by Evie Blake
She gets out of bed, glancing at Theo, who is still fast asleep. She wanders out into the flat. Earlier this morning, it had looked very rough from the outside. An old council flat, Theo had said, but inside it is quite lovely: simple but tasteful – so Theo. The sitting room has an antique leather couch, and is lined with bookshelves. On the walls are some modernist prints. He has a walnut bureau in the corner, the lid opened, with his laptop on it and, much to her surprise, there is a framed photograph of the two of them. She picks it up and stares at it, nostalgia for the past moving her. The picture was taken when they went on holiday to Sardinia. She remembers that Theo had asked another tourist to take the picture. They are standing on the beach, she in her none-too-flattering bikini, arms linked, squinting in the sunlight and smiling goofily into the camera. She looks at this girl and it is plain to see she is happy, and in love. Why had she denied it for so long? And why did Theo have this photograph on his desk? Does this mean he never gave up on them?
She finds the bathroom and wraps herself up in Theo’s white towelling robe before going into the kitchen and filling the kettle. A little window faces out on to a drab balcony and a rather ordinary view of the estate of flats, with a scruffy green in front of it, a broken swing and a forlorn-looking see-saw. Yet it is a sunny, bright day and Valentina thinks it an endearing view. She imagines living here in London with Theo: a new life and a new beginning for both of them. She glances at the kitchen clock; it is just after midday. Her flight is at six. If she is going to go home today, she has very little time to get back to Aunt Isabella’s and pack. She has no idea where in London they are or how near it is to Isabella’s. She makes two mugs of tea, pondering her options. She doesn’t want to go back to Milan – not yet, not now she has been with Theo. She would only want to go back if he came with her.
Valentina wanders back into the sitting room with two mugs of tea and puts them down on the coffee table. There is her bag, abandoned on the couch from earlier this morning. She opens it up and takes out her phone. There are two messages from Antonella.
Where r u?
Going to Moscow with Mikhail! Call me.
Maybe Antonella has finally found ‘the one’. She must be very keen on Mikhail if she is going to Russia with him. She really hopes that it works out for them – that Antonella doesn’t lose interest in him. There is something about the taciturn Russian that Valentina really likes and thinks is good for her boisterous friend.
‘There you are.’
She turns to see Theo standing in the doorway, bare-chested and in a pair of silk pyjama bottoms that hang off his hips seductively.
‘I was worried you had run out on me.’
Now, in the cold light of day, can she respond as she feels?
‘I could never run out on you; not now.’
Theo smiles in delight at her words. This is not the unexpressive Valentina he once knew. ‘Do you mean that?’
She nods, suddenly nervous that last night was a delusion and that he is now going to tell her it was just a one-off.
‘What’s the story with Anita?’ she says, immediately cursing herself for bringing up the name of her rival.
‘Like I told you in the Tate, it’s complicated.’
Valentina frowns. He comes up close to her, tucks her hair behind her ears. ‘Don’t look so worried; we never had anything romantic or sexual going on . . . Not until you were involved, actually!’
‘So why did she call herself your girlfriend?’
Theo goes over and picks up one of the mugs of tea, sits down on the couch and beckons for her to join him. ‘It was all a front,’ he explains. ‘I guess you could say we “dated” for a while, but I eventually explained just why I wanted to get to know her.’
‘And why was that?’ Valentina asks, still not understanding.
‘I thought you might have worked it out by now,’ Theo says, prodding her tummy through the dressing gown. ‘Anita owned the André Masson drawing I was after. Remember I told you about it, that day in the Tate Gallery?’
‘Of course,’ Valentina reflects. All that art was on the walls of Anita’s apartment . . . Suddenly something occurs to her. She brings her hand to her mouth. ‘Glen was there,’ she says. ‘Last night.’
She sees a spot of anger on each of Theo’s cheeks.
‘God, that man is unbelievable,’ he says. ‘When I saw him at the exhibition, I warned him to stay away from you. Well, it’s too late for him to steal the drawing, anyway. I got it last night. I have it here.’
