Читать книгу The Unbreakable Trilogy - Primula Bond - Страница 20

The car leaves the quaint squares and pretty lanes lined with chic shops where elegant inhabitants glide about their well-heeled business. I peer through the rear window like a condemned woman as we head inland. Lugano looks right up my street. I could love a town that calls itself a city, one with palm trees, Riva boats and jazz festivals in the summer, and skiing, cable cars and lakeside restaurants in the winter.

‘The guide book says dolce far niente is one of the mottos of Lugano, did you know? All of Italy thinks like that, actually. I think it means “so sweet doing nothing”.’

‘For lucky buggers on holiday, maybe. And technically we’re still in Switzerland.’

The mountain-fringed lake drops away behind us, glittering with wintry sunlight.

‘Why can’t we linger a little longer? What’s the rush?’

‘Boss said to bring you straight here, Miss.’

The car labours doggedly up a narrow road squeezed on either side by colossal boulders. It turns under a high brick archway smothered in ivy, bumps over the cobblestones into the middle of a deserted yard, and stops. For a moment there is no sound but the ticking of the engine and the sharp whistle of the wind.

Dickson shifts round heavily, his broad shoulders and back making the leather seats creak.

‘The chalet’s still locked up and it’ll be freezing up there. I have to get into town for some supplies.’

‘Charming welcome. If I’d known nobody would be here I’d have asked you to leave me in Lugano to have a look around. At least I’d have some other human beings for company!’

I glare past the empty yard to the backdrop of navy blue mountains. I’d feel differently if Gustav was here with me. The city looks enchanting enough but those projections of rock dragging their bony knuckles against the heavy sky seem menacing rather than majestic. They promise avalanches to be buried in and ravines down which to plummet. Grist to the mill of experienced, show-off skiers like Gustav no doubt, but alien to dreamers like me growing up in the soft rain and undulating fields of Devon.

Sure, the cliffs beneath my childhood home had their own sea-battered grandeur. They had an uncanny siren call, too, luring hikers to venture too close to the edge. Polly and I used to dare each other to take that extra step across the smooth, layered outcrops overhanging the waves. We’d stub our fags out on the grey rocks and decide that mica schist, the name of their geological formation, would be a grand name for the girl band we were going to form.

‘Well, I’ve delivered you safely. Now I need to get on.’ Dickson’s gruff voice butts in.

‘Just wait, Dickson. It’s bad enough that we didn’t travel together, but why hasn’t Mr Levi bothered to meet me?’

‘Oh, he took the funicular straight up to San Salvatore peak soon as we arrived at Agno airport last night. He’ll be on one of his climbing escapades I daresay, and checking out the weather. Typical of him to do in winter what everyone else does in the summer.’ Dickson tugs back his driving glove to look at his watch. ‘Not that he’s been anywhere near here since – not for at least five years.’

He gets out of the car and opens my door. I step out and am nearly knocked backwards by the bitter cold.

Thank God Crystal kitted me out with all these layers of custom-built thermals, topped off with this Dr Zhivago-style hat and cosy quilted ski jacket. Before Gustav fled to City airport like a thief in the night, he obviously instructed her to supply me with everything I’d need to follow him to the Alps. He knows full well that all I have to my name are my caramel tweed jacket, scarves, some jeans, jumpers and T-shirts, and my beret. Oh, and all the clothes I purloined from Polly’s flat, which are designed for fashionistas to trip between taxi and catwalk rather than piste and peak.

I was so sleepy when Crystal tip-tapped into my bedroom this morning and switched on all the lights that she ended up attending to my toilette as well, dressing me like a lady’s maid.

‘Spit, spot, Serena, you have a plane to catch.’

Her back was to the window and with the cold white light behind her I couldn’t see her face clearly. Only the outline of her ramrod stiff back and today’s beehive hairdo. As she wasn’t moving or averting her eyes, I went ahead and slipped my negligee off.

‘You actually said spit, spot!’ I mumbled, hunched shivering and naked on the edge of the bed.

‘Mary Poppins is one of my heroines. As is Lady Macbeth.’

‘That would figure. Out, out, damned spot. Isn’t that what she said when she couldn’t wash away the blood?’

‘Indeed. Both sticklers for cleanliness, you see?’ Crystal gave a thin smile and picked up the first item, a rather sensible pair of all-encompassing knickers, from a neatly folded pile on the chair beside her. ‘Now, don’t catch a chill.’

I pulled on the softly clinging pants, which felt warm rather than seductive but still sexy, like a second skin. I tried to hide my embarrassed wriggle as she watched me. Then she handed me some amazing silk leggings which I could feel heating my skin as soon as I slipped this pair of perfectly fitting white jodhpurs over the top. Crystal glided behind me to fix them round my waist, then led me to the pretty art deco dressing table by the window.

I fiddled with all the brushes and bottles. She moves as if she’s on casters. She seemed to have taken root in my room like a bodyguard so I decided to poke her for some information.

‘Crystal, we don’t really know each other, and you probably won’t tell me, but there are so many questions buzzing around my head about Gustav.’

‘Only one thing you need to know,’ she trilled, picking up a huge silver-backed hairbrush. ‘And that’s that you should never play games with him. Either you’re with him, or you’re against him. He sees everything in black and white. No grey areas. Would you like me to brush your hair?’

I started. ‘How did you know I love having my hair brushed?’

She lifted the brush and the sudden thought of her whacking it down on someone’s bottom made me bite my lip, hard, to stifle a giggle.

