The Silent Fountain

by Victoria Fox

  ‘We were ready to have you sit at a later date.’ He gestured for her to open the package. ‘But Bella had a better idea. She produced a photograph of you. It was enough to work from. She was quite adamant we use this one.’

  As Vivien’s fingers plucked uncertainly at the packaging, it was clear to her that Gio viewed this gesture of Isabella’s as an olive branch. That she, Isabella, was a more generous woman than Vivien, one whose innocence and goodness shone through in spite of the accusations thrown her way. Gio’s tone plainly expected her to agree, to turn to him and say, ‘Oh, Gio, isn’t she just wonderful?’

  She couldn’t. Because she knew, even as she peeled away the paper, that Isabella would have the final laugh on this note, as well as on so many others.

  ‘There,’ said Gio, once all was revealed. ‘What do you think?’

  *

  The picture defied words. Vivien stared at it dumbly.

  ‘Just what the hell is that?’ she whispered.

  Gio came round to look at it with her. ‘We thought—’ He stopped. ‘Oh.’

  Vivien could think of more suitable words.

  ‘This isn’t what we agreed,’ he said. ‘Bella must have got confused. I thought we’d settled on the one I took of you after we arrived here.’

  Vivien knew the one he meant. It was the one of her in front of the castillo, gazing into the camera. The one on the back of which he’d written, V, 1981.

  Not this.

  ‘I’m sorry, cara,’ he said. ‘This is a mistake.’

  She was shaking. Of all the things Isabella could have done…

  ‘I’ll talk to her,’ said Gio. ‘She’ll be so embarrassed. We’ll get another one commissioned. We’ll make this right.’ He touched her arm, the first tenderness that had gone between them in weeks, and put his head to one side, assessing. ‘Unless…’

  ‘Unless what?’

  ‘It’s a beautiful likeness,’ he ventured. ‘You might want to keep it?’

  Vivien whirled on him. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Viv, I know he hurt you. I know he was strict. So was my uncle. So are plenty of men from that generation. But he’s dead now. He’s gone. He isn’t coming back.’

  The lie she had told him so long ago still had the strength to wind her.

  ‘I hate my father,’ she said. ‘I’ll always hate him. I wish I’d killed him myself.’

  Gio tried to talk her down. ‘Now you’re being dramatic.’

  ‘Of course I am,’ she blasted. ‘Silly Vivien. Hysterical Vivien. Mad Vivien.’

  ‘I’m not saying that.’

  ‘You don’t need to.’

  She wished she could banish the tears from her eyes, but still they came, hot and thick and threatening to fall. Of course her suffering at her father’s hands would seem pale and limp in comparison with Isabella’s. Vivien’s childhood struggle was token when pitted against Isabella’s, a petty grievance like so much else she complained about. Isabella won there, too. She won the Wrecked Childhood Award.

  At least, through blurred vision, the horrendous portrait was dulled. For there, instead of the contemporary likeness Vivien had hoped for herself, the proud profile and blooming baby bump, was an image of herself as a girl, wearing the lily-white dress she had been marshalled into for church. Her hair was in pigtails and her eyes smothered a silent scream. Behind, looking on with proud satisfaction, stood the puppet master himself, Gilbert’s hand clamped firm on to her shoulder.

  Where had Isabella even got this photo?

  ‘She’s been through my things,’ said Vivien, in disbelief. ‘Isabella – she must have been into our room, found the box. I thought I’d hidden it—’

  Gio put his hand on her arm. ‘I gave Bella the box,’ he said softly. ‘I asked her to choose something from it. She meant well, Vivien. She really did.’

  Vivien snatched her arm away. ‘Do you know what else was in that box?’ she hissed. ‘I’ll tell you, Gio. My diary from all those years ago – it would have told her everything she needed to know about my father. Things even you don’t know. She knew this would hit me where it hurt and she was right.’ A sob spilled out of her. ‘She’s evil, Gio, why can’t you see it? Why can’t you see what she’s doing to me?’

