Lose Yourself (The Desires Unlocked Trilogy Part Two) (10 page)

She traces the outline of her cup with her finger, still not looking up. ‘So, how long have you and Anita been together?’ she asks.

‘It’s not what you think, Valentina,’ Theo says.

She looks up at him questioningly. ‘Well, what is it then?’ she asks, softly.

‘I really wish I could explain.’ He hesitates. ‘Can I just ask you to trust me?’

‘What do you mean? Trust you about what?’

‘At the moment, Anita and I are seeing each other. Yes, that is true, but . . .’ He stops speaking, as if he can’t find the right words.

‘But what?’ she eggs him on.

‘Well, the way things ended with us, I’m not sure what to think about you anymore, Valentina.’

Valentina thinks back to last autumn in Venice, and her devastation after Theo left. ‘Why did you run away in Venice?’ she suddenly confronts him. ‘You were gone, just like that . . . You didn’t give me a chance . . .’

Theo puts his head on one side and looks at her. ‘I really tried, Valentina; you know that . . . I couldn’t take any more.’

She looks into his eyes and she is sure she can see a hint of his love for her within their blue seas. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispers.

Theo leans forward and puts his hand over hers. He squeezes it. And, in that simple gesture, she feels his love for her.

‘Theo,’ Valentina says, looking directly into his eyes, holding his gaze and fighting the terror that rages inside her heart. She can say this. She
must
. ‘Theo, is there any chance that we might get back together again?’

The words are out. It is as if a weight has been lifted from her shoulders. She wants to laugh out loud and cry with relief. She watches for Theo’s reaction.

‘Valentina, you know that I can’t go back to the way things were.’

‘I know, I know,’ she nods. ‘It would be different, I promise . . .’

Theo sighs and puts his head in his hands. ‘God; talk about bad timing,’ he mutters.

She can’t understand it. Why is he so reluctant to admit how he feels now, when he has always been so open with her? She is sure her instincts aren’t fooling her. She can feel the natural synergy between them – how right it is to be together. Only a few more words, a few more steps and they could be back together again. And yet, what Theo says to her next is not what she wants to hear.

‘Valentina, I really can’t break up with Anita . . . Not right now.’

‘Theo,’ she beseeches, realising how corny she sounds, how her mother would mock her, but she doesn’t care because she knows that if she lets Theo leave this café now, without him really knowing how much he means to her, she will fall apart. ‘I need you,’ she says. ‘In my life, I need your non-judgemental presence. You are my sanctuary.’

‘Why is it always about you?’ Theo snaps.

His words hurt. She sits back, stung. The old Valentina would have walked out, pride in tact.

‘I’m sorry, Valentina; that was too harsh. I didn’t mean it,’ Theo says, looking more hassled than she has ever seen him. ‘I know this is confusing, but you have to trust me. I can’t break up with Anita at the moment.’

‘Do you love her?’

Anita is everything Valentina isn’t: girly, demonstrative, overtly sexy. She is not afraid to call herself Theo’s girlfriend.

‘Valentina!’ Theo exclaims in frustration. ‘That is not the issue,’ he continues. ‘I need to know, I have always needed to know if you trust me, if you love me.’

His words confuse her. If he needs to know these things, then why is he going out with Anita?

‘It’s hard for me to say those words . . . but I can show you how I feel,’ she says. For the first time, Valentina feels tearful. She looks away, determined not to cry. She cannot let him see her cry.

Theo’s hand is on her shoulder, and it sends a volt through her body. ‘Please, just wait, Valentina.’

‘I can’t –’ her voice cracks – ‘bear to see you with her.’

She stands up suddenly, pulling her bag on to her shoulder. Theo stands up as well. They are only inches away from each other. She wants to fling herself into his arms, beg him to take her back, and yet, of course, she will do no such thing. He has made it clear. She has to prove herself to him and, until she does, he will not break up with Anita.

