Stolen Beginnings

by Susan Lewis

  Madeleine was the first to speak. ‘So,’ she said, turning her head to look at him, and narrowing her eyes against the brilliant sun, ‘did you get the video?’

  His jaw tightened and he kept his eyes closed – a small physical reaction to relief – and victory. When he faced her his expression held only love, and he smiled at the smear of dry earth on her cheek. He nodded.

  ‘When will you show him?’

  ‘He’s coming here tomorrow night. If you’ll allow it.’

  She tensed, and her breasts swung gently against her rib cage as she sat up. ‘I’ll do it,’ she said finally.

  ‘Do what?’ he asked, smoothing a hand over the breast closest to him.

  She pushed it away. ‘I’ll tell him about the video. There’s no need to show him; after all, he knows what you did together.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we’re going to do this my way. You owe me that.’

  The corner of his mouth flickered into a smile. This sudden display of mettle impressed him and he was intrigued to see what she would do with it, especially as he had now proved to himself, by doing what he had with Harry, that he could control his love for her. ‘I’m in your hands,’ he said. ‘I’ll do whatever you say.’

  The following evening, when Harry arrived, Madeleine was dressed in a pale silk blouse and matching knee-length skirt; her hair was in a low plait and her face, though pale, was devoid of expression. As she opened the door she registered his shock by the mere flicker of an eyebrow, then stood back to let him in.

  He followed her into the sitting-room where Paul was standing with his hands resting on the mantlepiece, staring down at the empty hearth.

  Madeleine stepped to one side and waited. At last Paul turned, and as the two men faced each other it was Harry’s face she watched. It had been clear from the moment he arrived that he hadn’t expected to find her at home, and Madeleine couldn’t stop herself wondering how they would have greeted one another had she not been there.

  ‘Would you like to kiss him?’ she said to Harry.

  Harry’s eyes shot to hers.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Madeleine . . .’ Paul groaned.

  ‘I’ll have a glass of wine, thank you,’ she said, walking across the room and settling herself into a corner of the sofa. ‘Harry, what would you like?’

  Harry looked at Paul, then running a hand nervously through his hair, he said: ‘Look, I think I’d better leave. I don’t . . .’

  ‘Oh no, you can’t leave,’ Madeleine protested. ‘Not yet, anyway. Sit down. Paul will get you a drink.’

  As Harry walked to the opposite sofa he glanced at Paul, waiting for some signal that would tell him how they should play this, but Paul was spooning ice into tumblers and didn’t look up. Since the night Madeleine had caught them together they had made love twice more at Harry’s pied-à-terre in Pimlico. He wondered if she knew about that. He wondered, too, how Paul could stand living with someone like her, someone who degraded herself the way she did.

  He smiled awkwardly and complimented her on the fashion spread that had been in the Daily Mail that day. Her response was a glance from the corner of her eyes, which surprised him – Paul had said that one thing she couldn’t resist was flattery. Suddenly his defences were up. She was going to hurt him, he knew it; there was a dangerous air in the room which he hadn’t noticed before. His eyes darted warily between Madeleine and Paul.

  As Paul handed Madeleine a drink she ran her fingers through the dark hair of his forearm and he stooped to kiss the top of her head. When he stood up again, she looked at Harry. Until now Harry had always managed to keep his homosexuality under control, express it in a way that wouldn’t affect the rest of his life, but seeing Paul respond to this woman ignited feelings in him he was finding it difficult to repress. He recognised the symptoms of love, he’d had them before – but never so quickly and never so profoundly as with Paul. He had even considered what it would be like to live with Paul, openly, but of course that was impossible, and the hopelessness of his situation weighed heavily on him.

  As Paul passed him a drink their fingers touched, and Harry flinched as though he had been burned. He looked no higher than the legs that were in front him, he was frozen by the sudden power of his need.

  Paul went back to the fireplace. The excitement he felt was unbelievable; for the moment he was unable to drink or even to speak, his tension was so great. He had no idea what Madeleine was going to do or say, nor how Harry would react. The only thing he was sure of was that they were both in love with him.

