by Victoria Fox
‘I’m sorry. I – I should have told someone.’
‘I thought you’d fallen again,’ said Gio, shaking her. ‘You might have passed out, knocked your head – I thought you were hurt or the baby was hurt.’
‘But I was only—’
‘You were only as thoughtless and careless as you were last time!’
Vivien was startled. She blinked through tears, the day’s perfection shattered.
She didn’t recognise him. Why was he being like this? Her fall was neither the result of thoughtlessness nor carelessness: it was the result of sabotage. Lethal sabotage.
‘What do you think it’s like for me?’ Gio released her, turned away then turned back again. Vivien felt like a child being told off, a girl in church wearing a lily-white dress who kept getting the words wrong. ‘I’ve got no control over what you do or where you go. I’m trying here, can’t you see? I’m trying to look out for you.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she forced out for the second time. ‘I didn’t realise it was late. I’ll be more careful in future.’
He shook his head at her. ‘You don’t get it, do you?’
Vivien swallowed. In her peripheral, she saw the portrait artist emerge at the door, then beat a hasty retreat inside when he saw his subjects arguing. What must they look like? The huge shadow of Gio in his long dark coat, bearing down on his pregnant wife – what right had he to speak to her like this? The attentiveness he had smothered her with since her fall became suffocating. Twenty minutes unaccounted for and he acted like it had been a week. Could she have no independence any longer?
‘Do I have to spell it out for you?’ he demanded. ‘Are you really that stupid?’
Vivien was wounded. He had never thrown her lack of education at her and it was a cheap, lazy shot. Stupid. Yes, Gio had letters after his name, he was a doctor, for crying out loud, and she had left school at sixteen and prostituted herself – but what did he want her to say? Of course, I’m a dumb, ridiculous blonde and you’re fucking Einstein; how you stooped yourself to marry me I’ll never know.
‘You’re making a scene,’ she said.
‘I’m entitled to make any scene I like. This is my house and I’ll behave as I please. I almost lost you that day, Vivien. I’m not losing another family – not like I did last time. I’m not going through that again. You’re my future, you and this baby. You’re everything to me. I love you. I can’t lose two families. I can’t.’
Vivien opened her mouth to speak, to apologise, to yell or to comfort him – she didn’t know which because she didn’t know to whom she was speaking. The man in front of her was at once someone she knew and someone she had never laid eyes on. The words she needed didn’t come her way. Instead she pushed past him, tears flooding her eyes, and headed towards the castillo. Gio grabbed her wrist; she broke away, and it took every ounce of effort not to round on him and pound his chest with her fists – that, or fall into it and never let go.
*
The sitting got off to a strained start.
‘Signora Moretti,’ said the artist, who was young, bearded, handsome, ‘it’s a pleasure.’ She shook his hand politely, determined to regain some dignity after the display they had put on outside. ‘And may I say congratulations to the two of you,’ he went on when Gio’s dark form brooded in behind her. Vivien uncrossed her arms, aware how defensive she must look. The atmosphere crackled with tension.
‘This way,’ said Gio stiffly, as he led the man into the ballroom. The window overlooking the lawns would frame them; in the background, the fountain spewed liquid metal from the fish’s open mouth. Vivien trailed after. She wished she could capture her earlier glow. Here they were, the two of them, together, no Isabella – she ought to be happy. Indeed, Isabella hadn’t been seen in days, not since Vivien had glimpsed her from her bedroom window, on the rim of the fountain, alone and staring at the sky. She gave her the creeps. Most days, Vivien relished the empty household – but sometimes, the horrid suspicion wormed its way beneath her skin that Isabella wasn’t done yet. Her silence was preamble for a dreadful chorus.
Like the punchline of a horrid joke, the artist said:
‘Are we waiting for one more?’
Vivien looked to Gio in confusion; Gio didn’t take his eyes from the man.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘She’ll be down in a moment.’
Oh, no, thought Vivien. No, no, no.
‘Excellent,’ said the man, as he set up his brushes and unpacked his easel. He loaded the first canvas on to the scaffold. ‘We’ll get started then.’
‘Gio,’ managed Vivien, in a strangled voice. ‘May I have a word?’
