Eighty Days Red (13 page)

Viggo said he was furious about its loss, blaming himself for not having arranged heavier security at the Academy – where we assumed the instrument had been stolen, sometime between our arrival when I had stupidly left the violin in the Green Room along with the rest of the band’s gear and when we left the venue for Viggo’s party.

I felt terribly guilty for leaving it, and blamed myself for my carelessness. But in the dark stretches of the night, in the hours when shadows haunted my mind as well as my bedroom, I couldn’t help but wonder what Viggo kept behind that one locked door in the basement, the only secured room in the house.
It seemed like a crazy proposition. The man had enough money to buy a hundred Baillys. He could have wallpapered the house with them if he had wanted to. I couldn’t imagine why he would want my violin above all others, even if it had an unusual history, as Dominik had suggested.
Nonetheless, the thought lurked in the far reaches of my mind and it may have been one of the reasons why I fell into a semi-relationship of sorts with the rock star, and Luba, his seductive and ethereal companion.
It wasn’t as strange as you might think, having a relationship with two people at once. We spent most of our time in, rather than out, because I was terrified of being photographed with the three of us together and appearing in the tabloids as part of a
ménage à trois
.
Viggo had a bit of a break between working in the studio with his band on their next album and going on the road again, and Luba didn’t appear to have any regular employment of sorts, aside from working as an improvised PA to Viggo. She was like a less prim version of Pepper Potts in the Iron Man films, always on hand to fulfil his whims. They had a relationship that I could never quite put my finger on.
She was remarkably self-assured and appeared to have no sign of jealousy, and surprisingly, neither did I. Viggo’s bed was enormous, so that solved the first problem that would usually arise, of fitting more people in comfortably. The house was huge, so we each had plenty of space if we grew tired of one of the others, or if any two particularly wanted privacy.
The set-up suited Viggo’s temperament particularly well. Where I thought many men might baulk at the prospect of keeping two women entertained, he seemed to have an almost endless desire to make the two of us orgasm repeatedly, and a peculiar stamina for both fucking and wielding sex toys. Luba was more like a child at a candy store; she treated me like a new toy to be explored and discovered, possibly to be discarded at some future time when the next shiny thing would appear. And I was just enjoying being almost constantly physically sated.
Almost constantly, because there was still a small part of me that longed for Dominik. He’d arrived out of the blue before our show in Brighton. I’d played it cool, but after he left, I’d had to take a break for fifteen minutes before I could rejoin the rehearsal because my hands had been shaking too much to pick up my bow. He was seeing someone else, Lauralynn, the tall blonde who I had once double-dommed with at her flat in West London. Lauralynn and I had both worn strap-on dildos, and had sex with a submissive man on her bed. Both of us fully dressed, and him naked. I had found the experience educational, though not exactly arousing.
I’d told Dominik about Viggo without thinking, even though I didn’t think of the three of us as anything more than passing fun, really. If he could move on, then so could I.
But that didn’t stop me from thinking about him. That peculiar smell he had, just plain soap, without any cologne. His sometimes infuriatingly polite and old-fashioned turns of phrase. His accent, at times hard to place – hints of a childhood abroad that he never really talked about – other times, utterly British, just on the right side of posh. His straight-backed posture and broad shoulders from years of athletics training which had given him a firmness he hadn’t lost, despite never appearing to make efforts to maintain his fitness. The strong line of his jaw and sensuous mouth. The softness of his skin. His cock, which I had always thought to be perfect. So straight, evenly coloured and large.
Most of all, I missed his wicked imagination and that way he had of always keeping me guessing, so that I never knew what he had up his sleeve next. It had made our relationship, for all its flaws, seem so alive. Dominik challenged me. He made me do things that I didn’t think I could, or would. He made me feel present, somehow managed to meld my mind to my body in a way that only playing music had before, so that with him I was aware of his every word and every touch.
He seemed to understand me also, in a way that other men I had dated hadn’t. Simón wanted to, I knew that, and perhaps he did, but we had different paths and plans for the future that could never mix successfully. Viggo probably came closest, but although he was good-natured, he lacked empathy. He sometimes stared at me in the way that you might look at a goldfish in a bowl, and I wondered whether he really thought of me as a person, or just the way that Luba did, as a new toy, a new pretty thing to add to his collection, to play with for a time.

That morning, I’d made a date to see Fran. With her working nights, and me now spending most of my time at Viggo’s, we hadn’t seen much of each other.

We met at Verde & Co., a tiny cafe in Spitalfields market that made the best coffee in the area, and certainly on a par with the few others that I thought were the best in London, though those titles were fiercely debated by the other Kiwis and Aussies I knew, who seemed to forget that Italians came up with espresso long before we invented flat whites.

