Pierre

by Primula Bond

  In the distance there are more voices, calling in a foreign language. One or two of the remaining tourist coaches sound their horns. Or maybe it’s our car, waiting for us. Maybe we’ll get locked in here overnight, with all those petrified ghosts.

  I tense with the hint of fear and buck harder against Pierre. If my knees are scratched so must his shoulder blades be, grinding back against the stone wall.

  With the coaches and cars sounding their horns we could be in the middle of a war zone or a natural disaster, but that wouldn’t stop us. Pierre groans louder. I think about our surroundings. What if the volcano erupted again?

  Is he going to erupt when I tell him?

  Strange ancient forces are gathering around us, underground currents drawing and pulling like those currents in that cave beneath Capri, gathering into a point, sucking us under, but the commotion outside drives my excitement on until I feel Pierre shudder and then I am too far gone to hold back and I grind until I come, too, wave after wave of glorious ecstasy until we catch our breath again.

  I can barely walk as we stagger out of the lupanare and back through the ruined town.

  ‘You evil temptress,’ says Pierre as we hurry towards the car park. ‘We could have been left in there all night.’

  ‘Somehow that doesn’t scare me,’ I reply. ‘I just wish we could stay here for ever.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  From the profane to the sacred. It’s been a long time since I was inside a church. The cavernous interior of the Capella Sansevero is lit by banks of flickering candles. Small figures in black hunch in the pews and fill the air with whispers as they tell their rosaries. Santa Maria, Madre di Dio. It takes me back to my childhood and the dimly remembered holy days our Italian mother used to drag me and Francesca along to.

  I study the pale, wan figure of the spookily veiled Jesus for a few minutes before being jostled aside by other tourists. What a contrast to those other fading frescoes in flagrante we saw on the crumbling walls of Pompeii.

  I’m restless. All I think about these days is sex, even standing in this holy place. I just want to get back to my rendezvous with Pierre. I badly need to talk to him.

  ‘I can’t be arsed to traipse round the mean streets of Naples just to look at a bunch of old statues,’ he said, yawning, when I left him at the hotel after we’d checked in. ‘My leg is aching a bit today, to be honest. Probably in anticipation of all that rain and fog back home. I’ll meet you at the restaurant.’

  Out in the bright sunlight I cross the street, head down an alleyway, and find myself in a tiny piazzetta closed in on all sides by narrow buildings with peeling shutters and bright flowers on the window sills. I don’t remember this square. I didn’t come this way. I can’t remember how to get back to the piazza where I’m to meet Pierre.

  I reach into my handbag for my phone to get my bearings, or contact him, but the battery is dead. Please don’t let me be lost. Don’t let me be late for him. Not tonight. Not for our last dinner together.

  I stare round the little square. There’s a fountain in the middle. Two young nuns are standing on the step, face to face, deep in conversation as they dabble their fingers in the bowl of water as if it’s holy. Maybe I can ask them for help. I’m about to take a step towards them when an arm snakes round my middle, a hand goes over my mouth and I’m dragged backwards into the alleyway.

  I scream into a thick, salty palm, and kick out feebly.

  It must be Pierre. He’ll let go of me in a moment and laugh and kiss away my fright. But he doesn’t let go of me, or laugh. This isn’t a joke.

  Because it’s not Pierre. I can’t see who it is, because the big hand is clamped right over my face, blocking my vision, and I’m being crushed against a wall while whoever it is tugs at my handbag.

  It’s slung across my body and the strap starts to bite into my shoulder as my assailant realises he can’t just pull it off. I keep hold of the bag with all my strength and we start to fight over it, even though he has the advantage. He’s much stronger than me. No one can see what’s happening. He has his hand over my face. His hand is like one of those giant crabs you see waving their long claws out of fishermen’s baskets by the quayside.

  I try to kick backwards, but the man’s body is like a solid wall. I know I should let go of my bag, but I’m damned if I’m going to let these muggers have my stuff.

  ‘Vaffanculo!’ I yell, trying to get my hand right round my bag. ‘Go fuck yourself!’

  The mugger grunts, moves his arm and brings it tighter around my throat.

