Lose Yourself (The Desires Unlocked Trilogy Part Two) (13 page)

‘Such tiny ankles,’ Felix says, leaning forward and picking up one of her feet, cradling it in his hand.

‘But my feet are awful,’ Maria protests. ‘All dancers have terrible feet.’

‘Not awful; just hard-working.’

Felix strokes the underside of her foot; the nylon slides against the flesh. She giggles, feeling stupid and self-conscious. She tries to pull her foot away, but he grips it tighter.

‘Let me?’ he asks.

She looks at him under her lashes, curious as to what he might do. She leans back on her elbows. Why not let him stroke her foot? It is an innocent enough occupation. Besides, they are concealed from the rest of the park, their only witnesses a few ducks. She feels the sun on her brow and closes her eyes, letting the tension, the fear from the news that she is to dance Psyche, fade away. Felix is kneading the soles of her feet, working his fingers around her ankles, and suddenly gripping them tight. She can feel his fingers digging into her ankle bone through her stocking, yet – although it hurts a little – this sensation is pleasurable. She likes this sense of restriction.

‘Am I hurting you?’ he asks.

She opens her eyes and looks at him. ‘A little . . . but I like it.’

He smiles slowly. ‘I thought you might.’

He puts her foot back down. She feels her breath deepen, the release after the pressure of his fingers on her flesh. He picks up her other foot and massages it, circling his fingers upon its sole. ‘I wish you weren’t wearing stockings,’ he says. ‘Then I could really feel you.’

He squeezes his fingers tightly around the ankle of her left foot, and again Maria is constrained by him. She tests him, tries to raise her leg, but it is impossible. He is holding her foot down, impeding all movement. She is trapped by him, and she likes this feeling. His strength; what he could do to her.

‘I have to feel you,’ he whispers, and, before she can stop him, he has snagged her stockings with one of his fingernails, which he pushes through the nylon to feel her bare leg.

‘Felix!’ She is a little annoyed. ‘It’s not easy to get stockings, you know—’

‘Shush . . .’ He warns her with his eyes. ‘I will bring you plenty of stockings, I promise.’

He takes his finger and suddenly pulls down with force, so that the stocking ladders down to her foot. He rips it sideways, unwrapping her foot, and resting it in his palms.

‘So much better,’ Felix sighs, dancing his fingers over her skin.

She has to agree. Now the layer of nylon is removed, his touch is even more electrifying.

He lifts her foot and pulls her towards him so that she is sliding on his jacket. He raises it higher and she does nothing to stop him. She knows he can see her underwear, beneath her skirt. She doesn’t care. She likes him looking at her. He lowers her leg and rests her bare foot on his lap. She can feel him, beneath the cloth of his trousers. She imagines it growing, and for a second she remembers Louis’s naked body.

‘Point your toes,’ Felix tells her. ‘Arch your foot.’

She does as he asks and he cups her foot around himself. She feels him growing into her arch, unfurling the essence of him. The sun is beating down upon her, and she can feel herself glowing. She has never felt so hot in her life. Her body is yearning to be released from the restriction of her dress.

‘Can you feel what you do to me, pretty lady?’ Felix asks her.

She nods, unable to think of anything to say back. She tries to lean forward, feeling him in the curve of her foot as she does so, wanting so badly to see what lies beneath the cloth of his trousers.

‘No,’ Felix says, gently pushing her back. ‘Not today. This is enough touching for today.’

She lies back, disappointed, her eyes glistening with need. He lifts her foot off his lap and then suddenly, light and quick, he takes his finger at the torn end of her stocking and rips it all the way up her leg. He pauses just below the hem of her skirt, and then, locking eyes with her, he rips the stocking higher and higher, his hand going beneath her skirt. Maria feels a fluster of panic. What if someone were to come walking down the path and see them? Yet she doesn’t want him to stop. His finger has now reached the top of her thigh, right where the suspender is clipped to her stocking. He expertly unclips it, his fingers lingering at the top of her legs.

‘What do you want me to do now, sweet Maria?’ he whispers.

She squirms beneath his magnetism. She cannot say. That deep pulse she felt when she watched Louis and Joan is back: an ache that is all consuming. ‘I want you to touch me more,’ she eventually whispers, her cheeks blooming with self-consciousness.

He smiles victoriously and sits back on his heels, looking at her. ‘Not yet,’ he says. ‘I would not be a gentleman if I did such a thing.’