They wind their way through the café and into the gallery. They walk through corridor after corridor, not speaking, not holding hands, until they are standing in front of a watercolour painting by William Blake called
Pity
. She looks at the painting and the image before her pierces her heart. A woman is lying on the ground, her head flung back, as if she is dying. Above her, a beautiful young man rides a grey horse in the sky; in his hands, he is lifting a newborn baby. It is
her
baby. Valentina is not sure what the artist means by this picture, but it cuts her, makes her feel that what she and Theo have been through in the past may never be healed.

She is about to walk away, but Theo grabs her arm and pulls her towards him. He hugs her tightly and she inhales deeply. Oh, the sweet torture of being held in his arms!

‘I do love you, Valentina,’ he whispers in her ear. ‘But do you love me?’

She steps back, looking up at him. Oh, she wants him so badly. She is struggling to say those three precious words. She wants him; she needs him. He is the only person in the world who understands the depths of her loss.

‘Valentina?’ Theo asks her again.

‘I . . . I . . .’ she stutters.

He closes his eyes and breathes in deeply. ‘It’s OK,’ he says, interrupting her. ‘I know this is all a bit overwhelming . . . to see each other again, and you must be confused about Anita. Let’s just leave it for the moment.’

But could they not go somewhere right now? Valentina wishes. She could prove her love for him in some anonymous bed in a hotel room, like she used to do. She knows she can do that. She is sure she will blow his mind. And yet, she says nothing. She realises her fear of commitment is still as fresh and raw as she left it back in Venice all those months ago when he walked out on her.

Theo begins to walk away, towards the entrance of the Tate. She is frozen to the spot, shocked by her inability to win him back. This meeting did not go as she had secretly hoped. No emotional reunion; no racing to a hotel and making delirious love. She wants him so badly. Just sitting across that tiny café table from him was turning her on. She is vibrating with need. She has to calm down.

She takes a deep breath. She won’t follow him. He is not willing to break up with Anita until she shows him her love. For now, she has to let him go.

She wanders through the rooms of the gallery. She feels the DVD in her bag, banging against her leg as she walks. She doesn’t know much about her grandmother. Her mother had described Maria Rosselli as shy and reclusive – a complete contradiction to her extrovert daughter. She had been a devoted mother and wife. Yet now it seems that there was a secret side to her grandmother. Could this really be footage of her dancing a new ballet? Something revolutionary and different, as Theo had said? She is intrigued to discover this new version of her ancestor.

Walking without thought or direction, Valentina finds herself looking at one of her favourite Pre-Raphaelite paintings,
Lilith
by Rosetti. Something about Lady Lilith reminds her of Anita: her deep gold tresses, her milky skin, full breasts and sculpted features; her dark eyebrows and rose-red lips. Yet, most of all, it is the look in her eyes as she gazes at herself in the mirror: a knowledge of her power and beauty as a woman, and a certain detachment. Valentina saw that expression on the burlesque dancer’s face as she danced for her and Kirsti Shaw yesterday. She can understand why Anita is so irresistible to both men and women. It is clear that Theo is not willing to let her go, not yet. Somehow, Valentina has to show him how much she loves him. Words are obviously not enough now. She bites back her disappointment at not winning him over today and tries to have faith in her intuition, for she feels, deep down, that she will get Theo back. She just has to work out how.

The weeks pass, yet, no matter how many times
she lingers on the second floor landing, Maria never bumps into Felix. They must keep different hours. She rises early for class every morning and isn’t home until half past five or six. It could be that he leaves the house after her and, by the time he comes home, she is in bed, wiped out from her day at dance school. She spends most of her time at weekends with Jacqueline. On a Saturday, they are up and out early, taking it in turns to stand in the tripe queue at the butchers, or trying to get hold of some other staples such as bread or tea. On Sundays they go to Mass at Westminster Cathedral, the majestic basilica still baring the scars of bomb damage. Within its walls, Maria struggles to pray. She asks God to help her put from her mind the dark Frenchman who saved her from being raped, and that He guide her back to being the girl she was before she met him – a girl dedicated to dance.

