Lose Yourself (The Desires Unlocked Trilogy Part Two) (7 page)

‘It is quite something,’ Kirsti tells Valentina. ‘We haven’t got it up and running yet, but would you like to take a look at Kirsti’s photos?’

‘I’d be so thrilled to get your feedback,’ Anita adds. ‘I am a great fan of your work.’

‘Sure.’ Valentina nods, feeling a little overwhelmed by the two women.

Anita leads her over to the far side of the gallery, to the long work table with framed photographs spread along it.

‘We were just taking a look at them,’ Kirsti says, ‘trying to decide where to hang them.’

Valentina looks down at Anita’s pictures. All of them are self-portraits, and Valentina has to admit that they are stunning. The first shot is of Anita lying on her side, wearing a purple dress with thigh-high black lace-up boots and black, lacy stockings. Her blond hair is down and her lips are plum to match the dress. Just a corner of a bare buttock is visible in the shot. In the second picture, Anita is all in black. It is a close-up and she is looking into the mirror, holding the camera, with an oriental parasol half covering her face. Only the very tops of her breasts are visible, the hard nipples pushing through the slits of a latex S&M outfit. The third picture shows Anita’s whole body reflected in a mirror as she lies against a pile of white silk cushions. Her feet, in a pair of kitten-heeled pearly mules, are together, soles pressed against a mirror, her legs are bent at the knees so that they open outwards and the rest of her naked body is reflected in the mirror: her bare breasts, her pursed lips as she closes her left eye to take the picture. Despite the fact her legs are spread, she is not completely exposed as a lilac chiffon scarf trails between them concealing her sex.

‘That’s my favourite,’ Anita says, as Valentina picks it up to examine it. ‘I think it’s a little more subtle than the others.’

The last three pictures are even more graphic. One is of Anita, naked, lit up by three arc lights, spaced in a triangle around her. She is on her knees and turning the camera around to take a picture. Her hair falls over her face like a blond veil but, even so, you can see her parted lips, her closed eyes.

In another black and white composition she is on her back on swathes of black silk, looking up at a mirror, her fishnet-stockinged legs crossed; just visible are the parted lips of her labia.

‘Oh, this has to be my favourite,’ says Kirsti, picking up the last picture, much to Valentina’s surprise. Obviously the American is not as demure as she looks. To say the shot is confrontational would be an understatement. Anita is lying on her back, her legs pointing straight up in the air, sheathed in pale oyster stockings almost the same colour as her skin, her bottom facing the mirror. Apart from the stockings she is utterly naked. Her head is tipped to the right and she is staring at the mirror, surveying the viewer, the camera balanced in her right hand, her arm outstretched so that she is able to get everything in the shot. She is on display completely.

‘They’re great,’ Valentina says.

Anita looks genuinely pleased. ‘Really? That means so much to me,’ she says.

‘Well, I am not an experienced erotic photographer by any means . . .’

‘Yeah, but you come from such a famous family. I mean, your mother – she’s an icon!’

Valentina stiffens at the mention of Tina Rosselli.

‘Ladies, I think we should crack open a bottle of champagne,’ says Kirsti, her cheeks flushed. ‘I could do with some help deciding where to hang everything. Would you have the time, Anita?’

‘Well, I am performing tonight,’ Anita says, ‘but not until really late. And it’s only down the road. I can ring my man to come and pick me up.’

‘Great. What do you say, Valentina? Are you free for a while?’ Kirsti is still holding up the naked photograph of Anita as she speaks. The burlesque dancer’s bare legs glimmer in the light from the spotlight behind them.

‘Sure,’ Valentina finds herself saying. ‘I’ve no plans.’

She is certain that, by now, both Antonella and Isabella are stuck into a night of drinking and reminiscing. Valentina is happy to avoid that. She doesn’t want to have to sit and listen to Isabella regale them with stories of all the fun she and Valentina’s mother used to have back in the sixties and seventies.

Two hours later, the gallery is nearly hung; Valentina hopes it has been done well, although she suspects that they are too inebriated at this stage to tell. Surprisingly, it is Anita who seems the most together of the three of them. They are sprawled on the floor of the gallery. Kirsti’s shift dress is up at her hips and she has a lazy grin on her face as she takes a sip of her champagne – the third bottle they have opened between them.

‘Well, here I am in my ultimate girly fantasy,’ she says, ‘drinking champagne with two of the sexiest women I have ever met.’

Anita and Valentina lock eyes. Valentina has never been attracted to the femme fatale look, and yet there is something about Anita . . . something sweet and alluring . . .

