ACT TWO

Tamsin Flowers

I push the girl back roughly until she’s pinned against the ancient stonemasonry. I’ve got one forearm across her chest. She can’t move, but neither does she want to. We’re deep in the shadows of a secluded archway, but even out in the open piazza, she willingly licked ice cream from my fingers, with a tongue that held the promise of other, sweeter explorations.

Her chest swells and falls under my arm and the cold, clammy air carries the dense smell of her sweat to my nostrils. I lean forward and catch her bottom lip between my teeth, sucking it into my mouth. Her body relaxes and she reaches one hand up to the back of my neck, pulling me closer so she can prolong the kiss.

I close my eyes. This is a moment I’ve imagined so many times. Not with this girl, particularly. But with similar faceless, nameless girls, who over the years, have fueled me in my single-minded determination to make the vision a reality. To put a face and a body to the fantasy. This girl, Mercy, has finally stepped into the role.

Why is she the one? What does she have in common with the girls I’ve conjured up in my mind?

They all share a lover. The lover Mercy has for real.

I push a knee up between Mercy’s legs. She’s wearing jeans and I press hard enough to feel the thickening of the fabric where the leg seams meet at the crotch. I rub against it, grinding it into her, and she moans without taking her mouth from mine.

Loud voices, speaking Italian, pass close to the arch and we freeze for a moment. Then I grab a handful of her short hair at the back and yank her head away from mine.

“Meet me tonight at nine in the Orto Botanico—the botanical gardens.”

“I…” she stammers, then stops.

“Can you get away?”

“Earlier? Celestine dines at nine. She’ll expect me to be there.”

“I want you at nine.”

I don’t wait for her reply. I let go of her abruptly and leave the cool shadows for the bleached intensity of the piazza. My heart pounds as I walk away from her. Now, after so many years, I’ll be able to repay Celestine Bouchard for what she did.

There was a time when Celestine and I were friends. When we first arrived to study opera at the Conservatoire in Paris. But not for long—it’s hard to maintain a friendship with your biggest rival. And Celestine was a thief. First it was parts. She would audition for the parts I wanted, and she would petition directors for the parts I got. We were the two best singers in our year, so it was natural that we should be chasing the same dreams. But only one of us played dirty.

I’ve always had the more powerful voice of the two of us, but she scores on delicacy, refinement. Beauty. She makes the perfect princess. I’m better at playing the serving wench or the whore. The critics have said Carmen could have been written for me. That didn’t stop her taking the part, though, in our final year at the Conservatoire. But, my issues with Celestine aren’t to do with the singing or which of us has the better voice.

Celestine Bouchard, feted by those who know absolutely nothing about opera as the greatest voice of a generation, stole the love of my life. It happened more than a decade ago, and I haven’t not thought of my beautiful Suzanne for a single day since. Celestine took her out of spite, then broke her, like a spoiled child bored with a new toy within minutes. I couldn’t pick up the pieces. No one could. I don’t know where Suzanne is now, and I don’t kid myself that if I found her we could have what we had before. So I’ve taken other lovers, plenty of them, while I’ve been waiting for the moment that Celestine should appear in the crosshairs of my sight. And now she has.

She’s here in Trieste—it’s the International Opera Festival— to play Cio-Cio San in Madame Butterfly. In a bitter twist of irony, I’m here to sing Carmen, the role we were tussling over when she stole Suzanne. If I can’t take back what’s mine, I can at least take what’s hers. Mercy. The beautiful toy with which Celestine is currently amusing herself.

The city is enchanting and sultry as I wind through the narrow streets at dusk. An assignation after dark. Meeting my rival’s lover in a silent garden. It’s worthy of an opera plot. I’m on a mission to seduce and Mercy’s sweet young flesh will taste all the sweeter with the knowledge that Celestine will be wondering where she is. There’s a thrum of expectation pulsing through me, a delicious tension. The night air caresses the bare skin of my arms with a lover’s touch and I hear cicadas singing in unseen courtyards and gardens as I walk by.

Tonight, Suzanne, I finally get to lay your ghost to rest.

