Directly below the apartment windows was the solitary, old-fashioned lamppost with its five globes that gave off the only other illumination except for the light streaming out from the windows of the adjacent apartments. Laura had always thought of the lamppost as a charming little sentinel standing next to the ancient Paulownia trees so treasured by every inhabitant of the square.
Laura knew the sixième, the sixth arrondissement, very well and especially this quaint square with its great charm and old-world atmosphere. It was she who had found the apartment for Claire seven years earlier, just after she had separated from her husband. It had belonged to Madame Solange Puy, grandmother of her old friend Marie-Louise Puy, who dated from her Sorbonne student days.
Marie-Louise had inherited the apartment from her grandmother and had just put it up for sale. Fortuitously for Claire, as it turned out, Laura had been in Paris at this particular time, and the moment she heard about the apartment going on the market she had told Marie-Louise that Claire might well be interested in buying it.
The three of them had met at the apartment and Claire instantly fell in love with it. Within a couple of months the sale was complete, with all the documents signed, and the place finally belonged to Claire. As soon as the deed was in her hands, she began to decorate. Hercule, as always, was the chief adviser and initiator of ideas, and together they created what Claire called “My first real home as a grown-up.” And it was beautiful, Laura was the first to acknowledge.
It had pleased Laura to see Claire so happy on the day her friend had shown her the finished apartment. Claire’s excitement about her new home had wiped the anger and pain off her face, for a little while at least.
“Laura.”
At the sound of Natasha’s voice Laura swung around. “Yes?”
“Your lipstick … well, it’s not right … not the right color. I’ve brought you this … one of mine. It’s much better for you.” Natasha hurried forward and handed the tube of lipstick to Laura.
Laura automatically took it, startled as usual by Natasha’s candor. The girl was breathtakingly honest, blunt even, but then, weren’t most fourteen-year-olds today? “What’s wrong with the color I’m wearing?” Laura asked after a moment.
“It’s too red for you. Anyway, bright red’s out. Old-fashioned. Look at the one I’ve given you. It’s sort of brownish with a hint of pink, and it’s much more in. Just ask Mom. She uses one of my browns now. Red is definitely gross.”
“Thanks for your beauty advice, darling. It used to be your mother passing on tips, now it’s you.”
“You’re not mad at me, are you, Laura?”
“No, of course not,” she answered with a light laugh, amused by the girl’s seriousness and look of concern about the lipstick.
The doorbell rang, and Natasha exclaimed, “That’s Hercule, he’s always on time!” She glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf. “Just two minutes past seven,” she added as she ran across the floor to the entrance hall.
Laura followed at a slower pace.
Doug jumped up and straightened his jacket.
Natasha wrenched open the door and cried, “Hercule, we were—” Her sentence was bitten off abruptly. Natasha stood stock-still, gaping at Hercule’s companion. It was Philippe Lavillard.
Laura was also suddenly riveted to the spot, staring at Philippe, as speechless as Natasha.
Philippe looked from Natasha to Laura, and then took a step forward, drawing a bit closer to the threshold. It was obvious that he was about to say something; he opened his mouth, then immediately closed it. The words remained unsaid.
The kitchen door had flown open with a clatter at that moment and Claire rushed into the living room; she was laughing. “There you are, Hercule, as punc—” She, too, instantly cut off her sentence midway when she saw Philippe Lavillard; she was flabbergasted at the sight of him. “What the hell are you doing here?” she exclaimed, but the words sounded more like a snarl than anything else.
“We met, he and I, on the doorstep,” Hercule began, already sensing trouble, wishing to keep things at least civilized; he knew they would never be amicable. That was an impossibility between these two antagonists. “We came up the stairs together,” he finished somewhat lamely, and shrugged.
Claire stared at her old friend without uttering a word, blinking rapidly, as if suddenly afflicted with a nervous tick. Then her eyes swung to Philippe. “What do you want?” she demanded, her voice shrill.
