Framed (26 page)

Thinking about the boys made Larry determined to leave. He did try, albeit halfheartedly, but then Lola wouldn't give back his jacket, and as he tugged and said he really had to go, Charlotte seemed to disappear. Lola suddenly let the jacket go, and Larry teetered backward.

"We're alone, she's tired, we-are-aloooooooooone."

"So am I, tired. I've got to go." He had got one arm into a sleeve, when she began pulling his shirt out of his pants.

"If you are tired then you had better sleep."

"I've got to go home."

Lola shrugged, pointed to the door, undressing herself as she slowly walked across to the bedroom.

"I have to go home," he repeated lamely.

Lola threw off her dress. She wore nothing beneath it, she stood in just her high black sling-back shoes.

"Go home. Good night." She shrugged as she kicked one shoe off, then the next, and, stark naked, went back to the stereo. She nonchalantly began sorting tapes, humming and swaying and then bent over to place in a new tape.

Larry turned away, she was driving him crazy. "I won't ... I mean I can't see you again."

Swan Lake
drifted out. Lola turned like a ballerina. "Oh! Are you still here, would you like to see me dance?"

She moved beautifully, her delicate arms and beautiful hands made the motion of the swan. She stood on tiptoe, every curve, every muscle taut in her perfect body, apart from the swaying fluttering hands.

"I am dying," she whispered. "The swan without her prince, she dies." She began to dance.

Larry closed the door quietly behind him and had to lean on it because he wanted to go back to her, wanted to hold her, wanted her. He could still hear the music, knew she would still be dancing, perhaps. Even knew she didn't really care if he stayed or left.

"I think he's quite attractive," said Charlotte to Lola, who was now spread out on the sofa, eyes closed.

Lola's voice was husky, hardly audible. "I miss him, Charlie, miss him so much, it's like a pain inside me. I miss him."

Charlotte turned off the stereo, looked at Lola. "You're drunk."

"Yes, and"—Lola giggled—"you know he is quite attractive ... in a straight way."

Charlotte cocked her head to one side. "Well, you'd know all about that, wouldn't you . . . ?"

Lola walked into the bedroom, leaving Charlotte to turn off the lights and stereo.

Charlotte picked up the Caruso tape, held it in the palm of her hand. Lola was childlike, her emotions swung like a pendulum, but Charlotte really did miss Philip. He occupied her thoughts every minute of the day and night, and just feeling the tape of the music he loved to listen to made him feel close. She remembered the first time he had asked her about music, what she liked to listen to. . . . He was so attenitive as she shyly said she had never really thought about that kind of music, mostly it was rock and roll. The classics had never even interested her. He smiled, asked softly what she meant by classics, and Charlotte listed a few of the ones she could remember the names of. She was embarrassed, wondered if he would think her stupid, desperately trying to think of something she had heard that would make her seem intelligent, wanting him to be interested in her. He gently touched her lips with his forefinger. "You've heard nothing. I will open your ears, and your mind, free you to listen . . ."

She stood blushing, head bowed as he threw cushions onto the floor. He turned all the lights out and lit row upon row of candles. Then, taking her by the hand, he had whispered to her to lie down and to breathe deep breaths . . . until she felt as if she were floating, dizzy almost. She was afraid to open her eyes, not hearing him, not knowing where he was in the room. Then she knew he had lain down beside her, no more than six or seven inches away. She could feel the heat of his body, hear that he, too, was breathing deeply, and she began to time her own breaths with his, as first Beethoven, Bruch, Chaus-son, Saint-Saens, Sibelius, and lastly Tchaikovsky violin concertos wafted through the warm night air. The music played softly, at times hardly audible, and she felt her body begin to open to the sounds, her mind full with a strange exhilaration. She felt a strange uplifting sensation, she didn't want it to end, ever. It was so peaceful, so all-embracing that when the room was filled only with silence she wanted to weep.

He had gone. The candles were burned low. She could not believe he had not touched her, fondled her, made love to her. She did not even hear him leave, and it was not until she had crept to her room that she understood that he had, or it had, begun. He was drawing her to him, into his world, and all she knew was that she wanted more. Had it been the same for Lola? Charlotte never asked, but noticed that Lola often played the same music to fall asleep to at night. For a while at the beginning Charlotte was the one he
^:
centered his whole attention upon, and she had, like the proverbial butterfly, stepped from a cocoon that she had not even understood had been wrapped around her. Von Joel made her feel free, and an important part of his life. She ached for him, on one of those candlelit musical nights, to take her in his arms, to kiss her. But Von Joel did not touch her, was it for weeks or for months? It felt like years of longing. Was he fucking Lola? Lola lived in the villa, had been there before Charlotte, but had never shown any jealousy following Charlotte's arrival. In fact, Lola had welcomed her with such warmth, accepted her like a sister.

The ache inside Charlotte grew to such intensity that one night she waited, watching where Lola went—to her own room or to his? She was almost weeping with sexual frustration, wanting him, not knowing how to reach over and touch him. They could sit opposite at a table and eat, laugh, work alongside each other at the gallery, but that moment of reaching him, embracing him seemed almost impossible to attain. She did not know if he wanted her sexually, or if he even cared. She saw him go into Lola's bedroom, and he did not leave until dawn. Charlotte sat on the stairs crying; she wanted to be in there with him, wanted to be with him.

The following night, Lola was in bed. She was feeling sick, and Charlotte had taken her some hot milk to her bedroom. Von Joel had been gone all day, and Charlotte heard him running up the stairs two at a time as Maria called out Lola was ill.

"I think she has a temperature . . ." Charlotte placed the milk down, leaning over the bed, and Lola sat up smiling, reaching out for him like a child. "I'm fine, just hot . . . very hot, it must have been something I ate."

