by Primula Bond
I scramble out of the gondola. Hands haul me up onto the slippery stones of the quayside. I stand there shivering helplessly, tugging at my tattered headdress, folding myself inside my cloak. I realise I’m home, after all. This is the Ponte del Vin, right beside my hotel.
Some people gesticulate merrily towards the gondola, some even pushing me towards the edge as if my disarray is all part of the show and I might want to get back in to continue my ravishment, but when I turn to check that Pierre Levi isn’t coming after me the gondola has already slipped its moorings and is disappearing up the Rio del Vin, into the fog.
Tears start pouring down my cheeks as I gasp for air through my bruised mouth. The people nudge each other and melt away from this dishevelled creature. I don’t know where to go, what to do. Who to tell! How can I tell them Pierre Levi was here? He has followed me all the way to Venice like a man possessed. And he nearly had me.
I’ve done exactly what Gustav warned me not to do when we talked about setting me free to explore darker pleasures, so long as it was within certain boundaries. I’ve disobeyed him, unwittingly, but will he ever believe me?
You’ll know if you’ve gone too far when the time comes. Because it will either feel right or it will feel very, very wrong.
Suddenly, someone is peeling away my mask, lifting my headdress off my aching head, combing kind fingers through my damp hair.
‘Crystal, thank God!’ I sob, tripping on my one shoe into her arms. ‘Get me away from him!’
But it’s not Crystal. It’s the real thing. Gustav. The one person in all the world I want to see. Tall and dark as he pulls me out of the shadows and into the warm light cast onto the fondamente from the hotel. The strong black bristles are starting to push through his jaw. The black eyes are gazing at me, full of things he wants to say, the love burning there totally unmasked. He’s the only man in the whole of Venice dressed in twenty-first-century clothes.
‘Get you away from who? Hey, hey, I’m not letting you get away from me again!’ Gustav kisses my wet eyes, the tip of my nose, pushes the hair out of my face as we stop outside the hotel. ‘Look at you! All this revelry has undone you! Thank God I waited for you here. I thought looking for you in this crazy city would be like finding a needle in a haystack! What are the chances, eh?’
‘Oh Gustav, I can’t believe it’s really you this time!’ I frame his face with my hands, try to stay calm even though I’m trembling. ‘Before you say anything more, I’ve done something terrible.’
‘It was all a disastrous misunderstanding. My fault, as usual.’ He captures my hands in his. ‘And Pierre’s, for backing you into a corner like that. But he has explained everything.’
‘He’s here?’ I scream, and stare round wildly, expecting his green-clad brother to steer the black gondola back down the canal and reappear below us. ‘What do you mean, he’s explained? What has he told you?’
‘He was waiting in the apartment when I got back. Oh, God, you will never know how much I regret storming off like that. I should have locked you in or something! Bloody stupid blind idiot that I am. Pierre came round while I was still out, to check you got your camera equipment back safely, but when I saw him standing there looking at your things calm as you like I thought you’d invited him in and was about to punch him. But it was obvious that you had vanished and then we were beside ourselves with worry.’
‘Pierre was worrying about me, was he? So where is he now?’ I’m nearly screaming again.
Gustav puts his fingers on my mouth to hush me and pulls me closer. ‘Why do you keep asking that? Honey, you were in such a state when you left the apartment that you left the door wide open! Where did you go?’
I can’t focus on him. I keep looking up and down that black canal for an approaching gondola.
‘Serena! Speak to me!’
I stare at Gustav wildly. ‘I went across Central Park to the Weinmeyers. I couldn’t think where else to go. I was so furious with you! With all of you!’
He nods again and again, his eyes burning so intensely, as if he has found me like treasure in the dust. ‘I know that, too, cara. The Weinmeyers called me, not till you were safely on the plane, mind, and they told me to stop being such a bloody arrogant fool and either let you go for good or do everything in my power to get you back.’
I keep staring at him as if he might melt away. My head is thumping painfully. It’s like threading thoughts together one by one on frayed string. ‘The door – I thought I’d banged it shut! I’d had such a shock–’ Spots spark and pop in front of my eyes. I curl my fingers round his hands to stop me fainting clean away. ‘My iPad. Did you find that?’
