by Nicola Upson
And then the knife was there again, driven with force through her hand so that she was pinned to the floor. Instinctively, Bella yanked her arm upwards, but the sight of the blade piercing her flesh made her gag, and the drag of the knife through her skin as it was pulled slowly out left her weak and defenceless long before the pain had time to register. The knife passed back and forth across her body, cutting rather than stabbing‚ to prolong her agony, indiscriminate in where it landed and moving so swiftly that she barely felt it touch her skin. Sobbing, she rolled over onto her back, wanting the knife to strike where it mattered, offering herself to its deadly caress if only it would do its work swiftly. Still the torture continued, but there was a different, frenzied quality to it now, as if her submission were an incentive to even greater violence. The knife was thrust repeatedly into her stomach, deep enough for her to feel the hilt against her skin. Her body jerked in some terrible, violent dance, as if she were possessed, and she felt her life seeping away in the warm trails of blood which mapped the blade’s path. As the knife worked its way systematically upwards, reaching her chest and neck, she heard a gurgling sound coming from her throat but it was the last thing she was aware of. She had closed her eyes for good long before the knife sought them out.
2
Glad of some air and some peace, Josephine slipped away from the hotel and found Neptune in darkness. She knocked softly on the door, thinking that Marta might simply have fallen asleep after a long day, but all was silent. Perhaps they had missed each other and she was already back at the hotel with Lydia, but Josephine was reluctant to go and find out; tired of dancing around her own feelings and other people’s, she wanted Marta on her own or not at all.
The strong scent of roses and lavender drew her further into the Piazza, and she sat down on one of the benches. This was her favourite part of Portmeirion, particularly during the evening. The glamour of the hotel was exciting in small doses, but there was something about the village itself that appealed more to her imagination. The visitors had gone, leaving the imprint of their day in the air and the promise of return in the neatly stacked chairs and clean café tables, and a few of the residents were taking a stroll after dinner. Their voices sounded deceptively clear across the peace of the square, making them seem closer than they really were, and it interested Josephine that Portmeirion played tricks with the ear as well as with the eye. The atmosphere reminded her of solitary walks at dusk through small French towns, when the character of a place seemed to reveal itself more honestly, freed from the confines of tour guides and history books. Or perhaps it was simply that she had felt free.
She smelt the cigarette smoke before she felt Marta’s hand on her shoulder. ‘Running away from your own party?’
Josephine smiled. ‘Age must have some privileges.’ She took Marta’s hand and pulled her down onto the bench next to her. ‘Anyway, I was looking for you. Where have you been?’
‘Just for a walk. It was far too hot inside. Sorry.’
‘Don’t apologise. Sitting out here is exactly what I need after coffee with the Hitchcocks.’ She kissed Marta’s cheek, noticing the faint scent of gardenia on her skin. ‘And you’re worth waiting for.’
‘I’m glad to hear it.’ The words were playful, but Josephine knew that they had each said exactly what the other wanted to hear. ‘So was Hitch’s cabaret as awful as you expected it to be?’
‘Worse, if that’s possible. He delivered some sort of definitive lecture on fear, then wound everyone up and watched them go. It was good to see him squirm when it turned nasty, though,’ she admitted. ‘I thought Archie was going to have to get his notebook out.’
‘Didn’t Alma rein him in?’
‘She had the sense to stay out of it until Bella Hutton turned up. Is there an issue between those two?’
Marta shrugged. ‘I don’t know, but I can see why you’re out here. Where’s everyone else?’
‘Back at the hotel, except Archie. He went to have a drink with Bridget.’
‘Ah. Leaving his notebook at home, presumably.’
‘Quite.’
Marta stubbed her cigarette out on the floor. ‘Do you mind?’
‘No,’ Josephine said truthfully, taking the packet out of her hand. ‘For what it’s worth, I liked Bridget.’
‘So what were you so deep in thought about just now?’
‘Nothing very original, I’m afraid.’ She paused while Marta lit her cigarette. ‘I promised myself I wouldn’t start taking stock of my life at every big birthday, but that’s exactly what I was doing. Forty obviously matters more than I thought it would.’
‘You must be pleased, though? You’ve got a Hitchcock movie, a string of stage hits and another book about to be published. Oh, and half a racehorse. That’s not bad for forty.’
‘But I haven’t got you.’
Her directness seemed to take Marta by surprise. ‘Why do you say that?’ she asked. ‘I’ll move heaven and earth to be with you, Josephine, whenever you ask me to. I don’t know how to make that any clearer.’
‘It’s not you I’m doubting,’ Josephine said, looking out across the square. ‘But that sort of life isn’t real, is it?’ Her eye fell on a bust of Shakespeare, perched playfully on one of the balconies that linked the two buildings on the southern side of the village and convincingly lifelike from a distance. ‘We’re like one of Clough’s tricks, you and I: it’s beautiful and intense and exciting, but if you look at it for long enough you see straight through it.’
‘You told me not to ask any more of you,’ Marta said quietly. ‘You said that’s how you wanted it to be.’
