Lose Yourself (The Desires Unlocked Trilogy Part Two) (24 page)

‘But,’ Vivienne continues, ‘it came at a price for him.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, I don’t know all the details, but his wife—’

‘He’s married?’ Maria interrupts, in panic.

‘
Was
married,’ Vivienne corrects, looking a little nervous as she licks her lips. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t tell you all about this. You should ask him yourself. It’s pretty grim.’

‘Please, tell me . . . I won’t let on you did,’ Maria asks her, urgently. She is certain she won’t be able to get Felix to talk to her about it.

Vivienne shakes her head. ‘No. It’s not right. He’ll tell you about what happened when he’s ready. It’s just . . . Well . . . You do look rather like her.’

Maria feels her heart plummet. Is she just an illusion to this man? What if he only says he loves her because he thinks she looks like his wife? And where is his wife? Vivienne referred to the wife in the past tense. So is she dead? Are the circumstances of her death his dark secret?

‘I’m sorry; you seem upset,’ Vivienne says. ‘Look, I have never seen him so happy; obviously you are doing something wonderful for my old friend. I promise you, his wife is long gone and she is never coming back – that is for sure.’ Vivienne squeezes her hand reassuringly.

So the wife is not dead, but gone? Where?

‘He is with
you
now. Just focus on that,’ Vivienne continues.

Maria shifts her legs; the ball spins inside her and she feels a jolt of arousal. ‘Yes,’ she says, huskily.

‘Well, then – stop worrying about it. You are very pretty. In fact, I would say far more attractive than she ever was . . .’ Before Vivienne has time to finish her sentence, Felix has suddenly materialised again. ‘I’m off to dance some more; do you want to join me?’ Vivienne asks Maria.

‘No; she can’t,’ Felix interjects. ‘We’re leaving.’

Maria almost collapses with relief. At last, they can go back to the hotel room; at last, she will be able to let go.

‘Did you find who you were looking for?’ she asks Felix, as they make their way through the crowd towards the exit.

‘Yes,’ he tells her. ‘Thank you for being so patient, darling.’ He squeezes her hand. ‘I will make it up to you.’

Despite his words, she feels a tension in his body as they walk out of the club, hand in hand. His light mood has darkened. She wonders who it was that he had to meet. She wonders about his wife. Vivienne had said she was long gone. But to where? She is still not sure if she means that she is dead.

As they approach the exit of the club, Maria sees a tall, white-haired man leaning by the door. He has his hands in his pockets and she can feel his eyes upon her, watching her as she walks out with Felix. She knows instinctively that he is the person her lover met.

‘Who was that man?’ she asks Felix, once they are out on the street.

‘What man?’

‘The one by the door, with white hair?’

‘You saw him? Olivier?’ He pauses, saying no more and, for some reason, she senses she shouldn’t ask again.

They speed up. She can feel the hard outline of his hip as it presses into her waist, his chest against the side of her breasts. He hurries her along the street. Has he forgotten that she is wearing the ball? Surely he must guess what this is doing to her? She senses it swivelling around inside her, forwards and then backwards against the outside tip of her most tender self, so that she is gritting her teeth in an effort not to cry out. His physical proximity to her is beginning to turn her on further. It is a hot night as it is, and now she feels like she is on fire, her body breaking out in a sweat. All the time, as they walk, as Felix pushes into her, touches her, she is getting more and more aroused.

‘Felix!’ she cries out, coming to a sudden standstill in the street.

He seems to come to his senses, remembering her situation. ‘Sweetheart, I’m sorry . . .’

She grips her sides, panting, trying to cool down.

‘Come, my darling; I think I need to get you back inside. I cannot let you suffer further.’ He suddenly scoops her up in his arms.

‘Felix! Put me down!’ she giggles.

‘You are as light as a feather,’ he says, carrying her through the dark streets. It is some relief to lie, like a dying swan, in his arms. Yet the ball has done its work. She is teetering on the edge.

In the hotel foyer, Madame Paget is nowhere to be seen. Felix sets her down in front of the lift and pulls back the cage door.

‘Do you know what I would like to do to you in here?’ he says to her, as they ride up to their floor.

She shakes her head; her eyes wide open with desire.

