UNDER THE VULCANIA
MAUREEN FREELY
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
A Note on the Author
By the Same Author
Chapter One
She wanted to be aroused, not awakened. Not treated with care, but shaken, just to prove the existence of a core. She wanted to be unwrapped, and because she had fallen back to sleep after the first muted alarm, her wish came true. She dreamed she was a package. She dreamed she was being jostled by a pair of unseen hands, turned upside down and shunted backwards and forwards as these hands struggled to remove the ribbon, as they ripped the thick, noisy paper with the nervous roughness of ill-restrained curiosity, and opened the box, and plunged into the tissue paper, first pressing it for some indication of the shape of its secret, then tearing it apart layer by layer until the light began to filter through, first gently, and then suddenly with such harshness that it annihilated all shadow. Now a face was peering down at her, a face so close and so large that she could not begin to recognize its owner. ‘There seems to have been a mistake,’ it was saying, ‘There’s nothing in here. Nothing at all.’
Fiona opened her eyes. The light coming in through the windows was, though weak and white, too much for her. She made to turn away from it. As she did so, her feet struck against something that she knew at once to be her breakfast tray.
For no good reason, because she had no grievances to nurture, she felt like kicking the tray off the bed. As always, she restrained herself, and instead sat up, rearranged the pillows, turned off the alarm before it could sound again, placed the tray on her lap, drank down the thimble-full of juice, poured herself half a cup of weak tea, surveyed the pills next to the toast, and glanced at the disconcerting picture of happiness in the mirror on the wardrobe. Who was this china figurine eating breakfast in bed and why was she smiling?
She could hear her husband in the bathroom, shaving at the basin. Turning off the water, he called out, ‘Are you awake, dear?’
‘Just barely,’ Fiona said, in the half whisper that was in danger of becoming her natural voice.
‘I’m on my way downstairs. Can I bring anything up for you?’
‘No. Please. You’ve done enough already. I’m sure I could have gone downstairs for breakfast. Just tell the children I’ll be driving them to school.’
‘There’s no need for you to overtax yourself. I can easily drop them off on my way to the hospital.’ He emerged from the bathroom as he fastened the buttons on his fresh blue shirt. Then he looked up at her, his smile somewhat undercut by the sad clinical knowingness of his gaze. She tried, out of fairness, to detach herself, to see him as a stranger might see him – admire him as a specimen, for his bones (fine), his complexion (olive), his eyes (large, dark), his muscle tone (admirable), his manner (bedside at its most professional). It didn’t work.
‘No,’ she insisted. Now, as an unjustified rush of claustrophobia threatened to overtake her, it was all she could do to maintain that half whisper. ‘Darling. You must try to give me the benefit of the doubt sometimes. I’m better now. I’m not going to have a relapse. Let me take the children to school for once. I’ve thought about it and…’ Hating herself even as she did it, she paused for effect. ‘It’s what I want.’
It’s what I want. Even today, how many women in the world could claim that as their magic formula? As she got into the clothes she had selected and he had laid out for her the previous evening, as she brushed her thick curls and slipped into her shoes and headed slowly down the spiral staircase, she surveyed the felicitous results: this house she had gutted with the blessing of her generous, if somewhat calculating husband and then rebuilt according to her own, capricious lights, combining styles that did not belong together, rebelliously mixing incompatible patterns and colours, inventing optical jokes that made a mockery of the dignified exterior… only to find her originality praised – and even worse, imitated – by the very people she had hoped to insult. It was a palace of socially acceptable subversions, this house. From top to bottom, it was a whim come true, a repository of half desires she had long ago outgrown. But no one, and least of all its other occupants, seemed to see this. No one had ever complained about the wrongheadedness of its decor, the impracticality of its layout. Try as she might, she had never managed once to offend a single sensibility. This failure had (or so Fiona secretly suspected) sealed her success as an architect.
And even her success as a mother – if the ends justified the means. But weren’t they too well-behaved these days? Couldn’t that be the most worrying sign of all? When she joined her family in the kitchen, she was almost sorry to see her sombre thirteen-year-old son stacking his cereal bowl so obediently in the dishwasher. She almost despaired to watch her serene ten-year-old daughter adjusting the ribbon that held back her long, sleek, perfectly brushed mane of chestnut hair. What went on in their heads? she wondered. Did they have any idea what went on in hers?
More to the point – did her husband have any idea? From the wise, forgiving smile with which he now greeted her, it would appear he did. ‘Sit down, dear,’ he said as he pulled out a chair. When she had done so, he gave her a doctorly pat on her back and said, ‘I can’t tell you how good it is to see you back in your old place at this table.’ He was a good man, she reminded herself. A devoted parent. A consistent and uncomplaining provider. Once, long ago, he had been the fatherly lover she then required, but now… He made her blood run cold.
