Pierre. Primula Bond

while the coffee brewed I took off my sweaty clothes and pushed them into the washing machine. Decided to get my one clean négligé out of my bag –’

      I turn from the door, the back of my neck prickling, but Pierre isn’t looking at me. He’s staring straight ahead, at the opposite wall, puffing his cheeks out as he lifts the dumb-bells, apparently counting his lifts.

      ‘Go on. About the négligé. You’re talking my language now. I never tire of hearing about lingerie. The flimsier and more see-through the better.’

      ‘You’re putting me off.’

      ‘Sorry, signorina. Proceed.’

      I kick at the doorstep, unsure whether to wrap up this story – or ramp it.

      ‘I made him a tray. Can you believe it? So devoted. Two slightly stale pastries and the espressos. I tiptoed across the hall. The bedroom door was ajar. I pushed it with my knee.’

      ‘Your poor bare knee under that silky négligé. About to get a horrible shock.’ Pierre’s voice has gone very deep, very quiet. ‘Just because it’s a cliché doesn’t stop it hurting.’

      I turn round so I can see him while I tell him this bit.

      ‘Daniele wasn’t asleep.’

      Pierre Levi’s black eyes meet mine. His face is calm, but serious.

      ‘Of course he wasn’t. What was he doing, Rosie? What exactly was he doing in your bedroom?’

      ‘What are you – why would you want to know the gory details?’

      ‘To help you, of course. And because I’m a pervert.’

      I laugh. Right in the middle of telling a virtual stranger how my boyfriend cheated on me. Pierre grins back at me, but he doesn’t join in the laughter.

      ‘You’ve been in this situation, haven’t you?’ I say slowly, peering closer into his face. ‘You’ve been caught just like Daniele.’

      Pierre’s shadowy black eyes hold mine for a moment, then slide away.

      ‘Right first time. I’ve always been the other man. I’m the one who cuckolds the husbands.’

      I lean back against the door frame.

      ‘You really are a bastard.’

      His eyes snap back to mine. ‘You’ve got it, sweetheart. That’s me.’

      We stare each other out. He’s daring me to falter. I’m daring him to regret what he’s done in the past.

      ‘The bedroom was in darkness. I didn’t believe what I was seeing at first.’ I keep my voice steady and low, keep my eyes on his. ‘There was just a seam of light glowing around the edges of the shutters. We painted those shutters together. Duck-egg blue. There’s a balcony outside where we used to sit with wine or coffee at night, looking at all the lovers and students and tourists sitting and smoking and chatting on the Spanish Steps.’

      Pierre thumps the dumb-bells on to his table. ‘I’d love to visit Rome.’

      ‘Daniele was wide awake. He was never wide awake at that time of the morning! He was kneeling up on our bed, taking his weight on his arms. I could see his bottom sticking up in the air. Butt naked, white against the dimness.’

      I stop. The phone on the nurses’ station rings. We’re both reminded of where we are and what we’re supposed to be doing. I shouldn’t be here. My shift ended hours ago.

      ‘Don’t be shy. Let it all out.’

      I hesitate. ‘Just one thing, Mr Levi. If you’re so into all this sharing, letting it all out, if this is such marvellous therapy, why aren’t you co-operating with Dr Venska? Why don’t you articulate all your issues with her instead of refusing to talk?’

      ‘I thought those notes were confidential.’

      I drum my fingers on my arm, bite my lip while I wait for him to cave in. The silence stretches to the brink of awkwardness, and then he shrugs.

      ‘We’re talking about you right now, Cavalieri. Not me. But who knows? Maybe I’ll try it next time Venska comes steaming in here. Maybe I’ll give her what she wants!’ He grins so devilishly that a minuscule part of me feels sorry for the haughty therapist. ‘Go on, Rosie. What else did you see in that bedroom? Apart from your cheating boyfriend’s naked backside?’

      My face is aching with the effort of keeping some semblance of cool before this interrogation.

      ‘There was a girl underneath. Legs wrapped round him. I knew those short stumpy legs. I knew exactly who it was. She was from the restaurant. The sous chef. She’s always been after him.’

      I shake my head, feel the hot angry tears pricking my eyes.

      ‘What was he doing to her, Rosie? Use the exact words!’

      ‘He was fucking her.’ I stop. Let the word reverberate.

      ‘Again. Say it again.’

      ‘He was fucking her like he used to fuck me, hard, like a fight. She was bouncing about, moaning, head tossed back, he was inside her, my boyfriend. Mine. I wanted to be sick.’

      Pierre is silent for once. He nods, his hands resting loosely on his broken legs.

      ‘It was awful, compelling, like watching a car crash.’ I grip the back of the visitor’s chair. ‘I should have run away, shouted something, but I just stood there. They were so engrossed they didn’t see me. Our bed was creaking, my favourite pillow had slipped off; the wooden frame was banging against the wall. Bang, bang, bang. He and I painted that wall.’

      ‘I can see it all. So clearly,’ Pierre murmurs. ‘I can hear it, too. I bet the bitch came first. A proper little screamer.’

      I shouldn’t, but I smirk, because it’s true. She did scream, because she thought no one was listening. I’ve gone over that scenario so many times, but hearing Pierre’s take on it, his nasty additional flourish, has taken the sting right out of it.

      Pierre has closed his eyes now. Beads of sweat dot his brow, and one of his hands slides off his leg on to the sheet.

      ‘I should go.’

      I stand up and lean closer to him, pat the bed near his hand. His hand shoots out and grabs mine.

      ‘Tell me the end. What did you do? Tell me you didn’t just creep away like a thief in the night, Rosie.’

      I look down at our hands. Mine is enfolded inside the stern cradle of his like a child’s, as if he’s the adult about to stop me running across a busy road.

      ‘She may be a screamer, but I’m not a runner, Mr Levi.’ I wiggle my fingers, expecting him to let go, but he holds on tighter, his eyes still closed. ‘I turned round, went back into the kitchen, got the tiramisu out of the fridge, took it into the bedroom and tipped the bowl over them. Chocolate and mascarpone and wet sponge fingers everywhere.’

      Pierre opens his eyes. They’re bloodshot with fatigue now, but he grins, lifts his hands, and claps.

       ‘Brava, signorina! Brava!’

      Even though it’s mock applause I drop into a silly curtsy, making the nylon of my uniform crackle. I back away from him across the shiny floor.

      ‘Hey, Cavalieri!’ Pierre Levi calls as I get to the door. ‘How do you feel now?’

      The drugs trolley and the arriving night shift, the phones and the squeaking of rubber-soled shoes all trickle into the quiet bedroom as I open the door.

      ‘Better, Mr Levi. Much, much better!’

       CHAPTER