  She fled from the hall, tears stinging. And so it was that Gio’s portrait was duly hung on the staircase alongside Isabella’s, in which the sister looked more disarmingly beautiful than ever. They appeared as a couple – a gorgeous, raven-haired couple, the Barbarossa between them like a shared trophy.

  It was months before Vivien, in a new pose but unable to hide the burgeoning dark in her eyes, joined them, wedged amid the siblings but forever the outsider.

  *

  It could be her imagination, but Vivien was sure it wasn’t.

  As Christmas approached and the hillsides froze, so there seemed to be a shift in Isabella. It was as if the portrait had given her conviction to claim what was hers. The unborn child was an unexpected inconvenience, but Isabella was still the sister. She still had Gio’s love and she still possessed the wiles to work it in her favour.

  Often, over the supper table, Isabella would move as if about to speak. Each time, Vivien tried to catch Gio’s eye. What’s going on? But her husband continued to slice his veal and talk about preparations for the New Year celebrations happening at the mansion of some friend of his, a count who lived in luxury up in the hills.

  Isabella noticed her attention. Vivien swore she was playing with her. When Gio asked a question, Isabella eyed her with fierce determination, as if challenging her to answer before she did. It made Vivien’s heart race and her palms sweat. The threat of Isabella’s voice was akin to an inanimate object springing to life, some toy at the back of a closet jerking out of the gloom, limbs outstretched, Boo! What would the sister sound like? Was her voice deep, like her brother’s; would it falter like a rusted car, or sing like a nightingale? What would she say? For all Vivien’s words – useless, frivolous words that spilled out of her as free and bland as water – she could never equal the potency that Isabella’s voice would have. Isabella’s language would be rich as liquor, intoxicating and sweet. Years of silence had aged her voice like a fine wine or a precious gem. Each syllable she uttered would be liquid gold.

  Vivien confided in Adalina.

  ‘You believe Signora Isabella is no longer sick?’ said the maid, as she checked the larder for their forthcoming Christmas feast. The question knew its answer and sought only to allow Vivien her tirade. It was how it worked between them – Lili fed the queries, while Vivien leaped on them, those little springboards that sent her frenzy flying. Vivien pondered how much Lili believed her. She had told the maid about the fall, her conviction that Isabella had caused it. But Adalina’s professionalism hadn’t allowed her to concur – it was, after all, a critical indictment. Instead she had listened, sympathised, and it was only after Vivien left the servants’ quarters that she realised Adalina hadn’t voiced her judgement either way. So the tone was set for all ensuing conversations about Isabella: Adalina allowed her to speak, but gave nothing away herself. Vivien could hardly blame her. Her own accusations were tremendous.

  ‘Oh, she’s still sick,’ said Vivien darkly. ‘She’s always been sick.’

  Adalina said nothing, just continued scrubbing potatoes. The sound was satisfying, coarsely determined, like nails attacking an itch.

  ‘This mute act…’ said Vivien. ‘It suits her purpose, doesn’t it?’

  Adalina met Vivien’s eye, but didn’t stop scrubbing.

  ‘She’s to be exonerated from every damn thing,’ Vivien rampaged on. ‘Isabella can do whatever she likes without fear of reprisal. So long as she’s without a voice, she’s reminding everyone of the misfortune that befell her. She might as well be screaming it from the rooftops, for all the noise it makes.’

  Through the window, Vivien saw Salvatore bringing the Christmas tree into the house. He had enlisted help from one of the gardeners, securing the ten-f
oot fir with ropes and carrying it over their shoulders. The pines shook and swayed.

  ‘No one dares criticise Isabella, oh no. Poor thing can’t talk back. She never has to justify any of it, does she? She never has to defend herself. Funny, isn’t it, Lili – how defence looks like guilt. The more we protest our innocence, the less innocent we seem. Isabella doesn’t have that problem. I, however, do.’

  Adalina faced her. Vivien could see the maid weighing her options, not wishing to speak out. When she did, she chose her words carefully. ‘If I can be so bold,’ she said, ‘but you and Signor Moretti are making a home here. It will be your child’s home, and, I dare say, the home of your future. You must stand together.’

