Pierre

by Primula Bond

  ‘Only joking. Seriously. The Aura sounds like a fantastic clinic,’ Serena is saying. ‘But Gustav is worried about what happens when he comes out, you know? We’ve decided we’re going to stay in Italy after the honeymoon. Pierre will have to fend for himself.’

  Gustav comes up from behind and wraps his arms around her.

  ‘He’s a big boy, Serena. Why are you fretting about him?’

  His wife’s whole body lights up, as if a lamp has gone on inside her.

  ‘I have to go,’ Serena grins. ‘My husband wants me!’

  ‘Rosa, is it? My wife has a point. Keep an eye on him for us, will you?’ Gustav says, resting his chin on her shoulder. His eyes, black like his brother’s, yet softer, are diffused by all the love. ‘You look sensible enough to keep him out of mischief.’

  ‘Once Pierre’s out of the clinic’s jurisdiction it will be up to him to, you know –’ I look down at my glass, amazed at how cold I sound ‘– behave himself.’

  Gustav straightens, exchanges glances with Serena.

  ‘What’s he done now?’ asks Serena, her green eyes glittering. ‘Don’t tell me he’s upsetting people again.’

  ‘Not really. Maybe a little,’ I stutter. ‘He likes to break rules, you know?’

  Gustav glances over at Pierre who thankfully is talking to the housekeeper.

  ‘Just as I feared. He was probably thinking with his dick as soon as he came round from the anaesthetic. The staff should have been warned. Especially a young chica like you!’

  ‘Don’t worry. I like breaking rules too. But he’s not interested in me.’

  ‘Either he’s blind, or you are. It’s obvious you fancy each other,’ Gustav replies, taking hold of Serena’s hand and kissing it. ‘As for me, I know real beauty when I see it, and I don’t let it get away.’

  He leans down and kisses his bride. Across the marquee Pierre is frowning down at his notes, but even from here I can see the bruise of exhaustion on his cheeks, the shadow of sleeplessness around his eyes.

  Gustav and Serena walk to the high table, but then she stops and glances at me over her pale shoulder.

  ‘Whatever they all say about him being a lost cause, the doctors, the shrinks, any ex-girlfriends who might pop up? Pierre’s my brother now. And I reckon what he really needs is some tender loving care.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The hubbub of voices rises as everyone sits down. I realise I’m starving. I take the nearest seat and dive into the lobster cocktail, ignored by the other guests. Over at the high table Gustav, Pierre and Serena are bent in conversation.

  The second course comes round and I’m just forking a fragrant Thai curry into my mouth when a tall thin woman with black cropped hair, whom I’ve seen occasionally visiting Pierre in the clinic, taps her knife against her glass to announce the speeches.

  Pierre stands up to speak.

  ‘It’s true what they say about brides and grooms on their wedding day. No matter how close the guests, how close the friends and family, the couple at the centre of it all are sealed in their own bubble of bliss. We can all see in, but they have no need to see out.’ He makes a knocking gesture in the air as if at a closed door. ‘Hello?’

  A murmur of laughter circulates round the marquee.

  ‘And if that makes me sound envious, jealous even, well, hands up, guilty as charged!’

  There’s a shiver of more nervous laughter. For some reason Pierre glances over at me just as I’m trying to fix the hairgrip more firmly into the hot tangle of curls.

  His mouth lifts slightly as he turns back to his prompt cards. ‘Most of you know I’m a bloody disaster when it comes to romance. Some of the casualties of my mistakes are in this very room.’

  Another pause. No one is laughing this time.

  ‘Excuse my language, Father. It’s a long time since I’ve been in the presence of holiness.’

  The priest raises his glass.

  ‘But on the topic of goodness, let’s just examine what true love is supposed to do to a person. It should enhance, not belittle. Make a couple greater than the sum of their parts. It should emit a glow, like those kids in the Ready Brek adverts, so that just by being near we are all warmed by it.’ He lifts his glass. ‘Love is what proves we have souls and we all need it in our lives. So if you, Gustav, or you, Serena, or even you, Father, could give me the code, the recipe, the secret formula, I’ll wager my entire fortune on bottling it.’

  Now the laughter is more genuine.

