Stolen Beginnings

by Susan Lewis

  As she ambled down the steps Deidre inhaled the flowery fragrance and slipped on her sunglasses to shield her eyes from the brilliant sun. At the edge of the pool she sat down to watch Paul as his powerful arms carved a path through the translucent water. Geneviève, a local woman who took care of the villa, brought out a pitcher of iced lemonade and two glasses. Deidre thanked her, and a few minutes later she heard the front door slam. Geneviève had gone home.

  Paul whistled as Deidre removed her sarong and stretched her legs out on the lounger. She held up a glass of lemonade, but he shook his head and plunged back into the water.

  After a while her thoughts drifted to the telephone call she had received from Sergio the week before. But for that, she might not have been in the South of France at all, but things had changed, he’d told her – he wanted Madeleine soon, though he wouldn’t say when, or tell her what had happened to cause the agitation in his voice. Since the call she’d had many sleepless nights; she would do everything he wanted, she was sure of that, but already her troubled conscience was causing her real distress.

  Over the past few weeks she had become wary of Paul, wondering why he’d never told Madeleine the truth about himself – his wealth, his connections, his heritage. Why had he shaken it off, she wondered, and how much longer could he keep it hidden? She wanted to ask him the reason for his deceit, but Sergio had warned her not to. There was a connection between those two men that she was beginning to find sinister even though she did not know the nature of it; and that Madeleine was caught between them only added to her feelings of foreboding and guilt. Shamir’s sporadic coolness, and the rift in Madeleine’s family, bothered her too. Somehow it seemed to push Madeleine into an isolation that only she recognised. That was the real reason why she was in France: she wanted to be near Madeleine. She was anxious about Madeleine, too, because she was sure that something important had happened in New York, though neither Paul nor Madeleine would admit it. Whatever it was, it seemed to have brought the two of them closer together, and for that at least Deidre was grateful.

  Suddenly her hand tightened on the glass she was holding. She hated salving her conscience like this. As long as someone loved Madeleine, was that what she was telling herself? A token of happiness before she, Deidre, and Sergio destroyed everything? Because if Madeleine were to disappear, in the same way as Olivia and for as long as Olivia, everything would be destroyed. Deidre closed her eyes, trying to block out the haunting, apocalyptic visions that had started to torment her night and day. Could she really allow Madeleine to pay the price of her own happiness? Could she really sacrifice her like that? The answer was that she could, she had waited too long to let her dreams go now. Five years Olivia had been at the bottega, five years; would Sergio release her once he had Madeleine? But no, he had said that they would come back to the world together. So she would come back, she would know love and life again. Did that make it better? Yes, dammit, it did. And if Paul were to be honest, she really could believe he loved Madeleine, and that would make it all so much easier . . . She jerked herself to her feet. Who was she trying to fool? Nothing would make it easier. Nothing!

  ‘Aren’t you coming in?’ Paul called out as she walked away.

  Without turning round Deidre raised a hand and told him the sun had given her a headache.

  Escaping into the cool shadows of the dining-room she heard girlish laughter and turned back. Shamir and Madeleine were coming in through the battered wooden gate at the side wall. She watched as they sauntered through the long grass, then lazily stripped off their clothes at the pool’s edge. Behind them was the orchard, rich and colourful with unplucked fruit, and the sea sparkling blue on the horizon; as Madeleine turned her golden head, Deidre’s heart turned over at her resemblance to the Graces in Botticelli’s Allegory of Spring. Was that why Sergio wanted her? Had he seen the resemblance too?

  An hour later, after she’d called the office and tried unsuccessfully to reach Sergio, Deidre wandered back onto the terrace. There was no sign of the others, so she decided to go upstairs to see if she could sleep off her headache before they went for dinner . . .

  Paul was lying in the grass between Madeleine and Shamir, all three of them naked, all three asleep. They were hidden from view by the loose stone wall that bulged from the rock garden, and oblivious to the beginnings of a glorious sunset that smouldered on the horizon.

