The Silent Fountain

Looking back, it might not be that my sisters overrode a more complex me; it might be that a more complex me simply had not existed. I buried her when I was fifteen and Mum was carried out of our house in the middle of the night, the life pinched out of her like a candle between two fingers. It was only when I met James that I set her free, the girl who had been caught and put in a jar, the lid screwed tight.

But I kept that girl to myself. She was my secret. And to my family I remained the trustworthy person they had always known.

They’ll find out soon enough.

I leave the booth, sling my bag over my shoulder and take the steps two at a time. Out on the street, the warm evening hits me like a fan. Suddenly, I’m dizzy. I cling to the wall, tiny pinpricks of light shimmering behind my eyes.

There is a café next door. I stumble in, ask for water, and sit in the cool of the air-conditioning, beneath an age-stained photograph of Michelangelo’s David.

I’m beginning to calm when I notice something. There is a man at the table opposite mine, a little older than me, watching me intently. It’s him.

The same man I saw outside the library last time.

Get up. Get out. Move.

The man stands. He approaches slowly, tucking his phone into his jeans, casually finishing his drink, and for an optimistic moment I expect him to walk right out of there, proving me wrong, but then his eyes are on me again and like a bad dream he closes the distance, stopping at my table, his hands in his pockets.

I pretend he isn’t there. When he pulls out a chair and sits down, I am forced to acknowledge him. He leans forward, his voice barely more than a whisper.

‘My name is Max,’ he says. ‘We need to talk.’

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Vivien swallows the pills with relish. The green ones are her favourite; they can knock her out for hours. All she wants right now is to be knocked out.

Every time she closes her eyes, she can see the girl’s face. Up close, the resemblance is uncanny, and what she hoped was a mistaken similitude, a trick of distance or light, is exposed as fact. They could be sisters. The girl is the spitting image. I thought you were gone from my life, she thinks. I thought we were through.

Adalina closes the curtains. ‘You will sleep now, signora?’

Vivien can sense the pills start to take effect, a drowsy, rocking motion like being on the swell of the sea. In the early days she would fight it, begrudging how it robbed her of control. Now, she surrenders, lets it claim her, oblivion.

‘Find him, Adalina…’ she whispers, as she tumbles towards sleep.

‘Shh…’ The maid sponges her forehead.

‘I have to see him again,’ murmurs Vivien. ‘Let him know I’m…’

‘Quiet now, signora, go to sleep.’

‘Find him for me, Adalina. Before it’s too late.’

‘Calm now, signora, that’s it, there now, calm…’

‘You must find him… Promise me you’ll find him…’

Against her delirium, Adalina’s face morphs and swells and at points ceases to be there at all. Vivien is aware of a sponge crossing her brow, or is it her own hand, her own skin, hot and damp and cloying? She hears the maid exhale, or perhaps it is herself, on the cusp of sleep, falling, dreaming… Quietly, Adalina leaves the room.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Vivien, Los Angeles, 1978

‘Ms Lockhart?’

The voice came at her from the sky.

‘Vivien…?’

It was closer now. Warm. Kind. It seemed to hold a hand out to her, and in the darkness behind her closed eyes she travelled towards it, her senses awakening one by one. Where am I? White walls, a smell of disinfectant and the low hum of conversation – then the sound of a curtain being pulled. The voice, where had it gone? She needed to hear it again. It was like water, quenching an ancient thirst.

‘Ms Lockhart, my name is Dr Moretti…’

She blinked, drawing the vision into focus. A man. His voice was deep and rich, with a gentle European accent. He was handsome beyond measure. Dark hair, wild and dangerous, falling to the collar of his doctor’s coat; the glimpse of an earring, a single dark cross. One of his eyes was black and the other was green.

He was a different breed to the men she was used to. He looked like a prince who had lived for a thousand years and never aged a day. His skin was marble, lightly tanned by the LA sun but harbouring the deep, permanent colour of foreign blood. She imagined him living in a forest, surrounded by sky and leaves.

It wasn’t the first thing patients typically thought when (as Vivien later learned) they first emerged from a week-long coma. But she couldn’t help it.

