by Primula Bond
I’m not going to get the few minutes I need to compose myself, because Pierre is already here, hitting some balls around the pool table. He doesn’t see me at first. He looks slicker than ever. He’s changed out of the period costume and into a dark-red shirt that sets off his dark Levi skin. The sleeves are rolled up and show the ripple of muscles in his forearms as he leans across the pool table and strikes a ball.
Pierre spots me and I shake my head when he holds the ball up for me to have a shot. I walk past him, past the dusty velvet chairs with the flickering candles, drawn by the flames in the old-fashioned grate at the far side of the room.
‘Allow me,’ he murmurs behind me, turning me by the shoulders. He knows those dancers were going to get their hands on me just now. I wonder if he can smell them? He reaches to take off my jacket, lifts the golden locket on the tip of one finger and presses it back against my throat. ‘It’s very warm in here.’
Pierre stares unashamedly at my revealed cleavage, pale and burgeoning out of the tight bodice, and I realise that several other people are staring at me too. No good wishing Gustav was here to see me. Best just to enter into the theatrical spirit. So I put my hand on my hip coquettishly, sweep my hand over my own contours as if this is exactly the effect I intended. Pierre nods approvingly as I sit down as elegantly as I can, arranging my scarf over my shoulders to cover the expanse of pale flesh.
‘I ordered you a Watermelon Mint Martini, heavy on the Reyka vodka,’ he says, flinging himself down in the velvet sofa next to me. He hitches his jeans up to get comfortable. ‘The cocktails here are legendary, and very strong. You need it, after everything you’ve had thrown at you today!’
I raise the wafer-thin glass by its stem, letting the grassy pale liquid tip in the triangular cup. ‘Thank you. Just one for the road, before I get on home. I could really use a long hot bath.’
‘Oh, no rush, is there? Gustav’s on his way to Canada, so there’s no one waiting for you. As promised I am ready to face the firing squad regarding your cousin Polly. And I was hoping to take my time going over the shots you took today.’
‘Couldn’t I just send you the contact sheet? I can get it to you tomorrow morning when I’ve got all the cameras in one place.’
‘You’re very jumpy all of a sudden, Miss Folkes. I thought we were getting on like a house on fire earlier. Is jumpiness your default mode? Or is that the effect I have on you when we’re alone together?’
‘Not you. Your dancers,’ I reply casually. ‘They are a demanding lot, aren’t they? The artistic temperament, I guess. I’m sorry I’m late, by the way.’ I look down, switching on my camera. ‘And I’m tired. It was a lot of input today. I just want to unwind.’
Pierre leans forward and takes the camera out of my hand.
‘And what better place to unwind than here? And what better company than with me? So. I’d prefer to go over the images now, if that’s OK. I want to see if you caught the essence of the show, my girls, the music, their costumes.’
‘Any girl in particular? The one you were dancing with just now perhaps?’ I ask quickly. ‘I’m guessing dark and menacing leading lady is your type?’
‘Ah, yes. The diva from the deep. I don’t have a type actually, Serena. Anything with a pussy and a pulse will do. I mean, surely you can see that dark and menacing is the opposite of Polar Polly?’ To my astonishment he is smiling, his tongue running lazily over his lower lip. ‘Oh, loosen up, girl. I’m kidding!’
‘You most certainly are not!’ I stand up so quickly that some of the cocktail spills freezing vodka onto my chest. ‘You really don’t give a damn about my poor cousin, do you?’
‘I just meant that when you’re surrounded by gorgeous women it’s impossible to choose. Black-haired temptresses, ice-white blondes, unruly redheads – someone has to come home with me tonight if I can’t have the woman I really want.’
‘Which isn’t Polly. That’s increasingly obvious. But she’s had my back all my life. And now I’ve got hers. I promised her I would ask. Yes or no. Is your relationship definitely over?’
‘A simple answer, for a simple question.’ He keeps his eyes steady on me. ‘The woman I want isn’t Polly. And if she’s asked you to see if there’s any going back, the answer is no.’ He looks down and starts to scrolls through my shots as if I’m suddenly invisible. ‘Now, do you mind if I go back to the business in hand?’
