by Joanna Rees
Romy looked up at the high building as they stopped near the kerb, and at the imposing black front door and the row of posters and flyers plastered on the wall next to it. A van had stopped further up the street and Nico nodded to a man who had clearly been waiting for him. The back grille of the van rattled as he pulled it up.
‘I took the liberty of getting removal men to get all the furniture in. I rented that job-lot we saw. They weren’t very pleased when I told them we were right at the top. Why did it have to be a penthouse apartment?’ Nico said.
‘The law of relativity. People at the top live longer than people at the bottom. It’s a fact.’
‘How much longer?’
‘A trillionth of a second – over a lifetime,’ Romy clarified, ‘but it’s the point that counts. We’ll be living life faster up there, so time will go slower.’
She grinned at him and Nico rolled his eyes. ‘The stuff you pick up from all those books you read,’ he said, taking the keys back off her to open the front door. He pulled her out of the way as two men passed them, heaving the leather sofa up to the stairwell. ‘We’ll take the lift,’ he said gesturing her inside. She followed him and watched as he pulled back the grate of the old-fashioned lift. ‘After you.’
Romy giggled. ‘I feel like I’m in an Audrey Hepburn movie,’ she said, as she watched the lights on the numbers above the grille light up. As they moved through the floors, she saw the shoes of a woman walking along the corridor with a small white dog on a lead. Banjo barked.
‘Looks like there’ll be a lady-friend or two for you,’ she told him.
They arrived at the grand doors of the penthouse apartment a moment later.
‘Well,’ Romy said, pointing to herself and doing a cutesy hip-bend as she put Banjo down. ‘You gotta carry me over the threshold. It’s good luck.’
‘Seriously?’ Nico said, laughing, then she whooped with delight as he picked her up, threw her over his shoulder and took two nimble steps across the parquet flooring to the door.
He deposited her inside and she grinned at him in the giant gilt-framed mirror on the wall opposite. They’d seen this partially furnished show-apartment briefly last week and she knew how much Nico liked its old, bohemian charm. Looking round now, Romy thought it was even cooler than she remembered.
They both laughed as Banjo ran into the vast sitting room and onto the armchair that the workmen were putting by the fireplace.
‘Which bedroom do you want?’ Romy asked Nico, her eyes wide as they explored the flat. But now, for the first time, she realized the massive commitment that they’d made – to actually live together. But who better to live with than her best friend? It wasn’t as if she had anyone else. Florence, Nico’s assistant, had moved in with her boyfriend, and her other friends were all settled in their own places. It had been fine crashing with Emma and Terese, but Romy couldn’t wait to have her own place and pay them back for their hospitality.
‘You take the big one,’ Nico said. ‘You’ll need the space for all those shoes you keep buying. Besides, I won’t be here the whole time. I’ll keep my studio things in the small room.’
Romy reached up and kissed his cheek. ‘You are the perfect gentleman,’ she said. ‘If you romance a hot stud and bring him back here, I promise I’ll let you use my room.’
Romy ran into the bedroom and jumped on the four-poster bed, touching the canopy above. ‘Romy, be careful,’ Nico laughed, calling after her. ‘The deposit was huge.’
‘Come on,’ she laughed, holding her hands out for him.
He jumped once on the bed with her, then they fell over, giggling.
She was in his arms for a moment, nose-to-nose, and she breathed in the comforting smell of his aftershave. She grinned at him. She adored him so much, she wondered whether it would ever be possible to find a man she got on with as well. ‘Show me the roof terrace again,’ she said, scrambling away from him.
She ran barefoot over the floorboards into the vast living room with the circular staircase on the back wall. Then, unlocking the glass door, she was on the roof. Banjo’s claws clattered on the metal stairs as he ran up behind her.
‘This is amazing,’ Romy said, leaning out over the railing and looking at the view. Montmartre was so close, it felt as if she could touch the white stone of Sacré Coeur Basilica at the top.
‘Come and see this,’ Nico said, and she followed him up some steps to the top of the roof terrace, where there was a barbecue area complete with a wooden hot-tub. There was even a small patch of turf, which Banjo was already scratching at.
