The aeroplane was delayed – an event which Annie gathered from her fellow passengers was by no means unusual – and a late dusk was gathering as the taxi finally drove into the centre of a Paris sweltering in the warmth of an August night, and glittering with a spangled mantle of light that rivalled, indeed outdid the brilliantly star-lit sky. Annie, suddenly animated, leaned forward to look out of the window. The flight had been nothing like she had anticipated; nothing, she thought to herself wryly, remotely like the advertisements that graced the pages of the fashionable newspapers and magazines. She had expected to be nervous – if not downright terrified. Despite Joshua’s warnings, and the coat he had assured her was absolutely necessary whatever the weather, she had not expected to be quite so cold, quite so uncomfortable nor subjected to so much noise that her ears still ached with it. Yet there had been an unexpected elation, too, a sense of excitement and adventure. She smiled to herself as she anticipated, not for the first time, Davie’s astonishment when he saw her, his envy when he discovered how she had managed so to surprise them.
The taxi had slowed to a crawl; the streets and pavements were thronged with people; tables and chairs were set beneath the trees; a babble of talk and laughter came to her through the open window of the cab. Gradually her ears were attuning to the sound of a language that had once come as naturally to her as her English. Looking out over the wide tree-lined boulevards, the pavement cafes, the glittering river with its graceful bridges, she suddenly felt a catch in her throat. This had been the city of her childhood and her youth. She saw herself as a small girl, skipping beside Colette, their maid-of-all-work, in early morning sunshine, going to the pâtisserie to buy croissants and pains au chocolat for breakfast. All at once, she remembered vividly the demure young woman of the pre-war years, in sprigged muslin, heavy hair swept up beneath her wide-brimmed hat, walking with careful dignity beneath the trees of the Champs-Élysées, well aware of the impression she was making upon the young men who lounged at the pavement tables. She saw too, suddenly and crystal clear, a tall, fair, dark-eyed young man with an enchanting smile and an endearing gentleness about him; remembered the stolen meetings, the touch of his hand beneath a table, the first tremulous kiss on the banks of this very river that sparkled and glittered through the trees and buildings as they approached it.
She blinked and sat back a little, into the shadows.
The Place de la Concorde was crowded, a moving mass of horse-drawn traffic, motor cars, bicycles and pedestrians who wove their way through the near-chaos of the traffic with a cavalier disregard for their own – or others’ – safety. The cab driver growled a curse. Annie drew a deep breath. Oddly, ever since the whirlwind set in motion by Joshua and his suggestion that she fly to join Richard and Davie, she had never really looked beyond this moment; it was almost as if she had not truly believed it to be possible that she could actually be whisked from London to Paris in less time than it would normally take her to go to an afternoon matinee at the cinema. Now, suddenly, she felt an unexpected twinge of apprehension.
They would be pleased to see her, wouldn’t they?
She shook her head in nervous impatience at the thought. Of course they would. Pleased, astonished no doubt, and perhaps – who knew? – even a little proud of her daring.
The cab was crawling across a bridge now – she did not recognise which one – towards the equally crowded but much less formal Left Bank of the river. The driver grumbled picturesquely again as a plodding donkey cart obstructed him. Lights were strung out along the banks of the Seine like diamonds decking the elegant throat of a beautiful woman. The slightest of breezes lifted from the dark, moving waters. Annie had not realised just how hot it was. She glanced at the piece of paper she was carrying; Richard had given her the address of his apartment in the rue Jacob. She had taken the driver’s surly grunt when she had stumblingly asked him if he knew the district as one of assent. As they swung now into the narrower streets of the Left Bank, her excitement rose.
A few minutes later the cab came to a halt. ‘Here,’ the driver said, ‘this is the place.’ His French was so heavily accented that Annie had a struggle to understand him. He pointed, unsmiling, to tall, narrow double doors that stood open onto the street. ‘There.’
