by Nina Milne
‘No.’ Her voice was small now. ‘He tried but it was frustrating for him. To be fair to him he genuinely saw fashion as an inferior branch of photography, something frothy and frivolous, so to him my work was...not very important.’
‘But what you do is part of a billion-dollar industry.’
‘Howard doesn’t care about money. And I can’t blame him for criticising my work. It was full of flaws, in my technique, the angles, the light. Sometimes he’d take a picture of the same thing I had and he’d point out the differences.’
Anger began to rise in Luca, but he kept his voice even. ‘Just out of interest, did he ever say anything positive?’
‘Of course.’
‘Let me guess—it was always followed by a “but” or was a backhanded compliment.’
Luca forced himself not to rise and pace. ‘It sounds like he wanted to undermine you, and it sounds to me like his voice is still in your head.’
‘Of course, it isn’t. Or at least not in a bad way. I’d be a fool to discount his opinion on photography.’
‘No, you wouldn’t. I am not dissing Howard’s talents, but I do think his perspective was warped by your relationship.’ Plus the man sounded like a bully and he suspected Emily’s marriage had been marred by a bullying she wasn’t even aware of. Because she was so star-struck by the man’s talent she believed his words to be gospel. But it explained her fear of showing her work, the way she expected criticism, the fact she still had Howard’s words in her head. Just as the taunts of those schoolyard bullies had echoed in his.
‘Perhaps.’ Emily shrugged. ‘It doesn’t really matter.’ She rose to her feet. ‘Shall we walk?’
‘Sure.’ He followed suit, looked down at the sudden pinched look on her face and he knew it did matter, that he had to try and convince her that Howard was wrong. ‘We can talk whilst we walk.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
AS THEY STARTED to walk the thronged noisy streets, redolent with the scent of spices and rich with the sound of chatter, the honk of horns and the cries of street vendors hawking their wares, Emily considered Luca’s words, wondered if he could be right. When she’d taken the pictures at the farm it had felt...‘right’. As she’d snapped she’d felt in the zone, as if everything had come together.
It was only when it came to showing them to Luca that doubt had assailed her and she’d prepared herself to be put down. But that wasn’t down to Luca, that was down to her—she’d grown to assume and believe negativity from Howard, not just on her work, but on everything. She had been sure during their marriage that he had become more and more judgemental because of her inability to learn from him. That that inability had made him see only her flaws and not the things that had presumably made him marry her in the first place.
But how could she question whether he was right? He was Howard McAllister.
Luca glanced down at her and his voice was quiet now, his grey eyes dark with purpose. ‘Those photos are good, Emily. Don’t let Howard’s voice stay in your head telling you they aren’t.’
‘It’s not that easy. If you went to your mentor and he said you only had the talent to produce mass chocolate what would you have done?’
‘Gone away and produced the best mass-produced chocolate in the business and gone back to the drawing board. I’d have proved him wrong.’ He shrugged. ‘But there is a big difference here. My mentor is a gentleman. Yours sounds like a bully. And bullies have power. I don’t think Howard’s opinion of your work was unbiased.’
‘You can’t know that.’
‘No, but I do know a bully when I see one. And I remember what it is like to be taunted and put down—not in the same context, but I know how much it can hurt. I am telling you this so you know what I am saying is not just empty words.’
Now she focused on him, saw the remembered hurt in his eyes and knew this was a trip down memory lane he didn’t want to take.
‘I told you that when my father left life was tough. But after a while my mother pulled us through the toughest bit, there was more money, I was settled in school, life became more normal. But then things began to change. As Dolci grew so did the publicity around the Casseveti name. A boy at my school figured out who I was and he latched onto it. Asked where my dad was, why I never saw him, told me my dad didn’t love me because I was so weak, came up with different reasons and made me repeat them...and soon it caught on and then it escalated. Into relentless bullying.’
‘That’s awful.’ Her heart cracked as she imagined the young Luca, a small boy having his vulnerabilities displayed and exploited; she could almost feel how much each taunt must have seared his soul. And to force him to list reasons why his dad had left took cruelty to a new level, was tantamount to Howard listing out all her faults and flaws and making her repeat them. At least he had stopped short of that. ‘I’m sorry you had to go through that.’
He shook his head. ‘I didn’t tell you because I want your pity. I told you because I know what that treatment does to you. It undermines you and makes you insecure and miserable. It eats away at your soul and makes you crumble inside. It erodes your confidence and it can make you doubt everything about yourself. I endured it at school, you had to live with it. Howard forcing you to spot the difference, his constant put-downs, his dismissal of your achievements as frothy and frivolous. He is a grown-up version of the boy who made my life so miserable.’
His words made her pause. Of course, she knew Howard was a full-scale cheating rat, a man who had cheated on his pregnant wife, a man who had quite simply not given a flying fish for his unborn child. Yet because the man’s photographic talent could not be questioned, she’d still accepted that all the put-downs, all the criticisms of her work were justified.
Just as she was sure Luca would have believed the awful cruel taunts of his persecutor. Would have believed his father’s abandonment was his fault. The idea heated anger in her veins as well as compassion for the child he’d been.