  Folding one leg over the other, Madeleine raised her glass. ‘Here’s to you, Harry. I know you weren’t expecting to see me, but this is my house and Paul is my man.’

  Paul winced, and again Harry ran his fingers nervously through his hair.

  ‘I’ll do anything to keep him,’ she went on, ‘and anything to further his career, as you’re about to find out. It’s not your fault you’re queer, I suppose you’ve got feelings too, but you’re barking up the wrong tree with Paul. The only thing he is after is to get his book published the way he wants, and I told him that going to bed with you would do it. It took me a long time to persuade him, but now he’s done it I’m going to make damned sure he gets what he wants out of it.’

  Harry looked to the floor, mentally hunching himself against the possibility of further blows, but she waited until he looked at her again before continuing. ‘Something you may not know about Paul is the fascination he has for watching himself make love,’ she said. ‘You see the videos there, by the TV? They’re mostly of us – there’s even one of us fucking while we’re watching ourselves fucking on the screen.’

  Paul’s surprise and curiosity glittered in his eyes. She was lying, and he wasn’t yet following her train of thought.

  ‘The video there, on top of the TV,’ she pointed, ‘is of you two. I’ve got a copy, so you can have that one to keep. I’d take it if I were you, because it’s all you’re going to have of him after tonight. Except on the professional front, that is. You see, I am going to be famous, very famous, and I want Paul to be famous as well. He needs your help for that, so I’m going to blackmail you.’

  Jesus Christ! Paul choked and had to turn away before either of them realised he was laughing.

  Only Madeleine saw the deep sadness that seeped into Harry’s eyes as he put his glass down and wiped a hand across his face, and despite everything her heart went out to him.

  When he looked up again, it was at Paul, and slowly he shook his head. ‘There was no need to do it like this.’ His voice was barely above a whisper.

  ‘He’s not,’ Madeleine interrupted. ‘I am. He had no idea what I was going to say to you tonight. He didn’t even know I had a copy of the video. He’s only here now because I wanted him to be. I wanted him to see what I am prepared to do for him.’

  Again Harry looked at Paul, but Paul only shrugged and turned away.

  ‘An unedited publication,’ Madeleine said. ‘That’s what Paul wants – to begin with. After that, well, you can’t tell me there aren’t ways of making sure books get into the best-seller lists, so I want you to do that too. There’ll be more, you may even need some money, which I’ll give you.’ She stopped as Harry stood up and walked over to Paul.

  ‘Why?’ he said, his black eyes searching the handsome, impassive face. ‘Surely you must know that . . .’

  ‘Get away from him!’ Madeleine snapped, and in one quick move she had crossed the room and picked up the video. ‘It’s nothing to do with him. All he wants is his book published, I told you that. Here, take it. Wank over it if you like, but every time you come, think about how much it’s costing you.’

  Ignoring the video, Harry looked clear into her eyes, and his distaste was evident. ‘The cheapness of that remark I will ignore, but the fact that you think you love him, I won’t. Because you don’t have the first idea of what it’s like to be in love with someone other than yourself. Paul will have his book publish
ed, but not because of you, or what you say you’re prepared to do for him – because you’re doing it for no one but yourself. Oh, I know he doesn’t return my feelings, but he will, in time. Which is something it’s going to be a damned sight harder for you live with than it is for me.’

  ‘Don’t kid yourself, Harry.’

  ‘You’re just a child. You know nothing about life. Let me tell you, it’s not easy being homosexual, as Paul is finding out. I’m going to help him.’

  Madeleine laughed. ‘You’d better get in tune with the fact that it’s me he wants, Harry. It’s me who can give him everything, like I do now. And don’t think he’ll be sleeping with you again, because you’re the only queer in this room.’

  As she turned to the door she missed the quick look Paul shot Harry. Harry understood, and saying no more, he picked up his keys. When they got outside he hesitated. ‘You’re hurting inside, Madeleine, I know that. So am I. Out of kindness I suggest . . .’

