by Victoria Fox
‘Hey,’ said Gio, in pursuit, ‘this hasn’t changed a bit!’ Next to him, Isabella clung to his arm and relinquished a small smile. ‘We used to play in here as kids,’ Gio explained. ‘What was it, Bella? The King and Queen of Everland?’ He laughed. ‘We hid from the grown-ups, made up our own fantasy world. Bella had the imagination, though, right?’ He gave her an affectionate nudge. ‘Always making up stories.’
Something didn’t sit right in this memory. Had Isabella been able to speak, then? Had she saved her voice only for her brother? If this were the case, it unsettled Vivien that Gio hadn’t told her. As if he wanted to keep it secret.
She suffocated her suspicions.
‘Really?’ said Vivien, just tetchily enough to warrant a flick of the eyes from Adalina. Vivien checked herself; she didn’t want the maid drawing conclusions. Vivien was the mistress of this house, she owned it together with Gio, and she had to start behaving accordingly. Just because Isabella had been here before, and Isabella had the family tie, it didn’t mean she could rule the roost. Vivien was the wife.
But Gio seemed oblivious to her mood. He spoke to Isabella in Italian, pointing to the windows, whose panes were wispy with cobwebs. Isabella made a light noise in her throat, the closest to a laugh that Vivien had heard.
All of a sudden, a wonderful idea assailed her.
‘Let’s have a party!’ Vivien cried, clapping her hands.
It was the perfect way to celebrate Gio’s homecoming. They would invite the notables of the region, set out a lavish banquet, dress in their finery, drink and dance long into the night. Vivien was gratified at Isabella’s expression. It had to be Isabella’s worst nightmare, being made to socialise with the people who had known her as a mute child, only to discover that she hadn’t changed a bit. It was a shameful thought – but all Vivien had to do was remember the sister’s spiteful hostility from the moment they had met, the cruelty of that wedding dress stunt, the constant sly glances and hateful stares, to be certain there was no love lost.
‘We’ll host it for Halloween,’ enthused Vivien, who adored the seasonal celebration, largely because her father back in Claremont had denied her it. While other kids had carved pumpkins, fiery eyes flickering red in the night, and trailed the neighbourhood for trick or treats, Vivien had stayed shut up in her bedroom. Devil worship, Gilbert Lockhart had proclaimed. It’s no place for any daughter of mine.
‘Steady on, bellissima,’ Gio said, smiling, ‘we only just got here.’
‘All the more reason.’ Emboldened, Vivien went to embrace him. Isabella shrank from his side. ‘It’s been so long since the Barbarossa had guests – your uncle would have loved it. Look at this place! It’s crying out for attention.’
With that, she steered her husband around the ballroom, spilling ideas as she went. This was one thing she had in spades over Isabella: the charm, the glamour and the wherewithal to plan. The sister could hide out all night, for all she cared.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Vivien ordered her costume from an elite tailor in London. The place on Pall Mall was a favourite of the day’s power clique, boasting Goldie Hawn and Jamie Lee Curtis among its visiting clients. Within weeks, the order was ready.
Vivien couldn’t wait for Gio to see it. He would be stunned. It was a second chance at her wedding gown, a white, ethereal number that wasn’t strictly in keeping with the Halloween theme but that she could get away with nonetheless. She would be a fairy or a nymph, some water-dwelling siren that might once have been found adorning that old romantic fountain in front of the Barbarossa.
She was settling well into life in Europe. Twice she had travelled to Rome for lunch and shopping, and last month she had met an acquaintance in St Tropez for a brief stay on his yacht, sailing it as they had down to the old harbour at Portofino. Gio was bound up in work for much of the time, so when it was just she and Isabella in the mansion she found any excuse not to be there. Granted Isabella kept to herself, resigned to her quarters on the top floor, but somehow her very presence cast a gloom across the Barbarossa. Vivien wondered if the staff felt it, too. Vivien wished she could enjoy her young marriage in this beautiful country, but Isabella was the constant shadow at her heels. Isabella shot daggers whenever her brother’s back was turned; she played the victim with Adalina and Salvatore, but when it was the two women alone, she didn’t need words to convey her animosity. Vivien endeavoured, each morning extending the arm of reconciliation with a kind word or a polite enquiry that stole all her will and stamina, but always she was snubbed. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but, day by day, minute by minute, Vivien sensed Isabella’s aversion turning from hard grit into liquid form, an altogether more dangerous and insidious thing that could change shape, seep through cracks, infiltrate the tiniest slit until the body it occupied was filled to the brim. It became less of a passive notion and more of a threat – a threat too misty to pinpoint, and all the more unsettling for its obscurity.
