Pierre

by Primula Bond

  ‘That wedding day was my catharsis, Rosie. You helped me get through it, and now I’m ready for the next stage.’

  ‘So you really are leaving the UK. Back to work? Back to LA?’

  ‘I’ll be considering all offers until I’m fit to fly. If I stay in London I’ll stultify. I’ll be toast if I’m not there, proving I’ve still got it.’

  I get into the taxi and it moves off. The evening shadows lengthen like black hands fingering the cobbles.

  Suddenly I ask the driver to stop and lean out of the window

  ‘Pierre. You didn’t answer my question back at the clinic. What is it? What are you afraid of?’

  ‘Don’t ever think it’s you, Rosie. You could light up the night sky.’ His black eyes glitter at me through the half-open window. ‘It’s me. I’m afraid of myself.’

  Pierre watches me go, standing in the open doorway of the empty house as still as the sombre statue in the centre of the square.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The alley is narrow and dark and lit by wall-mounted flares. Anyone arriving at the Club Crème, staff, members and guest performers alike, has to knock at the huge wooden door and enter a vast marble atrium, bathed in a column of light streaming down from a domed skylight.

  This place is supposed to be my therapy. My way of forgetting. It’s been two weeks since I saw him and so far it’s not working.

  The thoughts scroll endlessly through my mind, as clear and raw as ever. I see Pierre Levi in his room at the clinic, in the garden, at the wedding, despondent on the pavement outside my houseboat. I see the smiles and the pain. Feel that kiss. Hear him moaning as he comes in my mouth. I see his hand hovering above my breasts to brush off the lily pollen. Lifting the leopard-print walking stick as if it weighed a ton.

  The two cocktail waitresses from the bar upstairs accuse me of having a face that could sour a pina colada and drag me in the lift down to the basement to witness the highly secretive, outrageous inauguration of new club members.

  We enter a vaulted hall deep beneath the streets of London, alive with flashing lights and thumping music. Tonight it’s done out like an Ibizan nightclub, complete with a topless female DJ playing everything from Pharrell, Timberlake and Ronson to brain-popping techno, repetitive sounds which send everyone into a trance. X-rated videos play across the curved walls, and the dancers and waitresses, models and strippers, are pretty much naked apart from wisps of lace, feathers, flowers and ribbons.

  The paved sitting area at the far end has been furnished with huge neon-coloured bean bags and cushions. A bar has been set up, and this is where the new members are lounging, drinking and chatting as if they’re on a beach but dressed in their black dinner suits. The men come in all sizes, shapes and ages. Physical attributes evidently don’t feature on the list of qualifications for membership at the Club Crème. Just wealth, connections, success and fame.

  Which is fine by me. They all tip extremely well. I get to practice my craft, and I’ll get a glittering reference when it’s time to leave London.

  And that time is fast approaching.

  The girls and I dance for a while before grabbing a bottle of tequila and collapsing on a soft white leather sofa set on a platform at the side. The lights go down, and then a slow, sensuous version of ‘Freak Like Me’ starts up. A spotlight wavers over the end wall of the hall and then into the circle of light steps, one after the other, a parade of girls wearing bras and knickers, stockings and basques.

  The underwear is gorgeous, very feminine and extremely cleverly crafted, and so are the models. They know how to titillate with the tiniest covering over a red nipple or a pink slit.

  The show bumps and grinds through various items, and finally three girls, all black, and all in pure-white lacy knickers enhanced by the ultraviolet light shining on them, line up at the front of the catwalk. The music slows right down to a deep, heavy heartbeat, and the girls start to kiss.

  The two waitresses wriggle and giggle and press me between them. The strong tequila and the deafening music, the heat and the light, make my body feel fluid, as if I’m both anchored and floating.

  What a contrast from the hushed, regulated environment at the clinic. What would they all think, Nurse Jeannie, Pierre Levi, Robinson Junior, Venska, if they could see me now?

  Up on the catwalk the girls’ tongues flicker and their hands slide up each other’s ribs, round to their peachy buttocks, pushing inside, feeling each other. One girl unclips another’s tiny bra, and when I see her big breasts thump into the other girl’s hands my pussy squeezes tight.

