The Golden Locket (Unbreakable Trilogy, Book 2) (5 page)

‘That’s become my default position after losing the person I loved most in the world.’ Gustav looked straight at his brother as if he was relieved to be able to say the words at last. ‘It may not look like it, but I’m struggling to keep it together.’

‘I came here hoping to find something I’d lost.’ Pierre’s voice was barely audible now. ‘So you promise? That we’ll talk?’

At last. Some kind of fragile calm had come over the room. The first glimpse of what the brothers were like once upon a time. The younger pleading with, needing, the older.

‘You have found it, P. I promise. New Year’s Eve is when we’ll continue this. But Serena and I have packing to do and a plane to catch, and I need to be alone with her.’

Gustav’s voice regained its strength and clarity. He tossed the gallery key carefully in his hand. I wanted to run to him, wrap my arms around him, but I also wanted to drag him towards his brother, heal this debacle with some kind of initial touch, some kind of real contact that would mean a thousand words and keep us all going. But this was not the time. All those toxic words were still reverberating in the air.

Pierre nodded. ‘Fine. But next time we meet I will tell everyone the final nugget Margot told me. Then we’ll see whose side your lovely girlfriend will be on.’

‘No more sabotage, P. No more!’ Gustav raised his hands, both silencing and surrendering. ‘Whatever happens next, remember that I am sorry, and that I love you.’

Gustav took my hand and to my astonishment lifted it to his mouth. Breathed in the scent of my skin. Had I given him this quiet strength?

‘There is more to say, and you know it.’ Pierre stared at his brother for a long moment. Something had been punctured. ‘But I’ll be there. New Year’s Eve.’

‘Good.’ Gustav held my hand against his chest where his heart jumped and throbbed like a trapped animal. ‘Now get out.’

When they’d gone, Polly rolling her eyes and making ‘call me’ gestures at me, Gustav walked slowly over to my self-portrait and gazed up at it. One hand flattened against the wall where the sepia shots of the French prostitutes used to hang in a previous exhibition. I came up behind him, hesitated, then leaned my head on his shoulder.

‘I won’t rest till my brother has forgiven me. I won’t rest until he gets it all off his chest and makes some kind of sense, and then I can forgive him. But first let’s make our own pact. A white Christmas in New York with you. Just you.’

Crystal’s words to me, weeks ago, tinkled quietly in my ears.

The day he tells you about that saga is the day you’ll know he’s letting you right in.

Gustav walked towards the lift. I gazed once more at my self-portrait as the gallery emptied for the last time. For a second I envied the girl in that photograph: she hadn’t been forced to listen as her lover’s brother burst back into his life then tried, and failed, to reduce him to something beneath his shoe.

But the portrait’s mournful gaze told me I was wrong to envy her. I was in the right place, with the right guy. His hand had just been forced. He hadn’t chosen to reveal the saga to me this evening. His brother had made the choice for him. But at least now I knew what, or who, had wrecked Gustav’s life.

I never wanted to be that girl again. I was never going back to a life without Gustav.

‘No, Gustav isn’t here,’ I reply to Pierre’s quiet taunt now as we stare out at the New Year fireworks. ‘But he will be.’

I search the sky out east again, where the planes are taking off and landing. I rub at the blur of steam my breath has left on the glass. Oh, Gustav, where the hell are you? This is the night you promised to meet your brother. I’ll do my best to keep things sweet until you get here but, like you said, this is your fight, not mine.

I move away from the window, away from Pierre’s piercing eyes, and go to fill my glass. Right up to the brim. Polly is sprawled on one of the long, low sofas that are angled to get the best views from up here. She’s already pretty drunk, but it’s a kind of aggressive drunkenness I’ve never seen in her before.

‘Why won’t you come out with us? When did Serena Folkes become such a bore?’ Her voice is a lazy slur. ‘You’re only just twenty-one. You’ve got a swanky new pad, photographic commissions to sink your teeth into, a new city to explore and a wardrobe full of Ralph Lauren for me to borrow, but you’d rather spend the evening hanging round at JFK arrivals lounge?’

I press my glass against my hot cheek. ‘I’m just worried about Gustav, that’s all. I won’t relax until he’s back here with me. I didn’t want him flying at such short notice to the house on Lake Lugano just when we’d had such a lovely Christmas together. I hate the idea of him being there, full stop. He bought it with his ex-wife so there’s all these ghosts from his past life, Polly. Without me he’ll be surrounded by them.’ I glance at Pierre, wonder if he’ll pick up on what I’ve said about ghosts, but he’s still over by the window, frowning at his mobile phone. I run the glass over my lips. ‘I’m worried something has gone wrong. Why wasn’t he on that flight back from Switzerland?’

