Seeking Crystal Page 4

  I bunched my hair in a scrunchie and then did a few preliminary stretches, trying to ignore the emptiness of the flat. I had never lived alone until I returned from Denver. I had always had other girls or teachers around me at school, and then I had shared with Diamond. I kept feeling as if I was only playing at being grown-up and running my own life, but then I caught myself paying the phone bill and stocking the fridge, all things that seemed the preserve of adults. I had slipped over to join their number while inside I still felt like a teenager. I couldn’t even go into a decent snit when fed up with my boss, as there was no one to flinch when I slammed a door or swore a blue streak. I’d taken to talking to the animals. At least I didn’t expect them to reply. I might be heading for eccentric but I wasn’t insane.

  ‘C’mon, Rocco. Let’s go!’ I bounded down the steps, heart lightened by seeing the beagle’s uncomplicated enthusiasm, his toffee-coloured ears flapping and his white muzzle perky. We ran anticlockwise round the tip of the Dorsoduro, heading for the landmark of the bell tower in the Piazza San Marco. It rose above the roofs like a square rocket on a very fancy launch pad. Think of the centre of Venice as a bit like the Yin and Yang sign. The famous square of San Marco and the Doge’s Pink Palace are in the fat bit of the black Yang side; where I live is right on the pointy end of the white in. The curve in the middle is the Grand Canal dividing the two. There are three evenly spaced bridges linking the sides, including the celebrated Rialto in the middle. If you know your way (and it is a given that strangers will get lost in our maze of streets even with a map), then you can walk between most of the famous places in about twenty minutes or jump on a vaporetto, or waterbus, and be there in ten.

  It didn’t take me long to reach the end of the Zattere. I sat on the steps of the church of Santa Maria della Salute and gave Rocco a cuddle. Across from me, the top of San Marco’s campanile was gilded by the sunset. The tourists up there must be getting one great show as evening fell across the lagoon. I wondered if anyone had their binoculars fixed on me. I waved—just in case.

  Perhaps I should rethink that whole ‘I’m not going mad’ thing?

  Even living here, it is hard to see Venice with fresh eyes. It has been described so many times by writers, artists, and filmmakers that it is like a beautiful handcrafted yacht afloat on the Adriatic lagoon, which’s become covered in a suffocating accretion of barnacles. Occasionally you need to hoist it out of the water and scrape it back to the bare planks or it will keel over with the weight. Perhaps I projected on it my own unstable grasp on the world because to me the fundamental truth of the place—my bare planks—was that Venice was experienced as a city on the brink of destruction, probably not seeing out the century when sea levels rise with global warming—a last-chance-to-see civilization. With that destiny on the not so far horizon, life here was all the sweeter: sunny squares, whistling parrots in upper storey windows, narrow winding streets, secret corners; groups of workers, artists, students who bind the city together like links in a chain; tides of tourists ebbing and flowing each day. It is an inconvenient place to live—expensive and isolated—so we all have chosen to be here for some particular reason. Mine was family ties, happy memories of Nonna, but also a wish to live in a unique place, somewhere that could feed my imagination. Diamond felt so too, not that we ever put our feelings into words for each other. We just both loved it—not an emotion I had for any other city I had lived in.

  A private speedboat drew up at the Salute mooring, white wake turning pink in the sunset. I watched as a little lady dressed all in black was helped ashore by her burly pilot in a smart navy-blue uniform. I recognized her, of course; anyone who had lived in Venice a few years knew her. Contessa Nicoletta owned one of the little islands near the Lido, the long, thin barrier between Venice and the Adriatic. The lagoon was speckled with such enclaves, some former isolation hospitals, others monastic communities. The one the lady lived on was not far from here, close to Elton John’s house and the exclusive hotel where all the stars stayed for the film festival in September. It was said to be a little jewel, perfectly positioned to come across to the city but giving her total privacy in her grand house. Only very ancient Italian families or rock stars owned such real estate. You could just glimpse the roof and surrounding trees from the Salute steps; it remained a delicious mystery and had become in my mind as alluring as the walled garden had been to Mary Lennox in The Secret Garden. The old lady knew me too—or at least she was friendly with Diamond and so may have registered my existence—because Contessa Nicoletta was also a Savant.

