by Primula Bond
‘Behave yourself, Mr Levi!’ I walk behind the wheelchair and start to push it out of the room. ‘Or I’ll apply to be moved off the ward.’
‘No, you won’t. You like tending to my every need too much. So. Friends again?’ His eyes are sparkling as he looks up at me. ‘And don’t forget, Cavalieri. Business is business. I’ll be paying you today. Double time.’
* * *
The silence stretches between us as we wait at the entrance for the taxi to take us to the Catholic church in Farm Street. Pierre looks handsome, stylish, cool, but since we came out of the lobby into the bright daylight he’s shrunk back in the wheelchair, his eyes darting, skidding past me, peering at the high buildings, the faraway sky, his head cocked awkwardly sideways as he listens to the constant hum of traffic.
‘You look anxious, Mr Levi. It’s not like you.’
‘Just a touch of agoraphobia after being locked in there all this time.’ He runs his finger round his collar. ‘And you look beautiful. Which is totally like you!’
I smile and look down at the new shoes, which fit me perfectly. He’s damned good, I’ll give him that. Damn good at hiding his fears.
‘Mr Levi,’ I ask, the question burbling its way out of my tired brain. ‘Who’s Serena?’
Pierre has just plucked a flower from a bush planted by the grand double doors. He twists off the stem with a snap.
‘Call me Pierre. At least for today. Serena’s the bride. She’s the woman marrying my brother Gustav today.’
‘You said her name last night. When I came into your room you thought I was her.’
‘Did I? I guess I was dreaming.’ He turns round and looks at me. ‘She was very much on my mind once upon a time. More than that. I was in love with her.’
‘Your brother’s girlfriend? Wow. How did that happen? Did he steal her from you?’
‘The other way round. I tried to steal her from him.’
He leans back in the wheelchair, the roses nudging at his shoulders.
I look up the street. ‘Now I know why you’re dreading today.’
‘I nearly destroyed everything, Rosa. That’s the kind of guy I am.’
‘Were, Mr Levi. Pierre. You’re not going round hurting people now, are you?’
‘Hardly. I mean, look at me! Pathetic. I couldn’t fight my way out of a paper bag.’ He puts his elbow on the padded arm of his chair and rests his chin on his hand. ‘I lie awake trying to work things out, Rosa, and what I’ve concluded is that the accident was the only thing to stop me.’
‘Is that what Dr Venska says about it? That it took a car crash to stop you destroying things, rather than the ability to control your own destiny?’
‘She doesn’t have much to say on any topic. She hasn’t a clue what’s going on in here. No one does.’ Pierre taps his head. ‘Except you. Yet again you’ve got closer in that one remark than the shrink has in nearly three months! You seem to grow wiser every time I see you.’
Heat is stealing through my cheeks. I stroke the coat, the silk lining cooling my skin.
‘I chose the outfit well, didn’t I? It’s like meeting a new woman.’ He reaches out and brushes my sleeve. ‘There was nothing wrong with you before, especially once they buttoned you into that saucy uniform, but really, you look stunning, Rosie. Recognisably a woman. Rather than a walking J-cloth.’
I slap at his arm. ‘Thanks. I think.’
‘I mean it. And I also mean it when I say you really were an angel in the night.’
‘A hallucination from all that morphine, more like. Just doing my job.’ I shift on the unfamiliar high heels. ‘I hope the leg isn’t so painful today.’
‘You know what, Rosie? I’m sick of being brave. It hurts like hell. That was the first time I’ve dared put so much weight on it. The plaster feels like something you’d use to sink a haul of stolen booty. But the good physician has stuffed me to the gunnels with drugs, so we’ll be fine.’ Pierre laughs shortly, and then he holds out the flower. ‘A rose for our Rosa. It’s a hybrid tea rose and it’s called Bewitched.’
‘You’re a gardener as well as a film director?’ I bury my nose in the swirl of petals.
‘You know that about me? The film director bit?’
‘All the patients have a résumé with their notes,’ I say, sneezing.
He waits for me to stop sneezing and then takes the rose, pulls me down towards him to hold it against my hair. I hold my breath as his hand brushes my ear.
