Emma rolled over onto her stomach and laid her head on her hands. Marco had only just left the divan. He had made her come twice, first with his tongue, then his cock, and now he was painting again. Marco had been painting all morning. The voodoo was broken. He could fuck and paint, paint and fuck.
During that time she had crossed the courtyard twice to pee. She went furtively, nude. She didn’t want to wear clothes again. At dawn they had swum naked in the sea. There was salt and now come on her skin. She would never wash again, either. He might wash her if he so desired. A basin, some soap, a jug, hot water. She’d be a Degas. Emma was going to be Marco’s muse, his mistress, his lover, toy, plaything, whatever, until he grew tired of her. She was emotionally exhausted. She was all flesh, nothing more. Flesh that would rot one day. She felt a desperate need to make every use of her flesh before it fell from her bones.
And she only thought of David three times a minute now. It was getting better. Soon it would be two.
Emma lay on her stomach and even though Marco’s warmth was still on her skin she yearned for him to return. She reached out to the chest on which lay the remains of the breakfast he had brought to her. Brioche, coffee, milk. She tore off a small bit of the brioche. The melted chocolate within stained her fingers. As she ate it she felt even hungrier.
Three days. Three days of hedonism. Three days of endless pleasure.
‘Marco, will you work tonight?’
‘I never work at that bar again.’
Emma kissed her own hand, licking the chocolate off her fingers and tasting him there.
‘What will you do?’
‘I do nothing.’
‘But Elena will throw you out.’
‘Si, and they will take you away from me.’
‘I won’t go.’
‘It will come. I know this. I no surprised. I have you now. That is all. That is all.’
‘You have me now.’
Emma closed her eyes.
‘Emma … Emma.’
She felt a hand on her shoulder. She rolled onto her back and opened her eyes. Elena’s face was looking down on her.
‘Are you awake?’
‘Yes,’ she said, and shut her eyes.
‘Your husband is here.’
Emma’s eyes opened wide. She lifted herself onto her elbow. Someone had thrown a blanket over her. She held it to her breast and looked around the studio.
‘Where is Marco?’
‘He is outside talking with your husband.’
‘Stop calling him my husband.’
‘OK. David is here. He wants to talk with you.’
‘I don’t want to talk to him,’ she said and rolled away from Elena, who was sitting on the edge of the divan. Then she turned back, ‘How did he know I was here?’
‘I told him.’
‘You told him? Why would you do that?’
‘He loves you and only you.’
‘Oh, I can’t believe it!’
‘He does.’
‘I mean I can’t believe he has sent you in to tell me that.’
‘He didn’t send me. I came. I want no fight. I want you to understand.’
‘Understand what?’
‘He came to Italy to find you.’
‘No, that isn’t true.’
‘It is. He came for you. He give up his job. He sell house. He leave your friend. He come here, and he find you. He say I was an accident. He say he couldn’t keep his hands off me. You know? He say you understand.’
Emma closed her eyes again, her head was spinning.
‘He say you spoke with his friend.’
‘Sebastian?’
‘Si, Sebastian. And you hear a wrong thing. He not know better. David not tell him the truth.’
‘Can you get Marco, please, Elena? Keep David out.’
Elena left Emma alone. Emma couldn’t think. She just couldn’t think. The rush of love she felt was so overwhelming, her mind was overcome. Her ears pounded with the beat of her heart. She squeezed her eyes shut, rolled onto her side and hugged her knees. There was nothing she could do, she knew no other feeling like the love she felt for David. There was nothing comparable, but she couldn’t go back, she knew this instinctively. She had done it once, she couldn’t do it twice.
‘Emma?’