‘Worried his evil ex will have turned up to claim him? Oh, don’t get all upset, Rena! There’s bound to be a good reason why he’s late. No need to fret. Especially as the cavalry has arrived! Your New Year wouldn’t be complete without me, now would it?’ Polly kicks her foot against the tawny, butter-soft suede cushions. ‘If you’d been here last New Year you’d have been whirling like a dervish as they counted down. Probably wearing nothing but sparkly cheerleader hotpants and an Uncle Sam hat! You can be the life and soul when you’re on form, girlie! How is it that you’ve changed so much?’

‘I haven’t changed, and I’m not a bore!’ I take a long swallow of the vintage champagne that fills our fridge here and sit down in the sofa opposite, tucking my feet up under me in an effort to chill. ‘If you weren’t my beloved cousin you’d get a slap for a comment like that, the mood I’m in, so watch it. In any case, this time last year I was in Piazza San Marco, not Times Square.’

‘Dressed as one of your masochistic Venetian nuns, no doubt!’ Polly tips her head at Pierre as he comes across the room and flops down next to her. He drapes his arm closely around her neck and gives me an astonishing, broad grin as his hand lands on the swell of her breasts.

‘Yeah. I wish I’d bought those kinky convent photographs I’ve heard about from your exhibition before they sold out. Think how educational they would have been for my popsicle here,’ he smirks, fingering one of Polly’s nipples through the delicate lace of her electric-blue dress. ‘I could have organised a personal signing from you, Miss Folkes, dressed as a flagellating holy sister.’

‘Everyone dresses up when there’s a party in La Serenissima. That’s what they call Venice when there’s some kind of fiesta going on. It’s the city of masks and costumes, after all.’

I shift in the blast of heat from Pierre’s black eyes. So like his brother’s, yet so different. While Gustav’s eyes glow from deep within, Pierre’s seem to flicker and change depending on what or who he’s looking at. There’s still a kind of vibration about him this evening, the impression that something is brewing, yet he’s almost jaunty, too. I feebly try to move the spotlight and focus on him as Polly’s boyfriend rather than Gustav’s brother.

‘You know, Pierre, as a costumier Venice would be a goldmine for your dress-supply business. You’d find a wealth of period outfits there!’

‘I’m flattered you remember what I do for a living!’

‘At least the two of
you
are communicating. God, it’s been like pushing a boulder up a hill getting everyone here tonight. But you’re being very restless and strange, Rena,’ Polly complains, taking Pierre’s chin and wrenching it round to get his eyes off me.

‘That’s because it doesn’t feel right – talking to you, I mean. It’s good that we’re all jolly, drinking and chatting together, especially after the last time we met in London. But it would be better if Gustav was here. I feel as if we should be waiting for him!’

‘It was his invitation, and we’re not saying anything behind his back while we wait.’ Pierre runs his finger across Polly’s mouth. ‘In any case you’re allowed to have your special cousin to play for New Year’s, aren’t you? It’s a great chance to get to know you better. But I’m disappointed Gustav can’t be arsed to get here on time. You sure he’s in Switzerland? He’s not got cold feet about seeing me and done one of his midnight flits?’

His brittle words are like a slap in the face. I press myself back into the soft cushions as if they can somehow protect me. I can’t bear the idea of Gustav running out on me.

‘Give him time. I trust him.’ The sudden fear nearly chokes me. ‘Midnight flits aren’t his style.’

‘It’s a shame when his emails over the last few days have built some bridges. They’re a bit po-faced but conciliatory and, well, brotherly. I was warming to tonight’s plan.’ Pierre keeps his eyes on Polly, tweaks her nipple more blatantly. His eyes, even his actions, are oddly distant. As if he’s tuning a radio. ‘But hey, we can have a party here all by ourselves. Maybe we could get Tomas over, remember him? The guy in the toga whom you knocked back at my Halloween party? He hasn’t forgotten you – he’s still got the hots for you!’

Polly giggles. ‘Yeah, how about it? Let’s get Toga Tomas over!’

To my relief Pierre stops groping Polly and leans towards me. ‘So tell me, Polly’s cousin. How did my brother ensnare a Celtic beauty like you? Or has he got you locked into some confidentiality clause?’

