by Evie Blake
She no longer hears the camera. All she is now is a part of Felix, thoughts of another man gone. She wraps her legs around his waist, her arms around his chest, as they move in unity together. Their bodies comprehend each other perfectly. She closes her eyes again, losing herself in an ether of passion. She and Felix are all sensation. Together, they climb higher and higher, their lovemaking more and more frantic. She cannot stop herself now. She wants his seed to spill forth inside her. His cloudburst brings forth her shower of ecstasy. She cries out, vibrating around his cock, soaking in his essence. She imagines his seed lining the insides of her with gold, sliding down her thighs like priceless syrup. This oneness, this tiny moment when the egg and sperm connect – this is what she has been searching for in all her weeks with Felix. And yet she will continue to search for it for the rest of her life. For Maria is not to know that this will be the last time she is at one with her love, that this is their last precious millisecond of passion.
She is a blue flame of rage as she marches down Finchley Road towards the Tube station. Hours later, and still she hasn’t managed to calm down. She knows she is not in the best state of mind to go to Anita’s party. She is so angry, she is not sure how she might behave, but she is in no mood for staying in, especially with Aunt Isabella, a woman who reminds her of her mother, and thus of how she has been deceived her whole life. Antonella had texted Valentina an hour ago to tell her that she and Mikhail were going to a fetish club night at the Torture Garden in the Ministry of Sound, and did she want to join them? Valentina had turned her down. Her mission is to get Theo back. Even the revelation of today, the fury it has put her in, is not going to destroy her one chance. How is it that her mother manages to sabotage her love life, even if she is hundreds of miles away?
Valentina spent the whole afternoon with Philip Rembrandt. She had let him feed her tea and cake. In fact, between the two of them, they had eaten a whole carrot cake while he tried to explain to her just who she was.
‘My whole life, I thought you were my father,’ she said to him, as he looked at her with his steady blue eyes. ‘I was so angry with you for leaving . . . and with my mother for letting you go.’
‘It wasn’t like that, Valentina,’ Phil said. ‘It was complicated.’ He cut her another slice of cake and slid it on to her plate. ‘I didn’t want to leave Tina at all, but I was working on a really hot Mafia case as an investigative journalist. I had received a couple of death threats, so I didn’t want to endanger my family. That was why I left, initially.’
‘But why didn’t you come back when it was safe again?’ Valentina bit into the moist sweet sponge.
‘Your mother told me not to. She was going to move to Berlin with you, she said, since Mattia had already left home for the States.’
‘So, if I am not your daughter, is Mattia still your son?’ she questioned him.
‘Yes, he is,’ Phil said, looking shamefaced.
To know that she and her brother do not have the same parents hurt even more.
‘So, have you spoken to him over the years?’ Valentina remembered Phil’s comment about Mattia’s wife and children earlier, as if he knew them.
‘Yes,’ he said, looking embarrassed. ‘I visit them once, sometimes twice a year.’
Valentina felt wounded. She had been deceived, not just by her mother, but by her brother, as well. She expected it of Tina, but Mattia? She had thought he really cared for her.
‘Please don’t blame Mattia,’ Phil said. ‘I am sure he wanted to tell you but obviously your mother insisted you shouldn’t know.’
‘Why the hell not?’
‘I can’t really understand why. It was a very messy situation. As I told you before I assumed you did know, Valentina.’
They sat in awkward silence for a moment.
‘How messy can it have been to make you walk out on me and never ever contact me again? OK, I was not your real daughter, but I thought I was. How could you do it?’
Phil looked genuinely upset. ‘I did it to protect you. I missed you terribly, Valentina,’ he said, softly.
He shifted in his chair, got up and walked around the kitchen. ‘I thought I was doing the best thing for us all. And, besides, since I was not your real father, I had no rights because your mother and I were never married.’ He turned to her, clutching his hands, looking almost as if he might beg her forgiveness at any moment. ‘I was so fond of you, Valentina. It was very hard to walk away, but I really feared for your welfare. The people I was exposing were very, very nasty.’
