Liberate Yourself (The Desires Unlocked Trilogy Part One) (7 page)

She surveys the boats nearby, watches the sailors and the dockers busy unloading their exotic wares. She thinks of all the distant lands these boats have been to. How many women just like her, living in other towns and ports, might be looking at them and longing to be aboard too? Her attention is drawn to one boat in particular, a smart white schooner, and the figure of a man walking down the gangway. She cannot make out his face, but she can admire his body even from here. He is tall, and walks with a languid grace, a sexual confidence she recognises. She wonders if he has heard of her, and finds herself hoping he will be a sailor who comes looking for Belle.

VALENTINA IS LATE AGAIN. SHE WALKS AS FAST AS POSSIBLE
in her heels. She is wearing one of her mother’s mini dresses from the sixties, a Bridget Riley dress, all black and white stripes, making her feel strident, not shy like usual. It is a feeling she likes.

She steps out into the evening rush hour of Milan, confident that cars will stop for her now she is wearing her mother’s dress. Maybe she should take a taxi? But the gallery isn’t far, just off Corso Magenta. It is Theo’s fault she is late, she thinks churlishly. If he hadn’t given her the black book this morning, she wouldn’t have spent the time between arriving back from her shoot today and getting ready for the opening frantically trying to print as many of the old negatives as possible. She is disappointed. They are all close-ups of different parts of a woman’s naked body. Some kind of twenties erotica, she supposes, although they are inconclusive, as if they are a tiny part of a bigger picture. What do they mean? Why has Theo
given her a bunch of old negatives? Is it just because she is a photographer interested in erotica and he came across them on his travels? That conclusion is a little lacking. She expects more from him. And his behaviour this morning gave her the feeling that this present has some kind of message. After all, he told her it was time for her to have this gift.

Well, Valentina thinks crossly, he has either over- or underestimated me.

She tries to forget about Theo and the negatives for the moment. He is a problem she will have to deal with when he gets back. Tonight she is on a mission. In the large black portfolio she is carrying is a presentation of the erotic pictures she took in Venice. She has finally built up the courage to approach the gallery owner Stephano Linardi. She wants a show in Milan. For one second she thinks of Theo again, of his belief in her talents, and a part of her wishes he was with her. She hates going to these events alone. She finds it hard to play the game and talk niceties to fashionable acquaintances. Yet Theo is so at home in this world, charming all and sundry with his soft American drawl and his easy anecdotes about prima donna artists and groundbreaking exhibitions. She has got used to his company, although she is always very careful not to be too demonstrative in public. Behind the scenes is fine. Unbridled passion in a lift, or in the ladies’, but no holding hands in front of friends and colleagues; that is pushing her limits.

The Linardi Gallery is packed to the gills. She is pleased for
Antonella. She hopes she sells out. She grabs a glass of prosecco from a passing waiter as she weaves through the crowd, most of whom greet her as she walks through. She nods in acknowledgement but avoids conversation.

‘Ciao, Valentina!’ She is engulfed in a big hug. She teeters back on her heels as Antonella releases her.

‘Well?’ she asks, getting straight to the point.

‘Ten. I’ve sold ten paintings already!’

‘Brava! That’s fantastic.’ Valentina squeezes Antonella’s arm. She is not as tactile as her friend.

‘Yes,’ Antonella replies enthusiastically. ‘And I have already mentioned you to Stephano. Did you bring some pictures with you?’

Valentina indicates her portfolio, her mouth suddenly dry with unwelcome nerves.

‘Excellent. Let’s go and find him.’ Antonella whips her arm under Valentina’s elbow and propels her through the crowd. ‘Stephano! Stephano!’ she shouts over the hubbub.

Valentina winces. This is far too blatant for her liking, but it obviously works, since Antonella got a show here more quickly than any other artist she knows.

At the sound of his name, a tall, thin man with curly blond hair, wearing a pair of Armani glasses, turns round and looks at them. Antonella shoves on through the crowd and deposits Valentina in front of him, making a hasty introduction before disappearing again to mingle. Why oh why does Antonella always do this to her? Sometimes her
friend exasperates her by her expectation that everyone is as forthright as herself.

