A Fatal Façade

by Linda M. James

  CHAPTER 7

  6th December 2012

  The Blue Notes nightclub was swarming with men and sexual fantasies. They were waiting for Bianca Vella to arrive; a firecracker of a woman who sang close to the mike and squeezed men’s members with her vocal cords.

  Federico Batas, the Filipino manager, watched the men from a contemptuous distance. What did they know about the blues? About Bianca? Nothing. He was waiting for her too. He was always waiting for her, but she never came for him.

  The door suddenly opened. Paolo Cellini and a brassy blonde with theatrical make-up stood in the doorway, waiting to be noticed. Paolo always wanted to be noticed and since he owned the club, Rico always noticed him. But this was the first time he’d brought a woman to the club when Bianca was singing. Rico felt sweat trickle down the back of his dark jacket as he hurried over to greet him.

  ‘Good evening, Mr. Cellini. Madam.’ He turned to the blonde who barely glanced at him. Why would someone as wealthy as Cellini want to bring high-class hookers to the club when he had Bianca? ‘I didn’t expect to see you tonight.’

  Paolo stared at Rico with cold blue eyes. ‘Good evening, Federico. I aim to surprise. My table is ready, obviously.’

  ‘Obviously, sir.’ Rico guided them over to a table in front of the stage. The men at the club stared at the blonde’s rear movements with interest. Not many women came to the club. Rico clicked his fingers at Pierre, the barman. Within seconds a bottle of Krug Grande Cuvee, Vintage 82 appeared in a bucket of crushed ice. Rico was meticulous in his organization of the club: he had to be. Pierre hurried over and showed the bottle to Paolo. He nodded and Pierre uncorked the champagne expertly and poured Cellini a glass. A small smile appeared on his face as he savored the superlative quality of the vintage. Rico watched him lean over to whisper to the woman. She didn’t look comfortable. Rico wasn’t comfortable either, but he had a good reason: fear. His jacket was soaked with sweat. Bianca would be arriving soon. What the hell would she do if she saw that tart with Cellini? Rico left instructions with Pierre and rushed out into the freezing night air. It was going to be another lonely Christmas; he was far from the warmth of the Philippines and Bianca loved a bastard called Paolo Cellini.

  There she was; her glossy dark brown hair highlighted in a street light. Rico frowned as she smiled at Paolo’s Porsche, parked on double yellow lines outside the club. She never smiled at him like that.

  ‘Bianca!’ Rico called from the entrance of the club. Her face turned towards him and his body tightened in anticipation.

  ‘What are you doing out here? It’s freezing.’ She brushed his cheek with her lips before running towards the stage door. Rico touched his cheek and hurried after her.

  ‘Do you fancy a walk?’ he asked in desperation.

  Bianca’s eyes widened in astonishment. ‘Are you nuts? It’s cold enough to freeze your balls off.’ She swung back the stage door and hurried down the dark corridor to her dressing room. ‘He’s back then?’

  ‘Who?’

  Bianca didn’t bother replying; they both knew he hated Paolo. She switched on the soft lights around her dressing-room mirror and saw the chaos gently reflected; every surface in her dressing-room was cluttered with make-up, bottles of Dior’s Addict; her favourite perfume, and clothes and mementos from Paolo’s travels. But Bianca knew where everything was: her life only held the illusion of chaos. Rico caught her coat as she threw it off and hung it up for her.

  ‘What’s the crowd like tonight?’ She went behind a lattice screen and started to undress, knowing that Rico could see her in the mirror and not caring.

  ‘The usual,’ Rico said, looking at the soft glow of Bianca’s skin in the subdued lighting in the room. ‘Overweight men waiting for the most gorgeous woman in the world to sing just for them.’

  Bianca smiled at him and his chest expanded – if only that smile was really his. ‘Don’t hurry, Bi, they can wait. I’ll see you later – I’ve got to do something.’

  ‘Tell the boys I’ll be ready in ten minutes. I’ll start with Summertime.’

  Rico turned in surprise. ‘You can’t sing that – it’s December.’

  ‘No, it’s not.’ Bianca’s large brown eyes shone as she smiled at him again, but he knew she wasn’t seeing him. He turned away quickly and left.

