Liberate Yourself (The Desires Unlocked Trilogy Part One) (19 page)

‘It was not Poland when I was born. It was still part of the Empire.’ She takes a sip of her coffee. ‘And why so tragic?’

‘Poor Poland,’ Santos says. ‘Always stuck in the middle between two big brothers at loggerheads.’

‘You mean Russia and Germany?’

‘Indeed.’ Santos nods, taking a sip of his coffee. ‘So you and I are from very different places,’ he continues. ‘We are opposites in a way. I was born on the western edge of Europe. In my soul is the Atlantic, its big galloping waves, its freedom and abandon.’

‘And what am I, then?’

‘You are as deep as the thick soil of Poland, as secretive as her woods, and besieged on all sides. You are trapped, like Poland.’

She shakes her head, suddenly angry.

‘No, I am not!’ She smashes her cup down on her saucer, shattering it, so that what remains of her thick, dark espresso leaks on to the linen tablecloth. She brings her gloved hand to her mouth in shock. A waiter comes bustling over to clear up the mess, and she gushes apologies at him, while Santos remains silent, staring at her all the while. Despite her attraction, she wants to hate this man. He is condescending and intrusive.
Yet why do you want to hate him, Belle
? Louise asks.
Because he is right
?

Once the waiter has cleared up the mess, and replaced her coffee with a fresh one, Santos speaks.

‘I am sorry if I have offended you, Belle.’ He speaks to her in Polish. She is so surprised to hear her native tongue after all these years that she feels a lump of emotion forming in her throat.

‘Have you been to Poland?’ she asks, burning to know how he learnt to speak Polish.

‘Why, yes,’ he says, in Italian now. ‘I had the misfortune to witness the retreat of the Imperial Russian Army in 1915, and their treatment of your countrymen and your land.’

Nineteen fifteen. The year Belle’s father died. The year she got married.

‘We had a lot of refugees in Warsaw,’ she whispers. ‘The Russians burnt everything in their wake as they retreated: the villages, the woods and the land. What they left behind them was uninhabitable.’

She sees herself reflected in the window of Caffe Florian. Who would have guessed that this sophisticated lady of Venice was once a tough little Polish girl? She was the only child of a Warsaw doctor, who adored his wife above everything. Her parents were so in love. She remembers their devotion to each other right up until the end.

Belle looks down and twists the wedding band around her finger. She is surprised to see it is still there. Usually she takes it off and leaves it at home when she becomes her alter ego, yet she was in a hurry today, to be out in the sun and feeling free. Now she realises that her freedom is a mere façade. Santos is right. She is like her home country. Bound in on all sides.

‘Belle.’ She looks up to see Santos gazing at her intently. He takes a handkerchief out of his breast pocket and hands it to her. She touches her cheek and realises that she is crying.

‘Thank you,’ she whispers, bringing the handkerchief to her face and smelling it – oh, the scent of it, spicy carnations, and peppermint – before dabbing her cheeks.

‘I can see you have the sea in your soul,’ Santos says, flashing his brilliant eyes at her. ‘Let me set you free.’

She looks at him hopefully. Does he say this to all the unhappily married women he meets on his travels? It doesn’t
matter to her even if he does. She has already taken extreme steps to find some kind of release from her confined life. She doesn’t care what Santos’s motives might be; all she wants is for him to touch her. She is shaking with need as she clutches his handkerchief in her gloved hands.

They leave the café and walk arm in arm back across Piazza San Marco. It is getting late and she knows the hour of her husband’s dinner party is fast approaching, and yet she wants so much to be with this sailor. His arm linked through hers feels so natural, not at all improper. He is enticingly close to her; the slight brush of his body against hers as they walk sets her heartbeat racing. They stop by the side of Canal Grande and stare at the boats drifting down its broad back. Belle looks at the colours of the buildings on the other side of the canal. They are the whole spectrum of her emotions in this moment as she stands next to the man of her dreams: the red of her passion, the cream of his artlessness, the burnt sienna of her spontaneity, the peach of the tenderness she wishes to share, and even the pale green of the melancholy shadowing their fate.

‘What would you like to do now, Belle Blackbird?’ asks Santos, putting his hands in his pockets and looking down at her. She almost feels as if he is putting the words into her head, as if he has cast a spell on her.

‘I would like to take you home with me,’ she says, not daring to look at him.

‘Ah,’ he says, turning her face to his, trailing a finger down
the side of her cheek ever so gently and resting it on her lips. ‘I think not today, my sweet little blackbird. I have a prior engagement, but I know we will meet again.’