It is Jacqueline who inadvertently explains why Maria hasn’t seen Felix. They are preparing dinner one evening and Jacqueline is struggling to open a tin of spam with her tin opener.

‘
Merde
; it is useless – blunt,’ she says. ‘Be a good girl and run down to Guido and ask him if you can borrow his tin opener.’

Rather than call on the Italian, Maria sees her chance to knock on Felix’s door. ‘And what if he isn’t in? Should I go to Monsieur Leduc’s door?’

‘Oh, no,’ Jacqueline says, filling a saucepan with water, her back to Maria. ‘He is away making one of his films in France. Besides, he is a bad-tempered so-and-so; I wouldn’t want to ask him for anything!’

Maria ignores Jacqueline’s description of Felix. She
knows
how good he is. Instead, she feels a thrill of excitement. Her dream man is a film director! She can hardly think of a more glamorous profession.

‘He makes films?’

‘Well, yes, but I think they are not very popular. I have never seen one. Guido told me they are quite strange. “Surrealist,” he said.’

‘What is Monsieur Leduc like? Surely he is not so bad tempered all the time?’ Maria sidles up to Jacqueline, desperate to know more about her mysterious knight in shining armour, yet not wanting Jacqueline to know why.

‘Have you not met him yet?’ Jacqueline glances at her, before turning her attention back to scrubbing the potatoes.

‘No. He’s French, yes?’

‘From Paris, I believe, although he lived in Lyon during the occupation, but I don’t really speak with him.’ Jacqueline pauses, chewing her lips. ‘Even if he were in, I wouldn’t want to ask to borrow anything from him.’

‘But you are both French; surely you have so much in common?’

‘Not really, my dear. I think that our French heritage has caused both of us considerable suffering. It is not something we want to share together.’ She begins to chop up the potatoes, tossing them into the saucepan beside her. ‘Although I dare say his experience of the war was very different from mine. But really I don’t want to know. I don’t want to be reminded of the past.’

She slams the lid on the pot vehemently and Maria is worried that she has made Jacqueline angry. But the next moment her mentor is smiling at her, giving her a little good-humoured wink. ‘I don’t think a pretty young girl like you should be bothering with thinking about someone like him. Now, run along and get the tin opener from your much-more-suitable admirer.’

Maria is always reluctant to call on Guido. She finds her compatriot irritating. He has taken to coming, uninvited, for dinner several times a week, each time bearing gifts for Jacqueline, such as a treasured jar of strawberry jam or a freshly baked loaf of bread, to sweeten her up. For the entire duration of the meal, he stares, moon-faced, at Maria, hardly a word passing his lips. It embarrasses her, especially now that Jacqueline has noticed and delights in teasing her. After he has sloped off back to his room, Jacqueline tells her that she is Guido’s goddess and she should put the poor boy out of his misery and go out dancing with him. But Maria is adamant that she is too busy with her studies and needs her rest. She hasn’t been out since that last time with Joan.

Jacqueline nods with approval, patting her on the shoulder and praising her. ‘Your mother would be proud of you,’ she often says.

When Maria thinks of her mother and Pina, she feels sick, she misses them so much. She tries her best not to think of them, or of Venice. How much she misses the water! She has walked down by the river in London – all along the banks of the Thames, from bomb-ravaged Westminster to the steps of the majestic Saint Paul’s. But it is not the same as walking alongside the jade canals of Venice. She stares at the brown surge of the Thames, preferring to look away from the gaping holes in the city, although she can see that London is fervent with its rebuilding work, especially with the Olympics being held here this year. But her favourite place to walk is Battersea Park, where there is now an open-air exhibition of sculpture. It is not too far from Jacqueline’s house. She likes to circle the little pond, looking at the ducks splattering in the water – they seem so comic to Maria – or else, if she’s feeling more studious, she will contemplate one of the impressive sculptures.