  Leaning heavily on her pilot’s arm, the old lady tottered towards the church with the others attending mass. Rocco started barking, drawing her attention my way. I got up (you did not sit when Italian nobility deigned to greet you).

  First the contessa patted Rocco, and then she turned to me. ‘Crystal Brook, yes? How are you, dear?’ she asked me in Italian. The pilot paused to allow her to talk to me, his mirror sunglasses obscuring his expression. I imagined he had to be a patient person to put up with the contessa’s frequent stops. She had so many acquaintances in this city. He had cultivated a perfectly blank face for such moments.

  ‘I’m well, thank you. I’ve started work for Signora Carriera.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I heard she had got a big order for that film company. How exciting for you both!’

  So far the excitement had been very muted by the sheer amount of work involved in making the costumes. I’d not seen so much as a flicker of Hollywood stardust. ‘And how are you, Contessa Nicoletta?’

  ‘Sempre in gamba.’ A funny phrase, which translates roughly as ‘still on my pins’. Her hawklike features wrinkled in a smile, her faded blue eyes twinkling. She had features that reminded me of an old Maria Callas, the opera diva: strong nose, still dark eyebrows, bearing of a queen even if a little stooped. ‘And what news of your lovely sister? I thought she would be back from America by now.’

  ‘No, she stayed on. Did you hear what happened? She found her soulfinder.’

  ‘Oh heavens!’ The contessa clapped her hands together, swaying dangerously. I was glad the pilot still had a firm hand on her arm. ‘Oh, oh, I am so delighted for her. Who is the lucky man?’

  ‘His name is Trace Benedict—one of a family of Savants who live in Colorado. Apparently they’re quite well known in law enforcement circles. Have you heard of them?’

  The old lady’s expression froze for a second as her faulty memory searched for the entry in her brain. Then her face cleared. ‘Ah yes, I’ve heard of them. How … interesting. I’m not sure they are good enough for Diamond—I’m not sure anyone is.’

  ‘I know what you mean, but I think he’s an excellent match for her.’

  The bells started ringing for mass. The contessa squeezed the pilot’s arm to signal she was ready to enter the church. ‘Do send her my best, Crystal. I’ll see you, I expect, when I call for my costumes for the Carnival.’ Her parties for the pre-Lent celebration were famous and attracted high society figures from all over the world. ‘That is if Signora Carriera can fit me in this year.’

  I smiled and reassured her. No one would be so stupid as to snub her custom, even when a film crew was in the city. Directors came and went; Contessa Nicoletta was for ever.

  Rocco and I jogged back to our courtyard. By the time I let us in, Signora Carriera had returned. My heart fell when I saw the piles of fabric she had brought with her. Taking work home was an evil habit and with me upstairs she had started to assume I was a willing pair of hands. Rocco had no such fears: he bounded to his owner with puppyish enthusiasm, leaping around her and licking her fingers. A willowy lady with blonde highlighted hair, the signora was doing an excellent job of disguising the fact that she was in her early sixties. She wore her glasses on a diamanté chain around her neck. They were bumping against her chest now as she shook out a wonderful piece of emerald green velvet.

  ‘How was your walk?’ she asked. I assumed she was addressing me though she was paying more
attention to Rocco.

  ‘Good, thanks. We saw Contessa Nicoletta going to church. She says she’ll call by soon about her costume order.’

  Signora Carriera ran a distracted hand through her hair. ‘Ay-yay-yay, how will we cope?’ Her lips curved in a little smile as she thought of the profits. ‘But cope we will. Would you like to have supper with me? I’m expecting special guests so I’ve cheated, naturally, and brought in a lasagne from the restaurant across the street.’

  I rather fancied the idea of having someone other than the cat to talk to. ‘Yes please. Who’s coming?’

  ‘The director from the film company and his head of costume. They phoned just after you left.’ She snipped off a loose thread on a gold tissue petticoat.