He was in the studio. David was in the studio. She wasn’t ready. She was naked. She was in her lover’s bed. This was not how she had envisioned their first meeting. She had imagined she would be seated in one of the restaurants along the parapet. She had imagined Marco would be beside her. Their first meeting would be brief. He would not have accepted their offer to join them. Tense smiles. Frustration. Unexpressed thoughts, unexpressed desires. Their second meeting would have been warmer. She would have met him on the beach, or the esplanade, both alone, she in her bikini looking fabulous. Maybe a sarong. He would be casual, carefree and then gone. She would have been left wanting more. He might have touched her arm or kissed her briefly on the cheek. That would have been the second meeting. The third would have been …
‘Emma?’
Her thoughts were interrupted. She couldn’t breathe. She wriggled under the blanket and hugged herself into the tiniest ball she could make. He had to be perfect or be nothing at all.
She heard one of the easel legs scrape the floor. He was passing through the wall of paintings, he was probably at the foot of the divan.
Emma recited over and over in her head – don’t speak, don’t speak, don’t speak, don’t speak …
‘Emma, I want to be your partner.’
The lump in the middle of the divan moved slightly.
She couldn’t think. All her head was telling her was no, no, no, no. Her heart was dancing. The deep tone of his voice reverberated within her, trapped in her ribcage. Yet there was pain in his tone. Scars. She wanted to apologise for ever coming into his life. He had quit his job, sold the house he was so proud of and had lost the wife she had pretended to be. Why should he give up everything he was? She had stolen his dreams from him. She had no rightful claim to his love.
She couldn’t look at him. She knew how ravenous her heart was. It would do anything to have him.
‘Do you know what that means?’ she asked from within the blanket.
‘I know more than I did and am willing to learn.’
The lump was still and silent.
‘I caught up with Paul. He was brutal.’
No movement.
‘Don’t reject me out of hand. Test me. I am resilient.’
‘How brutal?’
‘He told me about the night before our wedding.’
‘And you still came after me?’
She heard David’s feet shift on the stone floor.
‘You don’t deserve this,’ she said.
‘I know one thing: I love you. This knowledge sustains me. Do what you will.’
Emma moved under the blanket and popped her head out. He was standing at the foot of the divan, wearing board shorts and a tight blue t-shirt. He was very tanned. He was larger than she remembered. She couldn’t look him in the eye, there was too much intensity in his face.
‘Don’t cry,’ he said, consciously leaving off the endearment ‘baby’.
Emma hadn’t known she was. She wiped the tears away hastily and looked up. His eyes met hers and she recognised in them something she had long forgotten: his strength, his will.
‘I will be me,’ she said. ‘I cannot be anyone else.’
‘And I will be me.’
‘I’ll hurt you,’ she said. ‘I have done and I’ll do it again.’
‘And I’ll hurt you, too.’
Emma lay her head down.
‘I want so much,’ she said, wearily.
‘I want more.’
She was suddenly exhausted. She wasn’t seeing the man before her as much as the man she had left. She smelt the leather from his BMW. She could feel the polished wood floors under her bare feet. The expensive cotton sheets.
&nb
sp; His words sounded like bravado to her.
‘What do you know about me?’ she asked.
‘Everything and nothing. I want to meet you, the real you.’
Emma rolled over onto her back and lifted herself up on her elbow, holding the blanket to her breast. ‘Are you sure?’
‘It’s the only thing I am sure about. I have discarded all my certainties. I come to you unencumbered.’
‘You certainly know what to say.’
‘You have given me a lot of time to think.’
‘And what did you tell Elena to make her so compliant?’
‘The truth. I told her I used her to get close to you.’
‘And what did you tell Sally?’
‘I told her what she already knew, that I loved you more than life itself.’
‘And that you would do anything to get me back?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s what I’m worried about. I want a partner not a disciple.’
Then David turned. The door to the studio had opened.
‘I give you five minutes, like you say.’ Marco rounded the edge of one of the paintings.
‘Scusa, Emma, I not know what to do. He want so bad to talk. Elena say it OK. I let him in.’
David and Emma were staring at Marco as though he were a stranger to them.
