The Golden Locket (Unbreakable Trilogy, Book 2)

by Primula Bond

  I nod briskly. That theatre where he works. It’s like a candy store.

  ‘They’re a burlesque troupe who have come out of nowhere but are already attracting attention. Possibly from Hollywood. I’d like you to take the publicity and fashion stills as part of a kind of photographic storyboard.’

  ‘No pantomime dames involved?’ I ask slyly.

  ‘Absolutely not. These are stunning professional dancers. This could take me places.’ Pierre grins at both of us. ‘This could be the success story I bring to you in six months’ time.’

  We talk a little more, and make an appointment for me to come along to the theatre for the press show, which will give me some exposure, too. The conversation becomes practical and detailed and so interesting that before I know it it’s the early hours.

  I stand up, and the men stand with me.

  ‘I’m bushed now, boys. I’m going to leave you to talk,’ I say, stepping back from the table. Pierre takes me firmly by both arms, and kisses me on first one cheek, then the other.

  ‘Very French,’ I smile, feeling the smooth wetness on my face.

  ‘I’ll walk you to the lift, cara.’ Gustav curls his arm round my waist.

  Pierre watches as Gustav escorts me to the lift and folds me into his arms.

  ‘Thank you, my darling,’ he murmurs, his breath hot in my hair. I lean against his chest and listen to the deep thump of his heart. ‘You’re a kind of balm, soothing everyone.’

  ‘You make me sound like a hand cream!’ I laugh softly. I could stand here forever. ‘Why are you thanking me?’

  ‘For being here. Making tonight feel as close to a normal family get-together as possible. For being in demand as a clever young photographer going places. And while I’ve been listening to you and him chatting on, I’ve made my mind up about one more thing.’

  I look up at him. I have to crick my neck back to meet his eyes. He bunches my hair up in his hand.

  ‘There’s something I haven’t told him. I thought the time would come eventually but no. There might never be the right time. Not when his happiness means more than mine.’

  ‘Gustav?’ I say, letting him pull me close to him. ‘What is it?’

  He leans his chin on the top of my head. ‘I swore to him, to you, that I would be honest and open about everything. So I thought that would include, eventually, the devastating truth about the fire. But I realise, especially now you and he are building such a rapport, that I can’t risk it. It would bring down the house of cards. I’ll just have to accept that part of him will always blame me for everything, for robbing him of our parents before he got a chance to remember them. But I’m big enough to take it. We have to cut him some slack.’

  ‘We?’ I reach up and stroke his dark, troubled face. Feel the scrape of bristle under my fingers. ‘What is this devastating truth, honey?’

  Gustav catches my hand and kisses it, pressing the palm against his face like a mask.

  ‘I’ve never told him – how could I? – but that night in Paris when our family home was burned to a cinder and we’d got him to the hospital, the doctors found matches and a lighter in Pierre’s little pyjama pockets when they cut his clothes off. He was only three years old. He had no idea what devastation he had caused. The lift comes up with a little ding and the doors shiver open. ‘How can I ever tell him that he started the fire?’

  CHAPTER NINE

  The roar of the greasepaint. The smell of the crowd. The dusty choke of hairspray, the stale whiff of caked lipstick and powdery make-up and strong, cheap perfume hanging like mist over a swamp. The velveteen wallpaper has come away in chunks, leaving crimson-painted bricks exposed. Starkly lit mirrors nailed along each crumbling wall add to the confusion, repeating the scene over and over again.

  Setting up the dressing room as part of the scenery makes for a surreal mix. It brings the back stage to the front, and mixes period with modern-day. The music stands, a broken violin that looks as if it has been snapped over a starlet’s head, tailor’s dummies draped with corsets, beads and cloaks are all vintage, but there are also contemporary touches such as trailing wires, hair tongs, curlers, ironing boards and a huge ghetto-blaster.

  It all makes for a clever contrast between the grandeur of the proscenium arch, the stage and stalls, the music, costumes, laughter and applause, and the cramped accommodation normally concealed beneath the stage, the scruffy brickwork, the twittering, gossiping and pale nakedness of the actors and dancers as they prepare – all symbolic of the illusion that is showbiz.