  ‘Against her?’

  Adalina glanced away.

  ‘Gio won’t listen to me,’ said Vivien. ‘He doesn’t trust a word I say.’

  ‘Then you will have to try again.’

  Vivien sat while she watched the maid work. Adalina was right. Gio was the lynchpin: he alone could set her free. If only she had evidence that Isabella had sought to harm her and the baby – that would put an end to his naivety. She had to find proof. And if that meant drawing Isabella’s wretched voice out of her, having Isabella trap herself by her own denials, then that was what she must do.

  *

  Christmas came and went in a burst of twinkling lights. The Barbarossa was always a spectacular venue, and never more so than at this time of year. Gold streamers looped between the arches, lanterns adorned the staircase and paper bells were strung high from the vaults. In the hall, the giant emerald tree was majestic. Glittering lights nestled in dark fronds; shiny glass baubles hung from a silver string. A swathe of tinsel glimmered on the high branches, and at the very top stood a dancing fairy, one knee poised behind her like a ballerina. Gathered on the floor were the Christmas boxes, brought in by Salvatore: exquisitely wrapped in thick crimson paper, green ribbons tied in elaborate bows, and totally empty. It reminded Vivien of Christmases she had read about as a child. A glowing fire, candlelight, the smell of mince pies baking in the oven. In spite of Gilbert Lockhart’s religiousness, he hadn’t believed in the ‘commercialisation’ of Christmas. Thus they had spent Christmas Day praying, and nothing else but. No presents, no Santa Claus, no staring out of the window on a blue-black Christmas Eve night, waiting for the jingle of the sleigh and the stamp of reindeer hooves. Christmas at the Barbarossa was magical. She couldn’t wait for her own child to experience it, and to enjoy all that she had been denied.

  On the first day of the New Year, Vivien came downstairs and ran straight into Isabella, who was slipping in from outside. Supposedly, the sister had been out yet again with Gio, at his work. What were they getting up to out there, and why was Isabella given special access when his wife was kept in the dark?

  ‘Hello,’ said Vivien. She stood at the Christmas tree, every inch the woman of the house. As ever, Isabella entered without a word. Vivien saw she wore new leather gloves, soft, fawn, and sprinkled with snow; she looked to the window and saw the white flurry spilling from the sky, tapping gently against the panes. Isabella took off her long coat, releasing her jet hair from the collar so it tumbled down her back.

  ‘I said hello,’ repeated Vivien.

  Isabella watched her. Again, that shade of black mischief, as if Isabella held the cards to some devilishly clever trick, about which only Vivien had no clue.

  ‘Where’s Gio?’ she asked.

  Isabella gestured outside. So they had been together. The sister hung her coat on the stand and started towards the dining room, where their evening banquet had been set. Vivien noticed her slender hips and gliding sashay, and her confidence shook as she remembered her own softening thighs and non-existent waistline.

  ‘Don’t you walk away from me,’ said Vivien.

  Slowly, Isabella turned.

  Her gimlet eyes met Vivien’s. In that moment, Vivien was surer than ever. All those nights she had called herself crazy for thinking she heard Gio and his sister in conversation; all the times he had been out with her during the day; all the private stories between them, the connections that couldn’t be just a one-way street.

  She loathed those eyes.

  ‘I suppose you thought it was funny,’ said Vivien, battling to harness herself in the face of Isabella’s control. ‘Raking up my past like that. Gio thinks you made a mistake – but I know better. What did you expect he’d do? Did you expect him to actually hang that damn thing? You failed, Isabella. Against me, you’ll always fail.’

  Isabella raised an eyebrow. She didn’t know what Vivien was talking about – or she did know, and she found it amusing. Like a cat with a mouse, she teased.

  ‘And don’t think for a second I don’t know it was you who put me in hospital. You might hate me, Isabella, but do you hate your nephew, your niece, so much as to wish them dead? It makes you evil, Isabella, downright evil. Gio might not see it but I do. And, believe me, it’s only a matter of time before I convince him.’

