The Silent Fountain

by Victoria Fox

  ‘Bellissima, are you well?’ asked Gio kindly. Had they been seated closer, he would have reached to take her hand. Vivien had a sudden longing for her beach house in Malibu, with the little breakfast bar at which they had eaten scrambled eggs.

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You look pale.’

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  He smiled. ‘You know I have the weekend off?’

  This was a first: Vivien couldn’t remember the last time he had chosen home over the laboratory. What was so vital there? And why couldn’t he share the details of his day when he returned, like a normal husband did? Gio claimed tiredness, batting off her enquiries like flies on a hot day. ‘It’s boring, amore, really,’ he said tersely, ‘let’s talk about something else.’ And then, lying awake at night, waiting for him to come to bed so she could seduce him and wonder if maybe, just maybe, this would be the time – both their bodies primed and the baby ready to be made – Vivien would surrender to paranoia, thinking she heard Gio talking in another room, talking with Isabella about the things he did, confiding in his sister where he couldn’t in his wife.

  ‘That’s wonderful.’ She returned his smile, chewing the pasta, beautifully al dente though on her tongue it felt rubbery as old boots. Saturday was Gio’s birthday.

  ‘I thought we could head into the countryside.’ He drizzled oil on ciabatta. ‘Take the car, some food, see where we end up? Just like we used to.’

  Vivien remembered picnics on the beach. Making out in his convertible against the Pacific sunset. Those hazy, lazy days – they could still find that magic, couldn’t they? Gio was looking directly at her. Instinctively, she knew his plans did not involve Isabella. For once, they would be alone. Just like we used to be.

  ‘That sounds like bliss.’ Vivien couldn’t resist a glance in Isabella’s direction, but the sister’s expression was difficult to read. Suddenly, the pasta didn’t taste so bad. The weekend unfolded ahead of her, full of possibility. She had resigned herself to fixing Gio a quick birthday breakfast before he headed off, but now they could let the hours melt by like sun on the skin, relishing each other’s company like a true husband and wife. And who knew? The relaxation could do him good. Vivien had read about stress and exhaustion being accountable for difficulties in men… Perhaps this, at last, would be the weekend on which they would conceive.

  Then there would be no alternative but for Isabella to be demoted. Gio’s child, his blood, a blood richer and deeper than that which he shared with Isabella.

  Gio’s new family would be carved more clearly than ever, a baby for him to dote on, and his sister would be forced to take inferior standing. Vivien couldn’t wait.

  *

  Adalina offered to prepare the hamper, but Vivien wished to pack it herself.

  ‘Have we any lobster?’ she asked the maid. The lunch was almost complete. A golden loaf of focaccia, scattered with oregano; a honeyed ham with his favourite piccalilli; sheets of prosciutto and salami dappled with fat; bright red tomatoes, plump with juice and plucked from the vine; a crumbling wedge of blue-veined dolcelatte with a crisp crop of pears; a carafe of locally produced wine, thick and sweet as a compote; and, naturally, a bottle of the Barbarossa’s home-grown lemon press.

  Adalina fetched the claws from the pan. ‘It’s an impressive spread, signora.’

  ‘As was my intention, Adalina! Today will be wonderful. My husband has had a hard year, working every hour. He deserves a special day.’

  Adalina helped her parcel the food in a white cloth, padding out the items that needed to stay cool with an ice pack. The women worked companionably, having become close enough over the months to share these small confidences about each other’s private lives. Vivien liked Adalina’s honesty. She liked her generosity. She liked that Adalina had a baby nephew whom she took care of at home, and while it required some effort for Vivien to look at pictures of the irresistible little guy with his brown hair and a dimple in his chin, feeling as she did the hollow cavity in her own belly, she put aside those selfish concerns and enjoyed their friendship.

  ‘Salvatore is bringing the car round,’ said the maid.

  ‘Thank you, Adalina,’ said Vivien.

  ‘Prego, signora,’ said the maid, with a smile, ‘call me Lili.’

  *

  ‘Darling…’ Gio caught her arm as she approached the waiting car. She had a brief moment to admire her reflection in the window – the flowing gypsy dress, the Jackie Onassis glasses and the glamorous headscarf – before it was all ruined.

