Lose Yourself (The Desires Unlocked Trilogy Part Two) (4 page)

She shifts in her seat. ‘Excuse me, Guido, but where is the bathroom?’

‘Oh!’ He jumps as if awoken from a dream. ‘You have to go back down the stairs to the next floor. It’s the door next to mine.’ He shoves his hand through his thick hair, looking distracted.

‘Thank you.’

Maria picks up her handbag and escapes down the staircase and into the bathroom. She feels a little queasy. She holds her belly and breathes in deeply, trying to steady her fluttering stomach. She is desperate to take a bath or wash, but she can’t be too long, so she cleans up as best she can. There is only one small towel and she has no idea who it belongs to. She washes her hands and splashes water on her face before reapplying her make-up. She puts too much rouge on her cheeks and scrapes it off again with her handkerchief. She glances up at the mirror. She looks tired and hot.

Her mother and Pina are always telling her how beautiful she is, how like her father with her dark blue eyes, pink cheeks and curly hair. But she thinks she looks like a scarecrow today. She would rather she had inherited her mother’s chic – her silky black hair and porcelain features – not these wild locks and rosy cheeks. She doesn’t want anything from her father, she thinks bitterly, since he never seemed to have had any interest in her. She has never expressed these feelings to her mother, for Belle talks about her father as if he was some kind of God. But Maria has often seen the way Pina’s expression hardens when there is mention of Santos Devine, and her face tells Maria that her father was not such a great man.

Maria pulls out her comb and attempts to tame her hair. It just will not obey her, no matter whether she tries to straighten it or curl it into a style of some sort.

As Maria climbs back up the stairs to the apartment, she can hear voices. Her spirits lift immediately. Jacqueline must be home. She opens the door and, sure enough, there is her dance mentor, the woman who taught her to dream.

‘Maria!’ Jacqueline exclaims, sweeping her up into a tight embrace. ‘My darling Maria.’ She showers her cheeks with kisses as Maria looks over her shoulder at the curious expression on Guido’s face. ‘Welcome, my dear. Welcome to London.’

Jacqueline pulls away and surveys her protégé. ‘Oh, you have grown so much more striking since I last saw you. Isn’t she such a beauty, Guido?’

Maria feels her cheeks flaring deep crimson. She casts her eyes down at the floor. ‘Really, Jacqueline. I am the same; just a little bigger.’

‘Yes; it has been how long? One, nearly two years, my darling, since I last saw you. But you are no bigger – not at all. You have lost all your puppy fat. Now you really look like the dancer you are.’ Jacqueline stands with her hands on her hips, smiling with satisfaction. ‘I cannot wait to present you to Lempert.’

Maria feels a knot of apprehension inside her stomach. ‘I haven’t had a proper dance teacher since you left, Jacqueline.’

‘He will understand,’ she says, patting Maria’s shoulder and speaking confidently. ‘He trusts my judgement.’ She whirls around the room, collecting up Maria’s abandoned cup and saucer and placing them on the tea tray. ‘Now, you must tell me all about your darling mother and Pina. How are they? They must have been sad to let you go.’

Maria feels awkward in front of Guido. She doesn’t want to talk about her mother and Pina in front of this stranger. ‘They are well,’ she says. ‘They send their love.’

Jacqueline nods happily. ‘You know, Guido –’ she turns to the young man – ‘I owe my life to Maria’s mother, Belle, and her friend, Pina. They hid me during the war.’

Guido narrows his eyes at Maria. He doesn’t look so impressed, although he says, ‘That was very brave of them.’

‘Yes, it was . . . but you should meet these women. They are . . . just . . . incredible.’

Maria is mortified. ‘They did what any decent person would have done.’

‘But there are not so many decent people in the world,’ she hears Guido say under his breath.

‘Now, my dear,’ Jacqueline says, bustling Maria across the living room, ‘I’m afraid I am a little short on space, so your room really is in fact the old airing cupboard, but it was either that or the living room floor, and I thought you would like some privacy.’