Von Joel gently dipped a cloth into some iced water and patted Lola's face. Charlotte stood back as he washed Lola like a father might wash a daughter. Then he cupped her face in his hands and kissed her on the lips. "Sleep,

sweetheart, you'll feel better in the morning. I'll get Maria to look in on you in the night."

Maria, Von Joel's housekeeper, respected him, his privacy, and asked no questions. It was not her business how many houseguests he chose to have, male or female, young or old.

Charlotte listened as he gave Maria careful instructions to look in on Lola in the night. If her temperature went up, Maria was to call him and the doctor.

Charlotte was standing at the top of the wide spiral staircase in the villa. Von Joel looked up, saying, "You must be hungry. I'm going to make some pasta. . . ."

He was very adept in the kitchen, neat and methodical, and an excellent cook. Charlotte sat at the table, watching as he placed out the knives and the forks, talking to Maria, who was flustered because she felt she should be cooking. Charlotte watched him tease Maria, saw how she became coy and girlish, and then excused herself to go to her own small apartment in the far wing of the villa. Her husband, Juan, was Von Joel's driver and general handyman. He was as discreet as his wife, and as deeply attached to Von Joel. The villa with its sprawling gardens and pool was, like everything in each room, tasteful, and kept in immaculate order. The kitchen was spotless, and Charlotte noticed how clean Von Joel was, as he carefully washed everything after he had used it before stacking the dishwasher and wiping down the marble surfaces where he had been chopping the tomatoes. She noticed everything about this man, his long beautiful hands, his lean body, and the way his dark hair curled at the nape of his neck. How in the morning the faint dark shadow on his chin accentuated his cheeks, making his face sharper, more dangerous in some way. She had, when alone in the villa, spent hours in his bedroom, which was devoid of a single photograph. The bedroom consisted of a stripped pine floor, a futon bed, and a vast array of polished old Spanish wardrobes. Each garment in the wardrobes was covered. Every shirt was neatly, meticulously folded.

Hand-stitched shoes, made for him in London, were placed on racks beside his worn rope sandals. There were silks and fine pure cottons, cashmere sweaters in soft fawns and pale creams, black and navy silks in separate drawers. Von Joel rarely wore any brightly colored garment. As soon as he returned from work he always bathed and changed into his pure white dressing gown and his long handmade cotton shifts. He was usually barefoot, his body deeply tanned . . . and Charlotte lost count of the laps he did in the pool every morning. She loved to watch him with his dogs, Sasha and Bruno. It was as if every day were carefully regimented: up at five, swimming, and then he would walk his dogs for an hour, always feeding them himself. He made it clear he preferred, at these times, to be alone. He discouraged her from using the phone and hated anyone else answering it when he was at home. There was no answering service but there were phones in every room. Often he let them ring, choosing not even to answer them himself, and often there were calls during the night. These were answered.

The food Von Joel had prepared was placed in front of Charlotte with a flourish. The wine was uncorked, and he poured a glass for her, but drank only water himself. He rarely, if ever, drank, and loathed anyone smoking.

Charlotte waited for him to be seated. He had once quietly suggested to her that it was polite to wait for him to sit before she ate, and when they all dined together they waited until Maria had served the meal before beginning to eat.

"You like it? Maybe too much garlic, not enough basil? What do you think?"

Charlotte shrugged, and he stared at her. "I asked if you liked it or not . . . ?"

"It's fine!"

"Fine? Does that mean you like it, or it's just so-so?"

"It's nice."

"Nice?"

She flushed, and he gave an irritated sigh, and then began to discuss a new painter he had discovered and for whom he would arrange a show in his smaller gallery. Charlotte by this time had lived in the villa for one month. She had gone into the gallery for the first time six weeks previously. Von Joel had been standing viewing a painting, and had turned to watch her as she, too, looked over the canvases. He had been charming but dismissive, and had talked a few moments to Lola before he had left. Lola had asked if she was staying in Marbella, or just on vacation. Soon Charlotte was offered a job working in the gallery, and she didn't return to England until the arrest of Von Joel.

f

Charlotte turned off the lights and went into the bedroom. Lola was sleeping, hugging the pillow in her arms, her face like an innocent child's. Charlotte quietly washed her face and cleaned her teeth in the en suite bathroom.. Von Joel's bathroom at the villa was like an Aladdin's cave of perfumes and creams. He was almost obsessive about cleanliness, and because he spent a lot of time in the sun, and swimming, his body oils took up an entire shelf. The sudden realization that he was in the hospital hurt, and unexpectedly made her want to weep. She sat on the edge of the bath, tears streaming down her cheeks, but she didn't cry out loud, she didn't want to wake Lola. She missed his presence so much. She missed his strength, his whole being with such intensity that she began to shake uncontrollably.

Von Joel had chosen all her dresses, shoes, even her underwear, but without her really being aware of it. He had also chosen Lola's clothes, but it had been such fun, the three of them going on mammoth shopping expeditions, returning to the villa laden with purchases, all designer labels. But at no time did he ever say, I want you to wear this, or that, he just smiled when they paraded in front of him, and that was all the indication the two girls required. He had a smile that made the darkness in his face boyish, and often when that sweet smile appeared he was the vulnerable one. Even his wide dark green eyes seemed different when he smiled; they were so clear, yet she had seen them become frightening, like chips of hard granite. The sweet smile that appeared so fleetingly was often a tight hard line. That was the cruel face she saw when something, usually someone on the end of the night telephone calls, said or did something that made him unleash his anger. Yet he rarely raised his voice. He enjoyed the control he had over his emotions and it was that control she had found impossible to break, or to see through in order to understand if he ever had any feelings for her.