‘I didn’t know,’ she replied calmly. ‘You might have thought it an impertinent suggestion.’

‘Not impertinent. Friendly.’ I settled back in the chair so that my head was nearly resting on her stomach. ‘Go ahead, Crys.’

‘Crystal.’

‘I crave it, actually. More than that. It turns me on if, well, if a man is touching my hair. Gustav sussed that out from the start. I was starved of affection as a child, you see.’ I glanced up at her in the mirror. Her beady gaze was laser-steady. ‘No-one ever washed it, brushed it, plaited it, did anything nice to it when I was little. They hated my hair.’

‘They?’

‘The people I lived with.’

‘Your parents, you mean? You can’t say their names?’

I flattened my hands over my ears.

She tapped me with the hairbrush. ‘You can’t say Father, or Mother? Mum, or Dad?’

‘Crystal, they weren’t even my real parents. I was the wrong baby. My hair was the wrong colour. It symbolised everything that was wrong in that house.’

She made a snake’s hissing sound with her teeth and laid one hand on my head as if I might erupt. ‘They must have been blind. It’s beautiful, like a waterfall of liquid amber.’

I shook my head violently, like a child refusing to eat carrots. ‘They hated it. Their favourite punishment was pulling it or hacking it off.’

‘Where were Social Services when all this was going down? Sounds to me like you were being badly neglected.’

‘I was good at hiding things, that’s all. But enough about me. Gustav is good at concealing things, too. His real feelings, anyway.’

‘He has good reason to barricade himself in.’

I tried to relax, let my head move lazily against her as she started to brush.

‘But that leaves the rest of us guessing. So if anyone’s playing games it’s him! Look. I know he likes me. I’ve made it as clear as I dare that I’m into him. I mean, how could I not be? It’s not just the money, and the chances he’s giving me, but he’s got the kind of eyes you want to drown in, if only he’ll let you dive in. Metallic one minute, melting the next. And his mouth. What would it be like at kissing, I wonder? You can never tell if he’s going to swear or smile. What’s with the grim, distant mystique?’

‘He’s deep, not distant,’ Crystal murmured. ‘But attractive, sure. If vampirical millionaires are your thing!’

I giggled. ‘So what’s the craic? We’re lone souls who collided. And yet …’ I made a throat-cutting gesture ‘… he’s let me go so far with him and then – zip. Nada.’

‘You didn’t collide. He picked you.’

‘That’s what he says.’ I bent my fingers into hooks and waggled them like a witch casting spells over a cauldron. ‘But how could he know I’d be hanging round this very square on Halloween night? He’d only just moved in here himself!’

She lifted one thin shoulder. ‘I sometimes think he has a sixth sense.’

‘I don’t believe in all that. He’s just a voyeur, same as me. A spy. And now he’s got me where he wants me, in his house, under his roof. I’m contracted to stay here until the exhibition is sold out. I’m contracted to, you know, please him whenever he asks. So why doesn’t he ask? Why doesn’t he take advantage?’

‘He won’t bare his soul until everything is absolutely right in his own mind.’

‘Who’s talking about his soul? I’m talking carnal knowledge here. Christ! Life’s too short to be a perfectionist!’ I snatched a pot of gloss, smeared it carefully over my lips. ‘So is there something wrong with him?’

Crystal raised her thin eyebrows. She looked just like a wooden matryoshka doll, with seven diminishing Crystal clones trapped inside.

‘As opposed to something wrong with you, you mean?’

‘All in working order, as he well knows!’ I glared at her, but it had no effect on her etched expression. ‘Is he … how can I put this? Is he impotent? I know he’s responsive to stimulae, but can he get it up? Did this ex-wife torment him to such a degree that he can’t perform any more? Is that why he won’t come on to me?’

‘It’s not my place to say.’

‘That sounds horribly like a yes. I need to know, Crystal. You were part of the ménage here. I’m guessing it was no-holds-barred in the Levi household once upon a time.’

She shook her head and concentrated again on fussing with the curls at the ends of my hair. ‘I assure you, young lady. Nothing wrong with him at all. Not physically. He’s all red-blooded male.’

‘I’m going to have to take your word on that. Mentally, then?’

‘Nothing wrong with him up there, either. He’s an intelligent, perceptive, savvy man who made some terrible choices. Sacrifices, too. You’re right about one thing. That woman knocked the stuffing out of him. And when he ordered her to leave she lashed out in the worst way possible. Took the one person he loved in the world.’

‘His little brother, you mean? How did that happen?’

The blackbird eyes glimmered over the top of my head.

‘Not little, exactly. He was about your age by then. But she seduced him and brainwashed him. I’m certain of it. The original cougar, red in tooth and claw.’ Her thin red lips opened slightly, then snapped shut again like a letter box. ‘But that’s forbidden territory. Gustav’s Achilles heel. The day he tells you about that saga is the day you’ll know he’s letting you right in, Serena.’

‘He’s not dead, is he? The brother? Just tell me that much.’

‘No, no. Alive and kicking somewhere on this earth, but I suppose you could say he’s dead to Gustav.’

She was holding the hairbrush like a weapon and I had another graphic vision of her bringing it down on a soft, bare bottom. My soft bare bottom.

‘Be very careful with him, Serena. You’re the first, the only woman who has got this close since – for more than five years. Apart from me, but I don’t count.’

‘You do count, Crystal.’ I leaned nearer the mirror to paint on some mascara, but kept my eyes on her. ‘I’ve seen the video. Don’t go all poker-faced. Gustav showed me the photos and movies in the house in Baker Street. I saw you being spanked by some dominatrix figure. You know my work. My scenes from a Venetian convent. So you know we’re on a similar wavelength. I daren’t ask Gustav, but who’s the person in the fetish leather going at you with the whip?’

