Pierre

by Primula Bond

  As soon as we step out of the lift and I start to push the chair through the throng, I notice the eyes. Chattering, drinking, haughty people, dressed expensively, turn as we pass, but they’re not looking at me. They’re looking at Pierre, rolling along in the chair, as if he’s some kind of alien landed from space. Or an animal, escaped from a zoo.

  He stops and speaks to a waiter, who nods politely while he takes Pierre’s order. I stand as close to him as I can, but I’m encumbered by having to carry the crutches as well. The waiter shows not a flicker of curiosity as he points the way out to the roof terrace, but as we move on, through the doors and out onto the roof, I can’t protect Pierre from the looks, and the whispering, and the pointing.

  He’s not a perfect specimen, they seem to be saying. How dare he show his face in public?

  How cosseted the patients are in the clinic, how screened off from this innate distrust. I understand now, perfectly, why they choose the Aura, why they need, when they’re sick or vulnerable or trying to transform themselves, to be cordoned off from this low-level prurience, these prying eyes, why they insist on the added layers of confidentiality agreements and security cameras.

  There’s a huddle of people by the door we’re aiming for, either coming in from the terrace or waiting to go out. The curvy, heavily made up girls are all in vertiginous platform Louboutins and tiny Hervé Léger style dresses, very tight, very short, and in neon colours of lime and orange. They outnumber the men, who are older, shorter, have less hair, and are braying and swaggering in a show of machismo but it’s like they’ve picked the wrong species. They’re like a gang of slavering bulldogs trying to attract a mincing clutch of chihuahuas.

  The group parts reluctantly to let Pierre and me through the garden doors, but as we step out on to the terrace one of their party rushes inside to join them and knocks the wheelchair out of my hands, sending Pierre skidding sideways into a potted tree.

  ‘Hey, be careful! Watch where you’re going!’ I shout, dropping the crutches and rushing to him. ‘Can’t you see further than your own nose?’

  The man is too busy laughing and winking at the group standing behind me to hear what I’m saying. I step in front of him and grip his arms. I shake them until he looks at me.

  ‘You always barge about like you own the place?’ I say quietly, pushing my face right up close so he can hear me. ‘Never mind if you hurt the little people?’

  ‘Proper little ankle-biter, aren’t you? No, I didn’t see the loser, OK?’ the man sneers, stepping me round in a circle as if deciding whether to have me roasted or boiled. ‘He wasn’t exactly in my eye-line.’

  ‘Are you going to say sorry?’ I demand, revulsion heaving inside me as he licks his lips.

  ‘Sorry, petal. Let me get you a drink to make up for it.’

  ‘Not me, you tool! Apologise to my Pierre!’

  My words ring out too loudly in the brief silence that follows. The man looks across at Pierre, who has turned sideways and is brushing down his sleeves. Anxiety flickers through me. There’s something angry in the set of his shoulders. Is he angry with me? Why did I say my Pierre like that?

  ‘Sorry, mate. OK? Clumsy of me. But maybe a bar like this isn’t the best place for you to be hanging out.’ The man raises his hands in apology. ‘Fuck, but he’s a lucky loser having a honey like you looking after him!’

  He directs the last comment to his group of friends, but nobody laughs. A couple of them step round me to pull the moron away and they all melt into the club.

  ‘Shall we just get out of here?’ I ask Pierre, but he is already rolling down the arched terrace to a little table tucked away in a bower, where candles flicker, sending a wavery light over the leaves above our heads.

  I sit down but I daren’t look at him. The waiter comes with our cocktails.

  I stare round the manicured sky-high garden, fading in the twilight. It’s curiously hushed up here despite the evening traffic busying itself below us, despite the laughter and clinking of glasses of revellers drifting along the paths.

  We could almost be alone.

  I pick up the delicate glass, filled with a clear liquid, a blackberry bouncing on the surface, a twist of orange decorating its rim. My hand is shaking, so I sip it quickly before it spills. As the delicious alcohol hits, my eyes fill with tears.

  ‘The quiet corner I asked for. It’s so romantic here, isn’t it?’ I put the glass down again carefully. ‘This is the kind of place you should come with someone very, very special.’