  A few minutes ago Gustav crooked his finger to summon the car, which was hovering a few yards behind us like a respectful courtier. We’re both inordinately pleased that he ditched that lazy limo and replaced it with this bright-red fire-engine-like Hummer with blacked-out windows and a series of burly drivers. All we’re missing now is Dickson to drive it.

  I have plans for that car. The back seat is as big as a double bed. How sexy would it be to order the burly driver to take us wherever we wanted to go around town so that we could tear each other’s clothes off and make out, shielded by a few millimetres of blacked-out bulletproof glass from the eyes of all those unsuspecting passers-by? But so far there has not been the time.

  ‘Before we get to the theatre, I need to talk to you about Polly.’ I shook Gustav’s arm as he read a message on his phone. ‘Did Pierre say anything in the Library Bar the other night?

  ‘No. He was too busy filling me in on the last five years. But if there’s some hiatus going on between them, that explains why she wasn’t there. I suspect my brother is a pretty lousy boyfriend.’ Finally he glanced at me. ‘Cara, if Polly has asked you to talk to him, be my guest, but leave me out of it.’

  I fiddled with the sleeve of his coat. ‘Oh, I might leave it. He won’t want me butting into his private life just when things are going so smoothly between you.’

  ‘She’s your nearest and dearest, Serena. You should help her, but be diplomatic about it. Now, I’m going to have to drop you at the theatre.’ He waggled his phone at me. ‘Something has come up. An iron in the fire that involves you, signorina, so don’t look so suspicious. And talking of fires, remember. You must never tell Pierre what I told you about him starting the Paris fire.’

  ‘My lips are sealed. But I want you there with me, Gustav. I’m getting used to you being my minder. My watcher, watching.’ I pushed my face into his shoulder, breathing in his fresh scent. Tweaking the red scarf to kiss the pulse beating beneath.

  He held my face tight between his hands as he kissed me back, pushing the tip of his tongue, running it behind my teeth, just enough to tickle and turn me on, just enough to make me impatient for tonight to come.

  ‘Not this time. You and Pierre need to talk business, and get to know each other better. I’d far rather be with you today. But unfortunately the dull world of commercial property deals, especially when I’m trying to sprinkle a little creative magic over them, won’t wait, even for my girl.’

  The car stopped in a tiny street just set back from the enclosed garden square of Gramercy Park and before we had time for a proper kiss he drove off.

  At first I thought they’d left me in the wrong place, because all I could see was a small yellowish building tucked between two elegant black-painted town houses. It was very shabby. Not the grand structure I was expecting from Pierre’s descriptions. This tumbledown place was all shuttered windows, ripped posters flapping in the cold breeze, and peeling paintwork. Not even the double entrance doors were functioning. There was a set of worn stone steps, a snapped handrail and a small sign tacked to the door saying ‘Please use back entrance’.

  I was a couple of minutes early. I didn’t want to look too keen. I walked to the end of the street, took a couple of shots of the extraordinary angles of the Flatiron Building, dragged my feet back to the theatre and bumped straight into someone just coming down the steps.

  ‘Hey, watch where you’re – hi, Serena! You’re on the dot!’

 
; I spun round, nearly tripping over my own feet, and found myself staring up into the now familiar face of Gustav’s younger brother. It was a strange, suspended moment. The two men, so alike. I’d only seen Pierre at night, but now, lit by the harsh daylight, he looked, despite the technical differences of height, hair and age, even more like Gustav.

  Since we’d met in the Library Bar the other night he’d cut his hair even shorter, almost aggressively so. I wondered if he knew Polly had also shaved off her hair, her own declaration of his rejection. Either way he had changed his image yet again. The stiff black quiff jutting above his eyebrows and longish sideburns, along with the scuffed leather jacket, made him look like a rakish rocker.

  ‘Good day, Pierre.’

  ‘Are you all right, Serena? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost. Well, I guess it’s weird, being alone with me like this at last? Not as handsome as my brother, eh?’

  I managed a weak smile. ‘No chance.’

