‘You mean why aren’t you Princess Immy, and why do you live in a normal house instead of a palace, and have to put up with me for your old dad?’ said William with a grin as he brought the tea tray out.
‘I didn’t love him, Immy,’ replied Helena.
‘I’d have married him for the diamond necklace and the palace.’
‘Yes, you probably would, Immy,’ agreed William. ‘Coffee for you, Fabio.’
‘Grazie, William.’
‘So, did the two of you have a chance to catch up over lunch?’ William asked.
‘We have only, as you English say, scratched the surface, have we not, Helena?’
‘I did most of the talking, so there’s a lot I still don’t know about Fabio.’
‘Helena said you went off to the States just before I met her. Is that right?’ asked William.
‘Yes. I was there for almost ten years. I dance with the New York City Ballet, then last year, I think, Fabio, it is time for you to come home. So, now I am back at La Scala. I take the morning class and play the character parts suitable for a man of my age.’ He shrugged. ‘It is a living.’
‘Fabio, you must be a good few years younger than me and yet you talk as if you were drawing your pension,’ William chuckled.
‘It is the dancer’s life. It is so very short.’
‘Did you tell Alex to come out to see Fabio, darling?’ Helena asked William.
‘Yes. He said he’s coming, but you know he’s a law unto himself.’
‘I’ll go and chivvy him along and check on dinner.’ Helena stood up and walked inside.
‘I was only saying to Helena just recently that I wish I had seen her dance.’ William sipped his tea.
‘She was exquisite! Certainly the best partner I have ever had. It is a terrible waste she felt she could not continue once Alex was born. She would have been one of the greats, I am sure of it.’
‘I’ve always wondered why she stopped. Surely women can continue dancing once they’ve had babies, can’t they?’
‘It was a difficult birth, William. And she was alone and wanted to be there for her baby.’ Fabio sighed. ‘Our partnership was very special. It is rare to find that kind of empathy. And, for sure, I never found it again, or the success I had with Helena.’
‘You were such a big part of her life. I admit it feels odd that I know almost nothing of it.’
‘Just like I did not know of you or of your children’s existence until Helena and I speak a few weeks ago. We lost touch soon after I leave for New York: when I call her apartment in Vienna, she no longer answers the telephone. No one knows where she is. Of course,’ Fabio said with a shrug, ‘she is in England with you.’
‘So how did you find her?’ William asked.
‘It was fate, nothing less. I am in the press office at La Scala and there is a great pile of envelopes on the desk, to post off to the mailing list with details of the forthcoming season. And there, on top, is envelope addressed to Ms Helena Beaumont! Can you believe it?’ Fabio said excitedly. ‘I scribble down the English address, then find her mobile on the La Scala computer records. There!’ Fabio slapped his toned thighs. ‘It was meant to be.’
‘My wife rarely talks about her past,’ William mused. ‘And you are the first person I have met from it, apart from someone she knew here in Cyprus. So forgive me if you feel I am quizzing you.’
‘Sometimes, it is better to draw the veil over the past and get on with the future, si?’ Fabio feigned a yawn. ‘I think I will retire to my room, if you do not mind. It was a very early morning.’
As he stood up, Alex appeared on the terrace.
‘Hello, Fabio, I’m Alex. Pleased to meet you.’ He stepped forward shyly with his hand outstretched. Fabio ignored it and pulled Alex to him, kissing him on both cheeks.
‘Alex! My boy! It has been so many years since I saw you, and now you are all grown up!’
‘Well, not quite,’ said Alex. ‘At least, I’m hoping for a bit more of the growing bit, anyway.’
Fabio held him by the shoulders and his eyes glittered with tears. ‘Do you remember me?’
‘Er, perhaps,’ Alex muttered, not wanting to be rude.
‘No, you don’t, do you? But you were so young. Your mother says you are very clever boy, but maybe not dancer.’ Fabio scanned Alex’s torso. ‘Rugby player instead, yes?’
‘I like rugby, yes,’ agreed Alex.
‘You must excuse me now, but I am off for a siesta. We will talk much after I have slept, get to know each other again, si?’
