Bold as Love

by Gwyneth Jones

  ‘I wasn’t invited,’ she said, uneasily. ‘Won’t that be weird?’

  ‘Rufus is a billionaire or something, darling. He doesn’t count the spoons. And he’s a very, very private person, but he never goes anywhere without this huge entourage—’ Carly laughed. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll be lost in the crowd. But you’ll meet people. You want to be a singer, don’t you?’ Fio had by this time confessed her secret ambition. ‘You’ll need contacts. You can’t start too soon.’

  The journey and the arrival passed in a blur. Carly had been right, there was a crowd of people, the kind of people Fio had met in Kensington only more so. She was shown to a room by a servant. The house must be five hundred years old—half timbered, spartan, smelling of beeswax and lavender and dried oranges. The portraits on the walls were not of Rufus O’Niall’s forebears, obviously not, since his skin was chestnut brown, and the pictured faces were as white as Fiorinda’s. But the sense of dynasty was right. Rufus was old money in the world of rock and roll. He and his band The Geese had reached that glorious plateau of truly unassailable fame, and solid wealth. Fiorinda began to feel thrilled. Later, when he took some of his guests on a tour of the manor grounds, she tagged along and tried to get next to the master. What was most incredible was that Carly’s friendship with these celebrities seemed to prove that Fio’s Mum had once been on intimate terms with the famous. But she’d been warned not to mention her mother. Whatever Mum had done, apparently it still rankled in the music world.

  She was trying to be cool, but feeling very uncomfortable. Used to the modest habits of her North London, mainly Hindu, neighbourhood, she felt terribly exposed in the clothes she was wearing. She was glad Carly had warned her how to dress, but she kept wanting to put her hands over her bum, to fold her arms over the outline of her breasts. And the men were no better. She supposed that if you were rich, walking in your own private grounds was the same as being out at a fancy club.

  As they climbed a flight of steps, from the fishponds to a rose terrace, Rufus turned and glanced at Fio: who had managed to reach the centre of the group. He at once resumed his conversation with the fat, florid woman beside him (a movie producer). But a few moments later he turned again, and handed her a sprig of rose leaves. ‘Put that in your pocket, sweet—briar,’ he said, with a tender smile. ‘Keep it for a souvenir.’

  She hadn’t known you could have rosebushes with scented leaves. She didn’t have a pocket. She held the sprig in her hand, awkwardly, all the way back to the house. She was deeply flattered and excited. She started trying to think of the names of some of The Geese’s hit singles, so that she’d have something to say if he noticed her again.

  In the evening, after dinner, some guests disappeared. The rest sat around with Rufus in the great hall. People had been drinking quite a lot, and sniffing coke, but they were quiet about it. Fio had half expected them to be naked except for jewels and make—up, after the way they dressed in daytime, but they were wearing the same as in the afternoon. Carly was there, but she seemed to have decided to leave Fiorinda to her own devices, which was fine. Fio did not want to be shown off, or looked after like a baby. She had changed into her best scarlet teeshirt and a shiny long pink skirt. The teeshirt was printed over with little naked male figures, labelled jokily things like “French Polish” and “Turkish Delight”, though you couldn’t see much difference between the faces; or the sets of wedding—tackle. She had tried it on in the exclusive shop where Carly bought it for her, baring her tiny budding breasts without shame: they could stand up for themselves. ‘Well,’ the attentive assistant had said, impressed. ‘I thought that colour wouldn’t suit you, dear, but it certainly does.’

  Scarlet gave Fiorinda’s creamy skin the pure glow of a candleflame, it made her strongly marked brows and lashes look made—up, which they were not. For some reason, Carly had forbidden her to wear make—up on this visit. There was talk, and silence; someone strummed a guitar. It was oddly like an evening in the cold house, except that the setting was ancient instead of merely old fashioned, and there were more people. Fio felt ignored. She went over to the hearth, where there was a fire of cherry logs because the June night was chill. She gazed into the flames and then sat down, as if by chance, with her back against the couch where he was sitting, the rock—lord in state surrounded by his courtiers. She hoped that she would think of something intelligent to say: somehow contribute to the conversation and get noticed. Instead, Rufus began to stroke her hair. She felt his fingertips on the nape of her neck, and then circling her ear.

