by Evie Blake
She sees Joan waving to her as she approaches the table.
‘There you are,’ Joan says, smiling up at her sweetly. ‘Where did you go?’
‘You moved tables,’ Maria says, sitting down in the chair next to one of the strange men.
‘Oh, yes, sorry,’ Joan giggles. ‘Ralph and his friend here wanted us to join them. You don’t mind, do you? They bought you a drink.’
Joan tilts her face to her companion. Maria has to admit he is very attractive: black hair, a sculpted moustache and perfectly arched eyebrows. He looks like some kind of Russian aristocrat. He is also very drunk, hardly acknowledging Maria’s presence before whispering something into Joan’s ear that makes her giggle even more. Maria sits rigidly in her seat, not daring to look at the man beside her. Eventually he coughs, forcing her to acknowledge him.
‘Pleased to meet you, Maria. My name is Douglas.’
He has one of those pale English faces, with sandy hair, watery blue eyes and freckles. She shakes his limp hand before taking a sip of the drink that has been bought for her. It goes up her nose, making her splutter.
‘Are you all right?’ Douglas asks.
‘Yes, fine,’ Maria replies. ‘It’s just I don’t know what I am drinking.’
‘Gin and tonic.’ Douglas takes out his cigarettes and offers her one. ‘Isn’t that what all girls drink nowadays?’
‘I have only ever drunk wine.’
‘I see; I thought you looked like a Continental. Where are you from?’
‘Italy.’
Douglas looks uncomfortable for a moment. ‘I wish you had said you were French or Spanish,’ he says finally.
‘Why?’
‘I fought against the Italians in Abyssinia during the war.’ Douglas shakes his head and looks at the band, which is just starting up another number.
Maria is lost for words. Now she feels even more uncomfortable than she did before. Maybe she can just leave and walk back to Jacqueline’s. Would it be all right to abandon Joan? Maria looks across at her friend. She is very drunk. She sees Ralph slip his hand under Joan’s skirt. That’s it; she has to get them out of here before something happens.
She stands up abruptly and reaches over, grabbing Joan’s hand. ‘Let’s go. It’s late.’
Joan frowns at her. ‘I don’t want to go,’ she says, pulling her hand away. ‘It’s just getting fun.’
‘I think we should; we have class in the morning.’
‘What do you girls study?’ Ralph drawls.
‘We’re dance students, darling,’ Joan traces her finger down his cheek.
‘Oh, dancers! That explains it . . .’ Ralph laughs and looks across at Maria with narrowed eyes. He makes her feel like she is a common tart. How dare he?
‘Joan,’ she says firmly. ‘I am leaving now and I think you should come with me.’
Joan waves her away. ‘Don’t worry, darling. I’m fine – really. I am a woman of the world.’
Maria can do no more. She stalks out of the club. She is angry with her friend for being so drunk and stupid, and with Ralph for thinking so little of them. And yet she is frustrated as well. She is powerless to stop Joan from behaving badly, and a part of her feels like an idiot – a party pooper. She steps out on to the cool street and takes in a deep breath of fresh air. God, it was smoky in that place.
‘Can I take you home?’
She turns in surprise. Behind her is Douglas, her evening purse in his hand. In her haste to get out of the club, she had forgotten to pick it up from the table.
‘Oh, thank you,’ she says as he hands it to her, and she tucks it under her arm. He is staring at her with those washed out blue eyes, and despite the fact it is a warm night, she shivers involuntarily.
‘I can walk,’ she adds.
‘Nonsense; I wouldn’t be happy unless I saw you safely home myself,’ Douglas says. ‘I have the car parked just around the corner.’
Maria clasps her hands around her purse in her lap, trying to quell her anxiety about Joan, as Douglas drives them down Pall Mall and past Buckingham Palace.
‘Do you know Ralph well?’ she asks Douglas.
He glances over at her, surveying her coolly. ‘Oh, yes; we served together in Africa,’ he says. ‘I can assure you he is a gentleman.’
Maria isn’t so sure. She can still see his hand slipping under Joan’s skirt, and the drunken haze in her friend’s eyes. She shouldn’t have left her behind.
