by Victoria Fox
Throwing on her robe, Vivien fled into the hall and down the stairs, determined to catch her nemesis. She ran through the chill and flung open the door, spat out on to the porch where she abruptly came up short.
The fountain sat steady and motionless, a smooth pale ring like a socket in a skull. The cypress trees were alone. The night weighed heavy and quiet, the kind of quiet so contained and entire that to break it would be unthinkable. Vivien had the impression that she was standing in a painting, the only living, breathing thing, her surroundings existing only to situate her, and she could imagine the frame hanging in a gallery, passers-by commenting on the shocked expression on her face, that lonely woman in the doorway of a great house, smothered in darkness.
Her feet carried her to the rim of the fountain. When she peered into it, she half expected, half desired, to see Isabella’s face looking back. But all she saw was her own reflection, delicate as mist, and the swollen hulk of that atrocious fish.
She leaned closer. Water sputtered from the fish’s gullet, that not-quite easy passage. Rust, most likely: the buildup of an age. Her hand reached to touch its pout, cold and slippery, and before she could question what she was doing, her fingers crept into its mouth, stemming the flow so it sprayed and licked around her fist, soaking her night sleeve. She explored that smooth cavity, deeper and further, tighter in…
There.
Her fingers clasped around it, hard edges gripped. Slowly, she drew it out. The fish spouted freely, its blockage released, the steady gush of liquid like a new pulse.
What terrible secret have you been hiding?
Moonlight coated the discovery, a cool, patient spotlight.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Italy, Summer 2016
We go back to Max’s place. I let him steer me, hail the taxi, too dazed to object. Max seems determined to lift my spirits, fixing me a drink and setting me up on his patio that overlooks the river. I am grateful that he doesn’t ask about my conversation.
‘Are you feeling OK?’ It’s the only reference he makes.
I nod. He accepts it. ‘So,’ he sits opposite me, the sun behind him so his face is in shadow, dark and intense, ‘Vivien’s diary.’
I’m grateful that we are back on neutral ground. But one look at his troubled expression reveals that what he’s about to tell me isn’t going to be easy.
‘Much of it we already knew.’ He breathes out. ‘How Vivien felt about the Barbarossa, about Gio, about his sister… It’s pretty intense.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘Then we get to the end. And Isabella.’
‘What about her?’
The sun moves behind a cloud, drenching us in shade.
‘She was involved with Dinapoli,’ says Max. ‘The uncle.’
‘What?’
‘Vivien talks at length about it. Her husband never knew. She’s pleased she’s got something on her – you know, something he has no idea about.’
I sit forward. ‘Was it consensual? With Dinapoli?’
Max shakes his head.
‘Oh, my God. That’s awful. Poor Isabella.’
‘Vivien didn’t think so. Her hate is clear right up to the last entry. She can’t see Isabella as a victim. She decides she must have seduced Dinapoli just like she tried to seduce Vivien’s father.’ He fills me in on Gilbert Lockhart’s shock arrival at the house. I’m amazed. ‘Then the diary ends,’ says Max, ‘suddenly. I think some of the pages are missing. I’m not surprised… given the other thing.’
‘There’s more?’
Max pauses. ‘Vivien and Lili: they were planning a trap for Isabella.’
‘A trap?’
‘To get rid of her.’
I shake my head. ‘Come on, Max – this is your aunt we’re talking about.’
‘Yes, and Lili could be very determined once she set her mind to something.’
I don’t believe it. I tell him so.
‘Read it for yourself,’ he says, producing the diary. ‘Lucy, this goes deeper than either of us was prepared for. Isabella was damaged, we both know that, but this was serious. Gio Moretti had no idea what was going on up in that attic. Isabella was subjected to Dinapoli’s crazy experiments and it seems to me he took liberties with retrieving more than her voice. She was a child – fourteen, fifteen? All that time he must have spent alone with her, in the name of work, unquestioned. He was in love with her. For Vivien, it was the prize she’d been waiting for. Her chance at revenge.’