  ‘I’m like the customer in the diner who overhears Meg Ryan faking an orgasm in the film When Harry Met Sally then summons the waitress and says, “I’ll have what she’s having.” Gustav and Serena have brought out the best in each other. He’s ten feet tall now he has her and the babies to look after. And Serena? Well, I’m wondering what happened to that tomboy from Devon with the ripped jeans. Because what I can see here today is a beautiful woman, who is soon going to be a marvellous mother.’

  Everyone applauds. Pierre scans the crowd. I presume he’s seeking out Polly’s reaction, or maybe he’s after one of those pretty dancers in the corner. From what she’s said about his legendary libido he’s probably dreaming of hooking up with one or all of them.

  ‘So, as the lady says, I’ll have what they’re having!’ Pierre concludes, and everyone claps again. I watch his face fade from the public smile to the private pain as he lowers himself into his chair. He won’t be hooking up with anyone tonight.

  I want to go help him, but Gustav rises to speak, gazing in adoration at Serena. There’s such a heat haze around them that it’s difficult to concentrate on what he’s saying. Something about a silver chain binding them together.

  His words fade and my eyes fill with tears. They’re so lucky, so in love, they have so much to look forward to. What do I have in my life?

  There’s more clapping and toasting and then everyone stands as the speeches end.

  When I look up Pierre is sitting alone again. Everyone has left the top table. His black eyes are fixed on me. No one else. My face floods with heat, as if he has mined my thoughts. I pull a loose strand of hair over my face to hide my red eyes.

  He touches the knot of his tie. It’s time to go over to help him. I’m still on duty, despite all the festivities. I pick up a bottle of champagne and hold it at right angles, pouring it with a smart twist at the end to stop any drips.

  ‘I haven’t flogged my way round Europe working as a waitress for nothing,’ I explain, noticing Pierre’s surprised expression. ‘And I may as well confess I’ve had one or two glasses already, but as it’s a party I’ll have another one, if that’s OK?’

  ‘You deserve it. Consider it a bonus.’ Pierre takes the bottle and pours it out for me, imitating the drip-defying twist. ‘And if you get into trouble with Matron then I apologise now. In advance.’

  I look at him. What a pair we make. He looks even more sombre than I’m feeling. I can’t help smiling, and when he returns the smile I have the strangest sensation, as if someone has just lifted me off my feet.

  I hold my glass up, looking at the delicate beads of air threading up to the foamy surface.

  ‘You’re saying all your troublemaking is down to drugs?’

  ‘Yeah. That’s my excuse, and I’m sticking to it!’ Pierre laughs.

  ‘Talking of apologies.’ I hesitate. ‘I’ve been hearing some snippets about you.’

  ‘All bad, I hope?’

  ‘Oh, very.’ I push the hair out of my eyes. ‘So what with your wicked exploits, and the amount of champagne I’ve had to drink, I’ve decided to waive protocol to say this. If you ever piss me off, Mr Levi, I’ll break your legs.’

  ‘So speaks the mafioso’s daughter, but I think you’ll find it’s too late for that,’ he says, lifting the tablecloth away from his weak, wasted legs and the plaster boot. ‘You’ll have to find another way to teach me a lesson.’

  We stare at his legs and then burst out laughing. We’re the only ones left in the empty mar
quee full of smeared plates, half-empty glasses and wilting flowers.

  ‘I think we should make tracks soon,’ I say, getting him to his feet. ‘You look wiped out.’

  I hold Pierre more tightly this time around his waist as I lift him, feel the warmth of his body through his clothes. He is shaking from exhaustion. For a moment he rests his arm across my shoulders, the rough material of his sleeve scratching my neck.

  As he straightens he stares at me. ‘Have you been crying, Cavalieri?’

  ‘No! Yes. A little. All the emotion, I guess.’

  He reaches out and wipes first one eye, then the other, and shows me the wetness of my tears on his finger.

  The tenderness of the gesture prompts a fresh prickling behind my eyes. I feel weak and tired. I wish I could just sink into the arm that’s resting on my shoulders, let him wrap it around me, let him be strong, let him support me for a change.