‘Why? Who were they?’
‘I was writing a piece on a Mafia head in New York, called Caruthers, and his family, who were based just south of Naples. During my research on the article, I found out some crucial evidence concerning three rather gruesome murders in the area around Naples that implicated members of Caruthers’ family. This information I passed on to the police.’
Valentina thought back to her conversation with Garelli the day she left Milan for London. He had said that Philip Rembrandt had saved his life.
‘Unfortunately, my contact in the Mafia would only communicate with me. I eventually persuaded him to talk to a friend of mine in the police force, called Garelli.’
Valentina didn’t interrupt. She could tell him later about her connection with Garelli.
‘But it was a set-up . . . There was a shoot-out. I took a bullet and spent several weeks in hospital. Your mother was furious when she discovered the danger I had put us all in.’
‘Where were you shot?’
Phil tapped his left shoulder. ‘Just a shoulder wound, but it gave Garelli the chance to call for back-up.’
‘So what happened in the end?’
‘We took Caruthers down, uncovered a whole viper’s nest of drug deals, but in the process we made lots of enemies. It was too dangerous to stay in Italy. Mattia was already in America, so I suggested to Tina that we join him or go to London together, but she had other ideas.’
‘So you wanted us to come with you?’ Valentina checked.
‘Yes, I did, but your mother insisted she was going to relocate to Berlin. She said I could come as well, if I wanted.’
‘But we didn’t go to Berlin. I mean, I vaguely remember we went away for a week or so when you left . . . It could have been Berlin . . . but, in the end, we came back to Milan.’ Valentina pushed her memory back to when she was a little girl. There was a city she went to with her mother when she was about six. Could it have been Berlin? Her mother had never mentioned the trip to her, ever.
‘I didn’t realise that you hadn’t moved away for good, because I left Milan first. I didn’t know that you were still there for years, not until Mattia contacted me again . . . and then it really was too late to go back. You were nearly an adult and I didn’t want to upset you.’
‘You already had!’ she spat at him. She turned away. She could not bear to see the regret on his face. She looked out of the window of his kitchen. It was in the basement of his house and she watched the feet of people walking by on the pavement above them. She could see that it was still raining, despite the number of pedestrians wearing sandals and flimsy trainers. Were they optimistic or just fools like her? she wondered, looking down at her own footwear – wedge sandals from MaxMara, their pale suede now stained from the rain.
‘I am so sorry, Valentina; you have to believe I felt I had no choice but to leave at the time. Besides I thought you knew I wasn’t your real father. Mattia never told me otherwise.’
‘Why didn’t we all go to Berlin?’ she asked him, sullenly.
‘I didn’t go because I couldn’t do it anymore.’
‘Do what?’ She stared at him, examining his face. Again, she was struck by how like Mattia he looked. Finally, the man in the photographs was a real man sitting across the table from her.
‘Be the ideal of what Tina thought her partner should be: a man who loves her, no matter who else she sleeps with; a man who will always be there to support her, despite her pr
omiscuity.’ He sighed and cut himself another slice of cake. ‘I thought I could be that man. I loved your mother so much, but one day I just couldn’t do it anymore, Valentina.’
His words pierced her. She couldn’t help but think of herself and Theo – all that Theo had been through last year to try to show her that he loved her, no matter what she did . . .
‘Why didn’t you take me with you?’ she said in small voice.
‘You were not my child. Besides, Tina told me she was taking you to Berlin to live with your real father. She wanted me to come, too. She wanted us all to live together. One big, happy family,’ he said, with vinegar in his tone.
‘My real father is German?’ Valentina asked him, her heart beginning to thump.
‘No; he was from Prague, but he lived in Berlin.’
Valentina felt as if she was shrinking in her chair. She looked over at Phil Rembrandt and, despite the fact she had not seen him since she was six, she realised she had not forgotten him. She would have recognised him anywhere. He had been a part of her life for the first six years. As an adult, she was beginning to understand why he left, but, as a child, she was not sure she would ever forgive him.