‘Tell me, Valentina,’ Kirsti says, ‘are you wearing anything underneath that dress? It is so incredibly figure hugging . . .’ She reaches forward and slips her hand through the slit on to Valentina’s bare leg, trailing her fingers up her thigh.

‘No,’ says Valentina steadily, wondering whether it would be rude to remove Kirsti’s hand. ‘You can’t wear anything underneath; it’s too tight. It shows off everything.’

‘I can see that,’ says Anita grinning. ‘I love it; it’s so bold with those black and white stripes – very sixties and free spirited. Whereas I am trussed up in all my gear . . .’ she adds. ‘And what about you, Kirsti? Are you wearing any knickers?’ Anita giggles.

Kirsti starts to laugh, removes her hand from Valentina’s leg and, all of a sudden, pulls her dress up. Valentina can see that she is completely shaved, her flesh pale and soft. It looks incongruous along with her long dark hair. She pulls a tiny thong off with her long, elegant fingers.

‘Not anymore, darling,’ she drawls.

‘Oh, you are naughty, aren’t you?’ Anita teases her.

‘Will you dance for us, Anita?’ Kirsti asks. ‘Just a private dance for myself and Valentina?’

‘I’ve no music.’ Anita pouts.

‘Can’t you just imagine it? We can, can’t we?’ Kirsti is looking at Valentina, a suggestive smile on her face.

‘I should go,’ Valentina says, hesitantly.

‘Oh, no, please,’ Kirsti pleads. ‘You have to see Anita perform.’

Anita knocks back her champagne. ‘Well, all right then, but it’s not the real thing without the music, you know.’

Valentina is frozen, unable to get up now. For some reason, she doesn’t want to offend Anita.

Anita stands up, slips her stilettos back on and picks up a chair, placing it in front of the two other women. She walks around the gallery, switching off all the lights so that only one spotlight is left on, illuminating the chair. She steps into the pool of light, her blond hair a blaze of glory, her white skin pearly, her pink lips pursed. She begins to sway her hips and spins around on her heels, pushing her backside towards them.

Is she really going to do a striptease? Valentina thinks. It seems so ridiculous and old-fashioned and yet, sitting on the floor next to her, Valentina senses that Kirsti is enjoying the show. She looks over at the gallery owner. In the gloom of the gallery she can see she has her hand slipped between her legs, and imagines her lips parted in anticipation.

Anita slowly pulls off each glove and unzips her skirt, wiggling it off over hips. Despite herself, Valentina has to admit it is sexy. Anita continues to undress, oh-so slowly, unbuttoning her little pink jacket, pulling it off and throwing it across the room. Now she is in a tiny sequined G-string, stockings, suspenders and a corset. She unlaces the corset so that it falls away to reveal an ornate brassiere. Beneath all of the upholstery of her clothes, Anita has a beautiful body: a naturally tiny waist, neat little round bottom – not too large, like Valentina’s – and pert, plump breasts. Valentina can’t help but feel her insides warming in response to the vision of this beautiful woman. Anita kicks off her heels, smiling all the time at Kirsti. She lifts one of her legs and puts her foot on to the chair, peeling off her stocking and wiggling her bottom as she does so. Then she twists around and sits on the chair, raising the other leg in the air and slowly pulling that stocking off. Valentina hears Kirsti’s breath quickening, she glances over at the American woman, but she can’t see her clearly in the dim room. The whole experience is surreal. She wasn’t expecting this when she came here this afternoon, to be witnessing the gallery owner pleasuring herself while watching a striptease show.

Inside her head she hears Theo’s voice:
Welcome to London, Valentina
. She remembers how he tried to encourage her to let go of her inhibitions, have fun. She can’t help but feel turned on; even though she has no desire to have sex with either woman, she feels a yearning to be touched by a man – by her man. Without thinking, she slips her own hand through the slit in her skirt and touches herself. She quivers with relief. She is so wound up, she knows. All this anticipation – the exhibition, Theo . . .

Anita pings the suspender belt off, so that she is nearly naked, then she brings her hand up behind her brassiere and lets it fall away to reveal her breasts, naked apart from two sequined tassles covering the nipples. She lifts her legs in the air and does a backward bend off the chair at the precise moment that Valentina hears Kirsti gasping as she comes.

Valentina carefully retrieves her hand. She is so close, yet she doesn’t want to touch herself anymore, not now Anita has finished her dance and Kirsti has obviously found satisfaction. She waits in the darkness of the gallery for one of the other women to say something. Anita sits up and begins to put on her bra. She is all businesslike now. Valentina can still hear Kirsti breathing deeply beside her. She wonders if she is embarrassed or still drunk from the champagne. A mobile phone rings. Anita totters over to her little pink purse. She is still only half dressed, just her stockings and shoes on, and her underwear.