  Where Gustav’s face is angular with Nureyev cheekbones and a strong nose tapering to a narrow chin and strong yet full lips, Pierre’s features are broader yet meaner. Why couldn’t I look away? Because it was the eyes. Whatever their setting of bone and sinew, the daylight accentuated the same dark, glittering, questioning eyes. Black enough to drown in. Expressions shifting beneath the surface like sand and pebbles being washed beneath the tide.

  ‘The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, though, eh?’

  We laughed awkwardly, still staring at each other. Pierre Levi, just like his brother, is devastatingly attractive. They have the same blood. The same history, even though they still keep massive secrets from one another. The same magnetic air that pins you like a butterfly in a display case, draws you in, whether you like it or not. And the answer to the evil, forbidden question clamouring at the back of my mind was that yes, I daresay I would have fancied him if he wasn’t Polly’s boyfriend. And if I hadn’t met Gustav first.

  ‘Being an orphan myself, I guess I’m still getting used to all these brotherly developments. Don’t get me wrong. It’s good. It’s like the jigsaw is piecing together again,’ I murmured faintly, sitting down with a thump on the steps. Damp seeped through my jeans. ‘Gustav is so happy about it. Here you are, back in his life. Large as life.’

  ‘And twice as ugly!’ He sat down on the step next to me. He was wearing a blue scarf knotted round his neck in the same way as Gustav wears his red one, and ripped blue jeans. His long leg brushed against mine, and he made no attempt to move it. I shivered in the cold, but I didn’t move mine either. I didn’t want to look petty. ‘Look. We got off on the wrong foot those first two times we met. I was oafish, and defensive.’

  I glanced up at him. To an observer we could look like two mates having a heart-to-heart. ‘And I was rude, too. A Rottweiler, you said.’

  ‘We all have a quagmire to cross. It’s like recovering from a long illness.’ He kept his smiling eyes on me, drummed his fingers on his knees. ‘You still feel feverish and shaky. Definitely unreal. But I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. You are my brother’s girlfriend, after all, and he’s mad about you.’

  The blood rushed through my body. ‘He told you that?’

  ‘My God. Talk about an open book. Your face has literally lit up like a beacon. You’ve really got it bad!’ I caught a strange look in Pierre’s eye. Although he accompanied it with a chuckle, I wondered: if it wasn’t jealousy, was it envy? If so, he had only himself to blame for wrecking his chances of similar happiness with Polly. ‘I’m happy for him. For you both. God knows he could use the love of a good woman.’

  I gaped at him, blushing scarlet. ‘I never expected such nice words from you.’

  ‘Like I said. Wrong foot earlier. Right footing now. Yes?’ Pierre’s soft growling laugh was like his brother’s. ‘And you will find me just as charming as my brother when I pull my finger out.’

  ‘Not to everyone.’ I stood up abruptly. I so didn’t want to have a conversation about Polly, even though she’d called me twice this morning, urging me to try again. ‘Shall we get on with the job in hand?’

  He stood up with me, took hold of my arms. ‘That lioness look in your eye. I saw it in the gallery in London. I saw it on New Year’s Eve, too. You really would defend your nearest and dearest to the death. But this isn’t about Gustav, is it? So it must be about Polly.’

  I gripped the handle of my camera case. Tried to ignore the heat transmitting from his hands. ‘Where do you Levi boys get this mind-reading skill from? Yes, I am worried sick about her, since you ask. I meant to tackle you about it the other night. She says you’ve had some terrible rows and you’ve simply walked out. First she blamed Margot, and now she’s certain there is someone else. But you haven’t told her where she stands, and she’s devastated. She’s lost the plot, Pierre.’

  Pierre let go of my arms and leaned against one of the pillars at the bottom of the theatre steps. ‘She’s great, your cousin, feisty, cute, sexy, but it’s all become too heavy. So I admit I’ve taken the coward’s way out. Instead of being straight with her and finishing it face to face, I’ve gone off the radar as far as she’s concerned.’ He suddenly reached out and tipped my chin in his fingers, turned my face towards him. ‘I thought she might be enough for me, but the world has tilted on its axis in the last month or so. Certain people have come bursting into my life and thrown me out of kilter.’