‘More tea?’ Phil asked, hovering by the kettle, looking at her anxiously.
She nodded.
‘I am so sorry, Valentina,’ he said again. ‘I should have come back, no matter what Tina said.’ He poured fresh water into the teapot and dropped in another two bags. ‘But I am glad you found me. It’s best that there are no more secrets.’ He gave her a tentative smile as he poured her tea and offered her milk.
She nursed her cup of tea between her hands, trying to process all this new information. ‘So, tell me,’ she said finally. ‘Who is my real father?’
‘I never met him, but he was a Czech musician she met in Berlin – a cellist. His first name was Karel. I don’t know his second name.’ He paused, running his hand through his grey hair. ‘I have no idea where he is now. You should talk to your mother.’
Phil Rembrandt’s words echo inside her head: ‘You should talk to your mother.’ But how does she have this conversation on the telephone? She is certain her mother will just hang up on her. She is so angry with her, and with Mattia. And she feels ashamed, as well, in a strange way. She is the accident – the mistake her mother could never erase. Maybe that is why she does not love her as much as she loves Mattia, because she is a reminder of an affair gone wrong – for it must have done, if they never relocated to Berlin. Her mother lost Phil Rembrandt for no reason. Despite her indignation that he abandoned her, Valentina cannot help but begin to like him. He is all that her mother isn’t: rational, caring and honest. He spent the whole afternoon talking to her, and feeding her cake. Spontaneously and without hesitation, he put his life on hold for her for this one day. All of these things she feels her mother has never done.
As she travels on the district line towards Anita’s party, Valentina’s anger, her thoughts on her family, finally begin to subside. She can’t let herself get into a state right now, when tonight is about winning back Theo. She tries to analyse every word he has said to her since she arrived in London, to work out if he wants them to get back together. She remembers their meeting in the Tate, and how sure she had been that he still loved her. Yet he refuses to give up Anita, despite the fact he hasn’t even slept with her. Valentina has to convince Theo of her love for him. She has to be ruthless and not think of Anita’s feelings. This is her quest tonight. Afterwards, if he still rejects her, she can face the rest of her life knowing she did everything in her power not to let him go. She shivers, despite the fact the Tube carriage is hot and stuffy. The idea of spending the rest of her life without Theo is a chilling one.
Valentina walks along the South Bank, all the way down, past London Bridge and then past Tower Bridge. She studiously follows Anita’s directions, coming into a residential area of riverside apartments, connected by walkways. She walks across a little bridge over the water and enters a narrow street on her right, lined with old warehouses that have been converted into state-of-the-art apartments. She is buzzed in via a videophone. Gripped by a bunch of nerves in the lift on the way up, she wishes Antonella were with her – despite her friend’s disapproval of Theo. Or, better still, Leonardo. It would be good to have some support. In her Mary Quant miniskirt, inherited from her mother, and her miniature black biker’s jacket, she may look the height of cool, but inside she is still the jilted lover: insecure, and desperate to get her man back.
Anita’s apartment is a dream place. Valentina is let in by a young woman with short, spiky red hair and kohl-rimmed cat’s eyes, wearing an electric-blue sequined dress.
‘Hi, I’m Anita’s cousin, Chloe,’ the girl says, her plummy accent crystal clear, despite the background noise of music and chat.
‘Valentina.’
‘Oh, I’ve heard all about you; do come in,’ Chloe says, offering her a glass of champagne.
Valentina tries not to gawp at the splendour of Anita’s apartment. It is a huge, open-plan loft apartment, packed with the young and the beautiful, against the backdrop of the Thames and the city skyline. She can see Tower Bridge spanning the dark river, and the lights and energy of the city of London blazing on the other side. All the walls of the apartment are dripping with expensive-looking art. Interestingly, most of them are nudes. She remembers Anita telling her that her grandfather was a dealer in erotic art and literature, so, obviously, this must all be work she has inherited from his collection. She spies the charming Anita herself in a backless magenta silk dress, mingling among her guests. Her blond hair is loose tonight, and falls in luxurious locks down her bare back. She cannot see Theo anywhere, though. Her stomach is clenched tight in anticipation. Anita sees her and waves, sashaying through her friends to join her.