  No pointing fighting. I go limp, and as I do so, expecting to feel the weight of the mugger behind me, I feel him wrench sideways instead, so that there’s nothing supporting me and I fall sideways with him. His hand loses its grip on my face, his arm unwinds from my waist and then I crash backwards to the ground.

  There are several pairs of feet around me, not just one. Someone else is either with him or has pulled him off me. I cower on the ground, try to crawl away from the fight that is now going on above my head between my attacker and someone else. There’s a massive thump as someone punches someone else, the crack of fist on jaw, dust being kicked off the ground, a foot glancing off my shoulder, dust hurting my eyes.

  I stop crawling. Stop moving. Just curl into a ball with my knees up to my chest, cover my head with my hands and wait either for the mugger to come at me again to steal my bag, turn his fists on me, or maybe, just maybe, for someone else to come and help.

  There’s a pause, a confusion of shouting and cursing and panting. Heavy feet scuff about in the dust for a moment and then run off down the alleyway the way I came, back into the main street.

  I wonder if the nuns in the little square saw what was happening and called for help.

  I can’t move. I keep my forehead on my knees, my arms over my head, my bag cradled against my body. There’s a silence. I can hear harsh breathing near me, so I know they haven’t all gone away. I remain curled up, my eyes screwed tight shut.

  ‘Rosa. It’s me. It’s OK. He’s gone. Pathetic little punk. You’re safe now.’

  I know that voice. How random is this?

  Strong hands pull mine away from my face and I look up into a flushed, grizzled face and narrow brown eyes.

  ‘Antonio! What on earth are you doing here?’

  He pulls me to my feet, walks me slowly across to the little fountain and sits me down on the stone seat running around it. The nuns have gone.

  ‘My usual day’s work of rescuing maidens in distress.’

  I start to shake, and he puts his arm tightly around me, pulling me against him, his mouth against my hair.

  ‘I meant, what are you doing in Naples? You checking up on me?’

  I rest my forehead against his cheek, which is silvery with a couple of days’ growth.

  ‘Cosa? You would never let me down twice, would you? No, I’m here for a family funeral.’ Antonio continues stroking my hair. ‘I was on my way to meet my uncle for the wake.’

  ‘What about the festival? You said everything was frantic up in Rome?’

  ‘All progressing smoothly, don’t you worry about that. That’s why I hire first-class assistants, signorina. To take care of things while I’m away. Allora. You haven’t forgotten the closing act?’

  ‘How could I forget? You’ve been reminding me every other day.’

  ‘Good. Because some major names are coming.’

  ‘Oh, God. The pressure. I’m not sure I’m up to it.’ I sniff. I realise I’ve been crying, leaving a damp patch on his exquisite pale-pink shirt. ‘Look at me! I’m a bag of nerves!’

  ‘Deep breaths, bella. I’m here.’

  Antonio hands me a handkerchief and watches me as I dab at my face, holding my shoulders as if I might shatter into pieces if he lets go.

  ‘Thanks, Antonio. Thank you so much for helping me. You could have been hurt.’

  As I lift my hands to blow my nose the sinews under my arms screech with pain where they wer
e wrenched holding on to my bag.

  ‘Napoli is my turf, cara. My roots. This is my language.’ He holds up his fists. The knuckles are red where they must have made contact with my attacker’s face, but not bruised or scratched.

  ‘Christ. When you said family you really meant, like, The Godfather.’

  A chunky silver Rolex slides round his wrist. ‘It’s a simple coda. Anyone hurts my property, I hurt them.’

  ‘I’m not your property, Antonio. But you’re my hero.’

  He nods, as if he knows that already. ‘Anything for my precious.’

  ‘How can I thank you?’

  ‘You know that already. Just present yourself at the club as arranged.’ He brushes at the tear stain I’ve left on his shoulder. ‘You never told me what you were doing down an alleyway all alone?’

  ‘I was lost.’ I shake my head and start crying again. ‘We’ve been at the Aura Spa on Ischia. I wanted to see the chapel but then I couldn’t remember where we’re meeting and now I’m going to be late.’

  Antonio wraps his arms around me again and rocks me like a baby.

  ‘Who’s supposed to be looking after you?’