‘I guess it’s no secret. It would be easy enough to google the material if you really wanted.’ The brush paused in my hair, then snagged on a tangle. ‘It’s Margot. His ex-wife. That was her sideline.’

‘Some sideline! What was her mainline?’

‘She ran a couple of boutiques. One in Switzerland and later she opened one in Marylebone.’

‘What sort of boutiques?’

‘Fashion. And then she branched out into accessories.’

We caught each other’s eyes in the mirror. Hers were two black slits above her thin red mouth. Mine were huge with questions.

‘Accessories. Right. Like handcuffs? Catwoman muzzles? Whips?’ My hands flew up to my mouth. ‘So how on earth did you get involved, Crystal? Were you friends?’

She picked up a vicious-looking comb and worried at a knot of hair until it unravelled.

‘She placed an advert, about a year before the end of their marriage. Discreet demo model for the private shows she staged to encourage her more timid celebrity customers. Gustav was refusing to be part of the underground business by then, although he oversaw the filming of the installation. Then the dreadful showdown occurred and she, and the brother, were gone.’

Down in the street we heard the melodic honk of the car horn.

Crystal’s eyes glittered in the bright morning light flooding in from the three arched windows. The brush resumed its work and jerked my head backwards.

‘Margot hasn’t left the building, though, has she? She’s still up here, getting in the way.’ I tapped my head. ‘I need to know what I’m up against.’

Tangle sorted, Crystal brushed so briskly that it hurt.

‘You’re up against a spectre, nothing more. But everything about her was toxic. They were a toxic mix. At first her, ah, hobby was only indulged when she was at the house in Lugano. But then her buyers and clients became international and started clamouring for more access, and so their home in Baker Street became the club. The punters loved the illusion of the respectable old English town house being the facade for all that debauchery, and that’s why it was the obvious place to keep the collection even after they both moved out.’

I shook my head in disbelief. My hair swished like silk. ‘No wonder it felt like a mausoleum.’

‘It went to her head. She was the queen bee in that house. She paraded her obsession in front of him, cajoling and threatening him if he didn’t join in. It got out of control. Mind games and bullying.’

‘I don’t understand why he would preserve it as an exhibition if it made him so unhappy?’

Crystal bent her head in agreement. ‘I agree. I’ve tried to persuade him to sell it or just destroy it. But it’s an investment. It still makes huge amounts of money. He’s an entrepreneur, remember. Sees potential in the darkest of corners. Maybe he’s holding it to use against her one day. But it’s poisoning him, just like she did. Women like that are very devious about the ways they wound and men are too proud to fight back.’

‘I know all about what goes on behind closed doors. But in the end it’s only—’

‘Sticks and stones. Yes. But that woman could have cut you down at fifty paces with just a look, let alone words. And then finally when he did fight back she carried out her ultimate threat.’

‘Ultimate threat? You mean stealing his brother?’

‘His only remaining family. He’d cared for the boy since he was tiny.’ Crystal stares at the wall above the mirror for a moment, as if the lives she’s described are scrolling across it like an old cine film. ‘But when she left, I decided to stay.’

I took the brush off her and stood up. ‘So you and Gustav were lovers?’

She actually laughed, then. A surprisingly tinkly, musical laugh, like sleigh bells.

‘Oh no, you’re barking up the wrong tree there, my little lotus blossom! Men aren’t my thing, even charismatic ones like Gustav!’

I wish she was here now. Cold and peculiar as she is, she makes me laugh. I am getting used to her being around; my maid, the kindly shadow over my shoulder. And how much light has she shed, in one short conversation!

‘Come on, Dickson,’ I am bleating now. ‘At least let me stay in the car until he gets here. It’s freezing, and I’m starving. It’s been hours since you made me those smoked salmon sandwiches.’

‘Yeah, he’s told me what an appetite you have. That’s why I have to go to the shops, Miss. The cupboard is bare.’

‘So take me with you. I’ll show you what grub I like.’

He takes his chauffeur’s cap off and rubs his gloved hand over his totally bald pate. There’s the tattoo of a slender woman’s leg, foot pointing like a ballerina, winding up the back of his neck.

‘No can do. My orders are to leave you here, Miss. He told me you’d be fine. A tough nut brought up in the middle of nowhere, is what he said.’

‘Marooned, more like.’

Dickson shrugged awkwardly. ‘Just my instructions.’

‘Do you know, Dickson, all I dreamed about when I was stuck in that house on those wretched cliffs was being in the middle of a city, part of a herd, hemmed in by buildings and streets, assailed by strange music, foreign languages, aromatic smells and exotic food. And being warm. Always warm.’ I rest my hand on his bulky sleeve. ‘Stay here and tell me your story.’

‘Nothing to tell.’ He brushes my hand off as if it’s a speck of dust. ‘I’m sorry, Miss. After I’ve bought the food I’ve got to check progress with the land agents and then I’ve the afternoon off. I do have a life, you know. Between you and me I’ve got a friend who works at the Alprose chocolate factory over the way. She’s waited for me all this time, would you credit it? Then the boss wants me back on duty to sort out your dinner.’

I take a good look at Gustav’s chauffeur-chef in this stark white light. Usually I only see the back of his head. Occasionally catch a glimpse of him in his chef’s whites in Gustav’s kitchen, tenderising meat and blending mangoes. Difficult to tell how old he is. Around Gustav’s age, maybe. They’ve been together a long time, apparently, boss and manservant. Batman and Robin.