‘I am so glad you came,’ she gushes, kissing Valentina on both cheeks. She smells as luxurious as her apartment.
‘Your place is amazing,’ Valentina says, stepping back slightly. Already she is feeling guilty about her plan to steal Theo away from this sweet-faced woman.
‘I’m very lucky,’ Anita admits. ‘But, of course, as I told you before, all of this amazing art was inherited from my grandfather.’
‘It is quite an astonishing collection,’ Valentina comments.
‘Yes, it is and I am so, so glad you came, because I discovered something today that I think would really fascinate you.’
Valentina looks at her with interest.
‘Remember my Story of O installation?’
‘Of course,’ Valentina says.
‘Well, I believe that the actress in the film is none other than a young Italian woman called Maria Brzezinska. It makes sense, because the film is made by Felix Leduc and she is in the old dance film Theo gave you, remember?’ Anita says, smiling with delight at her revelation. ‘Isn’t that just amazing? Her name is not on the credits, but I read about it in this biography on Felix Leduc, and the writer, a man called René Mauriac, actually knew Leduc and his associates. He mentions her by name, and says that Leduc and Maria were lovers and these were initially their own private movies. Goodness knows how they managed to survive or how they got into the public arena. Isn’t that so wonderfully exciting?’
Valentina feels as if the wind has been knocked out of her. Did Anita just tell her that her maternal grandmother was a forties porn star?
‘There must be some kind of mistake,’ she protests, remembering all the stories of how devout a Catholic her grandmother had been. ‘My grandmother may possibly have been a dancer but, I can promise you, there is no way she would have been in Paris in the late forties, acting in erotic films and, as for being Leduc’s lover, well, that just sounds completely unlikely.’
‘But it is her, Valentina,’ Anita insists. ‘I have done my research, you know. René Mauriac is quite clear that she left the Lempert Dance School and came with Felix Leduc to Paris in July, nineteen forty-eight.’
Valentina frowns, she still ca
n’t quite believe her. She remembers again her mother’s descriptions of her grandmother: not just religious, but also shy, quiet and demure. And yet it is true that, despite the face being slightly out of focus, when she watched that footage yesterday, she had felt the woman looked familiar. Could it really be possible?
‘Mauriac writes that Leduc met her in London when she was training to be a dancer.’
‘Theo told me she was a dancer but that was the first I’d heard of it.’
Anita looks at her curiously. ‘I had no idea that you didn’t know she was a dancer or lived in Paris.’
‘My grandmother died before I was born. I never met her.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Anita says. ‘I really did assume you would know all about her . . . apart from these films, of course.’
If both Theo and Anita are right, her grandmother was a dancer and a participant in erotic films. It could be possible her mother kept this information from her. After all, she has just found out she has lied about who her father is her whole life. But why would she do that? She would imagine her mother would be proud of this libertine heritage.
‘So, what else does this René Mauriac write in his book?’
‘He writes about how much Leduc loved Maria. Then the chapter sort of ends abruptly and, in the next one, the book jumps about three years. I have no idea what happened to Maria in the end, or why things never worked out between them. Leduc ended up being married to someone else.’
Valentina knocks back her champagne. So how did her grandmother Maria transform from free-spirited Parisian to conservative Milanese? This information is astounding. First the revelations about her father, and now she is finding out that her devoted homemaker of a grandmother was in fact an erotic movie star, of sorts.
‘Gosh,’ says Anita. ‘Are you all right? You look a bit shaken.’
‘Well, it’s a shock to find something like that out.’
‘Yes, it changes who we are to learn the secrets of our ancestors, doesn’t it?’ Anita looks quite pensive for a moment.
