Chapter 2

I

Paris, September I have always loved my apartment on the Left Bank where I’ve lived for the last seven years. It is spacious, light, and airy, with six large windows in its three main rooms, all of which are of good proportions. These rooms open onto each other, and this enfilade gives it a lovely flowing feeling that appeals to my sense of order and symmetry, traits inherited from my grandfather, who was an architect.

But ever since my return from Belgrade in August, I’ve been experiencing an overwhelming feeling of claustrophobia, one which I am still finding hard to dispel. Although I can’t quite understand why I should feel this way, every day I have the constant need to flee my apartment as soon as I awaken.

It’s not that it holds any heart-wrenching memories of Tony, because it doesn’t. Friends for a long time though we were, we did not become emotionally involved with each other until twelve months ago; besides which, he hardly ever spent any time at my place, being constantly on the move for work, or in London, where he lived.

I was aware that my urge to get out had more to do with my own innermost feelings of despair than anything else; I’ve been unnaturally agitated inside and filled with a weird restlessness that propels me into the street, and as early as dawn sometimes.

The streets of Paris are my solace, and part of my healing process physically in a very real sense. First, the constant walking every day is therapeutic because it strengthens my damaged leg; second, being outside in the open air, among crowds of people bustling about their business, somehow soothes my troubled soul, lifts my spirits, and helps to diminish my depression.

Today, as usual, I got up early. After coffee and a croissant at my local café on the corner, I set off at a steady pace, taking my long daily walk. It’s become a ritual for me, I suppose, something I find so very necessary. At least for the time being. Soon I hope my leg will be completely healed so that I can return to work.

It was a Friday morning in the middle of September, a lovely, mild day. The ancient buildings were already acquiring a burnished sheen in the bright sunlight, and the sky was an iridescent blue above their gleaming rooftops. It was a golden day, filled with crystalline light, and a soft breeze blew across the river Seine. My heart lifted with a little rush of pleasure, and for a moment, grief was held at bay.

Paris is the only place I’ve ever wanted to live, and for as long as I can remember; I fell in love with it as a child, when I first came on a trip with my grandparents, Cecelia and Andrew Denning. I used to tell Tony that it was absolutely essential to my well-being, and if Jake happened to be present, he would nod, agreeing, and pointing out that he lived there for the same reason as I did.

I always thought it odd that Tony would merely frown, looking baffled, as if he didn’t understand what I meant. Tony was born in London, and it was there that he lived all his life. And whenever the three of us would have this discussion about the merits of the two cities, he would laugh and shake his head. “London is essential to me because it’s a man’s city,” he would remark, and wink at Jake.

I had supposed he was alluding to those very British private clubs for men filled with old codgers reading The Times, the male-dominated pubs, cricket at Lords, football at Wembley, and the Savile Row tailors who appealed to his desire for sartorial elegance when not on the battlefront covering wars. He had never really discussed it in depth, but then, he had been like that about a lot of things, an expert at brushing certain matters aside if he didn’t want to talk about them.

Thoughts of Tony intruded, swamped me, instantly washing away the mood of a few moments earlier, when I had felt almost happy again. I came to a stop abruptly, leaned against the wall of a building, taking deep breaths, willing the sudden surge of anguish to go away. Eventually it did recede, became less acute, and taking control of my swimming senses, I walked on purposefully.

It struck me as being rather odd, the way I vacillated between bouts of mind-boggling pain at his loss and the most savage attacks of anger.

There were those tear-filled days when I believed I would never recover from his death, which had been so sudden, so tragic, when grief was like an iron mantle weighting me down, bringing me to my knees. At these times it seemed that my sorrow was unendurable.

Miraculously, though, my heartbreak would inexplicably wash away quite unexpectedly, and I would feel easier within myself, in much better spirits altogether, and I was glad of this respite from pain, this return to normality. I was almost like my old self.

It was then that the anger usually kicked in with a vengeance, shaking me with its intensity. I was angry because Tony was dead when he should have been alive, and I blamed him for his terrible recklessness, the risks he had taken in Kosovo, risks that had ultimately cost him his life. Unnecessary risks, in my opinion.

Destiny, I thought, and came to a halt. As I stood there in the middle of the street, frowning to myself, I suddenly understood with the most stunning rush of clarity that if character is destiny, then it had been Tony’s fate to die in the way he had. Because of his character . . . and who and what he was as a man.

II

After crossing the Place Saint-Michel, I made my way toward the Rue de la Huchette and walked down that narrow street, which long ago had been immortalized in a book by the American writer Elliot Paul, very aptly entitled A Narrow Street. After reading the book, I had been drawn to this particular area of Paris, and for the three years I was a student at the Sorbonne I had lived right there on the street, in a quaint little hotel called the Mont Blanc.

