Extremities

by C A Devine

  ‘I wrecked the car. Oh hell, I wrecked the car,’ my voice squeaked.

  Angelo was in the passenger seat with his head in his lap. I’m sorry didn’t really seem appropriate.

  ‘You just totalled the car,’ his tone was neutral. No emotion. ‘You just totalled a one hundred grand Aston Martin.’ Did he have to put it so bluntly? A snort burst from his nose, then a snigger, then a giggle, ‘Woo hoo! That was the best crash I was in all year,’ he blurted on a full-out laugh. ‘I knew you’d love it.’ I couldn’t help but smile.

  As we stepped back onto the plane he turned to face me, lifting my chin so I met his eyes, ‘I would like you to come stay with me at my villa in Provence.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I work in Marseilles. You can have the run of the house in the day. There are a few cars there,’ he gave a small smile, ‘come and go as you please. Have some fun on the country roads. Stay a day, a week, a month, whatever you want.’

  I had spent years with a free and easy nomadic life, but lately it wasn’t the idyllic existence I once believed it to be. Maybe a short stop in one place wouldn’t be so bad, a holiday of sorts.

  Was moving in with an Italian millionaire you didn’t know a wise move? Okay, stupid question. But I was ten when I first heard the phrase the life less ordinary and ever since it had been my mantra. This was surely one of those life experiences to reach out and grab before it passed by, never to be offered again.

  *

  The villa was glorious. Italian marble floors, crisp white walls, rustic wood furniture and a terracotta terrace surrounding a black bottomed pool. The estate stretched for as far as the eyes could see.

  Angelo gave me the tour, wandering down dirt tracks of rich ochre soil, through fields of red poppies and fragrant purple lavender.

  Half a mile from the house we stopped at an old stone stable block, framed lusciously against a thick privet hedge. Imposing double doors were chained and padlocked twice. Angelo pressed his right thumb against the first lock and it popped open. He used his left thumb on the second.

  ‘Fancy little gadget,’ I said.

  He smiled as he grabbed the left door and dragged it outward. He was grinning from ear to ear as he grabbed my hand and drew me forward. We crossed the threshold and my limbs start to tingle, ‘Oh wow.’ A car stood in each of the old horse stalls. I cast my eyes around, twelve cars in total: a Bentley roadster, a Porsche Cayenne, a Mercedes roadster and another Aston Martin, to name but a few. ‘Oh wow,’ I said again.

  ‘I keep this place locked, but if you want to drive one just let me know and I’ll bring it up to the house before I go in the morning.’ I nodded; I couldn’t speak.

  I skipped around like a kid in a sweetshop, going from bay to bay examining the booty. ‘Come here, look at this,’ he stopped at a Ferrari 599 GTB, lay down on the ground and pulled himself under the car. I crouched and gazed into a specially lowered floor. I crawled in beside him. ‘600 horsepower, V12 engine, top speed of 205 mph, 0-60 in 3.7 seconds. It’s an incredible piece of engineering,’ he turned his head to look at me, a huge smile on his face. Our lips stood an inch apart.

  ‘The stats,’ I said, the air backing up in my lungs, ‘the stats are very important.’

  ‘Very,’ he nodded, his gaze probing. Endless seconds passed before finally he leaned in, brushing his lips off mine. He added pressure and urgency. I felt the tingling again. I reached over and pulled him to me, I used my tongue to explore his wet hot mouth. He responded with the same hunger. I thrust my hand down and grabbed his belt. He pulled back gasping, ‘We can’t.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked, my voice husky.

  ‘We … I just can’t.’ He scrambled out from under the car and walked away.

  So why was I here?

  *

  I had to climb up steps into the high bed that night. But as I slid between the heavy white cotton sheets alone, the mixed messages of the stable block preyed on my mind. Still I sank into a sound and settled sleep, cocooned between the four posts, dreaming of poppies and childhood and cars.

  I was dragged into consciousness by a sudden chill. I grasped for the bedclothes, but they weren’t there. I gasped in fright, springing up. Angelo stood there, naked. I blinked. He was still there.

