by Victoria Fox
She blinked and another tear fell. ‘Will I?’
He smiled. ‘Without doubt,’ he said. ‘I know a fighter when I see one.’
*
It was with some regret that Vivien was discharged a fortnight later, for she feared she would never see him again. She tried to occupy herself with getting back to work, and in true agent style Dandy leaped back on the wagon, seeing dollar signs where she saw redemption – she was surely hotter now than ever, the diva who had cheated death.
But Vivien couldn’t concentrate. It all seemed meaningless. The movie business no longer held her in thrall, the competition and rivalry that had charged her ambition dissipated like a whisper on the wind. Her life thus far had been about chasing the next prize, the next key, so that she could keep opening those doors and slamming the past shut behind her. But there were more important things than fame and money, things she had never contemplated before: things she hadn’t been able to contemplate before, because she had never met anyone with whom to share them.
She couldn’t stop thinking about Giovanni Moretti. She remembered how he had stirred emotions in her that she thought she had lost, his compassion, his patience, how he had drawn her honesty without even trying. Now she had uncovered that intimacy, she was frightened she would never find it again. In the short time she had spent with him, she’d felt a connection she had only read about in books. Had it been real? Had she been foolish to trust it, or had she been right this time? Was it still possible for her to know a good thing when she found it? Physically, too, he cast her under his spell. She woke in delicious sweats and ached to be kissed by him.
Months passed. Vivien had all but given up hope of ever renewing contact, when, out of the blue, he got in touch. She received the note through Dandy.
Vivien, I have to see you again. Meet me at Rococo’s, Friday, 8 p.m.
She didn’t need to be asked twice.
*
Their relationship began in earnest. Giovanni Moretti was, without doubt, the best thing that had ever happened to her. He was a strong, fine man in a reef full of sharks – intelligent, courageous and loyal, but with a mysterious, bruised soul that kept her guessing, kept her wanting, and she knew he would reveal it to her in time. She, after all, had revealed herself to him. Not since Jonny Laing had she been so truthful about her history – and she knew this time was different. She knew Gio Moretti wasn’t like other men. She told him everything, from Gilbert’s beatings through to her escape, from her nights at Boudoir Lalique to that sick advance in Jonny’s office and everything in between: the fact she kept on running but could never outrun her past.
He didn’t judge her, just took her in his arms when she had finished her story and stroked and kissed her hair. ‘It’s over now,’ he said. ‘I promise, it’s over.’
She sensed that her vulnerability mattered to him, though she couldn’t say why. He seemed to understand her in a way that no one else did, as if she reminded him of someone, as if they had perhaps known each other in another life.
Vivien’s only white lie was that it wasn’t just her mother who had died, but her father too. Both her parents were dead. She figured they might as well have been – Gilbert had ceased to exist for her that very same day she walked out of his house. Had her father been to visit her in hospital? Had he called? Had he cared? Had he sent even a card or a flaky bunch of flowers to wish her well? Had he hell. She owed him nothing. It was easier, cleaner, to cut all ties. To pretend there was zero left.
When she disclosed she was an orphan, Gio searched her eyes. There was something he ached to tell her, but he caught himself in time. Instead, he drew her to him and didn’t let go. ‘It’s you and me now, Vivien,’ he murmured. ‘Always.’
Their courtship was magical. She had never felt such desire, such safety, never thought the two could go hand in hand. She had written herself off as too selfish and damaged for commitment, but here Gio was, her guardian angel. She could stare into his eyes all day long, one black, one green, and lose herself in his embrace.
Dandy called night and day, demanding she answer his messages, asking why she’d let him down at a casting yet again. Why had she lost interest? What was going on? Speaking to Dandy was like yelling across tundra to a distant figure in the snow. He couldn’t hear her. She spoke another language; one that said, I’m through with this. It’s a heartless world. I’m done with Hollywood and I’m done with you all…
‘I need a break,’ she told her agent.
‘Are you knocked up?’
