A Sudden Change of Heart a Sudden Change of Heart

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  Sighing under her breath, Laura turned away from the window, got undressed, and went to bed. Feeling wide awake, she zapped on CNN and lay watching it for an hour. She had just turned it and the light off when the phone rang; reaching for it, she said, “Hello?”

  “Hi, darling,” Doug answered.

  “I wish you were here,” Laura grumbled.

  “I can be there if you want.”

  “But not fast enough for me.”

  “How’s three seconds?”

  “Three seconds? What are you talking about?”

  “I’ll be right up,” he replied, and laughed. “I’m in the lobby.”

  5

  “What are you doing in Paris?” Laura asked, smiling at Doug as he came through the door. “You’re supposed to be in Los Angeles.”

  “I was never going there. I lied. I wanted to surprise you, darling.”

  “You succeeded,” she said, and came into his arms.

  Pushing the door closed with his foot, Doug held her close to him for a moment then bent down and kissed her on the mouth. Finally pulling away, he said, “I thought a weekend in Paris would be great for both of us. So here I am.”

  “I’m thrilled, it’s just wonderful, that’s all I have to say.”

  He walked across the room, his arm around her shoulders, and said, “So whatever you have planned, I think you should cancel it. I want you all to myself.”

  “I’m glad you do, and I feel the same way. There’s no problem about canceling things. All I have are two appointments with galleries, but they don’t matter all that much. Oh, but, Doug, I told Claire I’d have dinner at the apartment tomorrow night. I can’t really cancel that.”

  “I don’t want you to, and you know I love Claire. It’ll be good to see her and the shrimp.”

  Laura laughed. “I’d forgotten you call Natasha that. She’s not much of a shrimp anymore though. More like a … golden salamander.”

  “Mmmm. So she’s growing up gorgeous, is she?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “There’s the bell. It’s my bag,” Doug said, and went to open the door. The porter placed his suitcase, briefcase, and overcoat in the room, thanked him for the tip, and left.

  Laura said, “Are you hungry? I’m sure the Relais Plaza is still open. I’ll get dressed and we can go down for a bite.”

  “No, don’t bother, darling. I ate dinner on the plane. But I would like a drink. White wine would be great.” Leaning into her, he kissed her on the cheek, then took off his jacket and tie. “I’m going to have a shower and then I’ll be right with you. Order a bottle of Pouilly-Fumé, sweetheart.” He continued to undress and Laura went to call room service.

  She was propped up against the pillows on the bed, sipping a glass of carbonated water, when Doug came out of the bathroom swathed in a bath towel that he had wrapped around him toga style.

  “The wine’s over there on the chest,” she said. “I had the waiter open it.”

  “Thanks.” He looked across at her and a brow lifted as he asked, “Do you want a glass with me?”

  “But of course.”

  Doug poured two glasses and carried them over to the bed. After giving one to Laura, he strolled around to the other side, climbed onto the bed, and sat propped up next to her. Turning to look at her, he lifted his glass and touched it to hers. “Here’s to our weekend together, darling,” he said, and smiled.

  Laura smiled back at him over the rim of the glass. “To the weekend. And to you, darling. You’re a crazy fool, flying all this way just for two days, but I love it.”

  After a few swallows of the white wine, Doug placed his glass on the bedside table; drawing closer to Laura, he kissed her cheek, then her neck.

  Immediately putting her wine on the nightstand next to her, Laura shifted her body around to face him, and a moment later he was pulling her into his arms. Doug renewed his kisses, showering them on her neck, her shoulders, her bare arms; reaching inside her nightgown, he began to caress one of her breasts sensually, drawing small sighs from her.

  Moving closer to him, Laura loosened the towel wrapped around him, let her hand trail down over his flat stomach, making gentle circular movements; her fingers fluttered down, and she began to stroke him.

  Doug lay very still, his eyes tightly closed; he luxuriated in her touch, drifted with his sensual thoughts. He felt a slight movement against his legs as Laura slithered down the bed and crouched over his thighs. She was still stroking him and then unexpectedly her moist lips encircled him and he let out a long sigh as she took him fully in her mouth. Suddenly he was aroused. After a second or two, she stopped, lifted her head, kissed his stomach, and then pushing herself up the bed, she brought her mouth to his.

  Doug’s excitement was mounting. He returned her fervent kisses and with suddenness, almost abruptness, he rolled them over so that he was on top of her. Their mouths stayed locked together. Her tongue grazed his and they shared a moment of intense intimacy before Doug pushed his hands under Laura’s buttocks and fitted her long, lean body into the curve of his. And at last he was hard enough to slip inside her, easily and expertly, and within moments they had a rhythm, were rising and falling together, their movements swifter, almost frenzied. Her legs went high around his back and he shafted deeper into her, sinking deeply into the warmth.

  Soon Doug felt as though he were falling through dark blue water, falling down, falling farther and farther down into a bottomless dark blue sea. The waves washed over him, beat against him. He squeezed his eyes tighter shut. Images danced behind his lids. Oh, yes, he thought, oh, yes, and as he began the long slide down into total ecstasy, he saw that face, trapped as it was in his mind….