  ‘Cara, I’m sorry, but Isabella…’ Vivien knew what was coming. ‘She isn’t herself today,’ said Gio, ‘I don’t want to leave her. I can’t.’ His face was a picture of regret. So he had meant it to be the two of them, which was something, she supposed.

  But to hell with Isabella!

  ‘What’s the matter with her?’ she asked, biting her disappointment. If Isabella wasn’t herself, that was surely a good thing for all of them.

  Gio ran a hand over his jaw. Vivien hated that he should be distressed like this on his birthday, and once again resented his sister for causing him such pain.

  ‘It’s, um…’ He cleared his throat. ‘It happened around this time of year. My parents. It’s a few days until the anniversary, in fact.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say something?’ She touched his face.

  ‘It wasn’t worth it,’ he said, kissing her hand, ‘for me, in any case. But for Isabella, well, it’s different. She isn’t looking after herself. I can’t remember the last time I saw her eat. I’m worried she’s in the grip of a bad phase.’

  Vivien was used to seeing the sister push food around her plate, but couldn’t swear it wasn’t controlled. The more weight Isabella lost, the more extremely her beauty seemed to shine; the wider her eyes and the fuller her lips.

  ‘I think it’s best if she comes with us today,’ said Gio. ‘I’m sorry, amore. I promise I’ll make it up to you.’

  It would be inelegant to object, for a number of reasons, so Vivien wore her best smile and kissed him deeply on the mouth. ‘Of course,’ she said.

  Gio smiled and opened the car door, before setting back to collect Isabella.

  *

  As Gio’s car navigated the winding lanes around Fiesole, Vivien could momentarily forget the brooding Isabellashaped cloud on the back seat, and concentrate on the gorgeous countryside. Cypress trees like the ones she saw from her bedroom window spiked the amber hills. The air was warm and scented with citrus peel. They were spoiled for choice for a spot to enjoy their lunch, but Gio appeared set on a specific place he had visited as a boy, and, when they reached it, Vivien could see why.

  ‘I wanted to show you this,’ said Gio, as the car came to a stop beneath an olive tree laden with fruit. It was the site of an old shepherd’s hut, reduced now to rubble but with the most incredible views Vivien had ever seen. Undulating hills panned far into the distance, a golden sheet beneath a pure blue sky. Next to her, Gio appeared like someone from a New Romantics power ballad, windswept and tortured.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ said Vivien, squeezing his hand. As she did so, their wedding rings touched. I’m so glad you’re mine, she thought. Everything will work out.

  The situation was marred slightly when Gio looped an arm round Isabella and spoke a brief burst of Italian into her ear. He pointed at a swing beyond the hut and his sister smiled. Clearly, they had been here before. Where hadn’t Isabella been?

  Vivien hauled the hamper from the boot of the car, and Gio helped her lay the blanket on the ground. Vivien tried not to imagine how flawless the scene would be were it not for Isabella, but there it was, and it was his day, so she swallowed it.

  The food was exquisite and the wine made her woozy. Vivien and Gio chatted and kissed, lying back in the sun, while Isabella sat looking out at the horizon, her elbows across her knees, occasionally resisting the morsel of food Gio directed her way. ‘Please eat,’ he begged at one point. Isabella blanked him. Vivien
could see him deciding whether or not to push it, and part of her wanted him to, to see how far his frustration would take him, but in the end he resolved to keep the peace.

  As they came to the end of the wine, Vivien produced her gift: a gold watch, hideously expensive, of course, with a leather strap and embedded jewels. Gio had admired it on an early amble through Florence, and she had remembered.

  He strapped it to his wrist. ‘Bellissima, this is too generous.’

  ‘Not for you.’

  ‘I love it. Thank you.’ He embraced her. Had Isabella not been sitting there like a pimple on the mound, Vivien would have made love to him right here. It was the ideal spot for them to conceive. She imagined telling him weeks down the line.

  It was your birthday, on the hillside…

  Then it wouldn’t be his and Isabella’s place any more. It would be theirs.