I make my way on silent feet to the entrance of the Orto Botanico. Relief floods through me when I see that the gate’s been left open a crack. My bribery didn’t go to waste and now Mercy and I will have the moonlit gardens to ourselves. I slip inside, leaving the gate a little wider open than I found it. I’m several minutes early, so I don’t imagine Mercy’s here yet. In my experience, quarry runs late while predators have a tendency to arrive early. I walk slowly along the central path, past the empty ticket office, through a series of stone arches and up toward the lotus pond. This is where I want to make my play.

The air is heavily scented with honeysuckle and rosemary.

In my mind’s eye, I see Suzanne, as she was when I saw her last. A lump forms in my throat but it makes me more determined to do what I’m about to do. Mercy will be mine and Celestine will taste the bitterness of regret.

A footfall behind me makes me start. I turn and look but there’s no one there, no one on the path. Leaves rustle and I think…I think I hear a breath being drawn.

“Mercy?”

“No mercy.”

Oh my god.

I recognize that voice. It’s as familiar to me as my own.

“Celestine?”

Celestine Bouchard steps out of the shadows of a stone arch onto the moonlit path. It’s been eleven years since I’ve seen her this close, in the flesh. I’ve pored over her picture in magazines, and I saw her sing once, from the very back of the Royal Opera House. But here she is, living and breathing, in front of me, in the dark and deserted Orto Botanico in Trieste. Long hair streaming down over her shoulders, almond-shaped eyes wide as she searches me out. In the creamy moonlight, she’s as beautiful as she ever was. Because, of course, she’s made enough money to hold on to her looks.

“Genevieve. Geneva.” She’s the only one who ever calls me Geneva. She looks me up and down inquisitively. “You’ve hardly changed.”

“You’re a little fatter, my love.”

“It’s good for my voice. You’re looking a trifle bony.”

“I weigh the same.”

We reach impasse.

Mercy has spilled and my plan’s thwarted. I turn on my heel. I’m not going to hang around and make small talk with the bitch.

“You took the bait. I knew you would.”

What the hell?

I turn back to face her, looking at her askance. But I keep my mouth shut because I know she loves the sound of her own voice.

“See? You’ve just taken it again. You really are easy to manipulate, my sweet Geneva. I picked Mercy because she was so very like Suzanne.”

I hadn’t even seen it. No one was like Suzanne in my eyes. But taking a step back, looking at the girl through Celestine’s eyes, I can see why she might think them alike. A certain physical resemblance, a similar economy of movement. The same dark eyes. Anger erupts deep inside me. Why should she want to bait me? It was she who did me wrong. I’m the injured party. I take a step toward her and she stands her ground, watching me with lazy eyes, a smile playing fleetingly on her lips.

Slapping Celestine as hard as I can gives me immense satisfaction. It’s not quite the revenge I’ve imagined, but the sound of my palm making contact with her cheek cracks like a gunshot. She grunts softly but stays put. I’m begrudgingly impressed and I’m not sure what to do next. Damn the woman. I’m not going to engage with her further.

Again, I turn back toward the gate.

Her voice is quiet. I strain my ears to hear what she says.

“Have you ever wondered why I took Suzanne?”

No, I’ve never wondered that. Anyone would want Suzanne, even if they didn’t already hate me. I carry on walking, quickening my pace to get away from her.

“Suzanne was never my type. Mercy isn’t my type.”

I don’t want to stop. I don’t need to hear more of whatever story she’s weaving. But my feet slow their pace. At the next stone arch, I sink back into the shadows. Curiosity has got the better of me, and I know I’ll regret it.

She slows too, sensing my presence without needing to see me, like a cat.

“Geneva? I know you’re here.”

As a singer, I can control my breathing. I make it shallow and silent.

Celestine pauses, listening. Then she speaks again.

“I never meant to hurt Suzanne. Just you. What happened with the girl was collateral damage, as they say. She was young and she got confused. She thought she was in love, but she meant nothing to me.” Celestine leans back against the wall, standing not three feet from me. She knows exactly where I’m lurking. “It was so easy to tempt her away from you—not very bright, eager to believe the lies I told her.”

Celestine’s words bring Suzanne momentarily back to me. A faithful puppy with pale eyes and a gap-toothed smile. Then, not so faithful.

