by Primula Bond
‘Once or twice I’ve – it’s like the song, Rena. I kissed a girl. And I liked it!’ Polly keeps her pale-blue eyes steady on mine, but her pixie face is slowly turning pink. ‘Oh, it’s not encouraged, but it’s not forbidden either. There’s intimacy during the massage and spa sessions, and sometimes the touching goes further. And these Moroccan nights are very long, and very hot! Maybe Angelique should pay a little more attention. This is a retreat, not a convent, but maybe she should add a vow of chastity to our other promises of loyalty and learning. We’re here to purify ourselves, after all.’
‘You sound like an irrigation system!’ I giggle. ‘As if you’re all arid fields, or clogged-up plumbing!’
‘A brilliant analogy! Descaled, all our pipes shiny and clean again!’ She grins. ‘I’m just content with the here and now. It’s so peaceful without men. They push and prod and penetrate, don’t they? Whereas we have all come here actively seeking peace. The last thing anyone wants is to break the harmony, and if they did they would be turfed out. Even so, if Angelique thinks any of us are getting unhelpfully close to another girl she separates us for a while.’
‘Unhelpfully? Hmm.’ I let her wrap a different cut of fabric around my face like a veil, to test my colouring. ‘I couldn’t live without my man.’
She tips her head on one side.
‘Gustav is the centre of your world, I know that. Soon he’ll be your husband. But don’t give me that innocent look, girlfriend. I’ve a feeling you’ve tried it with a girl once or twice. In that Venetian convent, I shouldn’t wonder!’
I shake my head, refusing to look at her now. ‘Not with the nuns. But yes, I’ve had one or two, you know, encounters since I’ve been in New York.’
She fusses round behind me to pin the chiffon into my hair to make a bridal veil. She turns me towards the mirror so she can tweak at it. ‘Encounters? Does Gust— I mean, does anyone else know?’
‘Gustav is always with me. He watches. Sometimes he joins in. He wanted me to experiment, have adventures. Crikey, listen to me banging on.’ My skin prickles with embarrassment. ‘This place is like a confessional!’
‘You’ve always been able to tell me anything!’ She shakes my shoulders. ‘So what exactly has my little cousin been up to while I’ve not been keeping an eye on her? Lesbians? Threesomes?’
I hold my arms out while she takes out some pins in the darts and seams and replaces them. She pulls the dress in tight around my body so that I look like the kind of curvy sculpture perfume makers might fashion a bottle out of.
I decide to keep to the subject of girls. Mentioning Pierre’s antics would not only be hurtful, it would be pointless.
‘Both of the above! A couple of times. Well, three?’
Polly has pins in her mouth now, and merely nods eagerly, turning my head to face forwards.
‘There was this job when I was taking some pre-wedding shots of a supposedly virginal bride, and it turned out she and her bridesmaid had been a couple for years. They couldn’t keep their hands off each other, then they dragged me into bed with them and one of them deflowered me, too, with her fingers, and made me come.’
‘Who would have thought it!’ Polly snuffles with laughter and takes the remaining pin out of her mouth. ‘And the next time?’
‘Well, that was with some dancers from Pierre’s theatre. They ambushed me after we’d finished shooting the burlesque show and they used my camera to film the whole seduction.’ I stop abruptly. ‘Oh, God, Polly. I shouldn’t mention men. Especially not him.’
She eases the pin into the material, turns her back for a moment. I can tell by the way she snatches a fig out of the fruit bowl that she’s trying not to react.
‘I can’t believe you’ve had all these experiences without telling me.’
‘We weren’t exactly on speed dial at the time, and since March you’ve been incommunicado, remember?’ I watch her biting into the dark pink flesh. ‘And it wasn’t always very pretty. Do you think all this girlie experimentation is just some sort of crisis? Me showing off?’
‘I think it’s Serena Folkes stepping into the limelight, seeking attention after a life of being forced into the shadows, with a man who is prepared to support everything she does.’ Polly leaves the fig half eaten on the table. ‘But it’s how you’re going to fight off Margot that interests me.’
‘Well, I’m trying. She owns this new place, the Sapphix Bar, and when I went along willingly with some of her dancers it turned out she wanted to make me do something stupid and degrading in front of her punters, and in front of Gustav. But I brazened it out. We did a shadow dance behind this curtain with some strap-on dildos.’