‘Maybe we should go back and get Joan?’ she ventures.
Douglas puts a hand on her knee, and she flinches as if branded.
‘Really, I think your friend is quite able to look after herself. She is not an innocent . . .’ He pauses. ‘Not like you.’
Maria looks across at Douglas, but he is staring out of the windscreen, his expression indiscernible. She turns away, shifting so that his hand falls off her knee. She wills herself back at Jacqueline’s as they speed past Victoria Station through the utter blackness that is post-war London at night.
When they arrive at her little street, Douglas insists on parking. He gets out of the car, walking round and opening the passenger door for Maria. She gets out rather clumsily, unwillingly taking his hand.
‘Thank you,’ she says, glancing up at the top floor of the house. The curtains are drawn on Jacqueline’s windows and she can see no light behind them. Her mentor must be asleep.
She waits for him to get back into the car, but he is still standing on the deserted street.
‘Well, good night,’ Maria says, fishing in her bag for the front door key.
‘Can I invite you out for dinner?’ Douglas suddenly says. ‘Saturday night?’
‘Oh,’ she mutters. ‘Sorry; I’m busy on Saturday.’
There is something about the way this young man looks at her, the glitter in his pale eyes, that unnerves her. She can’t think of anything worse than going out with him on a date.
‘Well, what about Sunday, then?’ he asks her.
‘I can’t; sorry.’ She shakes her head.
‘Monday?’
This time she has no choice but to be direct.
‘No, thank you; I’m very busy, you see, with my dancing studies.’
‘Did you say, “no”?’ She can hear the icy affront in his voice. He has his hand on her arm now; he restrains her, forcing her to twist around and look at his face. ‘What about a good night kiss, then?’ he says, his mouth grimacing at her, his lips pulled back over his teeth so that he reminds Maria of a snarling dog.
‘Excuse me,’ she tries to pull away, ‘but, really, I have to go now. Good night,’ she says firmly.
But, instead of letting her go, Douglas takes a firmer hold of her arm and pulls her towards him.
‘Let me go!’ She is about to cry out, but he puts his hand over her mouth. His skin tastes salty, its flesh hot against her burning lips. She struggles to pull away from him, but he pushes her back down the front path and along the side of the house, into the little alleyway that leads to the back. She is so close to Jacqueline, to help, and yet she is powerless to call out. She is here in the pitch black, trying to fight off this man, but he is so much stronger than her. He pushes her back against the brick wall. She feels the roughness of the bricks on the back of her head. He crushes her with his body. She can feel his arousal pressed against her stomach. She feels sick. She tries to prise his hand off her mouth so that she can call out but he pins her arms down with his body. Then he removes his hand and grinds his mouth into hers, forcing her lips open and pushing his tongue in. His breath is thick with the smell of alcohol and she feels like retching; she can hardly breathe.
She senses him pulling up her dress. Oh, God; not this way, please, she prays inside her head. She thinks of her mother and Pina, and what they would do to this man if they knew that he was assaulting their precious Maria. She wishes so hard for a father – someone – to protect her. She twists her head and bites his tongue as hard as she can.
Douglas springs back in
shock. ‘You Italian bitch,’ he hisses, slapping her face hard and, with the other hand, pulling her skirt up around her waist and dragging down her knickers. ‘I am going to fuck you so hard,’ he says. ‘I’m going to fuck you to death.’ He laughs nastily.
But she has her chance now that her mouth is free, and she calls out with all her strength. ‘Jacqueline! Help! Help!’
Douglas smacks his hand over her mouth to silence her. ‘There’s no one here to help you.’ He whispers into her ear. ‘I am going to make you pay, Maria, for your countrymen and what they did to me . . .’
Her knickers are around her ankles, and she watches in horror as he unbuckles his belt and drops his trousers. She sees his penis: the first penis she has ever seen in her life. He is going to hurt her with this part of his body, this erect pink instrument. She shivers at the thought of it inside her, splitting her open. She tries to clamp her legs shut, but he is pulling her thighs apart, his fingernails scratching her flesh. She closes her eyes, knowing now there is nothing she can do to stop this from happening. He is too strong for her. Better to just block it out and wait until it is over. Better to pray that he won’t hurt her more afterwards.