  I don’t care that he’s paying me to be here. I just wish he would press his hard, smiling mouth against my hair. Feel his breath hot on my face. On my mouth. In my mouth.

  Kissing away the day.

  But Pierre Levi doesn’t kiss me.

  He puts his finger, wet with my tears, into his mouth. And sucks it.

  I gasp. I can’t move. I’m staring at his mouth, at his finger. He looks dazed, as if he hasn’t realised what he’s doing. He still has his arm on my shoulders. Our bodies draw closer. Every part of me is yearning to push against him, let him feel how warm I am, how ready to be touched, feel the warmth blooming between my legs.

  Tension prickles around us like static. My stomach twists. I want that finger, that’s now resting thoughtfully against his chin, running down my face. Running down the dampness between my breasts, which are pushing against my tight dress as I struggle to breathe. That finger, moving further down, touching me wherever he wants.

  A movement in the entrance of the marquee catches the corner of my eye. It looks like the white dress and yellow hair of Polly, and she’s running back along the path towards the house.

  The moment has gone.

  ‘Take me away, Rosie,’ murmurs Pierre, grabbing at the wheels of his chair. ‘I need to get drunk.’

  I smooth down his jacket, check his tie. I clear my throat.

  ‘It’s Rosa. And what you really need is to get back to bed.’

  ‘Promises, promises,’ he replies, his smile fading. His black eyes clear, as if he realises it’s me he’s with, and not someone else.

  I turn quickly away to hide the redness in my cheeks and push him through the garden, through the airy house filled with flowers and candles.

  At the bottom of the stairs he stops and points at a painting on the wall.

  ‘This used to be in their bedroom. Gustav brought it down so everyone today could see it.’

  A rogue slant of sunlight edges in through the door, illuminating a small head-and-shoulders portrait set in a wide pale-green mount within a plain silver frame. I don’t know much about art, but from here it looks like a Pre-Raphaelite. The subject has the same high, sharp cheekbones, the same curved, pouting mouth, the long, tumbling hair. She’s turned sideways in the middle of saying something, perhaps to an audience. Her huge eyes are diverted from the observer, a swan-like neck, mouth half smiling, half gasping in secret rapture, an arm pointing.

  ‘Do you recognise her? That’s Serena. Gustav sketched this in the early days of their relationship. She looks so young and excited, all the more so because she isn’t aware she’s being watched’.

  ‘She looks different,’ I point out, seeing the colour rise in his cheeks as he examines the portrait. ‘She looks less polished. Her hair is shorter and wilder.’

  ‘Yeah. My brother has changed her.’

  ‘Are you over her, Pierre? I mean, really?’

  Pierre doesn’t reply for a moment. The chauffeur, Dickson, and a couple of other men are coming over to carry the wheelchair down the front steps.

  ‘I’ve been meaning to say something to you all day, Cavalieri,’ he murmurs as we get onto the crowded pavement. ‘You look stunning, and sexy, and I’m proud to be with you today.’

  I look up, just in time to see his eyes skimming my breasts before catching my gaze.

  ‘I’m not sure that’s appropriate, Mr Levi.’

  ‘I’m not allowed to compliment you, even though it’s true? Why? Because you’re working?’

  ‘Yes. No. Probably against some rule or other.’ I shrug, and I can’t help smiling. ‘But thank you.’

  ‘“Thank you.” Is that as gracious and charming as you get? Oh, Rosie. You’re so buttoned up! What does it take to let your hair down?’

  Just then we’re separated by the other guests. I lean against the railings. Pierre and Polly have been thrown together and are having some kind of heated discussion. She shoves at his chair, tipping champagne from his glass. From the slump of his shoulders and the white knuckles gripping the arms it’s obvious he’s just about had it.

  I push through the guests to get closer.

  ‘How about we move on from the past, Polly? In fact, let’s move on to a pub or a club or a show,’ Pierre is saying, taking her hand and raising it to his lips. ‘We could still have some fun together.’

  They stare at each other. Images, memories, grievances, batting to and fro.

  ‘Look at you. You’re just a jerk in a chair.’ Polly jerks away from him. ‘I’d rather pull my own eyes out.’

  ‘I don’t think you realise just how much pain he’s still suffering,’ I mutter, grabbing the handles. ‘You don’t realise just how hard today has been for him.’

