Violent Daylight

by Caroline Angus Baker

  “I have to be happy, to make up for Dane looking so miserable,” Claudio said.

  “I had a very emotional holiday,” Dane said as he rubbed his eyes.

  “Emotional holiday?” Erik scoffed. “What did you do? Go to a lesbian wedding and lose your masculinity?”

  “Very funny,” Dane threw back at him. “I saw my sister get married, and I’m happy for her, but my parents refused to be part of that. They can never get that moment back.”

  “And Rebecca never went to be with you,” Holly said.

  Dane nodded. “I got through it, I had someone there to help me and enjoy it with me, and we had a great time.”

  “And a liquid compliment,” Erik said with a serious expression.

  “Believe what you like, I don’t care.”

  Claudio didn’t care what Dane did. Dane didn’t have what it took to be faithful to a woman. Claudio thought of Canna in bed and grinned. It felt fantastic to be the one happy in love for a change. In one day, Claudio had gone from miserable and scared to relieved and happy. Long may it continue.

  CHAPTER 21

  LONDON

  “It’s not about being sorry. Saying sorry isn’t enough. You have to accept responsibility for what you’ve done. It is another vital step in the healing process. Until you take responsibility for all the pain you’ve caused and all the mistakes you’ve made, you can’t begin to make amends. These steps are all equally important. But the word ‘sorry’ doesn’t mean you have made progress in your recovery. You have to mean it, and then you have to back up the conviction of remorse with real, honest responsibility and a desire to move forward and repair the damage.”

  Canna picked at her black nail polish while she listened to the words. A group meeting for recovering addicts was as painful as expected. She sat in the quiet room, a simple place with rows of chairs. About 15 people attended the meeting. No one wanted to sit near the front. Instead, the therapist wandered around people who listened, but rarely made eye contact with each other.

  “We have someone new here today who hasn’t said anything,” Therapist Mike said in his posh British accent. He looked over at Canna, who sat away from everyone and near a window that let in a sparse amount of autumn English sunlight. “Why don’t you tell us about yourself?”

  Canna shifted on her plastic chair when everyone turned to face her. She was the only woman. “What do you want to know?”

  “I read your file from your previous doctor. You’re amongst people like yourself, trust me. I know you’re not new to therapy.”

  Canna sighed. “No, I’m not. I spent nearly three months in rehab for morphine addiction, bipolar disorder and body dysmorphic disorder.”

  Therapist Mike gestured for her to continue.

  “I was in a car accident two years ago, and it did a lot of harm. I ended up addicted to morphine… but it was my choice to get hooked. I was high pretty much around the clock for about 18 months, and I had excuses to justify my addiction. The accident damaged my body, and I grew to hate myself. I even started to hurt myself, even though I had just left my husband who used to hurt me.”

  “Did the morphine make you angry?”

  “I think it made it worse, but I already had a lot of anger. I had mood swings with my bipolar, which I longed denied even suffering. I hurt a lot of people. Some things can’t be fixed. People have died.”

  “How long have you been clean?” another man asked. He had just been discussing his anxiety medication addiction and seemed proud of his ten week sobriety.

  “I went for 144 days without any morphine,” Canna said. “It was hard every day. Every activity could have been more fun with morphine. It could have eased any problem.”

  “Did you fall off the wagon?” Therapist Mike asked.

  “I haven’t touched any morphine, but I have been binge drinking whenever I can. I just swapped one drug for another. I had a hard day at work, and took pills. It turned out to be Ecstasy. I got violently drunk and ended up breaking down and hurting people again. I spent a week drying out with my therapist in Italy, and then came to London to get away from the environment that was causing me to panic and crave depravity.”

  “You haven’t said what we need to hear yet,” Therapist Mike said gently.

  “Hi, my name is Canna, and I’m an addict.”

  The men around the room all clapped, and she nodded. God, these meetings were awful. These people could be anyone, quick to judge and spread her secrets. It took a lot of courage to say these things.

  “So, how many days are you alcohol and pill free?” Therapist Mike asked.

