Maria drove her Sunbeam saloon from Kensington to her father’s house overlooking Hampstead Heath.
He had phoned her on Saturday morning asking if she would care to visit him soon, his tone barely disguising his disappointment that she had not called in for well over a week. ‘But then I expect you’re very busy at the agency these days,’ he had said, ‘and with seeing that young man of yours.’
She had bit her lip guiltily, admitted that she was seeing Donald on both Saturday and Sunday, but could call round briefly on Sunday.
‘That would be delightful, ma chérie,’ he’d said, with not a little irony.
Now she pulled up before the three-storey townhouse and jumped from the car. It was a perfect summer’s day and Maria had never been happier. She contrasted her fortunes now with what she had had six months ago. Then she had been bored with her job – before Charles offered her the partnership in the agency – and lonely. Now, as if by magic, all that had changed. She practically ran the agency while Charles took time off to recuperate from his wounds, and she was in love with a wonderful man.
She rang the bell and her father’s maid, Sabine, answered the door and showed Maria up to the drawing room.
‘Maria!’ her father exclaimed, rising to his feet and embracing her. ‘You are looking more beautiful every time I see you … which is not that frequent these days.’
They kissed cheeks. ‘I’m sorry, Father. You know how busy I am.’
‘Of course. How is the agency? Tea?’
‘Darjeeling, please.’
Her father relayed instructions to Sabine and sat back on the window seat. The French cultural attaché to London was in his early sixties, slim, debonair and silver-haired. He had never remarried after the death of Maria’s mother almost twenty-five years ago, but she knew that he had a string of admirers in Paris and London.
‘I’m so busy you wouldn’t believe it!’ she said.
‘And do you think you’ll cope when Charles is …?’
‘Of course, and anyway, Charles said that he’ll employ some part-time help for the duration.’
Her father sipped his tea and said, ‘I suppose it’s a foregone conclusion that Charles will face a lengthy sentence?’
That, she thought, was the only cloud that dulled her sunny days: the fact that Charles would be jailed, and how he might cope with incarceration. He was a man who loved the luxurious things in life, and the privations of Her Majesty’s prisons would hit him hard.
‘According to his solicitor he faces a term of at least six months, maybe even a year.’
He shook his head. ‘The English, so cultivated in many ways, can be so barbarous in others.’
She smiled brightly. ‘But let’s not talk of all that,’ she said.
‘Of course not,’ he said. ‘And Donald?’
‘He’s well, plotting his next novel.’
‘And when will I meet him? Soon, I hope?’
She tipped her head and said, ‘I’m sorry about last time. Donald so wanted to come over but I just couldn’t get away from the office.’
‘Well, how about I make another date – for next weekend, perhaps, when you have got back from Suffolk, yes? Dinner, here, just the three of us.’
‘That would be wonderful.’
He sipped his tea, looking at her speculatively. ‘If you don’t mind my asking, Maria, how serious is he …?’
‘Serious? About …?’
He smiled. ‘About you, of course.’
‘Father … I’ve told you. I’m so happy with Donald—’
‘Which is not, ma chérie, what I asked. How serious is he about you? He has not yet … proposed?’
She smiled and sipped her tea. She was sure that Donald, in his own leisurely, reserved, roundabout fashion, was working up the nerve to ask her to marry him. In fact, there had been one or two occasions lately when she had thought that he had been on the verge of doing so – only to be thwarted by the collywobbles or some silly interruption. She just hoped he’d get a move on and ask her.
She said, ‘Not yet.’
‘And if he did?’
‘Then I would accept.’
‘It is the done thing, as they say over here, for the prospective groom to ask permission of the prospective father-in-law beforehand, is it not?’
She felt herself redden. ‘Father … I’m not sure Donald is the kind of man to stand on ceremony like that. I mean, Donald doesn’t like “fuss and palaver”, as he calls it. And anyway, isn’t that all rather old fashioned these days?’
Her father frowned. ‘Well, it would be good manners.’
‘Very well, I will mention it to him.’
