by Primula Bond
So I keep staring back, not blinking, meeting his gaze through a sheet of tears, yes, remember this, Levi. I’m the only girl, the best girl, you’ve ever fucked.
We push and pause, so solid, filling, fitting me perfectly. My body grasping him like a tight glove. He starts moving again. He starts to push. I want him to stay like this, fitted inside me. I move with him. It’s all so natural. We’re grinding together as one. He enters me again, pushes his way right to the hilt.
We are moving together, in time with each other’s heartbeat. My legs grip tighter as he pushes further, further, he fits so perfectly, my thoughts are scattering like a shoal of fish, thank God for that, yet hot tears are blinding me and streaming down my cheek and I’m moaning, thrashing against the rising wave of ecstasy as I pull him and kiss him and bite him.
An unearthly groan rumbles in his throat. Is this a first for him, too? This perfect fit? His body tenses up again.
His hands loosen slightly on my hips as his face softens. We are totally enclosed in this circle of moonlight. So real. Just the two of us.
It’s only me he’s seeing. Nobody else. His eyes glitter with fresh fire as he renews the rhythm, faster, faster, meeting me in a spiral of excitement until his expression grows dark with the effort of holding back, and then there’s no need to hang on any more, here is his release, his eyes blazing with sheer ecstasy, his gaze never leaving mine.
I try to keep my eyes on him, see the big, tanned, bright-eyed man in my arms, so far removed from the shrunken, pale, battered man in that hospital bed. There’s still no spare flesh on him, but his contours are rippling new muscle now, and firm, healthy flesh.
But the night is closing in. Our last night together. The candles are dying, wax dripping down the sides into a molten pool.
And my eyes are fluttering closed as those waves break their crests and tumble and crash through me, my voice calling and crying as the climax rushes at me, my hips thrashing against my lover as I come.
Somewhere up the hill, towards the mountains, a church clock strikes the first hour of our last day.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The crowd are waiting. Antonio never told me we were doing this in the open air. He’s taken a risk moving the stage, the musicians, even the bar, outside, but it’s unusually warm for October. And think of the revenue! Outside there’s more space, more seats, more covers. A bigger stage. So more people watching me.
‘I’m so nervous,’ I pant and pace up and down. ‘Are there really talent scouts out there? You said there would be music critics, some record producers –’
‘All of the above. Don’t let me down, bella. Ride the wave.’
‘Your other bar was small. Cosy. I knew most of the crowd. The Club Crème is small. I was beginning to know most of the crowd there, too. But this is different. We’re open to the sky. I feel so small.’
‘You did that festival at Edinburgh last year. Compared with that, this is a piece of cake.’
‘I know. So why do I feel like this is the first time?’
‘Use that to your advantage. Remember how magical you were. How the audience clapped. Sing like you did that night. Sing like nobody’s listening.’
I pause in front of the mirror and glance at his reflection. He is leaning against the wall of the dressing room behind me, his arms crossed over his barrel chest.
‘What are you looking at?’
‘You, bella. You have changed. You’ve filled out. Blossomed.’
‘That’s from two weeks in the autumn sunshine.’
‘No. I don’t just mean that. I mean you’ve changed in the last year. If I was going to be corny I’d say you’ve become a woman, rather than a girl. What is the secret, do you think?’
I shrug, and brush mascara on to my lashes. ‘Working in a clinic made me healthier?’
‘Perhaps. Looking after other people for the first time in your life? Helping them get better?’
I reach for the dark Chanel lipstick I always like to wear when I’m singing. ‘Just time passing, I guess. Now you’re going to have to leave me. I need to get changed.’
‘It’s Pierre Levi, isn’t it? Everyone knows he’s a challenge for any woman. I’d say he’s the one who’s changed you.’
I lift the lipstick, but my hand is shaking too much to apply it.
Three days we’ve been apart now. Three days since we staggered out of bed and only just made it in time to kiss goodbye at Naples airport. Three days since I watched him limp through departures with that burly male nurse.