  One of the waitresses sitting with me starts playing with my hair. The other has her hand on my thigh, stroking it absently as the models on the catwalk get more passionate, moulding and squeezing each other’s breasts while the third girl circles as if looking for a way in, licking their necks to remind them she’s there, twisting their heads round so she can kiss them.

  The models’ nipples are huge, and dark, the colour of bitter chocolate, bold nuggets jutting from their big breasts, taunting the watching men. My two friends wind their arms round me. The third model steps round in front, facing the club members lounging on their chairs, her black eyes glittering beneath thick black make-up. She tosses her tiny bra away and fixes the men with her eyes as she pinches her nipples, gyrates her hips.

  I extricate myself from my fondling, wriggling companions and as I sit forward they collapse in a heap behind me, one falling on top of the other.

  Up on the catwalk the two models are fingering each other hungrily, lost in the moment, apparently forgetting that this performance is supposed to be for the club members’ benefit. The third girl’s huge red mouth glistens as she steps down towards the group of men. She is heading straight for the biggest, blondest man at the front of the group.

  Robinson Junior, no less, who is bouncing in his seat, clapping and roaring as she steps towards him, pulling her tiny thong off.

  The other two models notice she’s moved away, and follow her over to the group of salivating men. They wind amongst the group while the one on her own kneels down in front of Robinson Junior.

  My two companions are really fired up. One is straddling the other. Their tongues flick, their breasts rub, fingers roving up each other’s skirts as they grind against each other, fingers disappearing between each other’s legs.

  All the models have pranced off the catwalk and are selecting a victim. I watch Robinson Junior, lording it like a Roman emperor on his couch as he pulls his girl over his knee.

  On my sofa the waitresses are going crazy. One is more forceful than the other. She has the other one on her back and is pulling her legs open so she can thrust her fingers up inside.

  The American grabs his girl by the hair and opens his legs. She reaches for his belt, gets his zipper undone, and pulls out his cock. It’s rigid and ready. Robinson’s boyish grin hardens as he lifts her onto his lap.

  Everyone is busy licking and sucking and fondling. Robinson Junior’s girl opens her legs and takes him in.

  Yep. Definitely time to go.

  The throbbing music is snuffed out as soon I step into the lift to rise to the top level. The doors swish open onto the dimly lit corridor. Its red ceilings, carpets and velvet walls give it a womb-like ambience. The corridor leads through an archway beyond which is the bar space lit with candles under little red shades and fairy lights draped around the low ceiling. A single spotlight shows a baby grand piano.

  For now I’m alone in the little red bar, forgetting everything and everyone as I sit at the piano and warm up my voice with scales and arpeggios.

  I’ve been singing for long enough to know that it’s a guaranteed stress-reliever. Any frustration, confusion or hurt is dissipated as soon as you throw yourself into the lyrics and music. And there’s plenty of frustration to dissipate.

  ‘Ah, bellissima. Your sister said I’d find you here.’

  I look up from the piano keys, and there, leaning against the piano, his powerful,
grizzled frame squeezed into a sharp dinner suit, is my old mentor. Antonio. The closest thing I have to a father since my own died when Francesca and I were babies.

  I stop playing, and stretch my arms, and he lifts me from my stool and enfolds me in a bear hug. It’s only when he presses me against his barrel chest and I’m smothered by the choking aroma of his aftershave that I realise I’m crying.

  ‘I’m sorry I ran away. I’m sorry I let you down.’

  ‘Ma bella signorina.’

  * * *

  It was a fresh Rome sunrise five years ago when I first met Antonio Varese.

  The dawn chorus was erupting, fighting to be heard against the early morning traffic.

  I was singing, for some reason, the Celine Dion theme from Titanic on my way to buy flowers for my sister’s flat. Early mornings are awful for the voice. I know that now, especially after a rough night. But my voice was clear as crystal. And Antonio liked what he heard. The high brick walls of the alleyway outside his jazz club echoed with church-like acoustics.

