by Susan Lewis
The bedside light was still on and rays of sunlight streamed through the window, cutting into her eyes like blades. Groaning, she turned her face back into the pillow. A few minutes later she tried to get up, but the room dipped away from her as her stomach rose and she threw up all over the floor.
‘Oh, what’s happening to me?’ she mumbled. ‘Mum, where are you? I think I’m going to die.’
As she drifted back towards oblivion, the door suddenly crashed open and Franz rushed in. Picking up her dressing-gown, he threw it at her and told her to get up.
‘I can’t,’ she slurred.
‘Get up!’ he shouted, ‘all hell’s breaking loose downstairs. Matthew overheard Rory telling us . . .’
‘Telling you what?’ Marian asked, her eyes closed and her lips barely moving. ‘Franz?’ she said, prising open an eye, but thankfully he was gone.
But again the blissful escape eluded her as someone shook her shoulder and called her name. She dragged her eyelids apart and tried to focus on the face.
‘Marian! Marian! It’s Stephanie, can you hear me?’
‘Mm,’ Marian mumbled.
‘Oh my God. Josey, see if you can find the unit nurse and get the maid up here to clean up.’
Marian passed out then, but Stephanie waited with her until the nurse arrived.
‘Sleep,’ the nurse declared. ‘The only guaranteed cure for a hangover.’
‘I was more worried about alcohol poisoning,’ Stephanie informed her. ‘She’s not used to drink.’
The nurse shook her head. ‘Unlikely. Besides, she seems to have vomited up most of it. I’ll keep an eye on her for the rest of the day, but there’s no cause for alarm.’
‘That’s what you think,’ Stephanie muttered, and casting an exasperated, though sympathetic look at the sleeping figure, she left the room.
At the end of the day Matthew stormed into the production office with Bob Fairley and ordered everyone out. He waited only until the door closed behind the runner before rounding on Bob. ‘I respect your position as crew chief,’ he said, ‘but if you won’t do it, I will. She’s a kid, for Christ’s sake. What does he think he’s playing at?’
‘Matthew, calm down. Try to see this rationally.’
‘There’s nothing rational about getting a child drunk and then taking advantage of her.’
‘She’s not a child! She’s twenty-three, old enough to take care of herself.’
Matthew thumped his hand on the desk. ‘That is patently not the case! And last night proves it. Jesus Christ, I heard him boasting about it myself. I want him off this shoot.’
Bob blew out a cloud of cigar smoke and strolled over to the desk. When he was face to face with Matthew he said: ‘We’ve known one another for a lot of years, you and I, so how about some straight talking? You’re getting yourself involved in something that we both know you wouldn’t normally give a second thought to. So what’s really going on here?’
Matthew was the first to surrender the stare and sank back into the seat behind him, rubbing a hand over his face. ‘I don’t know, Bob,’ he sighed. ‘I just don’t know. I guess it’s the way I behaved over that bloody shot. I feel so damned responsible.’ His head snapped up. ‘But that bastard bragged about what he’d done. The man’s a menace where women are concerned. He’s got the pick of the bloody unit, so why Marian?’
‘Why not Marian, Matthew?’
Matthew’s face was stony. ‘What are you trying to say, Bob?’
‘I think you know. However your feelings are your own affair, Rory is mine. What happened last night was a set-up, and Rory wasn’t the only one involved. Are you going to fire Hazel, too?’
Suddenly Matthew’s fury returned. ‘She doesn’t have the equipment to commit rape! Go away!’ he shouted as someone knocked on the door.
‘Pardon me for interrupting,’ Rory said, pushing the door open, ‘but I’d like to talk to you, Matthew.’
For a moment Matthew glared at him, then turning to Bob he said, ‘Would you mind asking them to wait rushes tonight, this might take some time.’
‘OK,’ Bob answered, and with a solemn look at his operator, he left the room.
‘Well,’ Matthew said, getting up from the chair and walking round the desk, ‘what have you got to say for yourself?’