  I thought of the last few masks I was still to complete, the dresses with seams only tacked and not properly sewn. ‘But we’re not ready!’

  She shrugged in a ‘what can one do?’ gesture. ‘I know, but they want to see what we’ve done so far. They realize we cannot deliver the final pieces until Saturday. Filming starts on Sunday so there is not much time for changes if they don’t like my approach.’

  I was already regretting agreeing to attend. If there were multiple alterations, guess who would be asked to do them while my boss dealt with her usual customers?

  ‘That’s all I have time to do now.’ Signora Carriera put her little scissors away. ‘Why don’t you go and change into one of your dresses—the purple wrap, I think.’ The signora assessed me with her professional look. ‘Yes, that brings out the best in your colouring. Dramatic, like your features.’

  I choked on a laugh. ‘I have a best to bring out?’

  ‘Oh stop that, Crystal!’ she said smartly. ‘I don’t know where you got this idea that you are ugly.’

  From the mirror? I thought.

  ‘It is most ridiculous! I have heard enough of it. You are one of those girls whose faces are arresting, not merely pretty. Hundreds of women can do pretty; few can do stunning.’

  My jaw dropped. Then again, a cattle prod could do stunning.

  Having begun on this theme, Signora Carriera was on a roll. ‘Look at the top model agencies, they do not go for what the world calls beautiful; they choose faces that you remember and who can wear the clothes rather than let the clothes wear them. That, bella, is you.’

  Well, wow. Just wow. After a couple of rotten weeks, I suddenly felt a hundred feet tall—in a good way. ‘Thanks. I’ll go get changed then.’

  And with the encouraging smell of baking lasagne to spur me on, I took time to dress for dinner. After all, I was going to meet two guests used to rubbing shoulders with the most sophisticated people in the world. I did not want to let Venice or myself down. I peered at my face in the mirror as I applied mascara, trying to see what Signora Carriera had described. Drama? Hmm. I still looked like me, dark brows, funny-coloured eyes, rioting hair, but if I pretended I was beautiful like she said, maybe I’d begin to be the person she saw rather than the one I did? Worth a try. I added a necklace I had made from Murano glass beads—bold colours threaded on silver wire—and a pair of my nonna’s heirloom earrings. There: I was done. I still couldn’t see any beauty when I looked at my reflection, but I could see memorable.

  The director, James Murphy, turned out to be a friendly Irishman, if somewhat highly strung at the moment as he had a multimillion dollar movie riding on his shoulders. No giant, I noticed I had a few inches on him when I shook his hand, but he made up for height with width. He wore a grey polar neck under his jacket and jeans—California’s version of the head guy’s suit. The costume designer, Lily George, was surprisingly young for her job, in her late twenties I would guess. She was a funny combination of ethereal looks—flyaway blonde hair, pale skin, size zero—with a raucous voice and earthy laugh. I liked her immediately.

  Mr Murphy twirled his vino santo aperitif, lounging on Signora Carriera’s ancient sofa. It was impossible to get comfortable on that instrument of torture but I doubted the signora ever had time to sit on it to find that out. ‘If there is a moment before we eat, signora, can we see your costumes? You know the look I am trying to create: the moody night of the Carnival, a time for lovers and assassins to be abroad.’ He sketched his ideas in the air, threatening to douse us all in his drink. ‘I want our hero, who will be dressed in his signature black suit, to be framed by the outlandish jewel-toned costumes of the participants in the revels. They must be everything he is not: out of control, colourful, loud.’

  The film was the third in a successful spy thriller series, a modern bitter twist on the Bond character with a leading man who walked more often on the dark side than that of the good. It had made the career of the actor, Steve Hughes, whose fair-haired good looks could both chill and tempt with one smouldering glance at the camera, sending his female admirers into a swoon of longing.

  Oh, did I not mention? I’m a big fan.

  Signora Carriera nodded and got up. ‘Yes, we have time to show you a few pieces. Crystal will model the costumes for us.’

  I put down my Coke. ‘I will?’