  “Doug, oh, Doug!” Laura cried. “Now. Please. Oh, please don’t stop, darling.”

  Her voice came to him from far away. And yet it was clear, sharp, the voice he knew so well. And it brought him down. Instantly he lost his erection. His fantasy shattered. Falling against her, Doug lay still, breathing heavily. He was flaccid, drained of energy all of a sudden. And he was mortified.

  After a moment Laura whispered, “Why did you stop? What happened?”

  “I don’t know,” he whispered back. “I’ll be all right in a minute.” But he wasn’t, and after a short while he slid off her and lay on his back, still breathing deeply.

  “Are you all right, Doug?” she asked, concern giving her voice an edge.

  “I’m fine,” he replied in a low voice. He felt vitiated, sapped of his strength.

  Laura’s hand reached for him; she began to stroke him, endeavoring to arouse him once more. But a moment later, when her lips encircled him, he knew her efforts would be in vain. This happened a lot with her these days, this loss of strength and vitality at the crucial moment. Doug got off the bed and hurried into the bathroom.

  Snapping on the light and locking the door, he went and looked at himself in the mirror. What in God’s name was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he bring the act of love to its true culmination for them both? He had always been proud of his prowess as a lover, his staying power.

  It was odd how he fell apart though, somehow never reached fulfillment these days. Panic struck him. Was it always going to be like this? For the rest of his life? Was he always going to be an ineffectual lover, a man incapable of satisfying a woman, satisfying his wife? Suddenly, Doug was hit by a rush of embarrassment. He had flown all this way to make love to her and he had failed her, failed himself.

  And then he thought: It’s all in the mind, of course. That’s where all this begins. And ends.

  6

  Laura had always thought of herself as an observer. She would sit back and watch, saying very little but hearing everything. And there had been a great deal to see and hear, whether she was observing her brother, Dylan, the rebel; her father, the composer and conductor; or her mother, the artist.

  Then there was her grandmother Megan, the once-great musical star, and her grandfather Owen, theatrical manager and profess
ional Welshman. And Claire Benson —her heroine, role model, and her best friend.

  Each one of them was highly individualistic, a complex personality, and therefore a fascinating study.

  The two people she most enjoyed observing were her grandparents, Owen and Megan Valiant. They were the greatest influence in her life, especially her grandmother; and, because she loved them so much, she saw them through eyes that were not in the least critical. So many of her values had come from them, and it was on her grandparents that she had, based her own notions of romantic love.

  Grandfather Owen would boast, “Ours is one of the greatest love stories that ever happened. I fell in love with Megan when I first heard her singing in the chapel at Port Talbot, and I’ve loved her truly ever since.”

  And whenever he said this, which was very frequently, her grandmother would blush prettily and smile at Owen with adoration. “It’s true, Laura. The day I set eyes on your grandfather I was kissed by the angels. It was the luckiest day of my life, meeting him.”

  When she was young she was well aware that her parents loved each other too. But unlike Owen and Megan, who never quarreled, Richard and Margaret were often engaged in roaring battles.

  “It’s a feast or a famine with your parents,” her grandmother would say. “They’re either in each other’s arms or at each other’s throats. Goodness me, I’ve never before seen such goings-on in my life.”

  Her parents’ way of making up after one of their regular tempestuous falling-outs was to go off on a trip for a week or two. “Another honeymoon,” Claire would say, and she would become a kind of surrogate mother to the two of them, aided and abetted by Mae, the housekeeper; Dylan’s nanny, Cissy; and Grandma Megan, who would swoop down in full force to take charge of the household.

  Claire had been the other important influence in her life, and she had observed her dearest friend through loving eyes and hardly ever found fault.

  “Always the observer, Laura,” her lovely gran had often said in those days, laughing lightly, and then Megan would go on to predict that her favorite grandchild would become a writer. She hadn’t, of course; nonetheless, she continued to be the observer, forever watching everyone, and assessing.

  She was doing exactly that tonight as she sat on the stool in Claire’s kitchen, where Claire and Natasha were preparing dinner. As she looked from mother to daughter, she saw the enormous love and friendship flowing between them. It was so potent, such a palpable thing, Laura felt as though she could reach out and touch it. To see them in such harmony made Laura happy. Neither she nor Claire had been close to their own mothers, a situation that had often saddened Laura. But then, she’d had Grandma Megan, and so had Claire, for that matter. And they still had her, in fact.

  Everything Claire had said about Natasha earlier in the week was true. Laura had not seen her goddaughter for almost five months, and in that time she had lost her baby fat and grown even taller. Like her mother, she had bright auburn hair, although hers was full and flowing, unlike Claire’s, which was cut short. Her resplendent locks gave her the look of a girl who had stepped out of a Renaissance painting. Her large eyes were a peculiar golden brown, a sort of amber color, which Laura had always found unusual, and there was a faint dusting of freckles across the bridge of her slender nose. Otherwise, her creamy skin was without blemish.

