She heard from Klaus once, on Tuesday when he called from Florida to ask her to send a folder of drawings to him.
'This is a damnable nuisance, I want to get back to you, my love,' he said. 'I have to go to L.A. for a few days, probably the weekend too, unfortunately. I miss you. Do you think you can get it on a plane tonight?'
'But how do I get into the apartment? Mrs O'Brien won't be here till tomorrow.'
'Gina has a key, in her kitchen, the drawer with all her unused cooking utensils. The folder's labelled Hotels, you can't miss it. You're a darling. See you late on Sunday, I hope.'
Rezia found the key, and went across to the other apartment. A mirror image of Gina's, it was quite different. Hers was furnished with pastel shades, pale rugs and squashy settees and armchairs. His was far more masculine, the sitting room partly divided by open bookshelves. In what was the working area there was a huge desk to one side, tables with a couple of computer monitors, a drawing board by the window, and bookshelves and filing cabinets all along one wall. In the other half were red leather armchairs on a dark green carpet, and bright, expensive Oriental rugs. On the other walls were some excellent modern paintings. The rest of the furniture was a fascinating mixture of European antiques, mostly French occasional tables, but one huge breakfront bookcase which housed, instead of books, a collection of Sevres and Dresden china. Klaus was clearly a man of wide enthusiasms, and had the money to indulge them.
The door to the bedroom was open, and without conscious thought she drifted across to look inside. The carpet was oatmeal, the walls plain white. The bed was king-sized, covered with a deep rose-coloured quilt, and a battery of switches in the headboard controlled lights, television and hi-fi equipment. Here the furniture was ultra-modern, pale wooden chests and closet doors, no mirrors as in Gina's bedroom, and couches and chairs covered in the same shade as the quilt, but this time velvet, not silk. She was tempted to take a few photos as a memento, but told herself it would be intrusive.
Rezia suddenly became uncomfortable and backed out of the room. It felt like spying. She found the folder where he'd told her, in the top right hand drawer of his desk, and went out of the apartment, reluctant to leave the place which reminded her so strongly of him.
As she put the folder down on Gina's table some photographs slid out, and she recognised them. They were of prize-winning designs for a couple of prestigious architectural projects. They weren't hotels, but she scarcely noticed.
Klaus Edmondson! Of course. He was becoming well known as a brilliantly innovative architect. That's where she'd heard his name. She racked her memory. He was rich as well as successful, but it was, she thought, family money.
It gradually came back to her. His grandfather had come from Denmark eighty or more years ago, and was one of the many rags-to-riches legends of America. From working as a farm labourer his grandfather had built up a meat packing empire, then bought and expanded a shipping line. Now, she believed, they were operating luxury cruise liners too.
She packed up the folder, and sent it off to Los Angeles. How could someone like that have fallen in love with her, as he said? Then, restless, she decided to put the snaps she'd taken in an album. She opened her laptop and printed the best on Gina's printer, then looked at the sequence she had taken, all unwittingly, of Klaus and the attack on him, and grinned reminiscently at one picture of him festooned with strands of lettuce. Would he appreciate them, though?
*
Half an hour later the phone rang. It was Sarah, back in town. Rezia suggested she came for a meal on the following evening.
'Wow! How come you're living there?' Sarah demanded when she heard the address. They'd had too little time on their first meeting to say much, they'd been too busy talking of old friends.
'Luck. I'll tell all tomorrow.'
'I'll be there with my ears flapping.'
Sarah's eyes almost popped out when she saw the apartment. 'You lucky devil!' she exclaimed. 'I have to live way out in order to afford a room big enough to hold my easel! How did this happen?'
They talked about their work as they ate, and then Sarah grinned at Rezia. 'And what about men? Have you left someone languishing in England? Or have you found someone here?'
Rezia shook her head. 'I don't have time,' she protested.
Sarah raised her eyebrows. 'I don't believe you,' she said. 'You're blushing.'
'It's the heat, and the wine.'
'Oh yeah? Let's meet for lunch again soon. If you only have another few weeks we must make the most of it.'
'When? Tomorrow?'
Sarah said she was taking some time off in the afternoon, so they planned to meet in Battery Park. 'Then we can go and see the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island afterwards. Have you been there yet?'
'No,' Rezia said slowly. Klaus's grandfather would have come into the States by way of this huge immigration centre. She wondered if there were records there which identified him. 'I meant to, but haven't sussed out the subway yet,' she confessed. 'It's all so big and confusing.'
Sarah grinned. 'Provincial!' She gave Rezia instructions, and said she had to get home.
*
When Rezia arrived at the small restaurant the next day, Sarah was already there. She had a newspaper folded beside her, and she pointed without speaking to a badly focussed picture.
Rezia glanced at it, and froze in shock. It was Klaus, taken with a long lens, she guessed. He was entering the restaurant they'd been to a few days earlier. His arm was round Rezia's shoulders. His face was clearly visible, her own in shadow, but recognisable for anyone who knew her. The caption below was in huge type. 'Who is Klaus's latest?'
Sarah silently handed Rezia another paper, with the same picture. This time the caption asked 'Who is Klaus's new mystery woman?'
She collapsed into the chair and read the paragraphs below. They both mentioned how the rich and talented Klaus Edmondson, the despair of all the wealthy girls he had dated, had been seen with a girl no one could identify. She was not one of the usual New York or Boston socialites, and they listed several he'd been seen with over the past ten years, and mentioned he had recently broken off his engagement to the wealthy Gina Sondberg. Was that why Gina had seemed frightened while she'd been in the apartment? Had she dreaded meeting him?
