Lose Yourself (The Desires Unlocked Trilogy Part Two)

by Evie Blake

  Valentina stands facing the study door and opens it slowly. She steps across the threshold and takes in the bare walls, the gaps in the bookcases where Theo removed his books, and the empty desk.

  She feels the ache inside her heart, yet she grits her teeth as she walks into the room. She will not cry. She has to get over Theo, move on. She is a free spirit and Theo wanted commitment. Yet, despite his needs, he understood her. He did everything he could to show her that. She walks around the room, the marble floors cold upon the soles of her bare feet. She approaches the desk, sits down in the chair, lifts her feet and spins slowly. She can smell him in here: that crisp, dry tang of Bulgari that catches in the back of her throat and turns her on, even now. She closes her eyes and slowly stops spinning. She places her bare feet back down on the floor and parts her legs. At first, she imagines she is Anaïs Nin’s dancer, painting herself and exposing herself to her admirers. Yet gradually the watching eyes fade away and there is only one man looking at her: Theo. She pushes her finger inside herself.

  ‘Theo,’ she whispers. Here, inside the privacy of his office, she can say his name. Oh, in these moments she sees herself leaving Milan, taking a plane to London and getting back her man. She circles herself with her fingertips, pushing deeper, further, imagining the touch of Theo upon her. She could never forget how he feels upon her body. She arches in the chair, summoning him to her.

  ‘Come back. Oh, please, come back,’ she begs, as she falls forward, climaxing and, within a split second, moving from release to devastation. She bends over, hugging her knees. She knows what this is. This is grief – different from her first heartache over Francesco, for that was a perverse, vengeful pain. No; this feeling is different – as if she has let drop the most valuable thing she ever owned. It is cracked forever; unfixable.

  She sits bolt upright, squeezes her fists tight, and stands up. She has to pull herself together, get on with her life.

  She marches out of the study, slamming the door behind her, and heads into the kitchen to make some tea. She has to push Theo out of her head. It is over. He has not called or written to her once in five months. She has to find the Valentina she was before Theo came into her life. She’ll call Antonella and they’ll go bargain hunting along the Navigli Canal. She has been spending a lot more time with Antonella since Marco moved to New York and Gaby is expecting a baby.

  Gaby’s pregnancy had shocked them all. Valentina hadn’t even known her old schoolfriend had met someone else, after the break-up with her married lover, Massimo. Valentina had been so busy trying to forget Theo – which had involved a great many escapades in Leonardo’s club – that the first time she met Gaby’s new boyfriend, Angelo, was the very night they announced her pregnancy.

  It had been Christmas Eve, and the friends were all out together. Marco had been the first of them to recover from Gaby’s unexpected news.

  ‘Brava, Gaby!’ he said while at the same time slapping Angelo on the back. ‘That is wonderful. Congratulations!’

  Valentina was struck dumb. She stared at her friend, who was positively beaming with joy, and then at Angelo, who didn’t look quite as happy, but still had his arm protectively around her shoulders. She guessed he must feel like he was facing the inquisition: Gaby’s oldest friends.

  ‘Mamma mia!’ Antonella cried, articulating Valentina’s thoughts. ‘Are you crazy? You have only just met.’

  Gaby glared at Antonella. ‘We’ve been together two months. Besides, it doesn’t matter how long we’ve been going out.’ She picked up Angelo’s hand possessively. ‘When you know he’s the one, you just know. Isn’t that right, Valentina?’

  Why was she asking her? Gaby knew how she felt about babies, marriage – the whole commitment deal.

  Valentina took a sip of wine and looked away from her friend. What could she say? Gaby was heading for disaster. She just knew it.

  ‘You know, girls, we’re nearly thirty. Now’s the time we should be thinking about having kids, settling down . . .’ Gaby began.

  ‘Are you for real?’ Antonella exclaimed. ‘My God, if I ever “settle down”, please shoot me.’