  Natasha had a short torso and long legs, and, as Claire had pointed out, although she was only fourteen, she dwarfed them both these days. She’s growing up to be a real beauty, Laura thought, then turned her attention to Claire.

  Contrary to what Hercule believed, Laura was quite convinced there was, nothing wrong with her friend. Tonight she was full of her usual bountiful energy; her face was flushed, her eyes were shining brightly, and her short auburn curls were like a burnished halo around her pretty face. No, there was nothing wrong with her, Laura decided, filled with a sudden sense of relief. Her dearest friend was the picture of good health.

  Claire was wearing a red wool tunic over matching leggings, and she was full of laughter and gaiety as she skillfully prepared navarin of lamb, her famous lamb stew with vegetables. Simultaneously, she was putting finishing touches to another speciality of hers, strawberries Romanoff.

  Claire had always been a marvelous cook. This was the one thing Laura envied, since she herself had little talent in that direction. Although Claire had been an enormous influence on her in other ways, she had never been able to teach her the simplest rudiments of gourmet cooking.

  On the other hand, Claire had shown her such important things as how to put on makeup, pluck her eyebrows, and paint her toenails; it was also from Claire that she had learned how to walk properly in high heels when still too young to wear them, and most important, how to flirt with boys.

  Flirt with boys. Laura smiled inwardly, thinking that before long, Natasha would be doing that. She almost laughed out loud; in all probability, Natasha was flirting already.

  Shifting slightly on the stool, Laura said, “Please let me do something to help.” As she spoke she glanced across at Claire and Natasha and added, “I feel like a spare wheel.”

  Claire laughed. “Everything’s under control, I promise you, so just relax and keep us company until Hercule gets here, then you can entertain him while we finish up.”

  “All right, that’s a deal. But let me know if you need me to peel a potato, chop something, or whatever.”

  “I’ve done all the whatevers for Mom,” Natasha said, laughing as she looked up. Then she returned to the task of dropping dollops of chocolate-chip cookie mixture on a metal cookie sheet.

  “It certainly smells delicious, Claire,” Laura remarked. “I like your lamb stew better than Dina Zuckerberg’s famous specialities.”

  Claire burst out laughing on hearing this, and Laura started to laugh with her; their peals of laughter rang out, echoed around the kitchen.

  Puzzled by their sudden and unexpected hilarity, not understanding it at all, Natasha asked, “Who’s Zina Duckerberg?”

  “It’s not Zina Duckerberg, it’s Dina Zuckerberg,” Laura corrected Natasha. “She used to live in the same building in New York when we were growing up, and she was always inviting us to dinner when her mother was out or away traveling.”

  “And she always ‘cooked’ the same thing, pizza from Ray’s Pizza Parlor and Häagen-Dazs vanilla ice cream,” interjected Claire, who began laughing again, as did Laura.

  Natasha shook her head wonderingly, smiled indulgently at the two women, who she thought were suddenly slightly crazy, and immediately changed the subject. “You could do one thing to help, Laura. Would you go and ask Doug if we need more ice?”

  “Good idea,” Laura replied, and slid off the stool. She found Doug on a sofa in front of the fire, nursing a drink.

  “Do we need more ice, Doug?”

  “No, darling, there’s plenty in the bucket.”

  Laura glanced around, once more admiring the room. Claire had decorated it with a great deal of style and flair, and a little help from Hercule. It was easy for Laura to spot his touches here and there, such as the bouffant taffeta curtains at the windows. “Dance dresses,” he called them, because they were narrow at the top and flared out like a skirt before they reached the floor. And the large silk lampshades, the urns of twigs and leaves, were also Hercule’s well-known imprints.

  The room was old-fashioned, traditional, with spacious, rather grand proportions. A highly polished wood floor met crisp white walls, with bookshelves soaring up to the ceiling on the long wall facing the fireplace.

  On the other walls were hung oversized framed posters, all of them colorful reproductions of Toulouse-Lautrec’s Moulin Rouge can-can girls. A cream Savonnerie rug patterned with red, black, and green covered part of the dark floor, and there were two large cream velvet sofas and several chairs arranged in an airy seating arrangement.

  Claire had been collecting French country antiques for a number of years, and their ripe woods gleamed in the lambent lig
ht, adding a touch of elegance and warmth to the room. She had arranged lovely old pieces of porcelain on some of the antique chests and tables, and grouped together a large collection of silver-framed photographs on a provençal sideboard. Laura gazed back at all the Valiants, as well as herself. And Natasha, Claire, and her parents were also captured in different poses on celluloid.

  The air was fragrant with the scent of fresh flowers, bowls of potpourri, and Rigaud candles, all of which were trademarks of Claire’s; she had hers just as Hercule had his. It was a lovely room at any time, but especially so at night, with the candles burning, the silk-shaded lamps glowing, and the fire blazing in the hearth. There was a welcoming warmth here, and a great deal of love.

  Laura walked across to one of the tall windows, then stood looking down at the place de Furstemberg, which she considered to be one of the most picturesque Little squares in Paris. It was a cold night. The inky sky was clear, without cloud, and the stars were few. But a curving crescent moon was bright as it cast its silvery light across the shadowy square.