She was already there when I arrived, perched on one of the cafe’s wooden stools, admiring the glass jars of marmalade stacked up with the light shining through from behind so the mixture inside glowed in warm shades of red, orange and yellow, depending on the particular variety of fruit within.

All sorts of products lined every surface of the tiny shop, speciality Italian pastas, dried into shapes that seemed unusual to eyes accustomed to the more ordinary supermarket varieties, wicker baskets filled with cherries, peaches, or whatever happened to be in season, a silver dish with sugar cubes and a pair of tongs to pick them up with, and of course the glass case filled with the most beautiful-looking sweets, Pierre Marcolini chocolates of every shape and flavour laid out in a way that promised each mouthful would be more luscious than the last.

It had been one of my favourite hang-outs when I last lived in London, and I’d always taken pleasure from looking at the chocolates through the glass, but never actually buying one; enjoying the thrill from a pleasure imagined and denied but always at arm’s length. I liked the feeling of desire, even if it was never realised.

‘Nice place,’ Fran said. She’d seen me coming and already ordered and paid for the coffees at the counter.
‘Thanks for the drink,’ I said, ‘but stop buying things for me, you’re on a tenner an hour and I’m loaded.’
‘I knew you would say that,’ she said, plucking up one cube of sugar after another and dropping it into the small cup, reminding me of Dominik’s habit of sweetening his drinks to the extreme. Every tiny thing reminded me of him these days.
‘Since when did you take sugar?’
‘Since I saw it in these pretty cubes. This is posh sugar. It doesn’t come like this in Te Aroha.’
‘But it still tastes the same. How are you, anyway?’
‘Same as I was last fortnight. The bar is good fun. Hard work but it’s a good way to meet people.’
‘Are you still looking for a place to live?’
‘Not really. I quite like staying with Chris … and he’d only have to replace me, if you’re not coming back. Are you coming back? How’s life with the rock star? Chris tells me you’re dating the dancer as well? How the fuck does that work?’
‘Dating is probably too strong a word for it. I’m hardly going to bring them both back home for Christmas.’
‘Can you imagine that? The parents would be so proud.’ She giggled.
‘People do it … triads aren’t that uncommon.’
‘They are where we’re from.’
‘I wouldn’t bet on it. People in small towns just try harder to hide things.’
The waitress returned with a large slice of lemon cake which Fran had ordered earlier and slipped it between us.
‘That looks tasty,’ I said, distracted from my train of thought by the cake’s arrival. ‘You’re not worried about the Heathrow injection then?’ Weight gain was a common problem for travellers arriving in the UK, tempted by the colder weather to abandon their previously held hobbies of outdoor exercise in favour of pints and pub meals.
Fran scoffed at me.
‘Eat the damn cake,’ she said, pushing the teaspoon over to my side, ‘and tell me more about the rock life. I want to hear everything. Haven’t you ever noticed I live my life vicariously through you? Throw me a bone here.’
‘Vicariously through me? Aren’t you sleeping with Dagur, the drummer?’
‘Sadly, no. We did end up in bed together but we were both comatose by then after all the cocktails. Woke up next to him with all my clothes on.’
‘And you didn’t ask for his number?’
‘He asked for mine. But I’m not into rock musicians.’
‘Oh, really? Not even Chris?’ I teased her.
‘Well, I’m not into most of them.’
She was blushing.
I ignored the sound of my phone as it began to buzz loudly, and Fran seized the opportunity for a change of subject by taking it out of my pocket and handing it to me.
‘It’s an international call, they’re always important. Answer it.’
It was a New York number, which meant either Simón or Susan, most likely the latter as Simón was still in Venezuela last time I heard, and Susan would be on the warpath now as I still hadn’t replied to her emails to explain my whereabouts.
I slipped off the stool and hurried outside, catching the call just before it went to voicemail.
‘Hello?’
‘Summer, where the hell are you and what are you doing there?’
It was Susan.
‘I’m still in London. Just taking a break.’
‘So I thought, until I heard on the grapevine that your impromptu rock performances in London and Brighton have been attracting rave reviews. The press have got wind of it and there’s a piece coming up in a tabloid about your supposed rock rebellion. Classical darling goes wild and all that …’
‘I was just playing with a friend.’
‘Well, I need to spin these things, unless you want to be labelled a classical musician who is having a career melt-down.’
‘My violin was stolen,’ I said, in a small voice, close to tears.
‘I’m sorry to hear that. But surely you have enough in royalties to buy a new one? I can probably arrange a sponsor if you’ve spent all your money on shoes.’
‘It’s not the same for classical music. I just can’t face going back on stage without the Bailly.’