‘Hello, darling; you’re outside? OK, we’ll let you in now.’

Anita switches on the light and turns to Kirsti.

‘It’s my boyfriend. Can you buzz him in?’

Kirsti stands up, smoothes down her shift dress and picks up her thong. She is all composure now, as if nothing out of the usual has happened at all. She walks out of the gallery space and Valentina hears the door in the reception click open and the low voice of a man.

‘Well, what did you think of my show?’ Anita asks Valentina earnestly, as she zips up her skirt.

‘I can honestly say that you were very sexy.’

Anita looks pleased. ‘Thanks.’ She nods over towards the door, buttoning up her little pink jacket. ‘Poor Kirsti; she’s always on at me to perform for her. I keep telling her she needs to get herself a girlfriend.’

‘I think it’s you she fancies,’ says Valentina.

Anita shakes her head. ‘Well, she’ll have no luck. I am afraid she’s just not my type.’ She gives Valentina a rather flirtatious look. ‘Besides, I am a bit preoccupied at the moment. I’ve just met someone new.’

Anita looks expectantly past Valentina at the doorway leading into the gallery. Valentina hears Kirsti’s high-heeled shoes as they clatter on the wooden floor, and senses the presence of Anita’s boyfriend as Anita’s gaze warms.

‘Talk of the devil; here he is!’ Anita exclaims, beaming with delight.

Valentina turns around, curious to see what the boyfriend of the stunning Anita might look like. Yet, as soon as she catches sight of him, her whole world falls away beneath her. The gallery tips on its side and all the champagne she has drunk makes her stumble forward, her body assaulted with shock. For standing in front of her, looking equally stunned, is none other than Theo.

She has lost Joan. Usually they stick together.
Over the past month, it has become their habit to go out two or three times a week to listen to the new music from America and to dance. Maria surveys the packed club. It is hard to see anyone, it is so dark – the air thick with cigarette smoke. All that is visible is the band. Maria watches the trumpet player as he leans back and lifts his glittering instrument up to the ceiling, blasting out his sound. This is a new kind of jazz, urgent and wild. It makes her pulse race and she can’t help swaying her hips, despite her anxiety. Even so, she has to find Joan right now. It’s time to go home. They have dance school in the morning and already it is past midnight.

She weaves through the crowd. Men look at her, one or two try to stop her, to speak to her.

‘All right, my beauty?’

‘Looking for me, are you, darling?’

But most of the men are listening to the music, their faces rapt as if they are in a trance.

With relief, Maria spies her friend at a table in the corner. Why on earth did she move without telling her? There are two men sitting with her. One is next to Joan, with his arm around her shoulder, and the other has his back to Maria. Maria’s heart sinks. It has been a good night so far, dancing at the Astoria and then coming here, to this little club in Soho, to listen to music that Joan claims reminds her of her American beau, Stan. But Maria is tired now and she wants to go home to bed. She promised Jacqueline she would be back by midnight. She is already late. The last thing she feels like is fending off the unwanted attentions of a man.

She sees Joan waving to her as she approaches the table.

‘There you are,’ Joan says, smiling up at her sweetly. ‘Where did you go?’

‘You moved tables,’ Maria says, sitting down in the chair next to one of the strange men.

‘Oh, yes, sorry,’ Joan giggles. ‘Ralph and his friend here wanted us to join them. You don’t mind, do you? They bought you a drink.’

Joan tilts her face to her companion. Maria has to admit he is very attractive: black hair, a sculpted moustache and perfectly arched eyebrows. He looks like some kind of Russian aristocrat. He is also very drunk, hardly acknowledging Maria’s presence before whispering something into Joan’s ear that makes her giggle even more. Maria sits rigidly in her seat, not daring to look at the man beside her. Eventually he coughs, forcing her to acknowledge him.

‘Pleased to meet you, Maria. My name is Douglas.’

He has one of those pale English faces, with sandy hair, watery blue eyes and freckles. She shakes his limp hand before taking a sip of the drink that has been bought for her. It goes up her nose, making her splutter.

‘Are you all right?’ Douglas asks.

‘Yes, fine,’ Maria replies. ‘It’s just I don’t know what I am drinking.’

‘Gin and tonic.’ Douglas takes out his cigarettes and offers her one. ‘Isn’t that what all girls drink nowadays?’

‘I have only ever drunk wine.’

‘I see; I thought you looked like a Continental. Where are you from?’

‘Italy.’