Loath to incite another spectacle, Gio followed her into the hall.
‘It’s Isabella, isn’t it,’ spat Vivien. ‘It’s her.’
Gio’s eyes gave nothing away. One black, one green: two distinct people. In that instant she could not be certain he wasn’t punishing her; he wasn’t playing with her just as Isabella did, taunting her, prodding her until she fell apart.
Then he delivered his crushing blow. ‘It’s her house, too, you know.’
Vivien was shaking. ‘I don’t understand.’ But she did.
‘My uncle left it to both of us.’ Was he enjoying this? Was this payback? ‘Half this place belongs to Bella – it’s hers by right. By birth.’
‘I thought it was ours,’ she said. ‘Yours and mine. I thought it was ours.’
Vivien heard how petulant she sounded. It wasn’t meant to come out like that, spoiled and entitled, she who had not earned the prestige of the castillo as Gio and Isabella had, she who was ultimately and inescapably the guest.
‘You’re making a scene,’ he hit back, an echo of her earlier remonstration. Why was he mocking her? She searched for her husband but could not find him.
‘You and Isabella own the Barbarossa together,’ she whispered. ‘Adalina and Salvatore work for you. Not for me. I’m just the extra one.’
‘Come on,’ he argued, his cool collectedness like fuel against the hot struck match of her passion, ‘Bella hardly exercises her right. She keeps herself to herself. It’s more than some women would do. You should consider yourself lucky—’
That was more than she could take. ‘Lucky?’ she choked. ‘Did you say lucky?’
Gio put his hands in his pockets.
‘Lucky to share my world with the woman who’s trying to ruin it? Lucky to share my husband? Lucky to escape with my baby’s life after she tried to kill us?’
He didn’t respond. He just looked at her, sadly. That look carved her inside out. It was worse than sadness – it was disappointment. Pity.
‘I’m not lucky.’ Vivien’s ragged hiss was a thin attempt to conceal their argument from the artist, who, on the other side of the door, would surely have heard everything. It was ruined. Ruined, ruined, ruined – and all by that bitch.
‘The only reason Isabella’s hiding out now is because she knows what she did,’ Vivien said. ‘She knows and I know. You’re the only one who doesn’t.’
Gio was quiet a moment, as if to make sure she had finished. Then he said:
‘You’re looking a bit peaky, Vivien.’ He was totally cold. ‘I’m not sure you’re well enough to take part in this. Perhaps you ought to go upstairs and lie down.’
Vivien turned her back on him, blinded. ‘Perhaps I ought,’ she said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Italy, Summer 2016
Alison watches me steadily. It must be only a matter of seconds, but it feels like an age. Max looks at me; I look at Alison. Nobody says anything.
Then Max breaks the silence. ‘I should leave you two alone.’
‘No!’ I say quickly. ‘I mean…’ I can’t meet his eye; I’m ashamed, fearful that one glance will reveal my story, expose my guilt. I’m not the person he thought I was. I only wish I were. ‘We’ll go somewhere else.’
It’s a miracle I can speak. Max’s curiosity follows me out of the room, Alison close behind, and wh
en we reach the door, I turn briefly and he mouths:
‘Are you all right?’
No, I want to cry. Do you know what this is, Max? This is where it ends.
My life here, my life at home: my life as I know it. My life as it might have been, or might still be. It’s about to end. Alison holds the key and I am terrified of what it opens. I’m in the middle of an ocean, floundering, and the deep beneath me is a boundless drop, crashing towards my darkest confessions and imaginings.
Of course, I don’t say this. Instead, I nod, every denial and rebuff just driving more of a wedge between us. I can never come back from this.
‘Call me,’ he murmurs, as Alison and I make our exit.
Out on the street, the world rushes past.
‘OK, Lucy,’ says Alison. ‘Where would you feel most comfortable?’
*
Most comfortable… As if that were an attainable thing. In the end we sit in the gardens overlooking the river, holding cups of sweet, thick latte – Alison’s shout.