It happens so quickly. One minute Douglas is pressing against her and she can feel his hands pulling her legs apart, his penis against her thighs, on the edge of entering her, and the next minute he is wrenched away from her. She opens her eyes, gasping in shock and relief as she sees another man punching Douglas in the face. Douglas falls down. The stranger kicks him, again and again. Douglas is groaning, pleading, but the stranger is merciless. Maria is paralysed. She sinks to the ground, shaking uncontrollably. She watches the stranger kick Douglas unconscious.
‘Stop!’ She croaks. ‘You’re going to kill him.’
She squeezes her eyes shut and licks her lips.
A hand is placed on her shoulder. She opens her eyes and the stranger is crouching front of her. ‘Are you all right?’ he asks in a heavily accented voice.
Despite the darkness, he is so close to her that she can make out his face. And what she sees stuns her: a man so beautiful that, despite her recent assault, she feels herself melting beneath his gaze. She nods, unable to speak.
‘Let me help you.’ He stands up and offers her his hand. She takes it. A warm, strong hand grips hers and pulls her up. Her clothes are all ruched around her. She pulls down her dress, and looks over at the prostrate form of Douglas.
‘Is he dead?’ she says in a hoarse whisper.
‘No, no . . . I would like to have killed him. But scum like him are not worth the trouble. I think that, when he wakes up, he will slink off back to the sewer he came from. Don’t worry about him.’
‘But he knows where I live.’ She raises her hand to cradle her stinging cheek, where Douglas had slapped her.
‘You live here? In this house?’ the man asks her.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, so do I,’ he tells her, to her utter surprise. ‘So you have nothing to fear. If he ever turns up again I’ll deal with him.’
She begins to walk down the alley, shakily. All she wants is to get inside the house now. Lie on her mattress in her tiny cupboard room and breathe normally again. She feels dizzy, as if she is wading in mud, as if the ground is going to give out beneath her.
‘Let me help you; you’re in shock,’ the stranger says. He slips his arm under hers so easily.
‘And, miss,’ he says, taking something out of his pocket. ‘These are yours.’ He hands her the torn knickers.
She gives a little hiccup of distress and, before she can help it, tears begin to stream down her face.
‘It’s all right,’ the stranger says gently, guiding her out of the alleyway and round to the front of the house. ‘You’re safe now.’
They climb the steps and her rescuer takes a key from his pocket and unlocks the front door. They enter the hall with the flickering light bulb.
‘You’re still shaking,’ the stranger says to her. ‘Would you like some brandy? I have some cognac in my room.’
‘No, thank you; I just want to go to bed,’ she whispers. ‘I want to forget what happened.’
They start to climb the stairs. She hesitates on the second landing. He is still behind her. She turns to him. Now she can see him even more clearly in the electric light. He is older than she initially thought, but he is still extremely handsome: tall and powerful, black hair peppered with grey, and strong espresso eyes.
‘Please don’t tell anyone about this,’ she says, looking down and blushing.
‘Are you not going to tell Mademoiselle Mournier?’
Maria shakes her head. For some reason, she feels her own naïvety is somewhat at fault here. She doesn’t want Jacqueline to have a reason not to let her out again or, worse still, tell her mother and Pina what has happened.
‘OK,’ the stranger says. And then he does something surprising. He takes a handkerchief from his pocket and dries her eyes with it, tenderly as if she were his child.
‘I think that you might need looking after, Maria,’ he says, scrunching the handkerchief up in his hand.
She looks at him in wonder. She has never met such a gallant man. ‘You know my first name?’
‘Of course I know your name! We are neighbours.’ He smiles at her.
Maria’s heart flutters when she sees his laughter lines appearing at the corners of his eyes. How old is he? Thirty? Older, even? And yet she feels wildly attracted to him, despite her recent assault.
‘I am Felix Leduc,’ he says.
So this is the mysterious French man that Guido had referred to. She had forgotten about his existence, for she has neither seen nor heard him once since she arrived.
‘Good night, Maria,’ he says, waiting for her to climb the stairs to the top floor and Jacqueline’s apartment.
