by Evie Blake
‘Well, my darlings,’ Isabella says, gathering up her handbag and keys, ‘I have to get to work. I will see you tonight at Valentina’s opening. Ciao!’
The friends agree to sleep for a few hours. Antonella disappears into her aunty’s bedroom, leaving the other room to Valentina.
Before she gets into bed, Valentina showers. She turns the temperature of the water up as high as she can stand. Steam billows around her and the water pressure is so strong, its jet stings her skin. She is washing away the ice cream, Francesco’s scent and the memory of last night. She is washing away her past. She closes her eyes and pushes her face under the shower head. It is gone, the loss of Francesco – that first heartache she had nursed for years. Yet, frustratingly, she never realised she was free of it until she had lost Theo.
Can she and Theo ever manage a proper relationship together? It would never be normal. Not like the Hollywood-movie perfect couples the world pretends to believe in. The truth is that most couples are imperfect. And perhaps the happiest are those who are honest with each other, and have open relationships, like Leonardo and Raquel. Maybe Theo might like that kind of relationship, as well. She thinks back to last autumn and the erotic adventures she experienced in Leonardo’s club. All of those experiences, and her seemingly promiscuous behaviour, had actually been devised by Theo himself. He had no issue with her sleeping with other people . . . In fact, he had been a part of it himself. In Venice, when she had asked him why he had done it, he claimed that he wanted to show her that he loved her so much that he didn’t want to change who she was. He understood she was a free spirit. What Theo was trying to say was that it is possible to be liberated and in a relationship, as long as you trust each other. Trust: it all hangs on this one word. That’s what Theo had demanded of her the day before yesterday. If she can show him that she trusts him she will have proven her love for him. But how can she do that?
Valentina slips under the cool sheets, her naked body still hot and silky from the shower. She is exhausted, her whole being sinking into the mattress, and yet, once she tries to, she can’t sleep. She knows she must. It will be a long night and she needs to be at her best. It is the opening of the show, and Theo and Anita will be there. She will have to be strong to face them together.
She turns on her side and clutches the sheets. She feels raw panic. The idea of Theo and Anita together torments her. She sits up in bed, the sheets falling from her naked breasts. She needs to talk to someone. There is no point waking Antonella up, she is prejudiced against Theo. Who loves them equally? Who will be unbiased?
As soon as she hears Leonardo’s voice, she feels better. As if she has drunk a mug of rich hot chocolate, his voice comforts her.
‘Hello, darling; how is London?’
‘Confusing.’
She tells Leonardo everything; things she would tell no other soul. She tells him she can’t stand the idea of seeing Theo with his new, beautiful girlfriend at the opening tonight. She tells him about going to see her dad yesterday, and her expedition being aborted by the appearance of Glen.
Leonardo seems rather perturbed by Glen’s threats. ‘Did you tell Theo?’ he keeps repeating.
‘No; I haven’t seen him. I didn’t want to call him because I don’t want him to think I am chasing him.’
‘Valentina, you need to tell Theo about Glen. Maybe you should even call the police.’
‘He is just a bully; don’t worry. What use am I to him, if I am not with Theo?’ she says bravely.
‘OK,’ her friend says, reluctantly. ‘Just promise me, if you see him again, you’ll do something about it.’
‘OK, but, Leonardo, I haven’t told you what happened last night. This is more important than creepy Glen hanging around.’
Valentina tells him about meeting Francesco and their re-enactment of her first time. When she has finished, he says nothing for a few seconds. She hears the empty line buzzing. She wonders if he has hung up, although why would he? Leonardo would never ever judge her.
‘Leo, am I bad? Tell me, why did I sleep with Francesco?’
‘I think you were saying goodbye to a part of yourself,’ Leonardo says, softly. ‘Or maybe you were trying to retrieve the girl you once were.’
‘But why did I do it?’
‘Because you are frightened of your feelings; you’re trying to convince yourself that you don’t want Theo, so you plunged headlong into bed with the nearest available male,’ her friend says, matter-of-factly.