  Canna counted them on her fingers. “It is fifteen days now.”

  The group all clapped again. “Are you ready to start making amends?” Mike asked.

  “I don’t know how,” Canna said and went back to picking at her nail polish. “I have a lot of money, and that is an easy way to make people happy. Money gives me the power to buy things, but that isn’t meaningful amends. It’s just a Band-Aid.”

  “I did that,” another man said. Canna looked up at the guy; middle-aged, with obviously dyed dark hair. “My daughter was mad at me when I got out of rehab. I bought her a new car, and she was happy – for a short while. It didn’t help with any of the problems between us.”

  “Grand gestures are met with scepticism from my lover and friends,” Canna replied, and many of them nodded. “I have to keep working at forgiveness.”

  “Time is a great healer,” Therapist Mike said. “It’s a real cliché, but it’s true.”

  “Then why do I still feel angry about everything that has happened to me over the last two years?”

  “Because you haven’t found peace yet,” said another man, a cocky well-dressed guy about Canna’s age. “You have to accept responsibility for what happened, instead of feeling as if you’ve been wronged in some way.”

  “I accept all the responsibility,” Canna said. “I spent years thinking that, as the woman in my marriage, I was wrong and weak. I don’t believe in victim-blaming anymore.”

  “It’s not just that, though,” Therapist Mike explained. “Of course, sometimes other people cause your life to go off the rails. But you have the power to take it back.”

  “I accept that my drinking and subsequent freak-out was all my own fault.”

  “What about your other disorders?” Therapist Mike asked.

  Canna shrugged. “I feel a lot better about my body now. I had surgery to help with the scars as recommended by my doctor.”

  “You look great.” Mr. Young And Cocky smiled at her.

  “That’s half my trouble,” Canna deadpanned. “I want to blend in, not stand out.”

  “And the bipolar?” Therapist Mike just kept pressing for information.

  “It’s okay, provided none of my triggers cause problems. I’m aware of my triggers, and I can identify when I’m headed for a depressive state. The trouble is, dabbling in behaviour that triggers my breaks from reality is like chasing a high. I get a rush off getting myself into situations that could hurt me. I have an addictive personality, I love anything that will give me a rush.”

  “That’s why you have therapy, so you can work on these attitudes,” Therapist Mike replied. “It’s a long road to comfort and peace. You were clean for 144 days. That must have felt good.”

  “I’m pissed off because I blew my sobriety. I knew I was getting myself into situations that could cause me trouble. It was all my fault. It seriously hurt the guy that I’m in love with, and I knew it would hurt him.”

  “Maybe he is the first person who could benefit from you making amends.”

  “I don’t know how.”

  “Little things,” said Mr. Obvious Hair Dye. “My wife forgave me for becoming a drunk and having an affair, but it took a long time. I had to become the man she wanted me to be. Ten weeks ago I relapsed, and she was there for me, and now I have to start over again. I know how you feel.”

  “Are there small things you could do for
your partner?” Therapist Mike asked.

  Canna raised her eyebrows. There were a few things that Claudio might appreciate. “I can think of a couple of things.”

  Therapist Mike glanced at his watch. “That’s about all we can do today. Thanks, everyone, for sharing about yourself. Remember, I’m here every day in case you can’t wait for these meetings each Monday.”

  Canna stood up and left the private clinic before anyone could talk to her. Mr. Young And Cocky looked keen to chat. God, no. It had taken a lot of courage to turn up for therapy; Dr. Riberi in Aosta had recommended the place. Canna wasn’t sure she had the strength to show up and admit she was a loser. These people were strangers. On the upside, she wasn’t Canna, the woman who causes trouble, or Catherine, the Countess with baskets of money. No one expected anything, which made a pleasant change.

  The taxi trip back to the townhouse took longer than anticipated, and Canna worried that she wouldn’t get home before Claudio. She hadn’t told him about therapy and didn’t want to yet.