Jacqueline opens up a little door to reveal a tiny room, no longer than her height. It is empty, apart from a mattress on the floor, made up with sheets and blankets. There is a slatted shelf and, above that, a tiny skylight.

‘I left it uncurtained. I thought you’d like to see the stars at night.’

‘It’s perfect, Jacqueline,’ Maria says politely, although she is a little horrified by her confined quarters. She has always disliked small spaces.

‘Excuse me,’ Guido speaks up, ‘but I must say goodbye for now. I have some work to do.’

‘Oh, yes. Thank you, Guido, for entertaining Maria for me. Would you like to eat with us later?’

‘I am afraid not,’ his face is earnest with regret. ‘I have a paper to write . . .’

As soon as they are alone, Maria finally feels herself relaxing. Why does the company of men always make her tense? As soon as she is with women, she is at home.

‘Who was that man?’ she asks Jacqueline.

‘Guido Rosselli. Did he not introduce himself to you?’

‘Oh, yes, he did . . . but . . . he is Italian; I was so surprised . . .’ She trails off, feeling a little foolish.

‘He may seem a little odd, Maria, but it is just because he is lonely.’

‘Why doesn’t he go back to Milan?’

‘He can’t, for the moment. His parents are dead . . . London is his home now, until he finishes his studies.’ Jacqueline pauses, looks sad. ‘He is like me: a war orphan.’

Maria feels a raw stab of pain for her friend. ‘I am sorry Jacqueline . . . I didn’t mean to upset you.’

But Jacqueline interrupts her, shakes her sadness from her shoulders and hugs her, showering her cheeks with kisses yet again. ‘Oh, I am so happy to see you,’ she says. ‘I have missed you all so much.’

Maria leans into Jacqueline’s neck, inhales her scent, and it brings back so many memories: times of her and Jacqueline dreaming as they drifted down the Canal Grande in a boat, the two of them lying on their backs, hidden from all, talking about dancing. She remembers how it made them feel. Yes, Maria thinks, fingering the memory of that time, the revelation of what dance turned her into.

For, when she danced, Maria felt free. Not the war, nor the suffocation of her mother’s love, the reasoning of Pina or the abandonment of her father could restrain her. Jacqueline had given her that gift, told her that, when she danced, she became a bird. And when they danced together, they were two birds soaring in sky.

As she and Jacqueline talk about dance together, Maria remembers why it is she has come to London. It is not just about learning to dance. It is about finding her liberation.

They are leaving for London tonight. For once
in her life, Valentina is packed and ready, with the whole day to spare. She sits with her cup of coffee on the windowsill beside her, watching Milan busy itself in the street below.

Again, she has the urge to cancel her trip to London and stay here in Milan, where she can continue her life undisturbed. Surely they can exhibit her work without her presence at the opening? In an ideal world, she would like to take part in the curation of the show, but it is not strictly necessary.

Valentina chews her lip, thinking. Of course, she must go. She should not let fear of the unknown, because that is what she is feeling, get in the way of her career. This is an exciting opportunity. London is huge and, unless she actually calls Theo, she won’t even see him.

Yet this is what she is afraid of: her own curiosity, her need to hear his voice again, to find out what he is doing. Has he got over her? He had told her he loved her, and not just once. She could not do the same for him. That is what had broken them up: the fact she couldn’t say, ‘I love you.’

She had been so close to opening up to Theo in Venice, if only he hadn’t stormed off. Now it feels as if she has buried her feelings so deep inside herself that she may never be brave enough to express them. And yet her decision to go to London, made within a heartbeat, is not just because of the opportunity of the exhibition, but because of Theo. She has to admit it to herself. Hope, for some bizarre reason, beats inside her like a frantic bird – an insane sense that everything will be OK.

Valentina takes a sip of her coffee. The hot liquid calms her as she wraps her hands around the warm cup and breathes in. Could she get Theo back? For the first time, she lets the possibility occur to her. She shakes herself, reminds herself of her motto: nothing lasts forever. Look at her own parents, for example: their union hadn’t lasted, had it? Her father had left her mother when Valentina was a little girl, and she hasn’t seen him since.