Alex managed a smile. ‘Si.’
ALEX’S DIARY
12th August 2006
Do I think about the good news or the bad news first?
Do I hug myself with joy every time I remember the last words Chloë spoke to me?
‘Cool’ . . .
. . . and ‘cute’ . . .
. . . and ‘clever’.
Wow!
There. That’s the good news.
Now, for the bad: And it’s bad.
I have met the man (and I use that word loosely) who may well turn out to be my father. No matter he is Italian. Italian is good. I like pasta and ice cream. No matter he is a dancer. Dancers are fit and strong with good muscle definition.
The thing that matters is this: everything about him, from his clothes, to the way he sweeps his hand through what’s left of his hair, to the way he speaks and walks, indicates one thing and one thing only to me:
Fabio is . . .
Oh crud . . .
Oh bugger . . .
GAY!! And nothing will convince me otherwise.
I am prepared to accept that a certain level of effeminacy can still mean a man is a man and can do to a woman what a man does, but Fabio is a screaming queen!
I am trying to think this new information through calmly, but coming to some pretty dreadful conclusions.
Like . . . what if, once upon a long time ago, Fabio was in the ‘undecided’ category when it came to his sexuality?
So, there he is, partnering my mother, spending his days becoming familiar with parts of her body that usually only doctors have access to. They duly fall in love and start having a relationship. My mother gets pregnant with me, Fabio is still standing by her and is there when I am born, playing the dutiful daddy.
Then, suddenly, one day, bingo! Fabio realises he bats for the other side. And he doesn’t know what to do. He still loves my mother, and me, hopefully, but he can’t live a lie. So he sets off to the States to begin a new life, leaving my mother alone and devastated in Vienna with me.
Which would explain why she didn’t go with him to New York and never danced again.
And it also explains the really big question: Which is why my mother has never told me who my father is.
‘Er, Alex, darling, you see the thing is, your father, er, well, he’s a raging homosexual, actually, but if you’d like to go and spend weekends with him and his male lover, and watch Liza Minnelli films with them, that’s fine by me.’
She knows I’d be mortified. What boy wouldn’t? Just thinking of my mates at school if Fabio ever arrived at a rugby game to announce himself as my dad, executing a quick entrechat on the touchline whilst he watched me convert a try, brings me out in a cold sweat.
The real problem is this:
Is homosexuality genetic? Oh crap!
Who can I ask? I have to know.
At this juncture, I must also stringently point out I am not a homophobe. I have no problem at all with other people living their lives as they see fit. They can let it all hang out, and as often as possible for all I care, and Fabio seems like a great bloke; funny and bright and G . . . A . . . Y.
He can be just as he likes. Just as long as he’s not like me.
Or me like him.
κβ
Twenty-two
That evening everyone except the two little ones, who had been put to bed early, gathered on the terrace for drinks. Fabio arrived freshly showered, weari
ng a peacock-blue silk shirt and a pair of tight leather trousers.
‘Isn’t he going to sweat in those, Dad?’ Alex asked William as they loaded trays in the kitchen to take outside.
‘He’s Italian. Maybe he’s used to the heat,’ William replied.
‘Dad, do you think Fabio is, um, you know?’
‘Gay?’
‘Yes.’
‘He is. Mum told me he was.’
‘Oh.’
‘Does that bother you, Alex?’
‘No. And yes.’
‘In what way?’
‘Oh, no way in particular,’ shrugged Alex. ‘Is this tray ready to go out?’
With Fabio fully briefed over lunch, Helena had finally relaxed and was having a lovely time. During dinner, she and Fabio reminisced. Alex and William listened, fascinated, to the details of a part of Helena’s life they’d never known.
‘We met, you see, when I came to the Opera House at Covent Garden,’ explained Fabio. ‘Helena had just been promoted to soloist and I arrived from La Scala for a season. She is with this terrible partner who throws her, then forgets to catch her—’
‘Stuart wasn’t that bad. He’s still dancing, you know,’ Helena interjected.
‘So, I arrive as guest artist and Stuart is off with the flu and they partner me with Helena, in a matinee of La Fille mal gardeé. And’ – Fabio shrugged theatrically – ‘the rest is history.’