‘You might feel confused for a while,’ said Dr Moretti, slipping his board into the slot at the end of her bed. ‘Your memory will take a while to come back. You’ve been through a trauma, Vivien – you must be good to yourself.’ He spoke this last part with affection, and while Vivien’s pride told her not to fall for it, to keep her walls as strong and high as they had ever been, she wanted dreadfully to trust him.

Her memory, though, seemed fine. While the exact circumstances that had brought her here were misty – the strained call with Aunt Celia, the empty bottles of gin scattered over her dresser, that blind stumble to the car and the gunning of the engine – she was remembering acutely the pain and heartache she’d felt that night, the utter despair. Except all that seemed a distant shadow now, now that he was standing in front of her, this beautiful man with the strange-coloured eyes and the earring that made him look like a pirate. Her pain alleviated, as if she wasn’t only waking from a deep sleep but also from her old, outdated life. Gilbert Lockhart had used to talk about rebirth. Baptism. Emerging from the water and into fresh air, beginning again.

‘I’ll leave you to rest,’ said Dr Moretti, drawing the curtain back. Vivien wanted to speak but no words came, though whether this was a physical non-starter or a state of being tongue-tied she didn’t know. ‘Forgive the nurses if they get excited,’ he said before leaving, with a sideways smile that thawed the hardest, furthest part inside her that no one on earth had touched before. ‘It’s not usual for us to care for somebody famous. But the good news is, Vivien, you’re going to be absolutely fine.’

*

Over the next few days, she drifted in and out of sleep, torn between the urge to get up, get dressed, stalk out of there, and the pull of being tended to, cared for, looked after. The doctor came and went, a perfect vision, and as Vivien’s strength slowly returned so did her voice. Until, one morning, she found the courage to speak to him.

‘You must think me a terrible mess,’ she said. Humiliation burned when she imagined being brought into hospital, a ruined starlet, selfish and spoiled, while Dr Moretti was a disciplined medic, concerned with saving lives, not wrecking them.

He was about to leave, but stopped at the door. ‘Not at all,’ he replied.

‘I don’t know what I was thinking,’ Vivien stammered. ‘I guess, I – I wasn’t thinking at all. I was upset, that’s all. Well, that’s an understatement.’ She laughed emptily but Dr Moretti’s face gave nothing away. Those eyes took her in, those strong, stormy eyes, with barely restrained feeling, like a stallion roped to a gate.

‘I’d had a telephone call and it threw me,’ she went on, unable to stop and yet conscious she was spilling too much, spilling it all, but now she’d started there was no way back. ‘I’ve been pretending for a long time,’ she explained, somehow feeling that she had to explain, she had to make this man understand her just the tiniest bit because if she didn’t then what was the point of anything in the world, anything at all? ‘I’ve been surviving without joy,’ she choked. ‘I’ve forgotten how to feel joy, how to feel happy about anything. Did I ever know how? I seem to be better at knowing sadness, and destroying everything I touch. Oh, God, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m talking and talking and everyone thinks they know me but they don’t know me at all. I’m not even sure that I know me. I thought it would be easier for everyone if I just…’

She trailed off, feeling as though she had bared her soul in a way she had never expected to again: she had trained herself to be wiser, instructed herself to know better and she did know better. But how strange was the human heart. It told itself to close and yet still it opened, time and time and time again, in faith, towards the light.

He was silent for a long time.

Then: ‘Can I call someone for you?’

‘I don’t have anyone,’ she said.

His expression shifted in surprise. Those eyes again: how could she not fall into them? ‘No family?’ he pressed softly. ‘A mother, father… a friend?’

Vivien thought. ‘You can call my agent,’ she said. It sounded hopelessly sad, this brittle, proud star, with no one to call but her manager.

Dr Moretti came to her. He put a hand on her shoulder and it was the loveliest, tenderest touch she had ever received. A tear seeped down her cheek.

‘You’ll be all right,’ he told her gently.

She blinked and another tear fell. ‘Will I?’

He smiled. ‘Without doubt,’ he said. ‘I know a fighter when I see one.’