‘I thought this was going to be a dirty weekend for me, too.’ I scuff my feet grumpily, clapping together the beautiful leather ski gloves with a mother-of-pearl shimmer that Crystal has given me, trimmed with silver fox fur to match my hat.

‘I’m sure he intended you to enjoy the view while you wait, Miss, you being artistic and all that. It’s beautiful here. Look.’ He waves his arm around the mountains surrounding the lake and the pastel buildings reminiscent of the islands of Venice lounging around the water’s edge. ‘Italian on the one hand. Swiss on the other. See that pretty church tower up there? That’s the chapel where they were wed.’

‘Don’t want to hear it, Dickson!’ It’s almost a sob. ‘Come on. What am I going to do in this smelly old yard if he doesn’t show up?’

‘You can ride, can’t you? Horses, I mean?’

I glance around. So that’s what this is. A stable yard. But most of the loose boxes look shut and bolted.

‘Yes, as a matter of fact. I used to ride a lot in Devon when I was a kid. It was the only fun I was allowed to have. And that would explain why Crystal dressed me up as “Equestrian Barbie” this morning. But how does Gustav know that?’

‘Perhaps the whip gave it away?’

I gasp and go bright scarlet.

Dickson chuckles and taps the side of his nose like a gangster. ‘You don’t think he’d invite any random bird to stay here, would you? It used to be his favourite place in the world. He hasn’t shared it with any of the others.’

‘Others?’

‘You know. Floozies. Girls. Blimey, is that the time! I really must be going before all that lovely chocolate melts. My weakness, you see. Sweets. Chocolate.’ He licks his lips.

‘Mine too.’ My breathy laugh is snatched quickly by the cold. I can’t hear any hooves, or snorting, or jingling of bridles. His words are clanging in my ears. ‘Bring me back some, will you?’

‘Sure. But riding is the order of the day first. That’s all I know.’

‘You can’t eat horses. Or fly home to London on one. I don’t like it here, Dickson.’

‘I daresay he’s testing your patience, Miss Serena. And your stamina.’

I catch a light in his eye as he looks me up and down. What have the two men been saying about me? ‘Either way you have to do as you’re told. We all do. We’re all marked.’

‘Marked?’

He jams his cap back on. ‘It means no-one else can have you. You belong to him.’

‘I don’t belong to anyone, Dickson!’

‘You do. You signed your life to him, remember? We all sign contracts. That’s how he operates, how he keeps his people in line. He learned the hard way never to trust.’

‘Well, he has a funny way of keeping his side of the bargain, winding me up like a bloody puppet then rejecting me.’ I push past him to get to the car. ‘I’m not his property, and nor are you.’

Suddenly a blinding light flashes from somewhere. Dickson jumps straight into a defensive position, hands out in a karate block. The light flashes again in a kind of code, and Dickson gives an embarrassed cough.

‘He can see us. He likes to take a powerful telescope with him on his hikes.’

I flick a V sign in the direction of the cable car station. ‘Who’s the voyeur now, Levi?’

Dickson salutes smartly. ‘Message received and understood, Boss. Never disobey him, Miss. He can be fearsome when he’s roused.’

‘You’re all just frightened of him.’

‘No. We understand him. We know why he lost his mojo. We do what he pays us to do, he looks after us.’ He eases his bulk back behind the steering wheel. ‘But I tell you it’s not worth disobeying him, or playing games.’

‘Spooky. That’s exactly what Crystal said.’

He crosses his fingers. ‘We’re like that, Crystal and me. Go back a long way, since the bad old days. And she’s right. Once you’re over the threshold, on the payroll, it’s non-negotiable. And whether you like it or not he’ll hunt you down.’

I snigger scornfully. ‘My arrangement with him is different from yours. It’s had built-in obsolescence from the start, because it only lasts until Christmas. Or until my last photograph goes.’

‘Good luck with that,’ he murmurs, adjusting the rear-view mirror.

I flounce round towards a low grey stone building on the far side of the yard where I think I can see a dim light glowing. Behind me, the car engine starts up again.

‘For God’s sake, Dickson! At least wait to check that he’s actually coming!’

Dickson tips his cap in a suspiciously jaunty manner, slides the car out of the yard and down the rocky road towards the lake, leaving me hemmed in by the ring of mountains.

‘The pair of you!’ I yell uselessly, my words snatched by the wind as the brake lights disappear. ‘Bloody bastards!’

The day’s exhilaration is gurgling away like so much cold bath water. When I stepped aboard the sleek white jet this morning, saw the Levi font painted along its flank, and then Dickson jumped down from the cockpit like something out of Top Gun, I could barely contain myself.

My mood went lukewarm when Gustav wasn’t at Agno airport to meet me. When Dickson changed from Tom Cruise to The Sweeney and guided the silver Lexus along the valley floor below the purple mountains, circled the calm cold lake with its colourful buildings crowding round the shore, then purred up this mysterious-looking road with the overhanging boulders and rocks, I assumed that any minute we’d get to a fairy tale castle with grey pointed turrets and Gustav would be bounding over the drawbridge to greet me.

Tepid is the word for how I’m feeling now, as the bracing air with its tang of glacier slaps at my cheeks.

Oh my God. My bags are in the car. Even my handbag. All I have with me is my camera. Dickson has to come back. This is just a tease. The test he was talking about. Surely he’s not that mean, even if Gustav is.

