by Jessie Keane
So she was left alone. But it was a honeymoon, after all. And a marriage had to be consummated to be legal; Clara understood that. She had acknowledged that fact when she married poor old Frank, and she had done her duty, gritting her teeth, determined to get it over with. She acknowledged it now, with Toby Cotton; get the deed done, and all would sail smoothly on. Frank had never bothered her much; she was grateful for that. And she was convinced that Toby, who had never gone in for overly physical displays of affection during their engagement, would not be too different.
Get it over with, she told herself firmly. So that second night she had the candles lit in their luxurious suite with its fabulous views of the Campanile across the lagoon. She put on a virginal white negligee, wore her long black hair brushed out loose and glossy. She arranged herself against the pillows, and waited. Laughter drifted up from downstairs, the sound of footsteps, doors slamming.
She waited.
And then she waited some more.
Finally, after midnight, she fell asleep. And when she awoke next morning, it was to see Toby, still dressed in yesterday’s clothes, rummaging in the wardrobe.
‘Sorry, darling. The poker game went on longer than expected,’ he said, seeing her questioning look.
‘Oh,’ she said.
‘Sorry.’ He found his robe and went into the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
No further mention was made of it all that day, but at least Toby took her with him on his travels this time, to see the island of Murano and the glass blowers there.
‘All the furnaces were transferred from Venice to the island in 1295 to prevent fire in the city,’ said Toby, avidly consulting his guidebook.
‘Really,’ said Clara, too worried about this strange situation with her new groom to even think about the Venetian glass industry.
Then they moved on to the Piazza San Marco to see the Basilica. Toby bubbled over with excitement and enthusiasm. Clara was starting to feel so wound up that she nearly cried with relief when they returned to the hotel to rest, clean up, and have dinner. Once again, she prepared herself to cement her marriage to Toby.
Again, he didn’t come to bed. All she heard was men’s laughter downstairs, until she drifted off to sleep, tired of waiting. She snapped awake next morning and there he was again, looking through the contents of the wardrobe, fishing out his robe.
‘Were you playing poker again last night?’ she asked. She remembered that she’d heard them down below, Toby’s happy braying laughter mingling with that of the other men staying in the hotel.
‘Yes, I was. Sorry.’
Now Clara began to puzzle over this. He’d never married and he was in his thirties. Was he perhaps nervous of women? But with his looks she didn’t think it was likely. She thought that she should probably reassure him, say something. This was his honeymoon, for pity’s sake. Newlyweds were supposed to be close, unable to keep their hands off each other. Here they were in the city of romance – and he’d barely been near her.
They were supposed to be in love.
As she thought of that, a pang of something like sadness gripped her. She remembered Bernie’s anxious, hopeful face, those pretty blue-grey eyes meeting hers in the mirror.
Do you love him?
Much as she cared for Toby, the truth was, she didn’t feel any true intensity of passion for him. All there had ever been for her was the driving need to pull her family out of the shit. She was ready to seal their deal now. But Toby wasn’t interested. He took himself off on a gondola down the Grand Canal, leaving her alone once again.
If he continued to be uninterested, that might jeopardize her position as his wife. One of these days he could say – and now the sadness turned to unease – that he found her unappealing, that his selection of her as a bride had been a mistake and he wanted the marriage annulled.
Clara couldn’t, under any circumstances, allow that to happen.
She sat in the cool grandeur of the lobby during the day, watching the comings and goings of the guests and staff there; and then she saw Toby come back in from his day’s sightseeing, saw one of the handsome waiters hurry up to him, saw them exchange low words and smiles. Their heads were close together, it looked almost intimate . . . and then Toby spotted Clara sitting there, and he jerked back, away from the young Italian.
‘Clara! Darling!’ His smile was vivid as he dashed over to her, kissed her cheek, sat down beside her. ‘Say you’ll come out with me tomorrow, Clara. We’re going to the Bridge of Sighs.’
We? thought Clara. Well, at least he was including her this time.
That night, he was absent from the marital bed again. And next day they went to the bridge over the Rio di Palazzo that connected the prison to the interrogation rooms in the Doge’s Palace.