It was the sharp morning air that revived her – and the children, too. They had a brief argument about which radio station to tune into. They complained that she wasn’t aggressive enough in the rush-hour traffic. ‘You used to be a demon,’ they reminded her. She was pleased that they remembered. Daniel had a sneezing fit. Ruth caught him trying to wipe his hands on his shirtsleeve and called him a name. He made as if to hit her. She screamed. He called her a name. Fiona sighed with relief.
She offered to drive Daniel up the last hill to his school. He said no, that he preferred to walk. Ruth explained afterwards that this was because he was afraid his friends would laugh at him if they saw him getting out of a baby-blue Mercedes. No chance of getting noticed, though, by the double- and triple-parked mothers outside Ruth’s school. They were refreshingly hostile as they struggled to look as if they were accommodating each other.
The sun was just breaking through the mist as Fiona found her way out of the gridlock. The houses on the hill on the other side of the valley went from grey to pinkish gold. And just as suddenly, out of nowhere, a whim was born. A whim that could – she knew at once – easily turn into something more perverse.
Would she? Could she? She pulled to the side of the road to check her diary and her shopping list. Yes, she still had ten days to get ready for that competition. Yes, even the urgent household chores could wait. They could do without curtain sashes, shoelaces, and six fluted wineglasses for one more day. The lunch she had scheduled she could shift with a phone call. Jacqui would be more than pleased, she suspected, about the suggested change of venue.
She signalled to go back into the traffic. When a man in a painter’s van paused to give way, she thanked him with a smi
le that was, she thought afterwards, a bit too forward. He took it demurely, as a comment on his good looks. As she swung off to the left at the next crossroads and he to the right, she asked herself, would he have done the same thing if he had known she was on her way to the Vulcania?
Chapter Two
How serene it looked on its sculpted hilltop. How blankly it presided over its bare circular drive. It was baldly majestic in the way that only a recently renovated Art Deco monument could be. If only… if only… but such thoughts did not pay for shoes or groceries, Raul reminded himself as he guided his small motorcycle to its designated hiding place. This was a precaution he did not need to take, but in a job like this, it took on a certain symbolic importance. It comforted him to begin each day by covering his tracks.
A pair of puppies were at play outside his office window. The spectacle of their awkward, innocent antics provided a welcome, if only intermittent, respite from the jumble of order forms on his desk. Fifty pounds of oranges, twenty-five cases of California sparkling wine, five reconstructed sunbeds, one hundred and seventy white roses, seventy-nine ten-ounce bottles of massage oil, all urgently required… and for what? He despaired as he surveyed the memo marked ‘Today’s Appointments’. The Department of Health – again. What did that mean? Two training seminars. Three interviews. The lawyer. A prospective investor, and a policewoman for lunch. All this and who could tell what else to fit in with his usual unending string of personal consultations… and all of it depended on his own ability, apparently never questioned by his gullible clientele, to turn in an impeccable performance. How long could he keep it up? He found the answer on his desk, in the school portraits of his four young and beseechingly devoted motherless daughters.
The phone rang. As he reached for the receiver, he recomposed his face. ‘Raul here. How may I be of assistance?’ It was the night manager coming off duty with his routine report. As they ran through their list, Raul watched the last stragglers from the night shift drift past his window. They looked as if every muscle in their bodies ached: a few were even limping. And there, beyond the row of willow trees, waiting to clock in, was the morning shift – all freshly showered biceps and tight jeans. At nine on the dot, the servants’ entrance swung open to admit them, while in the car park beyond, the first customers were already emerging from their cars.
Chapter Three
Two were carrying briefcases. One had a string of toddlers in tow. Most had sports bags and squash racquets. As they milled around the foyer, waiting to be registered, the usual things happened. Women with children of similar ages clustered together, continuing whatever forgettable conversation they had begun the day before outside the school gates. The toddlers climbed on the leather furniture and tugged at their mother’s arm. Two long-lost acquaintances recognized each other, crying, ‘What are you doing here?’ – and slightly annoying the sharp-featured woman who was standing between them and trying to talk into a mobile phone.
Meanwhile, behind the front desk, Gretchen and Mariella were busy double-checking appointments. Mariella was wearing a Mao suit. It made her look too butch – Raul would have to talk to her, but later. Now there were other things to attend to… all details, but details that he knew, from experience, could assume monstrous proportions if neglected. ‘I assume you are already aware that Sam, Elliot, and Jimmy won’t be in until after one,’ he said to Gretchen. ‘They said they had exams. I’d appreciate it if you or Mariella could check up on that for me – after the rush, of course. And also, Douglas has called in sick with a toothache. Check with this dentist for proof of treatment.’ Raul handed Gretchen a piece of paper with a name and number on it. ‘If you like,’ said Gretchen, as she glanced up from her computer screen, ‘I can check this dentist’s credentials, too. All too often, they turn out to be bogus.’
Raul nodded. ‘Good idea. You can’t be too careful with these students.’
‘It’s just the age,’ said Gretchen.
‘Yes, but unfortunately, this happens to be the age that’s most in demand.’
‘I can’t see why,’ said Gretchen. ‘Although of course the clients don’t have to listen to their Neanderthal small-talk.’
