– 18 –
It was about four in the afternoon when Paul, carrying a brown paper parcel, left Harry Freemantle’s pied-à-terre in Pimlico. Already the evening rush hour was starting to build up, and the dust and grime of overheated London streets was thick in the air. As he turned into Ebury Street he saluted a couple of Chelsea Pensioners, then tossing his parcel into the air, he started to whistle. Everything was going so perfectly according to plan, he could have kicked his heels together with the joy of it. His first book had already been to the printers, and his second, now that Madeleine and Harry had given him the experiences, responses and emotions his characters required, was spilling from his mind with such intoxicating fluency that it hurt to tear himself away. But this afternoon’s assignation had been necessary, and as a result he had good reason to believe that his publication date was no more than six weeks away. In England, that was. In the States it would happen the following month. Funny that, how quickly they could turn things around, given the right incentive.
Reflecting on the past hour, and all that had passed between him and Harry, Paul grimaced – not at himself for doing something that only a month ago would have been totally repugnant to him, but at Harry. The man was so malleable in his hands that he found it almost distasteful. A man in his position should have dignity, Paul felt. But then he shrugged; there was never any telling what depths a man might plunge to in the name of love.
Take what he himself had allowed Madeleine to do to him, for instance. That had been pretty demeaning – though he still wasn’t sure what she had got out of it. As for him, well, it had totally blown his mind. Not that he particularly wanted to repeat the experience, but subjecting himself to her anger, and giving her free licence to do as she pleased with his body, had completely smashed the boundaries of eroticism – that he might repeat. The funny thing was, Madeleine had changed since that night. She had become withdrawn and less certain of herself, she no longer socialised quite so much, and had actually turned down three centrefold offers. On the other hand, the new perfume was about to be launched, and that she was looking forward to.
As far as their relationship was concerned, she seemed to love him even more than she had before, and had become so dependant on him emotionally that it seemed the empty Russian doll at last had a heart and a conscience which, like her mind, were his to command. She was dependant on him financially now, too, but she didn’t know that. As for him, he was still baffled by the way she had taken him captive. Her coarse, countrified voice and – until lately – inordinate vanity; her near obsessive love for him and her zealous drive to get them both to the top, had closed in around his heart to such a degree that to be without her now was inconceivable. Just to picture her face set off all kinds of reactions within him; and despite what he had done to prove to himself that he was still in control of his feelings for her, could still hurt her if he chose, he was sometimes afraid that he loved her too much. But why, when he loved her, did he actually want to hurt her? That was a question he’d asked himself a thousand times, and the answer he gave was that it proved he was able, at will, to detach himself from all emotion – even his own. For him, emotion must be merely something to experience before exploiting it on the page. Nevertheless, to experience the emotion was vital, he felt; he truly believed that he could not write about something that he had not actually known for himself.
Though he’d taken a shower before leaving the flat he could still smell Harry on his clothes as he got into his car. He waited for the fuse of desire to ignite, but it didn’t happen, and laughing quietly he dropped his parcel onto the seat next to him and started the engine.
It would all be over with Harry soon, once his book was out. Naturally, rejection would make Harry more compliant than ever, but there would be no more afternoon trysts, no more rough male hands exploring his body. In his mind’s eye he caught a glimpse of Harry’s penis, erect yet vulnerable, and his hand moved to his own – well, maybe it wasn’t all quite over with Harry yet.
When he drove into the mews the car valet service was waiting for him, so after unlocking the front door he tossed over his keys, then took the parcel from the car. As he walked into the house he inhaled the fresh, tangy smell that told him the cleaning lady had been there earlier, squirting substances from her ozone-friendly bottles.
He was on his way through to the kitchen when, hearing voices in the sitting-room he stopped, and opening the door, saw Madeleine sitting in front of the TV. On the screen were highlights of Enrico Tarallo’s fourth Grand Prix win of the season, but it was evident from the way she was sitting – her head resting on her hand and her face, puckered with anguish, tilted towards the ceiling – that she wasn’t paying attention. Immediately his heart leapt to his throat, then a wave of anger tautened his muscles. Somehow she had found out about Harry, and that she should have discovered now, when the relationship was all but over, was too damned unfortunate for words.
He walked further into the room, looking at her curiously, and when he spoke guilt gave a stilted edge to his laugh. ‘When I left you this morning you were on your way to Morocco,’ he said, hardly hearing himself above the pulses drumming in his ears.
Her eyes didn’t move, so putting the parcel down he went to turn off the TV. The room plunged into silence. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked. ‘I thought you’d be lying on a beach by now, soaking up the sun through Ambre Solaire. I’ve got the right commercial, haven’t I?’ he added, when she made no response.
