Authors: Primula Bond
I am itching to go to Gustav like his text said. But I’ve managed to resist for another whole day. Something is telling me to play hard to get, just a little longer. Not withhold completely, because we have an agreement. Just not show him all my cards. How I sat on that train travelling away from my past, wanting to be with him, as he seems to want me. That silver chain permanently pulls at us, even when we’re at opposite ends of the country.
A while ago Crystal glided out of the lift with a huge cup of Americano. Not polystyrene. A proper, French-style
tasse,
complete with tray and plate of chocolate HobNobs. She looked round the exhibition, nodded with satisfaction at the red dots stuck onto the frames. She is wearing a red trouser suit to match the dots today. But she didn’t linger for a chat.
From here I can see the London Eye, Westminster Bridge and, if I crane my neck, part of the Houses of Parliament. I love the clear wintry daylight bathing my face. There’s something serene yet life-giving about watching the river, this once disease-ridden artery of the city flowing ceaselessly past.
It’s lunch time, and several potential buyers have wandered in. A couple are standing in front of my Halloween triptych. It’s already been sold, but I drift up to them and tell them that they can also buy a special edition if they put down a deposit.
Next, a large group of photography students troops into the gallery. I watch them study the composition and lighting, and I really enjoy giving them a mini lecture on my technique. It’s especially fun seeing their reactions as they see the Venetian series, look once, then take two, glancing at each other, as they see what the angelic nuns are actually doing to themselves.
At last the gallery is deserted.
I wander back to my desk and as I sit down I knock my bag off. A pile of old exercise books tips out all over the floor. My diaries. Covered in dust. The big print of a man’s boot on one of them. Some ripped. Why on earth didn’t she burn them?
I shouldn’t do it, I know it’ll be opening a can of worms, but there’s nobody here and so I open one at random.
Today my calendar says it’s my seventh birthday. I put a big pink heart around the day. I told everyone at school and they sang to me in assembly. Miss Joney gave me a packet of felt pens and was very kind.
When I got home I hoped there would be a chocolate cake with seven candles that I could blow out, but there wasn’t. Not any sandwiches or squash. She was there and she threw the teapot at me. It was full of tea and it didn’t hit me but the tea burned my hand.
She said the school had phoned her but it isn’t my birthday and I’m a wicked little liar. She says I’m the only girl in the world who doesn’t have a real birthday. I don’t even have a real mummy or daddy. Nobody wanted me. When I was born he found me in a plastic bag when he was coming out of church. He was a vicar then. He’s not a vicar now.
He was sitting there while she said all this new stuff. He sat in his chair, not looking at me or the teapot or at her, just looking at the floor as if he wishes I was down there so he could step on me.
I shut the diary and slam it back down on the desk. A red mist has come down over my eyes. Seven years thinking I belonged somewhere, belonged to someone, all shattered in that one moment.
A train clatters over Hungerford Bridge. The light is already fading. Try not to think of it, try not to remember, but here it comes. The paralysing sense of betrayal that lingered for months after that. Maybe years. They must have been relieved to get that off their chests. Someone could have advised them how to tell me the truth, but they never consulted anyone. I don’t know how I coped, because I can’t remember, and I didn’t write anything in my diary for about two years.
This fading winter darkness reminds me though of the muffling boredom when I was a child, too young to get away. As the light faded, closing off the cliffs and the sea behind the darkness, I would stare out of the window as the night rolled in, with no-one to talk to until I got to school the next morning, nothing to do except read and draw sad pictures in my cold little room.
They’re still hurting me, even though they’re six feet under. Making me feel, again, like that piece of shit on the dirty kitchen floor. The one that had to mop up the spilled tea and shards of teapot and go to bed with no supper.
What did Gustav say about being besotted, blinded, belittled, blamed? Well, they were the adults. I was the child. There’s no-one else to blame.
The phone rings.
‘There’s something I want to show you, Serena. I think it’s time. Can you shut up shop and meet me?’
‘Where?’
‘Are you alright? You sound breathless.’
I take a deep breath. Open a drawer to shove the diaries away, and something catches my eye. A hasty sketch on a piece of paper torn from Crystal’s clipboard.
