ALEX RETURNED TO BRIGHTON THE NIGHT OF THE funeral and he and Rachel spent the next morning in bed, reading the Sunday papers. She had missed him during the week; it had been a stressful time and she would have liked to talk it through with him.
‘How’s the shop?’ he asked that morning, kissing her shoulder. ‘Are you getting back to normal?’
‘I opened yesterday but only took a couple of hundred quid because I’m still very short of stock.’ She toyed with telling him about the tight band of fear around her chest, the panic that she was going to lose all she had worked for, but she was too proud.
‘Is there anything I can do? Shall I get my friends to raid their grandmas’ closets for you?’
He was trying to help, but Rachel didn’t like the idea of all their friends knowing she was in trouble. ‘Thanks, but I would just end up with a load of junk to sort through.’
‘Well, remember my offer,’ he said, opening the Sunday Times, which had a whole section devoted to Diana. ‘And just ask if you need money to tide you over.’
Rachel reached for the Observer.
All the papers had endless photographs of Diana’s funeral procession, the eminent guests, and the car that took her coffin north for burial at the family seat, using its wipers to clear the windscreen of flowers thrown by the public. Most of the broadsheets had focus pieces on the crash and Rachel read them, curious to hear the mainstream media view.
‘Do you think it’s true that Diana and Dodi were engaged?’ she asked Alex. ‘It’s claiming here that he asked her to marry him the night they died – just when you asked me. Isn’t that a coincidence?’
‘It does seem odd, especially when they had only been an item for six weeks or so.’
Rachel read on. ‘Dodi didn’t plan ahead as well as you. It says here he only went to collect the ring at six that evening from a jeweller’s shop near the Ritz. You were much more organised.’
‘I had to be.’ He kissed her. ‘Do you have any idea how long I spent looking for a ring that might be acceptable to you? Months of anguish . . .’
‘Because I wouldn’t have married you if it was the wrong ring, would I? Idiot.’ She pinched his stubbly chin affectionately. ‘It says she wasn’t wearing the ring when she died. Maybe he was planning to ask her later.’
‘Maybe she didn’t like the ring. Or maybe it didn’t fit.’
Rachel wrinkled her brow. In the last pictures of Diana emerging from the Ritz, she looked serious and preoccupied, not like a woman who had just agreed to marry the man she loved. After she and Alex got engaged that same evening, she had been unable to stop grinning. They had giggled like kids, bursting with happiness.
The article she was reading continued by saying that on arrival in Paris earlier in the day, Diana and Dodi had gone straight from the airport to visit the Villa Windsor in Bois de Boulogne, where the Duke and Duchess of Windsor – formerly Edward VIII and Wallis Simpson – used to live. It was now being rented from the French state by Mohamed Al-Fayed.
‘Says here that Diana and Dodi were considering using the Villa Windsor as one of their homes,’ she told Alex. ‘That would have been rather fitting, don’t you think? Both Diana and Wallis were thorns in the flesh of the British monarchy. I wonder if they ever met?’
‘They’d have had a lot to talk about,’ Alex mused. ‘Diana wanted to bring down a future king – she allegedly told Charles during the divorce that she would “destroy” him – and Wallis actually caused Edward VIII to abdicate. Besides, like you, they were both fashionistas.’
‘I love Wallis’s style,’ Rachel drooled. ‘She was top of the best-dressed list for about ten years in a row after World War Two. Having pots of money helped, of course, but her outfits were elegant and imaginative.’
‘When Diana died she was wearing Versace shoes, an Armani jacket and a black crocodile-skin Ralph Lauren belt,’ Alex recited. ‘This is the kind of information I now have at my fingertips.’
‘Impressive,’ Rachel chuckled. He had no interest at all in fashion. ‘Did I tell you I spoke to a friend of Diana’s this week?’
‘You did?’ Instantly Alex was all ears. ‘Who was it?’
‘Someone I’ve bought stock from. She couldn’t stop crying on the phone and I got the impression that she and Diana were quite close.’ She described the conversation to Alex.
‘Do you think you could introduce me?’ he asked. ‘I need a friend of Di’s in my documentary and I hear none of the London set are talking.’
Rachel hated the idea. Susie was primarily a business contact and it would be unprofessional of her to use the connection. ‘I’d rather not,’ she began. ‘She’s distraught. It wouldn’t feel right.’
‘You would really be helping me,’ he said, ignoring her objections. ‘It’s proving difficult to get people to talk on camera.’
He picked up the coffeepot to pour himself a refill but it was empty. ‘My turn,’ he said and got out of bed to head for the kitchen. Rachel heard the sound of the kettle, then the fridge door opening and closing.
When Alex came back he was grinning, his eyes full of mischief. He put the coffeepot on the bedside table, then suddenly swept the newspapers to the floor and straddled her, pushing her back on the pillows. Rachel smiled lazily as he bent to kiss her, while stroking her nipples with his thumbs.
‘What a good idea,’ she murmured.
He pinned her arms above her head with one hand and pushed her legs apart. She lifted her hips to meet him, breathing hard, entirely lost in the moment.
The phone rang just after Rachel got out of the shower, and she was delighted to hear the voice of her old friend Richard Graham, who specialised in running international auctions.
‘I’ve just heard about your break-in,’ he said. ‘You poor thing. It’s horrible to think of someone trashing your beautiful collection.’
‘I’m feeling pretty sick about it,’ she admitted.
‘I heard you’re looking for new stock and wanted to let you know I’m organising a sale in New York on Wednesday that it would be really worth your while coming over for,’ he told her. ‘Have you heard of the Van der Heydens? Diamond merchants from Amsterdam, crème de la crème of New York society in the 1920s. You should come and have a look.’
‘Is it reasonably priced?’ Rachel asked. ‘Worth the cost of the air fare? I’d love to see you but I’ve got to watch the pennies.’
He listed some of the items for sale: sequinned flapper dresses, loose chiffon printed tunics, fur-trimmed jackets and embroidered silk capes. The exchange rate meant they would be relatively cheap for her.
‘Tell you what,’ he suggested. ‘If you come on Tuesday, I’ll give you a personal preview.’
Rachel was tempted. ‘What about import duty? Won’t that make it prohibitive?’
Richard chuckled. ‘We have ways and means of minimising it. And you’re welcome to stay with me. I’ve got a place in the Village, near Washington Square.’
When she came off the phone, Alex called, ‘What was that about, darling?’
She explained, but when she said she was planning to fly to New York on Tuesday, he frowned. ‘It’s the TV industry awards ceremony on Tuesday, remember? You’re coming to the dinner with me. I’ve got your ticket.’
‘Oh, rats!’ Rachel had clean forgotten. ‘Can’t you go without me? This sale sounds too good to miss.’
Alex pleaded. ‘There will be other sales; you’re always going to sales. The awards ceremony is only once a year.’
‘But you’re much better than me at all the social chit-chat. I just stand there with a smile pasted on my face. Please, darling. This trip is important to me.’
‘It’s just that I love to show you off. I’m proud to have you by my side.’ His face was beseeching.
‘I promise I’ll come with you next time.’
Alex went to shower without another word but Rachel could sense that the intimate, loving atmosphere of their morning had dissipated. Should she back down? But she didn’t want to; the thought of the sale was far too tantalising.