  ‘See how she rises up in defence of her hero! But maybe you don’t realise this could all be an act.’ Those swimming-pool eyes have become hard as marbles. ‘He’s spent his entire adult life around actors, don’t forget.’

  ‘Leave her alone, Polly,’ growls Pierre, reaching for my hand. ‘She may look like she wouldn’t say boo to a goose, but Rosa’s more fiery than you realise.’

  Gustav is calling something from the car, and Serena is waving her bouquet in the air, ready to throw it.

  ‘Then she’s going to get burned.’ Polly swerves round me to go towards her cousin, and as she passes me she hisses, ‘Good luck, Rosa. You’ll need it.’

  ‘Come on, Cavalieri,’ grunts Pierre, lifting his crutch to summon a taxi that’s cruising round the square. ‘Let’s go and get plastered. Pun intended.’

  I’m acutely aware of Polly’s eyes following us through the jostling crowd on the pavement. I wonder how long it takes for Pierre Levi’s victims to really, truly move on?

  ‘Not a chance. You’ve had too much to drink. I’ve been tasked to get you back to the clinic in one piece, so any celebrating will be done safely tucked up in your own room,’ I say, stifling a huge and sudden yawn. ‘And I’ve got my own home to go to.’

  Pierre opens his mouth, presumably to argue, then bows his head. ‘I give in. I’m knackered. I couldn’t have got through it without you.’

  I’m not sure I’ve heard him properly because there’s a deafening whoop from the crowd and Serena’s hand-tied bouquet of white flowers flies through the air.

  Straight into my outstretched hands.

  * * *

  As soon as the cab pulls out away from the square the euphoria is snuffed out. Pierre goes quiet, hunched in the corner of his seat, staring moodily out of one window as he undoes the constricting top button of his shirt and loosens the grey silk tie.

  I can’t think what to say. There was a moment back there, a sense that we’d taken a new step, in a new direction, that he was seeing me in a new light, but it’s gone again.

  I balance the bouquet on my knee and rake my hair away from my hot scalp.

  We drive in silence until we reach Kensington High Street. The sunny day has eased itself into a balmy evening, the light softer, the air clearer. Through private gateways and in front of pubs and restaurants, people are partying like they’re on holiday, drinki
ng and eating al fresco, celebrating the summer while it lasts.

  The cab indicates to turn left down the side street that leads to the clinic and the clicking of the indicator rouses Pierre. He reaches for his crutches, but can’t quite reach. Instinctively I’m there, grabbing them before they fall, and I hand them to him.

  ‘Your hair, Rosie. If we weren’t hedged about with so many rules I’d like to bury my face in it.’

  I stare at him. He sounds as if he’s talking in his sleep. ‘Do it, then.’

  ‘You’re a wicked woman.’

  ‘I don’t want you to joke with me, Pierre. I’m serious.’

  Still keeping his eyes on me, he taps the driver on the shoulder. ‘Stop right here, would you? We’re getting out!’

  The taxi squeaks to a halt and Pierre is already handing the driver some notes.

  I put my hand on his arm. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I told you earlier. I want to get drunk. Right here. Right now. We’re going up to the Roof Gardens.’

  I shake my head. ‘We can’t do that. My instructions are to get you back to the clinic safely.’

  ‘Well, I’m paying for your time and until we’re incarcerated once more in that prison I give the orders.’

  A shiver runs through me at the renewed strength in his voice.

  He wrestles with the handle to open the door. When I still don’t move, he turns to me and sighs. ‘Lighten up, girl. Just one drink. I feel like I’ve been through a wringer today. Please?’

  In that wide-eyed, pleading look, the thick lock of hair falling over his black eyes, I catch a glimpse of the man he once was. The chancer, as Polly called him. Who used this devilish charm and this dark, disturbing face to manipulate people.

  But that’s all he has now. That face, those eyes, to persuade people. In reality, for now, he can’t go anywhere, do anything, without someone helping him.

  And that someone is me.

  ‘One drink. But we sit in a quiet corner, OK?’

  ‘Absolutely. We’re going to sit on the roof and see if we can spot the clinic from up there.’