Where You Belong

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  I sat on the sofa alone, facing the French doors that led to the garden. Jake was off in a corner, deep in conversation with Rory and Moira, and so I took this opportunity to catch my breath, to relax and review the past few hours. It had been a wild morning. Emotional. Disturbing. And in many ways more dismaying than I’d anticipated.

  Outside the windows the scene was pastoral, and I was enjoying sitting there looking at it, enjoying this moment of quietness and solitude in the midst of the gathering. Everyone was engaged in conversation, but this did not bother me; I was part of them, yet separate. I might easily have been in the depths of the country, and not in Hampstead, although parts of this area of London were bucolic, I knew that.

  From my position on the sofa I could see a number of large trees, including an oak and a sycamore, and a verdant lawn that was held in check by herbaceous borders. There was an ancient fountain spraying arcs of shimmering water up into the air, and beyond this, a high, old stone wall into which had been set a wrought-iron gate with an elaborate scroll design.

  This gate led to an apple orchard, so Fiona had told me a moment ago, and she had added, “Tony’s favorite spot. He did love his garden so.”

  Nodding, smiling, I had not uttered a word on hearing this. It was something that seemed so unlikely; but I had taken a fast sip of the sherry Jake had poured for me earlier, to be followed quickly by several more sips. Her words had startled me. I had no idea how to respond, and then realized that no response was necessary.

  When did he have time to sit in a garden? I asked myself, frowning at Fiona’s retreating figure as she flitted away to serve more drinks and questioning the veracity of her remark. Yet there was no reason for her to make this comment if it were not true. What did she have to gain? Nothing, of course. Anyway, it had been said almost offhandedly, as if no thought had been given to it. Nonetheless, I found it curious.

  Almost instantly it struck me that he’d had plenty of time to spend in the garden, because he had always hot-footed it to London at the end of an assignment, leaving me and Jake to make our way back to France together.

  And Tony had usually had plenty of good reasons for rushing off, ready excuses on the tip of his tongue; he had to check in with his agency, spend time there, see his kids, have lunch with his brother, get a doctor’s checkup, go to the dentist. No, he had never been at a loss when it came to explaining away his absence from my life when we were not working.

  Tony had been in London through June and most of July, and certainly he could have easily done a lot of garden sitting then. He had not joined us in Paris until the last few days of July, just before we set off for Kosovo in August to cover the war.

  Do we ever really know another person? Until earlier today I had believed I knew everything there was to know about Tony Hampton. Not so, it seemed.

  I’d had a bit of a shock in the Brompton Oratory, when it had suddenly hit me, and with some force, that I was actually standing next to Tony’s widow and not his ex-wife, as I had believed her to be. But the shock had receded somewhat, and I had begun to regain some of my equilibrium.

  When I’d rushed out of the church I’d been full of rage; but as the anger had subsided I had accepted the fact that I’d been duped. Not only that, I could also admit to myself that Tony had purposely set out to beguile me last year, and I had been foolishly sucked in, captivated by his Irish charm—if anyone had kissed the Blarney Stone, he had. I had been bowled over by his sudden and rather intense interest in me; it had been so unexpected. After all, he had known me for several years and had always treated me as a pal. Suddenly I was the focus of his romantic and sexual interest, and for a while I was baffled. But he was charismatic, and of course I had not been able to resist his looks, his humor, his cleverness, his sexuality. I had been a sitting duck. . . .

  There was something else. I trusted my gut instinct absolutely, and earlier today it had told me Tony had died a married man. I was convinced I was right about that, even if Jake was wavering on this point.

  I was baffled by Tony’s behavior at the end of July. Why had he unexpectedly announced to Jake that he was divorced? And why had he told me exactly the same thing? I’d certainly not been bugging him about marriage. And who could fathom out a blatant lie like that? What was the motivation behind it? What was the reason for the lie? What had he hoped to gain?

  All kinds of other questions jostled for prominence in my mind as I sat there in his house in Hampstead with his widow playing hostess; I went on sipping her dry sherry and pondering my love affair with him.

  Had Tony been playing for time? Had he been intending to marry me, as he had often said he would, and in doing so commit bigamy? Had he merely been stringing me along, hoping that Fiona would leave him? Or that I would tire of waiting? Had he found himself in so deep with me, he didn’t know how to extricate himself, and therefore had invented the divorce and given me the Grecian ring as . . . pacifiers? Had he been hoping that something would happen to solve his problems?

  Tony had had a favorite expression, one he used frequently. “Life has a way of taking care of itself,” he would say to me and others constantly.