He gets up from the couch, walks across the room and picks up an attaché case, leaning beside the bureau. He opens a little drawer in the bureau, takes out a key and unlocks the case. He pulls out a small, framed drawing and hands it to Valentina, sitting back down next to her again. ‘It’s called Damned Women – dated to around nineteen twenty-two.’
Valentina examines the drawing. It is a frenzy of naked women, and she finds it hard to distinguish the bodies. Their breasts and pubic hair are more articulated than their faces. They seem to be a writhing mass of sex.
‘How did Anita end up with it?’ she asks Theo.
‘Despite the fact her grandfather fought in the war against the Nazis, he seemed to have no misgivings about acquiring this picture from a known dealer in hoarded work in nineteen fifty-three.’
‘So, did you steal it from Anita’s apartment last night? Is that why you were pretending to be her boyfriend?’ Valentina asks, intrigued that Theo would have been able to steal the picture right under the noses of everyone at the party.
‘That was the original plan,’ he says, taking the picture from her and locking it back into the case. ‘That’s why I told you to trust me, just to wait. I was never interested in Anita as a girlfriend. I know it was heartless of me, but I had to get that picture back.’
Valentina remembers something Anita said last night, just before they had all been together. Something like, it was going to be her last chance with Theo, as if she knew she wouldn’t see him again.
‘It turns out that Anita is a decent soul,’ Theo continues to explain. ‘When Glen started hanging around, I got worried he might break into her apartment. I felt I had to warn her, so I told her the whole story. I was so impressed by her reaction. It was the easiest robbery I have ever committed.’
‘Why? What happened?’
‘Once I showed her all the evidence, she agreed to give me the picture. Just like that! I guess she is so stinking rich she can afford to be principled.’
‘That’s a bit harsh.’ Valentina remembers something else Anita had said to her now, when they were talking about her grandmother and the erotic film: ‘It changes who we are to learn the secrets of our ancestors.’
‘Maybe, like you, she wanted to make amends for the actions of her grandfather,’ Valentina suggests.
Theo shrugs. ‘You’re right. I guess I have no right to judge anyone after what my own grandfather did, selling off all those poor Jewish people’s priceless treasures to the Nazis for a pittance.’
‘But he had little choice, remember, Theo, and he has spent the rest of his life trying to retrieve all those pictures and return them to their rightful owners.’
Every family has dark secrets – skeletons in the closet. She is still astounded that her grandmother appeared in those early erotic films, and yet all the evidence seems to indicate it is true. And then there is the huge fat lie about her father . . .
‘So, Valentina,’ Theo says, carefully putting the attaché case back down on the floor, ‘my career as an art thief has finally come to an end. Do you think you will still find me attractive when I am just a fusty old academic again?’
‘Of course I will,’ she says, kissing him on the lips. ‘In fact, I can’t wait!’
She pulls back all of sudden, feeling a clench of anxiety in her stomach as she remembers something. ‘Theo, I forgot to tell you: there’s more about Glen.’
Theo pulls her into his side. She puts her hands on his bare chest, h
er fingers in his soft hair.
‘What is it, darling?’
‘He followed me . . .’ She pauses, deciding not to tell him that she and Glen first ran into each other outside Philip Rembrandt’s house. She is not quite ready to explain all about her father to Theo. She wants some time, just the two of them, before she unleashes the mess of her family history on him. ‘He said that, if you didn’t give him back the money for Mrs Kinder’s painting or let him have the Masson drawing, then he would take me.’
‘How dare he!’ Theo growls in disgust. ‘He tried that on with me at the gallery and I told him to get lost. He claimed he’d already made an arrangement with Guilio Borghetti’s son before I came along. I told him that, if he left us alone, it would be the last picture I ever took. He is welcome to every single piece of the lost Nazi hoard after last night. I thought that he was happy with that.’
‘Well, I don’t think he is,’ she tells him.
‘That’s it!’ he says, angrily. ‘I don’t care about the consequences; if he turns up again, we’ll just report him to the police.’ Theo looks so deadly serious that she has no doubt he will do just that.