  I opened my mouth to speak. He shot up the steps and climbed on top of me. Was this some erotic dream? Was it real? I grappled back towards the big wooden headboard, but he towered over me. My body gave an involuntary shake of fear. He pushed his mouth on mine. My air cut off. I lashed out, punching at his head. I kicked at his legs. He released my mouth. ‘Get the fuck away from me,’ I shrieked.

  His eyes went wide, shock clouded his face. He scrambled back. ‘Sorry, I’m sorry,’ he spluttered, climbing out of the bed. ‘I thought it was what you wanted,’ his cheeks flushed red, ‘you said …’

  ‘No. Yes. No,’ I sucked in a breath, ‘it is, but I just expected a little more, I don’t know, romance. Maybe some kissing, groping, or even a bottle of wine.’

  ‘Of course, I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking,’ he started for the door.

  ‘No,’ I let out a heavy sigh, ‘it’s okay. You can stay.’ I tapped the bed beside me. He hesitated a moment, his face still flushed. ‘Please,’ I patted the bed again. He stepped forward and lowered himself onto the edge. ‘What did you mean today when you said, “I can’t”?’

  He shook his head, ‘I don’t want … I can’t.’ He got up to go again.

  I pulled him back down and pressed my lips against his. I ran my tongue around his mouth and tasted the same heat. This time when I reached down he didn’t flinch away. ‘Let’s do this slowly.’

  Like his entrance, it was awkward, clumsy even. This sleek Italian was all show and no experience. I felt like a teacher instructing a student. Yet it was uncomfortably alluring, intriguing.

  ‘Ouch, I hope you never describe me in bed.’

  ‘Awkward and clumsy aren’t words I’d use to describe you, New York.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’ Go Mac.

  ‘Or inexperienced,’ she smirked.

  ‘Are you calling me a slut?’ I loved this woman.

  He lavished me with attention and gifts I didn’t particularly want – not that I didn’t like or appreciate them. But nomadic living doesn’t lend itself to material acquisition. I did, however, enjoy touring Provence on weekends, helping him to shop for art, eating good food and drinking fine wines and champagne. And I loved the cars.

  He would disappear into Marseilles each day for work – sometimes he’d be gone a couple of days. I would take a drive most mornings to avoid the grouchy housekeeper who refused to speak to me except in a tirade of super-speed French. It was probably best I couldn’t catch a word. Otherwise I would lounge by the pool or just kick back and read. Some days I would explore the estate. There were 100 acres of lavender and poppy fields, scattered with old tumbledown outhouses. The odd one was filled with rusted farm equipment, but most lay empty. The stable block was the only outbuilding still fully intact.

  I had been in Provence a month when I suffered my first restless moment. I had planned to spend a day by the pool, but now was wishing I had asked Angelo to bring up the Bentley. I searched the house for the stable keys, but I couldn’t find a trace of them. I wandered down there anyway thinking I might find a way in. I pulled futilely at the lock. I wandered around the building. At the back there was a pedestrian door. I slammed my shoulder against it. It didn’t budge. Even if it had I still wouldn’t have been able to get a car out anyway. I was about to take the final turn back to the main door when I noticed a gap in the hedge. I wandered over. A dirt track ran through the thick bush and on into the forest.

  I started down the lane. The light was dim, the canopy thick overhead. The forest loomed dark left and right. I kept to the rutted track. It trailed on for a mile before reaching another thick hedge and this time a gate.

  I climbed the wrought iron and vaulted onto the tarmac below. The road ran left to ri
ght. The forest expanded straight ahead. I tossed a mental coin and headed left.

  I took up a brisk pace to keep the chill of the thick canopy away. The thin light held on for another mile before breaking free in a burst of bright sunlight as I reached fragrant fields. I ploughed on, this time in sweat, for another half an hour before hitting the edge of a village. I wandered past houses. The place was dead. I didn’t see a soul as I walked another half a mile into the centre. I finally hit a square with shops and two cafés. I was starving. Both were closed. I was about to turn back when I noticed people sitting at tables up ahead.