‘Thank you.’ Annie scrambled out onto the pavement, hauled her small case and the heavy coat after her, paid the man what he asked and watched the taxi for a moment as he drove away. He had said not a word to her during the entire journey, had made not the slightest effort to accommodate her obvious difficulties with the language, had neither thanked her for the money nor for the generous tip she had added; yet ridiculously, as the cab disappeared around the corner she felt, suddenly, as abandoned as a lost child. She glanced up and down the street. It was quieter here, a street of softly lighted windows and She caught her breath, startled, as a cat materialised beside her and rubbed itself against her ankles. The building the taxi driver had indicated was tall and narrow. Ornate wrought-iron balconies graced its faded but elegant façade. The hallway beyond the open doors was lit with the dim and faintly sulphurous yellow glow of an oil lamp. As she stood in the darkness she breathed in the distinctive, suddenly well-remembered scents and smells of the city: exotic, some less than savoury, heart-wrenchingly nostalgic.
As she picked up her case she glanced up at the tall building, wondering behind which lighted window her husband and son were unsuspectingly awaiting her. It had occurred to her that, despite the fact that it was late for Davie still to be up, they might well be out in the city eating. It didn’t matter. She could wait for them; the surprise would be just as great, the reunion even more exciting for them all.
The concierge’s shutter was propped open, inviting in the slightest breath of the suffocatingly warm air. The woman sat beyond it at an ancient desk, adding up a long column of figures in a huge, battered and dog-eared book. The light of the lamp threw grotesque shadows across her pockmarked face.
Annie cleared her throat.
Madame Colbert did not look up.
The cat, which had followed Annie into the building, jumped up onto the frame of the open shutter, balancing delicately on the narrow ledge. When the woman absently put out a dark, gnarled hand, the cat leapt lightly onto the table and arched its sinuous black back, purring. Madame Colbert, her eyes still on the column of figures, lifted it onto her lap one-handed. The cat, its almond-pupilled eyes sly on Annie, rubbed its head into its mistress’s shoulder.
‘Excuse me?’ Annie faltered; and for an absurd, panic-stricken moment it seemed they might be the only two words of French that she would ever remember. She pulled herself together, struggled on. ‘I’m looking for M’sieur Ross. M’sieur Richard Ross. Can you tell me, please, which is his apartment?’
The pen scratched. Still the woman did not look up. ‘M’sieur Ross is not here,’ she said at last, brusquely. She turned a page.
Annie stared at her blankly.
The cat purred like a malevolent steam engine.
‘I—beg your pardon?’ Annie asked.
‘I said – M’sieur Ross is not here.’ The concierge lifted her eyes to Annie at last. The words were slow and sarcastically emphasised.
‘You mean – he’s gone out to dinner?’ The words were tentative.
Thin lips grew thinner. Madame Colbert sighed heavily. ‘I mean,’ she said with offensive patience, as if she were talking to an imbecile child, ‘that M’sieur Ross is no longer here. He has left.’
Annie shook her head, spoke suddenly sharply. ‘He can’t have done! They aren’t due to leave until next Saturday. I should know, I’m his wife.’ Temper, fuelled by the stirrings of panic, was beginning to rise.
The woman shook her head dismissively, turned her eyes back to her figures. ‘M’sieur Ross has no wife.’
Temper was in danger of becoming rage. Annie swallowed, controlled it. ‘He didn’t have,’ she said, her own calmness when every nerve in her body demanded that she scream at the ghastly old witch. ‘He has now. I am his wife. Davie, the little boy he has with him, is my son.’
The concierge’s head came up slowly, and she studied Annie closely for a moment. A faint flicker of almost malicious interest lit the small black eyes as the woman considered this appealing piece of information.
Annie tried again. ‘Have they really left?’
The woman nodded.
‘Do you know where they’ve gone?’
The cat turned its head to eye Annie disdainfully. There was a long moment of silence while the lamplight flickered and shadows danced. The concierge, her face expressionless, gave a small, irritatingly knowing and very Gallic shrug.
‘Look.’ It took Annie several seconds to marshal the words she needed. She kept it simple. ‘I want to know where my husband and my son are. If you know, I think you should tell me.’