Maria’s claim that she is too busy with her dance studies to go out is not, in fact, a lie. Lempert is putting them through their paces. Even Joan’s social life seems to have calmed down in response. The day after her assault by the Englishman, Douglas, Maria had been terrified that Joan wouldn’t turn up for class. Were Douglas and Ralph in league? Would she read of her friend’s rape and murder in the newspapers? Her relief nearly made her legs buckle when she saw Joan in class – granted, with very black shadows under her eyes and stinking of drink. That morning, Lempert had worked them particularly hard – as if he knew they had been out late the night before and this was their punishment.

He was already casting for the end-of-term ballet,
Pandora
, one of Kurt Jooss’s revolutionary choreographies, and, despite the fact Maria felt she was not nearly good enough to dance in public, Lempert included her in his auditions.

He made the students leap across the floor of the studio, again and again and again – for much longer than usual. Usually, Maria felt effortlessly buoyant, as light as the air around her. She knew she could leap high, but that day she was no longer unencumbered and her body was weighed down by the memory of the attack on her the night before. Joan was in an even worse state: sweat coursed down her face, causing her make-up to streak.

‘I feel a hundred years old,’ she whispered to Maria.

‘Did you get home all right?’

‘Sure I did,’ Joan said. ‘Why do you ask?’

Maria shook her head. ‘I’ll tell you later.’

Joan suddenly looked worried, and grabbed her arm. ‘Nothing bad happened, did it? Are you OK?’

Maria nodded. ‘I’m fine—’

Lempert cornered them. ‘Ladies! This is no time to be having a conversation. I want to see you moving, please.’

‘Slave driver,’ Joan hissed under her breath as she took off, bounding across the studio.

It was only after class that they were able to catch up properly. Instead of taking the bus, Joan suggested they walk together, it being such a fine day. As they strode down Kennington Road, Joan opened up her bag and triumphantly brandished a can of condensed milk.

‘Fancy some?’ she asked Maria. ‘I’ve come prepared.’ She took a can opener out of her bag and pierced the lid of the tin, offering it to Maria first. She drank from the can. The milk was warm, but it was also sweet and gave her some energy.

As they walked, Joan told Maria all about Ralph and what fun they had had. ‘I brought him back to my bedsit – snuck him in. My landlady is a dozy cow, anyway,’ she said, giving Maria a cheeky grin. ‘Oh, it was just wonderful, Maria. It really helped me forget about Stan.’

‘Did you actually sleep with him?’ Maria looked at her friend in awe.

Joan cocked her head on one side. ‘Are you shocked? Do you think I’m cheap?’

‘No . . . it’s just you hardly knew him.’

‘Oh, I knew the measure of him,’ she said, looking gleeful. ‘I knew he was a good-time boy, nothing serious. And that suits me fine.’

‘Don’t you want to meet someone special?’ Maria asked her friend.

‘Of course I do,’ Joan said. ‘But I am not going to live like a nun until I do!’

They passed Lambeth North station and turned on to Westminster Bridge Road.

‘So, what about you? Douglas jumped up and ran after you when you left. He seemed very keen.’

Maria stopped walking and squeezed her eyes shut. She didn’t want to remember that odious man and what he tried to do to her, and yet that was the beginning of the story of how she met Felix.

‘What is it? My God, Maria, you look as white as a ghost,’ Joan said, the smile wiped off her face. ‘What happened?’

Maria opened her eyes, looked straight ahead and continued to walk. ‘He attacked me, Joan . . .’

‘What? Oh, my goodness . . . Did he hurt you?’

‘No; someone rescued me before he actually . . .’ Maria couldn’t say it.

‘Who? What happened? Oh, Maria, I’m so sorry. I should have gone home with you.’ Joan wrung her hands, looking contrite. ‘I didn’t know him at all,’ she continued. ‘I don’t think he is even a friend of Ralph’s. He was just sitting at the table with him.’

‘I’m all right; it’s OK . . . He didn’t hurt me.’