*

It was with some regret that Vivien was discharged a fortnight later, for she feared she would never see him again. She tried to occupy herself with getting back to work, and in true agent style Dandy leaped back on the wagon, seeing dollar signs where she saw redemption – she was surely hotter now than ever, the diva who had cheated death.

But Vivien couldn’t concentrate. It all seemed meaningless. The movie business no longer held her in thrall, the competition and rivalry that had charged her ambition dissipated like a whisper on the wind. Her life thus far had been about chasing the next prize, the next key, so that she could keep opening those doors and slamming the past shut behind her. But there were more important things than fame and money, things she had never contemplated before: things she hadn’t been able to contemplate before, because she had never met anyone with whom to share them.

She couldn’t stop thinking about Giovanni Moretti. She remembered how he had stirred emotions in her that she thought she had lost, his compassion, his patience, how he had drawn her honesty without even trying. Now she had uncovered that intimacy, she was frightened she would never find it again. In the short time she had spent with him, she’d felt a connection she had only read about in books. Had it been real? Had she been foolish to trust it, or had she been right this time? Was it still possible for her to know a good thing when she found it? Physically, too, he cast her under his spell. She woke in delicious sweats and ached to be kissed by him.

Months passed. Vivien had all but given up hope of ever renewing contact, when, out of the blue, he got in touch. She received the note through Dandy.

Vivien, I have to see you again. Meet me at Rococo’s, Friday, 8 p.m.

She didn’t need to be asked twice.

*

Their relationship began in earnest. Giovanni Moretti was, without doubt, the best thing that had ever happened to her. He was a strong, fine man in a reef full of sharks – intelligent, courageous and loyal, but with a mysterious, bruised soul that kept her guessing, kept her wanting, and she knew he would reveal it to her in time. She, after all, had revealed herself to him. Not since Jonny Laing had she been so truthful about her history – and she knew this time was different. She knew Gio Moretti wasn’t like other men. She told him everything, from Gilbert’s beatings through to her escape, from her nights at Boudoir Lalique to that sick advance in Jonny’s office and everything in between: the fact she kept on running but could never outrun her past.

He didn’t judge her, just took her in his arms when she had finished her story and stroked and kissed her hair. ‘It’s over now,’ he said. ‘I promise, it’s over.’

She sensed that her vulnerability mattered to him, though she couldn’t say why. He seemed to understand her in a way that no one else did, as if she reminded him of someone, as if they had perhaps known each other in another life.

Vivien’s only white lie was that it wasn’t just her mother who had died, but her father too. Both her parents were dead. She figured they might as well have been – Gilbert had ceased to exist for her that very same day she walked out of his house. Had her father been to visit her in hospital? Had he called? Had he cared? Had he sent even a card or a flaky bunch of flowers to wish her well? Had he hell. She owed him nothing. It was easier, cleaner, to cut all ties. To pretend there was zero left.

When she disclosed she was an orphan, Gio searched her eyes. There was something he ached to tell her, but he caught himself in time. Instead, he drew her to him and didn’t let go. ‘It’s you and me now, Vivien,’ he murmured. ‘Always.’

Their courtship was magical. She had never felt such desire, such safety, never thought the two could go hand in hand. She had written herself off as too selfish and damaged for commitment, but here Gio was, her guardian angel. She could stare into his eyes all day long, one black, one green, and lose herself in his embrace.

Dandy called night and day, demanding she answer his messages, asking why she’d let him down at a casting yet again. Why had she lost interest? What was going on? Speaking to Dandy was like yelling across tundra to a distant figure in the snow. He couldn’t hear her. She spoke another language; one that said, I’m through with this. It’s a heartless world. I’m done with Hollywood and I’m done with you all…

‘I need a break,’ she told her agent.

‘Are you knocked up?’

Normally Vivien would have taken affront, but it was difficult to feel mad about much these days. ‘Very funny, Dandy.’ Privately, the promise of carrying Gio’s baby was like a flurry of wings inside her. Now was too soon, but in a year or two… She couldn’t believe how swiftly it had happened, how much had changed. Having survived her accident, she was in awe of her body, of the things it might achieve.