‘Good night; and thank you, Felix.’ His name feels strange in her mouth – tactile. She walks up the staircase, aware of his eyes on her back, afraid to look back in case he sees the truth in her eyes. For Maria is quite certain that she has just met the man of her dreams.
Valentina twists and turns in bed. It’s no good; she can’t sleep. She sits up and switches on the bedside lamp. She looks across the room at Antonella in the other bed and she can see that her friend is fast asleep. She wonders whether she should wake her up and tell her about Theo. But Antonella might still be drunk.
When Valentina had returned to the house in South Kensington last night, Antonella and Isabella were in the middle of a dramatic argument over Antonella’s father and whether he was the big bastard Antonella claimed he was. The drink had fuelled their emotions and the women ranted and raved at each other in Italian. Finally, a neighbour banging on the wall had silenced them. Valentina encouraged the two of them to go to bed and sleep on it. The evening had ended with aunt and niece tearfully embracing and professing undying loyalty and love to each other. She is sure Antonella would not appreciate being woken up now she is in the middle of a deep sleep. Besides, Antonella has never been a fan of Theo. If she tells her that he has a new girlfriend, she is certain Antonella will advise Valentina to forget about him.
She knows she should. But she just can’t.
That moment when she saw him again – after all these months, and despite the circumstances – it was like being thumped in the chest. She had been unable to speak, utterly struck dumb. She had watched in disbelief as Anita had tottered over to Theo in her high heels and embraced him, planting a kiss on his lips. The whole time, Theo had been as silent as her, unsmiling, his eyes boring into her.
‘Theo,’ Anita said. ‘I want you to meet Valentina, my new friend.’
‘Actually, we know each other,’ Theo said stiffly.
‘You do?’ Anita looked between the two of them in surprise.
‘Yes, I knew Valentina when I lived in Milan,’ he said, frowning at Valentina, a questioning look on his face.
‘Well, isn’t that just amazing?’ Anita remarked, kissing Theo again on t
he cheek, the sweet impulsiveness of her action making Valentina’s heart constrict.
‘Maybe not such a coincidence, seeing as they both lived in Milan and are involved in the art world,’ Kirsti suggested. Valentina detected a certain irony in the gallery owner’s tone and wondered why.
‘So, you know all about Valentina, darling?’ Anita turned to Theo again.
‘I wouldn’t say that at all,’ Theo said, looking uncomfortable.
There was an awkward silence, as if both Kirsti and Anita sensed his unspoken inference.
‘How are you, Valentina?’ he added, his voice so soft it was almost a whisper.
She had been rooted to the spot, gazing at her lost lover, her chest tight, her throat constricted. She wanted so badly to touch him. ‘Fine.’ She could say no more.
‘It’s good to see you again,’ he said, his face suddenly illuminated by one of his enigmatic smiles.
Now Valentina can’t get those words out of her head: ‘It’s good to see you again.’ Had he really meant it? She had felt the same, despite the fact he is obviously unavailable. It was so good to actually see Theo again after all these months, and to know that he is OK. If only he wasn’t going out with Anita. She suspects, by his dumbfounded reaction to her presence in the gallery, that he still has some feelings for her at least, or was she imagining his confusion and shock? Yet, even if he does still have feelings for her, she should leave him alone now. He has a new girlfriend – Anita. She is obviously mad about Theo. One of Valentina’s rules is never to interfere between a couple. She doesn’t want to steal Theo from Anita, that would be wrong, and yet . . . What if he wants her as much as she wants him? What if Anita’s feelings are not reciprocated? There is only one person who can help her figure out what to do, and he is back in Milan. She glances at the radio alarm clock. It is one o’clock; that means it’s two in Milan. Better to call Leonardo now than in the morning, when he is sleeping. She pulls back the covers and gets out of bed, slipping on her silk kimono dressing gown before dropping her phone into its pocket and tiptoeing out of the bedroom. She pads downstairs and into Isabella’s living room, a plush cream space with a view of the gated park opposite. It is a windy night and, as she dials Leonardo’s number, she looks out of the window at the trees, their branches waving at her from across the road as if they are urging her on.