Part of Vivien’s desire to escape the Barbarossa was more to do with her fear of Isabella than it was any anxiety at being alone. Quite what she imagined Isabella would do, she wasn’t sure, but behind that sheet of oil-black hair was a plotting mind that, she knew, would stop at nothing to secure Gio’s devotion.
‘Adalina, have the caterers confirmed for five o’clock tomorrow?’
Vivien swept into the staff kitchen and flicked her cigarette ash into the sink. Adalina, drying plates, gave nothing away at this audacious breach of etiquette; the Europeans she’d worked for would never have dreamed of venturing into their servants’ domain. But she sensed that her new mistress wasn’t necessarily as brash as she appeared – there was an insecure streak there, a little girl lost.
She nodded. ‘Sí, signora.’
‘Good. And speaking of, what’s for supper tonight?’ Vivien fished in the pocket of her crushed-plum velvet pantsuit for another smoke. ‘I want it to be ready for when my husband comes home.’ She smiled. ‘He’ll believe I made it myself.’
‘Chicken cacciatore with a white bean salad.’
Vivien lit the cigarette. ‘I thought we were having lamb.’
‘Signora Isabella changed it.’ Adalina put forward the sheet of paper she set out at breakfast every morning, detailing a menu option for the day. Where Vivien had clearly ticked the red meat, another hand had scrawled through it.
Vivien blew out smoke. ‘Right, yes.’
She concentrated on holding her temper, which railed like a rabid thing chained to a gatepost. She would speak to Gio. As lady of the house, she ought to have last word on every detail. It unnerved her that Isabella’s preference had been upheld against her own, but she didn’t, and couldn’t, let on. ‘Silly me, I forgot. I did ask Isabella to run down and change it. I decided chicken would be best.’
‘Of course, signora.’
Vivien went to leave, before remembering her outfit for the party. ‘Adalina, there will be a special delivery arriving in the morning. I need someone to take receipt of it and transport it to my room. Signor Moretti is not to see it.’ A thrill coursed through her. Gio would deem her more enchanting than he had ever seen her.
‘Sí, signora,’ said Adalina. She continued drying the plates. ‘I am to expect a conveyance for Signora Isabella as well. I will take care not to confuse the two.’
Vivien’s smile was a rictus as she left the room.
*
When Gio returned from work the following evening, he was tetchy and distracted. Vivien rubbed his shoulders, encouraging him to relax.
‘Bad day at the office?’ she asked.
‘It’s all right for you,’ he snapped back, ‘coasting about here, planning parties, with nothing to—’ Immediately, he retracted it. ‘I’m sorry, amore. It’s… It’s nothing, really, just a long day.’ He ran a hand over his face, features like the ocean after a storm, then kissed her. ‘Don’t listen to me, I don’t know what I’m saying.’
Vivien was shocked at his temper – but she knew Gio was
a passionate man, and his concern could emerge as anger. He cared too much; he had a lot on his mind.
‘Is there anything I can do?’ Vivien held him, squeezing tight as if to make sure he was real. She had endured a horrible dream the night before, of being back in LA, before him, existing from one day to another. On waking at dawn, she had slid alongside her husband, basking in his reassuring heat. She told herself it was unconnected to anything in the real world, just a nonsense borne out of his long hours and the change in their circumstances. She ignored the voice that informed her otherwise. That, weeks into Gio’s mysterious project, he was as irascible and tightly wound as he’d ever been. Work does that, she reasoned, remembering the dizzy highs and crushing lows she had known in her career. He’ll come through it. Marriage is patience.
‘No, darling,’ he answered. ‘Just being you is enough.’