The tiny twitch of the lips could just have been a smile. It was extremely unsettling. The woman turned back to her figures, pushing the cat from her lap. The animal hissed and slunk beneath the table. ‘There is a house on the rue Descartes,’ she said, and the pen scratched once more. ‘M’sieur Ross spends a lot of time there when he is in Paris. It is possible that is where he and the boy are.’
‘Rue Descartes?’ Annie had never heard of it.
The woman nodded.
Once again, Annie tamped down temper. ‘Would you call a cab for me, please?’
‘There’s no need.’ The pocked face lifted again, the pen lifted, like a blackboard pointer. ‘Down the street, turn left towards the river, second on the right.’
‘Which house?’
The woman shrugged again. ‘I have no idea.’ The young Englishwoman had not asked for a telephone number. What business of hers was it to offer it?
Annie, suddenly too weary for anger, bent to lift her suitcase and hefted the heavy winter coat more securely on her arm. ‘Thank you,’ she said, uncharacteristically caustic, ‘for your help.’
‘My pleasure, Madame.’ The words were unperturbed, but the eyes that followed Annie as she stepped back into the warm darkness were filled with spiteful mischief. In Madame Colbert’s considered opinion, if there was trouble to be made there was never reason not to make it. She smiled as she went back to her accounting.
The air in the street was uncomfortably close; the street itself uncomfortably and suddenly intimidatingly alien. As she turned in the direction indicated by the odious concierge Annie felt sweat trickle slickly between her shoulder blades. Her mind was blank with shock. Why had Richard left the apartment? There had never been any mention of him and Davie staying anywhere else. Supposing they weren’t at this house in rue Descartes? And if they were – how was she to discover which house it was?
She fought down panic. One step at a time: find the street, work out what to do from there. If worse came to worst and she couldn’t find them, she had enough money to book into a hotel.
She walked on.
Whose house was this, in which Richard spent so much of his time when he was in Paris?
Two men were standing beneath a lamp, talking and smoking. They eyed her openly as she passed, their conversation falling silent. One of them made a quiet comment, the other laughed. She felt their eyes upon her back. Tensely she waited for footsteps to follow her. Nothing happened.
It was with relief that she turned left into a busier thoroughfare, with wide pavements lined with cafes. A man was playing the accordion; a small monkey dressed in white shirt, red trousers and striped neckerchief identical to his master’s carried a cap from table to table. Annie hurried past. Again, curious, sometimes speculative glances followed her. She supposed that a lone woman on the streets of Paris at night could expect nothing else. She held her precarious composure, resolutely resisting panic. What had the damned woman said? Second on the right. She could see the river in the distance. She passed a right-hand turn. Was that the first? Had she missed one? She stopped, hunting for a road name, found a grimy sign: rue Flaubert. She set the case down on the pavement for a moment, hitched the coat higher on her aching arm. She was drenched in sweat; beneath her small hat her head felt damp with it, her clothes and gloves stuck uncomfortably to her skin. It took an all but superhuman effort not to burst into tired and frightened tears. Wearily she picked up the case again and walked on.
Then, there it was – rue Descartes – a narrow lane that curved away from the main thoroughfare, quiet and ill-lit. She stood uncertainly for a moment on the corner, biting her lip. Someone jostled her, and she stumbled. She spun on the man in the quick anger of fear. He held up apologetic hands. ‘Pardon, Madame, pardon.’ She took a long, shaky breath, turned back to the dark lane.
At the far end of the lane a horse and cart, lamp swinging, was ambling towards her. As she watched, the light glinted upon something as it passed. She caught her breath. A car. There was a car parked in the lane; was it her imagination, or was it familiar? Was it the Wolseley? She set off, half-running.