Normally Vivien would have taken affront, but it was difficult to feel mad about much these days. ‘Very funny, Dandy.’ Privately, the promise of carrying Gio’s baby was like a flurry of wings inside her. Now was too soon, but in a year or two… She couldn’t believe how swiftly it had happened, how much had changed. Having survived her accident, she was in awe of her body, of the things it might achieve.
She clung to her renaissance like a ship in a storm. Her heart said it was because she was full to the brim of love for him. She ignored the alarm that wormed between her ears at night, telling her that she had sabotaged the life she’d built – both lives, her one in Claremont and her one here – and Gio was all she had to tether her. If she lost him… Well, it wouldn’t happen, so there was no point thinking about it. So what if Gio was all she had? So what if she relied on him utterly? So what if, when you took him out of the equation, there was nothing left? Wasn’t that what real relationships were about? Vivien wouldn’t know; she’d never let herself find out.
Every day, Gio decorated her with roses, chocolates, perfumes and impromptu trips, to spas, cosy bistros, a boat on the lake. Vivien didn’t know where he got the money – he was a fine doctor, but he couldn’t earn enough to cover that kind of expense – but she wasn’t about to question it. Since opting out of work, her funds had started to dwindle. She hadn’t realised how much debt she’d stacked up, the compulsive sprees she’d undergone in an attempt to blot things out. She had spent foolishly on her high and was suffering for it on her low. Gio didn’t seem to mind.
I’ve got him, she thought. It doesn’t matter. He’s not going anywhere.
And it felt good, for once, not to have to build her barriers. They were untouchable, the pair of them: a couple who could take on the world.
*
Life continued happily for a while. Vivien knew she was recreating everything she had lacked as a child: sanctuary, certainty and security. She only wished that Gio would agree to move in with her. She didn’t pressure him, only suggested it once or twice, but he point-blank declared it a bad idea. ‘Why?’ she asked. But he wouldn’t say. There was always some excuse – it wasn’t the right time, he couldn’t get a lease on his place, couldn’t they wait just a bit longer? It didn’t make sense, though. Gio spent most of his time at hers and he seemed more in love with her than ever.
It began to bother her that he never invited her back to his house. It had crossed her mind as odd in the early days, sure, but Gio was too full of distractions, too clever at diverting questions, that with a kiss or a look her curiosity had been postponed. As time went on, Vivien’s suspicions crept in, threading through her like weeds, making her doubt, making her question, terrified that the ground on which she had gambled to plant her feet was yet again about to shatter beneath her. She couldn’t understand his secrecy. Her paranoia multiplied, niggling, tormenting, impossible to ignore. When he told her that he could no longer see her on Friday nights – Fridays had to be his – she drew the line. If Gio wanted space, fine. But he had to be truthful.
‘I don’t want space,’ he said, his face clouding. ‘I’m crazy about you, Viv.’
‘Then what’s going on?’
‘Nothing,’ he said, turning away. ‘It’s the hospital. My shifts have changed.’
She didn’t buy it. But she was too afraid of the alternative, of pushing him into a confession. Is he having an affair? Is there someone else? The notion made the sky fall. What will I do with
out him? The thought of another woman chilled her.
She had to find out. The following Friday night, she drove to his house, parked opposite, and watched the windows. Her hands gripped the wheel.
Liar.
So much for the hospital. Why were his lights on? Why was there a gleaming Chrysler parked on the drive? Vivien knew. He wasn’t at work at all. He was in there, with some other woman he deemed special enough to bring home. They’d be making love right now, on the sheets Vivien had never slept on. They’d eat a meal at the table she had never sat at. They’d shower in the bathroom she had never stepped into.
How could he? How could he do this to her?
Even with the evidence as plain as day, Vivien couldn’t accept it. Gio was in love with her. He wasn’t like the rest. They were lovers but they were also friends.
Friends didn’t do this to each other – did they?
Minutes ticked by and turned into an hour, maybe two, she lost track.
Still, she continued to watch. Until eventually, at around ten, the payload appeared. In one of the upstairs windows, a woman could be glimpsed, a fleeting sight before she vanished in shadow. Vivien’s knuckles whitened. Her tears turned to fury.
