Precious Things (23 page)

The baby was half crawling, half bottom-shuffling towards her, and Bella saw that she had something clutched in her fist. It was the coronet. No doubt she'd been bewitched by its glittering sequins and diamantes – she loved sparkly things. Bella understood how she felt; she sensed a pull to the unusual item herself. Without a second thought, Bella prised the coronet from her daughter's hands and shoved it deep inside her bag. Thrusting the photo in with it, blood rushed in her ears, her heart pounding in her chest.

As Bella straightened up, she grabbed hold of the baby again and hoisted her onto her hip as though nothing had happened.

In that instant, Bella caught Audrey's eye across the room. Fingering the ugly black pearls at her neck, Audrey's smile twisted. Bella's heart plummeted. It was almost as though her hands had a mind of their own these days, she thought, realising her mistake. Before she could even stop herself, they were reaching out to take, take, take . . .

Putting out a hand to still Christian, Audrey pulled him away from his cleaning in the sink. The smell of turpentine made Bella giddy for a moment, as she noticed the paint seeping over Christian's knuckles.

Bella swallowed.

‘I saw you, Bella,' said Audrey softly. ‘You're unbelievable.' Her lip curled.

‘I told you.' Audrey turned to Christian, pointing at Bella. Her red-tipped fingernails were like claws. ‘She's a sponge. Always has been, always will be. This is all the proof you need, surely? And a thief as well. Cut her off, Christian. It's about time.'

Bella felt unable to move. Pinned to the spot, she watched Christian's impassive face. Suddenly, that hardness entered his eyes again – all the more terrifying because it was directed at her. She felt herself cowering, genuinely afraid. Bella knew what he was capable of. Audrey retreated to the wooden door of the studio, closing it quietly behind her, and Bella felt panicked enough to cry out, ‘Don't leave . . .'

Christian was shaking his head, slowly walking towards her. ‘It's not enough that I feed you and your bastard and put a roof over your heads. Or invite you to places you'd never see – not in your position,
not with your background – and introduce you to the sorts of people who can . . . help you. But you steal from me as well. Why?'

‘
Cara
, I—' said Bella, spreading her hands wide, retreating from him. ‘This is a misunderstanding. Look I'm sorry, it was caught up in my things, I wasn't thinking . . . It's just a silly mistake. I would have returned it.'

‘Really? Like the silverware in Nice?' Christian asked, his head to one side, voice still soft but implacable, menacing. ‘Don't think I haven't noticed the bills missing from my wallet, or the “lost” sketches. Even my father's old watch – was that you as well? We all suspected it, Bella, but Audrey was certain. She's been watching you, and waiting. I found it hard to believe . . .' He trailed off, but the words rang false to Bella's ears. He'd been waiting, too.

‘I've always defended you, even when the truth was obvious.' Christian took a step towards her, then picked up an ugly brass statuette from the bureau that he kept as a paperweight. He looked down, estimating its weight. ‘What did you do with the silver, Bella, with my watch, eh?'

Bella didn't move and Christian suddenly shouted, ‘Did you sell it?' and then threw the statue against the wall. Plaster cracked and left a hole, pieces falling to the floor. ‘My father's watch? Did you sell it, you thief, or do you still have it?'

The baby jerked and screamed, her face crumpling, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. Bella felt the anger boil up within her, abruptly, from beneath the surface. It was molten hot, and threatened to consume her. The unfairness of it all! She only took what she needed. The way she was used, why shouldn't she have more?

‘It's not true,' she spat. ‘Why would I steal from you? I can have anything I want, at the click of my fingers,' she said, stamping a foot to prove her point.

‘Oh yes. From whom?' he asked, voice cold. ‘Who will you click your fingers at now?'

They faced each other, breathing heavily, the baby screaming in her arms.

Christian made a sound in his throat and turned away. ‘You know what, forget it. I should have realised I'd never get a straight answer. God, you're a piece of work.'

‘You didn't always think so,' she shouted. ‘Not when I was your mistress. You loved me then.'

Christian rounded on her. ‘Love?' He sounded incredulous. ‘Never love. Not for you. You're a whore, Bella. And you know it. And I was your meal ticket.'

