by Evie Blake
‘You see these erotic drawings and paintings on the walls?’ she says, sweeping her arm in an arc around the living room. ‘They all belonged to my grandfather. He was an art dealer in London in the fifties. He bequeathed half the collection to me and half to my cousin, Chloe.’
‘It’s an incredible collection of paintings,’ Valentina says, politely.
‘It is thanks to my grandfather that I have a passion for art. And it is also thanks to him that I have been able to create my artwork without any financial worries. Every so often, I just sell a painting.’
Valentina feels a tiny stab of envy. What would her life be like if she could give up the day job, and just focus on her art photography? Yet, even as she has this thought, it occurs to her that she likes to make her own money, to know that it is by her own merit that she has achieved what she has.
‘Would you like to see my favourite piece?’ Anita asks her, and, without waiting for a reply, she takes Valentina by the hand and leads her away from the living room, thronged with guests, and down a long corridor to the back of the apartment. They enter what must be Anita’s bedroom, a boudoir befitting a burlesque dancer, with flock wallpaper on three of the walls and a velvet chaise longue in the middle of the room. The fourth wall, facing the bed, is painted white, and hanging on it is a large painting in the style of the Impressionists. It is of two women lying on a bed, one is on her back with one of her arms raised and resting on her forehead, while a second woman is leaning over her, looking down at her. The first woman’s gaze is not directed at the other woman’s face, but dropped to some space between the two of them. They are very close to each other, scantily clad in petticoats. The painting is full of suggestion. What is the first woman looking at? And what is the second woman doing to her?
‘What do you think?’ Anita asks her, standing right behind her, so that she can feel her breath upon her neck.
‘It’s really beautiful; it reminds me a little of Toulouse-Lautrec.’
‘It is Toulouse-Lautrec!’
‘My God! It must be worth a fortune.’
‘Which is why my apartment is alarmed up to the hilt. It’s called Abandon. I just love the subtext.’
‘It’s incredibly erotic.’ Valentina turns around and looks at Anita curiously. What is this woman playing at? And where is Theo?
Anita leans forward and tucks Valentina’s hair behind her ears. ‘Have you ever slept with a woman, Valentina?’ she asks her, giving her a sweet, almost goofy, smile.
Rather than shaking her off, or changing the subject, Valentina actually finds herself drawn to her. ‘Yes, I have,’ she says.
The two women look at each other and Valentina knows that something could happen between them. Yet it is Theo she wants. She considers the idea again of a threesome, a way to show Theo she trusts him, but is she brave enough to go through with it? Could she share him with another woman?
The silence hangs between them for a loaded moment; finally, Anita shrugs her shoulders. ‘Will we rejoin the party, then?’
It is at least an hour later and there is still no sign of Theo. Valentina is determined not to text him to see where he is, and she doesn’t want to have to ask Anita, who is now surrounded by all her glamorous friends on the other side of the room. Valentina is sitting on a huge sofa among a group of art-world strangers. She looks out of Anita’s extensive French windows at a view of the river and Tower Bridge and listens to her music. It doesn’t surprise her that the burlesque dancer favours music from the past. They have been listening to Billie Holiday, Frank Sinatra, Marlene Dietrich and now Valentina recognises a more modern homage to the singing diva: Paloma Faith’s latest album. She is singing one of Valentina’s favourite songs, as well. Every word that Faith sings in her song ‘Just Be’ seems to be about her and Theo: the idea that they could grow old together and, no matter what, be linked for the rest of their lives. Could it be possible? Is this just a hitch in the story of their love? As she lets Faith’s powerful voice lift her spirits, she spies several people from the opening, the night before. She is not so out on a limb, then. There’s Kirsti Shaw on the far side of the room, wearing an all-in-one black silk jumpsuit and stilettos. She could go and chat with her. Yet Valentina is loath to move. She is waiting for Theo. She wants him to see her as soon as he enters the room. She crosses her legs and continues to stare at the view.