The hotel came into my line of vision almost immediately, and as I strolled past, I glanced up at the room that had been mine, and I remembered those days in a swirl of unexpected nostalgia.

Thirteen years ago now. Not so long really. But in certain ways they seemed far, far away, light-years away, those youthful days when things had been infinitely simpler in my life.

So much had happened to me in the intervening years; I had lived a lifetime in them, and I had become a woman. A grown-up woman, mature and experienced.

Glancing across the street, I eyed the El Djazier, the North African restaurant that had once been my local hangout . . . what a habitué I had been of that strange little nightspot full of colorful characters.

Sandy Lonsdale, an English writer who had lived in the hotel at the same time as I did, had constantly predicted I would disappear one night, never to be seen again, whipped off to some disreputable brothel in Casablanca or Tangier by one of the seedy guys who lurked in the restaurant most nights.

But of course that had never happened, the seedy men being perfectly innocuous in reality, and I had taken enormous pleasure in teasing Sandy about his vivid imagination and its tendency to work overtime. “You’ll make a great novelist,” I used to tell him, and he had merely grinned at me and retorted, “You’d better be right about that.”

On numerous occasions I had taken Tony and Jake there, and they had enjoyed it as much as me, their taste buds tantalized by the couscous and the piquant Moroccan sauce called Harissa, not to mention the erotic belly dancers in their flimsy costumes and tinkling ankle bracelets.

On these evenings, when we were back in Paris for a bit of relaxation and rest from covering wars, Jake would usually invite us to one of the jazz joints after dinner at the El Djazier. There were several spots on the Rue de la Huchette, where many of the greats of American jazz came to play or listen to others play.

Jake was a jazz aficionado and could happily spend long hours in these smoke-filled places, sipping a cognac and tapping his foot, lost in the music, lost to the world for a short while.

I ambled up the street and glanced around as I walked. I never tired of wandering around this particular part of Paris, which I knew so well. It was full of picturesque cobblestone streets, ancient buildings, Greek and North African restaurants, art galleries, and small shops selling colorful wares from some of the most exotic places in the world. Aside from anything else, it brought back memories of the time I had attended the Sorbonne, such a happy time for me, perhaps the happiest of my life.

III

My grandfather Andrew Denning had been alive when I decided I wanted to study in Paris. Later, he had often come here to visit me, defying my mother, who had forbidden any contact between us once I had made the decision. My mother was angry with me because I had chosen to study in France, although I never understood her attitude, since she had been indifferent to me from the day I was born. So why did it matter where I studied?

Grandfather Denning didn’t have much time for his daughter-in-law; in fact, he privately thought she was a cold, unfeeling woman, and he had never paid any attention to what she said. He had reminded her that I was the only daughter of his only son, and his only female grandchild, and he was damned if he would let anyone stand in the way of his visiting me and whenever he wished to do so. As an afterthought, he had added in no uncertain terms that no one told him what to do or how to spend his money, least of all his son’s wife. And that had been that, apparently. Grandfather had told me all about it later; we kept no secrets from each other. I thought of him as being more like a pal than a grandfather, perhaps because he was so young in appearance and had the most youthful of spirits.

To my mother’s great consternation and frustration, she had not been able to influence him one iota, let alone control him, and she had apparently ranted and raved about her father-in-law for months after their original confrontation. This I had heard from my brother, the family gossip, who only reinforced my opinion of him when he became the sidekick to a gossip columnist. According to Donald, my mother had screamed blue murder, but my father had, as was customary, remained totally mute. For years I suspected that this state of being had afflicted Father since the day he entered into so-called wedded bliss with Margot Scott. Until the day he died he hardly ever said a word, perhaps because he couldn’t get one in edgewise.

It was my grandfather who supported me financially and morally once I had decided to study in Paris, and in those days he had been my best friend.

My mother had never forgiven him, or me, for that matter. But then, I believe my mother has never forgiven me for being born, although I don’t know why this should be so. However, from that day to this she has never shown me any love or given me much thought. It is not that Margot Scott Denning doesn’t like children; everyone knows she dotes on my sibling, Donald the Great, as I used to call him when we were children. It is I she has an aversion to, whom she tends to avoid most of the time, and whenever she possibly can.

Grandfather and I were always aware of that, and he had often expressed concern about the situation. I had taught myself not to care. I still don’t. He has been dead for five years now, and I still miss him. He gave me the only sense of family I ever had; certainly my parents never managed to induce that sentiment in me. Quite the opposite. I wished Grandfather were here with me now, walking these streets; I always found such comfort in his words, his understanding, his kindness, and his wisdom. He was the only person other than Grandma and Tony who had loved me. Now all three of them were gone.

Was that the reason I had chosen to walk around this particular area today? Because he had been so partial to it, and because it made my happy memories of him and of our time spent together here so vivid in my mind’s eye?