She swung open the car door.
I’m going to catch them together and then I’ll punch his fucking lights out.
In a rage she stormed up the drive, past the gate, past his precious car, tempted to scratch it with her keys but there would be time for that on the way back, and pounded her fist on the door. In her mind, she rehearsed all she would say and do to the traitor. Who is it? Who is she? Someone I know?
But nothing could have prepared Vivien for the truth.
Nothing could have prepared her for who the woman was.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Italy, Summer 2016
Maximo Conti isn’t a journalist. It takes me a while to figure this out, even though he’s talking, and everything he’s saying is about the Castillo Barbarossa and not at all about me. I keep waiting for him to get round to it, even while I’m noticing details like the fact that he’s local but his English is fluent. I notice how his chestnut hair spills over his brow and there is a cleft in his chin that makes him appear younger than he probably is. I notice the softness of his T-shirt. I keep waiting for him to say: So anyway, I know about you, and here’s the deal… But he doesn’t.
‘You’re Lucy,’ Max says. At my cautious expression he goes on, ‘Nobody starts work at the Barbarossa without at least someone knowing their name.’ He orders us drinks. His hands are broad and dark, roughened by labour. This isn’t a man who toils behind a desk, or makes malicious phone calls to hacks in London.
‘I expect that sounds…’ He pauses.
‘Creepy?’ I supply.
Max tries an uncertain smile. ‘I saw you at the library.’
‘You were following me.’
‘I wanted to speak to you.’
I process what he’s already told me, try to get my head around the fact he isn’t who I thought he was. Max is half English and half Italian. His aunt used to work at the Barbarossa – and he looked sad when he told me this, so I throw a guess out there.
‘You want me to get her job back…?’ I hazard. ‘That’s what this is about?’
His puzzlement is genuine. ‘No,’ he says after a moment. ‘My aunt is dead.’
‘Sorry.’ I’m embarrassed. ‘I assumed—’
He waves a hand. ‘It’s OK.’
I’m relieved when our drinks arrive. ‘Limoncello.’ Max touches his glass to mine. ‘The lemons round here all come from the Barbarossa. You eat them straight from the trees. Just tear them open with your hands, eat the skin, everything.’ The drink is sweet and sharp and alcoholic. It knocks me back to my senses.
‘I have information you might be interested in,’ he says.
‘Information about what?’
Max lifts a sceptical eyebrow, and I consider how he must have witnessed me at the library scanning archives, digging for dirt, so engrossed that I didn’t even notice I had company; that this handsome Italian was watching me the whole time. My prying shames me. Isn’t Vivien entitled to her scandal, just as I’m entitled to mine?
‘You won’t find what you’re looking for there,’ Max says. He rakes a hand through his hair; his nails are blunt and square, cut short. I try to figure out who he reminds me of. There’s something wholesome about him, straightforward. He looks like someone’s older brother you might have fancied when you were twelve.
‘You read the piece in La Gazzetta?’ he goes on. ‘Someone, at some time, must have known what happened at that house… but it’s impossible to come by now. My aunt was one of the only people who knew. She knew everything about Vivien, they were best friends, and she was there the whole time, since Vivien and Gio moved from America. But she never told me. When Gio left, she never said why.’
I try to keep up. ‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘Because it’s important.’ Max is serious; this matters to him. ‘My aunt was important – to me, I mean.’ There’s a pause while he takes me in, decides if he can trust me. ‘She raised me,’ he says. ‘My parents were young – they split soon after I was born and my mother turned to drugs, so my aunt took me in.’ He delivers this perfunctorily, as if it’s a tale he’s used to recounting. It neither causes him pain nor demands sympathy; it’s just what happened. ‘She used to tell me stories about the Barbarossa,’ he says. ‘It sounded like a fairy tale, this big castle and the glamorous family who lived there. Sometimes it was frightening, imagining such a big place. I used to get scared that my aunt would become lost in there and be unable to come home. She’d be caught in a maze and couldn’t find the way out… It terrified me. She was all I had. The Barbarossa has always been an enigma for me: the ultimate secret.’ A pause. ‘It was also the place that took my aunt away. She died there, with Vivien.’