‘The coffee here is amazing,’ she says, tipping a crinkly packet of sugar into the steaming liquid and blowing on it. She has a pretty top lip, and soft, long eyelashes. She doesn’t look like someone to be afraid of. ‘I shouldn’t drink so much of it,’ she goes on, as if we’re two friends catching up in our lunch hour. ‘If I drink it, I get wired… if I don’t, the same. I need the caffeine, though. Long hours, you know?’
The incidental reference to her job plants me back in reality.
‘What do you want?’ I ask.
Alison sips her drink. ‘I want your side of the story,’ she says, ‘like I said at your boyfriend’s. This isn’t about nailing you to the cross. I’m on your team.’
‘He isn’t my boyfriend.’
She raises an eyebrow. ‘Forgive me for thinking you have a complicated love life.’
‘And that’s bullshit about being on my team. You want the story, just like everyone else. Pretending to like me doesn’t make any difference.’
Alison puts her coffee on the arm of the bench and digs into her bag for her tablet. ‘OK.’ She looks at me. ‘Do you know what the UK press are saying?’
‘That James Calloway’s mistress is a murdering bitch.’
‘Something like that. You were lucky to escape with your name.’
‘Which you’re about to disclose – your editor must love you.’
‘My editor doesn’t know.’
I can’t resist asking. ‘How did you find out?’
‘Natasha Fenwick is a friend of a friend. She told me everything.’
Of course. Natasha.
‘Don’t go thinking she’s a snitch,’ says Alison. ‘She could have told any number of journalists and she didn’t.’
‘Just you.’
‘Yeah.’ Alison smiles. ‘She knows she can trust me. And so can you.’
‘Is that why you turned up at my dad’s house, threatening him?’
Alison pauses. ‘He was hardly threatened. But I am sorry about that. It wasn’t me, in fact – it was my assistant. She shouldn’t have spoken to him at all – she handled it badly. Believe me, we had words.’
I look away, the cup burning in my hand.
‘Listen, Lucy, here’s how it is. Your name is going to come out sooner or later. A couple of reporters I know are already sniffing it out. You and James kept it well hidden, I’ll give you that much. He certainly hasn’t been pressed on anything.’
My heart twinges. So he didn’t drop me in it, after all.
‘But they’re getting close,’ she tells me. ‘And, depending on whose hands it ends up in, your world could be decimated. I’m talking a move abroad, a new start, the lot.’ She looks about her. ‘You had the right idea coming here.’
‘What, then, makes you different?’ My voice is cold. But despite myself, there is something about Alison I quite like. Maybe it’s the fact that she’s my age, clearly ambitious but innocent with it, as if she’s playing at this callous writer act when in fact she can’t believe the goldmine she’s stumbled across.
‘I’m not out to get you, Lucy. I want you to have a forum to speak. Clearly there is another side to this, right? Are you still in touch with him?’
I shake my head.
‘That’s probably best.’ She nods. ‘Ex-boyfriends are better off in the past.’
I don’t know if this is a method to get me to talk more, or if we’re sharing a twisted confidence. It’s safest to assume the former.
‘Was it love?’ she asks.
I’m torn. I’ve kept this close for so long. Alison is a stranger.
But she’s a kind stranger. I can see in her eyes that she’s genuine, and I don’t know what it is but I trust her to represent me fairly. Who knows what those rival publications are going to do with me once they smoke me out? There will certainly be violent reprisals, but if someone out there can speak for me, someone like Alison, won’t it at least set the record straight, in some small corner?
I take a breath, and I tell her everything.
*
An hour later, we part company. I feel lighter. I should feel afraid, but I don’t. Alison gives me a hug. ‘You did the right thing talking to me,’ she says.
‘I hope so,’ I reply.
It turns out Alison had a fling with a married man, a few years ago. ‘I didn’t know either,’ she confided. ‘And it wasn’t as if I was even in love with him, which, believe me, is going to work in your favour when it comes to perceptions. Mine was just some stupid string of dates – it was exciting, and exciting because it was wrong. I grew up, I got wise, and I dumped him. He’s an arsehole. Period.’
Clearly she was trying to get me to admit that James, too, was a bastard.
But I couldn’t.
‘You’re not still hung up on him, are you?’ she asked.
‘Off the record?’