It struck Laura that Claire was spoiling for a fight with Philippe, and she wondered how best to diffuse the situation before it spiraled out of hand, became a full-blown row. She glanced at Doug; he stared at her pointedly.
In answer to Claire, Philippe said quietly, “You know what I want.”
“What you want and what you’ll get are two entirely different things. You can’t just come here without warning and make demands on me. And you know that,” she snapped, her eyes icy.
“I’m entitled to see Natasha.”
“Huh! You! You don’t give a damn about Natasha. If you did, you wouldn’t bury yourself in darkest Africa, tending to the natives and their bubonic plagues and Black Deaths or whatever other horrendous diseases it is they have. You’d be here, living in Paris, and available to be with your daughter whenever she needs you. Instead, you’re thousands of miles away, half the time incommunicado because of your deadly viruses, and of no use to her or me when we might need you urgently.”
“You know if there were an emergency I’d be here as quickly as possible, if you asked me to come. And I do have a right to see my daughter,” he answered, cool and reasonable in his tone.
“You gave those, rights up when you ran off!”
“I didn’t run off, as you put it, Claire, and you know it. And don’t forget, I do have visitation rights.”
“If I say so. And don’t you forget that I have sole custody, and that I control your visitation rights. They’re at my discretion. The judge said so. And you accepted that stipulation without a murmur.”
“I don’t wish to fight with you, Claire,” he replied, sighing imperceptibly, holding his temper in check, knowing it was futile to squabble with Claire. Invariably her rage turned into a terrible verbal violence that frightened him because he never knew where it was going to lead. Again he said, “Look, I just want to see Natasha for a while.”
“But she doesn’t want to see you, do you, Natasha?” Claire turned her head, focused intently on their daughter.
At first Natasha did not answer, then she said softly, “No, Mom.”
“You see!” Claire cried triumphantly, and threw him a smug smile. “You’ve even antagonized your own daughter, not that she really knows you as a father. Basically, she never had a father. You were always away, and far too often, ever to be one of any consequence. In fact, you’re a stranger to her.”
“That is not true,” Philippe shot back swiftly. He shook his head and shifted slightly on his feet, wanting to be gone from her. “And let us not dredge up the past,” he went on, his control still tightly held, his voice steady. “I just thought we could spend a bit of time together, she and I. I’m here for only a few days.”
“Now? At this hour? Why did you come at this particular time? I’m not going to ask you to stay to dinner, if that was your intention.”
“I don’t want to stay to dinner. I want to see my daughter.”
“You can’t. Not now. You should have phoned me. That would have been the proper thing to do.”
“I knew you’d say no, or slam the phone down if I called you.”
“I’m slamming the phone down now. You’re not welcome here. Please leave.”
“Claire, be reasonable,” he begged, his tone now becoming even more conciliatory. “Please agree to—”
“No way,” she cut in swiftly. Her hatred for him flooded her eyes, washed over her face. He saw it and flinched inside.
He said, “Tomorrow, Claire. For a short while. For lunch?”
“No.�
��
“For coffee, then? In the morning. Here at the apartment. Or at a café. Whatever you say.”
“Please go, I don’t want you in my home,” Claire almost shouted, and she stamped her foot.
Laura was not only appalled but troubled. She had never seen Claire behave like this before.
Hercule said, “Perhaps it would be more appropriate to have this discussion inside the apartment rather than out here in the hallway.” He took a long stride into the foyer and carefully closed the front door of the apartment behind him. At the same time, he managed to give Philippe a gentle push into the room. Then he struggled out of his overcoat, which he hung in the coat closet.
Philippe spoke in a coaxing tone, making a last-ditch effort as he said, “Let me spend an hour with Natasha tomorrow. That’s all I ask.” Growing bolder suddenly, he took another step toward his former wife.
Claire backed away.
They glared at each other.
There was a sudden rush of immense dislike flowing between them like waves. It filled the room.