  ‘Just fuck off, will you?’ And thrusting the video at him, she slammed the door in his face.

  When she returned to the sitting-room Paul was on the sofa nursing his drink, with his legs crossed and one arm stretched across the back. She stood looking across the room at him.

  Paul spoke first. ‘I know what you’re going to say; you want me to understand what you’ve done for me. Well, I do. Whether you’ve succeeded I don’t know, but it was your intention to make him hate you and continue to love me. Am I right?’ She didn’t answer, so he went on. ‘Yes, I’m impressed with the way you’ve thought things out, and shocked by the way you delivered your threat. No, I don’t think there’ll be any problem working with him, I don’t think he’ll blame me for any of this. You’re a genius . . . I see, still nothing to say. OK, I’ve got it. You want me to swear I’ll never have anything to do with him in that way again. I swear.’

  ‘Now tell me you’re a fucking liar. Tell me what a fucking bastard you are.’

  ‘Why should I do that?’

  ‘Because he’s a decent man who’s worth more than a dozen of you, and you made me humiliate him. You stood there and let him shrivel and never said a word. And it was you who fucked him, in every sense of the word.’

  Paul smiled. ‘So you watched the video.’

  ‘I didn’t have to. I’m a woman, for Christ’s sake. I recognised that look on his face. It was the look of someone who’s been used, who’s body has been invaded and abused. But yes, I watched the video, and now you’re going to pay for those lies. I’m not going to leave you because I love you and I can’t help it. But you’re going to pay, Paul O’Connell. My God, are you going to pay.’

  His delight was now evident and he took a sip of his drink before saying: ‘I’m waiting.’

  She left the room and ran up the stairs. Several minutes later he heard her come down again, then go into the bathroom. He heard the rattle of pots, then she came back into the room. When he saw what she was carrying he stood up, delight giving way to uncertainty.

  ‘Take off your clothes,’ she commanded.

  Slowly, keeping his eyes On her, he did as she said.

  ‘Now, turn round and put your hands on the fender,’ she said.

  His eyes widened. He knew now what was coming, and he was afraid of the pain, but at the same time he would do nothing to stop her. When he was in position she opened the jar of vaseline. It was cool on his skin, and he closed his eyes as the blood started to surge through his penis. Then, hearing the gentle whirr of the vibrator, he braced himself; and as it touched him, started to edge into him, his fingers bit hard into the fender. Then her arm jerked and a high-pitched cry escaped through his teeth. She did it again and again, ordering him to scream, to feel the pain, to beg her to stop. But he did neither, and as her hand closed around his erection the semen started to pump from him and he fell to his knees. She spun him round to face her, then gasped at the look in his eyes. They were blood-shot and swollen, awash with tears, and dazed with an agonising, blinding ecstasy.

  – 17 –

  Marian and Bronwen were sitting at a small table outside a café at the corner of the Ponte Vecchio, fanning themselves with menus and sipping iced lemonade. Above them, peeping in patches through the Gothic, Renaissance and Baroque towers, the sky was the most beautiful shade of blue imaginable, with not a cloud in sight. As Marian looked up she thought how tranquil it seemed up there, compared with the mayhem created by the street artists, traders and tourists who seethed all around them. She and Bronwen had arrived in Florence the day before, after a rushed meeting at Heathrow with Stephanie and Matthew, whose flight to New York was called just an hour before theirs. Knowing that she had played a part in their reconciliation depressed Marian, but she had hidden it well, and had even managed a cheerful laugh when Matthew took her to one side and told her she shouldn’t believe a word Woody said about him.

  Overhearing, Stephanie had laughingly put her arm through Marian’s. ‘You see, he’s so conceited he actually believes you meant it when you said you and Woody spent the evening talking about him.’

  ‘But we did,’ Marian said truthfully, though her eyes were alive with humour.

  ‘Of course they did,’ Matthew chipped in. ‘I mean, what else is there to talk about?’

  ‘I could hit him,’ Stephanie said, seriously.

  ‘You already have,’ Matthew reminded her.