  ‘You are very, very special, Rosa. Awesome. Squaring up to that prize twat the way you did. I had no idea you could be so fierce. No wonder you’re trembling.’ Pierre takes my hand and turns it over, smoothing out my fingers. ‘Really. You are my little champion.’

  I can’t see him properly through the flickering candlelight and these silly tears. They cling to my eyelashes, quivering as I try to blink them away, like raindrops on a leaf.

  ‘I thought you were cross with me for wading in like that as if you were incapable. I know you can fight your own battles –’

  ‘Yes, I can. But not when some asshole has just tipped me into a bush.’

  I look at him, right into those black eyes, almost weeping with relief that he’s not angry. That he’s smiling. In the deepening twilight around us he’s all I can see.

  ‘An asshole, incidentally, who really, really wanted you. And who can blame him, even if he is a Neanderthal.’

  ‘He thought I was a hot piece of Italian ass?’

  He doesn’t take the bait. Continues staring at me, his eyes wide and innocent.

  ‘Tonight you’re Monica Bellucci’s little sister.’

  I flick my hair out of my eyes. ‘Well, the asshole can want me all he likes. I wouldn’t go near a thug like that with a ten-foot pole.’

  Pierre laughs, puts his hands on either side of my head and tangles his fingers in my soft hair, making it prickle at the roots, making my whole body prickle as he brushes it off my face.

  ‘My little warrior.’

  He leans closer. I don’t know if he’s aiming for my cheek, a grateful, platonic kiss, but I’ll never know because I turn my face just then, I’m a flower turning to the sun, I can’t help it, so his mouth meets mine, he’s kissing my lips instead of my cheek. Surely he’ll pull away, but he doesn’t.

  Oh, he doesn’t. And neither do I. We pause, the glitter of our eyes blinding each other, our breath puffing warm on each other’s mouths, and then our eyes close and his mouth presses a little harder, and we are kissing, gentle at first, any moment one of us could stop. The myriad sensitive nerves running along the surface of my lips come alive, tingling and burning for more, for the taste of him, but I hold back, I wait. I can’t believe this is, could be, happening.

  But it is. He strokes my hair, winds it round the knuckles of one hand to keep me there, and his breath is so warm, his lips are so warm, the tip of his tongue slides between mine, asking them to open for him, and they do, his warm wet tongue is there, and I curl mine around it, tentatively, I want to be the best, I want him to feel as intoxicated as I do.

  A shooting pain of desire rockets down through me. I bring my hands up to his face, feel the early shadow on his cheeks and chin, still expect him to pull away, but still he doesn’t stop. Our mouths explore each other, tongues running along the tender lining of our lips, tickling them into a more feverish desire, pushing further in, curling in their own dance as we taste each other.

  I want this to go on and on, I want to be here for ever, kissing him. I wind my arms around his neck, ease myself between his legs to get closer, but the movement distracts him. He closes his mouth in one more kiss, and pulls away.

  Very slowly I lower my arms, edge my chair away, lay my shaking hands flat on the table between us. I stare at my cocktail, at the twist of orange peel, the little impaled blackberry disintegrating in the alcohol.

  ‘Fuck, Cavalieri,’ Pierre says quietly, his own hands resting just beside mine. �
�What was that?’

  I shake my head, letting my hair fall down around my face, because despite the confusion, the raging heat inside me, the twitching dampness between my legs, I can’t help smiling to myself.

  ‘Look at me, Rosie. What just happened?’

  I look up. His eyes are so black as they gaze at me I can’t see inside him. His brows are drawn together as if he’s trying to work out a puzzle. His lips are still wet from the kissing. I want to kiss him again.

  ‘You were saying thank you?’

  He nods, and then he’s grinning sheepishly. ‘My unique brand of gratitude. My God, your lips. Your hair. It’s like I’ve been asleep all this time.’

  ‘Your brother said you must be blind,’ I say and laugh, wishing I could just jump up and start dancing around this rooftop.

  ‘Did he? Gustav always is one step ahead. A beautiful woman never passes him by, but me? I wouldn’t know true beauty if it bit me on the butt.’

  I take my glass and drink some more of the Martini.

  ‘You’ve had other things on your mind. Like two broken legs? Your brother’s wedding?’