A thought occurs to her: maybe Theo isn’t going to turn up. Indeed, Anita never mentioned his arrival when they were talking earlier. Could they have broken up? Is she wasting her last night in London at this boring party? Yet she senses he will come; tension lodges in her belly like a heavy stone. Now and again, some random man tries to strike up a conversation with her. She responds but she is not there, and soon he gives up.
She looks out of the wall of glass in front of her, at the dark, swirling river, the humming city, the night sky stained sepia by the city lights. She is drinking in the view and thinking about Maria, her grandmother, as a young dance student in post-war London and then as a participant in erotic films in the heart of liberated Paris. She was more adventurous than Valentina and her mother put together. And yet, Valentina’s mother had always criticised Maria. She said her mother had never understood her. Well, Valentina knows just how that feels. If she ever has a daughter, will she be just the same as her mother and forget how it feels to be the child of a narcissist?
She senses someone sitting down next to her on the sofa; a polite, male cough, but she is too distracted to respond. Another cough, and then the voice speaks.
‘Did you pass on my message?’
She is jolted out of her reverie by a crisp English accent. She starts with fright, her heart sinking. She recognises that voice. The last thing she needs is that creep, Glen, ruining the night. She can smell him – she doesn’t even need to look at him. She shifts away from him on the couch but there is not much room, so many others are piled on it. She turns to glare at him. He is so close to her; she notes how pale his eyebrows are, his eyelashes so fair that they are almost invisible.
‘I told you,’ she says, with ice in her voice. ‘Theo and I are not together anymore. I have nothing to do with him.’
Glen’s eyes narrow as he snarls at her. ‘Now, that just isn’t true, is it, Valentina? I saw you together only last night, at the exhibition opening.’
She gives him a stony stare.
‘By the way, your work is very interesting,’ Glen continues to speak, his voice laced with sarcasm. ‘Although I told Theo I thought it rather vulgar for my tastes. He was quite defensive about you . . .’
She turns her head away from him and stares out of the window; her heart is thundering at the mention of Theo. What had those two spoken about last night? ‘If you don’t stop harassing me,’ she hisses. ‘I will go to the police.’
He says nothing in return.
‘Do you hear me? I really mean it!’ She turns to confront him again. Yet, to her astonishment, he is gone and the seat beside her is empty. She looks around the room but she can’t see him anywhere. Did she just imagine Glen was here? Yet his scent lingers.
Valentina hears laughter behind her. She recognises Theo’s rich melodious laughter instantly. She turns on the couch, clasping her glass of champagne, emotion rising in her chest. She only saw him yesterday and yet his presence in the room transfixes her. She cannot believe that, this time last year, she had this man in the palm of her hand, and she let him go. How could she have been so stupid? Now here he is, in front of her, but not available. For, hanging on to his arm, is the delectable Anita in her silk magenta dress, which skims her perfect body and seems to scream out passion. How can Valentina possibly compare with this luscious woman, all sexy curves, cascading blond hair, plush lips and big, come-to-bed-with-me eyes? She is the kind of woman every man craves. Anita looks in her direction and their eyes lock instantly; Valentina’s rival smiles at her. Valentina knows that Anita can see her longing; her smile widens and her eyes darken as she drinks Valentina
in. It is obvious what she is thinking; there is such suggestion in her look. She looks like the cat that got the cream.
She awakes and is immediately aware that Felix is gone and she is alone in the bed. She sits up at once, alert. Something feels different. A faint breeze rustles the leaves in the trees outside the window, bringing the scent of summer into their room. The sound reminds her of the wind rippling the lagoon in Venice, and she feels a sudden pang of nostalgia. Could she persuade Felix to come with her to Venice and meet her mother and Pina? She would like them to be married first. To be able to do that, she needs to know if his wife is still alive.
It must still be early, for there is little sound from the streets below. She wonders where Felix has gone. He must have been hungry, and went to get them some croissants from the boulangerie. Yet something feels different in their room. She is unreasonably disturbed by his absence. She swings her legs out of the bed, sits on the edge and dangles them. She thinks about their lovemaking last night, and what had happened in the club beforehand. Had Felix seriously meant to proposition that young American? She admits that the thought of the two men with her had aroused her, and yet she is devoted to Felix. How could she want another man to make love to her, if she loves only him?
