by Primula Bond
‘No, no, don’t listen to this, Gustav. Please!’
But Gustav steps forward, his fists up again. ‘I’m warning you, Pierre!’
‘It didn’t happen. OK? Nothing happened! I didn’t fuck her! We were disturbed, and Serena pushed me away the moment she felt these bloody scars on my back. They’re my brand. They always spoil everything. She kicked me right in the bollocks and then she was out of the boat like a bat out of hell.’
Gustav stares at his brother, then down at his fists. He uncurls his fingers, one by one, and flexes them as if they hurt. Then he opens them, as if letting something fly away.
‘Which is exactly what Serena told me.’
‘Voilà.’ Pierre joins his own hands together and taps his mouth with his forefinger before pointing it at me. ‘Mea culpa. She’s obviously been terrified of telling you how close we came, but none of it, not one moment, was her fault. And I’m so, so sorry. I’ve had time to think about this, time away from Margot, time away from you. I tried to do a terrible thing. I won’t blame you if you banish me from your life again. But it only happened because she thought I was you, Gustav, you lucky bastard. Serena loves you.’
Gustav slowly unfolds his arms and bends to straighten the log basket. He picks up his beer glass and stares into the amber froth.
‘Do you love her, though? Did you fall in love with my fiancée?’
Pierre rubs his hands over the new black curls, making them bounce and stand on end. He stands like that for a moment as if pressing thoughts into his head. Then he slaps his hands down.
‘Look at her. I think she’s incredible. Beautiful, talented and wise beyond her years to have entranced you the way she has. I was blinded. Knocked off my feet. Exactly the same way you were. But ultimately I think I’m incapable of loving anyone, G.’ He shrugs, unaware that he’s echoing the words I used before. ‘Except you.’
Gustav nods, a mixture of sadness and weary amusement playing round his mouth.
‘In which case I feel sorry for you, Pierre. And angry. But I’m angry with myself more than anything. I took my eye off the ball. But this isn’t about me. It’s down to Serena to forgive you.’
Pierre hesitates, then walks across to the window. His musky scent reaches me before he does: attractive, strong, yet my temples are throbbing painfully before he reaches me and holds out his hand. I remain motionless, the window hard and cold behind me.
‘I’m sorry, Serena. I behaved atrociously to a lovely girl who didn’t deserve it. I took a chance, like I always do, and put you in a terrible position. But maybe I did you a favour—’
‘Pierre!’ Gustav growls, putting his beer glass down with a smack and taking a step towards us. ‘That’s not the way it’s done!’
‘—because I only demonstrated, if it needed demonstrating, that the two of you are still unbreakable.’
Pierre’s hand is firm, unwavering, in the air in front of me. There is a long silence, so deep I can hear the fridge humming in the kitchen and two birds arguing on the roof above us. I feel light and insubstantial as I take Pierre’s hand, feeling his fingers close around mine, and shake it.
‘You did something very dangerous, Levi,’ I say quietly, and glance over to Gustav. His eyes are shining with delighted relief. ‘But for Gustav’s sake, and for the sake of our future together, I want to achieve some kind of harmony between us. You’re a boneheaded bloody idiot, but fine – I forgive you.’
Pierre bows like a pageboy. ‘And I’ll do everything I can to make it up to you.’
I let him kiss my hand but as he lowers it again the pale-blue cuff of his shirt sleeve peeping from his blazer triggers fresh questions in my overactive mind. I snatch my hands away and shove them under my legs.
‘Pierre. This may sound like a silly question when we’re all being so serious, but why did you keep Gustav’s shirts, all pressed and starched, in your cupboard when you were living at Margot Levi’s apartment?’
‘It’s no secret that I was squatting there. I never pretended it was my place! But as for keeping G’s clothes, I left in a hurry for LA, and although some of my winter gear is still there, that’s all. Believe it or not, that apartment has always been more like a monk’s cell for me. I barely spent any time there. Preferred to sleep in other people’s beds. Sorry. Maybe that was a bit inappropriate.’ Pierre straightens and shakes his head. ‘Why would I hoard Gustav’s shirts after years of not seeing him? We’re not even the same collar size!’