Polly and I gape at each other in the mirror. The word dildo is all too graphic, especially in a world where men, and their appendages, are not welcome.
‘So no need to be scared of her any more. You showed her that you’re the beautiful, spirited princess, and she’s the wicked, bitter witch. So did that make her abandon her vendetta or whatever it is?’
I shake my head, pick up the abandoned fig, and bite into it.
‘Gustav seems to think so, but Pi— we’ve been warned that she’s dangerous. Obsessed with getting rid of me. Since that first horrible meeting when she sent that feather to entice us to the old apartment, she’s still turning up uninvited, like Carabos at the christening. She ruined the Weinmeyers’ private view. I even thought – I found these red shoes, and I thought she’d been in our hotel room in Paris!’
‘What? Sleeping with Gustav, behind your back?’ Polly shakes her head at my reflection in the mirror. ‘He would never – he worships you!’
I stare at that familiar face, so calm and content now compared with the unhappy, mixed-up state she was in back in New York. This is the real Polly. When I was a child, stuck in that house on the cliffs, she would arrive on one of her treasured visits and whisk me away for a few days. I relied on those missions of mercy. I needed her to put me straight, tell me how to cope, keep me safe.
I wipe fig juice off my chin. ‘Even so. I think he’s wrong. She’ll never go quietly.’
‘Not even now she’s seen the diamond ring?’
‘Especially now she’s seen it! It’s given her ammunition. In her sick mind she’s convinced Gustav will crawl back to her, but he loathes her. Even if he wasn’t engaged to me, he would be revolted by her. He says she looks nothing like she used to.’ I finish the fruit and look around for somewhere to throw the peel. ‘My theory is she’s had some kind of work done. Like those old-fashioned facelifts that are supposed to make you look younger, but just make you look like a death’s head. Her mouth is all puffy, and her eyes are slanted like a cat.’
‘So she doesn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell! It’s about time you realised you knock everyone else into a cocked hat!’ Polly steps back and surveys the drape of the fabric on me. ‘You’re strong enough and gorgeous enough to fight off any number of evil plots. You’ll be fine, Mrs Levi!’
We both laugh.
‘I’m dealing with it. One by one, I sort them out. Pierre was the worst, even without Margot’s influence, but he’s come to heel with his tail between his legs.’
‘Like the dog he is.’ Polly turns away abruptly. ‘Don’t forget it’s because of him that I had to remove myself.’
‘I’m sorry. But look where you ended up! The best place ever. You are positively blossoming. If it wasn’t for Gustav, honestly, I would happily give it all up and come to live with you here.’ I put my hand on her arm. ‘But let me just say one more thing about Pierre and then I’ll shut up. He’s genuinely sorry. About everything. There is a heart under all that swagger. And I’ve made him promise that one day he will apologise properly for the way he treated you. He’s got pretty dark issues from his past, but he’s also acknowledged that his association with Margot could have proved fatal. For all of us.’
There’s a long pause in the hot room, and total silence from the courtyards outside.
‘He sh
ould set up his own ashram. For dark, damaged men. But enough of him, Rena.’ Polly presses a button on an iPod that’s plugged into some speakers on a nearby sideboard. A melancholy female singer, accompanied by equally despondent trumpets and violins and drums, starts to sing in Arabic.
Wenta fein, weh hobi fein?
‘This is Om Kalsoum. Famous Egyptian singer. She’s saying where are you, and where is my love?’
Polly finishes pinning the fabric and starts making little dots and dashes all over me with a marker pen. I stand rigid as a mannequin, terrified I’ve offended her by mentioning Pierre. But then she tries to draw a moustache on to me and we collapse into giggles.
‘Anyway, just wait for the Moroccan massage, honey! You’ll forget all about the slugs and snails and puppy dog’s tails!’ she gurgles as I try to snatch the pen away from her. ‘And I was teasing you about being pure in body and spirit. We do have wine! Barrels of it. Later on, we’ll give you a tasting. We make our special vintage from the vines. Angelique calls it La Religieuse, after her failed calling. I designed the label for her. It’s a picture of a cute little nun getting pissed in a vineyard.’