Thoughts of her father remind of her something – an uncomfortable pinprick of memory that has been irritating her ever since it was revealed to her. Back in Venice, all those months ago, the police inspector, Garelli, had told her that her father would be proud of her. Garelli was the first person she had ever met who claimed to know her father, apart from her mother and brother, of course. She has always been adamant that she doesn’t want to know her father. After all, he has never made the effort to contact her, so why should she try to find him? Her mother says she has no idea where he is, as does her brother, Mattia. And so Valentina had not thought about her father much, not until that strange conversation with Inspector Garelli in Venice the night she and Theo had last been together.

Valentina puts down her cup of coffee. She gets up and walks over to her desk, pulling open the top drawer. She shoves her hand inside the mess of papers, pencils, rubbers and Post-it notes. The last time she saw it, she was sure it was in here. She bends down, pushing her hand right to the back of the drawer until she fingers a crumpled piece of card. She pulls it out and, sure enough, there is Garelli’s business card, somewhat moth-eaten but with his details still clearly printed on it. She glances at the clock on the wall. She is not meeting Antonella for six hours. She has plenty of time to call Garelli, talk to him before she goes. Of course, she could do it when she gets back from London, but now, all of a sudden, she just has to know what Garelli meant by his comment. How does he know her father?

Valentina taps her heels on the floor of Bar Magenta as she waits. She smoothes down her black-and-white striped dress with her hands, smiling inwardly at her choice of outfit. There will be no possibility of Antonella not finding her in the airport. As usual, she stands out: the dress is full length and figure hugging, with a long split on one side, all the way up to her thigh. She is wearing it with her black Carl Scarpa wedge-heeled boots and her tiny black leather biker jacket. The dress once belonged to her mother, who, in Valentina’s opinion, took more care of her clothes than her children. It looks as good as new. She sweeps her hand across her brow nervously and takes a sip of her Negroni. Maybe this is a bad idea. After all, less than six months ago, Garelli was after Theo, who was under suspicion for art theft. She hasn’t seen the policeman since, and assumes the case has been dropped. Still, it is a risk to stir it all up again. Could she be accused as an accessory, since she transported the painting from Milan to Venice? Maybe she should just leave it.

However, just as she is knocking back her drink and preparing to gather her things, Garelli comes into the bar. His eyes alight upon her immediately and he gives her a broad smile as if they are old buddies.

‘Valentina,’ he says, bending down and kissing her on both cheeks. ‘You look as pretty as a picture, as always. Let me buy you a drink.’

‘No, thank you. I’m fine.’

‘But you’ve just finished yours . . . I insist.’

Valentina takes a big gulp of her fresh drink. Now that Garelli is actually sitting opposite her, looking at her expectantly, she doesn’t know quite where to begin. In her confusion, she says nothing, scowling down at her drink instead.

‘Well, Valentina,’ Garelli finally says, obviously impatient. ‘How can I help you?’

She looks up at him, trying to summon the words. For some reason, she feels intensely embarrassed, ashamed almost, to ask this man, practically a stranger, where her father is.

‘Do you have more information on your Signor Theo Steen, perhaps?’ he says, cocking his eyebrow at her. ‘Although, I believe he is no longer in Milan . . . so not, strictly speaking, our problem anymore.’ He looks at her benignly.

Valentina feels a flash of annoyance. How dare he be so patronising? ‘No, I don’t want to talk about Theo,’ she says.

‘Oh?’

‘When I saw you in Venice, you said something to me . . . about my father,’ she splutters.

Garelli says nothing, just watches her squirming in front of him.

‘You said that he would be proud of me. And that you knew him.’

‘Yes,’ Garelli nods, ‘I did know him.’ He looks puzzled.

‘How did you know him?’

‘Why, we worked together, of course.’ Garelli takes a sip of his wine. ‘Has he never mentioned this to you?’