But there were shadows around her husband’s eyes. Vivien had noticed them increasingly, the late finishes taking their toll. Gio was always vague with her about the nature of his project. ‘It’s boring, bellissima, just a lab full of white jackets bent over samples,’ he’d say. Vivien had asked for more, but he wouldn’t be pushed.
‘When are they turning up?’ Gio loosened his tie. Vivien estimated this party was the last thing on earth he felt like hosting. She would play the consummate wife and compere, so he would need to do nothing at all. She checked the time.
‘Eight o’clock.’ That gave her two hours to get ready. The ballroom was looking fabulous, thanks to her creative efforts, the fires lit, the champagne chilling.
She waited until Gio was in the bathroom, the shower running, before venturing: ‘I was rather taken aback about Isabella.’
‘What about her?’
‘Only that she wanted to come. She is attending tonight, isn’t she?’
There was a sound of water drumming on tiles. ‘As far as I know.’
Vivien chose her words. She knew, once spoken, they could not be retracted. ‘A woman in her situation… I suppose I imagined she wouldn’t.’
There was no response. Just the sound of the shower as it drenched the contours of his body, the change in pitch and rhythm as he moved beneath it.
‘What I’m getting at,’ said Vivien, ‘is whether she might be improving?’ That was code for: Your sister’s a game player. She doesn’t need us. She doesn’t need to be here. Let her go. Who was to say Isabella had a problem at all; that she didn’t do it all for attention, most of all her brother’s?
‘You think she should be locked upstairs for the evening?’ he said.
‘No! No, goodness, no.’ Vivien got up from the bed. The last thing she wanted was to piss Gio off, especially right before they presented their love and union to their guests. ‘Of course I want her to be with us.’ Lie, lie, lie. ‘I’m just getting used to her… behaviour, that’s all. It goes without saying she should be involved.’
There was a short pause, before Gio called back, ‘Aren’t you getting ready?’
She knew her husband well enough to know that was the end of the exchange. Vivien retrieved her outfit from the bed and slipped into her dressing room. Venturing the subject of Isabella was a delicate and long-handed campaign, like chipping away at Mount Rushmore with a butter knife.
*
Vivien didn’t need to be fluent in Italian to feel certain that she was admired.
As guests arrived, gleaming Ferraris pulling on to the drive and spilling forth a host of glamorous women in marvellous dress-up, from vampires to mermaids and wolverines to murderesses, the men on their arms filling the grand hall with the most exquisite, expensive scents, Vivien stayed glued to Gio’s side as he accepted their compliments. She knew she looked tremendous. The nymph creation was all she had hoped for and more, offsetting her dramatic makeup and impossibly long legs to a tee. She was the perfect combination of European style and all-American goodness. She had even instructed the seamstress to incorporate a smattering of miniature diamonds into the neckline, which glimmered and shimmered in the candlelight.
Next to her, Gio was irresistible as the Dark Count. His long cape accentuated his height, and the uncanniness of his one black eye, one green, lent him a gorgeous, sexy cruelty. It had demanded all her restraint not to tear his costume off the second she saw him and have him bite the life out of her.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you,’ she told guests, ‘how lovely of you to come… Yes, we’re very happy, the best decision we made… You knew Giacomo Dinapoli? How fascinating…’ Vivien tried with the language, a deficiency she had worried would play against her but in fact her efforts were deemed charming.
‘They adore you,’ Gio told her in a quiet moment.
Vivien hadn’t felt this content since they’d arrived in Italy. The party was a raging success, with guests telling them they should make it an annual occasion, and how rewarding it was to see glory reinstated to the Barbarossa after being so long unused.
‘I can’t thank you enough.’ Gio touched the small of her back. ‘I never would have thought of this. I don’t deserve it – I know I don’t. I’ve been neglectful to you lately. I’ve been away too much. And I might not say it every day, but I realise the set-up with my sister is unconventional, and that it’s been hard for you.’
The triumph of the night, and the happy hum of alcohol, made her generous. ‘It’s you I love,’ she said. ‘And whatever comes with you. Don’t mention it.’
When he told her he loved her back, she caught fire just as she had the first time. How silly it all was, she dressed up as a fairy and he as a bloodthirsty beast, desperate for each other and mad with adulation – but Gio was her destiny, her One. She watched him move across the room, and pictured them here in years to come with a family of their own, a girl and a boy running circles round their heels.
