The Silver Chain (35 page)

Why is she still here?

The eyes glare over a bare shoulder. They tease from a pornographically open-legged pose, every crevice and shadow and stray hair. The eyes burn above a mouth blowing a kiss or sucking on a finger or the rounded handle of a plaited whip. They even wink above hands joined beatifically as if in prayer. Here she is brazenly naked, wrapped round a tree or sprawling on a rumpled bed. There she is rigid in her dominatrix outfit, legs splayed in the crotchless leggings and laced basque which Gustav had to cut off me yesterday.

Margot’s bewitching face, unmasked. These are the oriental eyes and blow-job lips, the pixie chin, the black hair, the hands, the nipples, the body that thrilled him, enthralled him, continues to arouse him. This display is the proof that he never wants these memories erased.

Next to a babyishly bright picture of her skiing, her hair streaming out from under an emerald-green hat, there’s a series of her whipping herself, the stripes stark across her skin. Then whipping an anonymous upturned bottom. Then she’s outlined in bold black strokes as she grasps a bed post, the bed post upstairs, opens her legs, and thrusts the whip up herself.

My Venetian nuns. No wonder he loved my work. It was the perfect re-enactment of all his fantasies. An unwitting tribute to his past life.

Compared with this unalloyed worship, the sketch I found in the gallery was a derisory scribble. A scrap destined for the trash. Touching, but hollow.

You’re the only one.

How did these modelling sessions end? Did he throw down his pencils, hard and hot for her, kneel before her, his hands on her, his mouth kissing, sucking, biting? Did they consume their rough, grunting lust right where I’m standing? Or did she tie him and whip him till he whimpered?

I gasp in pain as the grinding sexual jealousy overwhelms me. I’m the reluctant voyeur in the forbidden room. I shouldn’t be here. I’m a trespasser in Bluebeard’s castle.

You’re the only one.

In the cafe by the lake, in front of the fire last night, he said such tender things. Brought me so close to loving him. But it was all a pile of crap. I’m just a foil, squirming bait to tempt her back, a snippet of solace until she comes to heel.

I never had a snowflake’s chance in hell. What do I know of love? How did I ever suppose that a man like him genuinely wanted a scruffy upstart like me? How could the ignorant ginger pony with the over-ripe bod compete with the exotic Swiss panther who still possesses her ex-husband?

The gypsy music has stopped. Everything starts to jostle and blur. I stagger for the door and am confronted by the only photograph in the room. Margot in a wedding dress. She has a face now, and she’s dipping her long, sharp nose into a pretty bouquet of edelweiss just as I envisaged, staring over the tiny white flowers, making sure the photographer’s lens never leaves her.

My toes catch against the black leather rucksack, jarring my ankle. Gustav’s red scarf is a lolling mocking tongue now. He can’t keep away from her. He was in here last night, this morning, worshipping and confessing. After he touched me.

After we
fucked
. Language you understand, Mrs Levi.

No wonder he was so incandescent when he caught me in her clothes. It was sacrilege. It wasn’t me he was seeing. It will always be her.

I slam the door behind me. The silver chain snakes away, back down the stairs, and I follow it to the salon like the thread leading Theseus from the labyrinth.

I pace about in front of the cold dead fire. My body still glows, no matter how hard I try to forget. I can still sense him in me, revel in the warmth of his body pushing my ribs hard against the back of the sofa until I can hardly breathe. The hard urgent sliding of him, my body settling round him like a possessive fist, totally belonging, then our rocking together, faster, faster, his fingers digging into my hips to keep me anchored, my hair over my face, catching in my eyes, the moon high in the sky quietly watching.

I can’t bear it. He did all that with her, and so much more. They had years. I’ve had days.

Instead of the sweet-salt juices which eased Gustav’s journey into me last night stinging tears are trickling out of my eyes, washing him clean away.

I pace over to the window. The road is still empty, but for how long? Gustav is gone till nightfall, but Dickson could be back any time. He could even be bringing the estate agent and hopeful purchasers with him. What on earth would they think of the wraith wandering round the chalet in a pale pink nightdress, trailing a silver chain?

Far below on the steely lake I can see a boat coming in to the shore, delivering anoraked people to the same promenade where we drank hot chocolate the other evening. The sparkling white and blue of the holiday scenery mocks my despair.