A woman’s face. Big eyes. A swan-like neck. Face turned sideways, mouth half smiling, half gasping in secret rapture, an arm outstretched pointing at something. She looks like the pre-Raphaelite Rapunzel in Gustav’s house. She looks like me. I recognise the long drop earrings I was wearing at the private view. Someone sketched me that night when I was leaning against the wall, remembering Venice.
‘Are you there, Serena?’
‘Er, yes.’ The diaries topple on top of the sketch and without thinking I slam the drawer. Wipe the sweat off my hand, off the phone itself. Stare out of the window at the sliding river.
‘I’m OK, Gustav. Just had a trying trip to Devon yesterday.’
‘I missed you when I came to the gallery. Important business, was it?’ He clears his throat. ‘That ex-boyfriend hassling you?’
‘Tying up loose ends, yes.’ I can feel myself calming down as I hear his voice. My heart rate slowing. ‘Ex-boyfriend hassling me? No. I was making sure I never need to go back there.’
‘You still sound stressed, Serena. What’s happened to that feisty mare with the tangled hair?’
Tears are welling up, obscuring my view of the river and the London Eye opposite. Goddammit. How does he do that? Takes what I’m feeling, reads it even through the phone, processes it, susses it, even makes it rhyme?
‘If I start telling you what’s dead and buried, I would never stop.’
‘I’m a good listener.’
‘One day, Gustav.’
‘Fine. So. You’ve looked at the figures? Crystal held the fort while you were out and she’s shifted nearly half the pieces now. Your amazing delivery the other night has tapped into some kind of underground zeitgeist. I thought I had my finger on the pulse when it came to trends, no matter how off the wall, but the response to your masochist voyeur motif has hit the mainstream!’
‘I don’t know how to thank you.’
There’s a silence at the other end of the phone. Rain is starting to hurl itself against the window.
‘You can thank me by meeting me in half an hour,’ Gustav answers at last. ‘Indulge me by letting me show you something that will extricate you from all those memories once and for all.’
‘In that case I’ll bring my bags. They’re right here. I’m coming to you tonight.’
‘Leave everything at the gallery. I’ll send Dickson for them.’ I hear a quiet hiss of satisfaction at the other end of the phone. ‘This will blow your mind. But if I’m wrong, you can walk out of my life with your head held high.’
He’s waiting for me at an anonymous-looking house in Baker Street which has seen better days. Rain stains run green and brown down the facade, over the peeling plaster and cracked woodwork. It’s almost opposite where Sherlock Holmes fictionally lived, in fact, and not far from the weirdness of Madame Tussauds. So much effort put into recreating the make-believe.
He is walking towards me. We are both holding umbrellas. As he sees me he picks up his pace, and I pick up mine. I can practically hear the swelling of violins in the backing track. He’s wearing the red scarf again but the vampire-slayer’s black coat has been replaced by a cool rain jacket. Underneath that he’s wearing another business suit, black, almost funereal.
But despite the formal garb it’s his face that catches me unawares. He looks happy. Slightly unshaven, with that rough, gypsy look that makes me want to touch his face. The cold air and the rain seems to have washed life into him. His eyes under the shade of the umbrella are bright and lively, and when he sees me it’s as if someone has switched on a light behind them. He starts to smile. Really smile. As if he’s about to burst into laughter.
I smile back uncertainly. We’re still separated by a few yards. I look down at myself. Have I spilt something onto my jeans? Is my jacket buttoned unevenly?
‘You look even more beautiful than when I last saw you. That sea air has blown roses into your cheeks.’
‘It’s the only good thing about that place.’
‘You’re where you belong now.’ He lifts my hand and runs his lips slowly and sensuously across the back of it. It’s that mouth I want to conquer. The softness of his mouth in that world-weary face has become my secret challenge. Soon I’m going to make him kiss me properly. French tongues. Everything. But for now he closes his eyes in rapture at the smell of my skin. Then, still slowly as if he’s waking from a sleep, he opens his eyes, produces the silver chain, and locks it onto my bracelet.
Seeing him hook me up like that has become so matter of fact now. But the instant I’m chained to him, I’m anchored. He’s strong, but so am I.