‘Ha!' screamed Bella, hysterical now. She clutched her daughter against her chest, the baby flailing her chubby little arms against her as she wailed.
How dare he –
how dare he use that against her! Why did he even take her out of the club that night, protect her and dress her wounds, if he was only going to throw it back in her face? A red rage overtook her, until Bella could no longer see. The studio and canvases swam before her eyes.

‘You think you're so clever, but you would be nothing without me. I inspired your work and you've made a fortune out of me. And what do I get in exchange? Nothing!' She snorted. ‘Oh, a dress here, a dinner there. A pittance for Bella – nothing like the fortune you're making. And with what? Your paintings? Modern
homages
? Try tired, derivative copies, Christian. Where's your edge? You wouldn't have one without me . . . Alessandro, Donatella, even your stupid sister and Matthew – we keep you
relevant
, Christian. Unlike you, we live in the real world. You know your sister's pig of a husband forced himself on me, don't you? That's why Audrey hates me so much. And I said no,' she said, pointing at her chest. ‘No! Because of you! I wish I hadn't, though. Poor man probably hasn't had a decent lay in years. Not since he gave her that rock. And you call me the whore. I don't need you. Do you think I need you? I
live
, Christian. With passion. Unlike you. Your detachment makes me sick,' she said, spitting on the floor.

Christian was cold. ‘How dare you.' He turned and walked away, then held the door open. ‘Get out,' he said simply.

‘I will. God knows you've sucked me dry!' Bella kicked at the stool in her rage, sending it flying across the room. It clattered to the floor,
skidding close to the finished canvases, which made Christian jump.
Good.

Bella picked up her bag and crossed the floor, pausing in the doorway for a moment. ‘If I'm the
puttana
then you're the pimp, Christian. A pimp and a parasite.'

‘That's rich, coming from you. I thought I saved you.'

‘Saved me? Spent me, more like.' She stepped in closer and Bella was pleased to see him flinch just a little. She hissed. ‘No one will ever, ever, do that to me again, do you hear?'

Christian's face contorted into a snarl. ‘I'll ruin you, you bitch. Just wait and see.' He slammed the door behind her.

Bella walked out of the studio and down the crumbling steps, the coronet still plunged deep within her handbag. ‘It's all right, darling,' she whispered in her
bambina'
s ear. ‘We'll be okay.'

The noise of her clacking heels against stone sounded deafening to her ears, drowning out the baby's cries.

Bella loitered outside the shop, eyeing the contents of the window, her hands twitching in the pockets of her coat. The wool was pilled, pockets baggy, and her best dress – the starched white linen with its ripe lemon-and-leaf print – was now stained and threadbare at the hem. But she hardly really noticed. There weren't many fine things these days, now their circumstances had changed so dramatically – most had been pawned or sold. Besides, she'd never been very good at looking after precious things. Except one. Her baby was almost four now, but grew to look more and more like her father every day.

Watching the overcast sky in the window's reflection, Bella then looked at the streaks of grey at her temples, the dark rings under her eyes. They were almost bruised, like the bad old days before Christian had found her. Steeling herself, Bella realised it was now or never – the clerk had just entered the back room. Now, quickly, while the shop was unattended.

A boy, still in his teens, rode by on a bicycle. Swivelling to admire Bella's curves, he sent her a long, low whistle of appreciation. She didn't even bother turning around, but instead made her way noiselessly into the shop, heart beating with desire.

Later, with a mix of adrenaline and anticipation, Bella left the shop and went home. Trudging up the steps, she pulled aside a dusty drape to let the light in. Sun streamed into the grubby room, showing the handmade dolls scattered on the unmade bed, the newspapers piled in a corner, all the baskets of ironing she had yet to finish. There were canvases here and there, leaning against the walls. The child was curled up in the only armchair, leafing through the pages of her favourite picturebook. She looked up at Bella and smiled.

Plunging her hands into her pockets, Bella pulled out the slick white tubes. ‘Look how clever I am, darling,' she said, tossing them onto the table. ‘More supplies.' She placed the three sable brushes in a little heap beside the paint, and adjusted the canvas on its cheap, rickety easel. She took off her coat and threw it on the bed, shrugging out of her dress. Arranging herself, Bella caught sight of her reflection in the mirror, angled to reveal the stained white slip.