  At that point a voice announced the final call for their flight to New York, and Bronwen returned from the telephone.

  ‘A few last minute details,’ she said to Stephanie, and the two of them started to walk towards passport control, leaving Marian and Matthew to follow.

  ‘I’m intrigued by this urgent summons,’ he told her, ‘but I for one will be glad to meet Frank Hastings.’

  ‘Stephanie mentioned something about him wanting to pull the film forward.’

  ‘I know. Which we could if we had something to shoot in Italy. So it’s over to you, oh wise one. Dig up what you can, but remember, no wandering from the beaten track.’

  Her dismay at his words must have shown, because he gave her a quick hug; then he made a joke about being tearful at goodbyes, before prising Stephanie away from Bronwen and marching her through the barriers.

  Now, as she glanced at her watch and calculated what time it would be in New York, Marian smiled sadly to herself. She knew it was foolish to torment herself like this, but Matthew and Stephanie would still be in bed, probably wrapped in each other’s arms, maybe even making love, and a raw despondency crept over her at the complication of her feelings. Her dread of Florence was now nothing to do with Paul, it had only to do with Matthew, and that made no sense at all, except that he wasn’t with her, would never be with her, and Florence – despite the heat and the unbearable tourists – was even more romantic than she’d imagined.

  ‘If Sergio Rambaldi doesn’t arrive in the next five minutes, I’m going to have my picture done by one of those portrait chappies over there, so that when I melt into a little pool you’ll be able to remember what I looked like,’ Bronwen complained.

  ‘Do you think he’ll turn up?’ Marian asked, as she watched a party of school children file past.

  Bronwen shrugged. ‘Right now I’m so hot I couldn’t care less. Why did he have to suggest we meet here? Couldn’t he have picked somewhere that was at least in the shade?’

  Marian moved her chair round to let a Japanese couple pass, then gasped as one of their cameras got caught in her straw hat. ‘Well, that’s good-bye to my dignity,’ she remarked wryly, after they’d apologised, picked up her hat then gawked at the way her hair was plastered in tiny clips to her head.

  ‘Put it on again before anyone sees,’ Bronwen laughed, then watching the ebb and flow of tourists as they crossed the bridge, she pulled a face. ‘They must be mad, coming here at this time of year. Look at them, they’re all sog and dust, and the smell of those drains is making me ill.’

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Marian said, as a particularl
y foul stench wafted past on a solitary breeze. Though she liked the city herself, she could see now why Paul had described it as being steeped in its own past; despite the crowds and the roaring traffic, the ancient buildings had an air of detachment from what was going on around them, as if they were yawning sleepily and closing their shutters to the mild irritation of twentieth-century life.

  ‘Do you know if Matthew’s ever been to Florence?’ Marian asked casually.

  ‘I’ve no idea, cariad, but heaven help us if he were to come here filming at this time of year. Can you imagine poor Woody trying to stop the traffic?’ She chuckled at the very absurdity of it. ‘And knowing Matthew, he’d make him. Mind you, knowing Woody, he’d probably succeed.’

  ‘They go back a long way, those two, don’t they? Woody was telling me all about it the night I went out with him.’

  ‘I think so, yes. They were certainly working together when Stephanie first knew Matthew. What do you think of Woody? No romance blossoming there between you two, is there?’

  ‘No. Apart from anything else, he’s married. And even if he weren’t, I don’t think I’m quite his type.’

  ‘No offence, cariad, but I think you’re right. He likes the ones who carry their brains a bit lower than their heads, if you get my meaning.’

  Marian chuckled. ‘So that they’ll be on a level with his, you mean?’

  Bronwen burst out laughing. ‘You’ve obviously got Woody well and truly sussed. But you wait ‘til we start shooting, then you’ll see some real sharks. Woody’s quite mild by comparison, according to Stephanie. But he’s good at his job, which is all she’s concerned about, and apparently he calms down quite a bit once the filming gets under way.’

  ‘I wonder what Matthew’s like when he’s shooting?’

  ‘Unbearable, probably. Most directors are.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Tension.’