‘I would like to tie you up, to these bars, right here,’ he says, stroking the metal bars behind her, ‘and I would like to take you from behind . . .’ He strokes her bottom lip with his finger, and she opens her mouth, sucking its tip. She finds herself wanting him to do just what he describes. She wants him to take her in the lift. She cares not who sees them. Yet now they have arrived at their floor. Felix pulls back the gates and she follows him down the corridor into their hotel room. Just one more step, she promises herself, the sensation of the ball keeping her balanced on the precipice.

And now the door has closed behind her, and her lover is looking into her eyes. It is a look of adoration and longing, and yet, behind that, there is darkness and a secret she craves to know. She closes her eyes for a second. If she were another woman, she would tear off the little gold ball attire and storm out of the dingy hotel room forever. But it seems Maria, like her mother, Belle, before her, is a risk-taker. She opens her eyes.

‘How beautiful you are,’ Felix says, as he slowly unbuttons Maria’s red dress.

She clenches her legs, feels that evil ball stimulate her further.

Her dress cascades in a flurry of scarlet, a flood of red on the bare boards, and she stands before Felix, naked apart from her brassiere, her stockings and the velvet ribbon attire.

She sways against him as Felix unties the velvet strip and, with his fingers, retrieves the ball from within her flesh. She gives a little shiver and a gasp when he removes it, and leans into him even more. She wants him so badly now.

What is happening here in this little room in Paris? Is this a dream she is in? Is it real? All she knows is she wants Felix inside her.

As her gaze travels around their love nest, her eyes come to rest upon Felix’s movie camera, sitting on the chest of drawers. ‘Does it work?’ she whispers to her lover.

‘Does what work?’

‘The camera.’

‘Of course,’ he says.

She presses up against him and, on her tiptoes, puts her arms around his neck. ‘Film us?’ she asks.

He leans back and looks into her face. ‘Are you serious?’ he asks her, his expression deepening into one of awe.

‘Yes,’ she says, for she wants their passion documented. She wants him to watch it, to know that she is the one for him. Just her.

‘Are you sure?’ he says again, releasing her before picking up the camera, turning it over in his hands.

‘Yes.’ The word hisses out of her mouth, so loaded with her desire that Felix has no need to ask her again.

‘We will need more light, and I will need to set up the tripod, get it rolling . . .’

They become performers within the motion picture of their love, he leads her to the bed, pulling her on to it, so that she is on her hands and knees on the soft mattress.

Felix produces a silk scarf of black from beneath the pillow. She has never seen it before. He puts it around her eyes. All light is gone; she is in the heart of darkness. All she can do is smell him, and all she can hear is the whirr of the camera.

‘I love you, Maria,’ he whispers. His words feed her courage. She wore the golden ball, and now he will reward her with his love. The idea of the camera recording their lovemaking turns her on further.

He traces his finger down her spine so that she shivers. She can feel beads of sweat falling between her breasts, her mouth watering with desire. She follows the sensation of his finger down her back, over her bottom and underneath, as he caresses her, bringing her back to the point of desperation the gold ball had her in, just a few moments before. He pulls his finger away and she waits to feel him in her but, for a moment, nothing happens. She pushes her bottom up, offering herself to him. And then, suddenly, he enters her. His thrust is so powerful she is pushed all the way forward, her head grazing the wall. He pulls out slowly, so very, very slowly, so that the tip of him is rubbing against the very edge of her, teasing her tender skin.

He is in her again, pushing hard and deep. As he begins to pull back again, she feels her womb suck back, her insides quiver, and something takes over her. Maybe it is because she has drunk too much wine tonight, or maybe it is the after-effects of wearing the little gold ball, or maybe, even, it is the idea that she is being filmed that connects her to the violent, most instinctive part of herself – just like Pandora. Whatever it is, Maria abandons all sense of normality. She lets Felix penetrate her, deeper and deeper, right to her core. She loves him so much that she is no longer afraid, not of her heart nor of her body. There is a part of her that craves him to be bound to her more than he ever was to his wife, whether she is dead or alive. As he releases within her, she climaxes as well, convulsing in ecstasy, crying and laughing all at the same time.

Hours later, in the pearly hour before dawn, it is just her and Felix. The camera lens is blinkered as it lies harmlessly within its case. She wakes to feel his lips upon her skin. She opens her eyes and sees the shadow of his head on her belly as he caresses her with his tongue. She closes her eyes, her body so exulted that it feels apart from her mind, melting into his mouth. She opens herself so completely to him and, as he adores her, she comes again, imagining her love raining down upon him, healing him. For she knows her lover bears a burden from the past, and only she can save him.