  At last Madeleine stirred, woken by the cool evening air. She sat up, then touching Paul’s cheek, said she was going inside to take a bath. He opened his eyes and pulled her down for a kiss. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked.

  She nodded.

  ‘Love you,’ he whispered.

  She climbed drowsily to her feet and he watched as she rounded the honeysuckle and meandered up the steps to the terrace. He waited a minute or two, then hearing the door swing closed behind her, turned his head to Shamir. Her black hair was spread like a fire-burned bush on the grass round her head, her eyes were closed, her wide, full lips slightly parted. In the pink wash of the setting sun her skin glowed like dying embers.

  Raising himself on one elbow, Paul stretched out a hand and smoothed it over her flat belly. Her eyelids flickered, telling him she was awake, and he smiled as he eased his fingers into the black hair at the join of her legs. She lifted a knee, then let it fall to one side, and he probed the moist flesh, circling and stroking, then lowered his mouth to her hardening nipples.

  Her hand found his penis, imprisoning it in a firm but gentle grip, and he allowed her to massage him for a while, bringing him to the aching fullness of erection. Then he pushed her hand away and moved over her, holding himself above her with his hands planted on either side of her. Slowly, as her long legs encircled his waist, he lowered himself onto her. She gave a soft murmur as their bodies joined, then her eyes opened and she stared up at him. He waited for the slow smile, then gently pulled back and pushed into her again. His mouth covered hers and he probed the depths with his tongue while rotating his hips the way she liked it.

  The roof of The Grill at the top of the Hotel de Paris was already open when they arrived. The sky was black, the stars pin-points of glittering light and the smell of fresh fish grilling on the wood fire mingled with the heavy scent of perfumed bodies. Madeleine’s party was the last to arrive, the others were already seated at the table for twelve which stood alongside the huge windows that overlooked the Riviera. But for once the magnificent view was not drawing attention. From the other side of the room the buzz around their table was evident, but it wasn’t until they sat down that Madeleine discovered the reason for it – Enrico Tarallo was sitting alone at a table several feet away.

  ‘They say his wife’s death hit him hard,’ one of the girls told her. ‘Apparently he’s been on his yacht for days, refusing to speak to anyone.’

  ‘I feel really sorry for him,’ said another. ‘He looks so sad. I wonder where his children are?’

  ‘With the grandmother, no doubt. Apparently she’s one of the richest women in Italy and he stands to inherit the lot.’

  ‘Did you ever see his wife?’ Shamir asked of no one in particular. ‘Quite unspeakably plain.’

  ‘And quite unspeakably rich, at least, her family are. Wonder if that was why he married her? They go in for that sort of thing in Italy, don’t they? You know, arranged marriages. Bet he’s dying for a bit of glamour now he’s got rid of the wife, how do you fancy my chances?’ It was Sophie, one of Deidre’s more recent signings, who had spoken, and Deidre eyed her with marked distaste. ‘Well,’ Sophie said sulkily, ‘what else is he doing in a place like this?’

  ‘Minding his own business,’ one of the photographers answered pointedly.

  But the conversation didn’t end there, and it quickly became evident that Sophie had only spoken what every other girl was thinking.

  Madeleine was unusually quiet, but Paul noticed the way she kept glancing in Tarallo’s direction. He was seated between Shamir and Deidre, who was at the head of the tab
le, and Madeleine was opposite him, beside Sophie. There had never been any love lost between the two girls, and he wondered if Madeleine was attempting to flirt with Tarallo just to annoy Sophie. Except that she wasn’t flirting, it was as if she was trying to relay compassion to the man – which both surprised and annoyed him. He began studying the driver himself, sizing him up as a possible rival, but it was hard to take the idea seriously. Though Enrico was sitting down, it was obvious that his height would miss Madeleine’s by at least an inch, and his hair was receding, and his physique, while not exactly puny, could hardly be described as muscular, either. Nevertheless Madeleine’s interest was manifest and when Shamir’s hand slipped across his thigh Paul brushed it off irritably.