She sighed. ‘Trouble with the air traffic controllers. We’re going tomorrow.’
‘Oh, I see.’ He sat down on the edge of the coffee table in front of her, and rested his elbows on his knees. ‘So why the long face?’
She shrugged. Then after a while she pulled a hand from her pocket, producing the letter she’d received from her aunt. When he saw it he had to check himself rapidly as relief bubbled in his throat like laughter. He took the letter, then tossing it onto the table he moved across to the sofa and slipped an arm round her shoulders.
‘I thought we’d gone over all this,’ he said gently.
‘I know. But I can’t help it. Please don’t be angry with me.’
‘Sssh, I’m not angry. I understand, my darling.’ He knew she loved it when he called her darling, and to confirm this she nestled herself closer to him. ‘But what did you expect? Of course she’s upset. She doesn’t know where you are, or who you’re with, she doesn’t know anything except what she reads in the papers. And she knows that I was once involved with Marian, so obviously she’s not happy about us being together, especially as you’ve never contacted Marian to explain.’
‘But how can I explain when we took all that money? I know I don’t have to tell her, but she’ll sense something, I know what Marian’s like. Anyway, it’s not that I’m worried about. Well, it is, but apart from that, it’s what my. Auntie Celia said about everything else. She’s really upset.’
‘Maddy, just because she doesn’t approve of your modelling doesn’t mean it’s wrong, it only means that she’s an old woman who’s never been any further than the end of the road, so you can’t expect her to understand. It would be kinder to ignore the letter than go home and start up all the arguments you know you’ll have. You don’t want that, do you?’
He felt her shake her head. Then she whispered: ‘Where have you been?’
A quick vision of Harry’s face flashed into his mind’s eye. ‘Later,’ he said. ‘You’re what’s important right now.’
‘Am I? Do I really matter to you, Paul?’ she asked, lifting her head to look at him.
‘If only you knew how much.’
She sighed, and resting her head on his shoulder again, she laced her fingers into his. ‘I wish I did. It’s just that sometimes you seem . . . I don’t know, I can’t describe it. I know you do things because of your writing and all that, but it’s difficult for me to understand. Oh Paul, I feel so lonely sometimes.’
Putting his fingers under her chin, he lifted her face and kissed her. ‘I’ll always be here for you,’ he murmured, using his thumb to wipe the tears from under her eyes.
For a long time she looked at him, studying the contours of his full mouth, the smooth line of his nose, the black brows and lashes, the intense eyes, and then the shock of white blond hair that lent such a contrast to his colouring. He watched her, sensing that she was on the point of saying something, but then, shaking her head, she turned away.
For a while now, even before she’d received the letter from her aunt, she had been longing to ask him, but fear of his answer stifled the words. Even now, as she tried again to find the courage, her heart churned. But in the end, in a voice that was barely audible, she made herself say it. ‘Paul?’
‘Yes?’
‘Would you marry me?’
He gave her a quick squeeze. ‘Yes. If that’s what you want.’
She closed her eyes, unsure whether the last few words had been played out only in her imagination. ‘When?’ she breathed.
‘When I think the time is right. You’re too busy now. So am I. We’ve got so much going for us already, if we do everything at once, what will there be left?’
She looked up. ‘But you do want to marry me?’
He chuckled. ‘Oh yes, I want to marry you.’ And pulling her across his lap, he laid her back against the cushions. ‘That’s what’s been on your mind these past few weeks, isn’t it? Why you haven’t really been yourself. You’ve been wondering whether I would marry you.’
She nodded.
‘Why? Did you think I would say no?’
‘I don’t know. I never really know anything with you.’
‘Would it help if I told you I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone in my life? Or that I love you more than anyone else will ever love you?’
‘Yes, it helps.’ At last she smiled.
‘So no more talk about your aunt? You’re going to stay here with me, just the two of us?’
She nodded, and after he’d kissed her she turned to the coffee table. ‘What’s the parcel you brought in?’
‘My page proofs. Want to have a look?’
Not having the first idea what page proofs were, Madeleine was surprised when he pulled them out. ‘Is that your book?’ she gasped.
‘It most certainly is.’
‘Can I read it?’
He laughed. ‘Not yet. It’ll be full of printer’s errors which I have to check over, and it’ll be easier for you to read in book form.’ He knew she’d never get through it even then, but it didn’t matter. ‘Now who can that be?’ he said, as the phone started to ring.
‘It might be Shamir.’ And suddenly animated, she leapt to her feet. But it wasn’t Shamir – it was British Telecom testing the lines.
‘Where is Shamir?’ he asked when she sat down again.
‘Still in Los Angeles. It feels like ages since I last saw her. I really miss her.’
