Pierre

by Primula Bond

  His eyes, his black eyes, dancing with happiness a minute ago, are unfathomable now.

  ‘Except this isn’t the same, Rosa. You were at the forefront of my California dream. But in your glittering Roman scenario, I’m the invisible man.’

  The waiter appears with our starters, lacy fronds of prosciutto wrapped around melting mozzarella, strewn with rocket leaves.

  I try to speak, but I can’t. I’m a coward. And a selfish one at that.

  ‘That’s why I ran off, as you saw it. I saw that text from someone called Antonio. This job looked like something you’d been planning for a while. I couldn’t bugger it up. I couldn’t stand in your way.’

  ‘But I hadn’t agreed to go!’

  ‘I knew you would though, if you were angry enough. You’d be mad not to. I wanted to set you free before we got any more involved.’ He opens his hands as if releasing a trapped bird. ‘And sure enough, within five minutes you’d said yes!’

  ‘Aren’t you the fortune-teller!’ I push a tiny piece of herby mozzarella between my teeth.

  ‘I used to read people. I taught them how to eradicate themselves and inhabit someone else. That’s what acting and performing is all about. I’ve been watching you for months, Rosie, and you never pretend. Well, except for the last two weeks.’

  ‘What a mess.’ I pierce a cherry tomato, trying to piece together what I’m going to say. ‘What a stupid, destructive game we’ve been playing. Why didn’t you confront me with Antonio’s text?’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were going to Rome?’ He spikes his fork into the food. ‘I – I thought we were getting closer every day.’

  ‘We were. We are. And I’ve wanted to tell you, several times. I was waiting for the right moment.’

  ‘Waiting for the moment when it would hurt the most?’

  I pick up a rocket leaf and shred it. ‘Nurse Jeannie told me not to.’

  ‘Nice try, Cavalieri. Hide behind Matron.’

  ‘You walked in, remember, just as she was telling me to keep quiet.’

  He nods slowly. ‘So how long were you ordered to keep it from me?’

  ‘She didn’t say!’ I stop. Of course she didn’t say. She was trusting me to choose the right time. ‘She wanted this time to be special. For you to get well. And it has been special. You are well.’

  ‘Still an absolute clown, though, allowing myself to be swept away with the joy of being with you. The joy of sleeping with you –’

  His voice catches, and tears burn behind my eyes.

  ‘You’re not a clown, P! At least, not in a bad way!’

  ‘I’ve fallen in love with you! How fucking bad is that?’

  One or two diners turn their heads as he bangs his hands down on the table. I wait for a moment, letting those amazing words tumble out into the open.

  I press my hands on his. ‘I’m in love with you, too.’

  He looks up, his eyes wide with astonishment. He reaches towards me, then pulls back.

  ‘Your timing is absolutely fucking lousy, Cavalieri.’ He picks up his fork, puts it down again. ‘So talk me through it. Who is Antonio? And when are you going?’

  I take a sip of water. The waiter is glowering at our barely touched antipasti.

  ‘Antonio Varese. You and Robinson Junior met him at the Club Crème in London. I sang in his bar in Rome.’

  Pierre eats steadily, dipping his mozzarella in the drizzles of balsamic vinegar, glancing up at the waiter as he brings water and bread and tops up our wine glasses.

  ‘I said no at first. But when you left without a word, and Antonio needed an answer –’

  ‘So you’re blaming me for rushing into this?’

  ‘That’s what you intended, isn’t it? But not just you. My sister, too. And I’m not rushing. I’m explaining.’

  I nod, but as I move my head I start to feel queasy. I think of that mugger’s dirty hands on my mouth.

  I watch the scooters and the cars racketing past, hear the bells tolling in the ancient churches, hear the endless Italian chatter all around. Feel the night breeze on my sore neck.

  ‘I’m the last person to judge you for lying. Cheating. Deceiving –’

  ‘I haven’t. I’m not.’

  ‘I walked out on you that morning because I thought it was the best thing. Not for me. For you.’

  His voice drifts across the table, so quiet it could be coming from far away.

  ‘What are you now, my father? That wasn’t for you to decide. We should have talked about it.’