‘I think you want this, si?’ he said, sitting on the edge of the divan. ‘You want talk with him.’
He reached out and touched her cheek. He was so naturally affectionate.
‘He wants me to be his,’ she said to Marco.
‘How many men you want?’ asked Marco, smiling.
Emma laughed. ‘All of them.’
‘Si, I think so.’ He looked from Emma to David, following her gaze. ‘You like this one?’
‘I love him.’
‘You love him?’ asked Marco, at the same time as David asked, ‘You love me?’
‘Si. I love him,’ Emma said, her eyes on Marco, ignoring David for the moment.
David took a step towards her and leaned forward but was halted by the palm of Emma’s hand.
‘But love is not enough. It wasn’t enough then and it isn’t enough now.’
Emma reached out her hand and drew Marco to her, her eyes locked with David’s all the while. Her painter understood what she wanted. He tore away the blanket, exposing her naked flesh to her husband, spread her legs, unbuttoned his jeans and lay on her. Emma threw her legs around him as she felt him enter her.
David did not move. He looked down at her without a change of expression. Emma kept her eyes on his while she could but Marco’s thrusts became too much and she closed them and gripped him more tightly. She was moaning now. Marco knew what she liked. He had found the spot, and she was lifting her hips to meet him. When Emma opened her eyes David’s gaze was on her still. His expression had changed slightly. There was more darkness in his brow. Marco’s thrusts quickened. Emma was staring at David. Her moans were louder. She could feel an orgasm but knew she wouldn’t reach there. Marco held her more tightly and bit down on her neck. He was thumping into her now. And then it came, he blew into her and groaned long and loud. He rolled off her and lay on his back.
Still looking up at David, Emma repeated, ‘Are you still sure?’
‘Yes.’
‘Ask me to dinner.’
David was about to speak when she added, ‘Ask me to dinner on that yacht. Me and Marco. Tonight. Ask us both and another couple too. I don’t care who. Will you do that?’
TWENTY-ONE
David welcomed them onto the yacht at a few minutes after eight. The evening was very warm. He was dressed casually; a pair of chinos and a navy blue shirt; his feet were bare. And Emma thought he looked very handsome. She had few options when it came to clothes so had borrowed a dress from Elena. It was black, cotton, loose, flouncy even, neither too casual nor too formal and it was a size too small for her. Marco had gone for black, too. His shirt was open at the neck and Emma thought he looked every bit the barman. A sexy barman, but a barman all the same. As they were dining at sea, both had opted to wear thongs, which they kicked off once they were aboard.
David handed them both a glass of champagne, shook Marco’s hand and leaned in to give Emma a kiss on the cheek. Emma took his face in her hands and, locking eyes, kissed him lightly on the lips before letting him go. David stared at her for a moment and smiled. He then excused himself, leaving Marco and Emma on deck for a moment, giving them the chance to appreciate the vessel they had just boarded.
Marco let out a low whistle, dropping himself onto the cushioned bench that bordered the sunken deck they were standing on. Emma, though she had seen it up close at the marina, only now realised just how large the yacht was. She had noticed David hadn’t bowed his head to get through the door leading to the lounge. Sebastian had been right, it was titanic.
‘What we do here?’ asked Marco.
‘We make trouble,’ she replied, sitting next to him and kissing him on the mouth. Marco ran his hand up her thigh, lifting the dress.
David returned with his other guests. Emma held the kiss a moment longer than her instinct deemed prudent and then broke away. Marco looked up at the group but did not move his hand immediately either.
‘May I introduce my new friends? This is Amelia and Claudio … and over here,’ he said, reaching behind him and leading a young woman by the hand, ‘is the shy but charming Eloise.’
Emma studied the people David had been able to rustle up in an afternoon. Naturally her eyes fell upon Eloise first, as David had put his arm around her waist proprietorially. She was in her early twenties, Emma guessed, deeply tanned, slender, a waif. Her eyes were dark as was her hair, which was naturally curly, tiny tight curls which were tied back from necessity.
