Seeking Crystal (9 page)

I didn’t go far. I sat by the vaporetto stop near our apartment on the edge of the raised boardwalk that we used during high tides. In late autumn and winter we often had to slosh through puddles as the lagoon swamped the edges of the city twice a day. There was a siren system for dangerously high water or
acqua alta
, as we called it, but just at the moment the tide was low and no one was walking on the raised platform. A street seller with an eye for the late trade of tourists visiting the restaurants shot little glow-sticks into the air; they hovered for a moment before falling back to the pavement—a tiny firework. A breeze came in off the Adriatic, bringing the scent of diesel and saltwater. Boats came and went from the mooring platform. I pictured them in my mind like needles tacking together the edges of the city in a constant circle. Venice is a good place to sit alone; something is always happening and no one questions why you should want to stop and people-watch for a while. It is a place used to being on display.

I replayed the dinner table conversation. I still felt hurt and my brain was coming up with all sorts of over-dramatic responses, ranging from refusing to attend the wedding and never speaking to my family again. But the saner part of me knew this was like one of those angry emails fired off in the heat of a temper and regretted afterwards. No one was trying to harm me; they just saw things differently, thought they knew what was best. My impulse to slam doors and shout that no one understood, that it wasn’t fair, was that of a teenager. Technically I was still one, but I no longer had the luxury of being able to indulge my own mood swings. People were expecting more from me—I was expecting more from myself.

But that didn’t mean they were right. I was correct when I said my future wasn’t the same as theirs. I had few attractive options in the Savant world so would need to forge my own path. If it conflicted with the usual Savant practice, well then, I’d cross that bridge when I came to it, work out how to reconcile the two. Opportunities like this didn’t come along every day and certainly wouldn’t wait for a wedding to come and go.

I got up, more at peace now I’d made my decision. Diamond, Trace, and Xav would not approve, but I was going to have those pictures taken and then go from there.

Realizing things had not gone well between us, Xav tried to be nice to me for the next two days but I didn’t make it easy for him. My response to the situation was to become the master of disappearing either to work or for a run. But I was touched, though, when he left a little bunch of silk violets in my bedroom, which some street seller no doubt conned him into buying for far too much money. Still, it was the thought that mattered to me, even if he was doing it just so I didn’t spoil his brother’s wedding by fighting with him all the way to the big day.

The first time we spent any time together was at the crack of dawn on Sunday morning when I went into his bedroom to wake him at five. I discovered he was not a morning person, which pleased me no end, as I was the one that got to drop a cold flannel on him.

‘Hrr-murph!’ He flung the flannel into a corner and buried his head under the pillow. I would have normally tried to ignore the display of tanned arms and glimpse of toned midriff this flailing about revealed, but, hey, I have hormones like the next girl. Some things in life are worth seeing.

‘Rise and shine, cupcake. Hollywood awaits.’

His answer was a grunt.

‘Oh well, that’s fine. I’ll go on my own then. Shame, I made coffee—I’ll just have to drink that too.’

‘There’s coffee?’ A face appeared from under the pillow.

I put the mug down on the bedside table—my version of a peace offering as I recognized it had taken two of us to fall out. ‘Just don’t think I’m making a habit of it.’

I went back to my own bedroom to get ready. Lily had already warned me not to do any make-up or hair myself, as the make-up artists wanted a clean palette to work on. I left my hair loose which of course meant it was spiralling all over the place as if I’d just stuck my finger in the power socket. My dream of modelling had never seemed more ludicrous.

Xav had shambled into his clothes by the time I returned to the kitchen. Why do boys just look gloriously rumpled when we look as if we’ve been dragged through a hedge backwards? ‘Thanks for the coffee. I can’t get going without a shot of caffeine.’

‘Me neither.’

He clapped a hand to his chest. ‘Stop press: we have something in common!’

‘Yeah, yeah, hold the front page. Now, have you got a coat?’

He grabbed his jacket. ‘Yes, mother.’

‘Wellington boots?’

‘What? Ah no, I haven’t. That would be because I was packing for sunny Italy, not rainy England.’

‘Hmm, Diamond really should’ve said. You will need them.’ I stuck my own feet into my favourite pair of polka dot ones.

He thought I was joking. ‘Must you?’ He gestured to the boots.

‘I really must.’

‘C’mon then, fashion disaster—let’s go.’

I was the one to be laughing once we were outside. The early morning tide was high and the pavement outside our courtyard was awash. His trendy boots were going to be toast. ‘Piggyback?’

He looked grimly at the toes of his leather Timberlands. ‘Like you could carry me, Beauty.’

‘I’ll give it a go—just to the bridge. Then there should be walkways all the way.’

‘Don’t tell my brothers.’ He stood on a garden chair and I took his weight. He was pretty heavy, I must admit, and I staggered a few paces before getting my balance. We managed to cross the short distance without falling into the canal. I dumped him on the dry ground by the bridge.

He gave me a jaunty salute in thanks. ‘How much do you charge?’

‘What, for rescues? You couldn’t afford me. That’s your one freebie. After this the Timberlands will have to be sacrificed.’

We made our way through the streets back to the Accademia Bridge over the Grand Canal.

‘Where are we going?’ Xav had only now really woken up.

‘Filming is taking place at the Piazza San Marco. I don’t think they’re going to actually do any proper stuff until it gets dark this afternoon. We’ve got to be there so they can set up the shot.’

‘You mean I could’ve stayed in bed?’

‘If you are Steve Hughes, you probably are still in bed. We extras are done first so the stars don’t have to wait around. Lily warned me it might be a bit boring.’ I rather hoped Xav might turn back. ‘You could bow out if you want—no one would mind.’

