by Primula Bond
‘You don’t have to explain,’ I mutter, pulling my arms tight into my sides as we start to walk down the windy promenade towards the car. ‘Men have needs, even you. You need women, and sex – just not with me, that’s all.’
‘So who was that flame-haired girl I was grappling with just now, tempting me to take her al fresco against the tree?’ He stops again and grabs my stiff, unfriendly arms in a vice-like grip and gives me a shake. ‘Was she a figment? Just one of a long line? Oh, I wish you’d shut that pouting sulky mouth of yours for just one minute!’
Now it’s his voice ringing out over the water. A smart group of people all wearing dark green or navy Loden coats turn towards the commotion. Gustav calls out something in Italian which makes them laugh and wave. He marches me swiftly on then stabs his key at the car to open it.
I flinch at the emotion in his voice, allow myself a secret shiver of triumph that I’ve scratched more than his surface. I limp towards the car.
‘I thought you were different, Serena. But like every other woman on the planet you’ve just managed to trick me into sounding crass, twisting the conversation to put me in the wrong.’ He wrenches open the passenger door. ‘Look. I was open with you. I told you from the start that since my marriage there have been – other females. Arm candy, some. Gold diggers, mostly. But the reason none of them remained in my life and certainly are not here in Lugano is that ultimately they didn’t do it for me. Sorry. I know that sounds arrogant.’
‘Yes. It does.’
He really can read my mind. Or at least my face, even out here, in the dark. But now I can’t read his.
‘They considered me cold, careless and uncommitted. And they were right.’
I wait for him to hand me into the car which he does with cold chivalry, and we drive away from the lake in silence. I’m relieved when we only drive up the mountain a short distance. The boulders and trees melt away and all at once we’ve arrived.
This is as far away from the grey turreted Colditz I imagined, with iron eagles guarding the ramparts and a spiked moat repelling invaders, as Polly’s bright flat is from the grim house on the cliffs.
Because welcoming us with great open squares of flooding warm light and glimpses of roaring fires spilling woodsmoke from stone-built chimneys is a huge wooden chalet raised up on pillars the size of great American redwoods. Wooden gables and eaves and traditionally carved balconies sprout joyously from every angle, but they are the ornate frame to a super-chic structure with vast glass windows and doors. Tucked beneath the baronial front door is the garage, opening slowly to admit the car and displaying snow skis and water skis hanging on neat racks along its walls. And under what must be the main salon is a glass-walled wine cellar with rows of wine bottles.
Best of all is the blue glint of a steaming infinity pool partly laid half in the grass bank overlooking the lake and glittering with frost, and partly disappearing inside the basement of the house.
Gustav hands me over to Dickson who hoists me into his arms and deposits me, slightly over-emphatically, onto one of the enormous white sofas in front of the fire. They both fuss about finding footstools and compresses. Dickson disappears to chop and baste and finish preparing a huge roast, which he carves and lays on a tray. A haunch of venison with vegetables baked with rosemary and thyme and other aromatic herbs I’ve never tasted before, followed by a treacle pudding big enough to do yoga on, all washed down with gallons of ruby-red wine. I remember my manners and thank them both, but otherwise say nothing.
When Dickson retires, Gustav takes up his favourite position beside the wide wooden mantelpiece, jabbing at the logs with a long iron poker. He’s taken off his jacket and is wearing a black sweater which hints at the broad chest and flat stomach beneath. I slide my eyes away to stare into the dancing flames and let them blur into dancing feathers as I half close my eyes. As soon as I do that I can feel the exhaustion washing over me. He continues the conversation as if we haven’t left off.
‘Yet again, I’m sorry. I’m to blame for mucking about and galloping off earlier. For misreading the situation. For imposing my selfish needs onto you. You were scared and hurt and you needed me. Being needed by someone is different from having power over them, and far more alluring, and I’m a fool for not recognising that. I’m a fool for not recognising you.’ He takes the silver chain out of his pocket. ‘You’re the one who’s got under my skin, Folkes. You’re the one I want by my side, as I said before, particularly now. Particularly here. And then when this is all done, those new horizons I was talking about.’