  ‘Even so. I’ve always been damned selfish. So inward looking. You’re like a breath of fresh air, Cavalieri. I mean it. Thank you.’

  Something in his tone of voice, something over-cheery, light-hearted, that false wicked woman tone, strikes at me, makes me shift uneasily in my chair.

  ‘What happens now, though?’ I want to know. ‘Do you want to, I mean, will we, will you –’

  ‘Kiss you again?’ Pierre drains his glass and leans back in his chair, letting his gaze rake over me more slowly, more lustfully than he ever has before. ‘I’d like to, God knows I’d like to. You have no idea how gorgeous you are, that amazing hair, you’re irresistible, Cavalieri, but –’

  Just then my phone trills with a text.

  ‘But what? We’re breaching protocol? Broken the rules?’

  ‘Sod the rules. Bring it on. But no, this is personal. You’re gorgeous, bella. But I can’t. Didn’t you hear what Polly was saying? It’s not what I’m looking for.’

  ‘What? Involvement? Getting close?’

  ‘You should avoid me. I’m no good at this sort of thing any more.’

  We stare at each other. A breeze rushes across the roof, ruffles the leaves above our heads. Makes the little candle flames bend over, shivering for a moment, before standing upright again.

  The phone trills again.

  ‘I’d better check it.’ I study the text, glad of an excuse not to let him see the disappointment drowning me. ‘It’s Nurse Jeannie. She wants us back at the clinic. It’s going into lockdown, whatever that means.’

  I don’t know whether to bless or curse Nurse Jeannie for the interruption, but we have no choice but to get going. I go through the motions of the good little assistant, glad that the bar is not so crowded as we make our way slowly to the lift, hail one of the waiting cabs even though the clinic is only one block away, and leave the scene of our first, maybe our only, kiss.

  The taxi has to drop us at the top of the slope leading down to the clinic, because the rest of the way is blocked. An ambulance has backed up to the entrance, its blue lights still rolling round. The occupant has already been wheeled into Admissions but there are swarms of paparazzi trying to press up against the glass doors, their cameras flashing as they yell a name I vaguely recognise.

  Nurse Jeannie appears through the staff side door and beckons to us.

  ‘You’re late! We were about to lock the whole place down!’ she says, reaching out to take hold of Pierre’s chair.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I ask, following them into the side lobby. Pierre sways suddenly, white as a sheet, but this time I don’t go to him. ‘Why all the fuss?’

  ‘That Hollywood blockbuster they’re filming in London? The lead has had an accident on set doing one of his own stunts. Nothing serious. A broken collarbone and some ribs, I think, but a suspected concussion, so he has to stay in for a few days.’

  Pierre and I are a few feet apart now, waiting to be told what to do next. After that incredibly intense closeness less than half an hour ago, we might as well be on different continents.

  ‘I need to get you settled, Mr Levi,’ Nurse Jeannie sighs, taking his chair. ‘This guy has made all sorts of demands. He makes your police escort look like a bunch of cheerleaders, Mr Levi.’

  The further away from me he goes, the heavier my heart feels. My lips are still tingling but the magic is evaporating. Not entirely, though. Nothing can take that kiss away. No one can deny it happened.

  Nurse Jeannie bustles ahead and Pierre turns back. He beckons me over.

  ‘Don’t look so sad, Rosa. I’m sorry if I was harsh earlier. I was only trying to be honest. We had a great day, didn’t we? But it’s best if … I don’t want you to think … let’s not make a big deal out of what just happened, OK?’

  I nod, fighting back the tears. I can’t speak.

  He pushes the hair away from my face and I close my eyes, fighting every urge to get closer to him, feel his hot mouth on mine just one more time.

  ‘I really like you, Rosa. I’d be upset if you were angry after this.’

  ‘After this? You kissed me, Mr Levi. It was special. You know it was.’

  He stares at me, his face closing in on itself again. He’s pale, and tired, but he’s fighting something else, I’m certain of it. Is he trying not to give in to something? To me?

  ‘I’m not – it’s not a good idea. I’m rotten, Rosie. I’m not built for, you know, romance. Relationships. I’ve been flirting with you, and I shouldn’t have. Right now what I want, need, is a friend, someone I can rely on, preferably someone insanely pretty, and if you’re agreeable, I’d love everything to carry on as normal between us.’

