The Olive Tree (36 page)

‘You really are the most appalling hypochondriac,’ Helena remarked with a giggle. ‘When we were on tour with the company, he had a suitcase just for his medicine,’ she
told William. ‘Don’t deny it, Fabio, you know it’s true.’

‘Okay, you win,
cara
. I am paranoid about getting the germs,’ he agreed affably.

‘So, will you stay now at La Scala, Fabio?’ William topped up their glasses.

‘I hope so, but it depends a lot on Dan, my partner. He is set designer in New York. I miss him, but he hopes to get a position soon in Milan.’

‘I’m so glad you finally found your soulmate, Fabio.’ Helena smiled at him.

‘As I am that you have found yours.’ Fabio nodded gallantly towards both of them. ‘Listen, I have brought with me photographs of Helena and I when we dance together. You want
to see, William? Alex?’

‘We’d love to see, thanks, Fabio.’

‘
Prego
, I will get them.’

‘And I will make some coffee,’ added William.

As they both went inside, Helena glanced over at Alex. ‘You’re quiet, darling. Are you okay?’

‘Fine, thanks,’ nodded Alex.

‘What do you think of Fabio?’

‘He’s, er, a very nice man.’

‘It’s so good to see him,’ said Helena as first William reappeared with a tray and then a few minutes later, Fabio.

‘Here we are.’ Fabio waved a bulging envelope of photographs and sat down. ‘There, Alex, it is your mother and I dancing
L’après-midi d’un
faune
.’

‘The afternoon of a faun,’ translated Alex. ‘What’s that about, then?’

‘It’s about a girl who is woken up when a faun jumps through the window of her bedroom,’ said Helena. ‘Not a great story, but a wonderful part for a male dancer. Fabio
loved it, didn’t you?’

‘Oh yes. It is one of my favourites – a ballet when the man can show off, not the woman. Nijinsky, Nureyev . . . all the greats danced it. Now, William, this is your wife in
La
Fille mal gardée
. Isn’t she beautiful?’

‘Yes, she is,’ agreed William.

‘And this is us taking the curtain call together after
Swan Lake
.’

‘Immy should see that one, Dad,’ said Alex. ‘Mum’s wearing a tiara and holding lots of bouquets.’

‘And this is us in our favourite café in Vienna with . . . do you remember Jean-Louis, Helena?’

‘Oh my goodness, yes! He was a very strange man – he’d only ever eat muesli, nothing else. Pass me that photo, Alex,’ she added.

‘And this is Helena at the café again . . .’ Glancing at the photograph as he handed it to William, Fabio suddenly blanched. In a moment of panic he tried to pull it back from
William’s grasp. ‘But it is unimportant. I will find another.’

William held the photograph fast. ‘No, I want to see them all. So there’s Helena, and . . .’

Fabio stared at Helena in horror, his eyes signalling impending disaster.

William looked up at her in confusion. ‘I . . . I don’t understand. When was this photograph taken? How could . . .
he
have been there?’

‘Who?’ asked Alex, leaning over to see the photo. ‘Oh, yes. What is
he
doing there with you, Mum?’

‘But . . . you didn’t know him then. How could he have been there with you and Fabio in Vienna?’ William shook his head. ‘Sorry, Helena, I don’t
understand.’

All eyes turned to Helena as she stared at her husband and son in silence. The moment she had always dreaded, had always known must come, was finally here.

‘Go to your room, Alex,’ she said quietly.

‘No, Mum, I’m sorry, I won’t.’

‘Do as I say! Now!’

‘O
kay
!’ Alex stood up and marched off inside.

‘Helena,
cara
, I am so sorry, so sorry.’ Fabio wrung his hands. ‘I think it is best I retire to bed for the night. The two of you must talk.
Buona notte,
cara
.’ Looking close to tears himself, Fabio kissed Helena on both cheeks, before retreating into the house.

William waited until Fabio had gone, then pointed to the bottle on the table. ‘Brandy? I’m certainly having another one.’

‘No, thanks.’

‘Okay.’ William poured himself a glass, then picked up the photograph and waved it at her. ‘So. Are you going to tell me how you came to be gazing into the eyes of my oldest
friend, several years before I even met you?’

‘I . . .’

‘Well, darling? Come along now. Spit it out. There must be a reasonable explanation, surely?’