I laugh. ‘Angelique, Angelique. Her name is like the madam of an upmarket escort agency! I reckon you all have a massive crush on her.’
She slaps at me then spins me round in my column of white silk, and we are still giggling helplessly when the curtains over Polly’s doorway billow open and the lady herself steps inside. She raises her fingertips to her mouth and gasps in admiration when she sees us spinning in front of the mirror.
‘Angelique! Meet my cousin Serena!’
Polly flies across and brings her over to where I’m hovering awkwardly. Up close Angelique is younger and even more arresting to look at. Her large eyes blink lazily as she studies you. Her skin is kissed by the sun, and even though she radiates a motherly warmth, the smattering of freckles across her nose, similar to mine, give her a girlish quirkiness I hadn’t noticed earlier.
Her smile fades as she looks not at me but directly at my reflection in the mirror. ‘Helwa awi, habibti.’
I blush and glance across at Polly, who translates. ‘That means “very beautiful”.’
‘Arabic’s my language of the day. I’m your original hybrid, you see. French-born, ran away to England for a while, briefly in Rome, but now I’ve lived in North Africa for too long.’ Angelique smiles and runs her hand over my hair. ‘You may be a princess in that dress, but we all have our tasks, so I’ve come to ask if you’ll help in the kitchen while you’re staying with us?’ She strokes my cheek and then glides out of the room again.
A velvety twilight has settled over the feminine gardens, and multicoloured fairy lights set on twigs and planted into the flowerbeds illuminate the pathways.
The romantic surroundings make me long for Gustav again. I try to devote a lingering moment to him, but all other thoughts are gone. Evaporated. The energy has drained out of me, and with it all the tension. I feel heavy, yet empty. Full, yet light as a feather.
‘Pol, what does habibti mean?’ I ask, as my cousin settles a primrose-yellow veil over her hair and, to my astonishment, runs some clear lip gloss over her lips.
‘You’ll have to watch out. The others might get jealous. Angelique must like you, because she’s never used that word for any of us.’ She winks at me. ‘It means darling.’
The sun lies in heavy yellow stripes across the sparkling floor. I’m alone in Polly’s huge bed and it must be nearly midday by now. There is that silence again, but after two days here I’ve learned to welcome it. I lean over the pillows to pick up my mobile phone, but there’s no signal here.
As if anticipating my intentions, Polly has left a note.
Morning, lazybones. I’m in the vineyard this morning, and then I’ll be at the hammam. Join me there later. You can get a signal there if you absolutely can’t live without speaking to Gustav. But first you are needed again in the kitchen.
I wander through the first courtyard and, instead of walking out through the garden to seek Polly in the vineyards, I’m drawn by the smell of cooking. Stretching away to the right is a long pillared pergola edging another courtyard. This walkway is shaded by more of the ashram’s famous vines. It’s where we dined last night on a meal of stuffed vine leaves and salad prepared by me and a pair of lively Greek twins.
‘There she is! My handmaiden! Hello, habibti!’
I’m wondering if I can get out of chopping yet more tomatoes when I see that sitting cross-legged next to Angelique on a huge cushion at the far end of the verandah is Maria Memsahib. A heap of tomatoes and red onions and aubergines and jars of preserved lemons and herbs are in front of her, and she’s holding up a large knife.
‘My God! La liaison dangereuse! Good morning, Madame la Marquise! What on earth are you doing here? What about the film? Why aren’t you at the château?’ I pad uncertainly over to the two women on my bare feet. I feel even more naked in my floaty pale apricot kaftan as I recall exactly what Maria was up to in that shadowy bedroom. I’m trying to reconcile that hungry sex kitten writhing between her two lovers with the quiet, calm goddess settled on a large cushion and watching me now. But I like it. It’s comforting, and easy, like everything else here. I’m loosening and opening like a petal in this hot, quiet place.
Maria grins as I approach, her fiery black eyes resting on me as if she never wants to look away. How can I forget that look, shot at me across her naked shoulder as she rode her young lover in the château?
