The Olive Tree (35 page)

Then they’d begun to chat and on impulse, he’d invited her to have a drink with him after she’d finished her shift. She had refused, as he’d expected her to, but as
always with him, perseverance had won the day. From then on, he’d ignored taking in the wonderful Vienna sights, instead sitting in the café with a book when he knew she was on duty.
And eventually, she had agreed to the drink.

She’d told him then that she was an ex-ballerina, and had stopped dancing three years ago when she’d become pregnant. She had a son, apparently, and from the way her eyes shone as
she talked about him, William could tell that little Alex was the centre of her universe.

He’d tried to probe more deeply, but it had been obvious from the start that Helena was closed on the subject of her past, and Alex’s father. Even as their relationship had deepened
and, step by tiny step, William had pursued her with grim determination (a scenario that had involved months of exhausting weekend commutes from London to Vienna), Helena had remained reluctant to
discuss the details. Finally, after nine months, he had persuaded her to accompany him back to England, and installed her and little Alex in the poky Hampshire cottage that he’d rented in
haste after his divorce.

He remembered her on their wedding day, looking exquisite in ivory satin – the perfect bride, as everyone had commented. Yet, when she had arrived next to him at the altar, and –
formalities completed – he had lifted her veil to kiss her, rather than the anticipated joy in her eyes, he could have sworn he’d seen a flash of fear . . .

William heard the crunch of tyres on the gravel, and pulled himself back from his thoughts.

‘Mummy’s back, Daddy!’ shouted Immy from the terrace. William shrugged on his shirt and went to join her.

‘Daddee, he’s got pink shorts on and a scarf thing round his neck and he walks like a girl,’ Immy whispered as she peered round the corner at the man getting out of the
car.

‘That’s because he’s a ballet dancer, Immy. Now shush,’ William ordered, as Fabio walked towards them.

‘
Ciao
, William! After all these years I finally meet you. It is a pleasure.’ Fabio gave William a neat bow of respect.

‘And for me, Fabio.’

‘Hello, leetle one,’ Fabio bent down to kiss Immy on both cheeks. ‘You are miniature version of your mamma, yes? I am Fabio. And this must be signor Frederick. Helena has told
me a lot about you both.’

‘It’s nice to meet you, Mr Fabio. Were you and Mummy famous?’ asked Immy, gazing up at him with wide blue eyes.

‘Once, we were unstoppable, were we not, Helena? The next Fonteyn and Nureyev . . . aah, well,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Your mamma has done something more worthwhile with her
life than chasing a dream. She has a beautiful family.’ Fabio looked around. ‘Where is Alex? I have not seen him since he was a toddler.’

‘In the house somewhere. I’ll call him. Cup of tea, Fabio?’ William asked him.

‘Coffee would be good, but I take only decaf.’

‘I think we have some somewhere. Tea, darling?’ William smiled at Helena, whom he thought looked strained and rather tired.

‘Yes please. Hello, monster.’ She smiled as she picked Fred up. ‘Come and sit down, Fabio, and enjoy the view.’

‘It is stunning,’ he pronounced as he seated himself gracefully in a chair. ‘William is a handsome man. I hate him. He has more hair than me,’ he whispered loudly to
her.

Immy sidled up to him. ‘Are you really a dancer, Mr Fabio?’ she asked him shyly.

‘Yes, I am. I have been dancing all my life.’

‘Did you dance with Mummy in Vienna when she met the Prince?’

‘Ahh, the Prince.’ He smiled at Helena. ‘Yes, I did. We were dancing
Giselle
, Helena?’

‘
La Sylphide
, actually,’ she corrected him.

‘You are right,’ Fabio said, before turning his attention back to Immy. ‘And then one night, your mamma had bouquet from him.’

‘What’s a bouquet?’ enquired Immy.

‘They are flowers given to beautiful ladies who dance the leading roles, but this bouquet has inside it a diamond necklace. Am I right, Mamma?’

‘Yes, you are.’

‘And then, he invites her to a ball at a real palace.’

Immy was enraptured. ‘Ooh,’ she breathed, ‘just like in
Cinderella
.’ Then she turned to Helena and put her hands on her hips accusingly. ‘So why aren’t
you married to him now?’

‘You mean why aren’t you Princess Immy, and why do you live in a normal house instead of a palace, and have to put up with me for your old dad?’ said William with a grin as he
brought the tea tray out.