  Marco stifled a giggle, while patting Gaby’s hand comfortingly. She coloured; her boyfriend, Angelo, looked at Antonella in horror. But Valentina could have said much the same as Antonella. She could have told Gaby what she really thought – that it would all end in tears. How could Gaby possibly think she could have a baby with a man she had only known a couple of months? Had she any idea of the hardship she was about to head into? Of course, Valentina said nothing. She loved Gaby. She had to make herself be happy for her.

  Even so, since the announcement, their friendship has drifted slightly. Now it seems that Gaby goes everywhere with Angelo. Valentina has only seen her once on her own recently, when they went to a Matisse exhibition. Her old schoolfriend had been a nightmare, complaining that she felt sick every few minutes and telling Valentina that she had no idea how bad the nausea could be in early pregnancy. Of course, Valentina did know. But she wasn’t going to tell Gaby that. There is only one person in the world who knows she was pregnant once. And she is never going to see him again, right? That had been the other thing that drove her mad that day with Gaby. Her friend kept bringing up Theo – trying to get her to talk about him, telling her to call him, advising her not to let him slip out of her life.

  In the kitchen, Valentina makes herself a cup of English breakfast tea before sitting down at the table. She hasn’t heard from Gaby in a couple of weeks. She should call her – check everything is OK. She should care that her friend is pregnant, and yet she doesn’t want to think about it. In fact, if she is honest with herself, she hates the fact that Gaby is having a baby. She will lose her, too, just like she lost Theo.

  Valentina opens up her laptop. She hasn’t checked her emails for a couple of days. She likes not being available all of the time. Sometimes she imagines having the courage to throw her mobile off the top of the duomo and watch it smash into tiny pieces on the piazza below, but she knows that would be professional suicide. There is quite a lot of mail, mostly boring, but one item in her inbox grabs her attention. She looks with interest at its subject: ‘Exhibition of Erotic Photography.’

  When she clicks on the message, she has to read it twice before she actually takes in the content. She is being offered a place in a group show of erotic photography, in the Lexington Gallery in Soho, London, at the end of next month. Finally, all of her focus and drive is paying off. Last winter, during the weeks following her break-up with Theo, she had spent days putting together submission packages and sending them out to galleries in London. She had reasoned that she had always wanted to exhibit in London, although, if she is really honest with herself, it had also crossed her mind that this same city is Theo’s new home. Without hesitation, Valentina grabs her phone. To hell with Raquel’s family dinner, she needs to speak to Leonardo, now.

  ‘Leonardo, guess what? I’m in a show at the Lexington Gallery in London!’ she announces before her friend even has time to answer his phone properly.

  ‘Valentina, that’s great, but I can’t talk right now.’ Leonardo sounds unusually uptight.

  ‘Oh, sorry . . .’ She feels a little hurt; she cannot help it. She imagines Leonardo and his voluptuous wife, Raquel, at the dinner table, entertaining her family: the aroma of home-cooked food, wine liberally splashed into glasses, chat of young and old, children hiding in between the adults’ legs underneath the table. A scene she has never, in her whole life, been a part of.

  ‘I’ll call you later.’ His voice warms. ‘Well done; it’s really great news.’

  At last, something else is happening in her life to take her away from her heartache over Theo. Finally, her profile as an art photographer, rather than a fashion photographer, is beginning to build. It takes her out of her mother’s shadow – Tina Rosselli was Milan’s iconic fashion photographer of the sixties and seventies – away from comparisons with her mother and into a world that is hers a
lone. Maybe that’s why she keeps taking those photographs.

  Her episodes in Leonardo’s club make her feel better. She is not herself, disguised in some costume with her camera. She is a stranger watching strangers, taking pictures of them as they reveal the most nocturnal part of themselves, their secret desires, their shadow selves. The honesty of these scenes never fails to move her. And these are the only times she can hide away from her hurt. So she just keeps on snapping, consumed by this mission: to make something aesthetically otherworldly, beautiful and luscious out of sex.

  She sits back against her chair, her heart rate quickening. It takes her less than a second to make up her mind. She quickly types a reply to the email, accepting the invitation.