‘We’re having a party. Call up everyone you know. This place is fantastic. After Boho,’ she said, remembering her earlier conversation, ‘I said we’d meet Anna there at ten.’
‘No. I don’t think we should trash it right away—’ Nico began, but Romy held up her hand to stop him.
‘Nico, Boho is practically downstairs. You can’t move in here and then put a halt to partying. Think about it. We’re right in the centre of everything. This will be like our own private-members’ club.’
‘OK, but do me a favour and give me a buzz before we go,’ he said, smiling at her and running his hand bashfully over his hair. She laughed, knowing how much he liked her to play hairdresser to him.
‘Why? Are you feeling lucky?’ she asked him.
Anna was Romy’s new friend in Paris. They’d met a few weeks ago on a shoot, and the Parisian model was happy to show Romy around and introduce her to her formidable social circle. It seemed Anna knew anyone who was anyone, and Romy was intrigued by this new set of funky, talented people – all of them artists or models or actors. It made her feel like she was part of a hip gang. That, for the first time, she was on the inside looking out, and not the other way around.
Romy pulled Nico down the basement steps towards the bouncers outside the famous club, smiling and talking rapidly and loudly to them over the thump of the music, about her and Nico being on Anna’s guest list.
‘Are you really, seriously planning on dancing all night in those shoes?’ Nico said. ‘You can barely walk in them.’
Romy laughed, pulling him past the crowds to the dark, smoky club.
Inside the music was deafening, a DJ in a booth lit up above the heaving dance-floor.
‘Come on,’ she yelled to Nico. ‘Let’s head to the VIP area.’ She took his hand and dragged him through the sea of dancing bodies to the industrial metal staircase.
Anna spotted her and waited at the top, her arms open wide in welcome. She was tall with long blonde hair, which she’d tied up in a big clip, so that it fell in wisps around her pretty face. She was wearing a miniskirt and high black boots, which showed off her long, tanned legs.
‘Hey, girlfriend,’ Anna said huskily. ‘Take one of these. They’re amazing.’ She draped her arm around Romy’s shoulders and popped a pill in her mouth.
Romy waved to Nico, wanting him to get one too, but she saw him talking to a guy in a blue silk shirt and smiled. She’d probably lost him for the evening.
Anna squeezed Romy in on the purple banquette, next to a dark-haired guy with a stubbly beard called Bernard, and handed her a glass of champagne.
Soon there was more champagne, and then Romy felt Bernard rubbing his hand up her thigh and felt herself shuddering all over. The flashing lights, the beat of the music in sync with her heartbeat – she suddenly felt as if her nerve endings were tentacles soaking it all up. When Bernard suggested that they move away from the banquette to dance, Romy let him hold her hand and lead her.
She felt the rhythm of the music pounding through her as she surrendered herself to the darkness and the mass of bobbing bodies around her. Bernard pressed against her, his hand moving up her thigh. Then the next thing she knew she was kissing him.
Later she couldn’t remember how they’d all got back to her apartment, or who half the people were whom Anna had invited. But Nico wasn’t there when they got home. Romy felt a momentary worry, but there were too many peop
le stumbling, laughing into the apartment. Gil and his friend Max, who set up music in the living room whilst Anna’s friends Paulie and Jules sorted out more tequila shots. Then a guy on a motorbike turned up with more pills.
And then there was Bernard. Sexy Bernard, who snaked his arms around Romy and kissed her again, until she was lost in his kiss, moving towards the bedroom, already not caring that he was undressing her, knowing only that she wanted more of his touch, more of his skin.
It was nine o’clock in the morning when Romy heard the insistent buzzing, followed by Banjo yelping and scratching at the door.
Sitting up in bed, rubbing her eyes, she saw that Bernard was naked beside her, the curve of his torso making her instinctively want to touch him. God, he has a great body, she thought. Pulling on her robe, she picked through the debris of the sitting room and hallway, then giggled when she saw Nico passed out on the new sofa, red lipstick on his mouth. She ruffled his hair affectionately.