  Paolo was washing his hands in the gents, feeling immensely pleased with life. He was going to have a superb night. Not only was he with a woman who knew exactly how he liked sex, but waiting for him in his apartment was one of the most precious icons he had ever bought. Could life get any better? He glanced into the mirror and realized it could. Soon Bianca would come onto the stage and see the blonde sitting with him at his special table. He smiled as he sauntered back into the club. His smile evaporated instantly. The table was empty. He looked around for Rico and saw him strolling towards him.

  ‘Where’s the woman I came with?’

  ‘Unfortunately, she had to leave, Mr. Cellini, but she said she might see you later.’

  Paolo tried to read the subtext behind Rico’s words, but couldn’t. ‘Are you sure she said might?’

  Rico looked at him impassively. ‘Yes, I’m sure that was the word she used. Excuse me, sir, I have work to do.’ Rico strolled over to the bar, looking back at the petulance on Paolo’s face as he sat down at his table and poured himself another glass of champagne. It was almost worth working for him just to be able to savor this moment, he thought.

  The noise in the room gradually lessened as the drummer performed his usual drum roll. And suddenly, there she was: a voluptuous temptress in a slinky dress that highlighted every curve of her body. The men went wild – shouting and clapping. Every one of them wanted to fuck her and she knew it. She blew them kisses before she looked at Paolo, leaning back on a chair, smiling his usual sardonic smile. Her face glowed.

  ‘Tonight, gentlemen, I’m going to sing you something wonderful for cold winter nights…Summertime.’

  Max, the saxophonist, played a sensuous intro and the room went silent. Bianca began to sing Summertime to Paolo and every men in the room pretended she was singing it just for him.

  An hour later, Paolo and Bianca were in her dressing room and he was unzipping her tight dress. He liked the landscape of her body, knowing exactly how it would respond to his every touch. He studied the shadow created by her large breasts in the dimmed lights. His fingers started at her shoulders and moved down to her breasts. She shuddered, but stopped him.

  ‘Don’t. I’m on again in ten minutes…when did you get back?’

  Paolo poured a glass of champagne before answering. He hated being questioned. ‘Two days ago.’

  Bianca was stunned. ‘Two days ago! – why didn’t you call me?’

  Paolo sipped his champagne in silence. She never seemed to learn.

  ‘I’ve bought something that will interest you,’ he said at last, glancing at her face to gauge her reaction.

  Bianca reached over to her dress-rail for her late-night sparkler; a tight, sequined black dress which always made the punters salivate. She didn’t show any excitement. Not this time.

  ‘Don’t put the dress on yet.’ Paolo reached into his pocket and placed a priceless emerald necklace around her neck. Bianca studied it the mirror. She was dazzled by its brilliance. ‘It’s beautiful.’

  ‘It’s flawless,’ Paolo answered.

  She turned and kissed him on his neck, his cheek, his lips. Immediately, Paolo began a new assault on her body; bending to lick her nipples in the circular route she loved. She moaned softly, her hands unconsciously moving in the same route over his soft blond hair. A sudden flat note from the trombonist on stage made her stiffen and she moved away from him. Music should be perfect.

  ‘I told you – I’m on again soon. We’ve got plenty of time for love-making later,’ Bianca murmured.

  ‘There won’t be a later – I’m busy, but I can’t remember what I’m doing.’

  ‘You must remember.’

  S
he knew her remark was a mistake the moment their eyes met in the mirror. His face closed like a clam. He drank his champagne.

  Bianca busied herself with putting on her black dress. It was made especially for her and followed every curve. She looked into the mirror and saw Paolo frowning at her.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Surely you can see.’

  Bianca saw a dark-haired, sexy woman wearing a priceless emerald around her neck. She looked stunning.

  ‘Do you know what causes that distinctive rich green?’ Paolo asked her.

  Bianca shook her head. She was a nightclub singer. What the fuck was she supposed to know about emeralds?

  ‘Cromium impurities.’ Paolo stared at the emerald. ‘Completely flawless.’ He paused for some time. ‘Of course, it’s all wrong.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘You and the emerald. Turn around.’

  Bianca obeyed him, trying not to shiver as his fingers touched the back of her neck while he undid the heavy clasp. He took the emerald off and placed it carefully in a quilted box. Her breath-control was perfect; she was determined not to show any emotion. Not this time.