‘Come here, little dove,' she called, and the girl looked up. Stretching out her little skinny legs, the child put aside her book, obeying her mother. Bella gave her a kiss. Holding her at arm's length, she considered. Then reached out an arm and picked up the coronet.

Squeezing the oils onto a board, Bella mingled them to achieve the exact shade of flesh, watching their reflections closely in the mirror. Earlier, she'd made a drawing on paper, but now she had paint and better brushes they could properly begin. Adding to the pencilled lines, Bella focused on the shape of their bodies, her daughter's face. Real people, real faces – just the opposite of abstract
.

Bella wondered vaguely if this would grab his attention. Christian's former lover, and his daughter, in
her
painting. There might even be a scandal. Not that Bella cared.

She picked up the finest brush of all three, and began to paint.

‘I should warn you,' Spencer said as they stepped inside the lift of the shabby apartment building, ‘Lily can't see much of anything these days. And she broke her hip a good while back, terrible fall, which stopped her going out.'

It had been a few weeks since Maggie's visit to Spencer's shop, but finally they had found the time to come to Lily's apartment. Maggie had wanted to follow up on the coronet sooner, but she'd been maddeningly busy at work, readying the goods of Michael's estate for auction.

‘When did she wind up the stall, then?' Maggie asked.

‘Oh, it must have been seven or eight years ago . . . ten? I can't remember,' Spencer said. ‘You know what the store's like, Maggie. Time warp. It's easy to lose track of the years . . . Occasionally when the bell chimes above the door, I'm half-expecting some dishevelled person wearing a bustle and boots to wander into the store, plonk herself down upon a wooden milking stool and ask me if I happen to stock laudanum . . . Don't worry about old Lily, though. She's a tough old bird. I doubt she gets too lonely. People haven't forgotten how much she livened up Portobello – she has loads of visitors,' he said cheerfully, as the lift door slid open to reveal a bleak, empty hallway. Fluorescent light tubes flickered overhead, and the tiled floor looked sticky and scuffed.

Maggie stepped out of the elevator and shivered, despite the close, humid warmth.

‘Now, she's had a sad life, has Lily,' Spencer murmured, as he pointed right and placed an arm on Maggie's elbow, leading her towards the far end. ‘Escaped Croatia when the Nazis were defeated and they shut the camps down. She lost everything, I heard – her entire family.'

Maggie stopped, puzzled. ‘I thought you mentioned a son?'

Spencer stopped also. ‘Yes, a miracle. They were reunited after the war. Don't ask her about it, though,' he said quickly. ‘I've pieced together the details of her past from the odd thing she's let drop over the years. And there was this one time when a young woman came into the store, oh, it was years ago. I've never forgotten it because it was so strange . . . Lily hadn't told any of us around the area about her past, though we were all curious. But this girl – tall and thin and white as a crane, with the brightest, bluest eyes you've ever seen – came in one day. She looked so upset . . . quite teary, you know. I calmed her down, offered her a glass of water and, well, it all tumbled out. She'd been shopping at Lily's stall, and Lily had got a bit confused apparently. Thought the girl was her long-lost daughter,' he said, nodding sadly. ‘Then she gave the girl something. Actually refused to sell it to her and insisted she have it.'

‘My God,' Maggie said, eyes widening. ‘How . . . odd.' Could the girl that Spencer was describing be Ulrika? That description fit. ‘Not this, Spencer?' she asked, pulling out the coronet from her bag in disbelief. ‘Did she show you what it was, the thing Lily gave her? This is the item I've been trying to trace,' she said urgently, unwrapping the coronet from its tissue paper and holding it up, so that Spencer could see it clearly. A shiver coursed through her, but Spencer shook his head, unsure.

‘I don't know, the girl never did show me . . . I asked her to, but she clammed up all of a sudden . . . Thought I was
too
interested, probably. She was very skittish, like a bird . . . I never saw her again.'

Surely if it
was
Ulrika that Spencer had met all those years ago, on the same day she was given the coronet, he couldn't have failed to recognise her again, on posters and magazines and the like? But then, Spencer didn't really seem like someone who took much notice of changing fashions.