  ‘Yes. But you know what? Actually I’m glad we didn’t. Because then we wouldn’t have come to Italy together. Had these blissful two weeks.’ He twines the last piece of ham round his fork. ‘But you have a monumental cheek, signorina. Finishing with me over the best prosciutto I’ve ever tasted.’

  The sadness pulls at me like a weight.

  ‘You could come with me?’ I whisper, as the thought, tapping me on the shoulder for days, finally gets heard. ‘You could come to Rome?’

  ‘You haven’t been listening to me. The theatre. The stage. The lights. Music. Costume. Drama. The audience. They’re my lifeblood. That was my world, Rosie. That was my habitat before Margot snatched it all away. Escapism and entertainment. I’m used to being the designer, the director. The dynamo at the centre of things.’

  ‘So you could be again.’

  ‘Not in Rome. That’s not my patch. And I’d hold you back. I’d just be envious, then bored, then resentful. And then you wouldn’t want to be near me. I’m dangerous when I reach that point. I lash out.’

  ‘You’re not that person any more. Come with me, P.’ I’m struggling to keep my voice from cracking. ‘How about being my groupie?’

  ‘Trailing along in some chick’s wake? Not my style, sweetheart.’

  I flinch. ‘Sarcasm ain’t your style either, Pierre Levi.’

  He shakes his head, sitting back as the waiter finally clears our plates. I brace myself for more of the same. Some kind of tirade. The old, bitter, detached Pierre to come roaring back.

  But then he clears his throat, and starts to speak again.

  ‘So that’s it. The end for us.’

  ‘If there’s no other way. I didn’t know this was going to happen. I didn’t know we were going to, you know. Fall for each other. And Rome isn’t that far.’

  ‘But LA is.’

  ‘There must be some way we can be together. One day?’

  But he’s already retreating from me. He’s gesturing to the waiter for the bill.

  ‘A lovely fantasy, Rosie. But it’s too late. And I’m too tired to argue about it. You were too fast. I was too slow.’ To my astonishment he starts to smile. Not some wolfish grimace, not a big grin either, but a fond, sad smile. ‘It’s funny. I always used to be in such a rush, just like you. I pushed people out of my way to get ahead.’

  ‘I’m not pushing you out of the way.’

  He raises a finger to silence me.

  ‘But now I’m learning how to do things differently. I was hoping to take things more gradually.’

  ‘Why are you being so calm? This is eating me up inside, P –’

  ‘We can be adults about this, can’t we? Let’s just make the most of each other while we still can.’

  The moment I’ve really been dreading. I pick up my glass, so far untouched, and take several sips.

  ‘There’s no more time, Pierre. I’m leaving tomorrow.’

  He whistles, almost in admiration. There’s a long, long pause. The evening passeggiata is still drifting around us but the colourful, chattering people are faceless, meaningless.

  I wait for the onslaught, for him finally to close off from me, but, although he looks shocked, his face remains open. His eyes rest on me while the dusk gathers. Neither of us wants to move. We don’t speak. The enveloping silence contains us, safe yet sombre. I don’t want this moment, this day, ever to end.

  He refills our glasses, we drink, he pays the bill.

  ‘J
ust tell me. What’s made you so ruthless all of a sudden, Cavalieri?’

  ‘I learned from the best.’

  He laughs. ‘My God, you really are a force of nature when you want to be.’

  ‘Not enough to be in two places at once.’ I smooth my hair off my hot forehead. ‘This is the toughest choice of my life.’

  He plants his stick on the ground and stands up. He’s so tall, towering above me.

  ‘You know what, Rosie? The old Pierre would have made a scene, right here in the middle of this square. He’d have said things so nasty, so cruel, reduced you to such misery that you would have run a mile, a thousand miles, and never looked back.’

  ‘A thousand and one.’ I stand up and face him. ‘And now?’

  ‘Allora. I can’t be bothered. Not because you’re not worth fighting for, because you are, and if I thought you’d change your mind I’d fight to the death, but look at that stubborn little face. I can see there’s no point. We’ve reached an impasse.’ He stands up. ‘So the least you can do is grant me one more wish.’

  ‘I’m not a fairy godmother, Pierre.’