Valentina sits in a crowded tube carriage and
remembers that, last night, she had the same dream as she had the day before. There she was, sitting naked in the Tube train, careering past stations without stopping, looking at an image of herself, the giant, empty suitcase at her feet. But this time there was no vampire Glen sucking the life out of her. Instead, she encountered all sorts of creatures: a rhinoceros, a large mastiff dog, even dinosaurs. She has no idea what it all means.

Are all these creatures a part of her psyche? Do they represent her animalistic side, or her instinctual nature? Is there a diabolical part of her that emerges through her free spirit? She thinks again of her conversation with Leonardo this morning and her question about whether they were bad people. He had talked about the fact that morals should not apply to the world of erotica.

She looks across at the people sitting opposite her. They are all studiously avoiding each other, reading the newspaper, or a book, or listening to music on headphones, or staring into space, just like her. We are all together and yet utterly disconnected, she thinks. What a miracle it was that she and Theo had fallen in love in such an environment as this, and yet they had. She will never forget their magical connection on the metro in Milan. She remembers how their eyes had locked through the hubbub of other passengers. So much had been said just by looking at each other on that journey through the underground tunnels of Milan. Not one word was spoken between them. They had exited the metro at exactly the same time, and all Theo had done was reach for her hand. She had led him, silently, all the way from the metro back to her apartment, where they had made passionate love all night long. It was only the following morning that they exchanged names. She had thought it was going to be the best one-night stand of her life. Instead, that stranger on the metro had become the love of her life.

The train pulls into Finchley Road station. This is where she needs to get off. She gets up, suddenly feeling very reluctant. Why is she putting herself through this? Does she really need to meet her father now? But it seems that her body is propelling her forwards and she knows that she will only regret it if she doesn’t follow through and be brave. Before, she had the excuse of not knowing where he lived. Now she has this information, she feels impelled to act upon it, even if she ends up hurt, or disappointed.

Outside the Tube station, the blue skies have disappeared to be replaced by dark, loaded clouds. She shivers, regretting not bringing her coat. As she turns off Finchley Road and up the warren of streets leading towards Hampstead village, it begins to rain heavily. She breaks into a jog, trying her best to protect herself with her bag on her head as she turns into her father’s street. It occurs to her that it is most likely that he won’t be home. After all, it is the middle of the day; most people are out at work.

And now she stands before the house again, like she did just two days ago, when her plan had been disrupted by Glen. She looks to her right and left. To her relief, she sees no sign of her would-be stalker. She wonders if Theo sorted him out last night – warned him off. Or maybe he has given up, she thinks, hopefully, while knowing in her heart that she has not seen the last of Glen. She pushes her concerns about the unpleasant art thief out of her mind. She can’t think of that now. Finally, she has reached the point she had been hoping to get to all these months, ever since Garelli spoke of her father to her.

‘He would be proud of you, Valentina.’ That’s what the policeman had said, and she takes a strange comfort in those words.

She approaches the door slowly, despite the rain soaking her dress, penetrating through to her underwear. Hesitantly, she rings the doorbell, hearing it echo down the hall. She waits. For a moment, she thinks she is saved. In fact, she is just about to walk out of the gate and back down the road when the door suddenly swings open. For a second, she is speechless. They are face to face, and what is most startling of all is that he looks exactly like her brother, Mattia, just with grey hair. Her father says nothing, either, for he looks just as shocked as she is. His face is as white as the wall behind him and his mouth has dropped open.

‘Tina?’ he croaks, looking confused and frail.

She realises now – he must think she is her mother. ‘No,’ she says, finding her voice. ‘No; I’m Valentina.’

He knows who she is. Of course he does. He seems to collect himself, and colour comes back into his face. ‘Valentina! Of course! Well, I . . . This is a surprise,’ he splutters.

‘Yes. I suppose it must be,’ she says, not knowing what to say next.

‘Come in,’ he offers. ‘You are getting drenched.’

She enters his hall. It smells of sandalwood and is opulently decorated: a plush red carpet and silky white walls hung with painting after painting in all manner of styles, from early-looking Dutch prints to modern abstract paintings. She can’t help thinking how much Theo would like this hall and all the art.