It is when she stands up, breathing in deeply, that she realises what is different. Normally, Felix stores the camera in a case in the corner of the room, but it is gone. She frowns and hesitantly walks over to the wardrobe. It is full of her new dresses, resplendent in all their jewel shades, but Felix’s spare suit is gone, as is his case. A scream of panic struggles in her throat, and she chokes it back down. Where has he gone? She pulls one of the dresses off a hanger and hurriedly gets dressed, not caring to put on make-up or fix her hair. She dashes down the stairs, not quite knowing where she is going to go to look for him. She guesses she will start at one of the cafés they frequent.
‘Mademosielle! Stop!’ Madame Paget calls to her, as she flies through the lobby of the hotel.
‘Mademosielle, Monsieur Leduc has left a letter for you,’ Madame Paget says, waving an envelope in her hand.
Maria colours with embarrassment. Why did Felix leave her a letter with the concierge, when he could have left her a note upstairs, or even woken her up?
She takes the letter and thanks the woman, who scrutinises her curiously over the rim of glasses, her hair even brighter and redder than Maria remembers it.
‘You know, the rent is due tomorrow,’ Madame Paget says to her, her lips pursed in a thick red gluey line.
‘Yes, thank you,’ Maria says, getting away from her as fast as she can.
It is a long time since she has been up this early in the morning. If she were not so anxious about the letter in her hand, she might have enjoyed a morning stroll through Saint-Germain-des-Prés. She scurries down the cobbled streets, looking for a park or somewhere to sit. Eventually, she finds a little café that they have never been to before, orders a coffee and croissant and sits down, tearing the envelope open as fast as she can.
My dear Maria,
I need to go away for just a couple of days, my darling, to work on a film. Here is the money for the rent and for food. Enjoy your freedom. I will be back soon.
Your Felix. x
She pulls out a bunch of francs, gripping them in her fist, her alarm abating. All is fine. He is just away for a couple of days. He has even left her money.
She traces his handwriting with her finger. He has called himself ‘Your Felix’. So he is hers. Oh, why hadn’t he woken her and made love to her this morning before he left? She misses him so much already.
She spends the day listlessly walking around Paris. She leaves their district and walks across the Seine into the Ile de la Cité. The people are different this side of the river. There seem to be greater inequalities. On the one hand she sees poorer people huddled in doorways, refugees, lost and hungry people, and on the other hand there are smarter people – brisk businessmen, bristling with purpose, well-fed Americans and fashionable ladies-about-town. She even sees one woman wearing Dior’s ‘New Look’. She cannot help but stop and stare in admiration. How inadequate her home-made version is! The dresses that Felix bought her are pretty, but none are quite as fashionable as this woman’s dress. The silhouette of the woman reminds her of a ballerina: tiny cinched waist and full skirt, her little feet and slender ankles like a doll’s.
Maria stands outside Notre Dame, pondering its majestic façade, meditating on whether she is worthy to step inside. Her mother had not raised her any religion, but she had gone to a convent for her education. Some of it has rubbed off on her. What would the nuns call her now? Whore. Sinner. Fallen. And what about Felix? Is he the devil himself? And yet, when they are enacting one of his scenes, there is a feeling within it that is sacred: the communion between her and Felix. They have chosen to articulate some kind of exultation, to explore the religious depths to which eroticism can go. She should not feel ashamed. Even so, when she steps into the cathedral, she cannot help but bow her head. The scent of church incense overwhelms her, making her feel dizzy, insubstantial. For a second, she remembers how she felt when she was dancing Psyche: ephemeral, light as air, fluid. Since she lost her virginity, it is as if she is filled with rich earth: heavy limbed and loaded with the weight of her blood, her passion. It is as if she is never sated.