‘I didn’t love him, Immy,’ replied Helena.

‘I’d have married him for the diamond necklace and the palace.’

‘Yes,
you
probably would, Immy,’ agreed William. ‘Coffee for you, Fabio.’

‘
Grazie
, William.’

‘So, did the two of you have a chance to catch up over lunch?’ William asked.

‘We have only, as you English say, scratched the surface, have we not, Helena?’

‘I did most of the talking, so there’s a lot I still don’t know about Fabio.’

‘Helena said you went off to the States just before I met her. Is that right?’ asked William.

‘Yes. I was there for almost ten years. I dance with the New York City Ballet, then last year, I think, Fabio, it is time for you to come home. So, now I am back at La Scala. I take the
morning class and play the character parts suitable for a man of my age.’ He shrugged. ‘It is a living.’

‘Fabio, you must be a good few years younger than me and yet you talk as if you were drawing your pension,’ William chuckled.

‘It is the dancer’s life. It is so very short.’

‘Did you tell Alex to come out to see Fabio, darling?’ Helena asked William.

‘Yes. He said he’s coming, but you know he’s a law unto himself.’

‘I’ll go and chivvy him along and check on dinner.’ Helena stood up and walked inside.

‘I was only saying to Helena just recently that I wish I had seen her dance.’ William sipped his tea.

‘She was exquisite! Certainly the best partner I have ever had. It is a terrible waste she felt she could not continue once Alex was born. She would have been one of the greats, I am sure
of it.’

‘I’ve always wondered why she stopped. Surely women can continue dancing once they’ve had babies, can’t they?’

‘It was a difficult birth, William. And she was alone and wanted to be there for her baby.’ Fabio sighed. ‘Our partnership was very special. It is rare to find that kind of
empathy. And, for sure, I never found it again, or the success I had with Helena.’

‘You were such a big part of her life. I admit it feels odd that I know almost nothing of it.’

‘Just like I did not know of you or of your children’s existence until Helena and I speak a few weeks ago. We lost touch soon after I leave for New York: when I call her apartment in
Vienna, she no longer answers the telephone. No one knows where she is. Of course,’ Fabio said with a shrug, ‘she is in England with you.’

‘So how
did
you find her?’ William asked.

‘It was fate, nothing less. I am in the press office at La Scala and there is a great pile of envelopes on the desk, to post off to the mailing list with details of the forthcoming season.
And there, on top, is envelope addressed to Ms Helena Beaumont! Can you believe it?’ Fabio said excitedly. ‘I scribble down the English address, then find her mobile on the La Scala
computer records. There!’ Fabio slapped his toned thighs. ‘It was meant to be.’

‘My wife rarely talks about her past,’ William mused. ‘And you are the first person I have met from it, apart from someone she knew here in Cyprus. So forgive me if you feel I
am quizzing you.’

‘Sometimes, it is better to draw the veil over the past and get on with the future,
si
?’ Fabio feigned a yawn. ‘I think I will retire to my room, if you do not mind. It
was a very early morning.’

As he stood up, Alex appeared on the terrace.

‘Hello, Fabio, I’m Alex. Pleased to meet you.’ He stepped forward shyly with his hand outstretched. Fabio ignored it and pulled Alex to him, kissing him on both cheeks.

‘Alex! My boy! It has been so many years since I saw you, and now you are all grown up!’

‘Well, not quite,’ said Alex. ‘At least, I’m hoping for a bit more of the growing bit, anyway.’

Fabio held him by the shoulders and his eyes glittered with tears. ‘Do you remember me?’

‘Er, perhaps,’ Alex muttered, not wanting to be rude.

‘No, you don’t, do you? But you were so young. Your mother says you are very clever boy, but maybe not dancer.’ Fabio scanned Alex’s torso. ‘Rugby player instead,
yes?’

‘I like rugby, yes,’ agreed Alex.

‘You must excuse me now, but I am off for a siesta. We will talk much after I have slept, get to know each other again,
si
?’

Alex managed a smile. ‘
Si
.’

12th August 2006

Do I think about the good news or the bad news first?

Do I hug myself with joy every time I remember the last words Chloë spoke to me?

‘Cool’ . . .

. . . and ‘cute’ . . .