  Lily George got up from her perch on the window seat. ‘Great. I loved the ones you’ve already delivered. Sorry to ask for a few more so late but James got carried away when he saw what you’d done—made the scene much bigger.’ She gave the director a fondly exasperated look.

  ‘What, moi? Carried away? Surely not.’ James grinned.

  ‘Show me how to fit them and I’ll then be able to brief my team for dressing the extras on Sunday.’

  We processed into the signora’s spare room where she had laid out the costumes. The basic idea behind the fancy dress was an eighteenth century lady’s gown or man’s breeches and jacket, topped by a robe called a domino, mask and hat. It was the mask that really made the costume and these were where the signora’s skill really came into play as she was brilliant at thinking up modern versions of the traditional patterns, using urban themes such as graffiti or technology to twist the old-fashioned into the shockingly new. But first I had to be laced into the gown, which involved a fearful amount of corsetry and petticoat fluffing to get the right silhouette. The dress—a red and white satin embroidered with gold—fitted me perfectly.

  Lily made me stand at the far end of the room. ‘Yes, yes, excellent. James wants the extras to cast long shadows across the set—this will work well. They are supposed to tower over Steve, larger than life.’ I was disappointed to learn from Lily that my favourite actor was only five ten. Apparently many leading men were, as the camera preferred them that way. ‘Put the hood up. Even better. Which mask?’

  Signora Carriera chose a blood-red one made up of a filigree of overlapped words—Death, Sin, Danger, Passion. They formed a lacy network covering two thirds of my face.

  Lily caressed it with a fingertip. ‘Oh, I want one. I could wear it on a bad day at the office. That’d put the fear of God into my girls in the workroom. Come, let’s show James.’

  I spent the next half an hour being turned and prodded as they worked through the potential of each costume. I was even asked to wear the male domino and mask just to see the general effect. Everything was approved and the three of them were buoyed along on creative enthusiasm for what could be done with the outfits. Not daring to speak up, I was also caught up in the mood, remembering how much I loved my textile course at school, which had allowed me to conjure shapes and silhouettes with fabric, but nothing on this scale or budget.

  Over a fantastic dinner of local scallops followed by the lasagne and green salad, James toasted his host. ‘You’ve exceeded my expectations, signora. You’ve produced everything you sketched for us but added magic. It will make fantastic cinema.’

  ‘Grazie tante. I could not have done it without my assistant.’ She gestured generously to me.

  Lily tapped the back of my wrist. ‘Crystal, you must come along on Sunday—be one of the extras. You don’t need to do anything more than you’ve done tonight but you looked fabulous. I’m itching to ge
t my hands on dressing you properly. Don’t you agree, James?’

  The director’s BlackBerry buzzed. He glanced down and checked his message. ‘She looked great. Yes, come along, Crystal. You might find it fun. There will be a lot of standing around but that’s the movies. I’ve got to cut this short, I’m afraid. Steve’s just landed his helicopter at his hotel and wants to talk to me—some problem with the press in the rumour department. Thank you so much for the meal, signora: it means a lot to meet real people when you go on location. The film world bubble can get in the way of a genuine response to a place.’

  Signora Carriera left the room to show him out. Lily made no move to leave with the director, taking a sip of her wine and sitting back with a fond smile of contentment rather like Barozzi the cat after a good supper.

  ‘He’s nice,’ I said, topping up my water.

  ‘Yes, James is a really lovely man,’ Lily twiddled a lock of her short hair in thought,‘—nervous at the moment because so much money is riding on the project but he never takes it out on his team. I really enjoy working for him.’ Her gaze shifted from contemplation to concentrate on the present moment, taking on a wicked glint. ‘Your signora is quite something too.’

  I smiled. ‘A hard worker, that’s for sure.’

  ‘And an artist when it comes to clothes. I could learn a lot from her.’

  ‘Is that why you’re still here—to pick her brains?’

  Lily laughed. ‘Of course. When we needlewomen get together, we can’t pass up the chance to talk the language of dressmaking with someone who really understands. But I’m also interested in you, Crystal. You’re not what I expected to find in Venice.’