Helena sat completely still, gazing into the distance.

‘The longer you stay quiet, the more my mind conjures up thoughts that . . . Christ, they’re unbearable, just unbearable!’

She continued to maintain her silence, until eventually he spoke again. ‘I’ll ask you again, Helena: What is
Sacha
doing in this photograph with his arm around you? And why on
earth have you never told me you knew him before we met?’

Helena felt her lungs constricting, hardly able to breathe. Finally, she managed to make her lips function.

‘I knew him in Vienna.’

‘Well, that’s bloody obvious. And . . . ?’

‘I . . .’ She shook her head, unable to continue.

William studied the photograph again. ‘He looks pretty young in this photograph. So do you. This must have been taken years ago.’

‘I . . . Yes.’

‘Helena, I’m running out of patience here. For Chrissakes, tell me! Just how well did you know him, and why the hell have you never told me about this before?!’ William banged
the table hard, making the plates rattle and sending one of the coffee cups spinning to the stone floor, where it shattered. ‘Christ! I don’t believe this! I want some answers
now!’

‘And I’ll give them to you, but first let me say I’m so, so sorry . . .’

‘This photo makes me realise I’ve been deceived for years, by my best friend and my wife! Jesus, how much worse could it possibly be?! No wonder you’ve always been so cagey
about your past. For all I know, you were, and perhaps still are, shagging my best friend!’

‘It wasn’t like that. Please, William!’

Struggling to control himself, he looked at her. ‘Then tell me, just tell me, what was your relationship with Sacha? And this time, Helena, don’t treat me like the cuckold I’ve
obviously been for the past ten bloody years!’

‘William! The children! I—’

‘I don’t give a damn if they hear that their mother is a liar and a cheat! You’re not getting out of it this time,
darling
. I want to know everything! All of it!
Now!
’

‘
All right!
I’ll tell you! Just stop shouting at me, please!’ Helena bent her head to her knees and started to sob. ‘I’m sorry, William, I’m so sorry,
for everything. I really am.’

William knocked back his brandy and poured himself another. ‘I don’t think “sorry” is quite going to cover this one, but anyway, you’d better get on with your
pathetic
excuses. And of course, I understand now why you’ve always been so supportive of Jules. I’d thought it was out of kindness, but it was out of
guilt
, wasn’t
it?!’

She looked up at him. ‘Are you listening or are you shouting?’

‘I’m listening.’

‘Okay, okay.’ Helena took a couple of deep breaths. ‘I met Sacha in Vienna, a few years before I met you.’

‘Jesus Christ!’ William swept a hand through his hair. ‘The place where
he
told me to go when I was getting over my divorce from Cecile. And like an idiot, I went. He
said something like, “I found love there once.” It was
you
he was talking about, wasn’t it?’

‘William, if you want to hear this, please, let me speak! I’ll tell you everything, I promise.’

He fell silent. And Helena began . . .

Vienna

September 1992

Was there anywhere more beautiful in the world?
thought Helena as she meandered through the elegant Vienna streets on her way to the café. The late afternoon
sun, unusually hot for September, was slanting off the grand stone buildings, bathing them in a golden glow that perfectly reflected her mood.

Since arriving here in late summer to take up her role as a principal ballerina with the Vienna State Opera Ballet Company, Helena had already grown to love her adopted city. From her studio
apartment in Prinz Eugen Straße, which comprised one enormous room in a gracious eighteenth-century building and boasted huge floor-to-ceiling windows and an intricately corniced ceiling, it
was a pleasant twenty-minute walk into the centre of the Austrian capital. She never ceased to revel in the sights she passed, from avenues lined with a delightful architectural mix of classical
and art nouveau structures, to the immaculately tended parks complete with old gabled bandstands. The entire city was a perennial feast for the senses.

It had taken a lot to convince Fabio to accept the offer from Gustav Lehmann, the creative director of the Vienna State Opera House. Fabio – a Milanese by birth – had been loath to
leave La Scala. But the pair had been enticed with the promise of a new ballet, created especially for them. It was to be entitled
The Artist
and was based on the paintings of Degas, with
Fabio in the title role and Helena portraying his muse, ‘The Little Dancer’. The ballet was due to be premiered at the start of the spring season, and she and Fabio had already met with
the young French choreographer and the rather avant-garde composer. It was to be a modern piece, and the thought of the new challenge sent shivers of excitement running through her.