He put down his page proofs and went to pour them both a drink. ‘I know what’s happening to you,’ he said. ‘All this publicity, constant demands upon you, press following you everywhere – it’s enough to make anyone jittery. And it’s all happened so quickly that it’s beginning to frighten you. And because you’re frightened you’re clinging onto everything and everyone you know.’ He smiled. ‘You remind me of a butterfly trying to get back inside its chrysalis. But there’s nothing there for you now, Maddy. It’s all here, right ahead of you. So take that letter and throw it away.’
She picked it up and turned it over in her hands. Just to look at her aunt’s handwriting brought a lump to her throat. ‘I wonder what Marian’s doing now,’ she said sadly.
‘Does it matter what Marian’s doing? Isn’t what we’re doing more important?’
She took the Martini he held out to her. ‘Yes, of course it is,’ she sighed.
‘Then why are you thinking about Marian?’
‘I suppose because we used to be so close, and I get worried sometimes that no one likes me any more. I mean, I know I’m not the same as everyone else, I’m not clever or anything, but I’m not stupid either, it’s just that I can’t talk as well as other people. You know, the ones we mix with. Oh, I know I’ve been having lessons and all that, but I can’t always think of the right words and I’m afraid people are going to laugh at me. I just wish everyone was like Marian. Or Shamir – she never picks me up on anything I say wrong, she doesn’t seem to notice even Nor do you.’
‘That’s because both Shamir and I love you.’
The telephone rang again and he got up to answer it. It was Deidre confirming the time of Madeleine’s flight the next morning.
She waited until he sat down again, then taking his hand, she said, ‘Paul, if we do get married . . .’
‘Not if, when.’
‘When we get married, can I invite them? Marian and Auntie Celia?’
‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, Maddy, for lots of reasons. Besides, if you’re going to be my wife I don’t want to share you with anyone.’
She smiled. ‘I love it when you’re possessive with me. It makes me believe that I really am special to you.’
‘Shall I tell you what you are to me?’
She nodded.
‘A whore.’
Her head jerked up. He was laughing, but still she looked uncertain. ‘That’s a horrible thing to say.’
‘But if you take off your clothes I’ll show you it’s not such a horrible thing to be.’
She tutted and rolled her eyes as she realised he was teasing, but inside, the sudden rush of alarm was still pumping viciously at her heart. She wondered if she would ever get used to his rash cruelty. He only did it to test her, gauge her responses and add them to his book; he’d explained it all after that mess with Harry. But still she lived in dread of what he might do next. In truth, it was why she sometimes longed for her aunt and Marian. It wasn’t that she really wanted anything of her old life, she only wanted to feel secure in her new one.
The next morning Paul drove her to the airport himself. It was the most difficult parting they’d had yet. He didn’t want her to go, and after the night before, when he’d made love to her with more tenderness than he’d ever shown before, she was beginning to realise that fame and fortune meant nothing compared to being with him.
It was Deidre who finally prised them apart, and as Paul stood at the window watching Madeleine walk out to the plane, waving and blowing kisses, she wondered why it was he seemed to love Madeleine so much when they had so little in common.
‘If I could explain it,’ he said, when she asked, ‘I’d have the answer to a question man has been asking since the beginning of time. All we know, Deidre, is that love has no logic. Can I give you a lift back to London?’
When she didn’t answer he turned to look at her. He was surprised to find her normally inscrutable face suffused with an emotion he couldn’t quite identify. Then he realised it was pain. He made a move towards her, but suddenly she had herself back in control.
‘Take no notice of me,’ she said, blinking the even more surprising tears from her eyes. ‘But you’re right, it doesn’t have any logic.’ What she didn’t add was that the very illogicality of it was tearing her apart inside.
As they were driving through Hammersmith on their way to Deidre’s office in Knightsbridge, Paul said casually: ‘When’s Shamir back?’
‘The day after tomorrow.’
‘If you’ll give me her flight details I’ll pick her up.’ He laughed. ‘The things I do to please Madeleine.’
Deidre smiled. ‘I’m very fond of her myself, you know.’
‘I thought you were.’
A few minutes later she said, ‘If the times of the flights coincide, perhaps you could give me a lift to the airport when you go to meet Shamir?’
‘Of course.’ He sounded surprised. ‘Are you going anywhere nice?’
She turned to look out of the window, wondering how she could answer that. In the end she said, ‘I’m going to see someone who will give me more pleasure than anyone else in the world – and probably more pain.’