I watch this stranger, bearing his truth to me, and wonder at what cost it comes. ‘When?’ I ask.
‘Five years ago,’ he says. ‘It was a massive heart attack, right there in the castillo. Vivien found her; she called an ambulance but the damage was done, it was too late. The paramedics were able to stabilise my aunt enough to get to hospital – but there was nothing they could do. She died hours later.’ Max leans forward, chooses his words. ‘I rushed there as quickly as I could. Lucy, I was with my aunt when she died – and right before, she held my hand and said she had one wish, and she could not rest until it was done. She asked me to tell Vivien Lockhart that she was sorry.’
‘What for?’
Max lifts his shoulders. ‘That’s it. I don’t know.’
‘And you want me to find out.’
Max traces the rim of the glass with his thumb. ‘I didn’t think much of what my aunt said at the time – I was too cut up. But since then… I can’t get past it. I have to know what she meant. What did she have to apologise for?’
I consider it. ‘Why haven’t you done anything before?’
‘I have. I’ve tried. The Barbarossa is a closed fortress, as you know. For a while I thought I could get in myself, that surely Vivien would give me work if she knew who I was. But no – the opposite happened. The connection made me unemployable. Then I spoke to the girl who took the job before you, but she got careless. Started asking questions. Getting confident. Vivien let her go before we got a breakthrough.’ He sits forward. ‘Lucy, the way my aunt begged me… I can’t describe it. She was so desperate, her plea so urgent. I can’t ignore it. I can’t.’
‘Why not pass the apology on and be done with it?’
Max shakes his head. ‘And what, that’s it? Leave it and walk away?’ His voice grows passionate. ‘The more I learn about the woman at that house, the more I dislike her. I’m not saying sorry for anything my aunt did until I know what it was. And if Vivien Lockhart refuses to see me or talk to me, why should I go to her and say something I don’t mean? Who even knows if my aunt did anything wrong? She gave me eve
rything. I have to do this properly. I owe her that much.’
He catches himself, realises he’s perhaps given away more than he intended – but I see a man at the end of his ideas. He’s reaching out to me and I believe him.
‘Your aunt was there when there were three of them?’ I ask.
Max nods. ‘So you found out about the sister.’
The sister…
I think of the Barbarossa as Max would have heard about it as a boy, and, yes, it is a fearsome place. Some days I regard the castle as beautiful; on others, when the sun catches it wrong, it appears close to monstrous, a hulking blot against the landscape. A closed fortress… Except, I’m in. I crossed those walls.
‘Look, Max,’ I say, ‘I want to help you. I do. But I can’t get into this. I need that place for my own reasons. I’m sorry for what happened and I wish you luck, but I can’t risk it like the girl before me. I can’t be sent home. It’s better this way, really. I’ve been hired to do a job and I should just do it.’ I omit the end of this, which is surely to say that I got myself in enough trouble before leaving England that to compound it would be madness. I thank him for the drink then stand to leave.
‘There’s a skeleton key,’ Max says, and to my surprise he takes my hand; there’s determination in his eyes, a flame I can’t put out. ‘It’s hidden behind the fireplace in the ballroom. My aunt used to tell me about the key, every night before bed, until I fell asleep. She took me all round the Barbarossa, every corridor, every corner, slipping it into every lock, until I was dreaming. I still dream about it. But the key’s there – I know it is. All those doors? They open. Even the attic.’
I grab my bag. I want to repeat my refusal, but the words don’t come.
*
That night, I can’t stop thinking about what Max said. Midnight crawls to one, limps to two, and at three a.m. I’m wide awake and my mind is turning cartwheels.
The walls of the castillo seem to whisper, taunting me, teasing me, drawing me into their shadows and secrets. Get up, they call through my fever. Look, look, look… I can’t stop picturing the key in the ballroom. You’re no part of this, I tell myself. But the longer the night grows, the cooler and more constant the band of moonlight appears on the floor of the Lilac Room, the more restless I grow.