  ‘Sod the voice of an angel,’ he said, stepping in front of me and blocking my way. His rough New York accent jarred in the soft Italian morning. ‘That sound could sell sex to nuns.’

  You’re easily flattered when you’re young and floundering. He badgered and bullied, and finally bribed – I wasn’t a total fool. I agreed to do it, just the once, so long as there was no stripping involved.

  He introduced me to the band and later to the punters as the cockney sparrow he’d found in the gutter, his English Piaf. All bollocks, of course. I’m half Italian.

  The pianist was hostile, the band was knackered. But they needed a singer. They kept me locked in all that day rehearsing. When the club opened that night they gave me vodka to glug down in the cramped wings. Antonio told me he would punish me if I let him down then jammed his fist into my back and shoved me out on to the tiny podium.

  ‘Paloma Faith, eat your heart out.’

  And then the piano picked out the intro. My throat was zipped tight. As he reached the last languid notes, slowing to a pause, the booze and the euphoria seeped in. I swayed like a proper diva in my tacky borrowed minidress. The silver microphone waited for me, glinting under a single spot, and I started to sing.

  * * *

  ‘I’ve crossed the Pond to steal you back,’ Antonio says now, sitting down beside me on the narrow stool. ‘I have a proposition.’

  ‘Yeah. Francesca warned me. So what can I do for you?’

  ‘As they say in the movies, it’s more what I can do for you. I want you to come back to Rome and work for me.’

  The small band appear from the changing rooms and gesticulate at me to get off the stage so they can get ready. Antonio sticks one hand up to ask for five minutes, then takes a sip from his balloon glass of Barolo.

  ‘After the way I just ran off and abandoned you without a singer?’

  ‘That’s down to that prick Daniele. He’s to blame. Not you. So here’s the deal. I have expanded the club in Roma. I also have a new venue in New York.’ He grins, showing his gold tooth. ‘So cara, which would you prefer?’

  ‘I’ve got a job here. Two jobs, actually.’

  ‘Arse-wiping in that clinic? You call that a job?’

  ‘Funny. That’s pretty much what Pierre said.’

  The pianist and the saxophonist shuffle over to us and start coughing apologetically.

  ‘Pierre who? You don’t mean Pierre Levi? Brother of Gustav? I thought he was –’

  ‘Dead? No, he’s not dead. How do you know him?’

  I stand up to let the band take their places, push Antonio over to the bar so that he’s out of the way.

  Antonio adopts his usual pose of both looking down his nose and casing the joint. His thick neck looks as if it would be more at home in a boxing singlet than a starched white collar, but he still has a magisterial air, no, the air of an emperor, convincing everyone around that he owns whatever patch of the planet he happens to be standing on at the time.

  ‘Our paths have crossed once or twice in Manhattan. He was the one to watch. He liked pushing boundaries. He took over a crumbling old theatre in midtown at the beginning of this year, decked it out like the old Moulin Rouge, and staged a daring burlesque show where the performers mingled with the audience.’

  ‘I know. Francesca saw it.’

  ‘It was genius. Just this side of a live sex show, but pure class. The studios picked it up and commissioned a reality show about it. Poor guy. Cut down just as he was starting out.’

  ‘Why do you talk about him in the past tense?’

  Antonio pulls my hair out from where it has caught in the bodice of my dress and smooths it down my back.

  ‘I hear he’ll never walk again.’

  I nod at the pianist who is ready.

  ‘You heard wrong. He’s doing fine. Pierre Levi’s most definitely back on his feet.’

  ‘I can see he has you fighting his corner!’ Antonio chuckles, holding me at arm’s length. ‘I’m willing to bet half my fortune that you’re his inspiration to walk again, bella. I can tell you have the hots for him. But you’d be wasting your time.’

  ‘Why do people keep telling me that? Even he’s warned me off –’

  ‘He uses women like Kleenex. And professionally he’s toast. Three months off the radar is an eternity in this game.’

  ‘He’s stronger than you think. He’s got charisma, Antonio! Vision. And ambition. He’s desperate to get back to work if only someone would give him a break.’