Beneath the tan Rory’s face was pallid, and as he combed his fingers nervously through his hair his eyes moved uncomfortably about the room. ‘I just wanted to tell you that it wasn’t . . . that it didn’t . . . That I didn’t sleep with her. What you overheard me saying at breakfast . . . Well, I was lying.’
‘Oh no,’ Matthew said, shaking his head, ‘no, I’m not buying that.’ His mouth curled with distaste. ‘Christ, what kind of a man are you? Can’t you at least face up to what you’ve done, take what . . .’
‘I would take whatever was coming to me, if it was justified,’ Rory interrupted, ‘but in this instance it’s not. I didn’t sleep with her, she’s still a virgin.’
Matthew sank back against the desk, relief sapping the strength from his legs. But as he spoke there was still a trace of anger in his voice. ‘Then why did you tell everyone you did?’
‘You’re not going to believe this, but it was to get them off her back. They had it fixed in their heads that someone should . . . well, you know . . . and they asked me. At first I thought they were kidding. Then I realised they were serious, and that if I said no, they’d only get someone else to do it. So I pretended to go along with it.’
‘You expect me to believe that?’
‘Yes. Christ, Matthew, do you think I have to resort to sleeping with drunken virgins to get my kicks?’
‘It was you who got her drunk in the first place,’ Matthew snapped.
‘I know. I’m sorry about that, but it was the only way I could see of getting her so that she didn’t know what was happening to her, so that she might wonder . . . Oh God, it’s no use, I have to be honest and say that I wanted to. I really wanted to. She’s bloody attractive, and she was broken up about what happened with that shot, anyone could see . . . Well, I know it might sound ridiculous but I started to feel protective towards her, and then she was lying there on the bed and . . . Well, maybe I would have if she hadn’t passed out. But she did, so I put her into bed and left her. Then I told the others I’d done it, so that they would leave her alone. I swear to you, that’s what happened. But I still think the others should believe that I did sleep with her, otherwise it’ll only happen again and the next guy might not be quite so . . .’ he shrugged self-consciously ‘. . . quite so honourable.’
At that moment the phone rang and, still watching Rory, Matthew snatched it up. As he listened his face turned white. ‘Does she know?’ he said. He waited, then leaping to his feet he cried: ‘I’ll meet you there. We’ll continue this later,’ he told Rory, and rushed out of the room.
By the time he reached the eighth floor, Stephanie had already arrived. ‘It seems they’ve been trying to trace her for a couple of days,’ she told him as he got out of the lift. ‘The call just came through.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘In her room. I thought I ought to tell you before I go to see her. I . . .’
‘I’ll tell her.’
Stephanie was taken aback by his vehemence, but started to protest. Matthew caught her by the shoulders and forced her to look at him. ‘I said, I’ll tell her.’
‘I see,’ she said quietly. ‘She means that much to you, does she?’
His hands tightened their grip and she shrank away from his look. ‘Marian’s mother is dead and you ask me a question like that,’ he hissed. Then, releasing her, he turned and walked on down the corridor. Stephanie watched him go, her face devoid of colour and a dreadful premonition swelling in the recesses of her mind.
He held her in his arms, rocking her gently as quiet sobs shook her body. The room was in darkness now, but he made no attempt to turn on the light. She would be leaving in the morning, again alone – why
did she always seem so alone? He wanted to go with her, but of course that was impossible. All he could do was hold her, try to let her know how sorry he was – for everything.
Eventually she lifted her head from his shoulder and looked at him with eyes that were full of pain and bewilderment. ‘Maddy,’ she said. ‘I’d better ring Maddy.’
‘I’ll do it.’ He picked up the phone and asked to be connected to the Plaza. While he waited she took the receiver from his hand.
‘Let me tell her,’ she said.
‘Are you sure?’
She nodded, then hearing a voice at the other end she said: ‘Paul, it’s Marian. Can I speak to Madeleine, please?’
‘I don’t know how you’ve got the nerve to call here,’ Paul spat. ‘Don’t you think you’ve done enough damage? I don’t know what you said to her yesterday, but I’m going to make damned sure you don’t get the chance to do it again.’
‘Paul. Please, it’s my mother . . .’ But the line went dead.