Shaking her head, Maggie tried to make sense of her clattering thoughts. The girl Spencer had described certainly
sounded
like a younger Ulrika. But why on earth had Ulrika mentioned Lily to Maggie and then directed her to Spencer's without letting on what had happened? Surely she couldn't have forgotten. Maggie had sensed Ulrika had been holding something back, but had put it down to the instinctive reserve of someone who was very famous. Now, though, Maggie wondered what Ulrika might have been hiding . . . or perhaps Ulrika didn't want to speak ill of the old woman? Maggie's curiosity, already at high wattage, was now burning brightly. Did all this have something to do with Francesca's history? Could it be possible that Lily's lost daughter might just be Francesca? But surely Francesca was too young, Maggie told herself, trying to work it out. If she was Lily's lost child, then that would make her – what? – seventy now. But Francesca had told her she was born in 1951 or '52 . . . She didn't have a birth certificate, but it certainly would have been strange if she'd actually been much older than anyone admitted . . . And Francesca's dark good looks were a world away from Ulrika's cool, silvery beauty – surely no mother could confuse one for the other, no matter how old the child might have been . . .

Before Maggie could make any sense of it, Spencer lifted his hand to rap against a grubby grey door. After a moment of echoing silence, the uneven footsteps of someone very ill or infirm made their way towards them on the other side. Maggie took a deep breath and prepared herself to meet the woman who could, just possibly, provide some answers for her and Francesca.

‘Here, darling, come closer,' she said, straining towards the sound of Maggie's voice.

Maggie rested the box of Belgian chocolates on the mosaic-tiled coffee table in front of the old woman, and heard her exclaim with delight. ‘Guylian shells. I can smell them from here.'

Maggie hadn't wanted to turn up empty-handed, so she'd stopped Spencer at the deli on the corner, hurriedly ducking in to buy the chocolates. She was disappointed by the limited selection on offer, but it seemed she had chosen well. Apart from her sight, and perhaps her hearing, the old woman's senses seemed sharp as ever.

The first thing that had hit her when they'd walked in – ushered inside by Lily's
neat, elderly son Oskar, who melted off into another room – was the wondrous
decoration of the tiny council flat. Although the sitting room was only small, it
somehow reminded Maggie of a thief's lair or cavern, a place straight from the pages
of
One Thousand and One Nights.
Packed to the gills with collections of china
figurines, coloured drinking cups with gilt-dusted rims, inexpensive nail-and-thread
artworks and a bright red and orange–flecked rag rug. The shelves of the walnut
storage unit were full and enticing, similar to the many retro dealers' stores she'd
visited over the years in her work for Bonninghams. Despite the lack of any pieces
of real value or note, the selection of mainly folk art pieces was charming and
carefully edited.

Maggie propped her bag beside the sofa and took the seat nearest to Lily in the empty armchair. Her knees were a few inches from the old woman's, as Spencer explained why they had come.

‘So you think I can help you, eh?' asked Lily, squeezing Maggie's hand and sitting up straighter in her seat. ‘With one of my trinkets from long ago? Hah! You've come to the right place. I remember everything, darling. Every last piece. My memory is still good – all brain cells here!' She knocked on her head with gnarled knuckles. Her voice was low, guttural and strong, and Maggie realised that Lily was not quite the frail old lady she'd been expecting.

When Lily started to talk about some of her finds from her early years in London when she first became a peddler, Maggie started to feel fretful. What Spencer had told her just before they entered Lily's flat was a strange thing . . . If it had been Ulrika who'd stumbled into Spencer's all those years ago, teary and upset, would Maggie unbalance the old woman even mentioning it now? Spencer had explained why they had
come but had made no mention of the coronet itself – or the reasons behind Maggie's interest.

Hovering behind the settee, Spencer caught Maggie's worried glance and turned to wander into the small kitchenette. Although she could hear him fussing about, filling up the kettle and searching for cups, she suspected he was listening to every word.

As Lily talked, Maggie noticed the walls were hung with richly coloured tapestries and dark needlepoints. With a start, she realised they were scenes from bedtime stories:
Peter and the Wolf
, and
Little Red Riding Hood
, all alone in the forest. There was no television – only a small black radio, set up within arm's reach – and books lined the shelves all around. Maggie saw from their spines they were written in several languages: Russian, German, French, English and a few others she didn't immediately recognise. Polish, maybe, or Dutch.