  Enrico himself was fully aware of the attention he was generating, particularly from Madeleine, the only one in the party he recognised, apart from Paul. He neither reciprocated nor encouraged her glances, he merely gazed straight through her, but inside him was a fury that burned like a furnace. He loathed the empty-headed superficiality of women like Madeleine Deacon. Such beauty was ugly when flaunted the way she flaunted hers, and he was enraged at the affront she offered when she crossed her legs and revealed a side-split in her dress that ran right up to her waist. Her lack of underwear disgusted him. Did she think to excite him when she, like the rest of the world, must know that his wife had been dead for less than two weeks? Suddenly he could stand no more and called for the waiter.

  Madeleine heard him cancel his dinner, then watched as he got up from the table.

  ‘Do you think grief has got the better of his appetite?’ said one of the models at the other end of the table.

  ‘No, he’s angry,’ Madeleine answered quietly. ‘We’re treating him like an animal in a zoo.’

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ Sophie sneered.

  Madeleine started, realising only then that she was more guilty than any of them and the look of malevolence Enrico directed at her as he left the restaurant turned her face pink with embarrassment.

  She lowered her head, and sensing that she was about to cry, Paul got up from his chair and led her from the restaurant to an alcove beside the lifts.

  ‘What is it?’ he whispered, putting his hands on her shoulders.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she answered, trying to swallow the tears. ‘I just felt so sorry for him. He looked so lonely sitting there, and so sad.’

  ‘That’s why you’re crying?’

  There was a catch in her breath as she inhaled deeply. ‘I don’t know. No, not really. It’s Marian, but I know you don’t want to talk about it, so . . .’

  ‘Maddy, we’ve talked about little else since she came to the Plaza, that’s the only reason I don’t want to discuss it again. And do you, really, in your heart?’

  ‘No, I suppose not. It doesn’t get me anywhere.’

  ‘Of course it doesn’t, because it’s in the past. All that matters now is us.’

  ‘I know. But seeing Enrico Tarallo like that, I know it sounds silly, but it reminded me of her. I was all right before I saw her, I didn’t really think about her any more.’

  ‘You’ll get over it, darling, and I’m here.’ He hooked his fingers under her chin and tilted her face up to his. ‘You do want me to be, don’t you?’

  She smiled. ‘Of course I do.’

  ‘I was beginning to think you were setting your sights on Tarallo.’

  ‘Oh Paul, as if I could even look at another man.’

  ‘You managed it with Tarallo.’

  ‘But that was different. I told you, I felt sorry for him. You’re not angry, are you?’ she said, looking curiously into his face.

  ‘No,’ he sighed. ‘Yes, dammit, I am. I’m angry because I get so bloody jealous where you’re concerned.’

  ‘I like it when you’re jealous,’ she laughed, ‘it makes me feel secure.’

  He smiled and looked searchingly into her eyes. ‘Kiss?’ he whispered.

  She nodded, and putting her arms round his neck, she raised her mouth to his.

  ‘Ready to go in again?’ he murmured, as he pulled away.

  ‘I think so.’ And slipping her hand into his, she allowed him to lead her back to the restaurant. ‘Paul?’ she said, as they were going through the door. Do you know Enrico Tarallo?’

  She felt the grip tighten on her fingers as he turned round. ‘No,’ he said, truthfully, ‘but I do know someone who does.’

  When Enrico got back to his room he lay down on the bed, already regretting the look he had given the girl. It was not her fault, he should not condemn her for something she could not help. She had probably meant no harm, but the display of her legs and the searching of her eyes had seemed to mock him. Yet, he had known that morning, as he stood on the deck of the Rosaria, with the great citadel of Monaco in the distance like a mirage in the haze, that it was wrong for him to come to such a place. But he had come, and now his anger increased the tension inside him.

  After the funeral he had left his home and taken his pain to the sea. There he had yelled at the injustice of so young a death, his words petering out in the vast space, his loss swelling so that he felt it might strangle him. He had grieved in a way that no man would want witnessed, lacerating himself with memories, doing all he could to deepen the pain – but it was already so great that he could not increase the punishment further. There were so many things he could have done, should have done, so much he still had to say, but would never be able to now.