And so does the silver chain binding me like a dog on a lead. I yank at it, but the bracelet just bites into my wrist. Then I spot the iron poker Gustav uses to stoke the fire. I seize it from its hook and run back into my room, thread the chain from the padlock out onto the balcony, lay it down on the balustrade and bring the poker smashing down again and again. Chips fly off the wooden rail and the blows echo round the valley, but the chain is unbroken.

I stop for a moment, ignoring the madness and the cold. I dart back inside and attack the hook where the padlock is hanging, and suddenly, miraculously, my weapon knocks the hook clean out of the wall, bringing a jagged chunk of plaster with it and leaving an ugly gaping hole. The force of my swing back catches my fist grasping the handle of the poker against my temple, but I’m too fired up to notice or care.

What will he do when he sees what I’ve done? Will he freeze with fury or roar with anger, fly round the chalet looking for me, howling like a wolf, shouting out my name? Or will he just come to a halt, understand why the silver chain, or at least his part of it, is broken?

I roll the silver chain up as best I can round my knuckles and start searching for my missing clothes. I run through the chalet, back to the lovely warm kitchen, through to the laundry room, why didn’t I think of it before? And there they are, the bag that Crystal packed, my
Dr Zhivago
clothes all neatly folded. I dress clumsily, shoving the padlock and the loops of silver chain into the pocket of my white jacket, hoist up the bag. May as well nick the Barbie outfits while I’m at it.

And air-head Barbie is my new persona, because it’s only now that I realise I have no money, no passport. Not even a phone signal.

No matter. I’m out of here, even if it means walking back to London.

I zip up my jacket, shove on my Cossack hat, grab a huge Danish pastry. I consider writing a note and sticking it to the huge American fridge. But I’m all out of words. Gustav will know how devastated I am. He knows what I said, what I whispered to him last night when I was at my most vulnerable and exposed. He knows where he’s taken me, the false path I’ve eagerly followed.

I’ve broken our contract, Gustav.

So sue me.

I push open the big wooden door and breathe in the crisp mountain air. I step gingerly down to the driveway, my ankle dragging. How can such a beautiful place be so tainted? How can one woman have so much toxic power?

I’ve made it as far as the road leading down to the lake when the silver Lexus glides round the corner, and brakes. I can’t see the driver. I stand motionless in front of the bonnet, empty of thoughts, drained of action.

‘Miss Serena?’ Dickson gets out of the car and leans against it, folding his arms across his massive chest. ‘What are you doing out here in the snow? And what’s that mark on your head?’

‘I took a poker to it.’ I whisk the padlock out of my pocket and dangle it in the air. ‘I’m escaping.’

He comes towards me and takes my arm. ‘I don’t think so. Mr Levi will kill me if I let you go. He’ll kill us both.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. He needs to wake up and smell the napalm. He’s got us all fooled.’ I shake him off and point up at the chalet, towards the master bedroom. ‘He’s still obsessed by that woman. This place is still as haunted as ever, but not by me. He’ll see that soon enough. I bet he had a rendezvous with her in Milan. They’re at it like knives right now!’

Dickson snorts. ‘You’re talking absolute and total bollocks, if you’ll pardon the expression, Miss.’

‘Go ahead. Swear like a trooper. There isn’t language obscene enough to cover it,’ I snap back. ‘She’ll be back in residence by the morning. I’ve seen the shrine he has up there, Dickson. Intimate portraits of his precious wife all over the walls.’

Dickson smacks his gloved hand against his mouth. ‘Sod it. You weren’t supposed to–’

‘I may be out of my depth, I may be far from home, I may be naïve, but I’m not stupid!’ I am shouting now, and it feels great. ‘I know an expression of true love when I see it.’

Dickson shakes his head. ‘You can only know that if you’ve felt true love yourself.’

‘A philosopher as well as a chauffeur now, are you?’

‘I’m not your servant, Miss Serena, so I don’t have to take that from you. There was a task Mr Levi gave me to do, and I didn’t do it. But you still don’t get how far off the mark you are.’ Dickson clears his throat. ‘Hell will freeze over before that woman sets foot on the same continent as Mr Levi.’

‘Ah, yes. The dreaded secret. The final betrayal which nobody will talk about.’