  She was half stunned at the liberty he was taking. How did he know that he could do this? How could he just stroke her, as if she was a cat or a dog? But he could do what he liked. For Rufus O’Niall, everything was allowed.

  ‘Can you do magic?’ he murmured, so that only she could hear. ‘You look as if you could.’

  ‘My gran’s a witch. Not me. I think it’s a recessive gene. You need two copies.’

  Rufus laughed very quietly, like a rumble of soft thunder.

  ‘What about your parents?’

  ‘Oh, they’re dead. My gran looks after me.’ Dead parents were simpler.

  Someone challenged him to a game of chess, and he left the couch.

  Fiorinda’s room was next to Carly’s. When Rufus came to find her in the night she was sitting by the bed, still wearing her scarlet teeshirt and her pink skirt. She hadn’t wanted to take them off. She’d have felt stupid waiting in her pyjamas, especially since she was half convinced that she was imagining the whole thing. But here he was. Rufus said, ‘I thought you’d be tucked up under the covers by now, Sweetbriar.’ He took her in his arms and carried her off to his own room: which was sumptuous, but she didn’t get a chance to take much in.

  In the morning she woke in her own bed with no clear idea of how she’d got there. Carly was shaking her gently. ‘I’ve got to go back to London,’ she announced. ‘Right now. I’m sorry sweetheart. Something desperately important’s come up, it means lots of money.’

  Fio was hazy about how her aunt made a living, but she nodded.

  ‘You’ll be all right, won’t you darling? I’d hate to drag you away. You know Joel, and Mittie.’ These were Carey’s neighbours, a guy couple who lived in the flat upstairs. ‘They’ll look after you, and bring you home tomorrow, or Monday.’

  Fiorinda had been told by her school friends that she would never get a husband, because her Mum was a depressive and had had breast cancer. In the comfortable bourgeois community that surrounded her mother’s house, it was taken for granted that people with bad genes would not reproduce themselves. (It was easier for the community to accept this idea, since it was equally taken for granted that bad genes were almost unknown in people of Indian ancestry). The well—to—do Hindu girls weren’t being cruel. They meant that she should prepare herself for another kind of life, and they were concerned that she showed no sign of doing so. Fiorinda didn’t mind. She liked the feeling of being one of a kind. She liked the feeling that she had nothing to lose. She’d been very surprised at what had happened, but she’d had no qualms about losing her virginity. It might be a big break, and anyway it was worth a shot. In the entertainment business, most people have to start out working for free.

  She went back to London with Carly’s friends, but she knew it wasn’t over. Sure enough, about two weeks later Rufus came to find her. He was waiting in a taxi one afternoon, discreetly parked down the road from the school gates. He took her to a flat, a luxurious but poky little place which he used ‘sometimes—’ he explained vaguely. She knew he’d used it with other girls: she didn’t mind. It was the start of a regular affair. Sometimes he was waiting in the morning, waylaid her and carried her off, and she never reached her classes: sometimes he only ‘borrowed her’ as he put it, for an hour or so. He gave her presents, which had to stay in the flat as she couldn’t take them home, but there was never any suggestion that he would offer her money. She felt that was a good sign. The rewards she’d ge
t for this would be of a different order. Weeks passed. In August, Mum thought Fiorinda was going into school to the holiday—homework club; but she was meeting Rufus. She found that he would talk to her, and plagued him with insatiable, devouring curiosity. He said she asked more questions than a three—year—old. The sexual part of the experience wasn’t very sexy for Fio: but she didn’t mind that. The strange and important thing was that she was actually getting to know him, getting to know this big, flamboyantly handsome grown—up man as a person. Rufus was lagging behind her, but that would change. He would come to recognise Fio as a person, instead of a forbidden pleasure. He would like her, instead of feeling addicted and guilty the way he felt now. She began to think with impatience of the years—at least three years, to be reasonable—that must pass before they could be seen in public together.