‘No. I said that was how it had to be. It was never a matter of choice.’ Josephine took Marta’s face in her hands, wanting her to understand that this frustration was only with herself. ‘But there are times when I’d swap intense and exciting for something more normal, for what you and Lydia have. You’re not continually analysing your own relationship. You laugh, you bicker, you look out for each other and make plans.’ She paused. ‘You talk about moving to Hollywood together.’
‘Is that what this is about?’ Marta asked, exasperated. ‘I don’t want to go to Hollywood, Josephine. It isn’t an option.’
‘No, you’re probably right. I think this evening put Lydia off any travel plans she was tempted to make, at least for now.’
‘Not just for now. I’m not going anywhere. There’s no way that I would ever . . .’
Josephine cut her off with a kiss. ‘Please, Marta – don’t look that far ahead. It’s tempting fate, and I don’t want either of us to make promises we might not be able to keep. Things change. People change.’
‘I didn’t know you felt like this. I thought it was out of sight, out of mind the minute you crossed the border.’
‘Don’t think I haven’t tried, but I can’t do it any more. I can’t be content in that other life because part of me is always with you.’ Such thoughts were a familiar part of the hours she spent alone‚ but Josephine had never intended to speak them aloud; suddenly‚ though‚ there seemed little point in keeping anything from Marta. ‘Sometimes, just for a minute, I let myself think about what it would be like if you and I were free to do whatever we wanted‚’ she admitted. ‘I imagine you in my house, in my bed; going shopping or walking over the sands at Nairn. And then I have to stop because it hurts too much and I can’t bear all the things I don’t know about you, the things you only find out when you’re with someone all the time.’ The quiet of the square conspired with Marta’s silence to make Josephine feel vulnerable and uncertain. ‘Because I’m not free, Marta. I have people who expect things from me. A father to keep an eye on, a house and a reputation to look after, sisters who take things for granted now because there was a time when it suited me to let them. I could never drop everything and go to Hollywood with you, even if you wanted me to.’
‘And neither could Lydia. Have you met her mother?’
Josephine laughed. ‘Once was enough. But that�
�s what I mean by normal. I could never share my whole life with you in the way that Lydia does. I have to keep it all in compartments and remember to be someone slightly different in each one. Lydia’s always Lydia. All right, she flirts with the odd producer if it’ll get her a part, but pretending to be someone else is her job. It shouldn’t be mine.’
‘So what are you trying to tell me?’
Josephine heard the fear in her voice and wondered how she had managed to stray so far from what she really wanted Marta to understand. ‘That I love you,’ she said, trying again. ‘I love you and I’m scared – scared that I won’t be able to do all the things I want to do in the time I’ve got left. Scared because there’s another war coming, and people will disappear and the joy will go out of everything. Scared because I’m trapped by my own decisions and I might never be able to find a way back. That’s my fear – running out of time before anything changes. And you’re the only person I can say that to. The only person who makes it go away.’
Marta let her hand rest gently on Josephine’s cheek. ‘And you don’t think that’s real?’ she asked softly. ‘Come on – let’s go somewhere more private.’
Josephine stood and turned towards Neptune, but Marta caught her arm and nodded in the opposite direction. They left the square and took the steps down to the beach, using the lights from the hotel to guide them, and then, as they faded, a torch which Marta had brought with her. ‘You came prepared,’ Josephine said dryly, wondering where Marta was taking her. ‘I wouldn’t have thought you were the Girl Guide type.’
‘And you’d be right. I can’t say uniforms have ever been my thing.’
The tide was out, and they followed the headland round until they reached a stretch of coastline dotted with tiny coves. The path narrowed and Marta slowed down to let Josephine walk in front. Up ahead, she could see a faint light coming from one of the small caves; it was further inland than the rest and, as she crossed the sand to reach it, she realised that it was filled with candles, tucked into crevices in the rock where they were sheltered from the night air. The floor was covered in blankets and cushions, and a picnic hamper stood waiting on a makeshift table. Josephine stared at it in astonishment. ‘This is what you’ve been doing?’
‘Happy birthday.’ Marta stood close behind her and kissed the back of her neck. ‘We’re just in time – it’s not even midnight.’ She put her arms round Josephine’s hips and spoke softly into her hair. ‘I know it’s hard, but you don’t always have to imagine it.’
Josephine turned and looked at Marta for a long time. ‘I once asked you not to change anything about my life, didn’t I?’ Marta nodded. ‘Well, now I’m begging you not to leave it as it is.’
3
The weather was threatening to compete with the outbursts that had been a feature of the evening so far, but Archie was glad to be outside. Hitchcock’s gathering had brought together the sort of people he most despised, people whose personalities he would never understand, and he was relieved to have an excuse to leave them behind in exchange for something more familiar. He laughed to himself as he left the hotel, amused by the irony of his situation: never, as a young man, could he have imagined himself turning to Bridget for sanity and a world that made sense, and he wondered what had made the difference – whether it was wisdom, as Josephine had suggested, or simply a happy acquiescence.