Reluctant, I take the journal. It burns in my hand with a red-hot warning. I open it. Vivien’s writing is scrawled across the pages, increasingly fraught.
‘This is what it’s all been about,’ says Max. ‘My aunt’s apology.’
I recall the postcard I sent to Vivien. Will she have read it? Will it make sense to her? I turn Max’s idea over as the manic pages spill through my hands, screaming capitals, raging underlines, floods of spilled ink like the guts of an insect: Isabella, Giacomo Dinapoli… a horrid secret rotting at the core of the Barbarossa. The ‘tragedy’ at the castillo: those ‘events that took place last winter’.
‘Go on,’ I encourage.
‘Vivien knew about the abuse – but instead of feeling sorry for Isabella, she continues to despise her. Isabella’s done too much, her actions too unforgivable. There’s no going back, as far as Vivien’s concerned. So what does she do?’ He rubs his chin. ‘She knows a sensation like this would kill her husband’s reputation for good. She’d do anything for Gio and that includes silencing his sister. Isabella’s too much of a risk. She secured Lili’s help and they finished her off.’
This is getting more far-fetched by the minute. He sounds like a soap opera.
But Max is grave. ‘Think about it,’ he says. ‘She’s solving two problems in one: getting rid of her adversary and protecting her husband and son. She talked at length about her upset at Isabella being involved in Gio’s work. Imagine if a scandal on this scale got out. Giovanni Moretti continuing the work of his abusive uncle…’
‘I think we’re getting a bit ahead of ourselves—’
‘Are we?’ He leans forward. ‘Lucy, I’m convinced. This is what happened. This is where it comes to a head and this is where the diary ends.’
‘It doesn’t mean she…’ I trail off. Max watches me.
‘It’s impossible,’ I say, standing, and he stands too.
‘Is it? Finally, she had a reason to hang this on – what Vivien really wanted to do. When Gio found out about her crime, he ran. He couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t touch her. Couldn’t stand to breathe the same air as her.’
‘And you’re accusing your aunt of this as well?’
Max’s face sets. ‘It hasn’t been an easy conclusion.’
‘So this was her apology.’ I bite my lip. ‘This was it.’
‘Perhaps Lili talked Vivien into it. Persuaded her it was the only route. When she died, the way she gripped my hand… it was so important, Lucy; she had to have her message heard. Because what happened between them was drastic.’
Those pieces are swimming together more definitely now, the link between them solidifying, joining parts together, pooling and multiplying and merging.
‘Haven’t you ever done anything impulsive?’ Max asks. He takes a step towards me so our faces are inches apart. There’s an energy coming off him, a wild energy I haven’t met before. My skin prickles in proximity to it.
‘You know I have,’ I say.
‘Maybe they knew they shouldn’t,’ says Max. ‘It was dangerous and wrong. But they did it anyway because the way they saw it, the risk was worth it.’
His eyes flicker across my mouth, in the single most promising and exciting moment of my life. And then he kisses me.
CHAPTER FORTY
Vivien, Italy, 1986
It was a box, small, the kind of box that might contain an engagement ring. Its environment had rotted what once might have been leather, faded gold stitching around its edge, and an indentation,
which, when pressed, should spring its lid. Vivien tried, and when it failed she tore at the object, scratched it, knowing it had to open.
At once, it did.
To her alarm, the box did contain a ring. It was tarnished almost beyond recognition, like a shipwreck left for centuries at the bottom of the sea. A faint sparkle shone through despite its condition, a glimmer of hope and resilience that was somehow heartbreaking: a lone, enduring twinkle in a long night. Vivien went to slip it on to her finger but it was too small. She replaced it in its box and hurried inside.