‘So then you followed Fabio back to La Scala?’ asked William.
‘Yes,’ said Helena. ‘We were there for two years. Then the Vienna State Opera Ballet offered us a contract as principal dancers with the company. And we couldn’t refuse.’
‘Remember I was not happy to begin with. It is too cold there in the winter and I get sick,’ shivered Fabio.
‘You really are the most appalling hypochondriac,’ Helena remarked with a giggle. ‘When we were on tour with the company, he had a suitcase just for his medicine,’ she told William. ‘Don’t deny it, Fabio, you know it’s true.’
‘Okay, you win, cara. I am paranoid about getting the germs,’ he agreed affably.
‘So, will you stay now at La Scala, Fabio?’ William topped up their glasses.
‘I hope so, but it depends a lot on Dan, my partner. He is set designer in New York. I miss him, but he hopes to get a position soon in Milan.’
‘I’m so glad you finally found your soulmate, Fabio.’ Helena smiled at him.
‘As I am that you have found yours.’ Fabio nodded gallantly towards both of them. ‘Listen, I have brought with me photographs of Helena and I when we dance together. You want to see, William? Alex?’
‘We’d love to see, thanks, Fabio.’
‘Prego, I will get them.’
‘And I will make some coffee,’ added William.
As they both went inside, Helena glanced over at Alex. ‘You’re quiet, darling. Are you okay?’
‘Fine, thanks,’ nodded Alex.
‘What do you think of Fabio?’
‘He’s, er, a very nice man.’
‘It’s so good to see him,’ said Helena as first William reappeared with a tray and then a few minutes later, Fabio.
‘Here we are.’ Fabio waved a bulging envelope of photographs and sat down. ‘There, Alex, it is your mother and I dancing L’après-midi d’un faune.’
‘The afternoon of a faun,’ translated Alex. ‘What’s that about, then?’
‘It’s about a girl who is woken up when a faun jumps through the window of her bedroom,’ said Helena. ‘Not a great story, but a wonderful part for a male dancer. Fabio loved it, didn’t you?’
‘Oh yes. It is one of my favourites – a ballet when the man can show off, not the woman. Nijinsky, Nureyev . . . all the greats danced it. Now, William, this is your wife in La Fille mal gardée. Isn’t she beautiful?’
‘Yes, she is,’ agreed William.
‘And this is us taking the curtain call together after Swan Lake.’
‘Immy should see that one, Dad,’ said Alex. ‘Mum’s wearing a tiara and holding lots of bouquets.’
‘And this is us in our favourite café in Vienna with . . . do you remember Jean-Louis, Helena?’
‘Oh my goodness, yes! He was a very strange man – he’d only ever eat muesli, nothing else. Pass me that photo, Alex,’ she added.
‘And this is Helena at the café again . . .’ Glancing at the photograph as he handed it to William, Fabio suddenly blanched. In a moment of panic he tried to pull it back from William’s grasp. ‘But it is unimportant. I will find another.’
William held the photograph fast. ‘No, I want to see them all. So there’s Helena, and . . .’
Fabio stared at Helena in horror, his eyes signalling impending disaster.
William looked up at her in confusion. ‘I . . . I don’t understand. When was this photograph taken? How could . . . he have been there?’
‘Who?’ asked Alex, leaning over to see the photo. ‘Oh, yes. What is he doing there with you, Mum?’
‘But . . . you didn’t know him then. How could he have been there with you and Fabio in Vienna?’ William shook his head. ‘Sorry, Helena, I don’t understand.’
All eyes turned to Helena as she stared at her husband and son in silence. The moment she had always dreaded, had always known must come, was finally here.
‘Go to your room, Alex,’ she said quietly.
‘No, Mum, I’m sorry, I won’t.’
‘Do as I say! Now!’
‘Okay!’ Alex stood up and marched off inside.
‘Helena, cara, I am so sorry, so sorry.’ Fabio wrung his hands. ‘I think it is best I retire to bed for the night. The two of you must talk. Buona notte, cara.’ Looking close to tears himself, Fabio kissed Helena on both cheeks, before retreating into the house.