Nor, one paper went on, was this mystery girlfriend from the west coast, and they were offering a 'mystery reward' to anyone who could identify the 'mystery girlfriend'.
Now she understood. The man they'd found outside the apartment had been trying to get a picture of them for this sort of item. Had he trailed them? Had he just been waiting in the hope that one day Klaus would bring his new woman there? They couldn't know where she lived, surely? She felt sick, but dimly realised Sarah was speaking.
'What did you say?'
'Shall I claim it?' Sarah said, and collapsed into laughter at Rezia's horrified look. 'You're a dark horse. How on earth did you meet him?'
'He – he lives in the next apartment,' Rezia managed. Her heart was thumping, and she wanted to run away and hide. She never read gossip columns, partly because she didn't have time, mainly because she didn't like the intrusive way some of them delved into the lives of their victims. If she had, she was thinking ruefully, she might have known who Klaus was much sooner. It was clear he was a favourite with at least two of the columnists, and they seemed to know a great deal about his, as they called it, love life.
'Is he as fascinating as he looks?' Sarah demanded. 'How often have you dated?'
'I had dinner with him the first night I was here, and went to one party. I don't call that dating him!' Rezia said indignantly, conveniently ignoring the evenings they'd spent together. Sarah had always been a gossip, and she wasn't going to let her know the true state of affairs. Why, she thought crossly, she didn't know that herself.
'And this time,' Sarah said, tapping the picture. 'The newspapers will imply more than dating,' she added. 'Did you know he's in the running for a big architectural contract? If he can put up the money for a partnership, that is.'
Rezia shook her head. 'I hardly know him,' she protested. 'What contract? And how do you know?'
'A whole string of luxury hotels in Europe and the Middle East. One of my friends lives with an architect, that's how I know about it. There are three of them left in the competition, and he's by far the youngest. He seems to be the hot favourite.'
*
She couldn't concentrate on the ferry trip. She listened dutifully to the guide telling them how many tons of copper were in the statue, how many individual plates, the size of the iron frame which supported the statue, but she couldn't remember a single statistic afterwards. The only thing she did recall was that the frame had been designed by Alexandre-Gustave Eiffel. She didn't hear a word of the sonnet the guide recited, which was carved on the pedestal, but she did manage to take some photographs of the enormous figure.
On Ellis Island she forced herself to take an interest in the documents and objects displayed in the huge halls of the museum. She tried to imagine the feelings of the immigrants, at their first experience of their new homeland. Many had been turned away, and she could almost feel the despair in these rooms of those who, after a long and tedious journey, were refused admittance. Perhaps they were diseased, or could not read. Whatever the reason, it had been the end of hope for thousands.
*
She went back early to the apartment. What difference did it make that Klaus was famous, and featured in gossip columns? She was thankful no one had been able to identify her, and spent the evening trying to coax her cap of short black hair into another style. For a moment she was tempted to buy a blonde wig, but decided that would cause comment even amongst the usually preoccupied museum curators. Instead she determined to visit a hairdresser and demand a different cut the very next day. It was a pity she couldn't grow a beard like a man could have done, she thought ruefully.
She returned to the apartment the next evening with her normally smooth locks shorn into a ragged style, wearing a pair of huge sunglasses. Thank goodness it was the weekend, and she could skulk indoors for a couple of days, and hope the gossip columnists would have latched on to someone else by Monday. Klaus wasn't due back till late on Sunday, and with luck he wouldn't have seen these papers.
She had been grocery shopping and bought enough food for the weekend, and as she let herself into the apartment breathed a sigh of relief. No one had accosted her, or, so far as she could tell, even looked at her with any show of interest.
The grocery sack had slipped as she negotiated the key. She grasped it more securely and went towards the kitchen. It was only her convulsive start that saved it when Klaus spoke from the depths of an armchair.
She lowered the sack to the table. 'You startled me! Do you have to jump out at me like that? And why are you back early?'
He rose to his feet and walked slowly across to her. She'd seen him furiously angry, but now he was cold, grim-faced, and terrifying. He pointed to the table and she saw several newspapers lying open on it.
'Go on, read them!'
Glancing at him and swallowing hard, she picked up one of the papers and gasped in shock.
'Those – some of them – are my pictures!'
'I know,' he said, his tone clipped and harsh, 'but I am surprised you have the gall to admit it.'
'I didn't sell them to this – this rag!' she exclaimed. 'They were private, so how could they have got hold of them?'
'You work for A.P.P. This is one of their papers.'
Rezia stared at him in dismay. How could it have happened? Then she recalled Frank, when he heard where she had been, borrowing her camera to see if there were any shots they could use in a feature on Long Island. Had he copied the lot? How could he have betrayed her like that! 'Oh, Klaus, how could I have known they'd steal my pictures? Someone must have recognised you and stolen them, made their own copies. I'm so sorry, and on Monday I'll find out who it was, and hope they get sacked!'
He didn't relax. 'I don't like being shown falling into bowls of salad, being punched by a drunk half as fit as I am, but I like even less having pictures of my homes blazoned across the gutter press. I hoped my apartment and the house my sister and her family share with me would have remained private.'
'Your house? I don't understand!'
He gestured towards the other papers which she had ignored. Slowly she picked them up, and saw about a dozen pictures of the Long Island house, and the apartment. All of them had bedrooms prominently displayed. 'Klaus's love nests?' all the captions read. They hadn't even had enough originality to vary them.
*