There is not one iota of comprehension as the brothers shrug at me. I tap the side of my head.
‘Don’t look at me as if I’m mad. I wish I’d never mentioned it now, but – Gustav’s wedding shirt is there. Wing collar. Silver tiepin. And the missing cufflink that matches the one I found in Lugano. The one with the initials GL engraved on it.’
Any animation in Gustav’s eyes dies. He touches the cuffs of the maroon shirt he’s put on today. ‘So Margot took the shirts. And the mementos. I told Dickson to burn them, or take them for charity, but—’
‘You threw away that other cufflink, though, didn’t you? There was no point keeping just one, you said.’ I stand up now. ‘And when I got so upset about it, you assured me you had disposed of every gift from Margot.’
‘Calm down, chérie. There’s not so much as a long black hair of hers left in any of the houses.’ Gustav nods, but his eyes have that closed-off look again. ‘She’s got nothing and no one in her life. She’s like Miss Havisham, hoarding old shirts and mismatched jewellery as if it will bring me back. Come on, girl. Rise above Margot’s morose obsessions.’
I let my head fall back against the strong, cold glass. ‘I’m sorry, Gustav. Seeing those things, those wedding things, just creeped me out, that’s all. That whole place made my skin crawl.’
Pierre hesitates, as if he wants to sit down next to me, then to my relief he goes to stand next to the suede sofa on the other side of the room.
‘Guys, I don’t want to sound the alarm bell, but this obsessive insanity is what I’ve been living with for months. I’ll be too far away now in LA to help, but I’m warning you. The ball you need to keep your eye on is Margot.’
‘I won’t have her name contaminating my day.’ Gustav steps abruptly towards the kitchen. ‘I have lunch to get sorted.’
‘Margot is on a mission, G. If she can’t have you, she’ll make sure no one will. She won’t rest until Serena’s out of the picture.’ Pierre follows Gustav and grabs his arm. ‘I’m not your nemesis. Margot is. She’s the danger you need to watch out for.’
CHAPTER FOUR
The gallery looks bright and optimistic in the daylight, but like every other morning for the last month I wonder when I unlock the door if I’ll find it ransacked. Will the photographs from my ‘Windows and Doors’ themed exhibition be ripped off the freshly painted white walls? Will the simple elegant frames be snapped, the glass smashed? All my images shredded and obscene graffiti sprayed on the walls?
I’ve done my best to hide my worries from Gustav. I feel safe when I’m with him, in those strong arms, looking into those steady black eyes. But when I’m on my own I’m terrified. And to make matters worse I’ve been hiding something from him.
He says she’s barred from the condo. Banned from the gallery. The apartment has been swept again for bugs and – surprise surprise: there were none. Although they did find one in the gallery office phone. She can’t come anywhere near us or he’ll call the police. So when does it become acceptable to turn fretting into snooping?
I wasn’t really snooping. I left Gustav and Pierre to go for a walk together after our tense conversation and a few nervy bites of lunch, but thoughts of cufflinks and shirts went on nagging at me after they’d gone out. I knew Gustav would be furious and Pierre would think me neurotic. But the madness of Margot was infecting me. I couldn’t get her whispered threats out of my ears, the smell of her clogging perfume out of my hair, even the air in that apartment out of my skin. The fact that she had taken precious
items engraved with Gustav’s initials from Lugano made me feel sick. She’d kept them somewhere for the last six years, brought them back to New York, lovingly unpacked them, washed and pressed them, hung them in their old wardrobe as if, as he said, she was waiting for him to come back.
So here I was, facing the fear, or so I thought, opening one, then another of the battered antique cigarette boxes that Gustav keeps in his dressing room, and, after I’d sneezed away the old tobacco dust, there it was, glinting amongst some old coins, as if waiting for me to find it.
The cufflink he said he’d thrown away, whose mate is now snugly fastened in the shirt he wore to marry Margot. He’d kept it.
So he forgot about it. Big deal. Polly’s opinion was brisk. I dropped the cufflink as if it was red hot, and banged the box shut.