‘By all means take a look at the shots I’ve brought with me, but I think Polly deserves a little bit more of an explanation than that. I’m not done with you yet.’
I need to go to the bathroom all right, but not to freshen up. It’s to stop me slapping his arrogant young face.
This guy is a monumental pain in the ass and the worst thing of all is that just then he sounded like a cockier version of Gustav.
‘Before you lay into me again, these are brilliant pictures, Serena. The management are going to love these.’ Pierre stands up chivalrously as I return from the ladies and take my seat next to him – realising too late I should have sat down opposite him. ‘You’re hired.’
He holds his glass up, and reluctantly I chink mine against it. Reluctant, because I’m secretly pleased that the pictures have worked out. And there’s a tiny flash of annoyance that Polly’s upset is getting tangled with my work. Pierre sits down again, beside me but not touching me. I scroll silently back through the images, wonder if he’s played the video of me and the dancers. But if he isn’t going to mention it, nor will I for the moment. I take a deep breath, repeat the words ‘focus, focus, focus’, and decide to paddle to safer waters.
‘Today got me thinking again. You remember we were talking about Venice at New Year’s?’ I remark as the sweet-sour liquid hits the back of my throat. ‘Your theatre, the stage, the music, the costumes, the feathers, the girls, all reminded me of La Serenissima. The whole city as an operative backdrop. I can’t wait to go back.’
‘You have a trip planned?’
I take another sip. ‘I’ve been asked to go over there for some clients called the Weinmeyers. Actually I have a meeting with them to discuss it tomorrow.’
‘Ah yes. Ernst and Ingrid,’ Pierre replies thoughtfully. ‘Long-standing business acquaintances of my brother. I remember them in London. They’re notorious in this town for being swingers, amongst other things. They make Gustav and Margot look like Hansel and Gretel. Not really suitable company. Maybe I should come with you. Keep you safe.’
‘To the meeting?’
‘To Venice. And source finery for my masquerades theme at the same time.’
‘Oh, that would really thrill Polly, the way she’s feeling at the moment.’ My cocktail goes down the wrong way as I realise how quickly I’ve been steered off course, and I start to cough. ‘She’d never forgive me.’
‘I’m not talking about moving to the place. Just a short business trip.’ Pierre thumps me between the shoulder blades, making my scarf slide off. He takes it with one hand and runs it under his nose. The way he’s sniffing for my scent is an extraordinarily sexy, Levi thing to do. ‘We could run the idea past Gustav, if that’s what’s worrying you. Make sure he’s cool with the prodigal brother travelling to the most romantic city on earth with his girlfriend.’
I shake my head too sharply, and there’s a nasty twang as a button on Pierre’s sleeve catches my hair. ‘Oh, no. I’ll only go if Gustav comes with me!’
‘Hold still.’ Pierre laughs softly as he brings his arm down carefully and starts to pick at the strands stuck in the cotton thread. ‘Your hair really is amazing. Sunset pouring over your shoulders.’
His face is unnervingly close. He has shaved again since we were at the theatre. Not a trace of the determined stubble that pushes through his brother’s skin. And his cologne is very different, too. Heady, and musky, the kind that wraps around you like an embrace then gives you a headache.
We are so close that there’s nowhere to look except straight back at him. ‘Thank you,’ I murmur.
&n
bsp; The golden locket falls free. Pierre balances it on the pad of his little finger.
‘From Gustav? Thought so. His own special method of branding you. This amazing hair of yours, though.Unbelievable what those bastards used to do, hacking it off when you were a kid.’ He releases the locket, eyes raking over my face now. The rescued strands of hair still curl round his fingers. ‘Polly told me. Those people should have been lined up and shot.’
If this is a tentative rapport between me and Pierre, it’s now or never. Polly has entered the conversation yet again, so it needs to be said. I sip my sharp citrus drink as a delaying tactic.
‘Pierre. I know you keep trying to derail me, but I need to know that you’ll do the right thing. She’ll be on the phone as soon as I leave here, but please, don’t make me be the messenger. Just be straight with her and tell her what you just told me. In a kinder way, if you can manage it.’
