by Primula Bond
I’ve broken our contract, Gustav.
So sue me.
I push open the big wooden door and breathe in the crisp mountain air. I step gingerly down to the driveway, my ankle dragging. How can such a beautiful place be so tainted? How can one woman have so much toxic power?
I’ve made it as far as the road leading down to the lake when the silver Lexus glides round the corner, and brakes. I can’t see the driver. I stand motionless in front of the bonnet, empty of thoughts, drained of action.
‘Miss Serena?’ Dickson gets out of the car and leans against it, folding his arms across his massive chest. ‘What are you doing out here in the snow? And what’s that mark on your head?’
‘I took a poker to it.’ I whisk the padlock out of my pocket and dangle it in the air. ‘I’m escaping.’
He comes towards me and takes my arm. ‘I don’t think so. Mr Levi will kill me if I let you go. He’ll kill us both.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. He needs to wake up and smell the napalm. He’s got us all fooled.’ I shake him off and point up at the chalet, towards the master bedroom. ‘He’s still obsessed by that woman. This place is still as haunted as ever, but not by me. He’ll see that soon enough. I bet he had a rendezvous with her in Milan. They’re at it like knives right now!’
Dickson snorts. ‘You’re talking absolute and total bollocks, if you’ll pardon the expression, Miss.’
‘Go ahead. Swear like a trooper. There isn’t language obscene enough to cover it,’ I snap back. ‘She’ll be back in residence by the morning. I’ve seen the shrine he has up there, Dickson. Intimate portraits of his precious wife all over the walls.’
Dickson smacks his gloved hand against his mouth. ‘Sod it. You weren’t supposed to–’
‘I may be out of my depth, I may be far from home, I may be naïve, but I’m not stupid!’ I am shouting now, and it feels great. ‘I know an expression of true love when I see it.’
Dickson shakes his head. ‘You can only know that if you’ve felt true love yourself.’
‘A philosopher as well as a chauffeur now, are you?’
‘I’m not your servant, Miss Serena, so I don’t have to take that from you. There was a task Mr Levi gave me to do, and I didn’t do it. But you still don’t get how far off the mark you are.’ Dickson clears his throat. ‘Hell will freeze over before that woman sets foot on the same continent as Mr Levi.’
‘Ah, yes. The dreaded secret. The final betrayal which nobody will talk about.’
Dickson glances at his watch. ‘After everything that’s been said and done between you and him, I thought you’d have realised how he feels.’
‘Said and done?’
‘Like I told you before. Mr Levi has never brought another woman to this house. Let alone–’
‘Let alone what?’
‘He has never let his defences down like this. Let his passions run away with him like he did last night. You’ve unlocked something in him.’ Dickson fixes me with his pebbly grey eyes like an interrogator. ‘Make no mistake, Miss Serena. I know everything that goes on. That’s part of my job.’
A flurry of snow drops off a tree and lands on the road between us.
‘Well, stick your job and stick your boss and his evil wife. She’s his problem, not mine.’ I step towards the car and realise my feet are numb with cold. ‘I need you to take me to the airport.’
‘Even if I was allowed to, how are you going to get back to London with no money and no passport?’
I can see Dickson’s mouth twitching back a smirk, and I fume with anger.
‘You’re going to get them for me, Dickson. He can’t keep me prisoner. I’m going to wait here, and you’re going to crack open the safe or wherever he hides his valuables. Then you’re going to drive me to the airport.’
‘Like I said. I’m not your servant.’ He stares boorishly back down the road towards the lake. At the base of his neck, just above the stiff white collar, I notice two fresh teeth marks, reddened and bruised. ‘More than my life’s worth, Miss.’
I can feel my energy ebbing away. How soon the happiness has soured. Everything in Gustav’s world is extreme, and these two days have broken me. My eyes are sore from crying. My ankle’s sore from falling off that horse and tripping over Gustav’s bag. My body is aching from unaccustomed punishment followed by forceful, passionate sex. And my heart is snapped in two.
‘Or I could tell Mr Levi about your little visits to the lass down at the Alprose factory when you’re supposed to be fulfilling the tasks he gave you.’