A church bell echoes round the valley, reminding me that civilisation isn’t so far away. Even the herd of goats just visible further up in the wood must have someone tending them.

I wander back through the arch and take some pictures of it from the forest angle, the ivy clinging to the brickwork for dear life. The black pine trees lean into the wall, dark green branches poking and grabbing, as if determined to break it down and take it over. But as I zoom in on a fragile-looking wild rose, I notice that the brick isn’t as old as it looks. It’s been recently re-pointed.

Dickson isn’t coming back. Ten minutes have passed. There is only the occasional flap of wide wings breaking the silence, a woody crack as something heavy lands on a bending branch, and the whistle of the wind, but even the elements don’t seem able to penetrate this dense forest. There’s only the pervading cold and the metallic light glinting off the lake below as the afternoon draws in.

If this is some kind of sick joke then I am having a sense of humour failure. I have to find shelter. I push open the door of the little building and the dim light turns out to be an oil lamp burning in the corner. Someone has recently put a match to it. No. On closer inspection I see that it’s electric. From the sharp clean smell I can tell that someone has recently polished all the tack arranged on racks around the room, bridles, saddles and martingales, gleaming bits and buckles.

In the darkest corner is an American Western-style saddle strapped to its own frame, broad as an armchair. It gleams with saddle soap and polish. I glance around. Nothing and no-one here. Just me and the wind howling round the building. And presumably somewhere up in the forest, Gustav prowling around with his telescope.

My elegant riding boots ring out in the empty tack room. The dim light outside is laced now with approaching mist. Any minute now it will lower itself over the landscape and smother us all.

I pack my camera away. The only place to sit is that comfortable-looking saddle. I climb up and sit astride it for a moment, taking care not to thump down on my bottom which is still sore from last night’s punishment. I hold myself just above the saddle, my legs spread on either side of the wide seat. I start to rock.

The owners of the stables along the cliffs must have suspected something was wrong at home when I started hanging around for longer and longer. They might not have noticed the odd bruise, but they can’t have missed the fact that I seemed happier talking to horses than to people.

I just told them that my family was busy, that they wanted me out of the house, and after a while the stable owners liked having me around, said I was a great help, paid me to groom and exercise the horses. I spent every weekend and all the holidays galloping across the cliffs or down on the beach, sometimes roaming as far as the moors, especially in the winter when the tourists had gone back to the city.

Sometimes they allowed me to sleep in the straw loft, listening to the horses and ponies stamp and snuffle all night. Was anybody missing me back at home? Who knows? Who cares?

Only once did I go home and ask for a horse of my own. It’s there, in the diary. Yet another ugly fight.

You think we’re made of money? You can do what you like when we’re rid of you, but you’re not bringing a dirty animal back here. Now go and wash all the stinking mud and fur off those clothes.

Looking back on that row, I wonder why they didn’t just lock me up for the whole weekend as was usual when I’d displeased them. Why didn’t they refuse to let me go to the stables again? They must have known how much that would hurt. How much I loved going there. But we struck such poisonous sparks off each other that they would rather have me out of sight, out of mind, than have me imprisoned in my bedroom, filling the house with my unhappiness.

My body wakes up with the rocking motion as I pretend to be riding. I lower myself gingerly, lean slightly sideways to take the weight off my sorest buttock. The leather feels warm beneath me, as if it has only just been lifted off a sweating mount. It creaks as if it’s speaking.

Damn Dickson for abandoning me here. Damn Gustav for ordering him to do so. If he’d just hung around another few minutes, had the courtesy to wait until Gustav pitched up.

Outside, the wind wuthers round the corner of the building like a damned soul, rattling the stable doors and knocking over a bucket. My heart jolts in my chest. I’m certain there is no-one else here. No way of knowing how long Gustav will keep me waiting. I could die in here. I have no idea how big his estate is. Does he own the whole mountain? The whole forest?

I’m not threatened by any ghosts, but what if the real thing is here? What if Margot knows we’re coming and is lying in wait up at the castle?

I wriggle down into the saddle and concentrate on the creaking sound it makes, just as if a muscular steed is trotting smartly along beneath me. I grasp the high rounded pommel at the front with one hand and the back panel of the saddle with the other and slide myself back and forth until the leather heats up with the friction and I start to vibrate with the heat. The smooth fabric of my jodhpurs slides easily across the leather, quickly growing damp with exertion and secret excitement. The smell of the leather grows stronger, mingled with my own sweet aroma.

I close my eyes, raising myself off the seat as far as the long stirrups will allow me so that the chilly air can get to me. Then I bang myself down onto the seat again, rubbing up and down the saddle, tilting myself so as to feel the heat more acutely, spreading my legs wider so as to press down on the leather surface and rub some more.

I start to quiver with excitement, driven on by the whistling of the scary wind outside. I am holding onto the saddle to support myself, fingering the high, rounded, phallic pommel. The shape of it is perfect for my private game, and before long the pleasure is growing as I gyrate against it.

‘Did you know,’ comes a deep voice into the dusty silence, ‘that pommel means “little apple”?’

I half-groan, half-laugh at the interruption. ‘So you’ve finally made an appearance.’

‘The journey hasn’t tired you out, I see.’

I can’t look at him. I grasp the pommel, hunching over it as reluctantly I abandon my game.

‘Would have been more polite for you to travel with me instead of running off in the middle of the night.’

‘We’re not joined at the hip, are we, Serena?’

‘I thought that was what the silver chain was all about?’