‘Valmont announced an unexpected finale, so the cage has opened and the cast has dispersed. Like so many migrating birds. It’s going to be sensational when it’s released. You weren’t to know, but I happen to own this place. And a certain someone may have asked me to look after you while he’s in London.’
Angelique glances from her to me, a slight frown between her elegant eyebrows as she returns to chopping coriander.
‘Gustav, do you mean? You’ve spoken to him? Oh, tell me how he is. Where he is. I can’t get a signal to speak to him!’ I sit down opposite Angelique and she hands me a chopping board. ‘Are we allowed to talk while we cook?’
‘Not really. And definitely not about him, I’m afraid. This is a place of reflection. Even I have to muzzle myself when I visit.’
Muzzled or not, Maria’s fingers deliberately brush mine as she hands me some red onions.
‘Angelique, I realise who you remind me of! There was this girl nicknamed Rapunzel in some old Parisian photographs of the maisons closes,’ I remark, letting some of the onions roll away from me. ‘We saw similar ones in the erotica museum in Paris last week. She might be a French prostitute?’
Angelica’s knife stops halfway through the flesh of a huge pomegranate.
Maria steadies the pomegranate. ‘Angelique isn’t speaking today. Maybe we should be quiet, too, Serena?’
‘I’m so sorry! That sounded really crude! It’s just – oh, God, I’ve put my foot in it, haven’t I?’ I go down on my knees and scrabble for the escaping vegetables. ‘The photos were tinted to look vintage, but the pictures were only taken in the 60s. This Rapunzel, she was waiting, staring all mournfully at the photographer. She could have been a model, of course. But still it made you want to rescue her.’
Angelique’s knife slams right through to the chopping board. She turns one half of the pomegranate upside down and starts to bash the tough skin with a wooden spoon to empty the ruby-red seeds into a glass bowl. Then she stands up, her curtain of claret hair covering her face. She opens her mouth, closes it again, bows, then glides away.
I try to get up to follow her, but Maria stops me.
‘Leave her be, mademoiselle. You hit a nerve, that’s all. Her French mother used the name Rapunzel when she was a hooker.’
I sit down again and pick at the flimsy golden skin of the onions.
‘Polly’s going to kill me. I’ve broken the rule about not mentioning men, and I’ve managed to insult the boss! I mean, the other boss!�
�
Maria hands me a knife. Her sudden silence surprises me. I look up at her. The vines overhead dapple her ebony hair with leafy shade so that she looks as if she’s wearing a crown of light.
‘It’s a good thing you’re not planning to join the commune full time, then, isn’t it? You and I are the cats amongst these pigeons. I leave Angelique in charge of the admin and the anima in this place. I’m all about carnality, not spirituality. I just supplied the venue, and the funds. So you and I? We are simply passing through. But we still have to leave the past outside the gate.’
I blush and focus on chopping the onions, keeping my knuckles against the rocking blade.
‘I wish I didn’t have to leave my camera as well. Angelique confiscated it.’
‘This is a place of safety for the world-weary, that’s why.’ Maria gives a low laugh and tips boiled water on to couscous in a huge earthenware bowl and covers it with a cloth. Then she pinches up a bunch of mint, closing her eyes briefly as she inhales the aroma. ‘La petite voyeuse would like to watch the girls in here?’
‘I’d love to photograph the beautiful, exotic setting, but yes, I’m intrigued to know what goes on behind these muslin drapes.’
‘Not much is secret here. Everything is open. Everyone can walk wherever they like, be with whoever they like.’ Maria waggles the sprigs of mint, winking at me. ‘Maybe you and I can spend some time together when they are all at prayer or whatever they do, yes?’
A burst of laughter comes from somewhere over the lawn and there’s a series of huge splashes as a handful of naked girls jump into the pool.
‘I thought you owned the place. Do you not know exactly what goes on?’ I ask cheekily, throwing the sliced onions into the sizzling olive oil. ‘Or did you only come here to watch over me?’
‘I always carry out my duties, especially when Gustav Levi asks me to. And yes, I do own the place. My family lived here when it was a kasbah. Nearly twenty years ago I planned to convert it into a hotel, but Angelique approached me to help her found this ashram. There are no major profits to speak of, but I don’t need the money. I need to feel I’m doing good for others, even if I only provide the bricks and mortar.’