  ‘This doesn’t require magic, Rosie. But it does require you to do exactly as I ask.’ He leans more heavily on his leopard-print walking stick. ‘You see, you’re wrong about one thing.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘We do still have time.’ He takes my hand and pulls me across the square. ‘We have all night to say goodbye.’

  * * *

  In the scented darkness of our hotel room he winds his fingers through my hair, tugging me towards him. I let him pull me closer. My stomach clenches with terrified excitement. The heat is beating off him. His eyes smoulder with lust, not anger. His mouth splits into a grin. All at once he pushes me back onto the bed

  I lie back, totally limp, let my arms fall over my head.

  He runs his fingers down the inside of my arms where they’re outstretched, making them tingle.

  ‘I’ll never forget you, Rosa Cavalieri. There was this big hole in my life. If I go deeper, I’d say it was in my soul. But you’ve filled it. You’ve made me whole again.’

  ‘Pierre, don’t. I can’t –’

  The tears block my throat.

  ‘Quiet, girl. You’ve said enough for one day, don’t you think?’

  He tweaks the delicate straps away from my shoulders and starts to draw the dress down over my breasts, down over my stomach, lifting my hips so that he can pull it down over my legs.

  ‘Shall I tell you about Rosa Cavalieri? She’s impossible. Beautiful, talented, wilful, rough round the edges. Stubborn. Oh, I said that already. What else? Oh, yes. Deceitful.’

  ‘Hey! I –’

  ‘You have no defence. You didn’t even tell me how you felt about me till I forced your hand just now.’

  ‘I meant it, Pierre.’

  ‘And I meant what I said, too. I love you, Rosa Cavalieri. And you’ve changed me. I’m never going to be the same man again.’

  I lie back, half-naked now, while he gets up from the bed. I’m too distraught to speak. I can’t believe that I’ve caused so much heartache. That I’d become so wrapped up in my own plans, so convinced he was never going to change.

  Pierre starts to unbutton his shirt.

  ‘Take it right off, Pierre,’ I say huskily into the candlelit quiet of the room. ‘I want to see you properly.’

  I see his arms, sculpted and muscular, and at last I see his torso. His chest is broad enough to sleep on, tapering to that slim waist and sexy hips, that strong line of black hair running from his solar plexus over his smooth, flat stomach, wandering like a tease down into his jeans.

  The pale, raised scars are like tattoos on his tanned skin. They make him look like a warrior, branded for bravery.

  He opens his arms, inviting my admiration like a showman, then he falls back onto the bed, runs his fingers greedily over me again as if he’s just discovered me under the Christmas tree, over my skin, down over the négligé, over my breasts, lingers over my nipples till they harden in response, then his hands move on down along my thighs.

  ‘And she has this amazing hair. Long, and lustrous, like rivers of chocolate.’

  ‘Now you’re being –’

  ‘I told you to be quiet, Cavalieri. I’m composing.’ His lips are in my hair, running across my cheek. ‘One day you’ll hear the song I’ve written, and you’ll know it’s about you. I’ll make a second fortune from the royalties. And who knows? Maybe you’ll even sing it!’

  My mouth meets his, so warm, such a lovely fit, his body so warm, too, heavy as he lies alongside, as he continues to stroke me.

  Our tongues curl round each other and probe, exploring, tasting, telling, but he seems restless tonight. No wonder. I can’t question what we’re doing. What he would have wanted. I just want to flow along with this moment until it comes to an end.

  His mouth moves away down my throat. His fingers pull my bandeau bra aside, baring my breasts. He moves his fingers over them, pressing the soft flesh, running round each sensitive nipple, and then he bends and kisses them too, reverently and softly. My nipples are hard and burning for him. That lovely oblivion starts to steal over me, that swooning blankness where nothing matters except each and every tiny sensation, leading up the path to pleasure.

  I moan and arch towards him and his tongue flicks across my nipples, circling them, his lips nibbling briefly on each sore point, pulling them into his mouth, biting and sucking them until they sing with pain before his mouth travels on downwards. I can’t do anything. He has my wrists gripped in his hands. It feels so good, lying here helplessly like this, unable to do anything, direct him, guide him, pleasure him even, other than lie here and be the feast he wants to enjoy for the last time.