‘You’re bluffing.’
For a brief moment I am Dickson’s enemy, caught in the sights of his rifle, his eyes pure venom as they stare down the barrel. It was a stab in the dark, but my aim was true. There’s a long pause while we each choose to break all the rules.
‘She’s blonde. I saw you through the telescope, arguing. But she’s the bird who gave you that love bite.’
Still glaring at me he reaches into the car and brings out a pair of pliers. Without a word he snaps the silver chain off, right by my bracelet, throws the pliers back into the car, and stamps up to the house to get my passport.
As we accelerate round the corner a few minutes later and speed down the road towards the lake, either the wind or some wild animal up there in the mountains behind the chalet unleashes an unearthly howl.
FIFTEEN
I am lying on a wooden sun lounger on the deck, staring across the bad-tempered English Channel. I could be on the Titanic, plying towards its doom. The island is even hewn in the rough shape of a cruise ship. But actually I’m on terra firma.
If I turn my head ever so slightly I can see the windy cliffs where I grew up. In fact, I can see the house itself. The grey sea stretching between us forms a kind of moat, but this island hotel is not the fortress. That house is no longer the enemy. It holds no fear for me now. I’ve grown up.
I rub at the blanket covering my knees like an old lady and sip at the warm drink the waiter has just brought me. Push away the memory of drinking hot chocolate beside Lake Lugano, Gustav sitting opposite me, his face burning with exertion from our horse ride and the passion that I didn’t recognise at the time. The passion that turned out to be, if not false, then certainly fleeting.
It’s daft sitting out here in the cold like an invalid but I’ll enjoy the peace for a few more minutes while Jake and the photographer set up in the glittering period bar behind me.
As well as mist, the house on the cliffs is shrouded in scaffolding and jaunty blue tarpaulin. It looks belittled up there amongst the sheep droppings and the bracken, like a forgotten Christmas present. But some time in the spring the building works will be finished and a shiny new gastropub with rooms and a seaview restaurant will be born.
All my life I’ve stared across the sea towards this grand old hotel riding its rocky steed over the waves and dreamed of being rich enough to stay. Its shabby art deco facade has been gradually restored by the painstaking new owners. The stucco stained with rust and verdigris has become shimmering white. Agatha Christie books have been filmed here, and it’s world-renowned as a luxury retreat. There’s even a helipad further up the slope for the celebrity guests and below me, on the far side of the island away from the mainland, the hotel has its own private smugglers’ cove and rowing boat.
I can feel the cobwebs unpeeling themselves and floating away as I drain my cocoa. But the dragging grumble of heartache remains.
‘We’re ready for you, Rena.’
Jake crashes through the glass doors behind me, interrupting the silence with voices and clinking glasses and his own brand of noisy intrusion. I feel a hundred years older than him.
‘It’s Serena now.’
I rise stiffly from my lounger, drop the blanket, and let them lead me into the bar and over to a wicker chair by the white grand piano. I think I’ll milk the invalid thing a little longer. After all, I do feel physically drained. All I’ve done since getting here from London is shuffle
from bar to bed to breakfast. I could easily think myself into a fever if I really wanted.
‘This interview will be a piece of piss,’ Jake jokes with the bow-tied barman, who wears the bored expression of a Punch cartoon and is brandishing a cocktail shaker. ‘Serena Folkes and I were childhood sweethearts.’
I open my mouth to – what? Protest? Why? It’s true, isn’t it? They’re all looking at me expectantly so I change my pout to a smile and cross my legs. I’m wearing a pale grey cashmere tunic pinned with an oversized silver flower brooch which I found folded in tissue paper in the bag Crystal packed for Switzerland, and some white skinny jeans. On my feet is another pair of fluffy white socks. How did she know I’m at my most comfortable in socks or bare feet?
‘Our relationship is purely professional now, though, eh Jake? That was the deal when I agreed to the interview. No dirty linen.’
‘No kiss and tell?’ he smirks. ‘Shame.’
I accept the blood-red cocktail someone hands me and the cool liquid knocks away the comfort of the cocoa. Jake can be snide if you’re not alert to his tricks.