‘So you are Valentina Rosselli, the fashion photographer?’ Stephano asks her, looking at her curiously through his spectacles.

Valentina has always found glasses on a man sexy. She really doesn’t know why. She loves it when Theo puts his on to read. It turns her on no end, and usually she pulls the book out of his hand and has her way with him.

‘Yes,’ she replies, her face stiffening into impassiveness, which always happens when she becomes shy.

‘And of course you are the daughter of Tina Rosselli. Following in her footsteps.’

Valentina tenses further. The last thing she wants to do is talk about her mother and her photographic oeuvre.

‘Yes, but I am an artist in my own right,’ she says tersely. ‘I brought my portfolio to show you.’

‘Well, it is a little noisy in here,’ he replies, looking at her curiously. ‘Let’s talk in my office.’

He leads the way up a spiral staircase and along a corridor of red-brick walls, oddly bare for an art gallery. His office is a white box with one enormous graphic print by Vignelli on the wall behind his desk.

‘I must say,’ says Stephano, sitting down at his desk, ‘you look just like her.’

Valentina nods in acknowledgement, but she is irritated. When will the Milanese forget her mother? She has obviously
long forgotten them. Tina Rosselli hasn’t set foot in Milan for more than seven years.

‘Here.’ Valentina brusquely shoves her portfolio at him to shut him up. Stephano opens it and pores over it, saying nothing for a few minutes. He spends rather too long looking at the last picture, the one of the reflection of her private parts in the Venetian canal. She knows they are not actually visible, but still, it makes her slightly uncomfortable to think he is looking at her completely exposed.

At last he shuts the portfolio with a snap.

‘These are good,’ he says, blinking at her behind his glasses, ‘but I am afraid not appropriate for the Linardi Gallery.’

‘What do you mean?’ Valentina realises she is surprised. Deep down she knew they were good too.

‘This is a fine art gallery, principally paintings, a little photography, but what we do exhibit in terms of photography is not pornographic.’

‘This is not porn,’ she counters icily.

Stephano Linardi shrinks from her glare and flings open the portfolio again at the last image.

‘And how would you describe this photograph, for instance, Signorina Rosselli?’ He peeks at her from over his glasses.

‘It’s erotic photography. It’s art.’

He huffs, closing the portfolio.

‘Maybe in your opinion. Don’t misunderstand me, it is beautiful, and your technique is interesting, but we have a
certain kind of client here in Milan. I am not sure this is the right place for your work. I am sorry.’

Valentina snatches back the portfolio. This man is an art snob, and she already dislikes him.

‘It’s fine. I’ll find another venue.’ She is not going to persuade him. She has never begged for anything in her life, and she can see his mind is made up.

‘But look,’ he says, putting his hands together and knotting his fingers. ‘Why don’t you leave the memory stick of your images with me? I do think you are very talented and I will ask around to see if there are any galleries of a more avant-garde nature who might be interested. How about that? I really am sorry. This
is
Milan. Maybe if you were trying to put it on in New York or London, it might be easier.’

Valentina forgets about Stephano Linardi and his gallery. She refuses to be disappointed and decides that in fact this gallery is way too conservative for her libertine sensibilities. She thinks of going home, but she doesn’t want to have to sit in on her own, so she hangs around the gallery, waiting until Antonella and a gang of her friends decide to continue the night out dancing.

Valentina has been friends with Antonella since art college. The two of them naturally gravitated towards each other through their mutual disregard for following the crowd. Both of them focused, passionate and ambitious. Antonella specialised in fine art, whereas Valentina of course had gone for
photography. Antonella was different when they were at college. Quieter, most certainly, and more serious. She is still obviously very ambitious, but the last year or so she has come out of her shell. She is a tiny woman with a zesty smile, brilliant brown eyes and the most disproportionately large chest for such a small frame. Men cannot help but be drawn towards her, so that she is never without some new beau on her arm. Yet despite all her many affairs, she claims she is searching for true love, a Mr Right to come into her life. A mythical figure Valentina has great fun teasing her over. Still, Antonella always has the effect of making Valentina feel lighter of load, as if there is hope for a Hollywood ending one day.