‘It’s all right,’ Matthew said, taking the phone from her, ‘I’ll deal with it,’ and after he’d replaced the receiver he wrapped her in his arms again, and sitting back against the pillows, he held her, stroking her hair and her face and trying to soothe the exhaustion and suffering from her limbs.
She slept for a while, and when she woke and found him still there, she smiled. He smiled back.
‘How are you feeling now?’ he whispered.
‘I don’t really know. As if I’m in a nightmare, I think. But you being here . . .’ She swallowed. ‘I’m sorry, Matthew. I’m sorry about the shot. I didn’t . . .’
‘Ssh,’ he said, pulling her back into his arms. ‘It doesn’t matter. And I’m the one who should be sorry.’
He heard her laugh and pushed her gently away to look at her. As she gazed back at him, her eyes overflowing with tears, his hand spread through her hair and he felt a tightening in his chest that was almost painful.
‘Oh, Marian,’ he murmured, looking from her eyes to her mouth. Then pulling her towards him, he covered her lips with his own, and easing her gently back against the pillows, he lay over her, kissing her, holding her and comforting her.
The following morning Marian made a solitary figure in the Concorde lounge of Kennedy airport. Matthew had come with her in the taxi, but now he was gone, leaving her as if in a crevice between despair and happiness. Every now and again tears sprang painfully to her eyes. Matthew . . . But she couldn’t think about him, she could only think about her mother. She knew now that when she had called two nights ago, Celia had been dying and no one knew.
Lifting her head, she gazed out of the window, her eyes turned to the sky. For a long time she watched the clouds, drifting, changing shape, so gentle, so soft, while in her heart there was a maelstrom of grief. Oh Mum, she whispered, if you can hear me, I love you. Please God, tell my mother that I love her. Please take care of her. Then, as a crushing wave of sadness swept through her, she closed her eyes and silently cried, Please God, don’t let this be true; please let her be there when I get home.
Finally a voice came over the tannoy announcing her flight, and she lowered her head. So much had happened in these past few days and she had tried so hard to face everything, to prove to herself that she could be strong, but now it was impossible to go on. In her heart she cried out for someone to lean on, someone to care, someone to be with her now – but there was no one, and she was racked by such loneliness and sorrow that for a moment she couldn’t move. She took a deep breath, willing herself to withstand this; then, feeling a hand on her arm, she looked up, ready to tell the stewardess that she was coming. But a look of confusion came over her face when she saw the kind and compassionate eyes that were smiling down at her.
‘Come along,’ Grace said softly, ‘I’m coming with you.’
– 23 –
Tired rays of a late summer sun fractured the shadows of the meandering, dark alleys. Burnt sienna buildings, cracked and crumbling, rose in towering curves over the cobbles, their shutters closed and plants trailing from their wrought-iron balconies. The ground was parched, drains seeped a pungent aroma into the soggy air, and the muted cries of children at play laced the afternoon stillness.
As he walked, Sergio pushed his hands into his pockets and allowed his weary eyes to lose focus. Firenze. The great city of the Renaissance. Horses, traders, the swirl of worsted skirts, the clink of florins, the stench of the gutter; the filth, the opulence, the poverty – he could feel it all. A coach thundering past, a beggar clutching at his legs, and in the distance the Medici trumpets muted by the sounds of rejoicing as 11 Magnifico passed by. Then the crackle and hiss of Savonarola’s bonfires, followed by the triumphant cries of his executioners. A voice seemed to echo through the tragic din, persistently calling his name, until the plangent sounds of the quattrocento faded and the voice rang clear. Looking up, Sergio saw one of his students leaning from a window and waving to him. He waved back, and as he moistened his lips the bitter taste of marble dust coated his tongue; his fingers still bore the indent of the chisel.
Smiling at his entrapment between past and present, Sergio stopped and let the euphoria wash over him. He was a part of Florence, just as it was a part of him. Every face, every stone, every masterpiece spoke to his soul, nourishing his ambition until it became a crying hunger for recognition – a recognition that would belong not only to him, but to his cherished city. He could no more deny this hunger than he could the life-giving needs of his body. When it was all over, people would say that he was insane; it would be their only way of rationalising what he had done. It saddened him to think that they would never know the ecstasy, as well as the torment, of his mind, but maybe one day, when the shock had lessened, they would begin to understand.