  ‘I don’t need looking after –’

  ‘Who are you with, Rosa?’

  ‘Pierre. Pierre Levi.’

  ‘Oh, Rosa. Will you never learn? But you won’t be together for long.’ Antonio puts a hand out to help me up. ‘Have you told him you’re coming to work for me?’

  ‘Not yet. But no lectures, Antonio. I’m dreading it enough as it is.’

  At my request Antonio leaves me at the square where Pierre is already waiting. I don’t want him joining us. I don’t have energy to deal with the two of them puffing their chests out at each other like a couple of silverbacks.

  My alpha male looks so gorgeous. Pierre’s sitting on the far side of the piazza beneath a colonnade festooned with vines and flowers, talking to a waiter. He could be advertising fragrance or an album of love songs. He’s swapped his faded denim shirt for white cotton striped with pale-blue, indigo jeans and a navy cashmere sweater draped over his shoulders.

  He said he was falling for me. He said he was scared. I was too shy to reply at the time. I want more than anything to tell him that the feeling’s mutual. It’s been mutual for months. But now I’m the one who’s scared.

  As I approach him he gets to his feet, takes me into his arms and kisses me as if we haven’t seen each other for years. I explain that I got lost and the graze on my arm was from falling over, rather than being attacked. I catch a glimpse of Antonio, still watching me. He lifts a hand, and disappears into the warren of streets.

  ‘A gift for my girl,’ Pierre says, handing me a smart shopping bag. ‘I’d love it if you’d wear it for our last night.’

  Our last night.

  The words shiver in my ears as I run into the hotel to shower and change.

  I wish we had never left the Aura Spa. It’s been our haven. Our sanctuary. We’ve spent most of it under water, in the infinity pool or one of the healing springs where fresh water bubbles up from the volcanic depths like a natural jacuzzi. Pierre feels strongest in the water. I feel sexiest, aroused by the movement and manipulation of the water, the fluidity of our limbs, excited by our own weightlessness, the ease with which trunks and bikinis slide off, by the naughtiness of touching each other up with other guests close by, keeping a lookout while we tease each other under cover of the rippling water.

  For two weeks, isolated on that island, surrounded by blue sea, far from cars and houses and jobs and noise, we’ve had nothing to worry about except food, wine, swimming and how much energy we have left to enjoy each other.

  ‘I knew you’d look sensational in that dress,’ Pierre murmurs, when I join him at the table. ‘My princess.’

  The dress is a midnight-blue bias-cut shift, beaded with tiny sparkling stones around the neckline and with spaghetti-thin shoulder straps. I’ve left my hair loose to cover the graze on my shoulders, and patted powder on the other scrapes.

  ‘Here’s to the end of our wonderful holiday.’

  Pierre raises a big glass of red wine and chinks it with mine across the chequered tablecloth.

  A trio of scooters buzzes past us down the cobbled street, each bike ridden by a cluster of boys chattering and shouting and wearing no helmets. They weave round shoppers slowly browsing the stalls of pimento salami, blood oranges and anchovies under the portico at the far end of the square, and accelerate out the other side.

  ‘Don’t let Nurse Jeannie hear you say that.’ I rest my chin on my hand. ‘This was supposed to be work for me, not play.’

  Pierre leans back in his chair, crossing his arms behind his head.

  ‘I won’t tell if you won’t.’

  His favourite phrase.

  I can’t take my eyes off him. In two weeks he’s changed from the pain-ridden creature who struggled to survive the journey here from London to a tanned, muscled, fit hunk ready to face the future.

  Our smiles fade as a rare peace descends on the square. A bell tolls melodically from a crumbled church behind us.

  ‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ Pierre asks, waving his arm at the activity going on around us. ‘That this great big dirty city is a glorious contrast to the hushed atmosphere at the spa? It’s good. It’s easing us back into the reality waiting for us back at home. We’ve got traffic and bars and shops instead of oils and therapies and treatments.’

  I follow his gaze around the busy square. ‘It’s a shock to the system more like.’

  ‘You look very serious, honey. Aren’t you glad we came to Naples?’ Pierre reaches across the table to take my hand. ‘I’m tired of being a malade. I want to get on with being a man again.’