‘Yes. When I choose to attach it. Oh, I have it here, don’t worry. But you’re a big girl now. And Dickson delivered you safely.’ Gustav strides past me. He reaches for a bridle. Despite his rough tone I can see the edge of his cheekbone rising with amusement. ‘Right. When you’ve finished scratching your itch, are you ready for a ride?’

I blush furiously, turn to glower at him over my shoulder, and nearly fall off the saddle.

It’s like a different man has just walked in, even though I can only see his back view. The only familiar item of clothing is the dark red scarf.

Gustav Levi, the well-built, pale, slightly reclusive businessman in Jermyn Street tailoring has been supplanted by a muscular, swaggering, unshaven horseman in unashamedly tight black jodhpurs, long black boots and a black high-necked Belstaff-style jacket. He looks magnificent. The ensemble makes him look taller, leaner, fitter, and much, much younger.

It’s easy to imagine his body stripped of the black skin of fabric, his clearly outlined buttocks bare, the muscles tensing under my tentative touch, flexing under the skin, pulling back ready to thrust himself between a pair of willing thighs.

Wind your tongue in, Polly would say. You’re ogling the guy.

I shove my finger into my mouth to keep from giggling.

‘Loving the Equestrian Ken motif, Gustav. We match, see? I’m your Barbie doll, all in white. Madame Crystal has sent us forth dressed as two sides of a negative.’

‘That’s why I hire her, Folkes. She sticks to her brief.’

I wriggle into the saddle, wishing he’d turn round. If Gustav’s jodhpurs reveal his fit physique, then every dip and curve of my soft, lazy bod will be on display, too. Let’s see if he is similarly inflamed by lust when I present myself for inspection in all my snowy splendour.

My teeth nip my finger harder than I intended and the tiny jab of pain flares deep down between my legs. It was definitely worth flying over half of mainland Europe to catch an eyeful of Gustav Levi in tight black jodhpurs.

I can’t take my eyes off him as he runs a cloth over the tack. The black hair falling over his eyes, the sequence of muscles rippling through his body, the inviting curve of his bottom, the fine bulge of muscle in his thighs, the strong jut of his knees as he lifts the saddle off its moorings.

What did Crystal say about him? Deep, not distant?

But is he goading me? Is he parading in subtle yet skin-tight clothes to tease me? Crystal would tell me not to be so ridiculous. She’d retort that these are the requisite protective garments for horse riding. Slim-fitting, but supple. And she would be right. Nevertheless I intend to feast my eyes because this is as close as I’m going to get to seeing my lord and master naked.

He turns to face me, the saddle in his arms, his mouth open as if he’s about to say something. His black hair has caught on his eyelashes. I long to sweep it away so that I can see how bright his eyes are, what’s going on in those black pools, how steadily they are staring at me. His face is pale, but there’s a strong growth of dark stubble chiselling his cheeks and chin and making him look more devilish than debonair.

My hand feels automatically for my camera. I want to capture Gustav’s new rugged, restless energy. My Alpine Zorro.

I take a quick shot, because he’s standing so still. I play back the image to make sure it was in focus and there he is, a modern-day musketeer staring at me in the same mesmerised way I’ve been staring at him. I glance at my trapped specimen, and then at the real thing. His black eyes are half closed with what? Attraction? Amazement? His wide lips are half smiling, biting back an exclamation of what, admiration? Or amusement?

A fine specimen indeed.

I swing my leg over the saddle rack and jump down.

‘I’m not sure my bottom will take a rough ride after last night.’ I smooth my own trousers and tug the puffed jacket down. ‘And I don’t see any steeds.’

He laughs softly and saunters towards a far door, kicking it open. The air whistling in from the yard behind us is bitterly cold, but when I stump after him I find myself in a bright modern corridor of loose boxes. Brightly lit, centrally heated, and smelling cosily of straw, oats and equine sweat. Grey and chestnut and black noses poke over the doors, waiting for attention. I pat each horse as I pass, but it’s the Arab chestnut mare with the huge Bambi eyes who draws me back.

‘This one’s my favourite.’

‘Her coat matches your hair,’ Gustav remarks from inside the furthest stable. ‘And she’s pretty jumpy like you, too. But go ahead. Take your pick.’

I lean on the door to watch him as he saddles up his big black mare. My nostrils prick at the familiar smell of linseed oil freshly brushed onto the horses’ hooves to make them gleam. There must be a groom somewhere. Did he or she see me rubbing myself on the saddle just now?

Gustav strokes his horse as he buckles up the girth. His hair shines like silk in the dull light pooling in from the high window. I can’t resist peeking at his butt again, craning to look at his crotch in those tight breeches, and there it is, the tantalising bulge pushing against the zip.

A brief memory hits me. Gustav the other night in his candelit house, lying vanquished and groaning on the sofa as I sucked him.

And then my horse shakes her head and stamps her hoof, and the memory melts.

Gustav emerges from the far stable. Pets and their owners. It’s true. The high cheekbones of the highly bred horse, the majestic curve of the nose, even the over-long eyelashes and glossy mane are all an equine version of him.

Gustav eases a sugar lump into the nibbling lips of his horse.

‘You’re sure you know one end from the other?’

‘I never had my own mount, but I spent most of my teenage summers around horses. But you know that about me already. I even used to help break one or two young ones. So yes. I know what I’m doing. You just watch me.’

He hands me an armful of tack and narrows his eyes in challenge. ‘Great. Let’s get going, before it gets dark. It’s going to snow tomorrow, it’ll fall right down here and by the lake, so we won’t be able to take the horses out again.’