Years ago, when he was a young man of twenty, he had thought he might be a reincarnation of the great man himself. But as he grew older he realised that though neither his dedication nor his suffering was any less than Michelangelo’s, his art, though achieved with the tools and through the mind of the great genius, must take a different path. It was time now, in the twentieth century, to celebrate woman.
He moved on, a sudden lightness in his heart. His route led him through the elongated courtyard of the Uffizi. Ahead were the pietra serena arches, beyond them the Arno. When he reached the embankment he stopped at a news-stand to buy the evening paper.
He wasn’t surprised to find the story relegated to the second page – it had broken the day before, and now the whole world knew the secret tragedy of the Tarallos. Rosaria Tarallo, wife of Enrico Tarallo and mother of his sons, was dying of cancer. Enrico had returned to Italy, saying he would no longer drive the great Ferrari machine.
Sergio walked on, but now his pace was slow, and in his heart the shadow of grief darkened. It had been a long time since he had allowed himself to think about the Tarallo family, but now the memories of his childhood came flooding back. He could see Rosaria as a child – always, even then, she was with Enrico, she had been devoted to him. And he, Sergio, had loved her too, but as a sister. She had listened to him, shared his dreams and never mocked. With everyone else she had been shy and afraid, but Enrico had protected her, shielding her from the cruelty of her own mother, just as Sylvestra, Enrico’s grandmother, had protected the young Sergio from the cruelty of his. But he had seen his mother so rarely that Sylvestra had come to take her place. Sylvestra, the grand lady who lived in the palazzo had treated him, the urchin who played in the dirt and dust of the village, like a son. As Enrico had treated him like a brother. The Tarallos had become his family, he had been there when Enrico’s father died, he had shared their lives and loved them. But in the end he had betrayed them.
He stopped, and putting a hand on the wall to steady himself, he tried to push the memory of Arsenio’s beautiful face from his mind. Arsenio, the beloved younger brother of Enrico and cherished grandson of Sylvestra. Arsenio, the boy who had come to worship him, who had begged him to take him in
to the bottega.
He walked on, unable now to stop the memories flowing back to him. The tragedy, the heartache, the suffering he had caused to the family that had been like his own.
He let himself into his apartment. The air was stale, but he didn’t open the windows and throw back the shutters. Instead he removed his clothes and stood under the shower. It all seemed such a long time ago, but there were times when his skin crawled at the memory of the blood. And yet one day, when their work was at an end, the whole world would reel at the magnitude and method of his accomplishment. His place in history would be assured, but he was paying the price.
The following morning Rosaria’s death was announced on the radio news. Now Sergio knew, he would soon feel the full wrath of the magnificent Sylvestra and the depth of her hatred. But now more than ever he must not forget his life’s work – nor his need for revenge on Paul O’Connell, the man who had caused him, and thus the Tarallos, so much pain. Thoughtfully, he picked up the phone to call Dario in London.
Deidre strolled out of the villa at La Turbie and onto the terrace. Clusters of geraniums and trailing lobelias sprouted from baskets that hung overhead, reaching out to the climbing rose that had been trained artfully over the balustrade. Beyond the terrace and on either side of the honeysuckle-covered steps was a rock garden, and from the steps a weathered stone path led through the grass and under a pergola, where it divided to circle the swimming pool. From an upstairs window the view down over Monte Carlo, the sea and the Italian coast in the distance, was uninterrupted and spectacular.
The villa belonged to a friend who was on business in the Far East until the end of the month. Deidre, at Madeleine’s expense, had taken it for the week of the Pirelli shoot, which was now almost at an end. That night they were joining a group of models and photographers who were on the Riviera as the guests of the Société des Bains de Mer, for dinner at the Hotel de Paris. The following evening Deidre was organising a small party at the villa to celebrate the end of the session – and Madeleine’s twenty-first birthday.