  Antonio’s face is crinkled with amusement, but his brown eyes are steady, watchful.

  ‘I’m not here to talk about him. I’m here to woo you, bella. You have all those qualities in spades. Plus beauty. You’ve filled out. You’re luminous. A year ago you were too skinny.’

  ‘A year ago I was broken-hearted.’

  ‘And now you’re pining for Pierre Levi. A no-good womaniser. Oh, honey. What am I going to do with you?’ Antonio half closes his eyes. That means he’s counting down from five, his tactic of calming himself, and his prey. ‘You’ve got his back, I can see that. But –’

  ‘Not any more. But I’m telling you. He’s got plans.’

  ‘To use you and abuse you, most likely.’

  I shrug. ‘Soon he’ll be jetting out of here.’

  ‘Bravo. Which brings me back to my proposition, bella. You could be jetting out of here, too. Come back to Rome and sing for me. Leave this all behind you. That man won’t give you a second thought –’

  I take a swig from his glass, go to hand it back to him and decide to drain the lot.

  ‘He’s made that perfectly clear. Look, it’s a kind offer, Antonio, and I’ll think about it. But as well as wiping arses I have a singing commitment here.’

  He looks up from the paper he’s about to hand over to me. He was so confident I’d say yes to whatever he threw at me that he’s already had some kind of contract drafted. He lowers the document and pulls his glasses off, pushes them to the top of his head.

  ‘And I’m impressed. My girl done good. Very prestigious.’ He puts the glasses back on. ‘But temporary. I know how the Club Crème works. They rarely retain entertainment for more than a year.’

  ‘That arrangement is confidential.’

  ‘Come on, Rosa. This is me you’re talking to! I know they don’t even sign contracts. It’s all done on a handshake. So how long have they booked you for?’

  ‘As it happens, until the end of this month, unless one or other of us decides to extend.’ I kick off my platform shoes. ‘It’s fine. I know there’s a queue of hopefuls breathing down my neck.’

  ‘The same story wherever you go in this business. Someone stabs you in the back, or you make a bad call, and you’re out on your ear.’ Antonio slaps his thigh with the contract. ‘Going round the backstreet bars with a begging bowl.’

  ‘Yours is a backstreet bar!’

  ‘Not any longer. Come and see for yourself! Your uncle Toni has exp
anded. We’re going places. The sky’s the limit!’

  ‘For you, maybe. As for me, well, I might just piss you all off and do something completely different!’ I start to walk away from him. ‘I’m on in three minutes, Antonio.’

  ‘Brava! I can’t wait to hear that angelic voice of yours again. But give up singing and the only person you’ll be pissing off, in the end, is yourself. Remember your catechism? Wasting your talents is a sin. So promise me you’ll at least think about it. I’m flying back to Rome tomorrow. Just say the word and I can organise talent scouts from the labels. Critics. Songwriters –’

  He’s still tossing promises at me like crumbs to a duckling when I kiss him on his unshaven grey cheek and take my place.

  I run through a couple of the numbers. Quiet, soothing, romantic and melancholy. In some ways I’d rather be belting out something from the catalogue of Florence Welch or Shirley Bassey, but the whispering, dreamy sound suits my voice best and a programme of songs adapted from Burt Bacharach sounds perfect.

  I smile at Antonio as I draw the breath up from the bottom of my chest.

  The first time I heard applause from an audience, I came. I mean really came. I was on the little stage in Antonio’s club, and when they started clapping and cheering and whistling there was this sweeping pleasure right through me, a delicious rush. Sweet juices sprang and caught between my legs after the soft explosion. As the spotlights dazzled me that first time and invisible hands clapped and invisible lips called my name, I could feel the stickiness.

  That’s when I started my habit, my lucky charm when performing, of going commando.

  Applause is electric. When the audience wants more, I want more. I want to do it all over again. This is no longer me miming into a hairbrush. Every night I’ve watched the club filling up with new punters minding their own business, expecting a quiet drink, maybe some cheap background cabaret, and then I relish their surprise when this big voice comes belting out of little me. Or guys who’ve heard me before come back for more.