I don’t move for a second. We stare at each other in the warm building buffeted by an increasing wind. Face to face, alone, just as we were in that London square. How far away that seems now in time and space.

His eyes have a feverish glitter and he’s practically bouncing on his toes with an eager energy. I know I should be infected by it, but I’m disorientated by everything. Part of me is withdrawing, curling up defensively inside me.

I see to my horse and saddle her up. Typical of Gustav Levi to be relaxed in a place where the rest of us are constantly jumping at our own shadow.

‘Put this on. Got to keep you safe.’

He steps up to me and removes my warm fur hat and gloves and stashes them in a black leather rucksack slung round his shoulders. His dark eyes are alive with fiery light as he plonks a very unglamorous helmet on my head, tugging my hair away from the strap, smoothing it down my back.

He fastens the chin strap carefully, running his finger underneath it to check the tension, my skin as sensitive there as if it’s been scalded. My mouth parts a little, and so does his. His tongue runs across his lower lip as he traces the swell of mine. Back, forth, his finger moves towards my mouth as if to enter it, pauses. I can feel saliva gathering as I hold my breath. We’re millimetres apart. His white teeth bite down as he nods.

‘Perfect fit.’

Despite everything that has gone on between us, despite the fact that we’ve been alone together several times, done intimate things to each other, talked about intimate things, despite this unaccustomed breezy cheerfulness, I am suddenly rigid with shyness. It’s like a shell forming round that snail’s curl of doubt.

The stark afternoon is lighting up the whites of his eyes, the sheering bone structure of his face accentuated by the weekend bandit’s beard.

And the mouth. The usual grim lines are relaxed into a sensual fullness. Oh, he’s still so beautiful. And yet he won’t kiss me. I know that now, and worse than that I know why. He’s brought me to this beautiful setting, for this weekend away, but there is another presence here. How can I feel relaxed in the very place where he lived and loved with Mad Margot, the same woman whose mention still has him pacing and cursing?

This is the place where her perversions developed into a thriving profession. Where all those debauched parties and antics occurred. Where Margot reigned supreme. What am I doing here?

I’m his protégée, that’s all. He’s brought me here to sort something out in his own mind. Or, as he said, as a dogsbody to help him pack up some old mementos.

‘Just one more thing, Folkes.’

His voice is so quiet, so soothing. He’s holding out a pair of soft leather and woven riding gloves. I refuse to meet his eye this time as he pulls my hands out straight in front of him. But the skin inside my wrist quivers just the same when he circles it then separates the fingers. My body tightens just the same when he eases the leather fingers over mine. His breath tickles my face as he twitches the gloves tight. The sensations are all the same as that first night in the square, and later in the bar of Dukes Hotel when he dressed me up to go out into the cold.

‘Have I told you how good it is to see you here?’

I shrug wordlessly. He hooks one finger round the silver bracelet and pulls me closer to him.

‘Takes your breath away, doesn’t it? The mountains, the lake, the horses. You don’t have to speak. God, we all spend our lives banging on, don’t we? Being here suits you. You’ve a real bloom in your cheeks already. It means a lot to me that you came. I can’t wait to show you my favourite spot.’

I glance quickly at him, astonished that tears are pricking my eyelids.

‘Thanks for inviting me,’ I blurt quickly, and turn towards my horse. For the first time he is reading me all wrong. ‘But let’s not bother with talking. Let’s get out there.’

I place my foot in the stirrup and swing easily up onto my horse, remembering not to thump down too heavily on the spine of the saddle. Yes. This feels right. Some good hard exercise to get the blood pumping. A good night’s sleep in the mountains. Make my excuses and go back to London tomorrow. Hard sell to finalise the exhibition. Onwards and upwards.

I grip the reins. I get it now. I’m some girl he’s picked up who has surprised him with her talent but he’s basically enrolled me to further his own profile in the art world. A cute chick he can amuse himself with when he needs to take his mind off his troubles. Someone wet behind the ears he can practise a little light spanking on to keep his hand in. But who isn’t good enough for him to kiss.

‘Right. Let’s see what kind of horsewoman you make then, Folkes.’

The world looks different from up here. It all comes flooding back. The powerful beast between my legs. The flicking forward of the ears, the dancing legs, the skittering of her hooves across the cobbles as I check my stirrups. The rocking and creaking of the saddle. And I can’t ignore how unutterably sexy my companion looks as he strides over to his mount.

Black clad, black hair falling over his face as he strokes the black mane. In another life I’d have done anything for him. But he’s not mine. He never will be, no matter how cute and clever I try to be. So what if Gustav stops in his tracks at the sight of me astride the Arab mare? I know I look good. What else is new?

‘Lead on,’ I cry brightly. I’m forced to straighten my spine, and as the horse strides out my body tilts in response, bottom sliding on the saddle and breasts thrusting forwards with each step.

Gustav vaults nimbly on board without bothering to use the stirrups. He looks me up and down with frank delight, eyes lingering on my breasts, my hips, my legs, before nudging his horse in front of me.

‘You look stunning up there, Serena. Majestic. The warrior queen, born to ride.’

‘This is me at my best.’ I trot up beside him. ‘And you don’t look too bad yourself.’

His black eyes flash wickedness under his glossy hair. He clicks his tongue and I’m still trying to harden my heart as we trot briskly out of the stable yard and straight up a bank into the dense forest.

‘Wait for me!’ I call, but he ignores me, pressing his horse into a gallop up a well-worn path and disappearing round a corner.