It strikes Valentina that Leonardo sounds subdued – not his usual buoyant self.
‘Is everything OK, Leo? You sound different.’
‘Everything is fine,’ he says, tightly.
‘I can tell that something is wrong. What is it? Leonardo, answer me,’ she commands him.
‘If you must know, Raquel and I broke up.’
Valentina can’t hide the astonishment in her voice. ‘But you had the perfect relationship. What happened?’
‘It’s complicated. I’m sorry, Valentina. I don’t want to talk to you about it over the phone.’
She feels a little hurt. Here she is opening up completely to Leonardo and yet he doesn’t want to confide in her. Still, she has to respect his wishes. ‘OK; well, I’ll be back in a couple of days. We’ll talk then.’
‘Maybe you won’t come back to Milan, Valentina.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Theo.’
There is a strange tone in his voice and Valentina wonders what it is.
‘But he has a new girlfriend. I don’t think I will win him back now. She is so sexy – a real femme fatale.’ She sighs.
‘Come on, Valentina,’ Leonardo encourages her. ‘I told you that you might have to fight for him. You can’t give up.’
‘But what should I do, Leo? How do I show him that I love him so much, I would do anything for him?’
‘Well, you must find that “anything” and do it,’ Leonardo says simply.
‘If I could just be near him again . . . touch him,’ Valentina says. ‘He would know how I felt if we slept together . . .’
‘So seduce him!’
‘I can’t . . . It would be a really terrible thing to do to Anita. I don’t want to be that kind of bitch.’
‘You could never be a bitch, Valentina.’
The faith of her friend touches her. ‘Leonardo, I’m really sorry about you and Raquel,’ Valentina says. ‘I wish you were here and I could give you a hug.’
Valentina is not the hugging type, and yet she means what she says.
At last, she sleeps. She dreams she is sitting on an empty Tube train, hurtling through the dark tunnels. She is naked and alone. The train pulls into a station. She looks out of the window, but the name of the station is flashing by too fast. Is it Gloucester Road? It looks like it, with its ochre brick walls and modern art panels. The doors slide open and a woman gets on at the other end of the carriage, carrying a suitcase. She has short, blond bobbed hair, in a similar style to Valentina’s own hair, and is wearing an old-fashioned silk skirt and top, with a long scarf wrapped around her neck. Valentina gets up. Maybe the woman has some clothes in her case that she can borrow. Yet, as she approaches her, the woman spins around, pinning her with eyes like her mother’s. Valentina realises that the woman looks just like Tina Rosselli, apart from the blond hair. She says nothing, just offers Valentina the suitcase. Valentina clicks it open, but the case is empty. She has nothing to cover herself with.
Valentina wakes. She is lying on her side, her knees up to her chest, her arms wrapped around her waist. She wonders why she is so compressed. She tries to stretch out her legs and realises that she is restrained from doing so by the edges of something hard. She unravels her arms and has the same experience. She feels the edges of what she is constrained in with her hands. It’s a hard box, lined with red silky material, and there are straps with little clips on them. It dawns on her that she is inside the very case the woman gave her in her dream. She is still asleep. An
d now she sees herself from above: a woman trapped in a suitcase. Why can she not climb out? She hears footsteps approaching, and next she sees a pair of shoes standing right beside the case: they are black leather, expensive, yet a little scuffed, the laces slightly lose. Whose shoes are these? She looks up, but all she can make out are a pair of legs in pinstriped trousers, and then they disappear into that London mist. Who is it? Theo? Francesco? She knows what will happen next and her throat is tight with anticipation. She cannot call out. Suddenly, the lid is slammed down on top of her and now she is in complete darkness. She is this man’s possession. It is her greatest fear.