“Teaching you Paris,” Grandfather used to say as he took me around the different arrondissements of the city. Gradually, I had come to learn about many of the great buildings, the architects who had brought them into being, the historical significance of each one, not to mention the many different architectural features.

When I reached the top of the Rue de la Huchette, I crossed into the Rue de la Bûcherie, which was more like an open square than a street. It had flower-filled little gardens fronting onto cafés lined up along one side of the square, and overshadowing them was the Cathedral of Notre Dame. This magnificent edifice outlined against the azure September sky stood on the Île de la Cité, one of the islands in the Seine, and on the spur of the moment I decided to go over to the cathedral. I had not visited it in years. In fact, the last time I had been there had been with my grandfather.

Andrew Denning had enjoyed an extremely successful career as an architect in New York, and he had had an extraordinary eye for beautiful buildings, whether modern or ancient. In particular, he had been an admirer of the cathedrals of Europe, forever marveling at their majesty and grandeur, the soaring power inherent in them and in their design and structure.

And so whenever he came to visit me in Paris he made a point of taking me on excursions to see some of his favorites—Rouen and Chartres in France, and, across the English Channel, St. Paul’s and Winchester; and, up in Yorkshire, Ripon Cathedral and York Minster, the latter being my own favorite. It is from my grandfather that I have inherited my eye, which serves me so well as a photographer; that’s what I think anyway, and as it happens, I’ve also grown to love cathedrals as much as he did.

Within minutes I was across the bridge and standing in front of the three huge portals that lead into Notre Dame. I chose to enter through the one on the right because the door stood ajar, beckoning to me, I thought.

Once inside, I caught my breath and stood perfectly still . . . I was utterly mesmerized. I had forgotten how awe-inspiring this place was, with its beauty and size; its absolute stillness overwhelmed me.

There were hardly any tourists there, the cathedral was practically empty, and as I began to slowly walk down the center aisle, my footsteps echoed hollowly against the stone floor.

Glancing up, I gaped at the apse, that enormous, intricate, domed ceiling, flung so high, it seemed to disappear into infinity. “Soaring up to heaven,” Grandfather used to say of it.

He and I had visited many of the smaller churches in Paris and the surrounding countryside, and we had taken part in the services as best we were able. We both spoke enough French to follow the Catholic service; being Protestant, we were not exactly familiar with the rituals, but somehow we managed. We also made trips to other European countries, as well as to North Africa and Israel, where we visited mosques and synagogues. Grandfather was fascinated by places of worship whatever the religion being practiced in them.

I heard his voice reverberating in my head: “It doesn’t matter whose house you sit in, Val, as long as you love God.” He had once remarked to me, “In my Father’s house there are many mansions: if it were not so I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you.” With those words of St. John’s Gospel ringing in my ears, I continued down the aisle and took a chair, sat staring up at the high altar in front of me.

Sunlight was filtering in through the many windows above the altar. It was a light that subtly changed color as it seeped in through the stained glass panes in those breathtaking windows, changing from blue to green to pearl, and then to a soft yellow and a lovely lambent rose.

It was the most tranquil light that seemed to tremble visibly on the air, and dust motes rose up into the shafts of sunlight. The peacefulness was a balm, and how cool it was within these thick and ancient stone walls. Cool, restful, restorative, a welcome refuge, far away from the turbulence and violence of the world I lived in when I was working.

I closed my eyes, let myself fall down into myself, and eventually, as was inevitable in this quiet place of worship, I began to think of Tony, of his death, and of the future. And I asked myself yet again, for the umpteenth time, how I was going to go on without him, how I would manage without him by my side. I had no answers.

It seemed to me that all of my energy ebbed away, leaving me deflated, and I just sat there, collapsed in the chair, with my eyes closed, for the longest time. I had no appointments, nowhere to go, no one waiting for me or worrying where I was. Time passed. And after a long while, just sitting there in the silence of the cathedral, I heard my grandfather speaking to me as if from a great distance. His voice was so very clear when he said, “Always remember this, Val, God never gives us a burden that is too heavy to carry.”

IV

The phone was ringing loudly as I let myself into my apartment an hour later. I snatched it up and exclaimed, “Hullo?” only to hear the receiver clattering down at the other end.

Too late, I had gotten it on the last ring, and sticking out my good leg, I slammed the front door shut with my foot. Swinging around, I went into my tall, narrow kitchen, a place I’d always enjoyed but which I had not occupied very much of late. I like cooking, in fact, it’s a sort of hobby of mine, a way to be creative, to relax when I’m back from covering wars and the like. But because of my grief and misery, I had abandoned the kitchen, having no desire to be in it to cook only for myself.