‘If I ever see him again . . .’ Joan’s cheeks were red with fury, but Maria cut her short.

‘Someone rescued me.’

She had felt a bubble of excitement at the memory of what had happened next: Felix Leduc turning up in the nick of time and saving her.

‘What? Who?’

‘This man . . . This beautiful man . . .’

Joan’s pained face broke into a smile. ‘A real knight in shining armour?’

‘Yes. And, Joan, it is quite amazing. He lives in our house. He’s my neighbour!’

‘Well, who is he? Tell me! Spill the beans!’

‘I don’t know much about him, really, apart from the fact that he is French. His name is Felix Leduc and he lives on the second floor, in the flat right below ours.’

‘How romantic,’ Joan sighed. ‘So he can hear you walking around above him. He can imagine you in your little white virginal nightie.’

Maria blushed. ‘Oh, do stop it, Joan!’ She clutched her bag to her chest. She didn’t want to sully any of her ideas about Felix. ‘Really, I have never seen such a man . . . I think I fell in love with him right on the spot.’

Joan looked confused. ‘Are you telling me it was love at first sight?’

Maria nodded, her eyes shining.

‘Well, he must be something special if he has made you forget all about that disgusting Douglas. My God, if I
ever
see him again—’

‘Please, Joan, let’s not ever mention it. I’ve told no one. Promise me?’

‘All right, as long as you tell me everything about Felix.’ Joan gave her a nudge.

‘Well, that’s it and I don’t know when I will see him next . . .’ Maria told her.

‘You live in the same house. It’s only a matter of time.’

Yet that had been over a month ago and, every day, when Joan had quizzed Maria about whether she had met Felix again, she had told her ‘no’. Now her friend has lost interest, completely taken over with working on the
Pandora
ballet, since Lempert has cast her in the title role. Maria feels honoured just to be in one of the chorus groups.

Joan has taken to spending extra hours after school rehearsing a particularly challenging duet with Louis, who plays the character of the Go-Getter, so Maria has had to walk down Kennington Road on her own every day, left to her own thoughts. Her imagination is plagued with images of Felix. She tries not to, but she can’t help constructing a whole catalogue of fantasies.

In her first dream, she and Felix travel to Paris together. They are sitting in one of those arty cafés alongside Sartre and Simone de Beauvoir, Juliette Gréco and Anne-Marie Cazalis, drinking wine and intellectualising. She is dressed all in tight black clothes. She is so incredibly chic and sophisticated. In another fantasy, she is one of the dancers in the Moulin Rouge and Felix is watching her, sitting in the front row and looking up adoringly at her. Other fantasies involve them drifting down the Seine on a boat, kissing underneath the flying buttresses of Notre Dame, or strolling, hand in hand, by an organ grinder in Montmartre, against the backdrop of the Sacré Cœur.

As the weeks pass, she takes her fantasies further. She constructs a family background for Felix. She decides that he is an only child, like her. He grew up in a large apartment in the centre of Paris. His family is very wealthy, but they opposed the Nazis and fled Paris at the time of the occupation. In her head, Maria sees Felix as one of the brave Resistance members, sabotaging the Nazis, risking life and limb to liberate his country. She decides that, since he is so much older than her, he must have been in love once before, yet his true love was brutally murdered by the evil invaders, and Felix joined the Resistance to enact his revenge. He is a good man, but tortured by what he has seen in his native France during the war. That is why he appears bad tempered to people now. He needs a woman, a young fresh-eyed girl, to come into his life and heal him, for that is why he hides from the world in his flat in their house in London: he is waiting for a girl like her. That is why he makes his strange, surreal movies – to express all the horror that he has witnessed. But now they have met. And, just as he saved her from being raped, she will save him from his dark solitude. Maria becomes so wrapped up in her fantasies of Felix that, as the weeks pass, she begins – almost – to not want to meet him again. What if he is different from her dream man? Yet, what if he is the same? What then? In the real world, can she live her dream love?