  Well, life had indeed taken care of itself in the end. Had he always known he would die covering a war? Had he had a presentiment about this? An icy shiver shot through me at this appalling thought, and I immediately put it out of my head. Otherwise, I might start thinking that his recklessness had in some way been calculated. A feeling of dismay mingled with the frustration lodged in the pit of my stomach as I recognized that I would never know what had been in Tony’s mind.

  IV

  Not wishing to wrestle any further with the puzzle of Tony’s marital status and his terrible game playing, if that was what he had been doing, I focused my eyes on the garden for a short while longer. It was so tranquil, filled with such a calm beauty, I took a measure of peace from it. And again I was thankful that nobody was disturbing me with their idle chatter.

  The slashing rain had long since stopped and the day had turned sunny; airy white clouds floated across a soft periwinkle-blue sky, and it had become one of those lovely September afternoons that are so endemic to England.

  Suddenly that bright sunlight was pouring into the room. Yellow was the predominant color, and the result was magical; the whole room acquired a shimmer to it, a warm golden glow that appeared to make everything gleam. My eyes roamed around, taking everything in for the first time since I’d arrived.

  There were some attractive modern paintings on the walls, and a number of handsome Georgian antiques were on display. But essentially it was a room that had been furnished rather than decorated, because there was no cohesive decorative theme to it. Beautiful things were dotted here and there, but they looked as if they had been gathered somewhat indiscriminately and then placed around haphazardly. The room did have comfort and there was more than a hint of refined taste at work, but very little of Tony was in evidence. This setting had been created solely by Fiona, I was sure of that.

  Jake moved away from the corner of the room at last, sauntered over to me, and looked down. He said, “You seem a bit pensive. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. I’ve just been sitting here, thinking. Thinking things through.”

  Jake nodded, gave me a small lopsided smile. “We’ll talk later. In the meantime, how about coming into the dining room, getting a little food? You should try to eat something, Val, before we go to the airport.”

  I agreed.

  V

  In the end it was the study that told the real story.

  Jake and I had just finished eating when Fiona came over. Leaning closer to us, she said in a low, confidential voice, “Let’s slip away. I want you to choose something of Tony’s as a memento.”

  I jumped up at this invitation. Jake and I followed her out of the dining room, up the stairs, down the corridor, and into the long, rather spacious room that had been Tony’s private abode.

  The moment I stepped inside, I knew that
no one else could possibly have occupied it; his own unique imprint was stamped on it everywhere.

  The first thing I noticed was the baseball cap, and my stomach lurched.

  How could I miss it? I had bought it for him last year, on our vacation in the South of France. There were a number of other hats hanging on the antique mahogany hat stand near the door, but my baseball cap had been his favorite. The way it hung there now, a bit lopsidedly, made me catch my breath. He might have just flung it onto the peg a moment before.

  Feeling decidedly queasy, I glanced away and moved farther into the room.

  Along one wall, a series of built-in cupboards ran down toward the window, and I guessed that this was his filing system; those cabinets more than likely housed hundreds of his photographs and all his records. And God knows what else. I wished I could get into them, but there was no hope of that, I knew.

  Stacks of magazines, piles of books, and a selection of very expensive cameras were carefully arranged on top of the cabinets, and above the long countertop the wall was lined with cork. Onto this Tony had pinned a lot of photographs. Including some of mine, I noticed with a small jolt of surprise.

  Walking closer, I looked at them, remembering. Remembering so much.

  I instantly closed my mind to those memories. With a rush of irritation I knew he had put them up there as souvenirs of our vacation in France. All of them had been taken near St. Tropez, where we had spent a week sailing. Seascapes. Empty beaches. Sunsets. Shots of the endless sky. Close-ups of flowers, trees, birds, nature in all its forms. Beautiful shots, which were a relief for me to take after the horrors of war. They were unidentified, but they were mine all right.

  Then my gaze fell on the camera I had given him. A Leica.

  Automatically, I reached for it, held it in my hand, thinking of Tony, suddenly angry with him again. I felt betrayed and used by him.

  Fiona must have seen me pick it up, because she exclaimed, “If you want the camera, please take it, Val dear. Rory and Moira have chosen the ones they prefer. I’m so pleased she’s taking after Tony, following in his footsteps. I’m sure she’s told you all about her plans, Jake, hasn’t she?”

  I turned around to face the two of them.

  Fiona stood near the big partners desk in the middle of the room, and she was looking up at Jake.

  He said, “Yes, she has been filling me in, and she’s very excited that she’s going to join Tony’s agency next year.”

  As I continued to look at them, it struck me suddenly that Jake looked very tired, as if the day had affected him as deeply as it had me. Also, I couldn’t help wondering what Moira and Rory had been talking to him about. Their father, no doubt.