‘It’s called the Bridge of Sighs because prisoners saw their last glimpse of the city as they passed over here, and sighed with regret,’ said Toby.
Clara felt like sighing herself. She felt like kicking him. She’d read the guidebook he was so engrossed in – she’d had fuck-all else to do yesterday – and she’d seen the part about the bridge, and about the local legend that said lovers would be granted eternal bliss if they kissed under the Bridge of Sighs as the bells of St Mark’s Campanile tolled. She felt like kicking the idiot who wrote that, too.
Finally, irritated beyond belief by this farcical situation, she pulled him to one side and said: ‘Toby.’
He mopped his brow and looked at her. ‘Yes, my sweet?’
‘Will you come to bed tonight?’ she asked.
There was a look of absolute horror and embarrassment on his face when she said that. She almost wished she’d shut up, kept quiet. But this had to be resolved. She wasn’t one to shirk her responsibilities, and first among them was getting this marriage set in stone.
She touched his arm tentatively. He almost seemed about to shrink back, but maybe she imagined it. ‘I would like you to come to bed with me,’ she said.
He hesitated. Then he gave a faint smile and patted her hand, and they moved on.
By now, she didn’t honestly expect him to arrive in the bedroom that night. But in preparation she abandoned the virginal white negligee and sat up among the pillows naked, bare-breasted, her hair flowing down to barely cover her nipples. She hoped that the sight would stimulate some smattering of desire in her reluctant husband, although she was beginning to doubt that it would.
But there he was! Toby came into their bedroom at ten o’clock, closed the door and stood there staring at her. Slowly, he walked over to the bed.
‘Oh my angel. Look at you! You’re bloody beautiful,’ he said. ‘I’ve always thought that, right from the first day I met you, at poor old Frank’s funeral.’
‘Thank you.’ Clara determinedly pulled back the sheets further, in what she hoped was an inviting and provocative manner.
Just get it over with, she thought.
After this, she didn’t think Toby was going to trouble her much at all. Get this done with, and she could relax, enjoy her comfortable life with no fear of any more unpleasant surprises.
Toby didn’t start to get undressed. He just stood there, her handsome, flamboyant husband, staring down at her, all her curves lit by the glowing bedside light. He stood there for so long that she even thought he might lose his nerve and bolt out the door. Sensing his indecision, she pushed the sheets right down to the bottom of the bed, revealing her full nakedness.
Toby merely stared. Then he said: ‘No. No, darling. Don’t do that.’ He went to push the sheets back over her, to cover her up. Then he hesitated and said: ‘Um – turn over, will you?’
Clara turned over. Whatever worked for him, she was prepared to do. Unable to see his face now, she could hear that his breathing was deepening, hardening, becoming almost like a gasp.
‘Get up on your knees,’ he said.
Clara did so, leaning her elbows and her face into the pillow.
Perhaps he was shy, and couldn’t look he
r in the face while he did it? Yes, that could be it. She was confused by this. Toby was so gorgeous, why would he doubt his own abilities as a lover?
Now his breathing was very loud and she could hear him fumbling with his clothing. This was it. She felt the bed sway as he got up onto it. She felt him touch her waist and tried not to flinch. She felt his manhood, hard but silky, against her buttocks and felt exposed, ridiculous; she longed for it to be over. And soon it would be. Thank God.
And then – there was pain. Unexpected, excruciating pain.
Clara screamed aloud as he pushed his cock hard into her arse. The pain increased as she clenched against it, tried to stop this intrusion and couldn’t. It was horrifying; hadn’t he had a woman before? Didn’t he know this was wrong?
‘Toby – no . . . ’ she shouted, trying to strain away from him.
‘Shut up,’ he said sharply, pounding into her, hurting her.
She gripped the pillow, tears of anguish squeezing out of her tightly closed eyes, and still he kept on hammering at her. It felt endless, she couldn’t endure it for another single moment . . . and then he shuddered, clutched hard at her waist, and stopped.
