Johnnie might be hurt, and she regretted that, but he also had no claim on her, so that was easily handled.
But, of course, it’s not Elena or Johnnie.
She finds Lara sitting on the end of the diving board, her knees drawn up to her chest, her shoulders hitching, and Mari steels herself as she approaches.
“Lara,” she starts, but Lara whirls on her before she can say anything else.
“Why him?” her stepsister demands, and Mari, who was ready to be conciliatory about the whole thing, feels anger flare in her chest.
“Why him?” she repeats, and Lara has the gall to nod, her head bobbing.
“You know how I feel about Noel. You know, and you did … whatever that was anyway.”
“I’m fairly sure you knew how I felt about Pierce when you fucked him,” Mari fires back, her arms tight across her chest. “So please do not pull this wounded act now, Lara. Besides, last night was just…”
Images unspool in her mind, and she tries very hard to keep any of what she’s thinking off her face.
“It was a bit of fun. A little wildness. Nothing more.”
“That makes it worse,” Lara cries, standing up on the diving board, her hands balled into fists at her sides. It would be a much more dramatic gesture, the kind of thing that begged for a plaintive “Don’t jump!” from Mari, but of course, Lara is standing over six feet of beautiful turquoise water, and Mari can’t help the laugh that bursts out of her.
It’s just so … typically Lara, so overwrought but ultimately pointless and silly, and Mari is so, so tired of this particular drama that she and her stepsister keep playing out.
She shrugs at Lara and throws her hands up. “I really don’t see how it is, but—”
“Because I love Pierce,” Lara says, and now Mari doesn’t feel like laughing at all. “I love him, but he loves you!” Lara goes on. “So, I tried to love Noel instead, but you couldn’t even let me have that.”
“Noel won’t even let you have that,” Mari reminds her, but Lara just makes a disgusted sound, marching down the diving board and back onto the patio. The door slams again, and Mari wonders if all the hinges in the villa will need to be replaced at the end of the summer.
Tipping her head back, she looks up, where clouds are already beginning to form, promising yet another evening trapped inside the house, trapped with Lara and her feelings.
Mari can’t help it. She opens her mouth wide and screams, literally screams at the sky, a howl of frustration that hurts her throat, but at least relieves some of the pressure in her chest.
That done, she flops into one of the chairs next to the pool, the metal screeching against the stone.
“Christ, I hope that wasn’t a comment on last night’s performance.”
She whips her head around to see Noel standing in the doorway that leads into the kitchen. He’s wearing sunglasses and carrying a mug of coffee, the chenille blanket that had been covering Mari earlier now wrapped around his waist, and he makes his careful way out to where she sits, taking the chair next to her and sinking into it with a sigh.
Mari guesses she should feel differently about Noel now that he’s made her come, but it’s just that same mix of faint disbelief that she’s talking to Noel Gordon, mixed with an almost begrudging fondness—plus the slightest tinge of annoyance.
Which is a relief, actually. It would be disastrous to feel anything more for this man.
She wonders if Pierce knows that.
But then Pierce’s tastes have always run to women. To girls, really. Mari was sixteen when she met him, and his wife, Frances, was only fifteen when he took her from her boarding school in the north of England and crossed into Scotland to marry her.
He worships Noel, and clearly enjoyed himself last night, but Mari instinctively understands that what Pierce was after was experience and novelty, and now that he’s had them, last night will probably not be repeated.
Which is undoubtedly for the best.
Noel blows out a breath over the top of his coffee, his long legs stretched in front of him, feet crossed at the ankles. “What’s that thing you’re writing?” he asks her, and Mari startles.
“What?”
“That journal you’re always carrying around. You left it on the sofa last night, and I had a gander this morning.”
“You read my journal?”
He shrugs, completely unapologetic. “I was hoping to find moony sonnets about me, so imagine my surprise to see Mistress Mary is writing a novel.”
She flushes red. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
“But I did. And it’s honestly quite good, which I find extremely annoying given that you’re already young and beautiful. Being talented on top of that just isn’t fair.”
Mari doesn’t reply, and Noel clears his throat. “This is the part where you’re supposed to point out that I also have all these attributes.”
That makes her laugh against her will, and he smiles again, affectionately nudging her foot with his own. “I am serious, though. You’ve got something there. I hope you’ll follow it wherever it leads.”
Those few pages, still unfinished, call to her, and Mari allows herself a small smile.
“I hope I will, too.”
There were always rumors about just how involved the five young people at Villa Rosato were that summer. Of the five, Noel Gordon was the eldest, and he was only twenty-six. Pierce Sheldon was twenty-three, Johnnie Dorchester a mere twenty, and Mari Godwick and Lara Larchmont were both still teenagers, just nineteen in the summer of 1974. They were also all part of a set that ran fast and loose when it came to sexual partners and mores. Pierce had already left one wife, as had Noel, and both men had been involved with Lara Larchmont at different times.
But it’s also tempting to make things more illicit than they actually were, especially when it comes to rock royalty. It’s equally possible that none of the rumors were true at all, and that the romantic configurations at Villa Rosato were fairly tame. None of the survivors ever indicated differently.
While Noel Gordon and Mari Godwick remained close for the remainder of the former’s short life, Mari never discussed the events of that summer, not even in her private diaries, which her literary agent donated to the University of Edinburgh after her death in 1993. There is only one entry dealing with Noel Gordon, and it is found on a page labeled March 22, 1980. It says simply, “Noel is dead. How can Noel be dead?”
Intriguingly, there was a bit after that that had been scratched out in a flurry of black ink, but X-ray technology done on the diary revealed the words, “It’s not fair that I’m the only one left.”
—The Rock Star, the Writer, and the Murdered Musician: The Strange Saga of Villa Rosato, A. Burton, longformcrime.net
The first thing you notice about Lara Larchmont is how normal she looks.
There’s none of the mystique of a Stevie Nicks, nor the arresting beauty of a Linda Ronstadt. There’s just a dark-haired girl of about medium height with brown eyes and a smile that’s a little crooked, but completely charming. As she welcomes me into her London flat, I think she could be a girl you went to school with, a friend from down the street.
A friend whose debut album has sold well over a million copies, mind you, but other than the poshness of her Belgrave address and the gorgeous furnishings in her flat, you’d have no way of knowing that …