‘So you’ll know I was cut off in my prime. My background was styling fashion shoots, then designing for theatre, producing shows, and it took off from there. All the way to a reality show in LA.’
‘And the gardening bit?’ I go very still as he moves the rose to the lapel of the coat, just above my breast. He takes a pin out of his pocket and pierces the hard green stem of the rose. ‘How did you know the name of the rose?’
‘My speciality has always been sourcing props and costume.’ He attaches the rose to my coat, his hand warm against my breast. A tingle spreads through me, making my nipples stiffen. ‘And for stage sets I preferred to use real flowers that matched the setting, the period and the theme of the show.’
I’m barely listening. Just acutely aware of the pressure of his fingers on me. Warmth radiates through me, messages clamouring down my body.
‘And today’s theme?’
He hesitates, looking deep into my eyes. ‘Love everlasting.’
We stare at each other. Round the corner I can hear the diesel rumble of an approaching cab.
His hand has moved up and is resting on the curve between my neck and my shoulder. It’s so warm, and dry. He can probably feel my pulse, racing beneath his long, artistic fingers.
He starts to heave himself out of the chair to get into the taxi. My hands shoot out to steady him. Sweat slicks his brow and pain washes over his face. I keep holding him, gripping his upper arms until he stops swaying.
‘Did you know that you have Anne Hathaway’s eyes?’ he murmurs, standing so close to me that I can see the dark points of his beard waiting to pierce his skin. ‘And the body of Mila Kunis?’
‘I’d say those drugs are kicking in,’ I reply huskily, looking past him as the taxi turns into the street. ‘It’s time to go.’
‘So, signorina Cavalieri. Are you going to tell me what you do with yourself when you’re not escorting cripples around London?’
‘That’s classified, as you well know,’ I say, yanking open the taxi door.
The next five minutes are taken up with shifting Pierre and his weak legs into the cab. We pull away from the clinic, up the side street and into the hustle of Kensington High Street. The folded wheelchair is between us. I sit wedged against the window staring out as we pass the Tube station, the old department stores on our right, then skim past the Royal Garden Hotel and Kensington Palace.
As peace descends in the car and we dawdle along Kensington Gore my night duty catches up with me and I doze off. I haven’t slept for nearly 24 hours.
Whatever Pierre Levi says, I reckon I look less like Anne Hathaway today. More like ET.
‘Look at you, Cavalieri. You must be exhausted. And now you’ve got to dance attendance on me all bloody day.’ Pierre speaks softly through the fog of my half-sleep as the taxi takes us on towards Piccadilly. ‘I’d like to make it up to you if I can.’
‘You’re paying me. That’s enough.’
‘Normally I’d say you’re talking my language, Cavalieri, but that’s not what I –’
‘Sorry, that was a little rude, and today’s supposed to be all about harmony.’ I half open my eyes and find him gazing at me as if he’s never seen me before. ‘Let’s talk later. I’m so tired.’
At the church, which is still empty other than the organ quietly playing ‘Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring’, I go into carer mode and push the wheelchair up the central aisle.
It’s been years since I was last in a church. Probably my sister’s wedding, which was in the Carmelite Catho
lic church not far from the Aura Clinic. I stop the chair at the front and we’re both silent, staring up at the tall candles flickering in their thick silver holders.
‘Ever think about getting married, Rosie?’
I pretend I haven’t heard him. ‘Let’s practise standing. See if you can just step sideways into the pew.’
I can’t get used to seeing him so upright. He’s taller than I imagined, and, since working on his physio, even broader. When I put my arm across his back to settle him down into the pew and feel the tautness of his body beneath his coat, another electric current jolts through me.
I drop one of the crutches as I hook them over the rail and we make a face at each other as they make an unholy clatter in that holy place.
But when I hand him the service sheet he retreats inside himself. He stares at the couple’s names, Gustav Levi and Serena Folkes, entwined on the cover. Serena Folkes. The girl who took those photographs of him at the height of his success, the charismatic director taking applause as his dancers whirled round him.
Serena Folkes, the girl he was in love with. The girl who’s marrying his brother.