  At first, she didn’t think Isabella was going to produce a present, but then she did. Gio took one look at it and kissed his sister’s cheek. It made light of Vivien’s present, which had required words, been belittled by them.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, once their intimacy had passed.

  Gio was choked, for it was a moment before he spoke.

  ‘It’s our parents. At the Barbarossa.’

  He handed her the photograph. A smiling, fair-haired (she registered surprise at this) couple stood by the Barbarossa fountain with their arms round two children. Gio was impossibly good-looking as a boy, and, she conceded, Isabella wasn’t far behind. She still had all that dark hair, skinny legs, and those solemn, vulnerable eyes. Gio was smiling but Isabella wasn’t. She appeared full of malice even at that age.

  ‘Is that your uncle?’ Vivien managed, pointing to the man at his mother’s side.

  Gio nodded. Vivien noticed the distance between Signor Dinapoli and Isabella, both physically and emotionally, in the picture. Where Gio was clasping the man’s hand, Isabella stood apart, an air of mistrust about her. Vivien thought of what the woman had told her at the party. What had happened between them at the castillo later on, after the children had arrived there under different circumstances?

  Nevertheless it was a touching present, no doubt about it, and had succeeded in diminishing her own. The watch seemed frivolous in comparison.

  ‘What a thoughtful gift,’ Vivien said tightly. Gio’s preoccupation with the photograph was clear. Well done, Isabella. You win another one.

  But Isabella wasn’t finished. As the trio packed up to leave, the sun fading over the mountains and the shadows lengthening between the trees, Isabella yielded an envelope from her coat pocket. Vivien thought she was about to hand it to Gio, but then, as Gio went ahead of them back to the car, instead she passed it to Vivien.

  Vivien took it. Isabella set off after her brother, and Vivien, confused, hung back and peeled open the offering. Was it a reconciliatory gift? An apology? Later, she would curse herself for such saccharine thinking: she had always been prone to it. Isabella would never do such a thing. But at that moment she fell for the ruse, a part of her still yearning to be friends with Isabella in spite of everything. All that Isabella could be, the sister Vivien had longed for, an ally and confidante. To banish the eternal opposition that haunted her days at the mansion, oh, to make life easy.

  What a fool she was.

  Inside the envelope, something crackled. She withdrew it. One of her empty pill packets stared back at her. Written on the back were the words:

  What’s taking so long, Vivien?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Italy, Summer 2016

  The next morning, I make my excuses to Adalina and catch the bus into town. I sit by the Arno and go online. Now it’s happening, I feel oddly numb. It’s almost a relief that it’s finally out, no longer my privately nurtured sentence but a hanging by public demand. If I’m sent to the gallows, at least I go in good faith.

  It’s everything I feared. Headlines across the news sites holler my worst premonitions: SORDID AFFAIR THAT DROVE GRACE TO SUICIDE; MYSTERY LOVER HAS BLOOD ON HER HANDS; CALLOWAY COPPED OFF WITH SECRET MISTRESS; WHO IS THE WOMAN WHO MURDERED GRACE CALLOWAY?

  I scan the articles, taking in phrases with speed and clarity, my focus absolute as I devour the information like a starved woman faced with a poisonous, seductive feast. It’s like reading about someone I’ve never met, the names remote. One of the UK’s most renowned lawyers, James Calloway, who spearheaded the Freedom For Austin Avery campaign in 2011, lost his wife of nine years, TV personality Grace, earlier this year. Those who knew Grace were shocked at her suicide, and until now little has been certain about what drove the well-liked mother and popular chef to such measures. Today it emerged that Calloway’s affair was the catalyst. Now people are asking: Who is this secret lover, and why hasn’t she come forward?

  I absorb several variations on this, and it takes a while for it to sink in that none of them has my identity. When I’ve summoned the courage, I Google myself. No Lucy Whittakers, at least none connected to the case. The only link I recognise is to my old office contact at Calloway & Cooper. I try a few more variations – Lucy Whittaker affair, Lucy Whittaker Grace Calloway, Lucy Whittaker suicide – but nothing comes up. Relief smacks me in the face, but too quickly it is chased by fear.