She realises he is teasing her. She should be annoyed, and yet she can’t be. She likes this game of his empowerment over her. Besides, maybe she will manage to come to her senses and resist him next time. She knows what she is doing is not the sort of thing a good girl does, and yet who are these good girls? Not Joan, or any of the other dancers she knows; not her mother nor Pina. These ‘good girls’ are just dreamt up by men, impossible images of perfection so that the same men can pull them down and women end up feeling ashamed. She may be innocent – shy, even – but she is also a free spirit, just like her mother. She refuses to feel as if she is a sinner.

For a while, they sit on the grass in silence, watching clouds forming in the sky. Maria has removed both her stockings and stuffed them into her bag. Her body is still tingling with sensation but her heartbeat has slowed.

‘We should have brought some bread for the ducks,’ she comments.

‘I think that it’s hard enough to get bread ourselves, without worrying about the ducks,’ Felix says.

‘Do you think this austerity will last forever?’ Maria asks. ‘Jacqueline says that they won’t be rationing bread soon.’

‘Have you ever been hungry, Maria?’ Felix asks her, ignoring her question. ‘I mean close to starving . . .’

The way he asks her this question, she knows that he has.

‘No, not really hungry,’ she says. ‘There were shortages . . . I mean, we certainly didn’t live like kings, especially at the end of the war, but my mother and Pina were resourceful. We always had just enough.’

Felix plucks a daisy from the grass and pulls its petals off one by one.

‘When did you come to England, Felix?’ Maria asks him. ‘Your English is very good.’

Felix says nothing for a moment. His face is guarded and for a while she thinks he isn’t going to reply.

‘Nineteen forty-six, but my grandmother was English. I learnt to speak it as a child.’

‘So you came to London just after the war, then?’

‘Yes.’

‘And where were you during the war?’

‘Lyon,’ he says, brusquely, standing up. He reaches out his hand to help her and dusts the grass from her skirt, like a father might.

‘But Felix, why did you leave France after the war? Why would you come to London?’

He stops what he is doing. He steps back and looks at her coldly. ‘That, young lady, is none of your business.’

His voice has changed so dramatically that it gives her a fright and she steps back in shock. ‘I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to pry.’

‘Well, stop asking me questions, then.’ His voice softens. ‘You should know better; you’re an intelligent woman. What people want now is to move on. They don’t want to go over the past . . . I don’t want to talk about it – not with anyone.’

He picks up her hand in his, but she feels rigid, cold, with a sense of something uncertain. Who is this man she desires so much?

‘Come on; I had better get you home. Your Jacqueline will be wondering where you are.’

It is just as they are about to separate, at the gates of Battersea Park, that she sees Guido. He is coming towards them, at speed, on his bicycle. His thick, curly hair is blown into a big bush on top of his head. She glances behind her, wondering if she can dash away into the trees, but it is too late, for she can see that Guido has stopped cycling and is staring, blatantly, at both of them, from across the road.

‘It’s Guido,’ she whispers to Felix.

Felix shrugs his shoulders as if not to care, but she can feel his body stiffen. They cross the road together, pointedly not holding hands.

‘Good afternoon, Signor Rosselli,’ Felix tips his hat.

Maria cannot look Guido in the face. She feels the eyes of the Italian on her, and a flush creeping up her neck, burning her cheeks. Why does she have to feel so guilty? All that happened was that Felix stroked her feet. Besides, it is none of Guido’s business who she spends her time with. And yet, when she does finally look up to acknowledge Guido, she is unsettled by the expression on his face. For once, he is not transfixed by her. He is looking instead at Felix, the unguarded hostility in his eyes visceral. Why does he hate the Frenchman so much?

They are in one of the men’s apartments. She
isn’t
sure if it is Francesco’s place, or that of one of his companions. Wherever they are, it is obviously a bachelor pad: minimalist designer furniture, mammoth white leather couch, state of the art speakers to go with the iPod, giant flat-screen TV overshadowing the sparse art work on the walls, and non-child friendly glass dining table with cream leather chairs. She reckons it has to be one of the younger men’s places. There is no sign of anything belonging to a seven-year-old girl. If it were Francesco’s flat, then surely there would be something of Lucia’s here? They are drinking tequila – always a risk, where Valentina is concerned, but especially after the caipirinhas they have already consumed in the Brazilian restaurant.