Douglas looks uncomfortable for a moment. ‘I wish you had said you were French or Spanish,’ he says finally.

‘Why?’

‘I fought against the Italians in Abyssinia during the war.’ Douglas shakes his head and looks at the band, which is just starting up another number.

Maria is lost for words. Now she feels even more uncomfortable than she did before. Maybe she can just leave and walk back to Jacqueline’s. Would it be all right to abandon Joan? Maria looks across at her friend. She is
very
drunk. She sees Ralph slip his hand under Joan’s skirt. That’s it; she has to get them out of here before something happens.

She stands up abruptly and reaches over, grabbing Joan’s hand. ‘Let’s go. It’s late.’

Joan frowns at her. ‘I don’t want to go,’ she says, pulling her hand away. ‘It’s just getting fun.’

‘I think we should; we have class in the morning.’

‘What do you girls study?’ Ralph drawls.

‘We’re dance students, darling,’ Joan traces her finger down his cheek.

‘Oh, dancers! That explains it . . .’ Ralph laughs and looks across at Maria with narrowed eyes. He makes her feel like she is a common tart. How dare he?

‘Joan,’ she says firmly. ‘I am leaving now and I think you should come with me.’

Joan waves her away. ‘Don’t worry, darling. I’m fine – really. I am a woman of the world.’

Maria can do no more. She stalks out of the club. She is angry with her friend for being so drunk and stupid, and with Ralph for thinking so little of them. And yet she is frustrated as well. She is powerless to stop Joan from behaving badly, and a part of her feels like an idiot – a party pooper. She steps out on to the cool street and takes in a deep breath of fresh air. God, it was smoky in that place.

‘Can I take you home?’

She turns in surprise. Behind her is Douglas, her evening purse in his hand. In her haste to get out of the club, she had forgotten to pick it up from the table.

‘Oh, thank you,’ she says as he hands it to her, and she tucks it under her arm. He is staring at her with those washed out blue eyes, and despite the fact it is a warm night, she shivers involuntarily.

‘I can walk,’ she adds.

‘Nonsense; I wouldn’t be happy unless I saw you safely home myself,’ Douglas says. ‘I have the car parked just around the corner.’

Maria clasps her hands around her purse in her lap, trying to quell her anxiety about Joan, as Douglas drives them down Pall Mall and past Buckingham Palace.

‘Do you know Ralph well?’ she asks Douglas.

He glances over at her, surveying her coolly. ‘Oh, yes; we served together in Africa,’ he says. ‘I can assure you he is a gentleman.’

Maria isn’t so sure. She can still see his hand slipping under Joan’s skirt, and the drunken haze in her friend’s eyes. She shouldn’t have left her behind.

‘Maybe we should go back and get Joan?’ she ventures.

Douglas puts a hand on her knee, and she flinches as if branded.

‘Really, I think your friend is quite able to look after herself. She is not an innocent . . .’ He pauses. ‘Not like you.’

Maria looks across at Douglas, but he is staring out of the windscreen, his expression indiscernible. She turns away, shifting so that his hand falls off her knee. She wills herself back at Jacqueline’s as they speed past Victoria Station through the utter blackness that is post-war London at night.

When they arrive at her little street, Douglas insists on parking. He gets out of the car, walking round and opening the passenger door for Maria. She gets out rather clumsily, unwillingly taking his hand.

‘Thank you,’ she says, glancing up at the top floor of the house. The curtains are drawn on Jacqueline’s windows and she can see no light behind them. Her mentor must be asleep.

She waits for him to get back into the car, but he is still standing on the deserted street.

‘Well, good night,’ Maria says, fishing in her bag for the front door key.

‘Can I invite you out for dinner?’ Douglas suddenly says. ‘Saturday night?’

‘Oh,’ she mutters. ‘Sorry; I’m busy on Saturday.’

There is something about the way this young man looks at her, the glitter in his pale eyes, that unnerves her. She can’t think of anything worse than going out with him on a date.

‘Well, what about Sunday, then?’ he asks her.

‘I can’t; sorry.’ She shakes her head.

‘Monday?’

This time she has no choice but to be direct.

‘No, thank you; I’m very busy, you see, with my dancing studies.’

‘Did you say, “no”?’ She can hear the icy affront in his voice. He has his hand on her arm now; he restrains her, forcing her to twist around and look at his face. ‘What about a good night kiss, then?’ he says, his mouth grimacing at her, his lips pulled back over his teeth so that he reminds Maria of a snarling dog.

‘Excuse me,’ she tries to pull away, ‘but, really, I have to go now. Good night,’ she says firmly.