Back in her room, she worked fast. Vivien shone a light on her find, drying it carefully, lovingly, and when she caught sight of a further detail beneath the rust, she scraped and scoured obsessively for an hour or more, losing track of time, the work so precise that a headache yawned behind her desperate eyes. Finally, it was revealed.
An inscription, only just legible, appeared on the inside:
TO MY ONLY LOVE, ISABELLA – YOURS, ALWAYS, GIACOMO
Vivien stared at it, as if in the study of those eight words they might reveal more of themselves. For, as they were, they made no sense.
Isabella… her uncle…
It couldn’t be.
There was an imperfection at the bottom of the ring box, invisible unless one was searching for it. The cushioned panel had been taken out and then sewn back on, not quite square with its contours, the stitching just detectible.
Vivien picked it loose; it came apart easily. Beneath was a folded piece of card. It had survived well, cocooned in its shell. She read inside:
To whoever finds this, please help me. He does not love me. He hurts me. He wants me against my will. What he is doing is wrong. Find me. Save me. I beg you.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Italy, Summer 2016
I’m scared to go back to the Barbarossa, but I must. I must tell Vivien that she’s safe, that we’re not going to tell the police about her crime. We’re not going to tell anyone what happened on a winter’s night all those years ago, and this is where it ends. Maybe, if she knows that, she can stop fearing and fighting every day of her life. She can stop torturing herself. She can emerge from her confines, from the Barbarossa and back into the world. She might find pleasure in small places. She hasn’t got long. The trips to the doctor, the pills Adalina hid from me, prove it… She’ll be gone soon.
Max takes a lock of my hair and tucks it behind my ear.
‘What’s on your mind?’ he murmurs.
I turn to him in bed. We kiss, the smell of him like lemons in the heat.
‘Isabella…’ I say. ‘I keep playing out what happened to her. Vivien and your aunt must have been so full of regret. It’s why Vivien’s shut herself away, why she’s too ashamed to be seen. I bet Isabella never left either of them.’
Max continues to stroke my hair. He wears a faraway look.
It’s my turn to ask what he is thinking.
‘I still find it weird,’ he says, ‘that Vivien would employ someone with the same name as my aunt. I thought it was strange before, but now… Now we know what they did, you’d think she’d want to forget, not be reminded of it every day.’
I push myself up on one elbow. ‘What are you talking about?’
Max rubs his earlobe with his thumb. ‘I never thought it worth mentioning,’ he says. ‘Adalina was my aunt’s name. Everyone called her Lili – she was only ever known as Lili. In fact, for years, I thought that was the only name she had. But then I found out it was short for Adalina. Don’t you think it’s odd that Vivien has another maid now called the same? I mean, it’s not as if it’s a common name.’
I’m surprised at this discovery.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘That is strange.’
‘They were obviously so close. I’d have thought it would be too painful.’
‘Perhaps that’s why. She wanted to replace her?’
Max isn’t convinced, but says, ‘Nothing that woman does could amaze me any more.’
I chew my lip. ‘Do you think Gio Moretti is still alive?’
Max narrows his eyes at me. ‘We got the truth, Lucy. We can stop now.’
‘I know. I just… There’s something missing.’
I can’t help thinking about Vivien. Alone in a house full of memories, ailing towards her inevitable death, her husband long gone and her son…
‘What happened to the son?’ I turn to Max.
He lifts his shoulders. ‘Gio probably took him.’
I frown. ‘Yeah,’ I say, thinking of the boy, dark curls and blue eyes, and then letting him go as quickly as I caught him. ‘Probably.’
*
I wake early the next morning, knowing what I must do.
I creep out of bed and phone my father before I can talk myself out of it.
‘Dad?’
‘Lucy!’ One word: so full of feeling and hope. He’s never sounded like this – not even when Mum died. It hits me how unfair I’ve been. Running into wilderness when all along there was this pair of arms behind me, waiting to bring me home.
‘I don’t know where to begin,’ he chokes out. ‘Are you OK? Where are you?’