She can’t believe she is sitting next Francesco on the couch – not after her initial hostility towards him in the restaurant. It seems that alcohol is a great healer of grudges, for now she is happy to be with him. She is drawn to his presence yet again. He is flirting with her and it feels good to be wanted. The thought of Theo flickers in her mind. She should forget about him. Leave him and Anita to it.

They are playing a game. One of the Englishmen, Peter, has told them they have to relate three things about themselves, but only one is true. The others have to guess which it is. It is Isabella’s turn. She is sitting on the lap of the blue-shirted fellow, Rupert, her skirt hitched up to her thighs, her eyes squiffy with drink. Yet, despite the fact she is nearly twice as old as her, Valentina thinks she looks gorgeous: confident in her sexuality, free from the self-consciousness of being young.

‘OK,’ Isabella says, holding up three fingers. ‘Here are my three: one summer, when I was a student, I worked as a call girl in Milan.’

‘Oh! Oh – it has to be that!’ screeches Antonella.

‘The best sex I ever had was with another woman,’ Isabella continues, winking at Valentina mischievously.

‘Oh, no, I don’t think so.’ Antonella grimaces.

‘And, finally: I had sex with my ex-husband’s divorce lawyer, on top of my ex’s car bonnet in the car park of his offices.’

‘What kind of car was it?’ Francesco asks, refilling their glasses.

‘A Ferrari, baby; what else?’

‘It’s the call girl. It has to be,’ Antonella chants excitedly. ‘I always knew you had a dark secret, Aunty.’

‘I think it’s the sex with another woman,’ Peter says.

Rupert is too busy nibbling Isabella’s ears to have any idea at all.

‘It’s the car-bonnet sex . . .’ Valentina says, because she knows that this is the sort of thing her mother would have done.

‘Correct!’ Isabella cries out.

‘Really? Oh my God, Aunty, you are very bad.’

Isabella winks at her niece. ‘I guess that must be where you inherit those genes, then.’

Antonella gets up from her seat, rather unsteadily. ‘I’ve had enough of this game; let’s dance.’

‘Your friend is a little hyperactive, isn’t she?’ Francesco whispers into Valentina’s ear.

Peter puts on some music and Antonella dances around him, yet Valentina can see that his attention is on Isabella and Rupert, kissing on the couch.

Valentina stands up shakily. She should go. She should gather up Antonella, at least. She has a feeling Isabella is here for the night. They have the keys to Isabella’s, so they could call a taxi. They really should go.

She turns to Francesco. ‘Where’s the bathroom?’

She leans on the edge of the sink and stares at herself in the mirror. Her expression is impassive: no emotion. She feels a little sick and unsteady. She shouldn’t have drunk that tequila. She knows what happens when she drinks tequila. She smiles at herself in the mirror as she remembers the way Francesco has been looking at her. He has been hanging on her every word all evening: in the club they went to, drinking; in the taxi; here, in this apartment. Suddenly, it is clear that she is not going home. She knows exactly what is about to happen. And she is glad. It will take her away from Theo.

There is a knock on the bathroom door.

‘Valentina? Are you OK?’

She opens the door and Francesco is leaning against its frame. He is not much taller than her, yet he is still fit and lean for his age. She sees the wrinkles that line his cheeks now, the laughter lines at the edge of his eyes, and they just add to his allure. She pinches herself. For so long she had pined to be with this man, and now he is right in front of her, offering himself to her. Of course, it’s way too late, for her heart is another’s, but maybe he can help her tonight to let go. Of her past? Of her attachment to Theo? She is not sure.

He pulls her out of the bathroom and kisses her in the dark corridor. She opens up her lips to his. She and Leonardo never kiss properly. That is their rule. She realises that it has been months since she let a man kiss her in this way. Not since Theo left her. Francesco pulls away and takes her hand, leading her down the corridor. The door to the sitting room is open. What she sees astonishes Valentina, for things have changed since she went to the bathroom.

Aunty Isabella is on her hands and knees in her stockings, stripped of her dress and her underwear. Her head is pushed into the belly of Peter as she sucks him. Peter’s eyes are closed in bliss, his lips parted, his head raised to heaven. Meanwhile, Rupert is behind Isabella, stroking her backside, pushing it into his stomach and pulling her down so that his cock is brushing against her pussy.