Valentina looks down at the wooden table and grips the edge of it with one of her hands. ‘I don’t know him,’ she whispers, her embarrassment paining her.

‘Really?’

She looks up. Garelli is staring at her in astonishment. She plunges on. ‘He left when I was six years old. I haven’t seen him since.’

Garelli frowns. ‘That is not the behaviour of the kind of man I knew,’ he says.

‘Well, tell me, please, what kind of man he is,’ Valentina says, suddenly annoyed by Garelli’s sanctimonious manner, ‘because I have absolutely no idea.’

She takes too big a swig of her drink and almost chokes.

‘Philip Rembrandt is one of the good ones,’ Garelli says simply, scratching his head. ‘I knew him when your brother, Mattia, was small. Philip was devoted to him.’

‘But how do you know him?’

‘Did,’ Garelli corrects her. ‘I haven’t seen him in years. Not since he left Milan.’ He sighs. ‘I never meant to lose contact, but you know how it is . . .’ He looks wistful before gathering himself. ‘Valentina, we worked together—’

‘Was my father a policeman?’

‘No,’ Garelli says. ‘Not Phil. He was an excellent investigative journalist. He helped me out on a couple of big Mafia cases.’

She sits back against the wooden bench. This is news to her. Her mother had told her that her father was a professor at the university. There had never been any mention of him being an investigative journalist. The image she always had of a pipe smoking, rather disorganised arty writer is being turned on its head. Her father was an investigative journalist. She thinks of Dustin Hoffman and Robert Redford as Woodward and Bernstein in the film
All The President’s Men
, uncovering the Watergate scandal. They were hyperactive, brave, clever and daring men. It is just too hard to believe that her own father had been like that. Surely her mother would have bragged about it, for a start?

‘Are you sure? I mean, it’s just not what I was told.’

‘Of course, I am sure,’ Garelli says. ‘We took down a guy called Caruthers together. It was a famous case at the time. He was one of the top Mafia heads, based in New York but operating here in Italy as well.’ Garelli looks up at her hesitantly. ‘What can I say, Valentina? Your father saved my life.’

Valentina is speechless; she stares at Garelli in astonishment.

‘Last year, I was just keeping an eye on you, for your father’s sake . . . I wasn’t sure about Signor Steen.’

‘You were trying to protect me?’

Garelli chuckles. ‘I suppose. Although you obviously didn’t need my help.’

She fiddles with one of her rings, nervous of asking her next question. ‘Why did you say my father would be proud of me?’

‘Because of your spirit, Valentina; you are just like your mother . . .’

She scowls at the mention of her mother. ‘If he liked her spirit so much, why did he leave her?’

‘I believe it must be more complicated than that,’ Garelli answers enigmatically. ‘Although, by then, I wasn’t working with your father anymore. I was living in Spain at the time and I hadn’t seen him since before you were born.’

‘She drove him away,’ Valentina growls, ‘just like she drives everyone away.’

Garelli pauses, his voice softening. ‘I don’t think that is quite the case.’

Valentina scrutinises Garelli. She has a feeling that he is holding back, but the inspector’s expression is impassive. He finishes off his drink. Valentina senses that she has revealed too much of herself to this man – a person she hardly likes. She feels exposed, awkward. She wishes now that she had never called him up. She should just forget all about this father thing. Her logic is screaming at her to let it go because, surely, if her father wanted to know her, he could easily contact her. Even so, she just can’t smother her curiosity.

‘I have to go,’ she says, indicating her suitcase and standing up. ‘I’m flying to London. Can we meet again when I get back? Will you tell me all about my father?’

‘Of course we can, but you know you could ask him yourself?’

She freezes. ‘Do you know where he
is
?’

She assumed that, since Garelli hadn’t been in contact with her father in all these years, he would have no idea where he is now.

‘We had to keep tabs on him . . . because of his history. As far as I know, he hasn’t moved.’

‘So, where is he?’

Garelli holds her gaze. She sees a smile spreading across his face.

‘London.’