  My voice is thick with tears when I speak.

  ‘Please, Pierre. Fuck me. I can’t wait any longer.’

  I open my legs and stretch them on either side of him. Then wrap them round the back of him and pull him close to me. He glances up at me, his mouth wet from kissing, then he strokes me again, down my throat, over my breasts, down over my stomach, my thighs. I hold my breath. His touch is so tender.

  ‘I told you. Stop talking.’

  He is leaning over me now. I know his face so well. The half-closing of his eyes, as if the lids are too heavy, when he’s aroused. The biting down on his lower lip when he finally releases control, as if eager for a kiss.

  I lie there, waiting. He releases my hands, and I start to run them carefully over his scarred torso, down to the unscarred stomach. He lies beside me. Unzips his jeans. And there is my prize.

  I want the luxury of taking a good look, but tears blur my eyes as I take hold of it and cradle it in my fingers. How am I going to be able to live without it? Without him?

  His deep dark eyes. His cynical mouth, softened tonight with passion and the despair and sadness shifting beneath. Gorgeous, powerful, weak, wonderful Pierre Levi.

  Voices call in the street below as a scooter buzzes past some late-night revellers. Are they going home to their lovers? Or walking away?

  The weight of him on my legs pins me down. I hitch my hips invitingly, see his jaw tighten as he bends his face down to brush his mouth against mine.

  ‘Thank God you’re here,’ he murmurs hoarsely. Just like he did that night I came into his room at the clinic to stop his nightmares.

  He sits up and hitches himself back against the huge wooden board at the end of our bed, then he pulls me to him, over his legs, so that we’re up close, face to face. Nose to nose, like mediaeval saints praying on a tomb.

  I wrap my legs around his hips and wriggle up against his hardness, feel the blunt end nosing against me, parting me. I’m ready. He can feel the wetness on me. Pierre grabs my bottom in his strong hands and tips me easily, slides me on to him. First the tip, then the rest of him, pushing inside, inch by inch, filling me, my body closing round him, huge and hard and pushing right up and only then pulling out again, a little, to thr
ust harder next time.

  My body encloses him. My arms are round his neck and his eyes are black pools gazing at me, still gazing as he kisses me, gently, then more forcefully, his tongue echoing the movement of his cock. Our tongues probe and tease, push and thrust, our teeth biting, breath rasping hot as we thrust against each other, his thighs a tight cradle keeping me there.

  And through the kisses, always that fathomless black burning stare.

  I’m determined, pulling, my body wants him deep, deeper inside me but still he’s testing himself, testing me, holding back for as long as possible, withdrawing, slamming in, withdrawing, finding our rhythm, and then it clicks, and then we’re rocking and tilting together, his hands guiding me, digging dents in my buttocks, my bottom lifted off his thighs, settling into a movement which feels fluid and endless but will end, too soon, because the faster we go the sooner it will crash into its climax and this is the last time.

  As if reading my mind Pierre stops for a moment, stroking my sides as if he’s taming an animal.

  ‘Thank you for this, Rosie,’ he murmurs, closing his eyes at last, shutting off that intense black stare, sucking the breath out of me. ‘For all of it.’

  My eyes burn with tears. A sob bursts out of my chest.

  ‘I don’t want to leave you. We should stop. We should find a way.’

  He shakes his head. ‘No. Just. No.’

  Then he takes hold of my hips where I’ve fallen away from him, spreads his hands under my bottom again and flips me towards him again, my arms and legs clinging to him as if I’m a koala and he’s a tree.

  We pause for a moment, breathing fast into each other’s faces, taunting each other to see who will move first, testing ourselves to see who will crack and make the inevitable moment come quicker.

  His lips are moving silently as if he’s counting himself in, or praying. He pulls his haunches back and so do I. He’s not gentle. He slams his hips into me and I buck back at him. We pull back together, arching in rhythm as if rowing a boat, slam back so hard that we shudder with the impact of bone on bone.

  His black eyes bore through me. It should inhibit me, but it doesn’t. It’s a turn-on. I feel like I’m the only girl in the world. The only girl he’s ever fucked.