Claudio reminded her of a famous actor from the golden age of Hollywood. She couldn’t remember his name but she remembered him playing older, debonair gentleman roles. Claudio was handsome in a general way, thick dark hair with flecks of grey, brown lively eyes under expressive eyebrows. She couldn’t immediately gauge his age – he could have been anywhere between forty and sixty. He was well groomed and held himself erect in his grey suit, which he wore with such ease she assumed he spent much of his life dressed that way.
Amelia was something altogether different. Emma remembered her. She had been with Sebastian, she had helped him carry the wine to the yacht. She was dressed in the way young girls like to dress, the kind of dress a porn star would deem too tarty to wear. And she tottered on seven-inch heels. She was bleached blonde and Emma thought she couldn’t be more than nineteen years old.
The contrast between Claudio and Amelia almost made Emma laugh. He had his hand on the small of her back, or her rear, she couldn’t quite tell.
Marco stood up and kissed both of the women in the Italian way and Claudio kissed Emma’s cheeks too.
Emma examined the group where they stood, champagne in hand, and realised she was nervous. David had done as she had asked. They were surrounded by strangers – strangers to him as well, as he had taken the trouble to call them his new friends.
There was only one way she wanted this evening to go. She had imagined it as she lounged all afternoon on Marco’s divan. She had forbidden him from touching her. She had told them they must save themselves for the evening. He had given her a look, a knowing look, which was incredibly sexy, and had said, ‘Our last night? You go with him?’
‘Maybe.’
‘Maybe,’ he said, and continued painting.
Sitting on David’s yacht, staring at him, watching him chat to his guests, Emma was more and more aware of how insignificant their life apart had been in comparison to the time they had shared. As flawed as their marriage had been it had weight in her heart. She got up and stood beside him. She took his hand in hers. It felt utterly natural. She stood on tiptoes and whispered in his ear, ‘Husband.’ He squeezed her hand slightly. The child in her heart wanted the others to leave. The child in her heart wo
uld have sailed away with him that night. Marco caught her eye, raised his eyebrow the tiniest bit, and she was an adult again. She loved how aware Marco was. He had plumbed her depths as Paul had done. He was going to be her lifeguard tonight. Without him, she would surely drown.
‘She was my mistress long before she became my wife,’ Claudio was saying in English under his heavy Italian accent. They were eating their desserts in the candlelit dining room. ‘I was a confirmed bachelor. I had many mistresses. But Maria was the one who insisted I marry her. As I loved her – and I did love her – I said I would marry her under one condition. You see I was afraid that our relationship, our sexual relationship, would end on marrying. It had for many of my married friends, and I enjoyed Maria too much to risk that. I also hoped that my one condition would put her off the idea.’
‘What was your condition?’ asked David, refilling Claudio’s glass at the same time. Throughout dinner David had been very attentive and had kept everyone drinking. Emma had to stop herself staring at him.
‘Well,’ Claudio said, and looking down he smiled, ‘it was the condition of a confirmed bachelor so you’ll have to make allowances. I said I would marry her as long as she promised – and I said I would have a contract drawn up – promised to …’ Claudio paused here and glanced across, first at Emma, then at the bashful Eloise, ‘blow me once a day. Now before you leap to conclusions, hear me out. I had my reasons. First, if she were to adhere to this rule it would mean each day she would be forced to perform a sexual act. No small thing in a marriage. There was no getting around it. She could do it coldly, she could do it passionately, but she would do it. Each day, come rain, hail or shine, the two of us would have to meet at that point. You see, sex itself would be introduced. Now married friends of mine said that they never found time for sex. And when they did, neither could know if the other was willing. There were crossed lines of communication. Moves were made and repulsed. I thought I had the perfect solution.’
The Secret Lives of Emma: Unmasked Page 14