The Silent Fountain. Victoria Fox

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