‘I hope that boy got what was coming to him, or at least some help. I hope he saw the error of his ways, but before he did I hope someone bopped him on the nose or something.’
His expression crinkled into amusement and she frowned. ‘It’s not funny.’
‘I know it’s not, but I guess we are both displaying a violent streak. I was just thinking how I wish Howard were here so I could kick him round Jalpura.’
They both contemplated the idea and then she turned to him and without even realising it she slipped her hand into his. ‘What happened?’ she asked. ‘With the bullying?’
‘Nothing. I endured it. I was too ashamed to tell my mum. Things were finally going well for her. She’d qualified as a lawyer, she’d even started another relationship. And I didn’t want to tell her. I was meant to be the...’ He broke off and she completed the sentence.
‘The man of the family.’ And her heart cracked a little more even as anger surged at James Casseveti for leaving his son so heartlessly.
‘Yes,’ he acknowledged. ‘And to be frank the whole situation was far from manly. I couldn’t tell anyone, so I endured it. Until one day I snapped. They decided to take it a step further; they brought my mother into it, started trying to make me say filth about her. I saw red. I went for the leader. I’d love to say I won but I didn’t. But he did get bopped on the nose—my only satisfaction is that I did get in a good few punches and kicks and I certainly surprised him. But he was bigger than me and had a couple of friends there too. The teachers pulled us apart and obviously after that adults were involved. I didn’t tell the whole of it, but other kids were questioned and they did. I wish they hadn’t.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it made me feel weak. As though I needed to be looked after.’
‘You did need to be looked after. You were a child.’
‘I get that, but it didn’t feel like that back then. It felt humiliating and as if I
’d let my mum down. That’s what bullying does to you—it makes you lose perspective.’
‘So what did your mum do?’
‘She let rip at the school, and before I knew it she had pulled me out of school and decided we were moving to Italy, that we were changing our name to her maiden name, Petrovelli.’
‘So that was why you had a new start.’
‘That’s why. Mum’s new relationship didn’t work out, but she said it didn’t matter because she fell in love with Italy instead. We all did. So it all worked out.’
Suddenly he halted and turned so they faced each other, took her other hand in his as well. ‘I’d like it to work out for you too. Don’t let Howard ruin your chance to do something you want to do with your photography. Don’t believe his words.’
‘It’s not that easy.’
‘I know,’ he said softly, and she wondered if he still believed the words of those bullies so long ago. Still believed it was his fault his father had left. ‘But you can try.’
Emily took a deep breath. ‘OK. I’ll try. I’ll think about the idea of a Jalpura documentary.’ For a long moment they stood, hands linked, and a strange trickle of warmth, of hope, of lightness ran through her. Until finally the hustle and bustle of people urged them to keep walking and Luca pointed to a nearby food stall.
‘Shall we try that one? I am suddenly ravenous. And we need to eat before the dance.’
‘Me too. That one sounds perfect.’ And as he tugged her towards the enticing aroma she realised she was smiling.
* * *
Luca swallowed the last delicious mouthful of biriani and they started to walk towards the temple where the dance was going to take place.
‘I am very excited about this,’ Emily said. ‘I’ve always wanted to see Kathakali performed.’
‘Kathakali?’
‘Yes, Samar and Shamini mentioned it earlier, after you’d gone. My dad told me about it. It’s a dance that tells a story. It literally means story play. The dancers have years and years of training because it’s so hard. The whole story is conveyed through gesture and facial expression and colour. The make-up is exquisite and basically different colours represent different characters and characteristics. It’s amazingly complex and the story is usually epic. The performances can go on throughout the night.’ She glanced up at him and gave a gurgle of laughter. ‘Not today, though. Today is one scene from the story of Nala and Damayanti. It’s a love story, but they have a pretty torturous path with demons and battles and magic and snakes before they get their happy ending.’
She broke off. ‘Sorry. I am boring on.’
‘Nope. You aren’t.’ He grinned at her. ‘I think you’d have made a natural Kathakali dancer.’
‘Hah. Just because I move my hands around a bit when I talk.’
‘There’s that, but it’s also the way your nose crinkles when you dislike something and the crease on your forehead when you are focusing.’ He studied each feature and his fingers tingled with a desire to smooth his fingers against her brow, to move down the bridge of her nose. ‘Then there’s your smile.’
He heard her intake of breath at his words, a sound she turned into a shaky laugh. ‘I think you need more than a few wrinkles to be a Kathakali dancer.’
As she spoke they reached their destination, saw Samar and Shamini waiting for them, and now they turned their attention to the performance.
‘Part of the whole experience is to watch the dancers transform,’ Samar explained, and they watched a dancer lie prostrate as other members of the troupe applied a complicated maquillage. ‘He is the main dancer, he is Nala, so he has the most complicated make-up.’
A few minutes later the performance began, the dancers assembled around a large multi-wicked bell metal lamp. Bare-chested musicians encircled the actors, drums to hand.