“I could never understand, cheri, why you took such undemanding lovers. Never a girl who could challenge your intellect. Never a woman who spoke her mind.”

She pauses, I suppose to let me justify my choices. But I don’t.

“Did you never want something more interesting to pass the time? Someone who could press the buttons in your mind, rather than just the one between your legs?”

I break cover. These are awkward questions that have come to me in sleepless hours. I walk fast, taking a sharp turn from the main path, up toward the glasshouses. I don’t hear Celestine pursuing me, but I’m sure she hasn’t finished with me yet. The woman’s like a terrier—harrying till she gets her way, gets what she wants. My vocal parts. My lover. For her, it’s as natural as breathing. What’s the bitch after now, tonight, in the Botanical Garden in Trieste? The satisfaction of seeing me break? Does she want to make me cry?

I won’t fucking give it to her, whatever it is she wants.

The glasshouse door opens with a whine and I slip inside, enveloped by the heavy air. The fetid scent of decaying plant matter and overripe fruit assaults my nostrils and the damp heat makes my skin prickle. It’s darker in here but the pale flagstones underfoot show the path ahead as I venture into the lush growth of the interior. I walk slowly to keep my footfalls silent. Large drops of water burst against my head, my arm, and when I brush past an overhanging branch, a flurry of droplets feels like rain.

I pray that she won’t follow me, but conversely I’m not disappointed when I hear the door open and close behind me. Celestine and I have been playing these cat-and-mouse games for years. Of course, she isn’t going to let things lie. Her cruelty has always fascinated me—the way she’s able to take from others with no compunction, the way in which she feeds off the inner lives of fellow performers, giving nothing of herself in return. After leaving the conservatoire I avoided her for so long. I had to, to preserve myself and my self worth. Now, I can feel myself being drawn back toward her, mothlike to her aureole, unable to resist the bright flare of her presence.

I listen but there’s nothing. I reach the pond at the center of the glasshouse and stop by the low stone wall that forms its edge. The huge lily pads are dappled with moonlight and I can just see the dark umber forms of the Japanese carp as they glide silently through the water. I watch two that seem set on a collision path, veering just enough to slide easily past each other on their way to opposite sides of the pool. Will I veer away from Celestine at this moment or will we collide? A collision has been a long time coming.

She appears on the other side of the pond and we stand, staring at each other.

“I don’t believe that you never wonder why I took Suzanne.”

I stare at her for longer. In the half-light she looks exactly as she did all those years ago. It’s like seeing a ghost. My own past, confronting me. It’s not comfortable.

“Because you hated me.”

“No, I never hated you,” she replies quickly. “My god, Genevieve, you thought I hated you? Never that.”

“Your behavior toward me was hardly benign.” “I wanted you to notice me.”

“To notice you? You loomed large in everything I did. I was obsessed with you.”

Celestine’s face clouds with anger.

“With my voice.”

“You were my rival from the very first day. You snatched every part I ever wanted.”

“For the same reason.”

“To get my attention? You had it, Celestine.”

“My voice had it. But you never saw me, the person to whom the voice was attached.”

“We were both ambitious.”

“We could have stayed friends.”

My bark of laughter echoes against the glass.

“You and I? Never. In fact, Celestine, have you ever had a real friend?”

She ploughs through the pond with no thought of the fish or the lily pads. Water floods over the low wall and splashes my feet. I brace myself—it’s her turn to slap me and her arm is already raised as she bears down on me. But as she steps up out of the water, her hand doesn’t make contact with my face as I expect it to. It snakes around the back of my neck and grabs a handful of my hair. Celestine is six inches shorter than me, but standing on the rim of the pond, her eyes are level with mine. They burn with fury and with passion, and I can’t tear myself away from her gaze.

“I want you.”

It’s as simple as that. I don’t even know if it comes from my mouth or hers. I don’t know who initiates the kiss—it doesn’t matter. All I’m aware of is her tongue inside my mouth. My tongue inside her mouth. Wrapping together in a frantic, long-awaited duet. Blood roars in my ears and I feel light-headed. I stagger but she holds me firm. I hope she’ll never release me, that our first kiss will last forever.

“Damn you! This is what it was all about,” she says.