It’s all too much for now. Who knew that a sore foot could affect an aching head? So instead of holding out my wrist for him to hook us together I pull the big fur rug right over me and settle myself as far back into the corner of the sofa as I can. I turn to stare out at the plunging mountain road leading back to civilisation, the winking lights of Lake Lugano spread out like a welcome mat below.
‘It’s so much white noise, Gustav. The idea was for me to come to Lake Lugano to help you with the ghosts, but I still think you’re all locked in here together.’ I start to shiver suddenly. I assume it’s the cold, and the pain in my foot, and the delayed shock. ‘I’ll always be the outsider. I’m not the woman you need, Gustav.’
‘I didn’t say need. I said want.’ Gustav holds the silver chain up to the light and watches it sparkle between his fingers. The light dances on his face, all sharp planes and deep shadows now. The chain has never looked so pretty, and so flimsy. ‘But you know what? I think the ghosts have already fled.’
He looks down and I look up at the same time, and our eyes lock. His eyes are soft dark pools. The hard glitter has gone. The fever has gone. I think I can read tenderness there. Even pleading. But if his ghosts have fled, mine seem to be stirring sluggishly from wherever they are buried.
I lie there on the sofa, under the rug, the wind buffeting the windows and agitating the fire. I wonder if Gustav can see the weight of sadness in my eyes. He’s never looked so handsome, and so elusive.
‘Only you know that for sure,’ I shrug wearily. ‘As for clearing out the furniture or whatever you needed me to do, I can’t be much use to you with this sore foot, can I? So I may as well go home tomorrow.’
Gustav comes and sits next to me. ‘You’re not going anywhere, my headstrong little filly. We’re so close to the end now.’
‘The end?’
He turns back the rug and picks up my wrist. He moves to clip the silver chain onto my bracelet. I know his eyes are burning on me but I resist the urge to stare back at him. Instead I close my own eyes, shaking my head.
I wait for him to attach it despite any resistance from me. It’s his prerogative after all. It’s our agreement I’m refusing to honour tonight. I must be making him angry. But the silver chain no longer feels like a safety net to me, or an anchor. It’s becoming a shackle.
It falls limp and untethered across the rug. He drops it, and leaves me to sleep.
THIRTEEN
I’m tapping crossly at my phone. I want to speak to Polly. I need to tell her where I am, and why I’m here. I want to tell her I’ve woken up in an extraordinary bedroom which would resemble a sultan’s harem if it wasn’t for its pale pine walls and ceilings. The Italianate buildings of Lugano are hidden by the bristling barrier of dark green trees that populates Gustav’s estate, creating the illusion that I am holed up in a very glamorous gingerbread house hidden in the forest, the crisp Alpine vista of violet mountains painted on like a box of Lindt.
I’m alone in my chocolate box chamber. I want to share all this before it fades. I need to hear Polly’s voice. Her opinions. Her conclusions about all this. Maybe I can even cadge a visit to New York for Christmas. I wait for the tone. But what do you know? Up here in the idyllic mountains there’s no signal.
I toss the mobile onto an upturned barrel carved with the faded words Tre Api Merlot Reserva, which serves as a bedside table. I lie back on the huge square pillow. No rush. I’m reclin
ing on a kind of low-slung, carved teak bed the size of a raft. Emperors and opium smokers would sprawl on a bed like this to indulge their vices. It’s draped in wine-coloured velvet and scattered with tasselled and fringed and sequinned Moroccan bolsters, and cushions which are soft to the touch. They sparkle and reflect the clear blue daylight. I feel like an empress, despite the frustration and isolation of last night. I stretch luxuriously, and realise I’m wearing a nightdress I’ve never seen before.
‘Hello? Anyone here?’
It must be late morning. Behind gathering clouds the pale yellow sun is balancing on the highest peak on the other side of the lake. There’s nobody here, and I’m glad. I want to be alone with my thoughts as I gather my belongings.
Except that my white jodhpurs and thermals have disappeared, along with the Louis Vuitton bag packed with clothes suitable for mountain walks and fireside dinners. Hiking Barbie and Dining Barbie.
All I have in here is my camera, my useless phone, and a shell-pink nightdress with spaghetti straps.