‘We knew the children when they were small.’
Vivien heard a voice at her side. She turned to see a woman in her fifties, sipping Cinzano and speaking perfect English, with only a slight accent.
‘You did?’ Vivien smiled, wondered if she had lipstick on her teeth.
‘It was so sad, the condition that brought them here, so young, so tragic…’ The woman shook her head. ‘But you know all this already.’
‘Yes. It was terrible. Signor Dinapoli must have been a wonderful man.’
‘He was generous. He helped Isabella enormously.’ The woman paused, as if about to disclose more, then took a long sip of her drink.
Then what the hell was Isabella like before? Vivien contemplated. As she nursed her umpteenth Dom Perignon, she reflected on the other factor that was making her evening so unreservedly pleasant: no Isabella. Perhaps the sister had had a last-minute attack of nerves, and that was the reason for her no-show. Everybody here seemed to understand and expect this, and so her name had scarcely been mentioned.
‘You know the Barbarossa used to be a hospital?’ volunteered the woman. ‘A more accurate term these days would be “asylum” – for the sick in the head. Dinapoli wound the institution down. By then their methods were attracting criticism anyway, families opting for more conventional routes, psychiatrists, doctors, traditional medicine. I dare say some of their techniques were a little… extreme.’
Vivien scanned the room for Gio. He was talking with a man dressed as a werewolf and she had to resist the urge to laugh: it wasn’t the moment.
‘Rumour at the time was that Dinapoli tried these methods on the girl.’
Vivien looked at her sharply.
‘Of course we can’t be sure. But he became more and more of a recluse about it, to the point they rarely left the house. Some say he became obsessed.’
‘With what?’
‘Curing her. Isabella.’
Vivien imagined it. She couldn’t ever picture being pinned to one place, the same walls for company, never venturing into the world. She would go crazy. All her life she had run from one thing to the next, afraid to settle – until now, that was.
�
�I’m unsure how much your husband knew,’ the woman went on, ‘or how he fitted in. No doubt you’re more enlightened than I, just a nosy village gossip.’ She nudged Vivien, so that a swish of champagne spilled over the lip of her glass. ‘But I will tell you how nice it is to see Gio back here, and so well, with such a lovely wife.’
‘Thank you.’ Vivien swallowed.
‘You’re quite the star tonight. Everyone’s saying so. Of course we’d heard of his achievements in America but still it seemed impossible to match that shy little boy with the man he is today. It’s just a shame we haven’t been able to meet…’
The woman stopped. Vivien watched her, before slowly following her gaze.
There, at the entrance to the ballroom, was a figure.
A black silhouette.
‘Oh, my heavens…’
The woman’s murmur was echoed around the room, as gasps and inhalations drifted up from the assembly like mist from a frozen lake. Admiration – awe, for that was the word that gnawed Vivien in that instant and for weeks after – soaked the crowd. Awe for the presence that had joined them, the wicked, beautiful queen.
Isabella was dressed in jet silk, head to toe, her outline as sharp as glass. Her hair had been curled and fell in waves and swathes like ink spilled on marble, a vision in drama and disaster. Her lips were blood red, her eyelashes intolerably long, and for once both eyes were visible, and with that clarity Vivien was struck by how utterly and defiantly stunning her sister-in-law was. My sister-in-law. How she envied her in that moment! Isabella’s face was porcelain-pale, a sweep of deep purple on her lids, a mere brushstroke of blush on her cheekbones, precise as blades. Behind her, the fierce orange sunset could be seen through the window, staining the hills around Fiesole in shades of apricot. She appeared scarcely real, like a painting.
‘She’s beautiful,’ whispered the woman. And clearly that sentiment was echoed throughout their company. Vivien stood back, long forgotten, as guests flocked to greet their new arrival. Isabella didn’t need to speak to command attention, at first because her beauty did the talking, and then because Gio had gone to join them, his face lit with unfettered, childlike joy, the kind of joy Vivien herself had never been able to incite in him, and like the most natural thing in the world he was standing alongside Isabella, her mouthpiece, to field their enquiries and salutations.