‘We’ve both come a long way from student photographer and trainee hack. Now we’re both being paid for what we love doing best.’
‘Yeah, though what I used to love doing best was getting you into that caravan.’
‘Jake!’ I glare at him as the others titter awkwardly. ‘Have you never heard that over-worked phrase “moving on”?’
‘Fine. Fine. Just be grateful I’ve got the clout to persuade the paper to pay for your trip to Devon. You’re a hard woman to get hold of these days, Rena. Who knew your old boyfriend would have to jump through hoops with your new man’s personal assistant to get this piece?’
Jake gives a kind of gangster’s flick of the wrist and straddles a chair opposite me, the back of it up against his stomach and his legs spread on either side. His blue jeans are too tight. His thighs bulge through the faded material. He’s obviously been working out and I can’t deny he looks good. Briefly I recall him naked in the dull afternoon light struggling through the dirty windows, jumping off the messy bed in the caravan and yawning, his youthful erection, aroused by me, still jutting out at right angles. He’d make a good life study, the ripple of his muscles, the taper of his torso.
I swing my sore ankle and get a handle on my thoughts.
He still looks like a lad, but a bulked-up lad. His shaved hair has grown a little, the fair curls bouncing gratefully back. Cute enough guy.
But he’s not Gustav. He’s the opposite of Gustav, a Labrador next to a greyhound. I long to feel the silkiness of Gustav’s black hair under my fingers, the slide of his stern mouth over me. The man who manages to be far sexier than Jake even though I’ve never seen him totally naked. Perhaps because I’ve never seen him naked. But I’ve felt his hot touch, seen the black glitter of warning mixed with desire in his fathomless eyes, his strong fingers digging into my hips, opening me up to him, his hardness possessing me so forcefully that days later I’m still aching.
And then I see Margot, her black eyes mocking and triumphant. I see the two of them in the master bedroom suite at the chalet, her on top, waving her whip, Gustav’s hands spread over her bottom to urge her on as she rides him.
I realise I’ve closed my eyes. Someone is pushing the hair off my sweaty face. I tip my head back longingly. Gustav is here, stroking my hair.
But it’s the make-up girl, up close and frowning. ‘You’ve gone a sickly green, Serena. Are you alright? And what’s this bruise above your eye?’
‘Silly accident with a – with a tripod.’ I look past her at Jake. ‘Listen. I appreciate the expenses. The train. The hotel. The publicity. All that, Jake. But I’d also appreciate it if you keep any crude comments under control. And no reminiscences in the by-line when it goes to print.’
Jake tugs his forelock and whistles under his breath. ‘When did you get so high and mighty, Rena Folkes?’
The make-up girl hides the bruise with foundation and smothers my face in powder and blusher.
‘I’m just trying to be the consummate professional.’
He sniggers. ‘Sure. But you know and I know that there’s a wildcat under all that cashmere who hasn’t had it in a while. Probably not since our last one-night stand. A sex kitten just waiting to bust out.’
The make-up girl giggles and blushes.
‘Oh, you’re wrong about that, Jake. I was rogered rigid, as you would so charmingly put it, just a couple of nights ago.’
He rubs his hand through his hair. I know what that means. He’s getting a hard-on.
‘Who’s the stud? Your rich patron?’
I lift one shoulder nonchalantly. ‘Could be anyone. London’s a big place. I’m just not your sex kitten any more.’
‘What a great way to start an interview.’ He flips me the finger. ‘You need to look lively, Rena. Want to be nominated for this year’s hottest new talent to watch, or not?’
‘Guys, guys, this ex-lovers’ tiff is all very entertaining, and it’s sure brought some colour into our heroine’s cheeks, but high tide is rising out there and I want to get home,’ murmurs the photographer from somewhere behind the potted palms. We’ve forgotten all about him. ‘Can we just get the shot, please?’
I straighten up, let the jumper’s boat neck fall softly down my arm, twirl the hair that the girl has just tonged into a ringlet, dangle my half-empty cocktail glass in the other. But inside I’m thinking, oh, where is my lady’s maid when I need her?