  ‘Will I see you tomorrow?’ She couldn’t help herself.

  Paolo frowned as if he was really considering the question. ‘I don’t know.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Maybe. I’ll give you a call.’ He placed the quilted box carefully in his Armani suit-pocket before saying, ‘By the way, I didn’t buy the emerald for you. I just wanted you to see how beautiful it was.’

  He strolled out of the room as Bianca slumped into a chair.

  CHAPTER 8

  6th December 2012

  The foyer of Paolo Cellini’s apartment block held all the hallmarks of wealth: marble mixed with thick carpets, camouflaged traffic noises, subdued voices and two concierges. But not four weeks before Christmas. Frank, the senior concierge, was sitting at his desk working on his latest tapestry to block out the noise of a group of revelers waiting for the lift. The door of the foyer opened. Paolo sauntered in, looking elated.

  ‘Evening, Frank.’

  Frank looked up and smiled at him. ‘Evening, Mr. Cellini.’ He glanced at his watch in surprise. ‘Only 11 o’clock, sir. You’re back early tonight.’

  Paolo tapped the side of his nose conspiratorially.

  Frank laughed, then looked at the revelers who were singing to the lift like a football mob.

  ‘Come on! Come on! Come on! Come on! Come on! Come on!’

  Frank shook his head at Paolo as they repeated the refrain again. ‘Bloody Christmas.’

  Paolo smiled and sprinted up the stairs to avoid them. Frank, turning back to his tapestry, didn’t see a woman creep past him wearing a black scarf over her hair. She hurried towards the stairs after Paolo.

  Paolo placed his hand-made Italian shoes outside the door of his apartment for the junior concierge to polish. Barely glancing at Brueghel’s macabre painting The Triumph of Death which covered one wall of his wide hall, he padded across to his lounge and opened the door onto a room which gave him immense pleasure each time he walked into it. For a few moments, he studied the musical harmony in Simone Martini’s painting of The Annunciation before flicking a switch. Bach’s Goldberg’s Variations flooded through the room and into Paolo’s soul. The fact that the music was commissioned by Count Kaiserling, the Russian ambassador at the court of Dresden, to act as a soporific when he couldn’t sleep appealed to Paolo’s sense of the surreal. For how could anyone sleep listening to such music? Bach obviously knew exactly what he wanted from the world. Just like him. A great feeling of joy descended on him. He poured himself a glass of scotch before looking across the room. There she was – waiting for him. He resisted walking over to her; wanting to savor the moment when he saw her face again. But soon, the desire was too strong. Holding his breath in anticipation, he strolled across the room and stared down at her. One of the most sacred icons of the Catholic Church lay below him: the Black Madonna and Christ Child. with great reverence, Paolo lifted the statue out of the crate and placed it on a priceless Italian marble table. Mother and child stared back at him; the Madonna’s white eyes contrasting vividly with her black skin and red lips. For a moment, Paolo had to resist the urge to kneel in front of one of the most powerful images of motherhood in the world.

  A sudden diminuendo in the music allowed him to hear the front door click open. He placed the statue carefully back in the crate and covered it with bubble wrap before she came into the room.

  ‘Why did you leave the club?’ he asked her.

  ‘It don’t matter why I left, love. I’m here now.’

  She took the black scarf off her brassy blonde hair and opened her black coat. Underneath she was wearing a bright red basque and fishnet stockings. Paolo smiled. ‘Perfect,’ he said. ‘Come into the bedroom.’

  CHAPTER 9

  10th December 2012

  It was late afternoon when Lavinia tottered into Mark’s office wearing a tiny skirt and holding some statistics he’d asked for. She leaned over his desk, revealing a small section of bright blue panties with red hearts on them. Mark glanced away and concentrated on his phone call, studiously avoiding the eye contact she desperately wanted.

  ‘Tell Brian his football report needs to be edited by 200 words. Yeah…on my desk by 9 a.m. tomorrow morning. Bye.’

  Lavinia loomed over him like a praying mantis while he concentrated on the statistics she’d been working on for days, aware of her eyes boring into his body. ‘This is good research. Give it to Hal and tell him to come in, will you?’