  I approached the terrace. The sign read Café Breton – Galet et Cidre. I took a seat and ordered. I closed my eyes and turned my face up to the early summer sun.

  I was shaken out of my daydream with a bang to the leg of my chair. I opened my eyes. Two crumply old men, one with a walking stick, shuffled up to the adjacent table. They dropped into two chairs and leaned back in their seats. One let out a deep phlegmy cough and pulled a pack of cigarettes from a shirt pocket. He lit up, while the other mopped his sweaty brow with a cotton handkerchief. The waiter appeared, laid two brandy bowls on the table and dropped into a third chair.

  I pricked up my ears wondering how much I could understand. ‘It happened again last night,’ the waiter began. ‘Those cars coming and going to the estate. And that van, around midnight.’ A couple walked by sniping at one another and I lost the conversation for a moment. ‘And look at that guy. Look at the colour of him. With all that money, that cannot be right.’

  ‘I know, I know, you have said it one hundred times,’ Cigarette-guy said and started to laugh, ‘he looks like a terrorist.’ It ended in another phlegmy cough. Were they talking about Angelo?

  ‘It is a very strange situation. He is in that big house alone.’

  ‘I hear he has a woman now,’ Handkerchief-man said.

  ‘Really? Is she worth me taking as much interest in as Jacques here is in him?’ the laugher started up again, followed by more coughing. This time he stubbed out the cigarette.

  ‘Michel said he saw one of those Ferraris in Avignon. He heard the driver talk, he was English,’ the waiter was in no hurry to concede his point.

  ‘Just because Michel sees a Ferrari in Avignon doesn’t mean it came from here,’ Cigarette-guy kept up his cackle. ‘There are more Ferraris in the world than the ones belonging to the terrorist. Just because Michel has lived his whole life in the village,’ he shook his head.

  Cars and vans in the night; was Angelo up to something dodgy? I wasn’t naive enough to think having all those cars was normal, even for a rich guy. It might be time to cut my losses, sooner rather than later.

  That thought came storming through my brain again when Angelo stomped in late from work that night. He didn’t see me peering through the crack in the salon door as he banged through the front hall. He hurled his briefcase onto a chair, grabbed an antique vase from the dresser and smashed it against the crisp white wall. I was beginning to realise how little I knew about the man. When he picked up the second vase, I padded across the living room and out through the glass doors to the pool. I stripped bare and dived in.

  ‘There’s even naked in your writing.’

  ‘That’s how we were born. You ready to turn over yet?’

  ‘Lucky just got naked.’

  Max smirked, ‘I’ll assume that is a no.’

  ‘Lucky,’ I heard him roar, ‘Lucky McKenzie.’ I didn’t answer.

  ‘McKenzie? Huh?’

  Max nodded.

  He stormed out onto the terrace. He was in his flashy Italian suit. I was naked in the pool. He stared at me for the briefest of moments before exploding, ‘What are you doing?’ He threw his arms up and out preacher style. ‘Where are your clothes? Are you some kind of whore? Get out of there and cover yourself. Now!’ Spittle flew from his mouth. He tore around the stone edge, brushing along the lavender bushes, skidding to a stop on the wet tiles. He swung out an arm, grabbing for my hair.

  I scrambled away from the edge, kicking out wildly. I ducked under with my mouth open, scrabbling to the surface a moment later and sucking in a breath of thick perfumed air. I started to choke. He swung out again. I tried to paddle back, but I was struggling for breath. My head ducked under again. I couldn’t breathe. I had no air. I kicked my legs. I broke the surface just as his arm was swinging. He spread his fingers in anticipation. I kicked out at the hand. It impacted. I bent my knee and pushed. He reached further, keeping a tight grasp on the edge. His fingers touched my skin, but they failed to get a grip. A growl leapt forth from within him, ‘I said, get out. Now!’ A shudder ran through me. I pulled further into the middle. If he wanted me to leave, he was going to have to come in and ruin that suit. I tried to keep my expression calm. I chanted No fear, no fear, in my head. We stared each other down, his eyes wild and glassy, ‘Now!’ It reverberated through the night air. In hindsight, he had never seen me swimming. It was something I did each day when he was gone.