Gustav nods. ‘That’s what really sent me into a spin. You’d left that behind on the sofa, apparently. Pierre had already found it and switched it off. I’ve brought it with me. It’s here, in your hotel room.’ Gustav wraps the cloak round me like a parcel. ‘I was frantic thinking you’d even left that behind, with all your notes and commission details. Making sure you got that back was my excuse for coming after you.’
My teeth are chattering. ‘You don’t need an excuse. I’m just so happy you’re here. That you forgive me.’
‘I can’t forgive myself. You need to forgive me for going off the deep end, because as soon as I saw Pierre standing in our apartment I laid into him about Polly’s photograph of the two of you, and to be fair he didn’t deny what happened at the Gramercy Hotel. You got to him, he said. He loved your photographs of the burlesque show, but he resented your interference in this business with Polly. You were pricking at what little conscience he has. So even though you were being a pain he found you irresistible. Captivating, in fact. His words, not mine. Which led to the brotherly kiss that misfired. Which I recall were exactly your words and I should have listened.’
I push my hands on his mouth to try to stop him. ‘But this time I have done something awful, Gustav!’
He holds me even tighter. ‘He treated you like one of his conquests, and he’s sorry. And that’s why I’m here, too. To say sorry.’
I stand very still, tears like boulders in my throat. ‘Pierre came with you to Venice?’
Gustav gently kisses me. ‘My confused girl. Pierre is not here. He was called over to California.’
I pull away from him and walk to the water’s edge. The city is gradually going to sleep, but I can see the odd fizz and spray of fireworks up the Grand Canal and over on the Giudecca Island. I feel like throwing myself headlong into the black, choppy lagoon.
Lie after lie.
Gustav pulls me away from the edge. ‘I’m just a jealous guy. Isn’t that what John Lennon said? I have so much to say to you, Serena Folkes. But those Weinmeyers have run you into the ground. So no more now. Sleep. Tomorrow I’m going to prove how special you are to me.’
The sweet relief and happiness in Gustav’s face are breaking my heart all over again. How can I ever tell him that the lying cheat Pierre Levi is not in California at all, but somewhere in this very city?
‘But first we have to get rid of this hideous thing. What was Crystal thinking of?’
He holds up my discarded headdress, which looks like hairy roadkill, and tosses it into the murky water. ‘I would never wear a peacock feather, and nor should you. Didn’t you know? They bring bad luck.’
I fall back against his warm body as we watch the headdress float out towards the lagoon, feathers spread open like five fingers releasing a secret, and then start to sink.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
As sleep slithers off me I hear the swish and pelt of heavy rain against the window. Every winter morning Venice gives itself up to the sea, but the sky above is drenching us as well, tipping its load relentlessly over the red-tiled roofs and pink and apricot palazzi, washing away all the signs of the Carnevale last night.
I am lying in an amazing canopied gold four-poster bed in the ornate bedroom of one of the most iconic hotels in the world, next to the man who has stolen my heart. But as soon as the grey dayl
ight permeates my eyelids, what separates itself from the maelstrom of my mind is not Gustav but the looming figure of his brother.
I lie staring at the watery play of light on the ceiling. The situation is as clear as if he was standing in front of me, confessing all. He ingratiated himself with Gustav. Then came here. Then bribed the hotel receptionist to direct Crystal and me to the correct costume shop. He must even have bribed the kaftan lady to supply us with that exact outfit.
Pierre must have known, after their touching conversation back in New York, that Gustav would come after me. His video of Margot didn’t hit the intended target, so he tried a different tack, came after me as well, made sure he got here first, delayed Gustav, and steered the gondola right to the hotel in the hope that Gustav would catch us. He’s out to break me and Gustav. But why? Either he wants Gustav for himself. Or he wants me.
Pierre is still in Venice. Any minute he could walk up the majestic stairs, if he doesn’t already have a room in our hotel. He’ll knock on our door, and when Gustav welcomes him in he’ll reveal exactly how close he was to detonating our happiness.