  Finally, she can get away from Milan for a while and all the memories of her and Theo that haunt the rooms within her apartment. In London, she can reinvent herself. And yet, the truth is that Valentina knows it is not just the idea of the exhibition that is exciting her. She now has an excuse to go to London, a huge city, of course, with a population of millions, and yet, even so, it is Theo’s new home. In London, she will be closer to him.

  1948

  The day she leaves, it is raining – the way it only can in Venice – a penetrating downpour, barrelling down upon them as they walk towards the ferry. The lagoon sloshes over on to the pavement to merge with pools of rainwater. Her feet are wet before she has even set out.

  The ferry is already there. Maria grips her suitcase handle, feels the stiff leather burning her palm. Her breath is tight in her chest. Finally, she is leaving.

  Her mother places her hands on Maria’s shoulders, squeezes them tightly and looks intently into her eyes. She is hatless and her hair is stuck to her head like a shiny black helmet.

  ‘Never forget who you are,’ she says to Maria.

  She looks away from her mother’s gaze. It is too intense and makes her frightened. She is beginning to have regrets. She is safe here in Venice. Why would she ever want to leave?

  ‘It will be very different in London,’ her mother continues. ‘It’s a very big city; much bigger than Venice. And it has been crippled by the war. Things will be harsh.’

  Pina reaches forward and places her hand on Maria’s mother’s arm in reassurance. ‘She will be fine, Belle,’ she says gently.

  Her mother drops her arms and, instinctively, Maria folds into the embrace of the two other women. She inhales deeply her mother’s scent of crushed roses and Pina’s more comforting aroma of burnt sugar and vanilla.

  The bell rings for the ferry to depart and Maria knows that it is now, or never. If she doesn’t get on the ferry today, she will never be able to extricate herself from her mother’s love. It is so painful, this separation, and yet she has dreamt of this moment for many years – throughout the dull grey fear of the war, when she spent hours dancing on her own in the deserted palazzos of Venice, watching her young, supple body shimmering in the tarnished mirrors and dusty windows. She knows that, logically, her mother wants her to leave as well. She has always encouraged her to dance, reminding her again and again that her paternal grandmother was a Spanish dancer – that dancing is in her blood.

  ‘It is your calling, my darling,’ her mother had told her.

  Her mother’s faith, though, was all words, not action. It was Pina who had given her the practical skills to pursue her dream. It was she who had found the right dancing teacher for Maria: a French-American Jew, called Jacqueline, who they hid throughout the war, and who tutored Maria not only in dance, but also in French and English. Jacqueline had left them over a year ago. They had not heard from her until two months ago when she wrote to Belle and Pina, telling them that she had a teaching position in the Lempert Dance School in London. Upon Jacqueline’s recommendation, the director of the school, Bruno Lempert, had a place for Maria. It was an opportunity Maria couldn’t possibly turn down: to actually train with the Ballets Jooss, one of the most cutting edge contemporary dance companies in Europe. Her chance had been handed to her on a plate.

  ‘Remember to work hard,’ Pina says, her expression earnest, and Maria knows she is trying to hide her emotions, for Belle’s sake.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know . . .’ Maria begins to say. ‘Maybe I should stay . . .’

  Her mother shakes her head, fiercely, although tears are sprouting in her eyes.

  ‘No way, young lady,’ she says, picking up her case, and almost pushing her daughter on to the ferry. ‘You are doing this, not just for yourself, but for all of us.’

  Now they stand apart, her mother and Pina on the quayside and she on the edge of the rocking boat.

  ‘Be careful,’ Pina instructs her.

  Maria frowns. ‘Of what?’

  ‘She means be careful of men,’ her mother says, smiling despite the tears. ‘She is right, my darling; don’t let yourself be taken advantage of.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Maria says roundly, gripping her suitcase to her chest. She means what she says, for she tries to have no interest in men. Although her mother idolised her father – never said a bad word about him – as far as Maria is concerned, he abandoned them. He never met his own daughter. Belle tells her that he is dead but, when Maria asks where or how, she is unable to elaborate. If she doesn’t know for sure, then it’s possible that he could be alive, somewhere, couldn’t he? It’s possible he just never bothered to come back and is letting them all believe he is dead.