But, instead of letting her go, Douglas takes a firmer hold of her arm and pulls her towards him.

‘Let me go!’ She is about to cry out, but he puts his hand over her mouth. His skin tastes salty, its flesh hot against her burning lips. She struggles to pull away from him, but he pushes her back down the front path and along the side of the house, into the little alleyway that leads to the back. She is so close to Jacqueline, to help, and yet she is powerless to call out. She is here in the pitch black, trying to fight off this man, but he is so much stronger than her. He pushes her back against the brick wall. She feels the roughness of the bricks on the back of her head. He crushes her with his body. She can feel his arousal pressed against her stomach. She feels sick. She tries to prise his hand off her mouth so that she can call out but he pins her arms down with his body. Then he removes his hand and grinds his mouth into hers, forcing her lips open and pushing his tongue in. His breath is thick with the smell of alcohol and she feels like retching; she can hardly breathe.

She senses him pulling up her dress. Oh, God; not this way, please, she prays inside her head. She thinks of her mother and Pina, and what they would do to this man if they knew that he was assaulting their precious Maria. She wishes so hard for a father – someone – to protect her. She twists her head and bites his tongue as hard as she can.

Douglas springs back in shock. ‘You Italian bitch,’ he hisses, slapping her face hard and, with the other hand, pulling her skirt up around her waist and dragging down her knickers. ‘I am going to fuck you so hard,’ he says. ‘I’m going to fuck you to death.’ He laughs nastily.

But she has her chance now that her mouth is free, and she calls out with all her strength. ‘Jacqueline! Help! Help!’

Douglas smacks his hand over her mouth to silence her. ‘There’s no one here to help you.’ He whispers into her ear. ‘I am going to make you pay, Maria, for your countrymen and what they did to me . . .’

Her knickers are around her ankles, and she watches in horror as he unbuckles his belt and drops his trousers. She sees his penis: the first penis she has ever seen in her life. He is going to hurt her with this part of his body, this erect pink instrument. She shivers at the thought of it inside her, splitting her open. She tries to clamp her legs shut, but he is pulling her thighs apart, his fingernails scratching her flesh. She closes her eyes, knowing now there is nothing she can do to stop this from happening. He is too strong for her. Better to just block it out and wait until it is over. Better to pray that he won’t hurt her more afterwards.

It happens so quickly. One minute Douglas is pressing against her and she can feel his hands pulling her legs apart, his penis against her thighs, on the edge of entering her, and the next minute he is wrenched away from her. She opens her eyes, gasping in shock and relief as she sees another man punching Douglas in the face. Douglas falls down. The stranger kicks him, again and again. Douglas is groaning, pleading, but the stranger is merciless. Maria is paralysed. She sinks to the ground, shaking uncontrollably. She watches the stranger kick Douglas unconscious.

‘Stop!’ She croaks. ‘You’re going to kill him.’

She squeezes her eyes shut and licks her lips.

A hand is placed on her shoulder. She opens her eyes and the stranger is crouching front of her. ‘Are you all right?’ he asks in a heavily accented voice.

Despite the darkness, he is so close to her that she can make out his face. And what she sees stuns her: a man so beautiful that, despite her recent assault, she feels herself melting beneath his gaze. She nods, unable to speak.

‘Let me help you.’ He stands up and offers her his hand. She takes it. A warm, strong hand grips hers and pulls her up. Her clothes are all ruched around her. She pulls down her dress, and looks over at the prostrate form of Douglas.

‘Is he dead?’ she says in a hoarse whisper.

‘No, no . . . I would like to have killed him. But scum like him are not worth the trouble. I think that, when he wakes up, he will slink off back to the sewer he came from. Don’t worry about him.’

‘But he knows where I live.’ She raises her hand to cradle her stinging cheek, where Douglas had slapped her.

‘You live here? In this house?’ the man asks her.

‘Yes.’

‘Well, so do I,’ he tells her, to her utter surprise. ‘So you have nothing to fear. If he ever turns up again I’ll deal with him.’

She begins to walk down the alley, shakily. All she wants is to get inside the house now. Lie on her mattress in her tiny cupboard room and breathe normally again. She feels dizzy, as if she is wading in mud, as if the ground is going to give out beneath her.

‘Let me help you; you’re in shock,’ the stranger says. He slips his arm under hers so easily.

‘And, miss,’ he says, taking something out of his pocket. ‘These are yours.’ He hands her the torn knickers.

She gives a little hiccup of distress and, before she can help it, tears begin to stream down her face.

‘It’s all right,’ the stranger says gently, guiding her out of the alleyway and round to the front of the house. ‘You’re safe now.’