‘Can I offer you a cup of tea?’ he asks.

He doesn’t confront her, or ask her why she is here. In fact, after his initial shock, he seems quite relaxed in her presence. It surprises her – makes her feel cross already. Shouldn’t he have the decency to look a little shamefaced?

She follows him into a spacious kitchen with a large wooden table in its centre. Again, the walls are hung with a myriad of art.

‘Please,’ he says, ‘sit down while I put the kettle on.’

They say nothing as she watches him fill the kettle with water and put it on to boil. He opens a cupboard and takes out a teapot covered in a delicate rose pattern, and two cups and saucers with the same design. He lays the table with the crockery and fills a jug with milk. He opens another cupboard and produces a cake tin, which he opens. She is quite fascinated by his fastidiousness, so different from her mother.

‘Would you like some carrot cake?’ he asks her. ‘I made it myself.’

She shakes her head, surprised that her mother’s ex-lover would know how to bake a cake. ‘No, thank you; just tea is fine.’

‘Are you sure?’ He looks a little anxious. ‘You must be hungry; it’s lunchtime.’

‘No, really. I don’t want anything.’

He looks crestfallen and closes the cake tin, putting it back in the cupboard.

Her father brings the brewed teapot over to the table and fills their cups, before sitting opposite her and waiting expectantly for her to speak. She is at a loss. It all seems so surreal. After all these years, here she is drinking tea with her father –
her father
– the man who is half of her. And yet he may as well be a stranger.

‘Well,’ her father eventually says, ‘how are you?’

‘Fine, thank you,’ she replies, stiffly.

‘And how is your brother?’ he says. ‘I hope all is well with him and Debbie, and the kids.’

She drops her mouth open in surprise. How does he know all about Mattia’s family? Did her mother tell him?

‘And Tina?’ he says, tightly, and she notices a slight twitch in the corner of his eye as he says her name.

‘They’re all fine,’ she replies. ‘In America.’

‘Yes, I know. And you are living in Milan now?’

‘I never left. I stayed.’ She cannot help but emphasis the last word.

He nods. ‘I haven’t been back to Milan in all these years, you know,’ he says, wistfully. ‘I am based here in London now.’

She cannot believe he is so tactless. It is astounding.

‘So, what brings you to London?’ he asks her.

‘I’m in a photography exhibition in the Lexington Gallery in Soho. I was over for the opening.’ She leaves out the fact that it is erotica. Somehow it’s not something she wants to explain to her new-found father.

‘That’s fantastic. Your mother must be so proud of you.’

‘She doesn’t know about it,’ Valentina blurts out. ‘I haven’t told her.’

‘Oh?’ her father looks confused. ‘Why not?’

‘We don’t really get on that well.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ he says, giving her a kind smile of the sort you might give an acquaintance, not your own flesh and blood.

She suddenly feels incensed. How dare her father sit in front of her, as cool as a cucumber, and act as if he has done nothing wrong? She wants to make him feel as uncomfortable as her, as awkward and as hurt. ‘Why did you walk out on us all?’ she spits out, aggressively.

There. She has said it. Finally, she is asking him why he rejected her.

Yet she can’t look him in the eye while she waits for him to reply. She stares down at the kitchen table, counts the whorls in the grain of the wood. She dare not look at his face.

He says nothing for a moment. ‘I am sorry about that, but things were getting very complicated. I was very fond of you, Valentina. You were such a lovely little thing.’

‘Excuse me . . .’ she hisses, glaring up at him with loathing. ‘How can you talk about your daughter as if she is a puppy or a doll that can be discarded?’

The colour drains from her father’s face and he looks genuinely shocked, speechless.

‘How could you just walk out on me and Mattia?’ she continues to rant. ‘How could you let
her
drive you away from your own children?’

She is building up to a huge indignant outburst, yet her father reaches out and puts a hand on her arm. His touch is cool; to her surprise, it calms her down.

‘Valentina,’ he says, his voice hoarse with concern, ‘I had no idea . . .’

‘What do you mean?’ she says, confused.

‘That you don’t know.’

‘What don’t I know?’ Her voice rises in panic as she looks into the gentle blue eyes of her father and begins to suspect something, even before he says it.

‘Valentina,’ Philip Rembrandt says to her. ‘I am not your father.’