Belle tries to hide her disappointment at his rejection. Despite herself, her eyes begin to water again, this time with shame.

He lifts her chin.

‘Dear Belle, don’t be sad. Have patience. Don’t be too keen to fly so high too soon.’

He removes his finger from her lips, leans down and kisses her tenderly. She kisses him back hungrily, hoping he will change his mind, but after a few moments he pulls away, tapping her gently on the shoulder.

‘I will find you, Belle,’ he says, before stepping away. ‘Trust me.’

She watches him disappear across Piazza San Marco. How can she be so disappointed at his rejection? Why does she care so much when she has only just met him?

He insulted you, Louise. He presumptuously told you that you are trapped. And he made you remember your past in Poland. He is a predator, hunting vulnerable married women. He is a bad man
.

Yet as she turns and makes her way home, Louise knows that this isn’t true. He said that he would find her. He told her to trust him, and for some wild reason she does. She can feel it. A little seed of hope planted in her heart, the roots pushing deep into her soul, keeping her resilient and uncaring when her husband takes a strap to her for being late.

She is another woman that evening. She makes small talk with her dinner guests, yet she doesn’t hear her words; she just lets nonsense stream out of her mouth, and no one seems to notice. She eats her food, apparently delicious by her guests’ accounts, but she neither tastes it nor notices what dishes are being put in front of her. She is trussed up in her formal gown, and yet she hardly feels her smarting red backside as she sits on her dining chair. All the while she holds Santos’s damp handkerchief scrunched up tight in her fist. And later, as her husband makes his customary thrusts inside her in an effort to create an heir, she neither notices nor cares if or when he climaxes. After he has fallen asleep, she opens her palm, and uncurls Santos’s handkerchief as if it is a water lily flowering upon the well of her want. She raises it to her face and inhales, closing her eyes and recalling Santos’s face.

He spoke Polish to me
.

This is how he won her heart. She is a woman in love, and everything around her is falling away and dying. It was all a terrible dream, her life as Signora Louise Brzezinska. She is waking up now. And she is Belle, waiting for Santos to come to her.

‘YOU ARE LOOKING VERY VAMPISH, DARLING,’ MARCO SAYS
to Valentina as she joins her friends in Bar Magenta.

Gaby looks her up and down, giving her an appreciative smile.

‘Wow, you really do look amazing, Valentina. I haven’t seen you dress up like that for ages.’

‘Yeah, not since Theo moved in with you,’ Antonella joins in.

Valentina thinks about it. She hasn’t consciously changed the way she dresses, but Antonella is right. She used to dress up a lot more before she met Theo. She has never been interested in looking like a femme fatale or a sex bomb. She doesn’t have the figure for it, for a start. Her breasts are way too small, and she finds the idea of having anything done to change them repulsive. It makes her so sad when she sees those skinny models with their fake tits. To Valentina’s eyes, they look like Barbie dolls, like a joke, all out of proportion.
And fake breasts don’t feel so nice to touch either. That’s what Theo told her.

Sometimes, however, Valentina likes to put on what she calls a sexy costume to create another persona. And tonight, seeing as she is visiting Leonardo’s Velvet Underworld, she feels she needs to look a little more spiky than usual. That’s why she dug out her mother’s hot pants from the sixties. They fit her like a glove, an all-in-one black nylon suit, with a zip all the way down the front. She is wearing thigh-high black boots and a white belt around her waist to accentuate it.

‘You are such a contradiction sometimes, Valentina,’ Marco says as she sidles in next to him on the wooden bench. ‘So shy and yet so way out . . . all at the same time.’ He wags his finger at her, his eyes sparkling playfully.

‘I like to maintain some mystery,’ Valentina replies, keeping a straight face.

Marco kisses her cheek.

‘What a marvellous woman you are, Valentina. If I were not the other way inclined . . . You could almost turn me, you know.’

‘Why thank you, Marco, that is one of the nicest things you have ever said to me.’ She kisses Marco back lightly on the lips. She feels so much better being in his company. No one understands her the way Marco does. They are so similar, both of them pedantic about their need to live their lives the way they wish, without censure or judgement. Both of them determined free spirits. She suspects it was Marco who was
the most shocked (apart from her mother, of course) when Theo moved in with her. She could see it on his face, but unlike Gaby and Antonella he didn’t question her decision, or ask her why. He just accepted it. His presence always makes Valentina feel relaxed and safe, as if nothing she can do or say will stop him loving her as his friend.