‘But couldn’t you get into trouble?’
‘No, not really; not now I’m finished with it all. Remember, none of the paintings I have taken are actually officially reported stolen.’ He pulls her even tighter to him, so that her chin is resting on his chest and she can breathe in his delicious scent. ‘And, furthermore, I am not letting you out of my sight now. Not until I return the painting to Guilio Borghetti’s son in Sorrento.’
She is breathless at his words. He doesn’t want to let her out of his sight. So their reunion is not just momentary, it has a future. She cuddles into him, pressing her lips against his skin, feeling more satisfied and safe than she has felt her whole life.
‘Theo?’ she whispers into his chest. ‘When did you know that you wanted me back?’
‘I have never stopped wanting you, Valentina. Although I didn’t realise that until I saw you again, that first time in the Lexington.’ He takes a breath. ‘God, it was all I could do not to take you into my arms, but Anita was there and I was at a delicate stage with her in my negotiations for the Masson . . .’
She twists around to look up at him. ‘Why didn’t you tell me in the Tate what was going on with Anita? Why did you put me through all that uncertainty?’
‘Because I had already laid my heart open to you.’ He pauses. ‘You were the one who needed to be sure of your feelings, not me. I told you to trust me. That’s what you had to do.’ He continues to speak, all the while stroking her hair. ‘In a way, it was providential that Anita was around because, although I never would have said it of you, maybe it forced you to show me your feelings . . . it threatened you.’ He looks at her questioningly and she blushes.
‘I am surprised, even at myself,’ she admits. ‘I thought I was a true libertine but, when it came down to it, I wanted you all to myself.’
‘I am quite happy about that, Valentina, because I don’t think I want to share you anymore, either.’ He kisses her forehead.
‘So we are lost to each other?’ she asks him.
‘Yes, we have both of us stepped over the edge into that dangerous abyss called love.’
He begins to unwrap her dressing gown, so that it falls open. She climbs up on to his silky lap and looks down at him, drinking in his face, committing it to her heart.
‘So, will you come with me to give back the Masson to Borghetti? I’m flying to Naples tomorrow morning, early.’
‘But I’m supposed to go back to Milan this evening,’ she protests, weakly.
He pulls her down to him and kisses her. ‘Oh no, Valentina, this afternoon you are going to be very busy making love to me. I am afraid you are going to miss your flight . . .’
‘If you say so,’ she says, not even pretending to resist.
She leans back and strokes his balls through his silk pyjamas. She slips her hand underneath the waistband and feels his cock rising in her hand, the urgency of its need to be within her again. She kisses him deeply, drinking his love into her as sweet as honey on her heart.
‘Theo?’ Valentina pulls away for a second, feeling strangely bashful.
He looks up at her expectantly.
She is so nervous of his response to what she is about to ask him that she drops her gaze, stares down at the tiny folds in his stomach. ‘Can I be your girlfriend now?’ Her voice is barely above a whisper.
‘No, absolutely not,’ she hears him say, so fast, with no reflection whatsoever.
She feels a lump form in her throat. It is hard to disguise her disappointment. So, he has not forgiven her, then.
‘Valentina,’ he says, lifting her chin with his fingertip and gazing into her eyes.
She looks into a blue ocean of possibility.
‘I don’t want you to be my girlfriend, because I want you to be my wife.’
Back in the hotel room in Paris, she opens up the case that Felix had given her. It is half empty, filled with clothing and trinkets that Felix had bought her. She wrenches the red cape off, rips her ivory evening gown from her and kneels down, tipping the contents of the case on to the floor. Stockings, silk chemises, gloves and scarves fly everywhere in a carnival of colour. The bottle of L’Heure Bleu clatters on to the floorboards. The glass shatters into thousands of tiny bright crystals. Its rich perfume assaults her. The images that arrive with its scent begin to make her tremble. Finally, after the stony silence of her return drive to Paris, René’s offer of help and her rejection of him, the self-control it took not to wail like a baby and take refuge within his chubby arms, after all this, she cries. It is not just a young girl with her first broken heart who is crying, it is also the gut-wrenching sobs of a woman betrayed. Tears streak down her face, off her chin and roll between her naked breasts, on to her quivering belly and between her legs. She empties the case and, when she has done so, she climbs into it. The red silk of its lining is cool against her fevered skin. She lies on her side, raises her knees to her chest, and folds in on herself. She tucks herself up in the great big suitcase, and closes her eyes.