Luca’s eyes widened as he witnessed the intricacies, the grace, the drama, the wealth of detailed movement that told the story. The scene showed Nala finally defeated by an evil demon who poisoned his character, made him into a gambler who wagered away his kingdom and deserted his wife. Perhaps that was what had happened to his father, Luca thought; his Achilles heel, his greed, had been exploited by a demon woman who would stop at nothing to get him.
Emily’s words of earlier rang through his head. ‘The very act of living your life as you have, of being a true family with your mum and Jodi, all you have achieved despite what he did to you all—that is success and you mustn’t let anything take that away from you.’
He turned to look at her as she stared wide-eyed and rapt at the stage; he’d swear he saw the suspicion of tears in her eyes as she swayed to the evocative beat of the drums, as the wife Damayanti wept as Nala crept into the night.
Looking down, he saw that at some stage in the proceedings he’d taken her hand in his. For a moment he considered releasing his grip, knew he didn’t want to, told himself that it was all to do with the atmosphere, the beat of the drum, the flare of the fires that had sprung up throughout the grounds.
The applause was long and soon after the performers melted away. ‘Now it’s over to us,’ Shamini said. ‘I think we should dance the kolkali.’
They watched as groups of men and women formed circles; from somewhere came a supply of sticks that were passed around and both he and Emily gripped them. Other people held instruments, drums and cymbals. Luca looked to Emily for elucidation but she shrugged her shoulders. ‘I have no idea how to do this.’ Worry clouded her eyes as she looked down at the stick and Luca wanted to dispel it.
‘Then let’s just go with it,’ he said, and a sudden exhilaration raced through him as he held out a hand to her. ‘Together.’ Because he wanted to dance with her, wanted her to abandon herself to the sound of the drums as she had for scant seconds back in Silvio’s in Turin. Perhaps it would give her a release from the doubts and sadness he knew she carried, would lighten the load.
Surprise lit her eyes along with a second of hesitation and then she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and placed her hand in his with a shy smile. ‘Let’s do it.’
The feel of her hand in his again brought a smile to his face and he squeezed it slightly, caught his breath as she moved closer to him, and he felt intoxicated by her proximity, her scent, her warmth.
Within minutes the music started, the beat slow at first, and the group began to move in a circle striking the sticks against each other, whilst keeping rhythm with different steps. Luca released Emily’s hand but stayed close as they both tried to follow along, and soon enough they were swept up in the rhythm. Yet Luca was only aware of Emily, the rest of the crowd a mere backdrop against this entrancing woman, the sway and curve of her body, the grace of her movements and the expression on her face, her eyes focused on him.
The music increased in tempo and volume, and the movements became faster and faster as the circle of dancers expanded and contracted, the sticks a blur in the moonlight, and through it all Emily weaved and turned, the dance bringing her so tantalisingly close and then pulling her away, and it seemed to him that they danced for each other and each other alone.
Then another dancer tripped, lost his balance and stumbled into Emily’s path; she tried to dodge but her body twisted at an awkward angle and instantly Luca moved to catch her and then there she was in his arms. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I think so. Yes. Thank you.’ Her voice was breathless as she looked up at him and now his chest constricted at her beauty, dark hair wild around her flushed face, her brown eyes warm and alive with laughter and passion, and now he knew that she had danced for him, had been as caught in the spell as he was. Knew too he should let her go but instead his arms tightened around her as he told himself she might be hurt, might need his support. For a timeless instant they stood, and his head whirled as he saw desire spark in her eyes, her lips parted, and he couldn’t help himself. Oblivious to the dancers around t
hem, he lowered his head and kissed her.
CHAPTER TWELVE
THE TOUCH OF Luca’s lips blew Emily’s mind, cascaded her with feeling, made her feel alive for the first time in such a long, long time and she gave in to it. To the sheer raw visceral passion his lips aroused in her. She revelled in it as he deepened the kiss and wrapped his hands in her hair so that she let out a small moan of sheer unadulterated pleasure, pressed harder against him, wanting more. Wanting the barriers of the soft cotton T-shirt to be gone. Pleasure and frustration vied inside her in a whirling, squirming, hot mess of desire.
Until she knew she couldn’t take any more. ‘We need to go,’ she said.
He nodded. There was no need for words, their sole focus now on assuaging the churn of need. All thoughts of one moment in time gone, discarded, abandoned without question. She was no longer capable of rational thought, her whole being motivated by desire for this man.
‘We need to find Samar and Shamini.’
Luca dropped a curse but then nodded and somehow they got through the goodbyes, the necessary chit-chat, and then they were half walking, half running back to the resort. All that mattered now was getting to the hotel. A journey achieved in near silence, though his hand remained firmly clasped around hers. Almost as though, if they broke the link, common sense would weasel its way back in, and she gripped his fingers with equal fervour. Every so often he would brush his lips against hers and anticipation surged through her until her head whirled.
Then finally—finally—they got to the hotel and she followed him blindly to his thatched cottage, simply because it was nearest. He closed the door, moved to the windows and pulled the blinds down so the room was cocooned in cool dusky darkness.
For one fleeting moment a sudden panic touched her, a wonder if her body could do this, could remember how. Whether after the ordeal she’d been through she could expose herself. One hand smoothed over her now flat stomach and a pang of sadness touched her.