Romy picked up Banjo and opened the door.
‘Am I late?’ Simona asked, in her rasping drawl.
‘A bit. Or early. Depending on your view,’ Romy said, hugging her.
‘What happened in here?’ Simona said, stepping over the threshold. ‘I thought this was supposed to be your chic new apartment.’
‘Shhh,’ Romy said. ‘You’ll wake everyone up. Come on. Why don’t we go out for coffee? I have to take Banjo out anyway.’
They wandered together through the local streets and Romy breathed in the fresh morning air, still amazed that she had stayed up all night, her mind reeling from just how crazy the party had been. She was quite glad to be out of the apartment and leave the carnage to Nico. She had no idea how much he’d joined in, or how much he’d seen, but she suspected she might be in a lot of trouble with him – and the neighbours.
Soon they passed a small park, where a guy who’d been sleeping rough held out a crumpled polystyrene cup. Romy delved in her pocket, pulled out a ten-franc note and popped it in the cup. The guy’s eyes widened, then he muttered ‘Merci, merci.’
‘That was a bit generous,’ Simona said.
Romy shrugged. She didn’t tell Simona, but she’d never forgotten the girl who had given her money at the Tube station, that night she’d arrived in London all those years ago. Ever since, whenever Romy had seen someone begging, she’d always given them money. You never knew what difference it might make.
‘Let’s go to the flea-market,’ Simona said, heading off towards the Left Bank. ‘My favourite handbag of all time is from there,’ she said. ‘But that is a fashion secret. D’accord?’
‘OK,’ Romy agreed, holding on to Simona, glad to have her cashmere-clad arm for support. Romy was wearing her Birkenstocks, but her feet were aching from all the dancing last night. Maybe she should have listened to Nico after all, about her shoes. Banjo yanked at the lead, sniffing all the trees.
Suddenly a flashback of her and Anna dancing on the podium in the club made Romy bite her smile. She’d never behaved so outrageously. God only knew what were in those pills Anna had given her. Even with her shades on, the colours seemed so bright, as if all her senses were still altered, like they had been last night. The old-fashioned Metro sign and the rubbery smell coming up from the ventilation shafts; the plane trees with their dappled trunks and leafy canopy; the rippled surface of the river and the pigeons pecking the pavement – all of it seemed so vivid.
A cafe owner was sweeping up the pavement, the tan wicker chairs piled up on round tables. He was whistling tunefully, but stopped and smiled at Simona and Romy to let them pass.
‘Like mother, like daughter,’ he said. ‘A fine sight.’
Romy laughed. She liked the idea of people thinking Simona was her mother, and hugged her arm tighter. Was this what it would be like to have a real mother? she wondered. She’d never really thought about it before. She’d got so used to being on her own, so used to the fact that she was an orphan. But now she was starting to have an inkling of what she might have been missing.
A church bell rang out in the clear morning, and Romy breathed in a deep lungful of fresh air. This really couldn’t be more different from the smoky club she’d been in just a few hours ago.
But Romy didn’t have time to dwell on it any longer, because they were going down the steps towards the flea-market. There were African vendors with bootleg tapes, and Moroccans with leather handbags. But mostly it was Parisians, with stalls of bric-a-brac stretching in every direction. Old gramophone players, sewing machines, oil paintings and saucepans, kettles, dolls, machinery of all sorts. As they wandered through the aisles, Romy couldn’t get over how much stuff was here and how many people were bartering for it all.
Soon they came to the clothes stalls. Simona was rifling through the items, like a professional, feeling the fabric and looking at bags, and soon Romy joined her, searching through the piles of clothes. She put Banjo in her shoulder bag to stop him running off and he panted, looking at all the people from his elevated position.
Romy stopped at one stall, looking at the T-shirts piled high. Then a voice speaking in an unmistakable Germanic accent made her look up.
‘Is it you?’
The voice cut through Romy’s hungover haze.