  Canna stepped out of the taxi and could see the lights on inside the house. Shit. Too late. Her phone rang in her handbag, and she fished around for it; Giancarlo. “Ciao.”

  “Ciao, Canna,” Giancarlo replied. “Can we talk?”

  Canna looked around her on the lonely path bathed in fading light. “What do you know?”

  “Giorgio still hasn’t resurfaced. I went to Geneva, and Tatiana and their daughter Grazia are there, but Giorgio isn’t with them. Their son, Gabriele, is still at his boarding school. From what I can tell, Giorgio never went to Switzerland. They’re staying at the D'Angleterre Geneva, and it’s booked under Tatiana Savelli’s name.”

  “I often wonder how you find out all this information,” Canna commented.

  “Tricks of the trade, my friend,” Giancarlo said jovially. “I don’t think Giorgio ever went to Geneva. I think his family went alone. They have Giorgio’s bodyguard with them, so wherever Giorgio is, he doesn’t have any protection.”

  “Why does he need protection?”

  “Well, he’s scared of us after that incident at the Milan apartment. Fibonacci wanted him dead. What if Giorgio is the one who has to hide from Fibonacci?”

  “Wouldn’t Giorgio take his bodyguard with him, if he thought he was in danger? Maybe he has just gone off with his mistress.”

  “I stopped by her apartment; she’s home and she’s alone. I’m sorry, Canna, but Giorgio has disappeared.”

  “I desperately want to punch his face.”

  “Maybe someone beat you to it.”

  “Maybe Fibonacci had him killed.”

  “Do you want me to follow Fibonacci’s guys and see what’s happening? Maybe a little professional courtesy will get some details.”

  Canna sighed and watched her own breath in the cold air. This whole incident set off a trigger that incited a desire to hurt herself. “I don’t know if Giorgio is better dead or alive.”

  “If he’s dead, then perhaps the heat is off you. You can come back to work in Milan.”

  “Perhaps I will be next to disappear.”

  “We are all on the hit list, every single day.”

  Canna looked up at her townhouse. “I’m going to stay in London for a while before I head to Australia to work on this new regatta contract. Caraceni doesn’t need me.”

  “What should I do?”

  “Stay in Italy, be my ears and eyes on the ground.”

  “And if Giorgio turns up?”

  “Then beat the shit out of him. And before you do, kiss your fist for me.”

  “Si, Signora.”

  Canna imagined his grin when he spoke.

  “Be safe, Canna.”

  “And you.” Canna ended the call and headed up the stairs to her front door.

  Her mind still sat on the trouble in Italy as Canna went inside the townhouse. As soon as she shut the heavy wooden door behind her, Claudio looked up from his seat in the living room.

  “Hey,” he said as he came around the white leather couch. “You didn’t mention that you were going out today.”

  “Was I supposed to mention it?” Canna frowned as he kissed her cheek.

  “No, of course not. I just figured you were busy nearby since the bike is still out the back.”

  “You checked the bike? Did you worry that I had inexplicably gone back to Italy?”

  Claudio smiled. “Maybe.”

  “Oh ye of little faith,” she teased.

  “You cleaned the house! Even the kitchen, and all the damn dishes, and the bathrooms… I’m impressed.”

  Canna smiled. Little things make amends. “I’m staying here, and I’m able to help out, so I will.”

  “And I noticed you had my dry-cleaning done.”

  “I did.”

  “You have a pretty blue dress in the pile. Why did you bring it? Are you planning a night out?”

  The dress she had worn in Helsinki with Dane. That needed certain stains removed. “Maybe.”

  “Thanks, Blinky.”

  “For what?”

  “Being normal.”

  “I should do it more often. Maybe I should work from here and be a good housemate, and only go back to Italy when I need to meet with people.”

  Claudio raised his eyebrows. It was a far cry from the angry attitude she had arrived with last night. “I would love that, but you don’t need to be my housemate.”

  “Don’t call me a girlfriend; we’re too old for that.”

  “In Spanish it’s novia. It means girlfriend, or intended, or sweetheart. Is that better?”