It was indeed Richard’s car, which was parked outside a wooden gate, the only break in a long, blank brick wall perhaps eight feet high. She touched the car, ran her hand along the bonnet that was warm in the night air. It was like finding an old friend in a world of strangers. She leaned against it for a moment, the pounding of her heart easing. Richard was here. And Davie. She was just a step from love, and safety. She looked around. The gate outside which the car was parked was the only obvious entrance to any of the nearby buildings. Opposite was a row of shops, closed and shuttered for the night; much further down the lane was a large church; and at the other end of the long wall was a tall apartment block. A house, the concierge had said. Not an apartment. And surely, if they had been in one of the apartments, that was where the car would have been parked?
Annie turned back to the gate. Almost light-headed with relief, she was reminded – as she had been on her wedding day – of Alice in Wonderland, and the door to the magical garden, and for a moment she found herself struggling between laughter and tears. She set her case down once again, brushed the straggle of her hair back beneath her hat, blotted the damp skin of her forehead with the back of her cotton gloves, lifted her knuckles and rapped on the wood.
Nothing happened.
She tried again, straining her ears. There was neither sound nor movement; nor was there any sign of bell or knocker or nameplate. She guessed that this must be the back entrance to the house, the front of which probably faced on to the river and the wider boulevard. Richard had obviously thought it safer to park the car in this quiet back street. She knocked once more, as loudly as she could.
Still, nothing.
Annie lifted the latch and pushed. The gate swung open, smoothly and silently. She stood uncertainly for a moment, then picked up her case and stepped through, closing it quietly behind her. ‘Hello? Hello? Is anyone there?’
She was standing in an exquisite little courtyard, drowned and drenched in the perfume of its flowers. Flickering gas lamps shone on bougainvillaea, jasmine and sweet-scented lilies. A small fountain played, the clear water running from a mother-of-pearl conch shell held by a naked dryad poised upon a dolphin’s back. She leaned against the closed gate for a moment, taking in her surroundings. After the emotional roller-coaster of the past few hours, the tranquillity of the place touched her like cool, soothing fingers. ‘Hello?’ she called again, tentatively.
The house loomed above her. Bougainvillaea scrambled up the wall and festooned a long wrought-iron balcony on the first floor. Tall slatted shutters stood open and a soft golden light fell from the window across the courtyard. She raised her voice again. ‘Hello? Please – is anyone there?’
There was movement above her. A shadow fell across the balcony as a tall, wide-shouldered figure approached the balustrade and peered into the dim-lit darkness below. ‘Who is it?’
‘Richard!’
There was a moment of absolute, still silence. Then, ‘Annie?’ Richard’s whisper was incredulous. ‘Annie? Oh, my God—!’
Annie was already hurrying across the courtyard to the door that was obviously the entrance to the house. She flung it open, found herself standing in a high-ceilinged, beautifully proportioned hallway. The panelled walls were hung with scores of paintings, soft and colourful rugs were strewn on the polished wood of the floor, a lucently gleaming silver statuette of a dancing girl with long hair streaming about her shoulders stood on a low plinth in the centre of the room, lit to an almost painful glory by the glitter of the chandelier that hung above it. Annie had eyes for none of it. A wide, sweeping staircase led to the next floor… she ran to it.
The stairs led up to a broad sweep of landing, almost a twin of the hall downstairs: paintings, statues, elegant furniture. As she reached the top of the stairs a pair of double doors opened. For a moment Richard stood, his dark figure limned in lamplight, his face in shadow. She stepped towards him, gladly. ‘Richard!’
Something in his stance stopped her and she halted within arm’s length of him. Her eyes were drawn over his shoulder to the room beyond. It was a very large, high-ceilinged room, furnished like the rest of the house with exquisite taste. The balcony with its open window ran along one side of it; a curtain billowed softly. The other walls were hung with pictures. As in the hall and on the landing, Annie was aware of the glint of silver, the gleam of marble. Opposite the open doors where she stood was a huge bed, draped and decked in heavy, shimmering silk. The figure propped up on silken pillows watched her, great, heavy-lidded dark eyes expressionless. Beside the bed was a huge marble fireplace within which, incredibly in the heat of the night, the embers of a fire glowed. Upon the deep mantelpiece, lit by flickering gas mantles from above, stood two large photographs in silver frames. She narrowed her eyes, disbelieving.