‘In our line of work,’ said Raul wistfully, ‘there is no substitute for stamina.’
‘An overrated virtue, if you ask me.’
‘That, my dear Gretchen, is because you inhabit one body, not fifteen or twenty.’
‘I’m still not impressed. Women can go on indefinitely – unlike even the most vaunted of our little princes here.’
Raul could feel his eyelids dropping involuntarily. ‘As you know only too well, Gretchen darling, women can pretend.’
Moving off in the direction of the control centre, he said over his shoulder, ‘I’ll be wearing my bleeper if you need me for anything.’
Gretchen nodded absent-mindedly as she returned her attention to the computer screen, and Raul continued his rounds. The control centre was problem free. The squash courts were full, mostly with pairs of women. Only one mixed game was in progress – Raul checked the coded programme notes posted outside and then peeked briefly through the window to make sure everything was going according to schedule. Half of the morning shift was in the weights room, and the observation deck was packed. As he made his way past the clusters of newly arrived clients, he tried not to pay attention to their comments, but their voices carried: ‘Will you look at those thighs.’ ‘Hmmm. That’s my idea of pectorals.’ ‘I’m not even going to say what I would give to get my hands inside those shorts.’ He was glad to reach the comparative tranquillity of the Annecy Annexe.
Here, in the main hall, Romero was taking the other half of the morning shift through the last floor exercises before warm-down. Next door, in the kitchen offices, the caterers were in a small buzz because the new secretary had lost the list of RSVPs for tonight’s birthday party. That meant that they didn’t know how large to make the cake. As Raul quickly established, they were conducting their search for the list on the wrong computer drive. They thanked him effusively for rescuing them from disaster. He reminded them, perhaps too crisply, that he was simply doing his job.
He moved on to the clinic. The matron, a burly, deep-voiced woman in her late forties, was waiting for him at the door. They went over her schedule, which included fifteen routine checkups and two STD seminars. ‘So let’s hope we don’t have any emergencies today, because I simply don’t have time for them.’ She informed him that the latest blood tests for the new job candidates were back, with all but one result being satisfactory. ‘Would you like me to break the news to the poor lamb?’ she asked. She assumed a superiority in such matters. She did not know that he had once worked as a doctor. ‘No,’ said Raul. ‘You’d better leave that pleasure to me.’ He hated such phone calls. It didn’t seem fair to the boys to be hearing news of such gravity from a prospective employer… and yet it would be irresponsible to pass the buck…
How depressing it was to be a manager. In the end this was what got him down, and not the fact that he had drifted so catastrophically far away from his true profession. He was glad to take temporary refuge in the crèche, where the toddlers were busy banging on an assortment of drums and the older children engaged in a free-for-all in the foam-rubber pit. One child was catching her breath in muted sobs as a nursery assistant read her a story-book. How trusting this child looked, how grateful, how free of the corrupting contortions of preening desire, and yet this was a girl, and one day she would…
Enough, enough. There was no sense in putting it off any longer. The time had come for the personal consultations. He headed for the salon, where (he checked the list posted next to the door) he had sixteen scheduled clients waiting, as well as one last-minute appointment whose first name was all too familiar to him.
It was… could it possibly be… Yes, it was. It was…
Why would she?
How could she?
Chapter Four
The salon had three sections. To the left of th
e entrance was what could best be described as a boudoir. Here a team of hair-stylists and cosmetic advisers were caring for the last remaining overnight guests – in other words removing all trace of their evening of fun and returning them to the hard, varnished look so popular among successful career women. To the right was one of the Vulcania’s many dress boutiques, each of which had the Creative Billing Option that had been one of Raul’s first and most brilliant innovations. As he had so accurately predicted, many clients who shared bank accounts and credit cards with their husbands found it convenient to pass their entire day bill off as an impulsive dress purchase. Fewer questions were asked this way, and less suspicion aroused, as overspending on clothes was thought to be typically feminine and therefore unworthy of interest.
This particular boutique specialized in items to be worn in situ – lingerie, poolwear, catsuits and even evening gowns, along with an assortment of role-playing costumes for rent. There was a seamstress on hand to take orders and measurements for any shape or design that was out of the ordinary. As Raul walked in, she was making the final adjustments to a nurse’s uniform. ‘Now there’s no need to carry it around with you,’ she was saying to the client. ‘We can have it waiting for you downstairs. If you give me your appointments card, I’ll take down the correct cubicle number.’
‘Actually,’ said the client, ‘unless I am mistaken, I reserved a showroom.’
‘The one with the stirrups in it, I assume?’
‘Yes, that’s the one.’
A wave of music drowned out the rest of the conversation. Paul Simon, moaning about how much it scared him to be happy in love after all these years. Huh, thought Raul. Then he caught sight of his face in the mirror: it was, as she had told him so often, the closest human equivalent to the storm cloud. What had she called him when he was in this mood? Yes, now he remembered: Haughty the Hawk.
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