I try to smother my shocked laughter by delving into the ice bucket. ‘Yeah, it was business at first, but it’s all pleasure now.’

‘I knew it. You
did
have some kind of contract! God, he really has lost his
joie de vivre
. The eccentric millionaire, signing parchments in blood.’ As he speaks I can see Polly’s nipple perking through the lace and wish I couldn’t. ‘But, talking of business, why don’t you tell me more about your beloved Venice? Your knowledge of the city could be invaluable if I decide to follow up your suggestion for sourcing period material.’

‘Then you should go there some time, honey.’ Polly nudges him. ‘My cousin, as you insist on calling her, could show you round.’

Polly hitches her bottom across the soft seat. She hooks her leg over Pierre’s to get his attention. Her lace skirt rides up to her tiny matching knickers. Ridiculously I worry that she’ll smear something messy on the beautiful fabric.

I catch Pierre’s eye over the top of Polly’s white-blonde crop as if he can read my dirty mind. He picks up Gustav’s cocktail shaker and tops up their glasses. He is still brazenly eyeballing me, but I can’t look away. I can’t ignore that what he also shares with his brother is the ability to render people speechless and immobile with just one smouldering glance.

‘I’m not sure I’d be safe travelling on my own with your cousin, Pol,’ he murmurs, watching me but tickling Polly as she protests weakly. ‘She’s always, I don’t know, so jumpy.’

‘That’s because I’m missing Gustav and I wish he was safely back here with us. But you’re jumpy too, admit it. Tonight is massive for you.’ I swizzle the pale fizz in my glass. I can’t shake off the feeling that he’s playing me. I also can’t help enjoying it, even though I know it’s wrong.

Gustav’s brother and I stare at each other. A blue vein has come up on his right temple.

‘Yeah, you’re right. I’m jumpy as hell. It’s this place. All this opulence is unnerving,’ he drawls, glancing round the apartment. ‘I knew Gustav was rich, but since I last saw him he’s moved up into another league altogether. Maybe we should have chosen neutral territory for this meet.’

I smooth my hand across the honey-soft suede sofa. ‘He’d be here now if he hadn’t had to fly off like that, straight after Christmas, but some problem arose with the sale of the Lugano house and Dickson needed him there to sign some papers or something. The sooner that place is sold, with its past and its memories, the better. It’s hanging over us like a guillotine.’

‘Shame to sell the old place. There were a few wild parties there, I can tell you!’ Pierre keeps his smile light. ‘It’s more of a shame that he stood me up, though.’

I let out a breath I didn’t realise I’d been holding.

‘He’s stuck in the stratosphere, Pierre! He’s not standing you up.’ I’m damned if I’m going to tell him I’m also jumpy because that’s the inexplicable effect he has on me. ‘He wants to thrash this out once and for all.’

‘“Thrash” being the operative word.’

Pierre’s voice invades the low-lit, airy space of my new home. Polly is half asleep with the drink. Her head is back and she’s jiggling her shoulders to a new track on the music system. It’s not like her to zone out, but I’m glad. There’s a ticker tape of questions and challenges clattering behind her boyfriend’s eyes.

‘Baiting me won’t work, Pierre. I’m not going down that road again.’

He shrugs and falls back in the sofa, that broad smile disarming me again. ‘Point taken. So. What about the house in Baker Street?’

‘What about it?’

I’m glad he’s changed the subject, but I don’t like to think of the images Gustav showed me projecting across the old walls in that house, the whips and masks, the sick excitement that infected me and had me dragging him home and begging him to whip me too. The loop of video showing Crystal being whipped by a masked Margot. Gustav disguised and participating somewhere in that writhing orgy. The agonising knowledge that he lived and loved there with another woman.

‘I sometimes walk past it when I’m in London.’ Pierre removes his hand abruptly from Polly’s breast, and she curls away from him. ‘It’s looking pretty bleak now. Gone to rack and ruin.’

I cross my legs, too late aware, from the gleam in Pierre’s eyes, that I may have given him a flash of my crotch. ‘That’s all part of the Gothic façade. It’s still a functioning museum. The installations are still up and running. I think the exhibition earns him a fortune from collectors and visitors.’

‘You mean he still owns it?’

Pierre’s face goes still, watchful. I shift on the sofa opposite him, tug at the filmy white dress studded with tiny sequins that I’m wearing especially for Gustav. Pierre obviously appreciates it too, in all its see-through flimsiness. I bite my lip, sensing that as well as showing my knickers I’m probably giving away classified information that I didn’t know was classified.