The silence was absolute.
Annie’s suddenly numb fingers released their grip on her suitcase. It thumped to the floor, toppled over onto its side. She let her arm drop; the coat slithered after the case, the only noise in the deadly quiet.
‘Annie… Annie! What in hell’s name are you doing here?’ Richard’s voice was not much more than a harsh whisper, but its tone spoke volumes.
She ignored him; walked past him as if he were not there, into the room, to the foot of the bed.
The dark eyes beneath the great, pale, hooded lids looked into hers. ‘You!’ she said, her voice very quiet, and hard as stone. ‘You?’ Her eyes flickered to the photographs on the mantelpiece; so familiar, so everyday. She had one of them on her own bedside table. Davie, laughing into the sun on Brighton beach; Davie, swinging on her hand, eyes bright and hair flying, in the garden at Southwold. She spun on her husband. ‘Where is Davie?’
He lifted placating hands. ‘He’s asleep. Upstairs. Annie—’
‘Fetch him. I’m taking him home. Now!’
‘Darling, he’s sound asleep – you’ll frighten the life out of him—’
Her head came up at that, eyes blazing. ‘Don’t you “darling” me, Richard Ross.’ Her voice was bitterly angry. ‘How dare you? How dare you bring my son to this house? To him?’ Shaking with fury, she lifted an accusing finger and pointed at the still-silent figure in the bed.
Richard stepped towards her, put a hand on her arm. ‘Annie – please – listen…’
‘Don’t you think I’ve listened enough?’ She laid savage emphasis on the word. ‘Fool – fool! – that I’ve been!’ She wrenched herself free; stepped back, stood staring at him through wide, glittering eyes as her initial shock and anger ebbed and her mind began to work at least a little more logically. She saw dark colour rise in his face, and try as he might he could not sustain her gaze. He looked away. ‘I think,’ she said at last, ‘that you owe me at least some kind of explanation. Not that it will make any difference. I see enough here’ – she swept an angry hand, taking in the room, the still figure in the bed – ‘to convince me that you’re a liar and a cheat. And Christ alone knows what else. But why? Why?’
‘It was my doing, Annette.’ The throaty whisper came from the bed. ‘I tempted him. I tempted him too far.’
Slowly she turned to look at the man, her face a mask of contempt and hatred. ‘I can believe that, Lucien. Oh, yes, I can believe that.’ Her voice was very low. ‘You at least obviously haven’t changed. You’re still spawn of the devil!’
Incredibly the old man smiled a little, pale lips stretching in a gaunt face that might have been carved from ivory. ‘You always were a lovely child, my dear,’ he said, the whisper echoing into the darkened corners of the room, ‘especially so when you were angry, as I remember. I should have known you would grow into a beautiful woman.’ He smiled again. ‘But I must say I preferred your hair long.’
‘Bastard,’ she said, grimly bitter.
Richard looked at her, shocked disbelief in his eyes.
She took an almost threatening step towards the bed. ‘What do you want of my son?’ she asked, her voice dangerously quiet.
The old man lifted a long, thin, all but transparent hand. He was no longer smiling. ‘I wanted to see the boy, Annette – is that so wrong? Surely not?’
Annie took several long, slow breaths, trying to control herself. Her hands had folded into fists. She relaxed them, caught hold of the wrought-iron rail at the foot of the bed, leaned across it to stare at the man. ‘Wrong? Wrong?’ she repeated, savagely softly. ‘I would have seen him dead – stone dead! – before I let him anywhere near you. And you know it.’
‘Annie!’ Richard’s voice was shocked.
‘Shut up, Richard.’ She did not even glance at him.
The great, arched lids closed for a long moment. In the silence the ashes of the fire slithered, a whisper in the quiet. The room was almost unbearably hot and stuffy; there was the smell of sickness about it. The old man opened his eyes again. ‘You have a right to be angry,’ he said.