‘Where’s Antonella?’ Valentina hisses in alarm. Her friend is nowhere to be seen. Did she run away into the night, all on her own?

‘I’m afraid she had a little too much to drink,’ Francesco whispers, his eyes glittering in the dark. ‘I put her to bed. Don’t worry; she is all tucked in, fast asleep. Safe as houses . . .’

Francesco pulls her close to his chest. She feels him harden against her pelvis. She imagines how it might feel to have him inside her once again, after all this time.

‘Do you want to watch, Valentina?’ he whispers into her ear, swivelling her head, holding her between his two hands so that she sees the moment Rupert pushes deep into Isabella. ‘Or do you want to join in?’

She pulls her head from his hands, steps away, and shuts the door behind her.

‘No, I don’t want to watch and I don’t want to join in,’ she says.

He looks at her quizzically. ‘What do you want, then?’

‘I want you to show me that you remember . . . us.’

‘Of course I remember . . . I told you, I have thought of you so many, many times over the past years.’ He sighs. ‘Valentina, it was my obsession with you that ruined my marriage.’

‘I don’t want you to tell me that . . . Just show me.’

‘How?’

‘I want you to do exactly what you did the first time we made love. I want you to show me how you took my virginity, all over again.’

He takes a breath, says nothing for a moment.

‘Have you forgotten?’ she whispers.

‘Of course not.’ His words are barely louder than his breath. ‘I am just thinking of how I can do this.’

He takes her hand and she follows him down the corridor and into the kitchen. It is all stainless steel and modern appliances, so different from the scene in their past. Francesco drops her hand and opens the ice compartment of the freezer.

‘How fortunate it is that I happen to have what we need right here,’ he says, pulling out a container of ice cream.

‘So this is your apartment?’

‘Of course,’ he says, opening the lid of the ice-cream tub. ‘But you know, Valentina, we are going to have to improvise. I don’t possess a car anymore.’

‘That’s OK; we’ll imagine it.’

She closes her eyes and remembers back to the summer she was nineteen. Francesco had driven them out of the city in his Fiat Bambino. They had headed towards the lakes, but never made it that far. On the way, he had pulled into a garage and bought them ice creams, making her hold them, one in each hand, while he drove on, pulling off down a bumpy track and on to the parched verge. The roof of the car had been open, but that had just made them hotter. He had fed her ice cream, kissing her creamy lips between each bite. He had covered his tongue in thick, ice-cold vanilla ice cream and gone down on her. And she had melted into him. ‘Oh, you are so sweet,’ he had said. Those hot leather car seats sticking to their bare skin and ice cream running over their bellies – all this sensation had been her undoing.

She had not told him she was a virgin, but he could tell. As soon as he pushed into her, he felt her tightness, heard her gasp – the tiny twist of pain, and then the release of her sexuality, pouring into him, her heart cascading afterwards.

The memory of the innocence of her love for this man makes Valentina want him once again. She lets him feed her vanilla ice cream in his modernist kitchen and, when she can take no more sweet cream inside her mouth, no more its scent of heat and honey, he lifts her up on to the kitchen table, and kneels before her. He takes a scoop of vanilla out of the tub, fills his mouth with it, and parting her legs with his hands he pushes his full mouth, his ice cold lips against her hot pussy. She remembers now how he had licked her, adored her. And when she is so close to losing herself completely he pulls back, wipes his mouth upon his arm, a smear of cream upon his dark skin. He stands up, and they observe each other. Together they look deep into their past hearts, and honour the passion they had once felt for one another. His lovemaking is more measured, less urgent than that time, long ago, and yet it goes on forever and ever, taking her deeper and deeper inside herself. She doesn’t want Francesco to make her orgasm and yet he does. She cannot help it. His seed mixes with the melted ice cream, smearing down her thighs. All this softness is too much for her and, afterwards, instead of lying in each other’s arms, stroking each other tenderly, she reaches down and commands his cock with her touch.

‘Fuck me now,’ she whispers through gritted teeth, ‘like you never have before.’

He answers by rolling her over on to her front. She grabs him and pushes him inside her. He is panting, out of breath, but she gives him no respite, demanding more and more, pushing back against him so they are writhing like a torn beast, like the broken, conflicted part of her heart. For Valentina is looking for herself: the girl who loved Francesco. Would it not be better to be her than who she is now?