She nodded. I smiled. ‘Nice try,’ I said.
As I watch Alison head into her taxi, a glossy-haired bomb about to return to England and detonate within a matter of hours, I feel… better. Calmer. As if getting it out isn’t just catharsis, it’s a realisation that I’m not a killer. I fell in love. That’s all.
My phone springs to life. It’s a message from Max:
Here if you need to talk. M
I push it back in my pocket. Determined to keep moving, I walk down to the river, winding lanes scented with jasmine and the easy bustle of tourists, who clutch cameras and gelato. From here, the view is beautiful. The Duomo appears lit by fire, a giant orb of golden sun: red, bronze, set against a cobalt-blue sky, the light fading now and twinkling spots flaring to life to mark the restaurants and bars. I’m not ready yet to return to the Barbarossa, and so cross the bridge and set out to my favourite spot in all of Florence: the steps by the Uffizi, that silver courtyard that thrums with violin strings and it is possible to hide in the back, out of sight, contained by shadows. This evening, it is a cauldron of low murmurs, as if to speak too loudly would disturb some unseen dignity, the weight of time and grace. A duo of musicians tunes up across the piazza. Strains vibrate in the air like dragonflies humming on a still pond.
A couple next to me holds hands and kisses. I sit with my knees together, leaning forward, my chin on my hand, and close my eyes. The music takes shape around me and the atmosphere swallows me up. I cherish my invisibility because I know it will not last. Nobody sees me. Nobody knows my name. Perhaps I can stay here. I need never return home. But then I think of my father and the women in his life who have left him, one by one, saying goodbye. I have already been here a month with scarce contact; I know I could never do that. My sisters have been able to stay away because they’re afraid to face the broken picture, the place they came from that was shattered by tragedy. It’s all too much of a reminder – me, Dad, the pictures of Mum on the mantelpiece. I’ve dealt with that; I’m armed. So I have to be there.
When I open my eyes again, my gaze is drawn straight to him.
I sit up. Wings
batter inside my chest. It can’t be.
He is only a figure. It is the back of him, leaning against the wall looking out at the square. But I would know that outline anywhere; the back of his head, so familiar, I know all its contours and how it feels to touch. My fingers tremble.
Somehow I stand. Somehow one foot lands in front of the other. Somehow I am moving across the piazza and with each step the vision becomes clearer and more certain, and at the same time more improbable.
I am close when he moves away, slipping into the crowd so to anyone else he would be one of the masses, but not to me. I am homed in on that head, moving between countless others that, in the twilight, are similar but altogether different. With each turn, dipping in and out of lit pockets, tantalising fragments of his face come into view, and the cloud of disbelief settles more firmly around my shoulders.
It can’t be. But it is.
I cannot say his name. I could call it, I know I could call it and my tongue is ready to set it free but nothing comes. We reach the kerb. I walk a few paces behind. A car rushes past, but before it does he ducks across the street and disappears from sight. Frantically, I follow, searching every face, spinning in circles, but he is lost.
Then: ‘Lucy?’
I turn. He’s there. Stepped right out of my dream and into my world.
‘I thought it was you,’ he says.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Vivien, Italy, 1984
Just before Christmas, the portraits arrived at the Barbarossa.
‘Why are there three?’ Vivien asked quietly, putting a protective hand over her seven-month bump. ‘I didn’t sit. It should just be you and Isabella.’
Gio moved towards the packages. They were wrapped in crisp brown paper and tied securely with string. A large red stamp, in Italian, warned to handle with care. He checked the backs of all three, before moving the middle one to the front.
‘This one’s yours,’ he said. ‘It was Bella’s idea.’
Vivien went towards it. Relations with her husband had all but broken down since the abandoned sitting; it hurt so much that there was still this wedge between them. This should be the best time of their lives, counting down to the arrival of their baby. But too much had been said, too much hurt exchanged. A chill touched the back of her neck at the mention of Isabella’s name, but she neither had the courage nor energy to question it. Gio’s intensity frightened her, both repellent and magnetic. She desired to run from it, but at the same time to lose herself in its ferocity, to have it protect her, to allow herself to be embraced by the sheer dark power of it.