I swing my legs out of the bed. My body jumps and buzzes with life. Must be the reviving mountain air. I stretch out my arms and legs curiously, checking for flaws, for signs of someone manhandling me, but there are no scratches or bruises other than the slight stiffness and the violet hue still staining my ankle.
Did the two men undress me together? Peel my winter clothes off, layer by layer revealing inch by inch of my bare body? Did they reach out to run a finger over my cheek, shoulder, trace the curve of my breast, run up inside my thigh? Did they grow hard looking at me, dare the other to make a macho remark about the sleep of the innocent, or did they deny the bulge in their trousers?
My hands slide between my knees, up the soft inside of my thighs as the fantasy takes hold. Was that chocolate cup doped to knock me out? Or the Glühwein we drank back here? If so it’s had a medicinal effect. I haven’t felt this clear-headed for years.
Did they have their way, the two of them exploring me with tongues and fingers, and other parts, forced to be stealthy so as not to wake me, both so horny as they tasted the Sleeping Beauty in front of the fire?
Or was Dickson dismissed to his quarters or down to the lass who lives by the lake so that Gustav could drink in the sight of me? Did he glance about for prying eyes, check I was still sleeping, then lay me down on this Moroccan divan, open me up carefully and gently, ease his hardness inside, feel my warm softness closing round?
My head falls back as my fingers accompany my thoughts, push urgently inside the space that’s so empty, so ready to consume. I remember Gustav’s deep, dark eyes penetrating mine.
The solitary satisfaction is too petty, too brief, and it swiftly evaporates. I compose myself, bat away the lingering frustration, pull my hair away from my hot face and secure it in a tall tight bun on top of my head. I swathe myself in an embroidered shawl shot with green and gold threads that’s been left at the foot of the bed. I feel like a gypsy flamenco dancer as I pad through the open door to investigate.
I’m nearly knocked backwards by the dazzling light from the glass-walled corridor leading to the main salon. Someone has lit a fire, which is burning merrily. On the other side of that space, down another corridor, I follow the smell of coffee into a pine kitchen lined with sociable leather banquettes and bristling with stalactites of copper cooking utensils. I lean against the warm blue and white tiled wood burner as I fall hungrily upon the plates of pastries and fruit.
The quietness in the chalet solidifies as mist and fog closes in. I must find my clothes and handbag and the wherewithal to make my escape. Far below I can see the oblong of swimming pool, steam still curling into the air to repel the cold.
When I’m sure Dickson is out, I slip off the negligee, wrap a huge towel around me and limp down the stairs to plunge into the glittering water. The room is like a sauna, but I swim out through the glass doors into the garden kicking all the stiffness and stickiness away, the warm water steaming around me as the dark grey fog drops down like a thick curtain.
The mountains have disappeared. I can just about make out their majestic, strong outline, forming a guard around the valley and the lake. I lie on my back in the water, the tip of my nose freezing, the rest of me warm as a bath. The chalet looks down at me, so many unexplored balconies and rooms. Just as I turn onto my front to swim back into the house I fancy a shadow crosses behind one of the huge windows. Surely a cloud reflected, or a big bird flapping home through the fog.
Suddenly I feel an urgency to get out of the pool. Get out of here. It’s all so beautiful, so warm, so luxurious, and yet it’s all so alien. It’s not mine. This slice of potential heaven belongs to him. And to her. Never will it belong to me, and in any case I don’t want it.
I realise when I get back up to the salon that the ministrations of Gustav and Dickson last night combined with the cooling effect of the swimming pool this morning have made the swelling in my ankle go down. I’m left with a dull ache but can easily have a good snoop around before I leave. I slip on the negligee and shawl and come to the foot of a wide wooden staircase, lit by the glass dome above and ringed by a wooden gallery. I’ve never been able to resist a staircase ascending into the unknown. Just as I couldn’t resist the lure of the stone staircase in that Venetian convent, flanked by its ecstatic saints.
The gallery opens at the far end over the salon with its carved fireplace still burning with sweet-smelling pine logs. This chalet is like a stage set. You could be having a tête à tête with one person and someone else could eavesdrop from above, or burst into an aria.