I had hardly eaten a thing these last few weeks, and I had lost weight. But suddenly, today, I felt really hungry and I opened the refrigerator, frowned at the contents, or, rather, the lack of them, and swiftly closed the door in frustration. Of course there was nothing worthwhile to eat in there, I hadn’t been shopping. I would have to make do with a mug of green tea and a couple of cookies, and later I would go to the corner store and pick up a few things for dinner.

A moment or two after I’d put the kettle on, the phone began to shrill once again, and I lurched toward it, grabbed hold of it before the caller had a chance to hang up. As I spoke, I heard Jake’s voice at the other end.

“Where’ve you been all day?” He sounded both put out and worried at the same time.

“Walking. I’ve been out walking, Jake.”

“Again. I can’t believe it. I bet if someone locked you up in an empty room and told you to draw a detailed map of Paris and its environs, you could do so without batting an eyelid. And all from memory.”

“Yes, I guess I could. But you do a lot of walking too, so why are you picking on me?”

“I’m not. I called to invite you to dinner tonight. I haven’t seen you for a week. Too long, Val.”

“True, and I’d love to have dinner. I’ll cook for you,” I said. Hearing his voice had instantly cheered me up, and I’d missed him while he had been in the South; anyway, he was my biggest fan when it came to my culinary skills.

“That’s a great offer, but I prefer to take you out . . . it’s much more relaxing for you.”

“Okay, it’s a deal.”

Jake cleared his throat several times, and his voice was a bit more subdued when he added, “I had a call from London today. From Tony’s photo agency. About a memorial service for him. They’ve planned one and they want us to come.”

This news so startled me, so threw me off balance, I was rendered silent, and when I finally did speak, all I could manage was a weak “Oh.”

“We have to go, Val.”

“I’m not sure . . . I don’t think I’m up to it,” I began, and faltered, unable to continue.

“We were his closest friends,” Jake countered. “His intimates. His comrades-in-arms, he called us.”

“We were, I know, but it’s hard for me.”

Jake fell silent, then after a moment or two he said softly, “The whole world is aware that we were with him in Kosovo when he was killed . . . that we came out alive. How will it look if we don’t show?”

I stood there, gripping the receiver, utterly mute, as if I’d been struck dumb, shaking like the proverbial leaf as I weighed the odds. Should I risk Jake’s disapproval, everyone’s disapproval, by not going? Or should I go and expose myself to a large amount of pain and heartache? And could I handle that? I just didn’t know. For weeks I had tried very hard to get my turbulent feelings under control, and I was not so sure I could face a memorial service. Not now. It would open up so much and it would just . . . do me in emotionally.

“Are you still there, Val?” Jake asked, cutting into my swirling thoughts.

“Yes.”

“You seem reluctant to go.”

“I’m not . . . I’m just . . . thinking it through.”

He said nothing. I could hear him waiting at the other end of the line, could practically hear him breathing.

Finally, realizing he was waiting for me to say something, I muttered, “I couldn’t bear to hear the world eulogizing him. . . . It would be so painful for me, I’d be in floods of tears through the entire service. I’m trying to come to grips with my grief.”

“I understand what you’re saying. If you want to know the truth, I’m not so keen to live through it myself. But we don’t have a choice. And Tony would want us to be present.”

“I guess he would . . .” My voice trailed off.

“We’ll talk about it tonight.”

“All right,” I agreed, my heart sinking.

“Good girl. I’ll be there about eight to pick you up. See ya, Kid.”

He had hung up before I could say another word, and for a second or two I stood there, clutching the receiver, chastising myself under my breath. I was so dumb. Absolutely stupid. I ought to have realized that Tony’s agency would hold a memorial service for their fallen colleague, one who had been their biggest star—and their hero. If only I’d thought it through properly, and earlier, I would have been far better prepared.

I banged the receiver into the cradle and stared at the kettle absently, thinking it was taking a long time to boil. I turned up the gas automatically and let out a heavy sigh. I’d been caught off guard. And now there was no way out. I would have to go to the memorial service for appearance’s sake. And I could easily come face-to-face with her.

That was it, of course. That was at the root of my discomfort and reluctance to go to the memorial. I didn’t want to run into Fiona Hampton. Tony’s ex-wife. It struck me then that it was unlikely she would be there, in view of their recent divorce and the searing bitterness that had existed between them. Of course she wouldn’t go to hear him lovingly eulogized by his friends and colleagues. That would be out of character. She was a hard woman whose contentiousness had driven him away from her and the marriage, and sympathy and compassion did not exist in her makeup.

Remembering how unpleasant things had been between them convinced me I was right and eased my anxiety about going myself. I made the mug of green tea, took out a packet of cookies, and stood at the counter, munching on a couple and sipping the tea, suddenly feeling more relaxed.

Of course, I had no way of knowing that indeed Fiona would attend the memorial, and that encountering her would change my life irrevocably, and so profoundly, it would never be the same again.