‘Angry? Angry?’ Annie’s laughter was so bitter that Richard physically winced. She walked round the bed, stood over the wasted body that could barely be discerned beneath the smooth silken counterpane. The lustrous, huge-lidded eyes followed her, expressionless. She bent forward, hissing into his face. ‘If I had a knife, old man, I would put you out of your misery right now. I would be doing a favour to the human race.’
Again that faint stretch of a smile. ‘You would be doing a favour to me.’
She straightened, mouth tight. ‘Then live on. As long as possible.’
Richard was staring at her. She ignored him, turned and walked to where the photographs of her son stood upon the mantelpiece. She studied them for a moment, then turned to face Richard, the sudden pain in her face so fierce that once again he flinched from her. ‘Did you have to do that?’ she asked quietly. ‘On top of everything else you have obviously done, did you have to do that?’
He said nothing. She turned back to the photographs, picked up the close-up of Davie’s carefree, laughing face, looked at it for a long time. Both men watched her. She lifted her head at last, looking at Richard. ‘What have you told Davie?’ she asked, her voice suddenly perilously reasonable. ‘Why does he think he’s here?’
Something changed in Richard’s face. There was a wary flicker in his eyes, a small tic in his jaw. ‘I’ve told him the truth,’ he said, his eyes holding hers. ‘That I had found his grandfather for him. That the old man, not unnaturally, wanted to see him.’
Annie stared at him.
A sound like the ghost of laughter came from the bed.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I’m sorry I deceived you – I knew that if I told you you’d refuse to let the boy come—’
‘You were right.’ Incredibly Annie was smiling, a small, tight smile with nothing in it of happiness or humour. ‘But we both know that isn’t the only deception you’ve practised on me, don’t we? We both know that you’ve lied and you’ve cheated, you’ve put me through hell – I don’t yet know how you did it, but I know as surely as I stand here that you did – and for what?’ Suddenly and shockingly she had started to laugh. She choked for a moment, hand to mouth, but she could not stop the laughter.
Richard watched her in disbelief.
‘You imbecile!’ she said, and again her shoulders shook, again the laughter punctuated her words. ‘You bloody imbecile! You thought you could get the better of him?’ She pointed. The old man had closed his eyes again; he had begun to cough, very slightly. Still holding the photograph folded in her arms across her breast, Annie crossed the room to where Richard stood. She stopped a foot or so away from him, looking up into his face. Then she laughed again, real laughter with a cruel touch of derision in it. ‘The liar, lied to,’ she said. ‘The deceiver deceived. Richard, I told you – Lucien is not Davie’s grandfather—’
‘Annie!’ Richard’s voice was anguished.
‘—he is his father,’ Annie continued inexorably. And then again, softly, into the sudden silence, ‘His father,’ she repeated.
The coughing had become a wet, spluttering rattle. They turned. Bright blood splattered the pale silk of the counterpane, dribbled onto the pillow.
Richard leapt to the old man’s side, slipping an arm behind his shoulders, drawing him upright. ‘Lucien! Lucien! Annie, there’s a bell pull by the mantelpiece there – quickly!’
Annie stood stock still, watching dispassionately.
‘Annie! For the love of God! He needs help.’
Again that small, mirthless smile.
‘Annie!’
She shrugged, walked in no great haste to the fireplace and pulled at the tasselled rope.
Moments later the door opened and a plump and imperious uniformed nurse bustled in, followed by a girl in cap and apron. ‘M’sieur, M’sieur, what have you been doing? Out. Out—’ She spoke in rapid French, flapped her hand at Richard and Annie without looking at them. ‘Marie, prop up the pillows – help M’sieur to sit up—’
Richard reached for Annie’s arm; she snatched it away. ‘Don’t touch me.’ Without so much as a look at the bloodied face of the man who lay choking in the bed, she stalked ahead of Richard through the door, past her case and coat that still lay discarded on the landing and down the elegant, sweeping staircase.
Richard passed a hand across his eyes. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he said faintly. ‘Jesus bloody Christ!’
‘Please go, M’sieur. Marie will fetch you later.’
Richard left the room, closing the doors very quietly behind him.