  ‘I don’t know if I can do that. I don’t go around kissing just anyone, you know.’

  To my surprise he laughs softly. I want to laugh. I want to smile. I want to kiss him. But he’s just making fun of me. So I’m not going to do any of those things.

  ‘I love it when you get all uppity. The strop never lasts long, does it? Come on, Rosie. Humour me. I’m a disabled loser, remember? At least be friends until I leave the clinic?’

  I straighten so he can’t reach me. What is it that poem says? Stiffen the sinews. Summon up the blood. I’ve got to crank that shell back round me, pronto. ‘You’re the boss.’

  The smile leaves his face as if someone just rubbed it out. ‘Well, since you put it like that, yes, I am. So this ain’t a request. It’s an order. Don’t disappear.’

  I shrug. Nurse Jeannie finishes speaking to the army of security who have come in with the new guy and comes back towards us.

  ‘And then? When you leave?’

  ‘I’ll be jetting out of here.’

  ‘Where will you go?’

  He shrugs. ‘As far away as possible.’

  Nurse Jeannie turns the chair. I stand there, empty, deflated.

  ‘You get off home, Rosa’ she says. ‘I’m not sure today was such a good idea.’

  * * *

  The late August twilight has painted the river a pale jade green when I finally get back to the Chelsea Embankment. The sky is fading into pearly darkness. The new apartment blocks over on the Battersea and Wandsworth side of the river are all painted with the same hue, walls of glass staring blankly towards the north bank where our boathouses are moored like wild horses neatly corralled after a gallop across the plains.

  They are curious, inelegant structures, long and rectangular, like giantesses’ shoeboxes rather than residences that can float. Most of them have satellite dishes and chimneys instead of sails and masts. Curtains and flowers make them all homes, and like mini-castles each one has its own drawbridge.

  My little boat, that I used to share with my sister Francesca but stood empty when we went to live in Rome, is sandwiched between two other larger structures like sentries preventing a break out.

  God, I wish my si
ster was here now.

  I walk slowly up the gangplank. I push open the little gate and step onto the little wooden deck that runs round the houseboat. There’s just enough room in the bow for some plant pots and a lounger. The night is balmy and warm and I lean against the railings looking east towards Westminster.

  I watch the traffic crossing the Albert Bridge. A couple of cars turn off the bridge and head this way. A taxi, driving slowly. They always do this. Either they’re owners of one of the mansions along Cheyne Walk, and rich people always drive slowly, or they’re tourists or potential buyers, cruising along the boathouses, admiring their quaintness and oddness. Or maybe they like to see if they can spot the secret lives going on inside.

  The breeze off the river ruffles my face. I turn away from the Embankment, round to the river side where I can take the silk coat off and feel the air on my skin. I lie down on one of the loungers.

  I can’t get Pierre out of my head. The day. The gentle moments between us. His gentle mockery. That kiss. Oh, fuck, that kiss. Imagine it going further. Imagine him laying me down on a bed somewhere, undressing me, those lips on me all the way, down every inch. Opening me up to lick me.

  Which is about as likely as getting that distant moon, riding high behind the orange fuzz of the city lights, to drop out of the sky.

  We’d have to be very gentle, because of his injuries. I’d have to take charge. I’d have to make sure I didn’t hurt him. One hand trails down my flat stomach but the warm tugging between my legs is mocking me.

  I hear the taxi slowing down near the houseboat. The engine rattles as it pauses. I’m distracted for a moment, waiting either for it to park and cut the engine or to drive on.

  If it’s true that Dr Venska seduced Pierre, and he’s not going to be straight with me about that, either, how could I ever follow a femme fatale like that into his bed? You can tell she’d be dynamite in the sack. Acrobatic, fearless, dirty. And who says she’s given up? Pierre Levi is her target and no one is going to rob her. She’s a woman who always wins, and me? I’m just some little honey who looks after people.

  A cruiser passes slowly on its way back from Tower Bridge. There’s music and singing on board, and then a sudden loud burst of raucous male laughter and clapping. Maybe they’re cheering someone at their party. Or maybe they’ve seen me lying here all alone.