The Silent Fountain. Victoria Fox

back in the documents for La Gazzetta’s write-up from the previous year – but I find nothing. No other files under Vivien Lockhart.

      I’ve reached a dead end.

      ‘Mi scusi, signora, ma stiamo chiudendo.’

      The librarian distracts me from my thoughts. I look at the time. It’s gone ten. How have I spent three hours looking at this stuff, and not even noticed?

      ‘Grazie,’ I reply, gathering my things.

      The library is deserted, the wooden booths empty. At the front desk, a woman is checking books back in, and smiles at me as I pass. I’m heading down the stairs to the street when I hear footsteps behind me, matching mine perfectly. I slow. So do the footsteps. I start again, quickening my pace. Whoever is behind me follows suit.

      My pulse speeds up.

      I’m relieved to reach the normality of the real world, but don’t stop until I am safely across the road and swept up in the crowd. A carnival is unfolding, the beat of a deep drum surging the revellers forward through the streets, flags held aloft, faces painted, and I duck into a doorway to catch myself. Only then do I look behind.

      I’m in time to see a man watching me. My eyes go straight to him, though he is surrounded, as if I always knew I’d find him there. Perhaps it is because he is standing totally still, like a rock in furiously churning water. His face is obscured, I cannot make him out, but I would put him at a little older than me; he’s broad, dark, and staring right back. Immediately, I know who he is. I’ve always known.

       They found me. It was only a matter of time before they did.

      I turn and rush through the bleeding, blinding streets, weaving flames and hollering voices, desperate now to get back to the Barbarossa, frightened of what lies behind me but frightened, too, of what waits for me there.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

       Vivien, Los Angeles, 1978

      Vivien Lockhart rolled over in the warm glow of Californian sunshine, and stretched inside satin sheets. Outside, the green ocean sighed, waves lapping against a golden shore. What day was it? Ah, yes, an important one. Tonight, she would accept her first Leading Lady Award at the annual Actors Alliance. Everyone knew it was in the bag – her recent turn in the mega-hit Angels at War was unrivalled: she was a tour de force, a masterclass, a vision to behold, and the only way was up. Vivien was the brightest star in Hollywood. She had it all, everything she had fantasised about and more. Every studio wanted to work with her, every designer wanted to dress her, every rising starlet wanted to be her. Oh, and every man wanted to bed her.

      ‘Hey, baby…’

      The model-slash-actor she’d brought back last night reached for her: bronzed arms, a mane of jet hair like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. She couldn’t remember his name. No doubt this was, for him, the start of some grand love affair.

      ‘Screw, is that the time?’ Vivien swung out of bed and headed for the shower; she had brunch with her agent at ten. ‘I gotta get ready. Dandy’ll kill me if I’m late.’

      ‘You don’t want breakfast?’ The model-slash-actor was disappointed.

      ‘No.’ She smiled sweetly at him. ‘By the time I’m done, I want you out.’

      *

      She bagged the award, of course. It had never belonged to anyone else. As Vivien went to collect her gong and deliver her speech, she reflected on the glittering crowds gazing up at her from the ranks. Envy on the women’s faces; lust on the men’s. Vivien’s crown was untoppleable: her beauty and talent were second to none.

      ‘Don’t you think you oughtta slow down a little?’ Dandy asked as they took a car to the after party off Broadway. Vivien unscrewed the cap off a Chambord miniature – her third. But that wasn’t counting the brandy.

      She drained it. ‘Say what?’

      ‘You’ll be drunk.’

      ‘Haven’t I earned it?’

      ‘The night’s not over yet. You’re still on the clock.’

      ‘And I’m still fine.’

      Dandy knew better than to press the issue. As Vivien applied lipstick, she decided that if it was a choice between the warm burn of alcohol in her throat and any approval Dandy could offer, she would choose the alcohol every time. For many years, she’d been dead against it – her father had been enough to put her off. But these days, it was all that would do. It kept her moving and stopped her thinking; it sped the days and nights along like a leaf in a rushing stream, never pausing or getting caught.

      That was her motto: Keep going, keep striving. Looking back never did anyone any favours. Learn your lessons and wear them like armour.

      Their car pulled up outside the warehouse venue. Owned by Warhol, inside it was a tropical, decadent paradise of exquisite creatures. Vivien was regaled on entering, the Halston jersey dress she had changed into after the ceremony admired and revered, her shimmering trophy marvelled at as if she held the sun in her hands.

      ‘Congratulations, Vivien,’ ‘Darling, well done,’ ‘Oh, you look ravishing!’

      Compliments fell about her like rain. Dandy steered her through as best he could but everyone wanted to stop and take her hand, tell her how much they adored her and what a stunning performance she had achieved, hoping to delay her long enough that a paparazzo would pass and take their picture together and it would appear in the glossies in the morning. Fame was contagious, or so they hoped. Vivien was the golden lamp: touch her arm and she might just make their wish come true.

      Her own wishes, of course, had come bountifully to fruition. Perhaps that was why, amid the clamour of appreciation, Vivien could only see the hollow truth beneath. These people had got her wrong. They imagined her to be the girl Dandy sold to the press – a butter-wouldn’t-melt ingénue who had walked into a Burt Sanderson audition one balmy afternoon and claimed the part she was born to play.

      Nobody knew about her sordid beginnings, her violent father or her shameful work-for-tips at Boudoir Lalique. She was determined it would stay that way.

      The hours passed in a haze of booze, drugs and dance. Vivien moved across the spotlit floor, disco balls shattering kaleidoscopic light and she was in one man’s arms and then another’s and then another’s, each of them faceless, nameless. She thought about the girls she had known in Claremont and at the Lalique – what did they make of her celebrity? Did they respect her, or pity her? Did they wish for the studs in her bed or did they have husbands of their own, children, families?

      Vivien wondered if she herself would ever have a family. The one she’d left behind had injured her so badly that she vowed never to be beholden to one again. Besides, she was too sullied. These men thought they wanted her, and they did for a night, a week, a month – but for always? No. Not once they saw the hidden scars.

      She was drifting to the bar when a voice pierced her from behind.

      ‘Hello, Vivien.’

      It was like being stabbed in the back by a thin, sharp blade.

       Not you. Please, not you.

      ‘Jonny Laing,’ she forced herself to answer. ‘What a surprise.’

      She should have been more careful. She had checked tonight’s list and he hadn’t been on it, but clearly he’d managed to slide his way in, insidious, horrible, Jonny all over. She’d got sloppy; she had to be smarter. Vivien avoided her adversary at all costs, for the mere sight of him chilled her. Jonny relished the cards he held: even after all this time, he still believed he could have her. He believed that one day she would capitulate and he would get a return on his investment. The higher her star climbed, the more of a payout it would deliver.