  Pina has always been there in her life. Maria has been perfectly content living in the home of her mother, and her lover. It seems the ideal relationship: two women who of course completely understand each other. ‘Such harmony, and no patriarchal mess.’ That’s what Pina was always saying. If only she liked women, but Maria has to admit that she is not attracted to other girls and, sometimes, she finds herself casting her eyes at a man – usually a lot older than herself for some reason – before she pulls herself together and looks away. She knows that if she is to succeed as a dancer then she must dedicate her life to her dream. Falling in love with a man could destroy her purpose. And yet, as much as she convinces herself that she doesn’t want it, Maria can’t help but sometimes fantasise about how it must feel to be in love, and to be loved. How is it to be one man’s princess?

  The ferry begins to pull away and she waves goodbye. Her throat tightens and she is not sure whether she is crying or not, her face is so wet from the rain. Her mother and Pina link arms and wave back, blowing kisses across the water. Maria catches them in her heart. My mother’s kisses will protect me, she thinks. She is frightened of the world she is walking into: London, a city devastated by the war, its people tough and proud. And she is an Italian. Not as bad as a German, yet still the enemy until Mussolini was got rid of. She bites her lip and inhales sharply the damp air of the lagoon as she watches the city shrinking in front of her and the figures of her mother and Pina receding. The magic of Venice is unravelling around her as if she has been wrapped up in a magic carpet all these years. She shivers. The new sensations of her own life, her independence and her beginning, course through her veins.

  ‘She is so innocent,’ Belle whispers as she watches her daughter disappearing before her eyes, the wide lagoon swallowing her up.

  ‘As were we all, once,’ says Pina pulling her lover close to her side. She kisses Belle’s damp cheek, places her hand upon her lover’s heart and feels its quick, hurting beat. ‘Let’s go home,’ she says.

  Yet Belle can’t stop a dark thought entering her head – that Maria is too young to go to London, that maybe she is not ready to live this big ambitious dream of being a dancer. She can’t help thinking that she shouldn’t have let her go. Her daughter is too innocent. Will she ever return to Venice the same?

  ‘Can I come too?’

  Antonella pins her with a pleading gaze, leaning forward and taking hold of Valentina’s hand. She is literally squeezed into her latticed corset and her ample cleavage is brushing Valentina’s own chest, the ends of her talon nails digging into the
palm of her hand.

  ‘I’m only going for a few days,’ Valentina says, trying to put her off.

  ‘Please, Valentina,’ Antonella begs. ‘It’s so boring in Milan now Marco has gone to New York and Gaby is all loved up.’

  Valentina hesitates. She had imagined herself alone in London – a time to reinvent herself.

  ‘Please,’ Antonella pushes, batting her false eyelashes at her friend.

  ‘I don’t know . . . I’m not even sure where I’m staying yet . . .’

  ‘My aunt has a whole house in Kensington we could use. It’s really posh,’ Antonella says smugly, knowing full well Valentina has no such useful relative in London.

  ‘You have to let me come with you. I can help you curate your show . . . you know how good I am at that. Besides –’ she licks her lips – ‘there are some really cool clubs in London. We could have so much fun.’

  Valentina cannot refuse her friend; maybe it would be good to have someone else there with her. If Antonella is by her side, distracting her, she might not be so tempted to contact Theo. And this is something she really mustn’t do. She can’t go back to all that pain.

  ‘OK,’ she says, ‘but let’s talk about it later. Don’t you think we’d better go in?’

  Antonella stands up and stretches. Despite the fact she is wearing spiky stilettos, she is still shorter than Valentina. She tugs at her corset, repositioning her breasts. She is wearing such a tiny red lacy G-string, she may as well not bother. Valentina still finds it bizarre seeing her friend dressed up this way and even more so taking pictures of her when she is in full flight in her dominatrix personna.