  It was a long time before he drew himself up from the bed. His heart was like a weapon, discharging pain through his body and he wondered if it would ever end.

  High-spirited laughter and female shrieks took him to the window and he saw the Deacon girl and her party leaving the hotel. He was suddenly glad of his earlier virulence and hoped he had wounded her. She deserved it, for being alive and meaning nothing.

  As he turned back into the room Rosaria’s face was watching him from the frame beside his bed. She seemed to be laughing, as though amused by his belligerence. Grudgingly, he smiled too. He was becoming engrossed in things that didn’t matter.

  When the operator connected him with his home in Tuscany he was told that Sylvestra and his sons were already on their way to Sardinia, so he telephoned the Rosaria’s crew and arranged for them to fly into Nice the next day. The morning after they would sail to Sardinia where he would put an end to this bitter lamentation and take up his life with those he loved.

  Those he loved. The jaws of guilt yawned, presenting him with a picture of Arsenio. The slick, jet hair he combed behind his ears, the wide brown eyes, pronounced Florentine nose and laughing mouth. That was how he had been once – but not any longer. For hadn’t his looks forsaken him, along with his family? Enrico swung round, as if to answer the accusing voice. He loved Arsenio above all men. What he’d done was for his brother’s own good. But his excuses, as always, seemed to lack conviction and he knew that the day was drawing close when he must face what both he and Arsenio had done, and – with Rosaria no longer there to protect him – what Sergio Rambaldi had done too.

  It was Madeleine’s birthday. That morning, over a champagne breakfast on the villa’s terrace, she had received cards and gifts from Deidre and Shamir, and when she’d arrived at the harbour – the location for that day’s shoot – the Pirelli executives and the photographer had presented her with a collection of exotic underwear accompanied by a particularly obscene cactus.

  ‘Very funny,’ she said, pinching Shamir, who was laughing so hard she’d started to choke; but it had set the mood for the day, and by the time she returned to the villa she was exhausted from laughing so much.

  Now she was upstairs in her room, dressing for the dinner Deidre was giving in her honour. But as she perched on the edge of the bed and started to coat her tanned legs with oil from ‘The Look’ range, she wasn’t thinking about the celebrations, or the surprise Paul had in store for her, she was thinking about Enrico Tarallo. She had seen him again that afternoon, standing on
the deck of his boat, and when she’d seen the name of the boat her heart had gone out to him, just as it had the night before. She’d had the impulse then to go over and invite him to the party tonight, but as she started to move from the set she suddenly remembered not only the look he had thrown at her, but the way Paul had responded to her interest in him. It was a shame, she was thinking to herself now, because there was something about him that made her want to get to know him.

  As she stretched out her legs and hitched her flesh-toned body-stocking higher on her hips, Paul watched her, one hand resting on the ceiling beam over his head, the other holding a drink. Together with the delicious aroma from the kitchens and the haunting music of Gluck’s Dance of the Blessed Spirits, night insects floated in through the open window, flinging themselves against the brass candle lamps on either side of the bed. The delicate glow fell in a nimbus around Madeleine’s blonde head and touched her skin with coppery light. She looked lovely.

  ‘I love you,’ he said.

  Unaware that he’d been watching her, Madeleine started, then smiled at the way he looked, his crisp white shirt tucked into the black trousers of his dinner suit, his bow tie hanging loosely around the collar, waiting to be knotted. She stood up and went to put her arms round him, and he slid a hand down her back, drawing her closer as he moulded his lips gently over hers.

  When he pulled away he still held her, looking deep into her eyes. ‘Aren’t you going to tell me you love me?’ he said.

  ‘I love you,’ she breathed, and he laughed.

  He knew she’d seen Enrico, and Shamir had told him how pensively she had gazed at him. But he wasn’t unduly worried. The man had made his feelings plain in that one inimical glare the night before, and Madeleine’s assurances that she did not find him attractive had been satisfyingly vehement when he had challenged her over it again as they were getting into bed.