I roll over on the satin-soft sheet and push my face down into the mattress. The pillow is still warm but Gustav isn’t beside me. The sound of rushing water isn’t the rain after all. It’s coming from the shower.
I jump out of bed, kick my way past my green dress and cloak, which are draped over the carpet and chair like the skins of hunted wildlife. I snatch up the iPad. I didn’t dare look at it last night. I switch it on and click through the folders and emails. The Pierre folder is there, complete with the neat bullet points that I’d made when he was briefing me about the storyboard for the burlesque show.
The Margot email, the film, the wedding march are erased. Deleted. Or imagined?
I push my way into the steamed-up bathroom. I must get close to Gustav.
His body is gleaming like a dolphin’s. I stand and stare at his broad shoulders, the winged jut of his shoulder blades, the regular bumps of his spine, his muscular, rounded butt. His hair is plastered black and wet against his head, outlining the fine shape of his skull. He’s already shaved and is lifting his face to the jet of hot water, his long eyelashes stuck together, his mouth half-open as he sings something softly under his breath.
I have the power to make him happy. I also have the power to shatter him.
I sidle into the shower behind Gustav, shiver with pleasure as the water sprays over my sleep-warm skin and pricks it into life. I wrap my arms around him from behind, rub my tight nipples against his back. He turns his face so that I can plant a kiss on his cheek, grins broadly, then continues casually with his washing ritual as if he’s not to be interrupted. I hesitate. I’m not going to be dismissed. I’ve got work to do here. I must remind him that we are unbreakable.
I squirt perfumed gel from the glass dispenser on the wall, rub it between my palms until it foams up into a thick meringue of soap, and then reach round and take his length in my hands, feeling it jump in eager greeting. He continues shampooing his hair as he waits to see what I’ll do next.
I start to soap him, tuck the still soft end of him into one hand and swipe with the other, watching it quiver and rise. I begin to relax. It’s extending from his lovely flat stomach just like his beloved telescope, smoothing out the velvety skin, ironing out any wrinkles until it is straight and smooth and emerges strong and proud and ready in its blanket of pale-pink bubbles.
A ball of nausea rises in my throat as I remember the sight of Pierre’s thick, tall erection, standing proud of his velvet breeches and intended for me.
I pull Gustav more roughly, lather the soft balls, watch his head roll back as the sensations start to weaken him. I’m weak, too, with shame and with love for him so fierce it hurts.
He falls against the shower wall. He doesn’t touch me. He’s letting me make all the running. The smile stops playing as my hands play faster up and down the long, hard shaft, working the soap into a luxurious lather. I feel him flinch and grow under my touch.
With my other hand I cup his balls and then try something I’ve never done before. My finger travels further back, up between his gleaming buttocks, darts straight into his tight butt, forcing a groan of surprise from him. I feel his balls retract with his mounting excitement and I chuckle softly as my finger pokes higher, reaching for the moment when he will become helpless.
He groans again, grapples for me blindly and grabs my hips, spins me round, jams me up against him, his hands squeezing my breasts. My feet slip on the marble tiles and I grab the chrome shower pipe as the needles of water continue to stimulate my skin. I can just make out his blurred reflection in the steamed-up shower panel.
He lifts me so that my feet rest on the little step running round the base of the shower tray, and then he cups one large hand and parts me, thrusting his fingers inside, the water and soap mingling with my own juices. How did this happen? How does he always end up in control? My body is contracting wildly to take in his long fingers, but he pulls them out again and parts my legs until I rise right off my toes.
I will learn one day to take total control, but for now I give in yet again to my role as living doll. My stomach kicks with desire as his familiar hands manipulate me into the position he has chosen. I am practically swinging off the shower rail now, balancing on the tops of his legs which are slightly bent as he grapples me from behind. As he lowers himself I rise to meet him and then I feel the tip of it, ready and waiting.