  I stopped swimming, cleared my throat and affected my best schoolteacher voice, ‘You can go inside and calm down. And when you are ready to be civilised, come back out and apologise.’

  His eyes bulged from their sockets. He stretched further still, tottering on the edge. He slid forward. His fingers started scrabbling, his hands slipping. He wobbled, back and forth, back and forth. Time stood still. A roar sprang from his chest. He hurled himself backwards, landing on his tailbone.

  He scrambled up onto his feet, his suit wet, his face purple. He hoisted a teak lounger into the air, let out another roar and threw it towards my head. I dived under. The heavy wood hit the surface and I watched it slowly sink. I sat on the bottom weighing up my options, but finally I had to surface. He was gone.

  It was over.

  I swam on, shivering in the warm water. I needed to muster the courage to haul myself out of the pool, go inside, gather my things and leave. But one lap after another, and another, I kept dragging myself through the water.

  ‘Would you leave?’

  ‘Leave what?’ Max said, looking up from her papers.

  ‘If your boyfriend flew into a fit of rage?’

  ‘Yes,’ she looked straight at me.

  ‘No question?’

  ‘No question,’ Max said, ‘why would anyone put up with that?’ She must have seen something in my face. ‘You’d never do that, Mac.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘That’s not who you are.’

  She didn’t know me.

  He walked back out onto the terrace before I had completed my marathon swim. ‘I am doing what you suggested. I wish to apologise,’ his eyes focused somewhere over my shoulder. ‘I had a bad day. I had no right to take it out on you. No-one can see into our garden. You have the right to swim how you wish.’ He stepped back through the door without waiting for my response. Quite the speech. I wasn’t feeling the love.

  I swam ten more lengths before hauling myself out. I grabbed a towel and wrapped it round me before shuffling indoors.

  ‘We should go out for dinner. To the village,’ he smiled at me as I walked in. ‘It’s a beautiful evening, we should walk, take in some air, drink champagne.’ He stepped towards me, I stepped back. ‘I’m sorry,’ he lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘Can we forget about it and just start the evening again?’ He took my right hand, lifted it and kissed the knuckle, ‘Please forgive me.’

  I said nothing.

  ‘Look, something happened at work, something bad. It means I’m going to have to go away for a few days. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. I’m sorry. I don’t want to leave it like this. I want to have a nice evening out, with you, before I go. Okay?’

  I was gone anyway, it didn’t matter to me.

  The evening was civilised. He was back to normal. I was mentally on a train speeding towards San Tropez or maybe Monte Carlo.

  When he left for his trip the next morning, it took me six minutes to pack. Did he deserv
e an explanation? A note? A face to face break up? Probably. It had been a good month, for the most part. He was charming in a boyish way, he was generous to a fault, and I’d be sad to see the last of the house. But the night before had unnerved me. It was better this way.

  I jumped on the first train and stepped out in Aix-en-Provence on market day.

  11

  The Scirocco

  ‘So lover boy blew his top in a fit of temper and Lucky blew him off.’ I turned over, placing the pages down beside me.

  ‘Do you think she’s being unreasonable?’ Max asked.

  I shrugged. ‘What made him so angry?’

  ‘Maybe he’s just a psychopath.’

  ‘Does that really happen? Are people just born like that?’ A gust kicked at the pages, threatening to scatter them. I picked up the bundle and handed them back to her. ‘Or do they see one too many things that makes the rage boil over into something uncontrollable?’

  ‘It sounds like you want to excuse him,’ she shoved the sheets into her basket.

  Was I? Was there no excuse? ‘No. I was just wondering why you have such an angry character.’

  ‘Maybe you are right, maybe people have their reasons to be angry, but what about all the people who experience tragedy and catastrophe and don’t boil over? And why does it happen at the expense of those they are supposed to love?’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about this?’ I looked over at her.