‘No way. If you can put up with standing around, so can I. It’ll give us a chance to talk.’

‘Hmm.’ I didn’t want to mention in our little ceasefire that I had arranged to spend my spare time with Lily’s photographer friend.

The film crew had taken over one corner of the piazza for their costume and make-up marquees. We checked in with an assistant director and then joined a queue. Xav and I took one look at our fellow extras and burst into laugher. It was odd being with so many other tall people, as if the world had suddenly divided into us normal folk and the munchkins who dressed us. There were lots of good-humoured quips between the two sides. I wasn’t even the tallest girl; there was one who must have been well over six feet.

Xav was led away to the men’s side of the marquee, his lack of Italian meaning that the locally hired make-up ladies pulled and prodded him like a child where they wanted him to go. They were enjoying the opportunity to have such a good-looking boy at their mercy and he looked a little bewildered by their attentions.

‘Be gentle!’ I heard him plead as he was pushed into a chair in front of a mirror.

From the giggles that comment provoked I guessed they understood more English than they let on.

When my turn came, the make-up artist explained that the cosmetics would be applied quite lightly as most of our faces would be hidden by masks. Emphasis was on blood-red lips and glitter on the eyelids.

‘But Lily asked me to do you a special treatment as you are having some photos taken, yes?’ Marina, my artist, dusted my cheeks with a faint blush. ‘Nothing too heavy, just a little emphasis to bring out your features.’ She stood back, pleased with the final effect. ‘Hmm, Lily was right: there is something about you. After costume, go to Paolo in wigs and hair: he knows what you need.’

I rejoined Xav in the next bay, which was devoted to the costumes I had helped make. As we arrived together we got a matching set: his consisted of a dark gold jacket and breeches with crimson waistcoat and cape, mine the reverse, crimson gown with gold accents and cloak. I was handed the mask I’d already seen: the one made up of a lace of red words; Xav’s was a simple gold demi-mask that made him look like a very high class cat burglar.

Last was the hair department. As we both had long hair we were spared the need to wear a wig. Xav’s was tied back in a ribbon, which completed the eighteenth century gentleman look nicely. Mine took much longer as the artist wanted to pile it up on my head in an intricate arrangement.

‘You have amazing hair, Crystal,’ Paolo exclaimed, running his fingers through my curls. ‘Such body, such structure. You won’t even need any padding for what I have in mind.’

He twisted my hair so that it tumbled from the tiara he had kept for my costume like some kind of wacky waterfall. He softened the effect around the face by letting a few wisps escape and one long lock to stray down my neck and onto my décolletage. He finished the whole arrangement with a sprinkle of gold dust so that hair and skin glowed subtly. With the mask in place I did look like an exotic creature.

I stepped out from behind the curtain to find Xav waiting for me at the coffee point. Seeing him standing nonchalantly with the other guys, cape flung loosely over one shoulder, did make my heart pick up its pace. Modern clothes were so boring by comparison. He was unfairly handsome in his outfit—a Mr-Darcy-cum-wicked-highwayman dream—but I would prefer to have my toenails pulled out than admit that to him.

‘What do you think?’ I did a spin, enjoying the unfamiliar sensation of masses of petticoats swirling around my legs.

The Italian extras lived up to my expectations and piled on the compliments, offering outrageous praise and undying devotion, all with the twinkle in their eye of professional flirts. Italian men are raised from birth to flatter females. Xav frowned at them, not understanding what they were saying but getting the gist.

‘Xav? What’s the verdict?’ I tapped the mask. ‘I helped make this one myself.’

‘Yeah, it’s great.’ He looked over my head.

‘And what about me?’

He forced himself to look back at me. ‘Cupcake, you look good enough to eat as I’m sure you know. Be careful: I don’t want to have to rush to your rescue when you get overwhelmed with admirers. I don’t trust these guys.’

‘Hey, Xav, we are good boys!’ protested a rogue by the name of Giovanni. ‘We make-a no move on your lady.’ He gave me a wink and lapsed back into Italian. ‘At least, not while he is watching, agreed?’

I laughed. ‘I’m not his lady, Giovanni. He’s … ’ What was Xav exactly? ‘He’s family.’

Giovanni wiggled his eyebrows. ‘Ah, even worse. We have to be very, very careful. He may call us out if we impugn your honour.’

Xav hadn’t understood the exchange. ‘What did he say?’

‘He’s taking this whole eighteenth century costume thing too far—expecting a duel if he flirts with me.’ I grinned at Giovanni. ‘Pistols or swords?’

Lily came up behind me and tapped my shoulder. She must have heard part of the exchange because she was smiling. ‘Sorry, guys, no duels: health and safety won’t allow it. You all look fabulous. Boys, if you wouldn’t mind going over to the lighting director, he wants to test his colour scheme on your costumes.’ Xav, Giovanni and the others obediently headed for the set, which had been rigged in part of the colonnade that ran around the edge of the piazza. ‘Crystal, come with me. Joe’s got his camera set up and has half an hour free.’

I thoroughly enjoyed my brief photo call with Joe. As the production’s official photographer, his role was to record the proceedings for the website and DVD extras but as Steve Hughes had not yet arrived on set, Joe was free to snap what he liked. A weather-beaten Scot, the photographer had a wrinkled face that would have suited a highland shepherd used to squinting into a northerly wind; his concentration was totally absorbed as he lined up the shots he wanted. I sensed that I became almost abstract to him—lines, shadows, and highlights interacting with my background of gondolas and palaces. I did the same when I thought of fabric designs, blurring out the foreground details and seeing the image as a whole.