I push the wheelchair round to the side aisle and fold it up. Then I stand at that end of the pew, fiddling with the flower in my coat and wondering what to do. Pierre seems to have forgotten me. He just stares at the order of service, then across at the spot where the couple will soon be standing, so I step away and go to sit a few rows back.
I keep watching Pierre until he glances sideways and realises I’ve gone. I can see a glint of panic in his eyes as he twists round to look for me. The world must seem huge and noisy and dangerous after months incarcerated in the clinic, but he doesn’t use the signal we’ve devised, a pat on the knot of his tie, to show that he needs me.
I’m about to stand up and go to him anyway when a tall dark man with silky black hair and the unmistakable piercing black Levi eyes strides up the aisle. He slides into the seat next to Pierre and flings his arms around him. I sit back in my seat and relax, watching the brothers side by side, heads together. Pierre puts his hand on his brother’s shoulder. Now it’s Gustav who needs reassurance. His right leg is jerking up and down. His hands are raking over and over through his hair.
They make a song and dance about patting each other’s pockets as if they’ve lost the rings. Gustav slaps at Pierre’s arm, knocking one of the crutches. I rush back into the pew to hook it more securely over the rail.
When I look up again, two pairs of beautiful dark eyes are staring at me. The brothers both grin, and then Gustav turns away to look over his shoulder towards the doors.
Pierre leans over and whispers, ‘I didn’t give you the signal!’
‘Shit. Sorry.’ I bite my lips. ‘Oops, I shouldn’t have said “shit”. Sorry.’
Gustav nudges Pierre. ‘Hey. The sexy nurse! Lucky man!’
I don’t hear Pierre’s muttered response because I’m edging back out of the pew. As the organ fades and silence descends on the hushed congregation, Pierre grabs my arm.
‘Hey, Rosie. Thank you for sorting out the sticks. Stay with me?’
There’s the quick roar of outside traffic as the church door opens behind us, then a flurry of whispering at the back. The priest clears his throat and I slide into the seat next to Pierre.
The organ starts the opening bars of Schubert’s ‘Ave Maria’. I hand Pierre the crutches and hold them still while he shifts towards the end of the pew, and we all stand.
The bride has nearly reached us. Gustav steps out of the pew to greet her and beckons Pierre to follow. I push up the kneeler to clear the way for his stumbling feet, then hold his elbows as he shuffles awkwardly out. He nearly falls backwards. I can see his face drain of colour as fresh pain engulfs him. He had no idea it was going to be this tough. He reminds me of a fledgling trying to fly too soon, dropping out of the nest, all bulging eyes and sticky feathers and twig-like legs.
I keep hold of his arm and squeeze it. He’s gone very white. As I let go to pick up the dropped hymn sheet he catches my hand and squeezes it.
That tingling warmth floods through me again. We both look at my small hand, resting in his, then up at each other. I can feel the weight of him, sagging with the effort of remaining upright.
I want more than anything to lace my fingers through his, edge in closer to him, but I pull my hand away, very gently, pull back my shoulders and nod at him to face forwards.
* * *
‘So how is Pierre getting on with his recovery, do you think?’ asks Serena, pulling me to one side as I go to get a drink for Pierre. ‘If you tell me he’s harassing all the nurses we’ll know he’s on the mend!’
The service is over, and we’re all assembling for the reception.
It’s a relief to have deposited Pierre at the top table. He’s barely spoken since we left the church. I’ve made sure he has painkillers and his prompt cards. No one else is sitting down yet. They’re all swirling around him, chattering, laughing, moving on, on a high after the marriage ceremony, excited about the party.
But now I’ve left him alone he looks lost. The handsome but broken wallflower.
The reception is being held at his brother Gustav’s elegant town house in a square in Mayfair, not far from Shepherd Market. The grand marquee they’ve set up in the long back garden is a riot of bright flowers, fairy lights and food.
I take a glass of champagne and several sausages dripping with honey from a passing tray.
Serena has been joined by Polly, the bridesmaid. They have their arms round each other’s waists and are examining me closely.
‘Oh, Mr Levi’s doing really well. But then, I don’t know what he was like before.’
I curse myself for blushing under their scrutiny. I glance around for somewhere I can sit and be inconspicuous. ‘Congratulations, by the way, Mrs Levi. It was a lovely service. And what a beautiful dress!’