Slowly, his breathing steadied. Quickly now, satisfied, he withdrew. Clara collapsed onto her side, in pain. She opened her eyes and saw him there, her lovely Toby, tucking his penis back into his trousers, refastening his fly buttons. Without a word or even a glance at her, he turned and left the room. Clara curled up, dragging the sheets up to cover herself, shivering and shaking with shock.
41
‘Pistol’ Pete Driscoll was a good-looking man and girls flocked around him. As sidekick to Marcus Redmayne, he held a lot of kudos around Soho and worked it to its fullest extent. Thin but with a good head of dark hair and that dashing Rhett Butler moustache, he favoured cowboy boots and spivvy bootlace ties; he could pull in the women with ease.
Not that he wanted to.
He kept a girl, one special girl, in a flat off Greek Street. Sonya was Swedish or Russian or Norwegian or some damned thing – he had never taken the trouble to enquire. Pete only cared that she was blonde and sweet with a knockout body. She spoke halting English, and understood little of what he said to her, and that was fine. Catch him keeping a mouthy cunt like that Paulette who Marcus had on a leash, he didn’t think so.
As a matter of fact, him and the boys were laying bets on how much longer Marcus was going to put up with the cow. Paulette had become a firm fixture, trailing after Marcus like a lost puppy, clearly sensing his cooling interest and scared to let him out of her sight in case some other woman nabbed him.
Pete thought that Paulette could be out the door by the end of the year. He knew that Marcus was more than a little interested in that black-haired bint who’d just got herself hitched to Toby cotton, but then she definitely wasn’t mistress material. It was the ring on the finger or nothing for that one – and Marcus would never go down that route.
Pete was coming out of Sonya’s place after a night of sexual acrobatics and sound sleep, passing the paper shop where all the headlines were shouting about that poof ballet dancer Nureyev defecting in Paris. Pete was feeling pretty bloody cheerful. He planned to have breakfast in his usual café – Sonya was no Fanny Craddock and never fed him, but who gave a shit? – and then he’d hook up with Marcus, see what the day required.
He was minding his own business, whistling along on his way to eggs and bacon, when he was thumped on the back of the head and everything went black.
Pete came round by slow degrees, thinking What the hell . . . ? The back of his head hurt. He was in bed maybe. He tried to sit up. Found he couldn’t, because he was already sitting up, and in fact he couldn’t move his hands because they were behind him, and they were bound. Tried to move his feet – ditto. Opened his eyes. Looked around.
He was in some sort of empty warehouse. It was a big, echoing space, concrete on the floor, rusted pillars, a little dust-covered workbench over to the left. No bastard ever came here, he could see that. His eyes ached. His mouth felt like it had been sandblasted, it was that dry.
Standing in front of him was the biggest, ugliest bastard he’d ever clapped eyes on and for a second he thought, That’s it, I’ve lost it, now I’m seeing ghosts. It was Jacko Sears – wasn’t it? Only Jacko Sears was dead, and . . . no. There was something different about the eyes on this huge butterball. Something softer, maybe. Or maybe not. Jesus, his head really hurt.
‘You don’t know me,’ said the man-mountain. ‘But you knew my brother.’
‘Who . . . ’ rasped Pete. He coughed, cleared his throat, tried again. ‘Who the hell are you?’
‘I’m Fulton Sears. You knew my little bro, Jacko.’
Pete was shaking his head while thinking Oh shit. ‘I knew of him, sure. He used to hang around here.’
‘Now that’s funny.’ Fulton Sears started pacing around, arms folded over his barrel chest, looking at Pete. ‘Because I got it on good information that you were among the last people to see him before he vanished.’
‘Vanished?’ Pete gave a dry laugh. ‘Vanished like in a magic trick you mean?’
‘No, I mean vanished in like . . . oh, let’s say . . . like someone done away with him. A friend of mine was in the Blue Bird when there was a fight. She saw you fighting with my little bro Jacko, and after that night, you know what? It’s strange, but he ain’t been seen again.’