She wakes standing. The empty case is discarded by her side and she is back inside the Tube train, trying to keep her balance as the train shuttles through the tunnels. She is still alone. Or is she? She feels that familiar prickle down her spine – the sense that someone is watching her. She holds her breath, afraid to turn and see who it might be. She can feel his breath now on her neck as he stands behind her, puts his arms around her waist and bends his head down to kiss her neck. His lips upon her tender skin make her shiver. He kisses her slowly; he keeps kissing her. She feels the skin on her neck puckering, and then a little stab of pain, something sharp cutting her. She struggles now, but he holds her even tighter in his arms; he is clamped on to her neck, sucking the love right out of her. The lights flicker inside the train and, for a moment, she sees herself and her assailant reflected in the windows. He finally lifts his head and stares back at her. Terror courses through her. It is Glen, his lips soft and red with her blood, his eyes gleaming.
‘I will take you from him,’ she hears him whisper, softly.
‘Valentina! Wake up, Valentina!’
She sits up with a gasp. The bedroom is almost dark, full of dusky shadows. Antonella is leaning over her, shaking her. ‘Valentina, are you OK?’
She comes to slowly, nodding mutely, looking around the room wide-eyed. It was only a dream. She is safe.
‘You were screaming,’ Antonella says. ‘You must have been having a really bad nightmare.’
Valentina nods, still feeling a shiver of fear when she remembers the vampire, Glen. ‘I was.’
‘What was it about?’
‘I can’t remember now,’ she lies. ‘It was just scary.’ She doesn’t want to start explaining about Glen to Antonella. She knows how easily spooked her friend can get. She pulls herself back against the headboard and looks out of the bedroom window. The curtains are still open. It is a bluey dusk outside, the street lights already on. ‘What time is it?’
‘Five to six. Can you believe it? We slept all day.’
It is an hour and a half before the opening – just enough time to get ready.
‘I’ll grab the bathroom first. You make some tea,’ Antonella orders, charging out of the bedroom.
Valentina sits for a few moments longer, letting her heartbeat slow. She is still shaken by those strange images in her dream. Tonight she will have to face Theo and Anita together. It could be her last chance to win her love back. She realises that it is more important to her than anything, even her debut as an erotic photographer in one of the hippest galleries in London. If she lets Theo go home with Anita tonight, she believes she will have lost him forever.
He has brought her to Paris with him. It is beyond anything she could have dreamt of. It is the shimmering silver lining to the very black cloud of her failure as a dancer.
After the disaster of her fall during Pandora, Maria had made matters so much worse by not continuing the duet. She had run off stage in a flood of tears, leaving poor Christopher stranded to continue the final act on his own. She had not only humiliated herself but shamed the whole company. She had let everyone down. She will never forget Joan’s shocked face. She dare not imagine how furious Lempert must be with her – not for the fact that she had fallen, but for running away. A real dancer would just get up again and continue. They were students, after all. It was the premiere. It was not a complete disaster if someone slipped up. And yet, to Maria, it was. She felt like she was falling apart. It was not just the dance but also the tumult of emotion she was feeling: the elation at her love for Felix, the desolation at his impending departure to France. She could not bear to face anyone, not even her beloved Jacqueline, who must have been sitting in the audience, horrified. So, before the final curtain had even dropped, she had fled the theatre, running alongside the Thames, wanting to hurl herself into its murky depths. It was at Waterloo Station that Felix caught up with her. He set the case with his camera down as she fell into his arms, sobbing desperately.
‘Shush,’ he said again and again, as he stroked her hair.
Eventually she calmed down and he loosened his hold on her, handing her a handkerchief. She wiped her eyes but, as soon as she remembered that dreadful moment again, as she felt herself falling, as she landed with a thump on to the stage, she buried her face in her hands.
‘Come, now,’ Felix said, gently, pulling her hands away from her face. ‘It’s not the end of the world.’
She shook her head mournfully.
‘Why did I run away?’ she wailed. ‘I can never go back now.’
‘Of course you can,’ Felix said. ‘You are an exquisite dancer. You must.’
‘I can’t face them,’ she said. ‘I have failed.’
‘My darling, we are meant to fail sometimes in life,’ Felix tried to explain, ‘so that we fight on, so that we can finally win . . .’