  Hal had been hovering outside since Lavinia went in. She glowered at Mark before tottering to the door and shouting into Hal’s face, ‘The editor wants you!’ She thrust her work into his startled face. He grabbed the papers off her and squeezed past her into Mark’s office. She followed him in.

  ‘I want a two-page spread on Ramiz Agani’s coma in tomorrow’s paper. The kid could die at any moment,’ Mark said.

  Hal stared at him in surprise. ‘But we won’t have any space to cover Paolo Cellini’s death if we do that, and he’s hot at the moment. He sells papers.’

  Mark’s face flushed with anger. ‘This is not just about selling papers, Hal! This is about finding a heartless bastard who drove off without finding out if he killed a kid or not. I’m not interested in giving a rich, spoilt mongrel like Cellini any more notoriety. He had enough when he was alive.’

  Hal looked at Mark in astonishment. He obviously hated the guy. ‘But a two-page spread on a hit-and-run, Mark, when a colorful character like Cellini dies!’

  ‘You haven’t got kids, have you? What do you know?’

  Hal was shocked. He and his wife had been trying for kids for fifteen years.

  ‘Could I interview the family?’ Lavinia drawled.

  Mark glanced at her miniscule skirt. ‘Don’t be ridiculous – in those clothes? They’re Muslims. I want you to dig up some statistics on drunk-driving figures for the last five years, convictions, jail terms etc.’

  ‘More statistics! God – how boring!’ She flounced out, slamming the door behind her. Hal stared after her in amazement. Mark wouldn’t have taken that from him.

  ‘I want to run the story as a human tragedy, Hal.’ Mark began an irritating repetitive drum roll with his fingers on his desk. ‘Ten months after mother dies in domestic siege, son in coma after being knocked down by a drunk hit-and-run driver etc. etc. You know the style.’ The tapping continued as Mark sat deep in thought. Hal wanted to pound his large hands down onto Mark’s fingers to stop the tapping.

  Instead he said: ‘Yeah, yeah – short and punchy. Link it in with the mother’s death. Remember my headline after the siege? POLICE BLUNDER. MOTHER TORCHED AS SON WATCHES.’

  Mark stared at him. ‘Yes. It sold a lot of newspapers. But I don’t want to run this story just to sell more newspapers, Hal. I want an in-depth report on how our society allows such men to get away with murder.’ Mark suddenly jumped up. ‘I want to catch
this bastard with The biggest campaign this paper’s ever had on drunk drivers. I want this guy found. Start by interviewing that coach driver. He might remember something about the night Ramiz was hit. The hit-and-run driver is going down for manslaughter if the kid dies. I’ll make sure of that.’

  Hal stared at Mark in amazement. Why was he putting him on such a story?

  ‘Well, what were you waiting for?’ Mark snapped.

  Lavinia didn’t look up when Hal plodded past her; she just carried on stabbing her computer keys with long crimson nails. Peter stared at her in fascination.

  ‘Mark’s not giving her what she wants, then?’ Peter asked when Hal reached his desk.

  ‘No, he’s cracking up. Wants me to follow that hit-and-run story. Me – his top reporter!’

  ‘One of them, Hal!’

  ‘My God, when you think what’s happening in the world and he’s worried about one kid. I’ve got to interview a coach driver and it’s nearly 5.30…’ Hal’s voice trailed off as he puffed towards the lift. ‘See you tomorrow, Pete.’

  Mark could smell the candles the moment he opened his front door. His heart beat faster in anticipation.

  ‘Angelica?’ he shouted up the stairs, knowing where she’d be. In the bathroom, polishing herself. Mulled wine, peaches and cinnamon. The smell of the candles was overwhelming as he climbed the stairs, but the assault on his senses was always worth it because of what always followed.

  He undressed and lay naked in bed waiting for her to finish her rituals. Everything had to be perfect when they made love.

  ‘Angel – come on – I’m going flaccid in here.’

  Angelica smiled as she polished the last section of her body – her legs. She never hurried the process. Her fingers moved in wide circles until every section of them was silk-textured. Then she brushed her hair until it formed a golden halo around her head. Now – she was ready.

  She strolled into the bedroom and Mark turned to her, stunned by a slim, translucent body and a face that could eclipse Helen of Troy’s.