I turn straight to the photographer and give him my best smile.
‘I’m ready for my close-up.’
‘So you’ve done a runner?’
Crystal had barely blinked when I walked into the gallery, straight from the airport.
‘I don’t want to talk about it, Crys.’
‘Crystal. You are aware that you’ve broken the contract by coming back to London without him? Do you have any idea what Gustav Levi is like when he’s roused? And I don’t mean “roused” in a good way.’
I moved around the walls, touching my pictures again. Even happier to see that the red ‘sold’ dots had multiplied.
‘Yes, I’ve seen him roused. But I had to get away. The place freaked me out. She’s everywhere, Crystal. Her equipment. Pictures of her. His drawings, plastered all over their bedroom like graffiti.’
‘I’m astonished. He swore the place was fumigated and whitewashed years ago.’ Crystal glided up beside me. ‘None of that makes sense.’
‘Listen, I don’t have time to linger. He might catch me.’ I stepped away, but she was by my side like Peter Pan’s shadow. ‘Can we just talk about sales, Crystal? He’ll want me to pull out of the exhibition now I’ve broken the silver chain.’
‘The silver chain?’
‘You’ve seen it. It’s more than a gift of jewellery. When he hooks it onto my wrist it becomes our symbol.’ I rubbed anxiously at the bracelet. ‘Please, Crystal. No questions. I daresay he’ll tell you everything once I’m gone.’
‘You bet he will. Just don’t let a ridiculous misunderstanding jeopardise your career before it’s even started.’ Her eyes remained fixed on me as she ran a black-painted fingernail down the catalogue. ‘Right. There’s not much left to pull out of, in any case. Only nine more pictures to go. So no way can you back out. Not until it’s finished.’
‘I can’t be near him, Crystal.’
Just then my phone bleeped into life.
Hey, babes, am jetting in at end of week for brief stopover. Styling someone on X Factor then free for fun. You up for getting loaded at the flat then going out on the lash?
I stared at the text as if it was in code. My darling cousin. She’s coming all the way from New York and I can’t face her. I’m bailing on her. Worse than that. She’ll see that I’ve nicked her clothes and disappeared.
Sorry, doll. Photo assignment out of town. More notice next time?
‘How easily those fibs come, don’t they?’ Crystal took the phon
e out of my limp hand and studied it. ‘But in a way it’s true. You are required out of town. We’ve been contacted by several outfits wanting you to come and work for them.’
I kept my eyes on the curved monochrome back of my little Venetian nun.
‘Such as?’
She flipped over the sheets on her precious clipboard. ‘A fashion design studio. A travel company. A hotel chain opening up in Venice. And the developers of a gastropub near Bigbury in Devon.’
I glanced up and her round button eyes were already latched onto mine. ‘That’s where I used to live.’
‘I know. They know. They’re the people buying the old Folkes residence. That’s why they want the Bleak House series.’
She glided away calmly and tapped at an unsold series of sea and sky views framed by peeling, weatherbeaten windows and treated with chemicals to look like old postcards.
‘Ah. The house on the cliffs.’
‘Tell me about it.’ She kept her eyes on the photographs. ‘That’s where they neglected you. Bullied you, no doubt. Hurt you. Where they cut off your lovely Rapunzel hair.’
‘Yes. But eventually there was nothing but silence in that house.’ I realised I was pulling the bracelet hard against my wrist bone. ‘Apart from my diaries, and my dosh, those pictures are the only record.’
‘But why take photographs of a place with such awful associations?’
The bracelet was really hurting me now, but it felt good. I took a step towards Crystal.
‘All my life I’ve used cameras to make sense of the world, to bring light into the darkness. If that doesn’t sound too precious. When I became more skilled I could shape objects however I chose, manipulate or even distort them. I needed to boil that house and everything in it down to bricks and mortar. A shell.’
‘Reduce it, like one of Dickson’s sauces.’
Crystal cocked her head and ran her fingers over the photographs, tracing the rotten window frames, the nails sticking out of the damp walls, the dry, waving grass glimpsed outside.