Her lips move against my teeth and the kiss endures. She’s right. There’s a decade of hate, love, obsession and regret bound up—and now finding release—in our connection.

I’ve never kissed Celestine before but her mouth is like a homecoming, a place I might have known in some other previous or parallel existence. I’m not given to believing in past lives or alternate universes, but there’s something different about this kiss. Something particular that’s been missing from other kisses. I can’t even remember Mercy’s mouth to compare it. And I’ve long since forgotten Suzanne’s.

For god’s sake stop analyzing.

I let myself go. My conscious mind slips away, bowing to the needs of my body. I become aware of the heat of Celestine’s flesh, pressing against mine through summer linen. I run my hands up and down her back, feeling the rough weave under my fingertips. But I want to feel her skin and yielding flesh.

I break the kiss and step back. She drops down from the wall.

“Take off your clothes,” I say.

“And you.”

We strip and the moonlight makes our skin pale. We stare at each other’s bodies. There’s no rush now. We’ve established where we’re headed, we both know what’s going to happen. And we both know this is a three-act story. The overture is long forgotten. Act One was played out a decade ago. Now we pause, as Act Two nears its climax.

Celestine sighs. “You’re identical to the you in my imagination.”

“You’re better,” I say.

Our bodies collide. I grasp her by the shoulders and drop my mouth to the peak of one of her heavy breasts. Her breath whispers softly as the areola tightens. How did I not know I wanted this? Her?

“Come with me,” she says, her torso twisting, pulling her nipple from my mouth.

I look up to her face as I straighten up, but she’s turned away. She leads me by the hand along a raised path, climbing until we’ve reached a higher level of the glasshouse.

“Here,” she says.

On either side of the walkway, velvet beds of dark moss look like black upholstery in the watery light. I push her and she falls willingly onto the puffy surface. I drop to my knees beside her. The moss is cool and damp against my skin and I want to feel it along the length of my body. I lie down next to her, rolling onto my side to face her, aware of a faint scratching and prickling underneath me.

Celestine cups one of her breasts in her hand, offering it to me, so I suck it back into my mouth. I can’t process the words she murmurs in my ear. Sweet words, nothing words. My world is centered on the feel of her skin beneath my fingers and the taste of it in my mouth. Her flesh is soft and smooth. I let my hand sweep down the curve from her rib cage to her tiny waist and back out with the flare of her hips. She responds with a soft moan, her body pushing itself against my hand. Freeing her nipple from my mouth, I roll her onto her back and straddle her. I gaze down into her face but my own shadow makes it difficult to read her expression.

“Is this how it was meant to go? What you wanted?” I say.

“Yes.”

She rears up and catches my lower lip between her teeth, biting down on it. Pain flares and that’s fine with me. Our breasts brush against one another and she digs firm fingers into my hips. I wrap my arms around her back and grind my hips into hers. She places a palm flat against my clit, her fingers lightly pressing their way between my lips. I spread my thighs wider to make it easier for her to fuck me with her hand. I’m ready for this now. I want it badly. Small thrills are sparking up and down my core, the muscles of my cunt searching for something to clench around.

She pushes two fingers up inside me, and I let go of her so I can lean back supported by my arms. This opens me up to her completely and she starts to fuck me hard, ramming into me and pulling out, sweeping her thumb across my clit momentarily, then slapping my cunt before shoving back into me harder than before. I gasp and arch my back.

The moonlight paints a checkerboard grid on my torso and turns Celestine’s skin to pewter. She uses her free hand to hold me steady and underneath me, I can feel her hips flexing and pushing up. She planes my clit mercilessly with the ball of her thumb, circling it and rubbing it until my movements become frenzied and my breath ragged.

A climax bubbles up inside me, then bursts, washing through me, hot and cold, sharp and soft, so sweet, intensifying as Celes-tine keeps doing what she’s doing. Sweat breaks out on my skin and my heart thunders in my chest. I collapse onto one side and she wraps me in an embrace, still fucking me, curling her fingers inside to find my G-spot and drawing out my pleasure until I have to push her away.

Act Two is over. The curtain falls. And in the interval, as I catch my breath for a moment, I must decide whether this will be a love story or a tragedy.