William waited until Fabio had gone, then pointed to the bottle on the table. ‘Brandy? I’m certainly having another one.’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Okay.’ William poured himself a glass, then picked up the photograph and waved it at her. ‘So. Are you going to tell me how you came to be gazing into the eyes of my oldest friend, several years before I even met you?’
‘I . . .’
‘Well, darling? Come along now. Spit it out. There must be a reasonable explanation, surely?’
Helena sat completely still, gazing into the distance.
‘The longer you stay quiet, the more my mind conjures up thoughts that . . . Christ, they’re unbearable, just unbearable!’
She continued to maintain her silence, until eventually he spoke again. ‘I’ll ask you again, Helena: What is Sacha doing in this photograph with his arm around you? And why on earth have you never told me you knew him before we met?’
Helena felt her lungs constricting, hardly able to breathe. Finally, she managed to make her lips function.
‘I knew him in Vienna.’
‘Well, that’s bloody obvious. And . . . ?’
‘I . . .’ She shook her head, unable to continue.
William studied the photograph again. ‘He looks pretty young in this photograph. So do you. This must have been taken years ago.’
‘I . . . Yes.’
‘Helena, I’m running out of patience here. For Chrissakes, tell me! Just how well did you know him, and why the hell have you never told me about this before?!’ William banged the table hard, making the plates rattle and sending one of the coffee cups spinning to the stone floor, where it shattered. ‘Christ! I don’t believe this! I want some answers now!’
‘And I’ll give them to you, but first let me say I’m so, so sorry . . .’
‘This photo makes me realise I’ve been deceived for years, by my best friend and my wife! Jesus, how much worse could it possibly be?! No wonder you’ve always been so cagey about your past. For all I know, you were, and perhaps still are, shagging my best friend!’
‘It wasn’t like that. Please, William!’
Struggling to control himself, he looked at her.
‘Then tell me, just tell me, what was your relationship with Sacha? And this time, Helena, don’t treat me like the cuckold I’ve obviously been for the past ten bloody years!’
‘William! The children! I—’
‘I don’t give a damn if they hear that their mother is a liar and a cheat! You’re not getting out of it this time, darling. I want to know everything! All of it! Now!’
‘All right! I’ll tell you! Just stop shouting at me, please!’ Helena bent her head to her knees and started to sob. ‘I’m sorry, William, I’m so sorry, for everything. I really am.’
William knocked back his brandy and poured himself another. ‘I don’t think “sorry” is quite going to cover this one, but anyway, you’d better get on with your pathetic excuses. And of course, I understand now why you’ve always been so supportive of Jules. I’d thought it was out of kindness, but it was out of guilt, wasn’t it?!’
She looked up at him. ‘Are you listening or are you shouting?’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Okay, okay.’ Helena took a couple of deep breaths. ‘I met Sacha in Vienna, a few years before I met you.’
‘Jesus Christ!’ William swept a hand through his hair. ‘The place where he told me to go when I was getting over my divorce from Cecile. And like an idiot, I went. He said something like, “I found love there once.” It was you he was talking about, wasn’t it?’
‘William, if you want to hear this, please, let me speak! I’ll tell you everything, I promise.’
He fell silent. And Helena began . . .
Helena
Vienna
September 1992
Was there anywhere more beautiful in the world? thought Helena as she meandered through the elegant Vienna streets on her way to the café. The late afternoon sun, unusually hot for September, was slanting off the grand stone buildings, bathing them in a golden glow that perfectly reflected her mood.
Since arriving here in late summer to take up her role as a principal ballerina with the Vienna State Opera Ballet Company, Helena had already grown to love her adopted city. From her studio apartment in Prinz Eugen Straße, which comprised one enormous room in a gracious eighteenth-century building and boasted huge floor-to-ceiling windows and an intricately corniced ceiling, it was a pleasant twenty-minute walk into the centre of the Austrian capital. She never ceased to revel in the sights she passed, from avenues lined with a delightful architectural mix of classical and art nouveau structures, to the immaculately tended parks complete with old gabled bandstands. The entire city was a perennial feast for the senses.
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