  In September, without warning, he vanished.

  She didn’t know the address of their flat. When he stopped coming to pick her up she took the Tube to the approximate location and walked around trying to find it; but she couldn’t. She realised, then, why she’d paid no attention to details like street names. She must have known, though her daydreams had seemed so real, that this was how it would end. He would simply be gone.

  Since the country house party she’d hardly heard from her aunt Carly. She guessed that Carly had found out about her going with Rufus, and naturally didn’t want to get involved. But she had nowhere else to turn so she went to Kensington Church Street. She still had her card for the front entrance, but when she got upstairs there was nobody in. When she’d been knocking and ringing at her aunt’s door for a while Joel came down from the floor above.

  ‘Hi, Fio. Long time no see. Carly’s away for a few days. Can I help?’

  ‘It’s private.’ But though she knew she could not chase Rufus, she was too weak to resist this opportunity. ‘I don’t suppose you know how I can contact Rufus O’Niall?’

  Joel had a key to Carly’s front door. He opened it and hustled her inside, into Carly’s tiny, smartly furnished living room. ‘Rufus has left town,’ he said, folding his arms and glaring at her. ‘He suddenly rushed back to the Seychelles, which is where he more or less lives these days. With his lovely wife and kids. You don’t want to contact him. How old are you?’

  She bristled. ‘D’you think I’m too young to have sex?’

  ‘With someone your own age, I don’t know, maybe that would be different. Rufus O’Niall is a low down dirty dog. He’s old enough to be your grandad, and you are well young enough to get him arrested, except that it won’t happen. Maybe he actually took pity on you, kid: he can’t have fled the country for fear of discovery. His sad taste for underage totty is something everyone knows and nobody tells… Do you hear what I’m saying? You have nothing on him. Go home, don’t come here again. You do have a home?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Thank God for that. How did you get involved with Carly Slater, anyway?’

  ‘She’s actually my aunt,’ quavered Fiorinda, frightened by his anger.

  Joel frowned. ‘Your aunt?’

  ‘Yes!’ Fiorinda had been forbidden to mention this, but she was stung by the term ‘under age totty’. ‘She’s my aunt. Her mother is my gran and lives in our basement.’

  He stared for a moment, in silence. ‘Remind me, what’s your name? Your real name.’

  She was so intimidated she confessed the hated truth. ‘Frances. It’s Frances Day. But that’s my mother’s ex—husband’s name: she uses it but he’s not my father. My real name is Frances Slater. Carly is my mother’s sister.’

  ‘So, that makes you…your mother must be… Sue Slater? The journalist?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh my God.’ Joel came up close and peered into Fio’s face intently. He backed away again, looking stunned. ‘Wow. Your aunt is really something.’

  Fiorinda wondered what was going on. Probably he’d guessed why she was here. But though she knew she’d been stupid, her problem wasn’t that weird.

  ‘Why did you want to see her? Did you think she’d give you Rufus’s private number? Because you can forget that—’

  ‘No! I don’t want him involved! Not really, not at all. But I need help. I think I’m pregnant.’

  ‘My God,’ said Joel. ‘What a mess.’

  The sisters had a confrontation, in the kitchen where Carly had one day painted Fio’s face, and remarked, ‘I’d have to introduce you as just a friend’. Naturally, Carly denied everything. She insisted she’d been trying to help, trying to give poor Fiorinda a life. She was as appalled as anyone at the way Rufus had behaved, she’d had no idea he would do that, she was devastated, it was awful, a really horrible coincidence, she felt terribly responsible… But Fiorinda, who was present at this meeting, had seen the gleam of triumph in her aunt’s eyes. She wondered what her Mum had done to Carly, in the long ago, to lay the fuse for such a savage, cold—blooded, long—planned revenge. But she wasn’t curious about the details. She decided, then and there, never to see her half—siblings again: never to have anything more to do with them.

  If this was family life, the hell with it.