Tonight Antonella is elated from her exhibition success, almost unbearable company. Yet still Valentina trails along, unsure whether she has actually met any of the other people with her friend. They go to a promotional night at a new club. It is packed with the young and beautiful, the air thick with cigarette smoke despite the ban. Within ten minutes Antonella is being chatted up by a muscle-bound Spaniard, and not long afterwards she disappears with her prize, blowing Valentina a drunken kiss as she departs. Now that her friend is gone Valentina really should go home. She hardly knows the other people in the club, yet every time she thinks about leaving, she remembers that Theo isn’t back at the flat. Tonight she doesn’t want to get into her empty bed all alone.

She should find someone in the club and take him home.
Despite the fact that she and Theo are not officially in a relationship, as she keeps telling him, somehow she has found that she hasn’t been tempted to sleep with anyone else since she met him. She is not so sure about Theo. I mean,
where
does he go? she asks herself again. So what has happened to her? She was such a different creature when she met Theo. She was a free spirit. That was what he called her. He loved her contradictions. He said that on the surface she was the picture of demure, but behind that front was another Valentina, open, brimming with abandon. He didn’t think she was a slut for sleeping with him the first time they met. He called her a goddess. Yet now it seems he wants her to change.
Girlfriend
.

That’s it. She’s going to pick some guy up tonight and take him home with her. There is no shortage of choice. The table she is sitting at, with the dregs of Antonella’s friends, is surrounded by young men. She orders another glass of red wine and eyes up the talent. She likes the look of one particular guy. He seems a little older than the others, and has floppy blond hair. She gives him a little half-smile and hooks him, before turning away to sip her wine. Within a few seconds he is standing beside her. The music is pounding through her body, making her heart race, as she looks into his eyes, her message clear.

‘Hi,’ he shouts down at her. ‘I love your hair.’

She cradles the back of her bob with her hand.

‘Thanks. I’ve always had it like this.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, since I was a little girl.’ She opens her eyes wide and childlike, and he grins at her.

An hour later, Valentina and Alexandro, the floppy blond, are stumbling out of the club into the tart autumn night. Valentina flags down a taxi, and the two of them scramble inside. As soon as the taxi takes off, they fall into each other’s arms.

Alexandro is on top of her in the corner of the taxi, pushing his tongue into her mouth, and suddenly it really isn’t as pleasant as Valentina thought it would be. She pushes him away from her.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asks, sweeping his floppy fringe away from his face with a sweaty palm. She can see a few pimples on his forehead. Just how young is this guy?

‘I need some air,’ she says, winding down the window on her side of the car.

He lunges in again, and she tries to reciprocate. She really does. Yet Theo is inside her head, and this guy smells all wrong. He feels wrong. She slides out from under him, shifts to the other side of the cab.

‘I’m really sorry, Alexandro, I can’t do this.’

The poor fellow looks crushed.

‘Why? What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing. I just feel sick. Sorry.’

The rest of the journey is spent in hostile silence. When they pull up outside her apartment building, she can’t get out of the
taxi quick enough. She throws twenty euros through the open door, and Alexandro accepts the money without even looking at her. What on earth was she thinking of? He must be a student. She is probably nearly ten years older than him. She rushes up the steps to the front door of the building, suddenly sober despite all the wine she has drunk. She feels foolish, and something else, a kind of yearning. She wishes that Theo were here so they could laugh about how silly she has been.

She is just unlocking the door to her flat when her phone begins to ring. Who on earth could be calling her at four in the morning? Theo? She rummages in her bag and pulls out her phone, but when she looks at the screen it is a number she doesn’t recognise. She didn’t give Alexandro her number, she is sure. She thinks briefly of the stranger in her garden. Could he have got hold of it somehow?

‘Yes?’

‘Signorina Rosselli?’

‘Yes, who is this?’

‘Excuse me for calling at such an unsocial hour . . .’

‘And who am I talking to?’ Curiosity overwhelms her instinct to cut off the call.

‘My name is Leonardo Sorrentino. I was hoping that you might be interested in doing some photographic work for me.’