Yet his words did not console her. All she was thinking was that soon he would be gone to France and she would be all alone in London. She couldn’t face Jacqueline again . . . at least not for a few days. She couldn’t bear her mentor’s disappointment. Maria believed that if she really did have ambition, a burning passion to dance, then she would go back and face her failure and she would work hard to redeem herself. But she didn’t want to. She clutched Felix’s handkerchief, damp with her tears. It dawned upon her that she was not here in London fulfilling her own dream of being a dancer, but her mother’s dream that she might become a dancer. She wished she had never left Venice. And yet, if she had not, she would never have found Felix.
‘Bring me to France with you,’ she whispered.
Felix looked taken aback. ‘Darling, I’m sorry, that’s just not possible.’
She grabbed hold of his arm and pulled on his sleeve. ‘Please bring me with you.’
‘I can’t,’ he said awkwardly. ‘I have business there.’
‘I know,’ she said, ‘and I won’t interfere, I promise. I just want to be in another place for a week or two with you. I can’t bear to be without you.’
‘But what about your dance?’
‘Felix, I can’t go back.’
He shook his head. ‘Maria, darling, if you came with me, I would have to abandon you in Paris overnight . . . I don’t want to do that.’
‘I don’t mind. I’ll just sleep and rest and wait for you.’ She shivered in her scant Psyche costume and he pulled her to him. Neither of them noticed the curious stares of passers-by, for they were a small spectacle in Waterloo Station, Maria still dressed as Psyche, a white waif, in the arms of the stern, dark-haired man.
‘I love you, Felix,’ she whispered, and she felt him quivering in response to her words and, despite his age and his experience, she knew they meant so much to him.
‘All right,’ he said hoarsely, and her heart leapt with joy. ‘If you really are sure you don’t mind that I may have to disappear to sort out my business.’
She showered his cheeks with kisses. ‘Oh, yes . . . yes . . . I don’t mind.’
He pulled away from her and held her at arm’s length. ‘And no questions, Maria,’ he said, looking serious. ‘You must promise me that you never ask me anything about my affairs in France.’
She frowned, a little perturbed by what he had said. ‘But why not? You can trust me.’
His voice softened. ‘I know that, darling, but I just don’t want you to be concerned with thin
gs that have no meaning for us . . .’
‘Us?’
He nodded. ‘Yes, us. For are you not mine now?’
‘Oh, I am, Felix,’ she held him to her again.
All the way from Victoria to Folkestone, she sleeps in his arms. They stay the night in a dingy little bed and breakfast in Folkestone; she is so exhausted that she falls asleep immediately and he does not disturb her. They wake early the next morning, breakfasting on whale meat sandwiches provided by the landlady. Maria has never eaten anything quite so disgusting in her life, but she is hungry, so she forces it down. As they board the boat, she holds Felix’s hand tightly, her heart jittering with nerves. She is following this man back into his world, into the unknown. She is trusting him with all her heart. In her other hand, she grips her one small case – not even full. She had packed in haste, afraid Jacqueline would turn up and change her mind for her. She left her ration books on the kitchen table, with enough money to cover her lodging for the next month. Lastly, she had scrawled a note to Jacqueline – inadequate she knew.
Dear Jacqueline,
Tonight I understand I will never be the dancer you and my mother hope I might be. I am sorry to disappoint you but I do not want to continue my studies at the Lempert School. I am so grateful for all your help, but I need to go away for a little while. I am travelling with a friend who will take good care of me. I promise I will write and let you know where I am and I will write to my mother too. Please do not worry.
With all my love and affection,
Maria
She had not mentioned Felix by name, for she knew that it would make Jacqueline angry and worried to think she has fled with the Frenchman. In fact, she would not have been surprised if Jacqueline had followed her to Paris if she had known he was her companion.
On the boat, they eat lunch in silence. Maria is so shocked at her own actions that she is unable to speak, and Felix seems preoccupied, every now and again patting her knee or refilling her glass with water.
It is a calm enough crossing. Most of the five hours they sit on deck, holding hands, watching the English horizon disappear, searching for France to begin.