  She refused to have an abortion. Having an abortion would make it all too real. Her gran provided cantrips and potions that didn’t work, her mother seemed too sunk in her own despair to take much notice. She stopped going to school in the fifth month and completed the pregnancy in deep denial, trying to stay thin and hoping to the last minute that it was all a bad dream. The baby was born surprisingly strong and healthy. When it was three months old it caught pneumonia and died, after which Fiorinda left the cold house forever.

  She followed the weird sisters into a low—rise tented township. New arrivals were wandering, laden: seeking friends, eyeing—up pitches. Families were cooking, tribes erecting totem poles and lofting big gaudy marker—balloons. Dogs ambled, bare—arsed toddlers tottered, smoke wreathes eddied. A band of dancers, pogoing in a trance that might keep going for days, had blocked one of the vehicle access lanes. Fio’s Three Witches briefly joined the dance and passed on: the old one with the silver topknot, the one whose broad back was robed in blood red; the third in yellow and blue, with a bald head, a scalplock and an eagle’s feather.

  Fiorinda had moved from the cold house to a central London hostel, answered an advertisment in a music paper and started singing with a band called DARK. She’d been with them ever since. They’d had some success and brought out an album: but there were beginning to be rending and tearing noises. She had started doing some gigs alone. She was moving on, with the band or without them, on a trajectory that, in her mind, led only to one end.

  There’d been rumours for the last year or so that Rufus O’Niall, semi—retired superstar, was moving into Countercultural politics: that he was coming back to the soon—to—be—history UK; that he was to take a major role of some kind. Nothing had happened, yet. He hadn’t even been mentioned in the media coverage recently: but that was like Rufus, Fiorinda knew. Backers, bankrollers, groomers? The old witch was wrong. He had no need for any of that. He would arrive without fanfare here at Reading, which everyone knew was the real Dissolution Festival. He would be elusive, he would be relaxed; secretly drawing people around him—

  Even now she could feel Carly’s soft fingertips, the first blissful silky touch of expensive cosmetics on her skin. She could see her own face in the mirror, strange and lovely. I’ll have to introduce you as a friend… She’d understood, afterwards, that her aunt was what they used to call a procuress. Fiorinda had been procured, prepared and delivered to her own father, the client. Most probably (she’d denied this, too, but it was obvious) Carly had also been the one who made sure Rufus found out. She had told him, or had someone tell him, that the latest box—fresh girl child he’d been enjoying was his own daughter.

  But he must have had some idea, he must have suspected. I don’t look like Carly but I do look like my Mum, I know I do. If he didn’t know about me and mum and gran, why did he ask me
like that, can you do magic?

  Lanterns began to be lit. She crossed a swathe of petrol—stink, and the gut—thumping judder of a generator bit her bones. The masses were filing through the cattle gates, exchanging tickets for wristbands. The witches ducked through an unofficial doorway cut in the plastic coated mesh of the perimeter fence: she followed them into the arena. Some band or other was playing on main stage, far away: but the witches had joined a crowd outside one of the covered venues, a big conical marquee called The Blue Lagoon. In the middle of this crowd, there was a man. They’d found their Thane of Cawdor. He was wearing a hat and a long brown leather coat. He had his back to Fio but he was tall, he carried himself with a casual presence of power, and he was obviously the centre of attention. It was Rufus. She couldn’t be absolutely sure until he turned his head, but—

  What was she going to say to him? After four years… But the first year she didn’t count, she tried to cut that year out of her memory. After three years of making something of herself, shaping her talent and using it. Don’t say anything, don’t let him see you, not at first.

  No. You will never be ready. Take your chance as it comes—

  A ring of hawkers’ vans, bright as a funfair, were the backdrop of her great moment. A beer vendor with coolboxes swung two big greeny yellow truncheons of chemical light. She wet her lips.

  You knew I was someone’s daughter before you touched me. If you cared… If it made a difference when you knew I was your daughter, then how could you—?

  How could you leave me to face them all alone—?

  And now stop crying

  Slide the knife between