White Horses formed a gateway between the hotel grounds and the headland, and seemed to Archie to act as mediator between the civilised world of the village and the miles of untamed woodland that surrounded it, ensuring that the values of one did not encroach too far on those of the other. It was a simple, single-storey building and its whitewashed walls shone proudly in the lantern light, as if pleased to offer a contrast to the more elaborate style of the rest of the village. A lamp was on in the window but there was no answer when he knocked, so he waited a couple of minutes and let himself in. The cottage was small and seemed designed for a solitary lifestyle – a contemplative life, he would have said, were it not for the thoroughness with which Bridget had made herself at home. His job had trained him to read people’s lives from where they lived, usually in the most tragic of circumstances, but there was no need here for either his professional expertise or his personal knowledge: any stranger would know instantly that the room’s occupant was happy with her own company, and that was exactly what Bridget had always been. It was one of the things he admired most about her: the ability to stand on the outside without ever seeming detached, to mix without letting anything of herself be compromised, and it was true of both her life and her art.
The two mingled easily here, although the basic necessities of eating and drinking played a secondary role. He walked over to the central table, which most people would have reserved for dining, and looked affectionately at the clutter of paper, pencils and half-finished sketches, at the mug used to wash brushes and the plate which had become a makeshift palette, and felt a sudden connection to his past which was both welcome and unsettling. The battered old box which Bridget used to store her paints was, he noticed, the same one that she had carried twenty years ago. He unclipped its lid and ran his finger across the row of small tubes, variously shrunken and misshapen with use, reading the names of the pigments: cerulean‚ chrome yellow‚ crimson alizarin. He had always loved the words she used, a secret language of colours and techniques which punctuated her everyday speech and made her inseparable from what she did; the words were not his, and yet they had become familiar to him, an important part of his life, signposts in their conversation. Now, he was surprised to discover how directly they still spoke to him.
He heard footsteps and laughter outside, and, when Bridget opened the door, he was surprised to see her with Hitchcock’s cameraman. Like him, Spence had changed into something more casual since dinner, but neither of them could hold a candle to Bridget for informality; she was wearing the paint-stained overalls he had seen her in earlier, and not an inch of the dark-blue material seemed to have escaped unscathed. They were in the room before he had a chance to close the box‚ but, if she felt any irritation at having caught him looking through her things, she didn’t show it. ‘Archie!’ she said, dumping a large bag on one of the chairs and letting two overexcited dogs off their leads. ‘I didn’t expect you so early. How nice.’
The words were genuine‚ and the awkwardness which Archie felt was of his own making, but that didn’t help to ease his embarrassment. ‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘but you told me to make myself at home. I didn’t realise . . .’ He tailed off, hoping that the disappointment didn’t show in his face and angry with himself for assuming that he and Bridget would be on their own. It had been a casual meeting, after all, and the offer of a drink was made on the spur of the moment; she had probably been regretting it all evening.
She dismissed his apology with a wave of her hand and deftly moved one of the border terriers off the remaining chair. ‘Do you know Jack Spence? He’s here with those film people.’
Archie couldn’t help smiling at the way in which she made film sound like a dirty word. ‘We haven’t been formally introduced,’ he said. They shook hands, and he noticed that Spence didn’t seem any more comfortable than he was. ‘But we’ve shared some difficult moments thanks to Mr Hitchcock.’
‘You were there too? Well, I’ll let you get to know each other better while I have a quick shower. I won’t be a minute.’
She left the room, shadowed by one of the terriers. ‘That was a very eloquent parting shot,’ Archie said to Spence when they were alone. ‘And a very moving one. I rather got the impression that your boss’s evening backfired on him.’
Spence shrugged. ‘I’ve no doubt he’ll make me pay for it sooner or later. Usually I don’t mind being his pawn, but occasionally it grates.’
‘Does he make a habit of games like that?’
‘All the time.’ He sat down‚ and the other dog jumped onto his lap; Archie tried to ignore the suggestion of familiarity and how much it piqued him.
‘I’ve sat through dinners where the food was blue, had a loan repaid to me in farthings, and looked on while he smoked Elsie Randolph out of a telephone box. At the wrap party for The Farmer’s Wife, he hired a bunch of actors to play the waiting staff‚ just to see how long it would take us to notice. Some of his stunts are funnier than others, but they’re all designed to keep us in line.’ He leant forward and accepted a cigarette. ‘It doesn’t take a genius to see that film is his way of controlling people. A set is his doll’s house, and we’re his dolls.’
‘So Portmeirion is his set for the weekend?’
‘Oh, this is just a rather peculiar audition for the people who haven’t worked with him; for those of us who have, it’s a test of our loyalty ready for the big move.’ He spoke the last three words as if they were capitalised. ‘We’re all under scrutiny‚ and he won’t miss a thing. What gets past him certainly won’t get through Alma’s net. They’re quite a team.’
‘Don’t you resent having to perform all the time? People who choose your side of the camera don’t expect that.’
‘It’s tedious, and sometimes it gets out of hand, but we accept it because he’s brilliant.’ Spence must have seen the scepticism on Archie’s face, because he added‚ ‘Hitch really is that good, you know. Most people would tolerate far worse to work with him. For every stroke of genius the audience sees, there are two or three more behind the scenes.’ He grinned. ‘Anyway, I get off lightly because I’m almost as good as he is.’