  I gaped back at him, felt the pull of his black eyes. Tried to read what, or who, he meant. Was he trying to say that yes, he had behaved badly? That Polly wasn’t exaggerating? And if so, who did he mean by certain people? I couldn’t look down. It was like teetering on the edge of a steep staircase.

  ‘You’re not talking about Gustav now, are you? It’s another woman. So who is it? One of your dancers? The one who texted you on New Year’s Eve?’ My voice came out in a croak. ‘Polly asked me to find out from you what’s going on, so why can’t you be straight with me?’

  ‘God knows I would love to confide what’s going on in this tormented heart of mine. I could tell you exactly who it is I’m pining for. She could even be standing right here in front of me.’ His eyes rested on me, for one brief second totally serious, before his face split into a grin. ‘But we’re not here to gossip. What would Gustav have to say about that? We’re here to do business. And this is one path you really don’t want to venture down. Because if I told you who I’m lusting after now, the balloon would go up. Believe me, sis. This person is out of bounds. It would be catastrophic.’

  I decided to ignore the ill-judged familiarity and looked away from him. It was time to do my own detective work. Assuming Pierre wasn’t talking about me when he’d hinted that the object of his desire was right here, then it must be one of the dancers, maybe a married one, and it would become obvious as soon as I got inside the theatre.

  He started to lead me round to the back of the building.

  One minute charming the birds off the trees, next minute dropping hints about something truly transgressive going on in his head.

  If the old Polly was here, and obviously not involved, she’d say, Duh. You’re standing in front of a theatre full of lissome dancers. What makes you think he’d give you a second glance?

  The plates shifting beneath my feet again. That was Pierre’s special trick, I was learning. But he was right. It was time to get on with the job in hand. Weighted down with my equipment I followed Pierre’s rapid pace round the corner.

  ‘You look a bit dubious, Serena.’ Pierre had stopped by the back door. ‘You’re wondering what this dump I’ve brought you to is.’

  He followed my gaze as I stared at the walls and windows, which were even scruffier round here than at the front. The door was falling off its hinges, there was a dumpster full of old scenery studded with rusty nails, and a pile of mossy roof tiles had cracked and smashed onto the paving around us.

  ‘Very atmospheric, I’ll say that about the place. It feels as if it could be haunted!’

 
; He wrenched open the door, widening the crack that was running through the panelling.

  ‘Oh, it looks shabby, I know, a few cracks here and there, but we’ve only just occupied it and appearances can be deceptive. A bit like the house in Baker Street in that respect. Part of the effect is deliberate downbeat chic, or will be when I’ve finished designing the refurbishment. The other point is that it was easy for my backers to acquire the premises.’

  ‘I’ll take your word for it,’ I muttered, lugging my kit through the door.

  Pierre took one of my cases. ‘Look. I really want to work with you. You’ve got this energy about you, Serena. I’ve seen that with my own eyes but I’ve also done some research, and you’re getting a great rap from clients already. Best of all, Gustav would be over the moon if we could collaborate harmoniously. But if you’re not happy with the idea of working with me, or working here, because of Polly, I can offer this gig to any number of aspiring photographers.’

  ‘And I could be offering my services to any number of clients, but you should know that I never turn down a decent commission.’

  He grinned approvingly and gave a slight bow as he held the door open for me.

  ‘In that case I’ll walk you through what I’m after. It could be exciting, Serena. But I’ll understand if what I just said about Polly has unnerved you. If you want to jack it in.’ He led me into a large, bare lobby lit by high arched windows. There was a makeshift box office in one corner and a pile of programme proofs on the table. He picked one up and tapped it against his mouth. ‘I certainly don’t want it coming between us.’

  ‘Jacking it in is not part of my vocabulary. Let’s get started,’ I sighed, putting my bags down and getting out my iPad to make notes. ‘But I’ll not let Polly be the elephant in the room. You have to tell her it’s over, otherwise she’ll make herself sick with hoping.’