Hatred, Laura thought. They have only hatred for each other. How terrible that they should end up like this. Once they so loved each other, shared all their hopes and dreams, planned a future, a whole life together. Now they are embattled.
Natasha also felt the hostility flowing between her parents, and as always it dismayed and troubled her. But she managed to diffuse it to some extent by saying, “It’s okay, Mom. Coffee tomorrow is fine.”
“No!” Claire exclaimed. “I don’t want you to do this, Natasha, just to placate him.”
Natasha went and put her arm around her mother, who was so much smaller than she, and held her close, as if somehow protecting her. She couldn’t stand her mother’s pain. It broke her heart. “Mom, I don’t mind, honestly I don’t, and it’s better this way.”
Claire did not respond, simply leaned into her daughter, taking sudden comfort from her proximity, her warmth, and the love she exuded.
Looking across at her father, Natasha continued, “Ten o’clock. I’ll be ready. We can go to the café on the corner.”
Philippe nodded, and an unexpected smile struck his somber mouth. “Yes, that’s perfect, and thank you, Natasha. Thank you.” He cast a glance at Claire. “Is that all right with you? You’re not going to make problems tomorrow, are you?”
“Everything will be all right,” Natasha answered swiftly, suddenly in command here, in charge of this volatile situation. “I promise. No problems.”
Relieved, reassured by the oddly grown-up girl who was his daughter, Philippe relaxed a little. For a moment he gave his attention to Laura. “Nice seeing you the other day,” he murmured, and then nodded to Hercule. Knowing it was wise to disappear before Claire did indeed find a way to object to the date their daughter had made with him, he let himself out without further ado.
The moment he was gone, Claire pulled away from Natasha and swung her head to look at Laura. She frowned and said in a puzzled tone, “You saw him the other day?”
“I ran into him at the d’Orsay just before you arrived. He was looking at the Renoirs.”
“And you never told me when I got there … never told me he was in Paris. Why not?”
“I was going to, Claire darling, but then I decided against it. I realized you didn’t know Philippe was here, passing through, as he’d told me, otherwise you would have mentioned it to me. And to be honest, I didn’t want to upset you. Mentioning his name is like a red rag to a bull, you know that, and I was just … Well, I was waiting for you to tell me you’d had a phone call from him. But when you didn’t, I decided not to say anything. Obviously he hadn’t been in touch with you. Why open a can of worms?”
“Lying by omission,” Claire pronounced, her mouth drooping. “I can’t believe it,” she added in a low mutter.
“Oh, Claire, come on, don’t take exception like this,” Laura exclaimed. “It wasn’t lying by omission.” She cleared her throat. “Well, not really,” she now thought to say, remembering that she herself had come to the same conclusion two nights ago, when they were having dinner at the Relais Plaza. “Surely you understand, Claire?”
But Claire remained silent.
Laura continued. “Look, I didn’t want to bring up Philippe’s name, to say I’d run into him accidentally. What good would it have done? You’d only have been as mad as hell that he was in Paris and not calling you, not asking to see Natasha.”
“I’m mad now.”
“Mom, don’t take it out on Laura. She hasn’t done anything,” Natasha said gently, a worried expression clouding her eyes.
“Never a truer word spoken, my dear,” Hercule agreed. “I don’t know about anyone else, but I’d like a drink.” He moved farther into the room and glanced at Laura. “Actually, I need one, don’t you?”
“Absolutely, Hercule. Go and sit down, I’ll fix them,” Laura answered, walking across to the bar. “Scotch and soda as usual?”
“Oui. Merci.”
“What about you, Claire?” Laura asked as she dropped ice into two glasses. “I’m fixing myself a vodka for a change.”
“I won’t have anything, thanks,” Claire responded, her voice suddenly back to normal. “I think I’d better go and look at the dinner.”
“I’ll come with you,” Natasha cried, rushing into the kitchen after her mother.