Dickson glances at his watch. ‘After everything that’s been said and done between you and him, I thought you’d have realised how he feels.’

‘Said and done?’

‘Like I told you before. Mr Levi has never brought another woman to this house. Let alone–’

‘Let alone what?’

‘He has never let his defences down like this. Let his passions run away with him like he did last night. You’ve unlocked something in him.’ Dickson fixes me with his pebbly grey eyes like an interrogator. ‘Make no mistake, Miss Serena. I know everything that goes on. That’s part of my job.’

A flurry of snow drops off a tree and lands on the road between us.

‘Well, stick your job and stick your boss and his evil wife. She’s his problem, not mine.’ I step towards the car and realise my feet are numb with cold. ‘I need you to take me to the airport.’

‘Even if I was allowed to, how are you going to get back to London with no money and no passport?’

I can see Dickson’s mouth twitching back a smirk, and I fume with anger.

‘You’re going to get them for me, Dickson. He can’t keep me prisoner. I’m going to wait here, and you’re going to crack open the safe or wherever he hides his valuables. Then you’re going to drive me to the airport.’

‘Like I said. I’m not your servant.’ He stares boorishly back down the road towards the lake. At the base of his neck, just above the stiff white collar, I notice two fresh teeth marks, reddened and bruised. ‘More than my life’s worth, Miss.’

I can feel my energy ebbing away. How soon the happiness has soured. Everything in Gustav’s world is extreme, and these two days have broken me. My eyes are sore from crying. My ankle’s sore from falling off that horse and tripping over Gustav’s bag. My body is aching from unaccustomed punishment followed by forceful, passionate sex. And my heart is snapped in two.

‘Or I could tell Mr Levi about your little visits to the lass down at the Alprose factory when you’re supposed to be fulfilling the tasks he gave you.’

‘You’re bluffing.’

For a brief moment I am Dickson’s enemy, caught in the sights of his rifle, his eyes pure venom as they stare down the barrel. It was a stab in the dark, but my aim was true. There’s a long pause while we each choose to break all the rules.

‘She’s blonde. I saw you through the telescope, arguing. But she’s the bird who gave you that love bite.’

Still glaring at me he reaches into the car and brings out a pair of pliers. Without a word he snaps the silver chain off, right by my bracelet, throws the pliers back into the car, and stamps up to the house to get my passport.

As we accelerate round the corner a few minutes later and speed down the road towards the lake, either the wind or some wild animal up there in the mountains behind the chalet unleashes an unearthly howl.

FIFTEEN

I am lying on a wooden sun lounger on the deck, staring across the bad-tempered English Channel. I could be on the Titanic, plying towards its doom. The island is even hewn in the rough shape of a cruise ship. But actually I’m on terra firma.

If I turn my head ever so slightly I can see the windy cliffs where I grew up. In fact, I can see the house itself. The grey sea stretching between us forms a kind of moat, but this island hotel is not the fortress. That house is no longer the enemy. It holds no fear for me now. I’ve grown up.

I rub at the blanket covering my knees like an old lady and sip at the warm drink the waiter has just brought me. Push away the memory of drinking hot chocolate beside Lake Lugano, Gustav sitting opposite me, his face burning with exertion from our horse ride and the passion that I didn’t recognise at the time. The passion that turned out to be, if not false, then certainly fleeting.

It’s daft sitting out here in the cold like an invalid but I’ll enjoy the peace for a few more minutes while Jake and the photographer set up in the glittering period bar behind me.

As well as mist, the house on the cliffs is shrouded in scaffolding and jaunty blue tarpaulin. It looks belittled up there amongst the sheep droppings and the bracken, like a forgotten Christmas present. But some time in the spring the building works will be finished and a shiny new gastropub with rooms and a seaview restaurant will be born.

All my life I’ve stared across the sea towards this grand old hotel riding its rocky steed over the waves and dreamed of being rich enough to stay. Its shabby art deco facade has been gradually restored by the painstaking new owners. The stucco stained with rust and verdigris has become shimmering white. Agatha Christie books have been filmed here, and it’s world-renowned as a luxury retreat. There’s even a helipad further up the slope for the celebrity guests and below me, on the far side of the island away from the mainland, the hotel has its own private smugglers’ cove and rowing boat.