I rest my cheek against the panel, ecstatic to feel him there, wanting the moment of anticipation to go on forever while the water shoots down onto us, steadily reducing in temperature. I shiver as I balance against the panel, feel him solid and strong behind me, flexed and ready, and then I slide down onto him, inch after glorious inch, descending slowly and triumphantly until my buttocks are squashed up against his stomach.
I let go for a moment and then he tilts so that we both start to fall. I let out a shriek as we land on hands and knees half in, half out of the shower. I start to crawl forwards – perhaps we can finish this in the comfort of our big expensive bed – but he yanks me back inside the cubicle so that the water, now really cold, keeps showering onto our backs, and the cold seems to make him even more rigid.
My nipples are stiff as my skin shrinks against the cold water, tingling now with tension as he starts again, slowly pushing, not pulling out at all, so that I am manhandled across the slippery floor with whatever rhythm he chooses, my hands and knees squeaking with the friction, his hands holding me, not needing to do anything more to stimulate me, just letting my body tighten and welcome him, engulf his familiar hardness so that we are welded together, the beast with two backs, rocking back and forth on the hard wet floor of the bathroom.
The water runs colder, Gustav pumps faster, and I’m shuddering both from the cold and from uncontrollable excitement as he accelerates, muttering into my neck, kissing, licking, now biting, jamming me against him as he lifts me off the floor with the force of his coming and I squeeze for more friction and then yield into an explosive climax that flows and mingles with the freezing water and the ebbing bubbles.
There’s a harsh rapping at the door and my heart stops. I can’t move. I scrabble for a towel, teeth chattering again as Gustav flings on a bathrobe to answer the door. I try to form the sentences that will explain it all.
‘Room service!’
I remain in a huddle as Gustav murmurs to the waiter. I pluck at the towel as I try to compose myself.
‘Breakfast is served, my love!’ he cries, uncovering with a flourish the huge silver tray of food laid out on the table in front of the window. Coffee, orange juice, fruit, eggs, prosciutto, pastries. ‘Just look at this view, Serena. Santa Maria della Salute and over there Giudecca. Did you know that from above the map of Venice is shaped like a fish?’
‘I did, yes.’ I smile and cup my cold hands round the coffee pot. ‘How appropriate is that for a watery city? You notice the Grand Canal is its gu
llet?’
‘We could go to the Accademia, walk towards the Zattere. There’s a fascinating workshop on the other side of the Ponte del Accademia where they make gondolas. Or how about a trip over to the Lido?’
I reach out for my cream silk negligee to drop it over my still wet, shivering body, then get up and walk across the thick rug towards him. I let him pull out a chair as if he was a waiter. He throws a huge white napkin over my lap, pours strong coffee and into it a generous dollop of cream just as I like it. Then he sits down opposite me and bites noisily into a large, buttery croissant, scattering crumbs comically all over his still wet chest.
‘How did you know it was me wandering about on the bridge last night?’ Too late I regret prising open this possible can of worms.
He frowns with his knife poised in the air, smeared with butter. His eyes are narrowed against the white light slicing in from the lagoon. He looks as if he should be modelling for a Tom Ford advert.
‘Crystal sent me a picture from your phone to cheer me up, thinking I was in New York. Cunning little matchmaker. But my flight to Venice was delayed. The plan I’d made with the Weinmeyers was for you to set off for the ball and for me to follow you and surprise you. I was desperate, you looked so stunning in the picture, so perfectly the part. The Weinmeyers told me to get straight to the ball from here and they’d kit me out in a costume but I landed long after the ball had begun and before I could get out of the airport my bloody brother phoned me.’
A fist reaches inside and clenches my ribcage. I try to hide it by cutting a half moon slice of melon. ‘Pierre? Couldn’t he have left us alone for five minutes after the trouble he’s caused?’
‘You kept asking about him last night, Serena. Darling, you must stop feeling guilty!’ He dips bread into runny egg yolk, gulps down coffee as if it’s his last meal on earth. ‘He rang to tell me about LA. He wanted to apologise again. And to ask after you. Anyhow, by the time we’d finished talking it was far too late to find you. All I could do was sit here and wait.’