I sense rather than see his annoyance, the stubborn shift of his body on the seat, but I’m ready for it. I decide that sitting close like this is the best way to corner him.
‘Will your desire to continue working for me be affected by my answer?’
I tilt my chin. My eyelashes are heavy with mascara still. My hair is sticky with hairspray, one or two pins still in place, but I have to get myself together now. Back into the character of Serena Folkes.
‘It depends on the answer. I have to support my cousin so I’m going to have to work out how to balance this, but my ability to work for you remains the same.’
He laughs. He has the same wariness as Gustav, the same narrowing of the eyes as if there’s a caveat to his laughter and he’s not prepared to give himself up wholly to it. I realise I may have the upper hand. A horrible little voice inside me wonders if my straight-talking cousin Polly challenged him enough. Living with Pierre must be like living with a jumping jack.
‘I don’t want to say anything to jeopardise this reunion with Gustav’, he mutters hoarsely after a pause, twisting the stem of his glass in those strong fingers. ‘This could turn him against me again.’
‘Why would issues with you and Polly have anything to do with Gustav?’ I hitch myself a little, wallowing clumsily in the deep velvet sofa. ‘Who is this other woman, Pierre?’
‘That’s where Gustav comes in. Because all roads lead back to him. And thence to Margot.’
Pierre looks steadily at me, but he’s not smiling now. We’re still too close. In fact, the sumptuous cushions seem to be tipping me back towards him, but I can’t move. I don’t want to break the fragile new confidence I feel we’re approaching, but by forcing him to speak about Polly, and now Margot, we’ve veered into dangerous rapids.
‘So Margot is still affecting you, just as Polly feared?’ I keep my voice very low, unaware until too late that it sounds husky and seductive, too. ‘Is that why you even have a dancer in your troupe who looks like her?’
‘Be careful, Serena. You’re imagining things. We don’t want you becoming paranoid as well.’ Pierre glances away from me just then. Lifts his hand in greeting to someone on the other side of the room who has hailed him. ‘I thought you’d grasped what goes on in that theatre. Those dancers make a living out of assuming a false persona. They are painted, dressed, they move, they act, with the sole purpose of becoming someone else. So if by chance they resemble someone real, well, maybe I directed that girl to act that way, but ultimately that’s all in the eyes of the beholder.’
He crosses one leg over the other and I glance down at the strong thighs, the way the fabric of his trousers is slightly stretched as he rocks his foot up and down.
‘You can understand why I got that impression though, can’t you? She was even wearing the same flowers in her hair as Margot carried in her wedding bouquet.’ I hitch my dress up irritably. ‘You’re making me feel a fool.’
‘The Miss Havisham look always makes for good drama. Look, we’re all in a state of flux. Me, you, Gustav, Polly.’ Pierre shakes his head at me. ‘Real life is tough enough, Serena, without superimposing things that aren’t there. Why do you think I have loved theatre all my life? I told you before. And it’s not just because of my scars. Because it’s an escape. I can surround myself by fantasy, illusion.’
He waves his hand around in a florid, airy-fairy gesture and I have to snort at the pretension. ‘I have to admit you were in your element on stage earlier. But don’t dodge the issue. How has Margot ruined things with you and Polly?’
Pierre’s hand slaps down on his leg. ‘Polly went in head first, as soon as that awful showdown in the London gallery was over. Questions, questions – she could see how monumental that fight was. She thought I was behaving badly towards Gustav, which I was, you all know the reasons, but to understand what happened afterwards she wanted to know everything about Margot. And I mean everything.’
I frown, glance away from him towards the other guests milling about, chatting quietly. How many of them have a Margot haunting their lives, I wonder? ‘Polly said it was the other way round. She said that it was you who went crazy, who brought Margot into every conversation. It was like she was in the room with you. In bed with you.’
Pierre starts shaking his head before I’ve finished. Puts his empty glass down on the carved wooden table in front of us. ‘She shouldn’t have started it. Because the more I told her about Margot Levi, the larger she loomed and the smaller Polly Folkes became. Polly’s got it all going on, or she would if she wasn’t getting so petty and tiresome, but Margot’s a force of nature, Serena. She changed me from a boy to a man in just a few tumultuous months, however corny that sounds, and she could probably do it all over again. And what will really hurt you to know is that it was all the more intoxicating knowing that she’d come straight from my brother’s bed to mine.’