The emotions that swept over me were too tangled to separate until I was alone in the train for the two-hour journey up to Rome. As well as sadness, love and regret there was guilt. I’d hurt him, badly. No matter how cool he’d been, how matter of fact, how dismissive of the idea that we could work round this kind of separation, that he could change his plans for me or I for him, he couldn’t hide the fact that this parting had affected him physically.
His shoulders as he went through those sliding doors were slumped. His leg dragged. He leaned sideways on his leopard-print stick.
And he didn’t look back.
I have used some of the time, when I haven’t been rehearsing, to text my sister. Whatever Antonio decides or offers, I’ve asked her to send me that ticket to New York. As soon as possible.
‘We had a great time together, but now Pierre’s gone to his new life.’ I paint my lips with the Rouge Noir. ‘But you’re here, now, Antonio. I’m relying on you to get me through this.’
‘You make it sound like a surgical procedure!’ He comes forward, lays his hands on my shoulders. ‘I don’t have to do anything to help. You will fly through this performance.’
Someone taps on the door. ‘Five minutes!’
‘Let’s get out there, then.’ I push his hands away and go to pick up my dress. I’m going to wear this blue dress Pierre gave me. ‘If only I could shake off this feeling that I’m back to square one.’
‘Not that one.’ Antonio takes the blue dress from me and reaches for a pearly satin dress cut short, just above the knees. ‘You’re to wear this one tonight.’
‘You’re picking my clothes as well as my career?’
‘I’m hardly a fashionista, bella. I just feel you should have something brand-new. Symbolic.’ Antonio unwraps the cellophane from the dress and unpins a white label from the back before handing it to me. ‘Think of it as a good-luck charm.’
‘Two minutes!’ shouts the runner outside the door.
Antonio leaves me, blowing me a kiss, and I’m alone.
I drop the pearly white dress over me and it shimmers down over my body like liquid moonlight. The fabric clings to my curves then falls away again.
All I need are some serious diamonds and I would look like the perfect diva. Who knew Antonio had such good taste? I don’t think I’ll tell him I’m not wearing any knickers. How I like to feel the fabric brushing my bare skin.
My hands are shaking too much to pin my hair. The curls just drop out again. Glossy dark tendrils hanging round my flushed face.
I open the door. The support act has finished. A Herbie Hancock track is filling the silence, but is nearly drowned by the chattering and laughing of the audience, liberated by being in the open air. I can smell perfume, the aroma of the cocktails from the big makeshift bar Antonio has erected near the bottom of the stage, and the smoky tang of marijuana on the evening air.
Somewhere out there Antonio will be weaving amongst his public, pouring drinks, charming the punters, plugging the club, plugging me, everyone waiting for the main event.
I stand there in the wings letting in the air and the noise. Drinking it in. Getting into the zone.
Is this the best decision I could have made? Standing here, sick with fright, elated with excitement, weighted down with sadness? Is this better than being in LA with Pierre? What did he really have planned for me? His crazy al fresco take on the debauchery of Emperor Tiberius with me as a warbling goddess? A new burlesque p
roduction?
My body twitches as I move towards the back of the stage, lean on one of the amplifiers. I let the thoughts in, the sexy thoughts to rev me up.
Pierre Levi, his dark eyes. His newly strong arms. His hands. His mouth.
His cock. Inside me. Rock-hard.
His mantra, told to me one night. The pep talk he gives himself when he’s feeling blue.
‘Calmer. Better. Stronger.’
How it feels when he pulls my face to his and kisses me, when I suck on him. Taste his tongue. Go lower down. Taste his cock. I close my eyes, feel desire churning inside me, my throat loosening as the challenge ahead hits me.
I remember his fingers on me, spreading my buttocks to work their way inside. I gasp at the sensations running over my skin. How his fingers probed me. Ran down the centre of me. Rested just inside, making my body nip at it.
I hear the final call. ‘On stage now, please!’