  Isabella didn’t move. Was that the trace of a smile on her lips?

  ‘But then perhaps I won’t need to,’ Vivien went on. ‘You’ll convince him yourself because you can’t keep this act up indefinitely. He’ll see through you sooner or later. He’ll know that you’ve been pretending this whole time.’

  On cue, a car door slammed. She heard Gio’s footsteps on the gravel.

  ‘Go on, then,’ Vivien goaded, unable to stand Isabella’s silence any longer. ‘Say something – I know you want to. I know you’re desperate to. I know you want to tell me just how much you despise my being his wife, the mother to his child. Go on, then, Isabella!’

  The door opened. Gio stepped inside.

  Isabella looked at him, and he looked at Isabella.

  ‘Shall we tell her, Gio?’ Isabella said.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Italy, Summer 2016

  ‘I thought it was you,’ he says.

  I can’t believe it. It’s him; he’s here, right in front of me.

  I see it – but I can’t believe it.

  ‘James?’

  Part of me expects him to deny it. He doesn’t, of course.

  ‘How did you know where to find me?’ I’m amazed I sound as steady as I do.

  ‘You’re a hard girl to track down, that’s for sure,’ he says. I’m searching his face for a clue – affection, anger, apology… but nothing prepares me for what I find.

  ‘In the end, I went to your flat. Spoke to Belinda, was it? Not easy with the paps camped outside my house, but, you know, I had to do it…’

  He is hopeful. There it is: hope. The last thing I expected.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  He blinks, grey eyes and sandy lashes, the features I fought to conjure so many nights on my own. I thought I would never see them again. James, my James, love of my life, my heart’s obsession.

  ‘Don’t you know?’ he answers quietly. The city seems to fade around us, people occupied with useless bustle while he remains at the centre of it, untouchable, just as he had been at Calloway & Cooper: the big bad boss.

  A ripple of old excitement courses through me: the ghost of forbidden lust.

  ‘Can we go somewhere?’ he says, after it becomes clear I don’t know how to reply to his question. ‘I know this must be a shock, a really big shock, and it is to me too, if I’m honest. I always want to be honest with you, Lucy…’

  He scoops up my hand and we start walking. I don’t know where we’re going, just conscious of the feel of his palm against mine as he rushes me through the streets of Florence. It occurs to me that we could never do this at home. Only here are we unrecognisable; we’re not criminals, we’re not hated, just a couple, lovers, hand in hand, in the most romantic city in the world. James always promised we would come here. And he always promised we would sit by the Arno, which is where we go now.

  The river is shimmering black when we get there, its grassy banks fallen into shadow. The bridge is glowing with
light. In the sky, the first stars pinprick their sheet of dark. The violinists by the Uffizi fill the air with a classical timelessness, making this, now, us, seem somehow heroic.

  ‘I’d rather be out here, wouldn’t you?’ says James, pulling me close. ‘I spend too much time inside these days.’

  When we sit, he touches my cheek with the backs of his fingers. It is achingly intimate, and the same thing he did when we first kissed, in his office late at night, when the rest of the company had gone home. I remember thinking then, as now:

  Am I dreaming?

  No, I am not. And I am not dreaming when his lips find mine, however briefly, and I receive his familiar scent, the lost treasure of his touch.

  ‘I’ve missed that,’ he says, pulling away.

  I put my fingers to my lips. I’m full of the things I need to say, every thought and emotion that has passed through me these past weeks, and they pull me down so hard that none of them surface. I’ve missed it, too. I know that much.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I manage at last. ‘I thought you never wanted to see me again. After what happened… And everything you’re dealing with at home.’

  ‘Are you joking?’ He looks intensely into my eyes. He’s lost weight, his cheekbones pronounced and his square jaw peppered with stubble. ‘Lucy, I stayed away from you because I had to. Christ knows I still do, but I don’t care, I can’t help it any longer. If anything, this whole saga with the press has made me more determined than ever to pursue what I want. And I want you. I always have.’