  I lace my fingers through his, but I can’t meet the black eyes twinkling at me under his thick, tousled hair.

  ‘You are a man. Every inch of you. But I know what you mean. I’m tired of being a carer,’ I say, lifting my head. He looks so boyish, so hopeful, so happy. ‘Oh, P. Don’t you see? When we stop playing those roles everything’s going to change.’

  ‘Not necessarily. All we have to do is adopt new roles. Shall I tell you what I’d like those roles to be? When we’re in bed later?’ Pierre signals to the waiter. ‘I like making you blush when we’re out in public.’

  Talk to him, Rosa. Tell him what’s happening next.

  ‘I don’t think I can wait any longer, Pierre. I have to talk to you now.’

  Pierre gives our order and then looks at me. ‘Is that what’s wrong? You’re worried about where we go from here?’

  I go cold. I fix my eyes on a pigeon pecking at my feet for crumbs of bread.

  ‘The thing is, I know where we’re going from here,’ I begin. ‘You’re going to London, and I’m –’

  ‘Look. It’s time to be truthful.’ Pierre pours out the wine and holds the glass in front of him so that he’s looking at me through the red liquid. ‘Here’s the thing. As soon as Nurse Jeannie allows it I’m going to LA.’

  ‘I don’t believe this.’ I gape at him, wishing I felt relief instead. ‘I’ve been worrying about leaving you, and all the time –’

  ‘Oh, you’re not leaving me. You’re coming too.’ He lifts my fingers to his mouth. ‘To live. To work. To play. To sing.’

  ‘Non capisco.’ My throat is clogged with questions. ‘What do you mean, “sing”?’

  ‘You know. That thing you do where you open your mouth and lovely noises come out of it?’

  Keeping his eyes steady he kisses my fingers one by one.

  I shiver as he pulls one finger into his mouth to suck it.

  ‘But what do you mean, singing in LA?

  ‘Well, obviously you can sing anywhere. Any time. You could stand up and sing now. I would pay you to do that, in fact –’

  ‘Stop it, Pierre. Just explain to me where this tortuous train of thought is leading.’

  ‘Right. Singing is your forte. Your talent. It’s what you do, is
n’t it?’ He folds my hand into a fist. ‘It’s what you want to continue doing. For a living, I mean. And you’re brilliant at it, and talented. So I’ve been thinking, how we could make this work for both of us. You’re going to need a job –’

  ‘About that, Pierre. I’ve got a job. I’ve been offered –’

  He pushes aside the olive oil bottles and empty glasses to pull me closer across the table.

  ‘I know that, Rosie. And I love that you’re such a grafter, days at the clinic, nights in the club. But you could do more. I mean, you could do better.’

  ‘Pierre! I’m so sorry! I can’t let you say any more. I’m not going anywhere with you.’

  ‘Look, London’s great. It’ll always be our home. But we both need something more exciting!’ Pierre’s eyes are dancing with ideas. ‘I want to start again in LA and I want you to come with me. I’ve been so inspired while we’ve been here. You’re part of that. I want to pitch a new show to the studios and I can see you in it. As the star.’

  ‘And you’re going to be brilliant. But I have plans, too. I’m going to Rome. And if I do well there I could end up in New York.’

  Pierre looks down at our joined hands. There’s a long pause.

  ‘I know.’ His eyebrows draw together and he glares up at me. ‘Fuck me, Cavalieri. I’ve been waiting for two weeks for you to come clean!’

  A shadowy mask forms over his face, but he doesn’t let go of me. All I can hear is the thudding of my heart.

  ‘You knew?’ I bleat, my voice husky with dismay. ‘How did you know? Why haven’t you –’

  ‘I looked at your phone. OK? It buzzed when I was making breakfast. At your house.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have done that!’

  ‘People with something to hide always say that. Well, I’m sorry, Rosie. I did snoop. And I’m glad.’ He taps the tips of his fingers against his lips. ‘Hmm. So what shall it be? Grey old London or Italian stallions in sunny Rome?’

  ‘I could say exactly the same!’ I pull his fingers away from his chin, make him look at me. ‘Grey old London or hot starlets in LA?’