In her dreams, she becomes a tiny feral thing. She is in hibernation. The case suddenly slams shut. She is in darkness, the only sound the beating of her heart. Yet she is not frightened. It is comforting to be invisible to the light of day. She holds herself tight as she feels the case being lifted. Who is carrying her? Where are they taking her? The case sways back and forth and it is like being rocked in a cradle. She has little space and yet she is comfortable, as if she fits perfectly in this place. It surprises her, for she was always afraid of confined spaces. Yet it is as if being locked in a piece of luggage is where she belongs. She feels so safe that the rocking lulls her and she falls asleep.
When the case is opened, the first thing she tastes is salt on her lips. She opens her eyes, blinking in the bright light of day. She looks up at a wide cerulean sky and sees a seagull circling above her. She hears the sea crashing against the shore, a regular beat against the rocks, never stopping, on and on. She waits for the tide to come in and carry her away in her suitcase. She sees herself bobbing forever upon the ocean, until it finally swallows her up and she can be nothing. The crashing of the sea against the rocks becomes more and more frantic, urgent – and then she hears a voice.
‘Maria!’
She opens her eyes. Above her stands Vivienne, looking down at her in the suitcase, her expression, for once, grave.
‘Maria, what are you doing in there?’
She shakes her head. She doesn’t have the energy or will to speak. She just wants to be nothing, to fade away.
‘Come on,’ Vivienne says, kneeling down by the case and picking up her limp arms, pulling her up. ‘Get out of that suitcase. There you go,’ she says gently. ‘Let’s get you dressed.’
Vivienne escorts her out of the little hotel bedroom in Saint-Germain-des-Prés, propping her up by the elbow. She leaves behind the empty
suitcase, all her dresses and jewellery, all of her mistress’s things.
Her friend guides her through the chaotic streets of Paris and back to her own apartment in the seventh arrondissement. Maria is oblivious to all the life around her. She feels numbed to the core. She feels as if she is dead.
Once inside her tiny apartment, Vivienne bustles around her. ‘Have you eaten?’ she asks her.
Maria shakes her head, biting her lip and trying not to cry again.
Vivienne lays the table with bread and cheese, and pours them both a glass of red wine. ‘Come on; get that down you,’ she says, handing Maria a glass of wine. ‘You’ll feel better.’
Maria takes a sip. It is true, the wine fortifies her a little, but she is still unable to speak. She is too ashamed.
As if she reads her thoughts, Vivienne speaks first. ‘You don’t have to tell me what’s wrong,’ she says. ‘René told me.’ She doesn’t look at Maria, but concentrates on tearing off a hunk of bread. ‘I cannot believe that Felix is protecting that woman,’ Vivienne says, passionately. ‘She is scum. All those women are whores who slept with the German bastards.’
Maria can hear the loathing in Vivienne’s voice.
‘But what if some of those women who you call horizontal collaborators fell in love with Germans?’ Maria says, tentatively. ‘Surely you cannot help who you love? And, besides, Matilde did not love the German she slept with. She did it to save Felix’s life.’
‘In times of war, I believe you must stick to your principles; you have to make sacrifices, Maria,’ Vivienne says, sternly. She leans forward, gently brushing a stray of Maria’s hair from her cheek. ‘You are very young and think that love can rule you, but, you know, if it does . . . Well, then it’s not a good kind of love.’
Maria thinks about what Vivienne says. Her love for Felix had completely taken her over. She had given up her dancing, Jacqueline, even to a certain extent her mammas because of him.