‘Well I think you are even more mysterious than your famous mother,’ says Gaby, giving her a sly grin. Gaby knows all about the clandestine, Valentina thinks sadly, as her friend gets up from her seat, and heads off towards the buffet.

Antonella leans across the table, grabbing Valentina’s hands and hypnotising her with her false eyelashes and thick kohl.

‘So where are you off to tonight, all dressed up like that? Is there a party somewhere? Can I come?’

Valentina extricates herself from her friend’s grasp and takes a sip of her Negroni.

‘No, there’s no party, and you cannot come with me because it’s a secret,’ she says coolly, swirling the bittersweet Campari mixture around in her mouth.

Antonella huffs, crossing her arms so that her ample breasts spill over them. Valentina can’t help wondering what kind of room Antonella would go into – Atlantis, the Underworld or the Dark Room? Probably all of them, one at a time, knowing Antonella.

‘Come on, Valentina, you can tell us, we’re your friends,’ she whines, her eyes big and doleful.

Valentina shakes her head.

‘Oh come
on
, Valentina. You’re no fun at all!’

‘Don’t mind her,’ says Marco, taking the olive out of his martini and nibbling it. ‘She’s been in a bad mood since her Spaniard went home.’

He turns to Antonella, who has put on a fake sulking face.

‘Don’t you know our dear Valentina by now? That’s why she’s such a good friend. Unlike
some
people, she knows how to keep a secret.’

‘I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone about your man!’ Antonella defends herself. ‘How was I to know he wasn’t out of the closet yet? It was so obvious he wasn’t straight.’

Marco rolls his eyes.

‘Maybe to you it was, since you are such a nymphomaniac!’

‘Who’s a nymphomaniac?’ Gaby asks, returning to the table with several small plates of antipasta balanced in her hands and along her arms.

‘Antonella, of course!’ Marco exclaims, while Antonella gives him a shove from across the table. ‘Hey, mind my drink!’

‘Well, that’s hardly news,’ Gaby says settling down while they all dig into the food.

‘Thanks very much!’ says Antonella, munching grumpily on a roasted pepper, but her eyes are laughing and Valentina can tell that she is far from offended.

‘Where’s Theo?’ Gaby asks suddenly, her expression expectant, a chip squeezed between her polished nails.

Valentina shrugs, trying to appear nonchalant.

‘Away.’

‘Where?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ she says, taking another swig of her drink. She catches Gaby and Antonella exchanging glances, as if they know something she doesn’t. But of course they don’t. They are her friends. They would tell her if they did, right?

‘Reviewing another show, I expect,’ Marco says kindly, squeezing her knee. ‘Oh, you look so kinky, Valentina,’ he adds. ‘Theo
is
missing out!’

Valentina cycles to Leonardo’s club this time. She must look strange in her outfit on a bicycle, but she doesn’t care; she doesn’t want to fork out on another taxi. She weaves through the traffic, the memory of Gaby and Antonella’s exchanged look still in her head. Really, they have no right to be making assumptions. Antonella is completely wild. She is even worse than she used to be. Valentina has never known her to maintain a relationship for longer than three weeks. Gaby, on the other hand, is having a heart-wrenching affair with a married man. They should know by now who Valentina is. A woman who prides herself on her lack of dependency. And yet she
is
burning with curiosity. For some reason, this time she can’t stop wondering where Theo is.

Maybe he is some kind of secret agent, she muses. No, that’s a ridiculous idea: what secret agent writes about modern art and enjoys lazy Saturdays perusing antique shops along
the Navigli canal? Or what if he is a crook of some sort? That’s an even more stupid idea. Theo is the only person she knows who pays his parking tickets on time. Another possibility hits her. She remembers a Brazilian model telling her the story of her father, when they were stuck waiting for a storm to pass on a shoot in Cuba. Apparently he had two families, something she and her mother did not discover until the day of his funeral, when his other wife and children turned up to pay their respects. Theo could be living a double life. He could have a wife and children hidden away somewhere else. The idea of it makes Valentina sick. She is not possessive. She could even cope with the fact that he might have another girlfriend. But children . . . Somehow the thought of Theo having a baby with someone else upsets her. Why on earth should that be? As she brakes at the lights on Via Carducci, and a tram trundles past her, it dawns on Valentina that it is because it reminds her of Francesco and his wife. And his baby, a child now, that would always come before his affair with her. When the lights change, she whizzes down the wet street, a little shocked. That was nearly ten years ago, and still memories of it can hurt her.