Say what you like, Polly, but that cufflink makes her, their life together, a tangible presence. She’s a face, a voice, I have seen and heard and will never forget. A jealous, deranged woman collecting treasures from her marriage to my fiancé. And don’t tell me, Polly, that they’re just shirts and trinkets, because to me they feel like armour. Weapons of war. However mad that makes me sound, I want her gone.
Leave it for now. Just leave it. Don’t let her get to you. Don’t stir things up between you over a piece of junk. And yes. You do sound mad.
So today, like every day since I got my act together, everything in the gallery is in place. The main picture of the pale hand extending from between green shutters to dead-head some scarlet geraniums still holds centre stage on the main wall, now adorned with a red spot to indicate that it’s been sold. Actually to the local art college. The other pictures still hang in groups according to the city – London, Paris, Manhattan – where they were taken.
Dickson has nailed the title of my new venture, Serenissima, above the door.
That name isn’t just an emphatic version of my own. It’s a gift from my patrons the Weinmeyers and the moniker applied to the city of Venice at the height of its unique, feminine splendour.
One of the larger images shows a row of blank palazzi windows, Gothic arches set into crumbling red walls, with a tattered gold curtain flapping through a broken pane like a lolling tongue.
Here’s a church in a quiet campo, a broad carpet of sunlight leading the way across a worn step into the dark recesses. And there is the little costume shop in Campo San Barnaba where Crystal, sent by Gustav to watch over me, accompanied me to hire the ill-fated green gown for the Weinmeyers’ ball. The display in the hire-shop window is crammed with cruel, mirthless masks suspended behind the smeared glass like decapitated heads on spikes.
I switch on all the spotlights, and with the glare comes a kind of epiphany. Time to embrace the day. Time to push aside the lingering fear that our life will always be a series of pitfalls, an identity parade of other enemies lining up to trip us up. Time to dismiss the discovery of a single tarnished cufflink and let Gustav’s calm belief in me make me feel ten feet tall. If he can forgive my recklessness in going off with a masked stranger after a ball in Venice, and my stupidity in believing that stranger to be my boyfriend, then I should be able to get past that hideous scene in Margot’s flat, too.
Every day we talk and we talk, and we are closer than ever. But still I’m not sleeping. Thank God Gustav is coming back this evening after another business trip. His second in four weeks. I sleep better with him next to me, warmed up and worn out from sex. Last night I sat cross-legged on the wide window ledge of our bedroom and stared for hours over the dark oblong of Central Park.
The world feels fragile somehow because Margot is on the planet. She may not be visible, but she’s everywhere. Gustav seems to think that by facing her he’s laid a ghost. Pierre disagrees. He reckons the diamond ring has made her all the more determined. And I just feel uneasy. All the time.
Manhattan Island feels way too small.
I nip out of the gallery to get a coffee. We’re well into April now. There’s real warmth in the air. Why not focus on all the good things? Green shoots and flowers are sprouting on the High Line above this street. I’m the owner of a great new gallery and my second exhibition is selling fast. I’ve got a rich, handsome, passionate man who makes me feel like a sexy, low-down princess every day and wants to marry me before the year is out.
By the time I’ve got my coffee and my pastry and wandered back to the gallery I am feeling much more like Carrie in Sex in the City. Before tackling my schedule of phone calls, I assess each photograph and its position on the wall. It’s time to view the few unsold images through a potential buyer’s eyes. I mustn’t lose my resolve. I’m even wearing a sassy new Chanel suit, smoky pink bouclé tweed with a silky white blouse, and cherry-red brogues, to make me feel more like a boss.
The steady flow of visitors results in the sale of the remainder of the images, so it’s late afternoon before I get to the penultimate of my list of phone calls. I’m speaking to the tutor of the large art college who bought my ‘Hand Plucking Petals’ photograph. I’m dictating another advertisement, trawling for raw new photographic, figurative or abstract talent amongst her students for my next show. Then I’m going to call Crystal in London and ask her to come out here to work for me.