‘Mrs Levi. God, it’s all like a dream! I wonder if I’ll ever get used to having such a cool new name?’ Serena smooths the ivory silk over her belly. There is only the merest suggestion of a bump. ‘This gown was designed by my clever cousin here. She’s a genius when it comes to hair, make-up, wardrobe. Honestly, you’re wasted in that convent of yours, Pol.’
‘The ashram is a retreat, not a convent, silly!’ Polly slaps at Serena’s arm. ‘Just because it’s women only.’
A look passes between them, so searing, so perilously close to fits of uncontrollable giggles, it reminds me of my sister Francesca and how much I miss her.
‘And the baby?’ I ask, halting whatever secret dialogue is going on here. ‘When is it due?’
‘They. I’m having twins. They’re due next spring.’
‘It’s the original shotgun wedding! Not that anyone cares about that these days,’ says Polly with a laugh, draining her glass and taking another one. ‘God, this booze is going straight to my head. I haven’t had a drink for nearly six months!’
I twist the stem of my glass. ‘Babies aren’t really my thing. I’ve got a niece and nephew but they’re in New York.’
‘I wouldn’t have thought I’d ever say this, but take good care of Pierre, won’t you?’ Serena says quietly, lifting her veil to lean a little closer. ‘He put us all through hell earlier this year, but no one deserves what happened to him.’
‘You make it sound as if it was fatal,’ says Polly, giggling and grabbing another glass. ‘He’s still alive, isn’t he? Unfortunately.’
‘Just. But he’s not the same man. Look at him. Something’s gone. In his eyes. A few months ago he was a powerhouse. Now he seems, I don’t know, diminished, somehow.’
‘Trauma from the accident,’ I offer. ‘And this is the first time he’s ventured out of the clinic. He’s feeling a bit freaked out by all the open spaces, all the people. A bit institutionalised.’
‘So speaks the professional carer! But I don’t buy this martyr trip,’ Polly scoffs, fluffing her hair up into spikes. ‘You may be glued to his side
today, but Serena and I know exactly what Pierre Levi was like before. Goddamn sexy, and goddamn dangerous!’
‘Oh, I reckon there are remnants of the old Pierre! He’s still attractive, in a consumptive kind of way.’ Serena turns to her cousin and taps her on the nose. ‘What’s with the bitterness, Pol? I thought you two had made your peace?’
‘Yeah. We had a good chat. Said all the right things. He was doped up to the eyeballs, mind.’ Polly pushes at the white daisies slipping in her white-blonde hair. ‘But you’re wrong about one thing, Rena. A leopard doesn’t change his spots. Nothing will change that chancer’s rampant libido. Peel away all the bandages and the drugs and the scars and the crutches and I guarantee Pierre Levi’s still a bastard.’
That word. ‘Bastard.’ It keeps cropping up.
‘Well, thank God you can get on an aeroplane tomorrow and fly away to your nunnery, then, unlike his long-suffering carers. Now go and ask Crystal if there’s more champagne.’ Serena gives Polly a little push, and waits until her bridesmaid has wandered into the kitchen. Then she turns back to me. ‘Sorry about the outburst. She’s still angry with him. He was very cruel to her. To all of us.’
I glance across at Pierre. To my surprise he’s staring right at me, as if he can hear what we’re saying. A new blush creeps up my throat.
‘It’s not my place to hear all that stuff, Serena. I’m just –’
‘Being diplomatic. And you’re right. I’m on cloud nine today and I want everyone to be kind to each other!’ cries Serena, opening her arms and spinning round. ‘Especially Pierre!’
‘A great philosophy, but I’m just here to take care of the practical side of things!’ I say, raising my glass at Pierre, who raises his at me in return. ‘Make sure he doesn’t fall over, or come to any harm, and then get him safely back to bed.’
‘Avoid his bed like the plague, if I were you.’
Serena pushes her veil away from her face, tangling it up with her long red hair. She has amazing green eyes, slightly slanted, pale creamy skin dotted with the odd pinprick of freckles.
I was in love with her, Pierre had said. And no wonder. There’s something otherworldly about her, and not just because it’s her wedding day.