Romy looked up slowly, directly at the woman behind the stall, her fingerless gloves wrapped around a mug of steaming tea, which was paused halfway to her mouth. But there was no doubt who it was.
Ursula.
Romy froze, her heart pounding, her mouth suddenly dry.
Ursula was staring right at her, trying to see beyond the dark lenses of Romy’s sunglasses. Time had etched lines across her forehead, her bright-red hair had lost some of its bouncy frizz and her curves had filled out, but it was Ursula all right.
And yet in that split second that followed, when Romy ought to have taken off her sunglasses and embraced her old friend – the very person responsible for her freedom – she hesitated.
To acknowledge Ursula would make Romy beholden to her. Responsible for her. Embrace Ursula, and she had to embrace the past and make it all come back. She would have to come clean and explain it all to Simona. She’d have to relive those dark days. Reclaim the person she’d left behind.
Worse, if Ursula knew where she lived, then Franz might too. Ursula was a link in the chain to her past that she thought she’d broken. And at the end of that chain was Ulrich, Lemcke . . . people who wanted her dead.
And of course they could find her more easily now that they could travel. Now that the Wall had come down. Of course Ursula would have come to the West to Paris. Like she’d always dreamt of. And now here she was.
How long would it be before Ulrich or the others showed up here too?
In a second Romy had replaced the T-shirt and had moved away from the stall. She didn’t stop.
Simona eventually caught up with her as she was running out of the flea-market, up the old stone steps.
‘What is it, Romy? Where are you going?’ Simona asked.
‘I’ve got to go,’ she told Simona, hurrying on, her head down, tears seeping from below her sunglasses.
She dared not look back. She dared not see the look of hurt in Ursula’s eyes. She felt utterly torn. Torn with guilt; torn that her better life had not made her a better person.
Simona grabbed her arm and stopped her. Then she gently lifted up Romy’s glasses.
‘Oh God. What’s the matter, Romy? You look like someone walked over your grave.’
Simona Fiore felt a glimmer of understanding for the first time. Something back there – someone had scared the hell out of Romy. Whatever, or whoever, it was had obliterated Romy’s buoyant after-party mood. She’d been shocked to see the girl so high when she’d arrived. Thank God she had. After her conversation with Perez Vadim, Simona had hot-footed it straight to Paris. Opportunities like the one he wanted to give Romy came once in a career. Simona was here to make sure Romy took it.
But she hadn’t expected this, and now she won
dered whether Romy would finally open up. Because whatever it was she was hiding, Simona knew it would always be there, until she confessed to someone.
‘You don’t get to be like you are, Romy, without a past,’ she said carefully. She took Romy’s arm and walked on with her. ‘Everyone successful has a past they’ve left behind. But it’s OK, because there comes a point when nobody can touch you,’ Simona explained. ‘All you have to do is work hard and get there. Then you’ll be safe. Untouchable.’
‘You really think so?’
‘I know so. Dry your eyes. I have a plan, but it’s going to need all your commitment, all your passion.’
Romy nodded eagerly, soaking up her words, clearly keen to hear more.
‘Do you know what a muse is?’ she asked.
‘Sort of.’
‘Perez Vadim needs a muse.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means that Vadim will possess you.’
‘You mean . . .’ Romy didn’t like the sound of that at all.
Simona laughed. ‘No, nothing sexual. He’ll possess you in the fashion world. You need to share all your ideas with him. Generate a creative flow. If you do that, my darling, you really will be untouchable.’
‘You think so?’ Romy asked, sniffing.
‘I know so,’ Simona said, patting her arm, feeling a sense of great satisfaction. So Romy had an Achilles heel after all. Her past. Simona knew that she had to make Romy successful enough, and rich enough, for her past never to cloud her future again.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
August 1995
Usually it was the bin men at the end of the smart Belgravia mews that woke Thea. But this morning she’d already been awake for an hour, the light seeping around the corners of the handmade blinds. Yet the uplifting shade of blue she’d chosen was doing nothing to stop the fat tear plopping out of her eye across the bridge of her nose to join the others on the soft cotton pillow.