. . . and ‘clever’.

Wow!

There. That’s the good news.

Now, for the bad: And it’s
bad
.

I have met the man (and I use that word loosely) who may well turn out to be my father. No matter he is Italian. Italian is good. I like pasta and ice cream. No matter he is a
dancer. Dancers are fit and strong with good muscle definition.

The thing that matters is this: everything about him, from his clothes, to the way he sweeps his hand through what’s left of his hair, to the way he speaks and walks,
indicates one thing and one thing only to me:

Fabio is . . .

Oh crud . . .

Oh bugger . . .

GAY!! And nothing will convince me otherwise.

I am prepared to accept that a certain level of effeminacy can still mean a man is a man and can do to a woman what a man does, but Fabio is a
screaming
queen!

I am trying to think this new information through calmly, but coming to some pretty dreadful conclusions.

Like . . . what if, once upon a long time ago, Fabio was in the ‘undecided’ category when it came to his sexuality?

So, there he is, partnering my mother, spending his days becoming familiar with parts of her body that usually only doctors have access to. They duly fall in love and start having a
relationship. My mother gets pregnant with me, Fabio is still standing by her and is there when I am born, playing the dutiful daddy.

Then, suddenly, one day, bingo! Fabio realises he bats for the other side. And he doesn’t know what to do. He still loves my mother, and me, hopefully, but he can’t live
a lie. So he sets off to the States to begin a new life, leaving my mother alone and devastated in Vienna with me.

Which would explain why she didn’t go with him to New York and never danced again.

And it
also
explains the really big question: Which is why my mother has never told me who my father is.

‘Er, Alex, darling, you see the thing is, your father, er, well, he’s a raging homosexual, actually, but if you’d like to go and spend weekends with him and his
male lover, and watch Liza Minnelli films with them, that’s fine by me.’

She knows I’d be mortified. What boy wouldn’t? Just thinking of my mates at school if Fabio ever arrived at a rugby game to announce himself as my dad, executing a quick
entrechat
on the touchline whilst he watched me convert a try, brings me out in a cold sweat.

The real problem is this:

Is homosexuality genetic? Oh crap!

Who can I ask? I
have
to know.

At this juncture, I must also stringently point out I am
not
a homophobe. I have no problem at all with other people living their lives as they see fit. They can let it all
hang out, and as often as possible for all I care, and Fabio seems like a great bloke; funny and bright and G . . . A . . . Y.

He can be just as he likes. Just as long as he’s not like
me
.

Or me like him.

κβ

That evening everyone except the two little ones, who had been put to bed early, gathered on the terrace for drinks. Fabio arrived freshly showered, wearing a peacock-blue silk
shirt and a pair of tight leather trousers.

‘Isn’t he going to sweat in those, Dad?’ Alex asked William as they loaded trays in the kitchen to take outside.

‘He’s Italian. Maybe he’s used to the heat,’ William replied.

‘Dad, do you think Fabio is, um, you know?’

‘Gay?’

‘Yes.’

‘He is. Mum told me he was.’

‘Oh.’

‘Does that bother you, Alex?’

‘No. And yes.’

‘In what way?’

‘Oh, no way in particular,’ shrugged Alex. ‘Is this tray ready to go out?’

With Fabio fully briefed over lunch, Helena had finally relaxed and was having a lovely time. During dinner, she and Fabio reminisced. Alex and William listened, fascinated, to the details of a
part of Helena’s life they’d never known.

‘We met, you see, when I came to the Opera House at Covent Garden,’ explained Fabio. ‘Helena had just been promoted to soloist and I arrived from La Scala for a season. She is
with this
terrible
partner who throws her, then forgets to catch her—’

‘Stuart wasn’t that bad. He’s still dancing, you know,’ Helena interjected.

‘So, I arrive as guest artist and Stuart is off with the flu and they partner me with Helena, in a matinee of
La Fille mal gardeé.
And’ – Fabio shrugged
theatrically – ‘the rest is history.’

‘So then you followed Fabio back to La Scala?’ asked William.

‘Yes,’ said Helena. ‘We were there for two years. Then the Vienna State Opera Ballet offered us a contract as principal dancers with the company. And we couldn’t
refuse.’

‘Remember I was not happy to begin with. It is too cold there in the winter and I get sick,’ shivered Fabio.