The Silent Fountain. Victoria Fox
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office in a sun-drenched window, she watched him replace the receiver.
Jonny met her eye. He looked at her strangely, his expression indecipherable.
She didn’t move from her chair. ‘I didn’t get it, did I?’ she said in a small voice. Never mind, it had been a long shot. It would probably go to Ava, or Faye. They deserved it. She was just the new kid on the block; she couldn’t expect to just—
‘He wants you,’ said Jonny.
‘What?’
Jonny’s face broke into a grin.
‘Honey, he wants you. We got it. You got it.’
Vivien blinked. A buzzing sound galloped through her ears.
‘Do you hear me, Vivien?’ Jonny held his arms out. ‘The part’s yours! Burt frickin’ Sanderson – do you understand what this means?’
Rapture struck. Vivien’s hands flew to her face. She leaped up and ran into his waiting embrace. ‘Oh, Jonny!’ she cried. ‘Oh, thank you, thank you!’
He held her, kissing her hair over and over. ‘You did it, Viv,’ he murmured.
‘I can’t believe it!’ Tears swam to her eyes, happy tears, elated tears, but she contained them because she was an actress now and she had to start as she meant to go on. Besides, she had nothing to cry about any longer. Jonny had rescued her: she need never cry again. He had transformed her life, this wonderful, brilliant man. She could kiss him! For a crazy second she thought she would.
Then, without warning, Jonny beat her to it. Before Vivien could protest, his lips were on hers. But instead of playful brevity, that impulsive kiss she had considered bestowing on him a moment ago, he lingered. His mouth pressed too hard.
She pulled away, laughing uneasily.
‘It’s swell, Jonny,’ she said. ‘I’m thrilled.’
He grabbed her again; his breath was hot in her face.
‘How thrilled?’ he rasped.
Vivien put her hands on his chest and pushed. He was as excited as she was, that was all. This was a huge deal for both of them.
He kissed her again. This time she did break free.
‘I have to go,’ she said, spots of confusion bursting behind her eyes. The balance that had sustained their companionship was suddenly off. She felt indebted to Jonny, his advance an open palm waiting for payment – and her pockets were empty.
‘Where?’ Jonny demanded.
‘I have a lunch date,’ she said meekly. It was a lie, the quickest one she could come up with. It occurred to her that she had never lied to Jonny before.
‘With who?’
‘A friend.’
‘Can’t you call it off?’ For the first time, a glint of menace appeared in Jonny’s eye, a petulance. She took a step back. ‘We did this together, Vivien,’ he said. ‘We secured Burt Sanderson together. We should celebrate… together. You and me.’
‘Like I said, I have plans.’
The next part happened too quickly to know what came first. Vivien opened the door, but in the same movement it was slammed shut. Jonny came at her, turned her against the wall, and then his hands were hitching up her skirt.
All at once Vivien realised she’d been fooled. This had always been the price – just like at Boudoir Lalique. There was no such thing as a no-strings contract.
‘C’mon, baby,’ he murmured, ‘you know you owe me.’
Vivien fought back with all her might but it was impossible; he was too strong. ‘Get off me!’ she screamed. ‘Get your hands off me!’
‘You want it too. You’ve wanted it from day one.’
‘Jonny, please—’
‘This is what you’re good at, isn’t it, baby?’ His greedy hands crept round to her breasts. No, she prayed, no, no, no. This can’t happen. I won’t let it.
‘All those men you went with at the club…’ Oh, God, she had told him too much, trusted him with her darkest secrets. How could I have been so stupid? ‘Just a sweet whore at heart, aren’t you? So, come on, it’s my turn now; I’ve earned my right. I’ve waited long enough. I’ve paid you more than any of those jocks…’
It took all Vivien’s might to free her arms, but once she had, the rest followed. Throwing her weight against him, she scraped her heel down his shin, at the same time digging her elbow high into his diaphragm, winding him. Jonny staggered back. Vivien grabbed his shoulders and brought her knee into his groin, making him howl.
Every part of her shook – with fear, with adrenalin, with victory. She didn’t know where her strength came from. Perhaps it had always been there, buried inside.
‘Never touch me again,’ she said, her voice quavering. She wanted to weep – with shock, with disappointment, with sadness at the innocence she had lost, the friendship she had watched blow to ash before her eyes. Would she ever meet a man who would care for her and put her first? Would she ever know love without pain, without expectation, without betrayal? Would she ever be able to trust a living soul without that nagging voice telling her: You’re safer on your own? Would she always be frightened, lonely, damaged… the eternal outsider? Something hardened within Vivien in that moment: something liquid turned to stone. ‘I owe you nothing, Jonny,’ she said, ‘do you get it? You found me. You offered me this. It never came at a price.’
She straightened her clothes and willed her trembling legs to carry her into the corridor. As she stepped out, she heard his voice ring out from behind.
‘I’ll get you for this,’ Jonny choked. ‘You’re nothing without me, Vivien. I’ve given you everything – and rest assured I can take it away just as fast.’
I’d like to see you try, Vivien thought, lifting her chin.
I’m stronger by myself. I’m stronger than you know.
Italy, Summer 2016
We speak, finally, on the Friday. Adalina tells me: ‘Signora isn’t able to see visitors; she’s unwell. But if you go to her room at midday she will talk with you.’
I’m curious as to how this encounter will unfold, and when I reach Signora’s room at the appointed time it’s all I can do not to laugh, because Adalina wasn’t joking. There is a chair parked outside the woman’s door, and the door itself has been left ajar. A shaft of light seeps from the mysterious bedroom, but nothing else is visible. Gingerly, I sit. Nothing happens. Finally, I venture: ‘Hello?’
The space is so quiet that to move the chair would be startling. Instead I adjust my position, so that another inch of the room creeps into view. Rugs. Drapes. Heavy furnishings, gold and black… There is the edge of a mirror, in which I think I glimpse a fraction of the woman’s reflection. The back of her head, her shoulders, perhaps. It’s like turning an abstract picture, trying to make sense and finding none. I realise I am desperate to see her. I imagine her as tall, her pale hair secured at the nape of the neck with a velvet clasp, her shoulders broad and her jaw firm, still crisply defined despite her years, her lips full and wide… I draw her not as pretty but as handsome: someone whose face, having seen it once, you will not forget.
When she speaks, I recognise immediately the person I talked to on the phone.
‘Lucy.’ Her voice is distinctive, deeply mellow, like plums in autumn on the verge of rot. It comes from a place much closer to me than the mirror would imply, and a chill skitters down my spine at the prospect that