And now, she admitted to herself happily, there was something else here in the city that sent her spirit soaring . . . she had fallen in love.

She’d met him just a few weeks ago in the public gallery attached to the Academy of Fine Arts, where she had gone to see an exhibition. She’d been frowning at a particularly lurid
modern painting entitled
Nightmare in Paris
, unable to make head or tail of it.

‘I take it the picture doesn’t meet with your approval.’

Helena turned towards the voice to find herself looking into the deep-set, grey-green eyes of a young man standing next to her. With his tousled auburn hair curling over the collar of his faded
velvet jacket and a silk cravat spilling carelessly from the open neck of his white shirt, he had immediately reminded her of a young Oscar Wilde.

She pulled her eyes away and concentrated instead on the slashes and squiggles of bright red, blue and green paint on the canvas in front of her. ‘Well, let’s just say, I don’t
get it.’

‘My thoughts exactly. Although I shouldn’t be saying that about the work of a fellow student. Apparently this piece won a prize in last year’s degree exhibition.’

‘You’re a student here?’ she said in surprise, turning to face him once more. His accent was obviously English, what her mother would call ‘cut-glass’, and she
guessed he was probably just a few years older than her.

‘Yes. Or at least, I will be; I start a master’s degree at the beginning of October. I’m obsessed with Klimt and Schiele, hence choosing Vienna as a place of study. I landed
here three days ago in order to find an apartment before term starts, and to brush up my rather rusty German.’

‘I’ve been here for three weeks, but I still don’t think my German is getting any better.’ She smiled at him.

‘You’re from England too?’ he asked, staring at her so intently that she found herself blushing.

‘Yes. But I’m working here at the moment.’

‘What do you do for a living, if you don’t mind me asking?’

‘I’m a dancer with the Vienna State Opera.’

‘Ah, that explains it.’

‘What?’

‘The way you hold yourself. From an artist’s point of view, you’d make the perfect subject for a sitting. You may know that Klimt himself had a particular fascination with the
beauty of the female form.’

Helena blushed further, not knowing how to reply to such a compliment.

‘I don’t suppose you’d like to walk with me around the rest of the exhibition, would you?’ he continued, changing the subject. ‘It always does us artists good to
hear the unvarnished views of an impartial observer. And after that, I could show you some of the masterpieces in the permanent collection. More my style, and I’m guessing more yours, too.
Oh, I’m Alexander, by the way.’ He held out his hand.

‘Helena,’ she said as she shook it, thinking about whether she’d accept his invitation. She normally refused approaches from men – of which she received many – but
there was something about Alexander . . . and she suddenly heard herself saying ‘yes’.

Afterwards, they had gone for coffee and spent two hours happily discussing art, ballet, music and literature. She’d learnt that he had graduated in History of Art from Oxford, then, after
trying his hand as a painter back in England – and, as he put it, only making enough to buy new canvases – he’d decided to further his qualifications and experience by studying in
Vienna.

‘If the worst comes to the worst, and the paintings don’t begin to sell, a master’s in Fine Art should at least get me an interview at Sotheby’s,’ he’d
explained.

She had agreed to meet him for coffee the following day, something which had quickly become a regular habit. He was alarmingly easy to spend time with, with his quirky sense of humour that found
the funny side of most things, and his ready laugh. He was also highly intelligent, with a brain that worked at lightning speed, and was so passionate about the arts in general that they often
found themselves involved in lively debates over this book or that artwork. Alexander had regularly begged to paint her, and eventually she had given in.

And that was when it had really all begun . . .

Arriving for her very first sitting at his apartment-cum-studio, which was right at the top of an old house on Elisabethstraße, she’d knocked on the scuffed door with equal
sensations of trepidation and excitement.

‘Come in, come in,’ he’d greeted her, ushering her inside.

Helena barely suppressed a smile as she took in the general chaos in the room, which was nestled in the eaves of the building. Every inch of every surface seemed to be covered in pots of
brushes, tubes of paint, piles of books and a variety of used glasses and empty wine bottles. Canvases were stacked against the walls, and even against the wooden frame of the double bed in the
corner. An easel sat beside the large, open window.