He covers his eyes with his hand and is quiet for a moment. Every instinct I have at that moment makes me want to thump him, but I rein it in.
‘That was more than five years ago. Polly is here now. Margot isn’t.’
Pierre lowers his hand. I wonder what he was hiding just then, because there is only a curious blankness in his eyes. ‘Polly has become invisible to me. Just like all the others, in the end. You see, there was something else unique about Margot.’
‘I don’t want to hear how phenomenal in bed she was.’ I put my hand up like King Canute trying to stop the wave before it drowns me. ‘Please, Pierre. Maybe that’s enough.’
‘Tough. You have to hear this. Margot is one of only two women in my life who hasn’t recoiled at the sight of my burns.’ Pierre picks up one of the tealights in its little crystal holder and holds it up very close to his face. ‘You are the other.’
Is it my imagination, or has everyone suddenly left the room? The voices, the music, the chink of glasses from the bar, everything reduces to a low hum. Pierre looks at me, still holding the crystal holder, which casts flickering lights into his eyes.
‘Me?’ The word comes out in a long gasp. I swallow, and feel the sweat pricking under my hair. Under my arms. Inside the flimsy bodice of my dress. I shouldn’t be sitting so close to this man.
‘I’ll never forget it, Serena. The look in your eyes when you saw my scars, or rather the lack of any reaction. The other women all try to hide the horror, to shrug it off, but by then it’s too late. They can’t hide the disgust, the regret. They’re not sure how to handle me. I can see their eyes, casting about for the quickest way out. Any idea what that can do to a man’s ego? Any surprise that I keep going through women like Chinese takeaways because I’m constantly looking for The One? Polly came closer, except that she failed that test the first time, too. I tried to get past that, make a go of it, but then there was you. You were so calm, and unfazed. You didn’t know it, but that just highlighted how wrong Polly was for me. Unfair, but true. And you looked deeply, genuinely sorry.’
I take the crystal candle holder gently out of his hand and put it down on the table beside our empty glasses. I run my finger towards his neck, not q
uite touching the scar which snakes up out of his collar.
‘You know why I understood something about the turmoil inside you, even though it’s so different from my own? Because outward, physical scars are like the harm people can do to you inside.’
‘Very philosophical. Very deep.’ Pierre Levi catches my hand where it’s hovering over his neck. His hands are big and warm and his fingers start to curl round mine. ‘You mean your family?’
‘They weren’t my family. They were strangers who happened to find a baby abandoned on a doorstep, and were stupid and high-minded enough to take me in. But not sensible enough to give me up when they couldn’t bond with me. But yes. They barely left a physical mark but sometimes I wish they had, instead of all the nastiness they left inside me.’
‘I’ve touched a nerve. But I’m not sorry to discover a vulnerable petal beneath that stubborn exterior. We may be more alike than you think.’ Pierre brings our joined hands to my mouth as if to hush me. ‘No nastiness in there now, Serena. You’re impossibly beautiful, inside and out.’
I blush as I feel my lips damp against his fingers, and, as the voices in the room start up again, grow louder and more insistent, I realise how this must look. Me being wooed in a deep velvet sofa by a devilishly handsome man who looks just like my boyfriend.
I push his hands away and reach for my scarf, trying to wind it round my neck as some kind of protection even though I’m too hot. I scrabble the scarf between my fingers like an old lady plucking at her shawl.
‘And that’s why Gustav is so lucky. His life, so different from mine. Not just because he gets to take you to bed every night.’ Pierre keeps looking at me. ‘Disrobing in front of a woman would never be a problem for him. He came out of that fire virtually unscathed, at least on the outside. Is it any wonder my admiration of him has always been tinged with jealousy?’
Pierre has triggered a longing for Gustav so physical it gives me a kick inside. I want to be lying on his chest, touching the torso tapering to that slim waist and sexy hips, stroking that line of black hair running from his solar plexus over his smooth, flat stomach, wandering like a tease down into his jeans.