She clung to her renaissance like a ship in a storm. Her heart said it was because she was full to the brim of love for him. She ignored the alarm that wormed between her ears at night, telling her that she had sabotaged the life she’d built – both lives, her one in Claremont and her one here – and Gio was all she had to tether her. If she lost him… Well, it wouldn’t happen, so there was no point thinking about it. So what if Gio was all she had? So what if she relied on him utterly? So what if, when you took him out of the equation, there was nothing left? Wasn’t that what real relationships were about? Vivien wouldn’t know; she’d never let herself find out.

Every day, Gio decorated her with roses, chocolates, perfumes and impromptu trips, to spas, cosy bistros, a boat on the lake. Vivien didn’t know where he got the money – he was a fine doctor, but he couldn’t earn enough to cover that kind of expense – but she wasn’t about to question it. Since opting out of work, her funds had started to dwindle. She hadn’t realised how much debt she’d stacked up, the compulsive sprees she’d undergone in an attempt to blot things out. She had spent foolishly on her high and was suffering for it on her low. Gio didn’t seem to mind.

I’ve got him, she thought. It doesn’t matter. He’s not going anywhere.

And it felt good, for once, not to have to build her barriers. They were untouchable, the pair of them: a couple who could take on the world.

*

Life continued happily for a while. Vivien knew she was recreating everything she had lacked as a child: sanctuary, certainty and security. She only wished that Gio would agree to move in with her. She didn’t pressure him, only suggested it once or twice, but he point-blank declared it a bad idea. ‘Why?’ she asked. But he wouldn’t say. There was always some excuse – it wasn’t the right time, he couldn’t get a lease on his place, couldn’t they wait just a bit longer? It didn’t make sense, though. Gio spent most of his time at hers and he seemed more in love with her than ever.

It began to bother her that he never invited her back to his house. It had crossed her mind as odd in the early days, sure, but Gio was too full of distractions, too clever at diverting questions, that with a kiss or a look her curiosity had been postponed. As time went on, Vivien’s suspicions crept in, threading through her like weeds, making her doubt, making her question, terrified that the ground on which she had gambled to plant her feet was yet again about to shatter beneath her. She couldn’t understand his secrecy. Her paranoia multiplied, niggling, tormenting, impossible to ignore. When he told her that he could no longer see her on Friday nights – Fridays had to be his – she drew the line. If Gio wanted space, fine. But he had to be truthful.

‘I don’t want space,’ he said, his face clouding. ‘I’m crazy about you, Viv.’

‘Then what’s going on?’

‘Nothing,’ he said, turning away. ‘It’s the hospital. My shifts have changed.’

She didn’t buy it. But she was too afraid of the alternative, of pushing him into a confession. Is he having an affair? Is there someone else? The notion made the sky fall. What will I do without him? The thought of another woman chilled her.

She had to find out. The following Friday night, she drove to his house, parked opposite, and watched the windows. Her hands gripped the wheel.

Liar.

So much for the hospital. Why were his lights on? Why was there a gleaming Chrysler parked on the drive? Vivien knew. He wasn’t at work at all. He was in there, with some other woman he deemed special enough to bring home. They’d be making love right now, on the sheets Vivien had never slept on. They’d eat a meal at the table she had never sat at. They’d shower in the bathroom she had never stepped into.

How could he? How could he do this to her?

Even with the evidence as plain as day, Vivien couldn’t accept it. Gio was in love with her. He wasn’t like the rest. They were lovers but they were also friends.

Friends didn’t do this to each other – did they?

Minutes ticked by and turned into an hour, maybe two, she lost track.

Still, she continued to watch. Until eventually, at around ten, the payload appeared. In one of the upstairs windows, a woman could be glimpsed, a fleeting sight before she vanished in shadow. Vivien’s knuckles whitened. Her tears turned to fury.

She swung open the car door.

I’m going to catch them together and then I’ll punch his fucking lights out.

In a rage she stormed up the drive, past the gate, past his precious car, tempted to scratch it with her keys but there would be time for that on the way back, and pounded her fist on the door. In her mind, she rehearsed all she would say and do to the traitor. Who is it? Who is she? Someone I know?

But nothing could have prepared Vivien for the truth.

Nothing could have prepared her for who the woman was.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

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