‘I’m still in Italy.’
There’s a pause, too much to communicate. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he says at last. ‘I thought you could tell me anything.’
Why had I never considered that this would be my father’s reaction? All I’d expected was disappointment and disapproval, when he just wanted to be there. He wasn’t interested in punishing me or telling me off, and if I’d had any sense I might have entertained this possibility. After all, I had been there for him when nobody else was. Those years we’d shared were irreplaceable; of course he was never going to turn me away. A hot sob threatens to break free.
‘I’m sorry, Dad.’
‘All that you’ve been through, my darling… all on your own.’
‘I had Bill.’ There was that sob again.
‘I’ll kill that man if I ever see him,’ says Dad. The thought almost makes me laugh, the idea of James and my father at deadlock. They couldn’t be more different: Dad, gentle, patient, interested, truthful; and James, well, none of the above.
‘I was too ashamed to talk to you about it,’ I explain. ‘The affair was one thing, but then what happened with Grace…’ Even now, I don’t feel I have rights to speak her name; I don’t deserve to. ‘It’s like I got myself in too far and I didn’t know how to get out again. I’m sorry I stopped calling. Every time we spoke it felt as if I was lying to you, because there was this huge part of my life I kept secret.’
‘Did you tell your sisters?’
‘No.’
‘Not even Tilda?’ It’s interesting that Dad says this. I always thought that exciting, adventurous Tilda was so far removed from my own nature. But now I see that my father doesn’t agree. He has known our similarities since we were girls, and the course my life has taken over the past year proves it.
‘Is she back from Barbados?’ I ask.
‘Obviously not, then,’ says Dad. ‘Yes, she’s been back a while. All three of them have. Well, not permanently, of course, they’ve got their own lives. Mary and I are enjoying seeing more of them, though. It’s nice. Mary cooks a Sunday roast, and most weeks we get at least one of them over. It’s since you went away, my sweetheart. Everyone’s been so worried, all the messages we’ve sent and the times we’ve tried to call. It’s brought us together, if nothing else. We love you, Lucy.’
Bill used to tell me that I made things hard for myself. Put a situation in a bad light to make it easier when life went wrong. These people, my family, had never been against me. Any one of them would have supported me, but instead I chose to go it alone. And look how far that had got me, hiding out in another country, and all I yearned for in that instant was to go home and sit around the table for one of Mary’s Sunday lunches and listen to them all chatter on about their lives.
‘When are you coming home?’ Dad asks.
‘Soon.’
/> ‘When?’
‘I can’t say right now. But trust me, Dad… Just trust me.’
‘I do trust you.’
‘Does everyone hate me?’ I ask after a moment.
‘Everyone? No. We miss you and love you.’
‘I mean… You know what I mean.’
My dad takes a second to reply. ‘I don’t mind what everyone thinks. They don’t know you. I know you. You’re my daughter. And I know for a fact that you are a wise, good, kind-hearted thing, and the rest of it matters not a jot.’
*
Immediately after I get off the phone, I go to the window and look out at the hillside. There it is: the Barbarossa. It’s like another universe. Max embraces me from behind, kisses my neck. Warmth spreads up from my toes, right to my fingertips, cradling my heart. It’s too soon to wonder, too soon to hope. I’m here with Max and I’m happy.
‘Spend today with me,’ he says, ‘before you go back.’
I agree, and Max makes me breakfast, which I eat sitting on his terrace wearing one of his old T-shirts. Afterwards we stroll into the Italian sunshine and the world is renewed, the air crisp and fresh as if I’m stepping into it for the first time. The sun seems brighter, the sky more blue, the voices around me like singing.
We see Florence as I have never seen it before. It’s different as a couple, the possibilities multiply, a secret door closed to my single self, of tables for two and shared bowls of pasta, of strolling round museums hand in hand, of licking ice cream on church steps, relaxed in companionable quiet. A city rediscovered, glittering gold.