  The comments that accompany the items are vile. I know I shouldn’t read them, Internet trolls letting loose behind the anonymity of their screens, but they suck me in like the last slurp of water down a plughole. Who is this slut? No way can she get away with it. Whore. Bitch. Tramp. Husband-stealer. Home wrecker. Grace would still be alive if it weren’t for her. How can she sleep? Doesn’t she have a conscience? Cheating with a married man, one with kids as well. She deserves everything she gets. What a slag. Ugly cow. Find the bitch and bring her in. On and on it goes. Those few dissenters, who argue it’s impossible to blame only the woman and that James Calloway was the one who was actually married, are buried beneath the hate. I feel that hatred bury its way into me, ringing in my ears, making my face hot. The city continues about me, oblivious. The river runs on.

  In a way, I wish my name were mentioned – get it all over at once, let the shame rain down. But this blank canvas is the perfect foil for all their judgements and verdicts. No face to remind them I am human, no name to make it real; instead, the woman who has killed Grace ‘the nation’s darling’ Calloway is an empty space, my sole function to absorb every frustration and anxiety thrown my way. Without my name, I am defenceless. Do I wish to defend myself? Can I? Reading the accounts of what I’ve done, yes, it sounds awful. It doesn’t sound at all like the emails I drafted to James in the library; it doesn’t sound like the truth. And now the country has its chance to vent and loathe, stacking their sentiments against me so that when I am finally revealed – which I surely will be – they can spear the pig once and for all. It is only a matter of time. What appears a pardon is only a delay of the inevitable.

  My phone jumps to life. It’s Bill.

  Are you OK? Call me. Been trying to reach you Xxx

  I tap out a quick return message.

  I’m fine. I’ll ring in a bit. Don’t worry.

  I pause before sending, deciding to add a line about the visitor to my dad’s house. Somebody out there does know my name, not to mention where I live. Dad won’t be any the wiser (I hope) when he follows the woman’s instructions and buys the morning papers. I wonder what he will make of the story. Will he abhor the nameless mistress as much as everyone else? My heart contracts because it’s worse this way. It’ll be worse when the truth emerges, his disbelief, his disappointment…

  Oh, Lucy, my darling…

  I ask Bill if anyone has come to the London flat. Her reply is instant.

  Was about to say no – then remembered this woman, seen her a few times now, hanging around on the street? Caught my eye because nearly every day. Could be same person? Xxx

  Then:

  Don’t mean to scare you. Probs unrelated. Love you Xxx

  I read
her message twice, thinking. I remember the anonymous female caller who spoke to Adalina at the Barbarossa. Then I turn my phone off and put it back in my pocket. It’s like carrying a stone; a heavy reminder that sooner or later I will be compelled to walk into the water with it, and let it sink me down. For now, I stand and disappear into the crowds, just like anyone else, nobody important.

  *

  What I should do and what I end up doing are two separate things. I should call my dad and explain everything. I should come clean, and in doing so mitigate the flood. I should speak to Bill, to my sisters, to anyone else whom it will directly affect because once those people are reconciled, who cares what the rest of the world thinks. I should get in touch with James so that we can get our story straight (how mad that sounds, like accomplices in a robbery, as if there is any other version than the one we knew). I lack courage to do any of these things. Instead, I return to the Barbarossa and head straight to the Oval. As soon as I open the door to this sanctuary, my head clears. My mind becomes lucid and calm. I sit on the bench that must once have held Vivien and her husband. The wood is tight with secrets, hers and mine, and in that moment I desire only to be with her and to tell her what I’ve done. In return, she would tell me. We both loved a man. We both faced another woman and something happened that changed our lives. She would realise we had things in common, after all.

  Adalina thinks I’m gone for the day. The estate is large enough to remain unseen and nobody will find me here. My invincibility feels powerful. The storm raging at home cannot touch the purple skies here. Those London offices buzzing with supposition and speculation are nonsense. I picture the newsrooms pecking on scraps like vultures over carrion: Who is she? Where is she? Where’s our story?