Her father nodded and sipped his tea. ‘Oh, by the way, I have read one of his novels.’
‘And?’
‘And, to be honest, it was not quite what I was expecting.’
She felt disappointed. ‘In what way?’
‘Well … it was not as stylish as I was expecting.’
‘Expecting, or hoped? Father, Donald writes thrillers set in the underworld. The content dictates the form.’
‘And they are rather violent.’
She smiled to herself. ‘They are nothing like the man himself, if that’s what is bothering you. Donald is the most gentle, quiet, un-violent man you could wish to meet.’ She felt herself glowing even as she thought about his English reserve, his calm, strong, reassuring presence. ‘As you will find out when you meet him.’
He smiled. ‘I will look forward to that.’
‘Anyway, enough of me,’ she said. ‘What have you been doing of late? How was the reception for Mauriac?’
The Nobel prize-winning writer had flown into London last week for a series of talks in London, Cambridge and Oxford, and her father had thrown a dinner party for him at the French embassy.
‘He was charming, as ever, witty and erudite. I invited Philippe to attend.’
Her breath caught. ‘Philippe?’
‘Why, Philippe Delacroix, or have you forgotten?’
‘No, no, of course not.’
She busied herself by refilling her cup and asking her father if he wanted more. As she poured, she wondered why he had dropped Delacroix’s name into the conversation.
‘He asked after you,’ he said, watching her closely.
‘He did? And what did you say?’
‘I said that you were doing well in your work, and still single …’
She felt a sudden flare of anger at her father’s presumption. ‘And how is he?’ she said with what she hoped sounded like off-handedness.
‘He is extremely successful these days, as you no doubt know. His paintings are becoming increasingly sought-after. He still … he still thinks the world of you, Maria.’
She gritted her teeth, then said, ‘Well, isn’t he the little hypocrite? If he felt anything for me he wouldn’t have walked out when he did!’
‘But my dear, five years ago he was under considerable pressure. His father was still alive, and you know how old Delacroix and I never saw eye to eye. We were opposed politically and …’
‘And he forbade his son to marry me,’ she said. She felt her hand shaking, and placed her cup in its saucer. ‘And now that his father is dead?’
He smiled, shrugged. ‘He asked after you, asked if perhaps I might arrange a meeting.’
She leaned forward and stared at her father. ‘No! I will not accept this! You have no idea … no idea at all! If he had been even half a man, any kind of man at all, then Philippe would have told his father that he loved me, regardless of your enmity with him. But, oh, no, Philippe, the coward – Philippe who I thought I loved at the time – tells me that … that what we had was impossible and we had to part … And now he waltzes back on to the scene and demands you arrange a meeting!’ She stopped, almost choking with rage. ‘I say no, no, this is unacceptable!’
Her father dabbed his lips with a napkin and said, ‘I understand your sentiments, my dear, but all I can say is that Philippe’s intentions are honourable, and if it is any consolation at all, he told me to convey to you that he was as distraught as you were about what happened.’
She snorted. ‘“What happened”? He makes it sound as if it were an act of God! We were engaged to be married, after all, and he walked out on me because his father said that he would disinherit him if he married the daughter of “that Socialist Dupré”! And Philippe, like the coward he was, simply buckled under the pressure and agreed. If he’d loved me, if he’d really loved me, then he would have told his fascist father to go to hell!’
‘Maria …’
‘And now that his father is dead, he comes crawling back thinking that everything will be as it was, that I will forget his betrayal and melt into his arms. Well, no, no! You can tell him from me that he can rot in hell!’
She stood and moved to the window, staring out over the heath without seeing a thing.
Her father said, quietly, ‘I think your protestations are less due to righteous rage than to the realization that—’
She whirled around. ‘Yes?’
‘That you still harbour … feelings, let’s say … for Philippe.’
She smiled icily, crossed to where her father was standing, and kissed him on the cheeks. ‘I really must be going now, Father. Donald is driving me to Suffolk where we will have a wonderful break. Á bientôt.’
She hurried from the house, slipped in behind the wheel of her car and drove at speed back to Kensington.