‘And so,' Lily said finally, pausing for breath, ‘what is it that you think I will remember?'

‘Well—' Maggie started. ‘This . . . it's something pretty special, so I think – I hope – you'll be able to help me. It's a very unique piece. Handmade. Might have been a headband or a collar once. I call it a coronet, as I think it might also have been used as a headpiece. Here it is.' She pulled it from her bag and unfolded the tissue paper carefully. The sequins and diamantes glinted up at her and caught the light, seeming to almost burn iridescently in the dimness of Lily's densely packed apartment. She passed it carefully into Lily's outstretched hands.

Lily's breathing seemed to quicken and catch in her throat as her trembling hands explored the piece. Turning it over and over again, she brought it up close to her cloudy, unfocused eyes. Finally, Lily let the piece drop to her lap, as if it scalded.

‘Take it, take it,' she said with agitation, covering her eyes with her plump, scarred fists. ‘Get it off me.'

Jolted, Maggie quickly snatched the coronet from Lily's lap, and wrapped it back up in the tissue paper. Ulrika's reaction had been similar – what were they so afraid of? Maggie leaned forward, taking
the old woman's hand. She could feel Lily's fingers shaking in her own. ‘Lily? Do you recognise it?' she asked. ‘Was it yours?'

‘It was, darling. For some time.' Lily took a deep breath, suddenly pale. ‘But . . . I thought, I . . . I mistook her for someone else. Someone I lost, long ago.'

She clutched at Maggie's hand, squeezing tightly. ‘It wasn't her, though . . . I only realised later . . . but I gave it to her . . .'

‘Sorry, what do you mean?' Maggie asked, her breath now quickening too.

Lily shook her head and took a few moments, pressing her hands to her eyes. ‘Is not important, darling. My mind playing tricks. Just that piece again, it made me remember. Took me back, is all.' Her sightless eyes looked around. ‘Where's my tea?'

Just then, Spencer came in bearing a tray, setting it down on the shell-inset table. The pot steamed invitingly between two cups and an earthenware bowl filled to the brim with sugar cubes. Spencer threw Maggie a meaningful glance.

‘Here we are, Lily dear. I'm just going to go find Oskar. Arrange that lunch we spoke of soon.'

Lily looked towards his voice, her frown disappearing, and smiled as Spencer left the room.

‘Lily—' said Maggie, hesitating delicately. ‘Have you ever known someone by the name of Yeshov?' Still unsure about the connection Francesca had to the old woman, Maggie expected the surname to elicit a reaction – something, at least. But there was nothing. Lily shook her head, face blank.

‘I don't think so, no,' she said. ‘Why?'

‘Well, there is a woman I'm trying to help . . . to help her trace her real parents. She was adopted in the early fifties. From what she can work out, she thinks that her birth father might have had something to do with her adoptive parents, maybe they were friends, or he did business with them. Francesca Yeshov, the woman I'm talking about, seems to think he was still in the picture for some time . . . She's the one who recognised the coronet. I think she knew it as a child.'

Lily frowned and tutted. ‘Awful . . . to give away a child,' she muttered.

‘Yes. I know – that is, Spencer said . . .' Maggie ventured but, seeing the shuttered expression on Lily's face, suddenly retreated, unwilling to press further. ‘Does that name ring any bells?'

‘No. No bells, darling.'

‘Oh,' said Maggie softly, feeling more confused than ever. She had been so hopeful. Looking down at the coronet wrapped safely in the tissue paper on her lap, she hesitated, then said, ‘Do you remember – or know anything about – this piece?'

Lily shrugged. ‘I'm sorry, I don't know who made it. I owned it for a while, but it wasn't mine from the start. I got it from the painter . . . Oh, what's his name? You know . . .' said Lily, gesturing at the air as though Maggie could answer her. But Maggie hadn't a clue. Fingers clicking impatiently, Lily stopped all of a sudden, her frown clearing. ‘Christian Hunt – that's it. Englishman. Very famous once, popular on the continent, but here in UK, not so much.'