I push the dirty thoughts to one side. Can’t let thoughts of him wind me up so much I fail.
I pluck at another technique one of his therapists had taught him, I didn’t ask if it was Venska. He mocked it, but occasionally I caught him using it. Tapping on his collarbone when he was nervous or anxious.
I tap, and feel the vibrations through me. I tap again, calm down a little.
Emotional freedom, Cavalieri. The ghost of Pierre Levi, in the corner of my mind, winks.
Go out there and set them on fire. Strut. Sizzle. Sleaze. Sing like you’re on the brink of having the best sex of your life. Or in the middle of it.
The backing band are twiddling their reeds and mouthpieces and strings. Beyond them, beyond the bobbing heads of the crowd, are the trees studding the darkness of the park, then the stone balustrade that runs around the elegant pathways and flowerbeds, and below us the glowing red, yellow, orange and white lights, the spires and domes of the city.
I’m left alone. I smooth the dress down over myself. My pussy is purring. I see an open bottle of wine and take a slug straight from it, and then walk towards the light.
Antonio is at the front of the stage, announcing my act, whipping up the applause, cracking one or two jokes for the warm-up. I hang back, but he sees me, bows and reaches for me and then it’s too late because they’ve all seen me. They rise to their feet. Maybe some punters from the old days are here. I can’t see through the dazzle of footlights.
They clap and cheer and whistle and whoop and exhilaration surges through me
Antonio steps down to join his audience. The commotion fades, and so do the lights. There’s a quick burst of laughter and coughing. Then deathly quiet.
Warmth seeps from my toes up my legs. I move across the stage, letting the melody settle itself in my ears, in my veins. I glide like an ice skater on my bare feet towards the spot, swinging my hips in the soft dress, letting it swing around me. The musicians slip the tune like changing gear, and an electric charge shoots through me, and we’re into my first-ever song. George Gershwin’s ‘Summertime’.
The applause at the end of the first set is exhilarating, but once I’ve invited my band to bow, too, eventually it dies down. The lights go up over the audience, little lamps around the gardens glow, the lights of the city shimmer below us, and everyone resumes their conversations.
I am jiggling and restless as I start to step down. Antonio’s style has always been to get his performers not to disappear backstage but to step right over the footlights and mingle a little, go to the bar like any other punter and have a drink.
The band members file down the steps in front of me and disappear into a mêlée of shouting friends clapping them on the back. I am halfway down the stage, commanding a full view of the venue right to the back.
Antonio is still in his place at the bar, but he’s not alone. This shouldn’t be a surprise. He lives in Rome. They’re old friends after all. But Daniele is there, perched on a bar stool beside Antonio. His hair is longer and curlier and wilder, he’s put on some weight, but otherwise he looks just the same.
Great. Marvellous. Perfect. He’s staring at me with undisguised lust and amusement in his black eyes.
Don’t let him get to you, I tell myself. He’s no good. Remember what he did to you. You’re over him. Daniele grins at me and raises his glass.
I pause on the steps, about to fly at him and give him an earful. But why waste the energy? He doesn’t affect me any more. Mild annoyance is all. I’d rather not see him, but he hasn’t the power to hurt me any more.
I wave languidly back but I’m going to disobey Antonio’s instructions to mingle. I return to the dressing room. We don’t have long.
There’s a huge bouquet of flowers on the dressing table. Pierre? I rush to open the little card. It’s from Francesca and Carlo, with all their love. I bury my face in the roses, breathing in the cool, faint scent, wishing I could still the whirring of my mind.
The runner knocks at the door. I go to put the flowers in a vase and see the white label that Antonio took off the dress, lying on the floor. It’s not a label. It’s a little white envelope, with my name written in beautiful flowing script on the front.
Cavalieri.
I rip open the envelope, and a lovely warmth washes through me, along with tears, laughter, despair, elation. One man, causing such a storm inside me.
Take the world by storm, Rosie, it says. Because I’ve realised that you are my world.