He pushes open the shabby front door and leads me inside. The house is a museum. The musty, waxy smell tells me it’s not lived in. The walls are all panelled in dark wood. The floors are polished dark boards, as are the stairs and even the ceilings. It’s like being boxed up in an antique crate.
Our footsteps echo in the silence as we turn left through a set of huge double doors and enter a long ballroom.
‘Christ, this is like the Tardis!’ I exclaim, whirling round in a circle. The silver chain winds itself around me and I have to twirl anti-clockwise to unwind it. ‘It looked like a kind of slum from the outside.’
‘The wonders of Georgian architecture. City architecture in general, actually. Everything built to maximise the use of the space, and yet deceptive. Go up higher, if you’re in the new world. Dig deeper, stretch backwards, if you’re in the old country.’
He unwinds his scarf as he waits in the doorway of the ballroom. His handsome face, settling into calm as he’s revealed to me properly once more. The knot at his throat is a peacock blue with a feathery design fading down the tie.
When I was about nine I came home with some gigantic feathers I’d found arranged in a circle in the middle of a campsite along the cliffs. It was winter, so the campsite was vacant. I thought the feathers were so pretty, the shimmering green and blue with the huge eye in the middle. I stuck them with Sellotape into a fan but when she saw them she screamed that I was a wicked girl who’d brought the evil eye into the house.
I start to walk down the middle of the polished floor. This room is also panelled, but the panels are hung with oversized black and white photographs in very contemporary plain frames. The far end of the room, which should traditionally accommodate a fireplace or an ancestral portrait, is filled entirely by an enormous flat screen.
‘What you’re going to see here should appeal to your voyeuristic tendencies, Serena. And your secret taste for punishment. In fact, I’m banking on these images really liberating your mind.’
I plant my hands on my hips. ‘You really think you know me, don’t you?’
He bats his hand lightly as if I’m a moth. ‘Half the glitterati of London reckon they know you,
signorina
. That’s why certain erotica collectors have been sniffing round while you’ve been out of town.’
‘Collectors? Cool.’
‘Did you know that Ian Fleming allegedly possessed a collection of flagellation erotica? It was his wife Ann who was into it, apparently. She wrote him letters, begging for it
. I long for you to whip me.
Imagine the scandal of that. In the fifties and sixties. Whipping each other to a frenzy in their Jamaican paradise.’ He runs his hand along the wall, rubbing dusty plaster between his fingers. ‘So you see, punishment isn’t only the stuff of dungeons and fetish clubs. Even the smarter echelons are into it.’
I pretend to look through a magnifying glass. ‘Imagine. The collected work of Serena Folkes coming to light in centuries to come, unearthed in dusty antique shops and little galleries in the back streets of London or New York.’
‘Or Venice itself. You didn’t hold back, that’s why they’re eager to snap you up. You’re out there now and every bit as daring as I suspected.’ His face is wide with laughter, that pebbly rumble from the base of his throat as he unwinds his scarf. ‘Hey. Don’t look so appalled. Everyone has a dark side.’
‘And you want to explore mine?’
‘I want
you
to explore yours. It’s time to place yourself inside the action for a change, with the aid of some wizardry. See if you want to participate, as well as watch.’ He still sounds so relaxed, his scarf dangling round his neck, his coat open as he leans in the doorway. ‘You’ll see what I mean.’
The photographs show men and women dressed in marionette costumes dancing, feasting, or sleeping. Arms are raised in Bacchanalian delight, bodies are prostrate on sumptuous beds, or resting in poses too awkward for real sleep.
The composition is more stylised than my photographs. More technically adept, too, using studio lighting and exaggerated colour stains.
As I get to the furthest series I see that some subjects are not resting at all. They are being driven from sleep as an orgy is depicted, step by step. It starts with a couple, just like the figures in the
lupanare
frescoes, half-clothed. They are laying each other down on a big bed in a room styled like a Titian painting, with draped curtains, bowls of fruit, slave girls whispering in the corner.
Soon it’s the people I’m concentrating on, not the composition. In the next picture the couple are kissing messily, pulling at each other’s remaining garments, and in the next the woman is on her back and the man is pushing himself between her legs while other people gather round to watch, including the slave girls.