Sergio was sitting up in bed reading the English newspaper he’d strolled out to buy for Bronwen early that morning. While he was gone she’d cooked breakfast, and after they’d eaten he had made love to her again. Now she had returned to her hotel, leaving her newspaper behind, a newspaper that contained what he knew to be an old photograph of Madeleine – and Paul O’Connell. His expression, as he looked at Paul’s face, was impenetrable, but he studied it for a long time before finally the telephone broke his concentration.
‘Pronto,’ he snapped, snatching the receiver from the cradle.
‘Sergio? You called me.’
‘Rubin, my friend, I called you some days ago. Where have you been?’
‘Out of town. On business.’
‘We missed you at the bottega.’
‘I’m sorry, the message didn’t get through to me in time. How is it going? How is she?’
Sergio put down the newspaper and leaned his head against the wall behind him. ‘Aah,’ he sighed, his voice saturated with pleasure, ‘she is very good. She is magnificent, and in less than a few weeks she will be ready. You were unwise to miss our last meeting, Rubin.’ He allowed a few seconds to pass while Meyer swore under his breath, then on a more controlled note he said, ‘But I wish to speak to you on another matter. You know about the film?’
‘Sure. Everyone’s talking about it.’
‘In New York, maybe. Not here. At least, not yet. You have been interviewed by the people from the film, I believe?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you tell them of your association with me?’
‘Are you insane? Why would I have done that?’
‘Then what did you say to them of me?’
‘Only that I had heard of you, as anyone in the art world would have. That I had recommended to Hastings that he should send Olivia to study under you.’
‘And you are sure this was all you said?’
‘Positive. Why?’
‘Because the young girl, she gives me reason to believe that she knows more than she should.’
‘You mean the mousey kid who came here with the Welsh woman?’
‘Her name is Marian Deacon. I cannot be sure, but I believe she has a suspicion about the connection between us.’
‘But how can she have?’
‘That, my friend, is your concern, not mine. I tell you because you should tread with care from now on. I also tell you because I want nothing to happen to her.’
‘But if she knows, or even suspects, then the bottega could be blown before . . .’
‘Rubin. I do not want her harmed because I have discovered that she is the cousin of Madeleine Deacon.’
There was a sharp emission of breath at the other end of the line, followed by a long, pregnant silence. Then Meyer said: ‘But once you’ve, we’ve, got Madeleine, if there’s even so much as a whisper of either of our names this Marian kid’ll be bound to shoot her mouth off.’
‘Not necessarily. I understand there is a rift between them.’
‘But family quarrels get made up.’
‘Then we shall have to hope that this one does not. However, if it does, you understand that Marian Deacon will become my concern and I will act accordingly. Do you follow me?’
There was a groan at the other end before Meyer said, ‘We gotta get her out of the way, Sergio.’
‘No! If she suspects the connection between us, someone must have told her. Therefore, if she disappears now the person who told her will know why she has disappeared and will also know where to start looking for her. The net will close, as you Americans say, and in it will be two fish, Marian and Olivia. But the net must close when I say so, and in it must be Madeleine and Olivia. Now do you follow me?’
‘Sure, I got it. In the meantime, do you want me to put someone on this Marian’s tail?’
‘Do as you wish, just don’t harm her. I am already beginning to think that when it comes time for Madeleine, this Marian might be very useful to us.’
‘In what way?’
Sergio laughed. ‘I will let you know, my friend. And now it is addio, or I will be late at the bottega. Today, it will be only Olivia and me.’
Half an hour later Sergio strolled out of the apartment building and got into his car. As he drove away down the Via dei Bardi and turned onto the Ponte alle Grazie, he didn’t notice the tiny blue Seat that had started to follow him.
Deidre’s hands were clenched tightly on the wheel, her eyes fixed rigidly on the black car ahead. For years she had fought to stop herself doing this, had urged herself to trust him, but now she had to know. The day before, while he was at the Accademia, she had searched his apartment, and after finding what she had found, she had taken herself off to a pensione and spent the entire night trying to persuade herself that there was nothing ominous in it, that she should go home and forget all about it. But she knew that she had come too far now, and for the sake of her own sanity she must find a way either to confirm or deny her dreadful suspicions. Whatever she discovered, it would make no difference to the way she felt about him, that would never change; she just needed to know where he went when he got into his car, because the only time he ever used it was when he was going to the bottega.
She followed him through the suburbs of Florence, always keeping her distance, then out onto the autostrada towards Lucca. Inside she was crying, begging him to stop, to turn round or to take a road that would not lead him to Paesetto di Pittore. But an hour and a half later, just after they’d passed Lucca, he swung his car onto the steep, winding road that would eventually lead him to the village where Olivia had been taken the night she disappeared. The road led nowhere else, there could be no mistake – and with her heart constricting with sadness, love and trepidation, Deidre turned her car round and drove back to Florence.