Antonio looks up as I come back on stage. He claps and grins along with the crowd, raises his glass at me. I don’t look to see if Daniele is still there.
I walk towards the mike for my second half and wait for the spot to pick me out.
The air is shifting with anticipation.
Tinkling notes like drops of rain start winding out from the piano. I look over at the pianist, and the breath is knocked out of me.
The pianist bent over the keys is Pierre Levi. He is wearing a sharp blue suit and sharp shoes, his black hair is oiled back like an old-school matinee idol, and he looks devastatingly handsome.
He’s hijacking my moment. My night. My life.
I don’t know whether to dance for joy or howl with fury.
This music is coiling out from under his fingers, silky and slow, filling the air with a warm fluidity. Seducing the audience, seducing me.
Got to hold it together, though. Got to make this part of the show.
I take the microphone off its stand, turn my back on the audience and slink over to him, rest my hand on his shoulder and press my lips to his ear.
‘What happened, P? What changed?’
Pierre ignores me, lifts his arm like a conductor and the strings murmur more loudly from the band. How have they co-ordinated all this? How on earth could they have rehearsed without me or Antonio knowing?
‘You. Me. Everything. I couldn’t be apart from you.’
I stare at him. I hear, but I don’t listen. I need to empty my mind to let in the words and music.
Pierre lifts his head as if he’s waking from a dream. Jerks his chin to beckon me. I approach, all obedient, and stretch like a cat over the piano, theatrical and showy. My dress rides up. Pierre looks drowsy, as if he’s no idea who I am, glances past me at the audience, shrugs one shoulder as if sharing a joke, then chucks over some sheet music.
He bends lower, and presses the foot pedal. The music grows louder.
The sexy saxophonist wanders over like some kind of minstrel. His instrument wails my tune like an introduction, and I echo it, humming for now, as we’ve rehearsed.
The audience cheers, ready to go. Still humming I walk across the stage, picking up the sheets that I’ve failed to catch. They have no score on there. No music. Just three words on every page.
I love you.
I toss the papers up in the air like so many dead leaves, let them fall around me, fling myself round, hand on hip.
I love you too.
Then it’s time to take the cheering like I was born to do. The lighting boys pop a single spot at the f
ront, a pool for me to step into.
The furore dies down, and I start to sing, making my whole body buzz. My mouth opens and out it all comes.
Seconds later it seems we’ve reached the end. Here’s the finale, but I’m not done. I’m drinking in the applause, that sexy triumph building like a wave inside me.
I’m still breathless as the crowd bays for another encore. My cute saxophonist appears beside me, the trumpeter, the boy with the double bass, behind me the black-haired drummer, all revving up to a breakneck version of ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin’.
I hug myself and turn slowly a couple of times, waiting for the next song while the two guys go head to head. More than a match for each other. This should be fun.
I back towards the piano, where Pierre is taking a break, removing his jacket. He looks up and spreads his arms in greeting.
‘I couldn’t do it, Rosie. I couldn’t let you go!’
‘I’m so happy you’re here, P. But how did you, how come you’re up here playing the piano?’ I say, bending over the music stand. ‘What’s going on?’
His grin doesn’t fade. Instead he lifts me onto the piano. The band starts the next tune, a slow version of ‘Making Whoopee’. My lover bends me over the wooden surface.
He slides his hands up my bare thighs, up under my skirt. I hook my leg over his and pull him into me and turn his gesture into part of a tango. The crowd goes wild. I’m so hot I want to do it for real, right here in front of everybody.
Pierre leaves me reclining there and continues playing standing up. I struggle upright, remain sitting on the piano with my legs crossed. The saxophonist is back now with the trumpeter for a three-way version of ‘The Look of Love’, the trio of instruments vying for my attention in a sensuous harmony that makes me shiver before I join in.
The crowd is screaming for yet more encores. The saxophonist gets to me first, lifts the gold mouthpiece to his lips again, starts to play the kind of throaty John Coltrane melody that is like sleepy syrup dripping off a spoon.