‘Well, I suppose it doesn’t need to be a classical stage. What about this band you’re playing with?’
‘Groucho Nights. They opened for Viggo Franck and The Holy Criminals … You’ve probably heard of him? He’s helping them to organise a European tour soon.’
‘Of course I know him. According to the tabloids he’s sleeping with half the world’s celebrities. Fine. You can play with them. Just for God’s sake don’t get your picture taken falling out of a bar with Viggo Franck, at least before I get started promoting your move to rock stardom. In fact … are you still in touch with that photographer who did your photo for the New York show?’
It was more than two years since Simón had run the poster of me naked from the neck down, my modesty covered by my violin, which had made my first concert a sell-out. Susan had a good memory.
‘No … he moved back to Australia, I think.’ I remembered the photographer who had taken my picture at Torture Garden with Fran and Chris a few weeks earlier. He would at least be discreet. ‘I might know someone else though.’
‘Good. That’s settled then. I’m ringing Franck’s manager now. Leave all the arrangements to me. If you want to be a rock star too, it has to be done right.’
She had hung up before I’d had a chance to protest.
I sat back down again next to Fran, feeling slightly dazed. Maybe it was lucky I hadn’t found a flat of my own after all, as it looked like I’d be going back on the road.
‘Well then? What’s the story?’ Fran asked, looking at me quizzically.
‘My agent – she wants me to go on tour with Chris and the band.’
‘Well that’s a great idea! Chris would love you to play with him. He talks about it all the time. He gets on with Ted and Ella, of course, but you’re his best friend, Sum … you should definitely think about it.’
‘Think about it? I don’t think it’s really up to me. My agent is already calling his people, and Susan could badger just about anyone into anything. But it might be too late, they’re leaving in a few days. They’d have to do last-minute announcements, arrange the gear for me and the promo … all kinds of things.’
‘It’s not like they’re the Rolling Stones. It’s a few venues in Europe, sure, but not the end of the world. I’m sure they can shuffle something around, and if Viggo tells them to, they won’t have a choice.’
‘I guess so.’
‘I’ll be at a bit of a loose end though, without the two of you here. I wonder what Chris will do with the flat.’
‘You could always come. I’ll need a road manager, and so do Groucho Nights, as far as I know. We could get you on the payroll. And you could see a bit of Europe. And keep me company. You’re trained in this sort of stuff, you’ve worked in banking. You could do it.’
Fran’s face lit up as if I’d handed her a winning lottery ticket, and she yelped loud enough to make the waitress jump.
‘Oh my God I’d love to!’
‘Calm down … sometimes I’d swear that you’re twenty-one. And none of this is confirmed yet. For a start, I don’t even have an instrument.’
‘Oh God, that’s right. It hasn’t turned up yet then? And what’s this business about not telling the police?’
‘Viggo is worried about having his road crew investigated. He doesn’t want to lose his people, if they get the hump for being accused of theft. And it would badly affect his insurance premiums. He’d rather pay me the violin’s full value instead.’
‘Too bad, someone stole it. If someone doesn’t like being investigated, maybe that’s your guy.’
‘But I don’t care about the money. Just the violin. It was a gift.’
‘Oh yeah. Chris told me about that guy.’
Fran cocked an eyebrow suspiciously.
‘You two talk a lot. I’m not sure if I approve.’
‘Does he know that it’s been stolen?’
‘Dominik? Yeah. Oddly, I ran into him in Brighton. He was there, noticed the flyers for our concert, came in to say hello. He’s seeing someone else now. But he did mention something about the violin. Said it had a strange history. He’s doing some research on it for a novel. I asked him to let me know if he heard anything, but it’s a bit of a long shot.’
‘Call him.’
‘What? Now?’
‘Now. Find out if he knows anything. I know you and telephones, you’ll never do it if I don’t make you. And don’t try to pretend you deleted his number.’
‘Fine.’
I picked up the phone again, this time in a bit of a huff, and, hoping the conversation would be short, I didn’t bother to leave my chair.
His number rang out.
‘Voicemail,’ I said, with a hint of triumph.
‘Well, leave him a message then.’
‘Hi … it’s me. Summer.’ I kicked myself for first assuming he would immediately know the sound of my voice, and then for assuming that he wouldn’t, and leaving my name. There was an uncomfortable pause as I gathered my wits again and continued. ‘Just wanted to check in, about the violin. Call me.’ I hit the end call button.
‘Wow, that was smooth.’
‘Shut it.’
By the time that we got back to the flat, Chris had already heard the news, and he was jubilant. It seemed neither Susan nor Viggo had wasted any time pulling strings to make it happen. By early afternoon, they’d updated most of the venues and started working on new promo material. I was officially going on the road with Groucho Nights as a featured guest star.