When the horse’s tail flicks out of sight I squeeze my chestnut mare into a gallop to follow them. The man in black on his black horse flashes in and out of the trees, in and out of the shadows, into brief oases of daylight, hooves muffled on the pine needles. I have to concentrate at first to get into my horse’s rhythm, thighs screaming to grip the saddle, bottom tensed up into a half standing position, but then I catch up, I’m right up behind Gustav as he crouches over his horse, his hair streaming in a similarly glossy mane, his hard, muscular, squeezable butt held up in the air like a jockey.

And then we are neck and neck, very dangerous on the rock-strewn pathways, so close I could flick at him with my whip if I had one. I laugh out loud at that. Whips in London, whips in art galleries and echoing mansions, but not here, in the great outdoors, when you’re actually riding.

His long fingers in tight black gloves are curled on the reins, controlling his horse as we race. The blood is pounding through me now, beating in time to the drum of hooves. I am determined to overtake him, but he keeps pace with me. On and on we race, the going getting tougher because it’s steeper, and stony. We’re on the mountain, now, but the peaks recede as if laughing at us.

Up high in this forest the trees press together, cramped as a crowd of people straining to watch a street performance, pushing at us as we gallop neck and neck, twigs grasping at my arms, swiping with their spiky, thorny branches as if to drag us off our saddles.

All at once the light opens up, the tunnel of trees becomes sparser, they fall back as if to make way, and then we burst onto a rocky plateau flat and bright as an arc-lit stage. The horses clatter to a halt just as I realise that there’s a mere few yards of shiny granite between us and a sheer drop. It’s not the ravine I was thinking about earlier. There is simply a void of air between us and the mountains on the other side of the lake. The ground seems to have been sliced away by a giant pair of shears.

Gustav walks his horse a few feet closer to the edge, just as Polly and I used to do on the cliffs. The hoofs clatter noisily, slipping on the frosty surface.

‘For God’s sake stop pissing about, Gustav!’

‘I’m flattered you’re concerned for my safety, Serena, but I know this terrain like the back of my hand, and so do the horses.’ He laughs, settling his hands on his saddle. His legs are so long in those black jodhpurs. So relaxed as the toes rest in the stirrups.

‘Just feast your eyes on all this splendour, Serena. This is one of my favourite vantage points. I used to walk or run or ride up here to get away. To think. To plan. You see? We’re almost on top of the world.’

The peaks are that much closer, it’s true. The illusion is that they’re at eye level, that I could reach out and tap their outline. It’s as if the earth was in a rage when it forged this landscape, punching its way as high as it could out of the plains, aiming for the heavens, fighting itself into these muscular fists of jagged rock to separate territories and make a statement.

We mere humans and horses can only stand and admire and grip the ground. The clouds of our mammal breath are wispy imitations of the weighty clouds up in the massive bowl of sky, but for now we are part of the landscape too.

‘See, there’s snow on the high points above us.’ He is turned sideways. He points over the deadly drop. He looks like a Sioux chief surveying his prairie. ‘It’ll be coming further down by nightfall tomorrow. You can tell from the light. We won’t be stranded at the house but we won’t be going out on horseback again. To ski we’d have to go over to St Moritz or Como.’

‘You know I’m a beginner at skiing?’

‘You’d give it a go, though, wouldn’t you, my gutsy girl?’

I shrug to distract him from my reddening cheeks. If he’s a big chief, does that make me his squaw? ‘Maybe. But I don’t know you well enough to risk making a clown of myself.’

‘Anyone less like a clown I can’t imagine. And you do know me, Serena. Better than you think. Certainly well enough to let me teach you to ski.’

I stare at him. Where are the words when I need them? He has this way of taking coherent thought and rubbing it out before I can articulate it. Do I know him? I know his face. I think I could reproduce every line, every eyelash, every shadow now, if you gave me a pencil and paper. But can I interpret the commentary behind those black eyes? I’m not so sure.

When I don’t reply he sighs. ‘Well, we may not have the time. My priorities for this visit are to get the house cleared and sold and off my hands.’

I can hear the harsh chord of bitterness as he speaks.

I clear my throat. ‘So tough for you, when you so love this place.’

‘This particular spot, yes. She’s killed my affection for the house and the land. Oh, I’ll still manage my investments from here. And maybe I’ll buy another property over the border in Italy. A ski lodge, maybe. What do you think? Or a house on one of the other lakes.’ He squeezes his knees to urge his horse a couple of paces nearer the edge. I stifle my squeal of horror. ‘But this is the last time we’ll ever set foot or hoof on this part of the mountain.’

‘We?’

He is turned from me now, his hair hiding his face, and doesn’t respond. I decide it was a slip of the tongue. This setting just proves how far removed his life really is from mine. There can’t possibly be a ‘we’. Can there?

I follow his glance. Far below us the lake is a smooth looking glass. I can see one or two of the slim ferry boats spitting their white triangular wake over the water. The tiled Lombardy roof tops glow red as the sun retreats. The mountains become shadowy silhouettes as it drags its train of fire behind them, leaving embers of shredded pink cloud.

I am sharing Gustav’s love of this amazing vista. We are sharing it.

I turn my horse across the plateau, hoping he’ll follow me. The mountain rears above us. I tip my head back dizzily to see the summit. It’s been obliterated while we’ve been up here, the dark grey clouds anxious to dump their load of snow. I’m just about to aim my camera at the sunset when I see, tucked in a little grove and surrounded by an incongruously twee picket fence, a little white Bavarian-style chapel, its elegant spire adorned with an iron cross. The one Dickson pointed out to me earlier.

That’s the chapel where they were wed.