She makes her way to one of the side chapels and looks up at the statue of the Virgin Mary before her. Her benign smile and the pure contours of her drapery, her hand raised in forgiveness, make Maria want to reach out and touch her. She lights a candle and drops a few centimes into the box, falling on her knees, closing her eyes and clasping her hands together. And yet she does not know what to pray for. She summons to mind her mother and Pina, and prays for them to be safe and happy. She prays for Jacqueline in London, that she will forgive her for running away, and she prays for Joan, hoping that she has found the right man to love her at last. She even prays for Guido. Finally, she prays for Felix. Her man. She prays for his safety, that he will return to her again. She squeezes her eyes tight and prays for his soul, that he will be healed and that soon they can have a normal life.
She is on her way back to the hotel when she runs into Vivienne.
‘Maria, my darling, where are you off to?’ the foxy redhead asks her.
‘Hotel Montana,’ she tells her.
‘And where is Felix?’
‘He had to go away to work.’
‘So you are on your own?’ Vivienne’s eyes light up. ‘Well, darling, you must come out with me. When the cat’s away, the mice must play!’ And, refusing to take no for an answer, she links arms with Maria and joins her step for step. ‘Let’s get dressed up first. You should wear that ivory evening gown and that amazing red cape I saw you in one night. We shall go for some dinner first, where we will drink lots of wine, and then we will go to the best new jazz club in town. Do you have money?’
As their heels clatter in accompaniment on the cobbled streets, Maria’s heart lifts. All of a sudden she is glad to be rescued from the loneliness of their hotel bedroom by the vivacious Vivienne. ‘Yes, I have some money,’ she says.
‘Excellent,’ Vivienne says.
It is another long, hot night in Paris. Vivienne and Maria are jammed into yet one more new jazz club, listening to the effervescent Boris Vian. They are surrounded by Americans. Maria is a little nervous she will run into Richard again, and he will ask her why she and Felix abandoned him last night. Vivienne’s English is excellent and she keeps the company entertained with stories of the Resistance and their heroic actions during the war.
‘Why is it that every Frenchman I meet insists he was a member of the Resistance, or a Gaullist during the war? I mean, lots of your guys collaborated with the Germans, so where are all those bastards now?’ one of the Americans asks.
Vivienne shrugs. ‘Did you never hear of the épuration sauvage?’
‘Nope.’
‘You think the Terror was bad after the
Revolution – well, this was just as harsh. We purged our traitors.’
Vivienne speaks matter-of-factly, her green eyes glinting almost snake-like in the gloom of the club.
‘Surely not all of them? I mean, your government collaborated with the Nazis; there must be some of them still in the system . . .’
Vivienne sighs as if impatient. ‘We got most of them.’
‘I heard about it,’ says another American. ‘Pretty nasty stuff, all right. Didn’t you shave the heads of women who slept with Nazis?’
‘Sure we did. They deserved it,’ Vivienne says, severely. ‘They were collaborators, too.’
‘Of the horizontal kind.’ One of the Americans laughs.
‘It’s not funny,’ says Vivienne, suddenly serious, and, for some strange reason, looking directly into Maria’s eyes, as if she is telling her something more. ‘I mean, our men were risking their lives in the Resistance – in hiding, or prisoners of war for years. How do you think they felt when they returned and found out their own wives had slept with Nazis, even had one of their children? Isn’t that a double betrayal?’
‘Yeah, but what if her kids were hungry and a woman thought she had no choice?’ said one of the Americans. ‘She knows that, if she sleeps with some bigwig Nazi, he’ll get food for her kids.’
‘I was hungry – my children were hungry – but I still didn’t sleep with the enemy for a slice of bread,’ Vivienne says, passionately, knocking back her drink in one go, her eyes blazing.
‘OK; cool it lady, remember France is liberated now. How about you come dance with me?’
Vivienne takes off across the dance floor with one of the young Americans, dancing with more fervour than Maria has ever seen. Maria remains stunned by her friend’s admission. So Vivienne had been, or even still was, married? And she had children? It made sense, of course. She is at least thirty, if not older. It’s just she is out every night with their group, partying. She had told Maria she had been a singer before the war, but Maria had never heard her sing. And she had never heard her mention children.