‘The younger the better, so long as they need a real break,’ I tell the tutor at the other end of the phone, who is enthusing about the fledgling talent she has both in her current intake and amongst the freshers who will be arriving in the autumn. ‘I was given a chance by Gustav Levi, who launched a solo show for me not long after I graduated. I want to do the same for others. Yes, I hope to expand back to London, maybe next year, but Manhattan’s my base for the moment.’
The little bell above the door tinkles and I curse softly under my breath. I can’t get this woman off the line and I really want to close up and get home. I have all the ingredients of something really healthy and juicy to prepare for Gustav tonight. Chorizo casserole and butter beans cooked in lashings of marsala.
The gaggle of female voices bursting into my gallery is so noisy I can’t hear myself think. I make sure the art tutor has my details then hang up and turn round. Three stunning blondes are pushing through the door, unwinding pashminas and shaking lustrous hair out of barrow-boy caps as if they’re settling in for a session.
‘Wow. What a cool place! And you look a million dollars, Serena! Very stern and businesslike today! Glad to see you’re still doing the risqué shots, spying on people through their windows, but we were hoping you might have included some naughtier ones from your past commissions?’
The tallest of the girls comes towards me with her arms out. I’m still trying to work out who she is and what she’s talking about when she pulls me against her soft breasts, swelling through the tight pink sweater she’s wearing under her open jacket. She tilts my face up to hers and gives me a long, soft kiss, right on the lips. She twitches excitedly as the others giggle and start walking around the gallery, studying the pictures.
I extricate myself from the girl’s embrace as politely as I can and pull my jacket closed.
‘I’m sorry to appear rude, but I don’t—’
‘Recognise us with our clothes on! Of course! How stupid of us!’ The girl skips over to her friends, reaches into the enormous bag one of them is carrying, and pulls out a huge white dildo. ‘This jog your memory? Or any other part of you?’
I snort with laughter as one of the others bends over the desk and sticks her bottom up in the air. They all go straight into their act without the aid either of a backing track or any kind of stage direction. The tallest girl tosses the dildo around her head in a series of skilled and hilarious cheerleader moves while the second girl starts kissing the one bent over the desk. She runs her hands to the top of her friend’s legs and yanks down her silvery tights and knickers to reveal a pert bottom. The bent one arches herself eagerly as her friend’s fingers wander under her little miniskirt as if to soften her up.
Their tongues flicker in and out of each other’s
luscious mouths, moaning like proper porn stars. I tiptoe across to the door, glance outside and decide to lock up in case someone influential comes into the gallery and is shocked by the entertainment.
Just as the kissing girls start to exaggerate their moans and squeals, the cheerleader smacks the ass of her friend still bent over my desk, kicks her legs further apart and makes as if she’s going to ram the dildo up her cute white butt.
I clap my hands like a schoolmistress to stop them. ‘OK, OK, I get the picture! But this is a gallery, not a strip club!’
The cheerleader presses her friend between the shoulder blades and shoves her face down on the desk, sliding the dildo further up between her cheeks. ‘And for your information we’re dancers. Not strippers. You want us to stop? We won’t stop, or leave your establishment, until you tell us where you’ve seen us before.’
‘OK, you win!’ I laugh helplessly, flipping the ‘closed’ sign over the gallery door and lowering the slatted blinds. ‘It all comes flooding back. It was the Club Crème. You were performing for the Robinson stag night and I was taking photographs. It’s the midtown private members-only club where anything goes—’
‘And everyone comes! We know it’s all hush-hush in that silly club but we were hoping you’d smuggled out some shots of that night. Something we could include in our CVs?’ They all shriek in unison as the dildo gives a final playful jab at its victim’s ass before the ringleader pulls it away and licks it lasciviously. The other two snap out of their roles and hoik their panties up again. ‘You can do that for us, can’t you?’
‘No, I cannot! Top secrecy is the Club Crème code! I’d never work in this town again if the press got hold of some of those shots! Admittedly, I was paid handsomely by the Robinson brothers to shoot their mate’s stag night, and boy, was that poor groom debased by you lot!’ I shake my hair in front of my face. ‘Actually, you did more than debase the groom. I went a bit crazy with the stags after the shoot, and then, to punish me for misbehaving, Gustav bought a dildo off you!’