I decide to retrieve my camera. I may as well conduct my own little travelogue, otherwise Polly will never believe my story when I take her through every detail. But near the top of the main stairs I notice an alcove leading to another, narrower set spiralling up to another floor. Something, or someone, is driving me on to explore.
Unlike the other locked doors, the one at the top of the spiral is fashioned from studded iron like a prison cell. It swings open. I step inside a long thin room which presumably extends the width of the house. It looks like a theatrical props store room. There is a brass bed in the corner hung about with tapestries, a couple of free-standing fringed lamps and a dressing table, but it all looks staged rather than cosy. Instead of a wardrobe there are garments hanging from the kind of metal rail you’d find in the stock room of a retail store.
Margot ran a boutique, didn’t she? Fashion. And accessories.
There is no other furniture. The other three walls are simply mirrored, with chrome barres bolted on as if for dance exercises. There are no generous windows embracing the valley below. Only a few skylights set into the pitched ceiling which is also mirrored. When I flick on the switches, intermittently placed black chandeliers send out a dappled, swaying light answered by a low red glow from the standard lamps by the bed.
I pad across the bare wooden floor, aware of the creak of the boards and the goosebumps rising sharply on my skin as the cold permeates. I wonder why Dickson hasn’t bothered to put on any heating up here. I shiver in my flimsy nightdress. I’m Goldilocks tiptoeing round the house of the Three Bears.
Despite the bone-crunching cold there’s the eerie sense in this room that someone has just got up and left. I notice a head-shaped dent in one of the pillows on the brass bed. The sheets and old-fashioned eiderdown are flung back and crumpled. Above the bed is a row of hooks from which various whips hang. I recognise the long black whip the dominatrix used on Crystal in the video. It makes my little nun’s whip look like a stick of candy floss.
Even more intriguingly, on the dressing table are several oversized bottles of perfume and a scattering of lipsticks and mascara. Crumpled rolls of cotton wool are smeared with lipstick and face powder. I limp over to look more closely. The bottles are all different sizes, but one of the perfumes is the same one as I wear: Eternity.
I half expect to find the portrait of Dorian Gray propped up against the wall. Except that I still don’t know
what Margot looks like.
Ghostly fingers tiptoe up my spine as I spin round, looking for other clues. Why haven’t they emptied this room? Is the house so big that they forgot about it? Is this the room Gustav intends me to clear? Is he preserving it like a shrine, make-up and whips and all? Or keeping it for when Margot returns?
On the brass bed various items of underwear are splayed out, arranged like a taped crime-scene figure, outlining where the body was found.
There is a black basque, unlaced. I shuffle over and finger it as if it might bite. It looks hard and shiny like the carapace of a scorpion but when I touch it I realise it’s made of very thin latex. I hold it against myself in front of the mirror. It seems to mould itself round my contours.
The house is so silent. I shiver, and try to put the basque down, but it seems stuck to me. I glance at my face in the mirror. My expression shocks me. I am smiling, my teeth glinting in the half light, and my eyes are half closed, strips of green like a cat. My tongue whips across my lower lip. I feel horny, a kind of sick, sudden uncoiling.
I’ve never worn anything as daring as this. Surely a quick try-on won’t hurt?
The flimsy negligee and shawl slither lifelessly to the floor. My white breasts fall heavily forwards, nipples shrinking sharply in the cold, and I shiver with pleasure. The cold makes me super-sensitive all over. Puckers up my skin. Goosebumped and tense, every touch is as sharp as a scratch, every lick of air a smack. I fit the two cups over my breasts, hooking the corset tightly round my ribs to keep it in place. Even though it fits like a glove, I lace it tightly as well. Now I can hardly breathe. My breasts ooze over the rigid whalebone top, puffing in an effort to gain oxygen. The reflection in the mirror is very white, and very still. While the real me is fidgeting to get used to the tightness of the garment, my reflection is simply staring.
And then it hits me, as if I didn’t already know. I saw this same basque in the video. The dominatrix whipping Crystal was wearing it. Margot’s skin has been sealed inside it, just like mine is, and now it’s trying to squeeze the life out of me. I’m the challenger. I must be more voluptuous than Margot was because the basque is too tight. If she wore this contraption while entertaining her guests and clients no wonder she was permanently hyped up and hungry for trouble.
