering us.

  He calls my name and shudders as he comes too.

  This time I fall back with him, onto my pillows. Pierre holds me against him. Juice trickles down my legs as we lie there, slick with sweat, our skins stuck together.

  * * *

  ‘I can’t believe you’ve been going to the Club Crème all these nights. All these weeks, holding down two jobs, Cavalieri, and you never told a soul.’

  ‘I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone.’

  ‘You’re obviously scarily good at keeping secrets.’

  Pierre and I are sitting on the deck, staring up through a trail of clouds at the fuzzy black sky. He pours out a big glass of wine for me and settles back in my Titanic-style deck lounger, resting the foot of his weaker leg on the rail.

  I shrug. ‘That job is a massive step up for me. I couldn’t risk losing it by breaking the rules.’

  ‘And you always obey the rules, I suppose?’

  ‘When it’s a golden opportunity to pursue my dream, yes.’

  ‘I get that, Rosie. Totally. So when I asked that old maître d’ geezer Humphrey who the girl was with a voice that could charm snakes, he said he was sworn to secrecy, too. He wasn’t allowed to tell me your real name, but he did say you go by Edith Piaf’s moniker of la Môme.’

  I nod. ‘The little sparrow. Antonio thought of that name.’

  ‘Antonio Varese? You know him?’

  ‘He gave me my first-ever gig. He’s made me what I am now.’

  ‘No wonder he was watching you so possessively. But it sounds like he and I have a lot in common.’

  I push Antonio’s crude dismissal of Pierre out of my mind.

  ‘Well, the secret you’ve been harbouring is that you’re a m
ember of the Club Crème,’ I say, focusing on Pierre, sitting here on my deck, sipping wine and peering through the darkness at the twinkling lights of the houses and boats around us. ‘Tonight is the first time I’ve seen you there.’

  ‘Well, as you say. Rules and regulations. I could have told you, but then I would have had to kill you. That envelope you brought me, ages ago, at the clinic?’ Pierre lifts my hand, which is resting on the arm of my chair. ‘Well, it wasn’t a letter from the studio. It was an invitation to become a member.’

  I fan my fingers out and touch his mouth with the tips. The sweetness of that kiss I stole from him in the club.

  ‘So singing in the Club Crème is your dream, and the clinic is just, what?’ He nips at my fingers. ‘Your nightmare?’

  ‘Hardly a nightmare! It’s a great job. I’ve learned a lot. I’ve made some good friends.’ I laugh as I pull my hand gently away. ‘If I hadn’t gone to work there I wouldn’t have met you, would I?’

  He reaches across the gap between us and lifts my face. Comes forward to kiss me again.

  I hope I never get used to this. I hope each time is like the first. He smells and tastes and feels amazing. Something about the way his mouth hovers, hesitates, before it crushes mine, turns me on before he’s even touched me.

  ‘Rosie? You’re hesitating. Are you going all shy on me?’

  His breath is warm on my face. I shake my head, smile, and then he’s kissing me again, and my insides are curling with pleasure.

  I am breathless when he pulls away. He looks at me for a moment, his dark eyes so deep beneath those fierce brows. He sits back in his chair but he keeps hold of my hand.

  ‘My dream was to join that club, too. Until now I’ve been thwarted because I wasn’t a tycoon, I wasn’t rich, and because I’d fallen out with my brother Gustav I didn’t have a sponsor. So that’s partly why good old Robinson Junior came over here to London. He and Gustav are my sponsors for membership, and one of them had to be here to hand in my nomination personally.’

  ‘What a performance. Anyone would think you were joining the secret service, or the Masons.’ I shiver in the cooler night air. Pierre circles me with his arm to keep me still.