‘That’s just a coincidence,’ said Pete. ‘Yeah, it’s true we had a fight. Round here, there are always fights going on, we don’t take that too seriously. Last I saw of your brother, he was heading out the door. Gave me a kicking, and took off.’
‘Now that’s funny too,’ said Fulton, pausing in front of Pete and looking at him with eyes that were . . . no. They weren’t soft at all, those eyes. Right now, they were beady, and they were mean. ‘Because you know what? My information says that Jacko never came out of the Blue Bird at all. He didn’t walk out. That’s for certain.’
Shit, shit, shit, thought Pete.
‘So now, my friend, I might have to hurt you but it’s just to get to the truth, you do understand that, don’t you?’ asked Fulton.
‘Now whoa, hold on there,’ said Pete, his heart in his mouth.
‘You got something to say?’ asked Fulton.
Pete stared into those muddy brown eyes for a long time. Then he slowly shook his head.
‘Shame,’ said Fulton, sounding genuinely sad about this. Then he walked over to the bench, and picked up the cleaver.
42
David’s tiny rented studio had become the centre of Bernie’s world. She loved answering the phone, ordering prints, doing up wedding albums, and most of all she loved him. While he worked in the studio, she manned the phone in reception; they were a team. Before too long they would take lunch together, either going out to a Wimpy Bar or going up to David’s poky bedsit over the studio where they ate cheese on toast and listened to the radio on his little red transistor, with ‘Run to Him’ by Bobby Vee, ‘Walk Right Back’ by the Everly Brothers and ‘Stand By Me’ by Ben E. King in the charts. She’d sing along to them, and David would smile.
Bernie was in heaven. This, then, was what love felt like. She had only to see him at a distance for her stomach to turn over. When he kissed her – and he kissed her more and more now – she was besotted but felt no real desire. She trailed after him around the slums, carrying his bags at weddings, put up with the stroppy guests and the mothers-of-the-bride, who were nearly always on the verge of hysteria on their little girl’s ‘big day’ – and she helped him in the studio, setting up lights and adjusting umbrellas.
But David seemed reluctant to move things forward. They were in love! What was holding him back? She wanted to do it, to know what it was like. They were up in the bedsit one lunchtime, and she was sitting in her usual threadbare seat opposite him in front of the three-bar electric fire, when she decided it was time to make her move.
David stood up and went to the mantelpi
ece to turn on the transistor for the one o’clock news. He cared a lot about world affairs, about people in general, about Save the Whale and the rainforests and Ban the Bomb, and she admired him for it, but what about her? Bernie followed him. When he turned, she reached up and kissed him.
He kissed her back, linked his arms around her waist. Bernie shrugged off his embrace and instead took his hand and led him over to the purple-covered bed in one corner of the room. She hoped he’d changed the sheets in the last fortnight, but she doubted it. Domestic matters never seemed to even cross David’s mind. He was far too talented, too artistic, for that.
‘Let’s go to bed,’ she said.
‘Are you sure about this?’ asked David, his blue eyes resting on her face.
‘Surer than I’ve ever been about anything,’ said Bernie, and unbuttoned her blouse, pushing it open. She wasn’t wearing a bra. She saw his eyes widen in sudden surprise at the sight. Bernie took both his hands in hers and placed them on her breasts. She felt her nipples harden and felt encouraged. ‘Now kiss me properly,’ she directed, and this time he did, but when he went to push the blouse down, off her arms, she resisted. His hands fell to his sides.
‘Oh, Bern,’ he moaned against her mouth. ‘I don’t deserve you.’
‘Yes you do,’ she said firmly, and kissed him again, pulling him down onto the hideous nylon purple coverlet.
Bernie rolled beneath him and starting yanking at his belt buckle.
‘I’ll do it,’ said David breathlessly, pulling her pants down, unbuckling his belt, trying not to come straight away with the extent of his excitement. ‘God, I haven’t got a condom,’ he gasped out.
‘I have,’ said Bernie, and pulled one out of the pocket of her skirt. She remembered all too well her mother dying in childbirth, and this – this first act of love – frightened her. Love had killed Mum. She didn’t want it to kill her, too. So she’d come prepared.