  “I guess that makes you my novio.”

  “I hope so.” Claudio took her hand, and they sat down on the couch together.

  “I like being called a mistress to a married guy. It’s enjoyable not being the wife.”

  Claudio laughed. “Where have you been this afternoon?”

  Canna watched the silent flames of the gas fire across the room for a moment. She didn’t want to tell him about the group therapy. She felt ashamed for having to go. Nor did she wish to tell him that she had sent her bodyguard on a mission to beat the shit out of her business partner. She picked up her large handbag and pulled it open. “I have something for you.” Canna was grateful she had a reason to explain her absence. Claudio took the heavy glossy brochure from her. “It’s from an interior designer nearby. They specialise in murals for nurseries,” she explained.

  Canna flicked through the book with him, each page a beautiful and elaborate baby’s room with exceptional attention to detail. “Never mind me painting a room,” Canna said. “I think we should have this.”

  Claudio looked at the two page spread. Piano keys danced right around the room in whimsical floating patterns, and animals danced on them, all dressed in tuxedos while they played instruments. One wall had a large suited purple elephant with its trunk up, and music notes expelled from it as if it were singing.

  “Are you trying say that the elephant is me?” he joked.

  “No, you look much slimmer in your tux.” Canna grinned at his stern face. His indignation was clearly false. “This artist can do the work straight away. I guess the recession has taken a toll on the amount of people able to afford a nursery mural. They can get us all this beautiful furniture, the crib, leather armchairs, change table, drawers, even the rug shaped like a clef. We can change anything we like, we just need to go into the showroom and make our choices. I think the paintings are magnificent.”

  Claudio flicked through the catalogue but kept coming back to the music theme, all set in black, white, and pale green. “It’s amazing.”

  “I’m sure baby Casamiro… what will his surname be?”

  “Back home in Spain, the rule for names is father’s surname first, and then mother’s surname. But it’s the other way around in London. She wants to call him Casamiro Valadez Ramos.”

  “Shortened to Casamiro Valadez.”

  “Naturally.” Claudio sighed. “I just have to live with it.”<
br />
  “Look on the bright side,” Canna said. “You’re going to be world famous in a few years, and your son will have the protection of an anonymous surname. No matter what Veena says or does, the baby is your son.”

  Claudio yawned and rubbed his tired face. “Fuck, what a mess. If I hadn’t had sex with her that one night, there would be no baby, and we could divorce and never see each other again. Now I’m tied to her. But that night, after I found out that Dane hit you… I was bloody angry and needed to work it off somehow. I should have worked it off an easier way, like drinking. I wasn’t even thinking about Veena when I slept with her.”

  “Who did you think about?”

  “Well… you.”

  “Gross.” Canna screwed her face up tight.

  “It wasn’t because Veena reminded me of you, I can assure you. I wish I had stayed with you that night, and Marino wouldn’t have attacked you for sex.”

  “That was bound to happen,” Canna shrugged. She thought back to the day her ex-lover turned up in London with the expectation of sex and she had to fight him to save her dignity.

  “That doesn’t make it okay, it makes it worse. Rape is not a hazard that women need to expect.”

  “The fact is, the baby is coming. Who knows, you might be quite good at being a father. Veena may be lousy at parenting, and will hand him over to you a lot. Her new guy… what’s his name?”

  “Michael Barlow.”

  “And he is a performer, like you, isn’t he?”

  “No, he is a client of Veena’s because he is part of a group, but he isn’t a performer, he is their therapist and counsellor.”

  “A music act with an on-site therapist? Does that exist?”

  “Seems so,” Claudio scoffed. “Four young guys, a cheap throwaway boy band, and they need someone to guide them in terms of the fame, money, and all the excess that brings.”

  “They are delightful excesses.”

  “Not when they ruin your career. The group has Michael on hand part-time from some clinic where he works.”

  “I think it’s weird that some men would want to be with a pregnant woman.”

  Claudio shrugged. “I wouldn’t want a woman pregnant with another man’s baby, that’s for sure.”