“And you, Doug? Do you want something?” Laura asked.
“Not right now, thanks. I’m finishing this glass of white wine.”
Laura carried the drinks over to the sofa in front of the fire, handed the scotch to Hercule, then sat down on a chair opposite. “Cheers,” she said, lifting her glass. Doug lifted his, and smiled at her.
“Santé,” Hercule replied, and took a sip. Leaning back against the cream velvet sofa, he stared at the fire for a brief moment, a look of abstraction on his face.
Laura sat observing him, giving him a few minutes to collect himself, to relax.
Eventually, she said in a low, concerned tone, “I’ve never seen Claire act in that way before, not in all the years I’ve known her.”
“A dreadful scene,” Hercule replied, shaking his great leonine white head. Turning to look at her, he went on. “I’ve not witnessed anything like it either. However, I must tell you, Laura, she now harbors the most terrible hatred for Philippe.”
“I’ve never been able to get to the bottom of that, Hercule. I mean, after all, a lot of marriages fail and people get divorced. But there isn’t always this hideous acrimony.”
“That is true, yes. I am rarely if ever with Claire and Philippe when they meet on occasion, but Natasha has told me that it is always stormy, and that Claire rages on and on at Philippe.” He shook his head; there was a hint of bafflement on his face. “It seems to me she has grown to hate him more and more as the years have passed. Extraordinary, I think.”
Laura made no comment; she was at a loss for words. But she knew deep down within herself that Hercule was correct. A sense of dismay suddenly lodged in her stomach, and she said slowly, “I hope this hasn’t ruined the evening. Claire was so lighthearted in the kitchen before Philippe showed up. But then—” She cut herself off and sipped the vodka.
“But then?” Hercule’s eyes rested on her quizzically. “What?”
“Philippe Lavillard has always spelled trouble, and I’ve never really liked him.”
“Oh, I don’t think he’s such a bad fellow, Laura,” Doug interjected.
Hercule smiled at her and said, “Perhaps you see him through Claire’s eyes and not your own, my dear.”
“Perhaps,” Laura had the good grace to admit.
Hercule chuckled softly to himself and glanced into the fire, his face grown contemplative again.
“What is it? Why are you chuckling?”
“We can control so much in our own lives … except what other people say and do. And their actions and their words affect us tremendously. Therefore we do not have as much control as we think we do, La
ura.”
“No, we don’t,” Laura agreed.
“You can say that again,” Doug said.
7
Natasha could see her father standing on the far corner of the place de Furstemberg, and she ran across the square to join him.
“Hello, Natasha,” he said when she drew to a standstill in front of him, and hugged her to him.
“Hi, Dad,” she responded, hugging him back, and when they drew away, she went on. “Let’s go somewhere else for coffee, not the café on the corner, and then maybe we can go for a walk.”
“But your mother …” he began, and then stopped, peering at his daughter, his dark eyes suddenly worried. “Won’t she expect you home soon? Within the hour?”
“Oh, no, it’s okay, Dad, honestly,” Natasha reassured him. “I told Mom I wanted to have a longer visit with you today, and she said it was all right.”
Philippe Lavillard continued to regard his daughter for a moment, assessing what she had just said. Although he did not know her as well as he wished he did, he was, nevertheless, quite sure she would not say anything to him that was untrue. Claire had brought her up well.
“All right,” he said at last. “Since you say your mother’s agreed, let’s walk for a bit and find a place for breakfast. I haven’t had any yet, have you, darling?”
Natasha shook her head, smiling up at him. She tucked her arm in his and they set off at a brisk pace. Natasha loved her father, and she did not think he was the ogre her mother constantly made him out to be. And she was baffled by her mother’s perpetual anger, and the fact that she would never discuss her past relationship with Philippe. But then, she was often baffled by adults, whom she considered to be very strange at times, to say the least, and most especially when it came to relationships.
A Sudden Change of Heart a Sudden Change of Heart Page 8