  Picking up the camera, I went to join them both. Jake put his arm around me, drew me closer to him, almost protectively, I thought.

  “Thanks, Fiona, I’d like the camera,” I murmured, although I didn’t want it at all. But I thought it would look churlish, perhaps even odd, if I didn’t take something of his, since we had worked together.

  Looking pleased, Fiona now picked up a small leather box that was on the desk and opened it. She showed the contents to us; it held a pair of cuff links. Glancing at Jake, she said, “I thought you might like to have these as a memento of Tony. They’re good ones, you know. They’re made of eighteen-karat gold, and lapis, as you can see.”

  “Thanks,” he said, taking them from her. He studied them for a moment, closed the box, and put it in his jacket pocket without another word.

  “Would you like to select one or two of Tony’s cameras?” she asked him.

  Jake shook his head. “I’ve got so many of my own, honey, but thanks for offering.”

  Sitting down at the desk, Fiona opened the center drawer, took out an office-sized checkbook, and turned the pages. “Tony must’ve owed you money, Jake. Five hundred pounds, to be exact.” Her expression was questioning, and then she went on. “He made out this check to you, dated and signed it, then forgot to tear it out before he left for Paris at the end of July. I found it the other day, when I’d finally screwed up the courage to go through his desk.”

  Jake was obviously not surprised by her words. Nodding, he explained, “Tony told me he’d left the check behind by mistake. I said he should forget it, that it didn’t matter.” Jake cleared his throat and added, “I’d loaned him some money to buy film when we were in Jordan in March. Look, it’s not important, Fiona.”

  “No, no, I insist you take it,” she exclaimed, tore out the check, and handed it to Jake. Since I was standing next to him, I couldn’t help noticing that the check came from a joint account. An account bearing Fiona’s name as well as his.

  Well, so much for that, I thought. She had a joint account with him. She has his children. His house. His garden. A whole life with him to remember.

  As for me, what did I have?

  Chapter 6

  I

  Jake did not have much to say on the way to the airport. In fact, he was not only silent but rather glum. In contrast, I was brimming with thoughts, theories, and comments and desperately wanted to talk to him. But in the end I remained silent, deeming it wiser to hold my tongue for the moment.

  It was obvious to me that he didn’t want to talk about Tony and Fiona, or Rory and Moira either, with whom he had spent a lot of time at the lunch. Nor did he want to discuss that lunch, which we had just left, or the memorial service of earlier. I didn’t blame him. Everything had become as painful for Jake as it had for me, or so I believed.

  Heathrow was as busy as it always was, crowded with people, and as we pushed our way through the bustling throngs heading for all corners of the world, I got the distinct feeling Jake couldn’t wait to get back to Paris. I hurried along next to him, hauling my one piece of luggage, a fold-over bag that had traveled the world with me, while endeavoring to keep my large tote on my shoulder.

  “Hey, honey, let me help you with your stuff,” he suddenly said, becoming aware of the difficulties I was having with the large bag slung over one shoulder.

  “I can manage, Jake. Please don’t worry, you’ve enough to carry of your own,” I replied, but I was still struggling, and before I could protest further, he grabbed the fold-over bag out of my hands.

  “I’m sorry, Val, I should have carried this for you all along. No excuse for me, except that I’ve been preoccupied.” He gave me a faint smile, and finished with “I’ve been very neglectful.”

  “Please, it’s okay!” I exclaimed. “I’m a strong, tough girl who can carry her own luggage and take care of herself in any situation.”

  Staring down at me, he gave me an odd look and muttered, “I’m not so sure about that, Kid.”

  I didn’t answer. I simply trotted along next to him, trying to keep up with his long strides. After a second or two I remarked, “Anyway, I know what you mean about being preoccupied. I’m on overload myself at the moment.”

  He nodded, gave me a swift glance, and said, “Yes, you are. Emotional overload. The point is, we’re both top-heavy with a lot of crap, a lot of disturbing and conflicting feelings. I just need to clear my head, Val, so that I can look at . . . things as clearly as possible.”

  “I understand,” I answered, “and I realize now is not the right time to talk, since we’re rushing through an airport like maniacs, trying to make a plane. But we should sit down and chat, Jake. We need to understand about Tony and Fiona. Whenever you want, but we really must do it,” I insisted.

  When he made no response whatsoever, I eyed him worriedly and pressed, “At the lunch you said we’d talk later, remember? And we have to make sense out of Tony’s behavior, you know.”

  “I guess we do,” he muttered, and his face became closed, his mouth grimly set. He plunged ahead, making for the gate, deftly handling our luggage.

  I sighed under my breath. So much for that illuminating conversation, I muttered to myself, and ran after him to board the plane to Paris.

  II

  The flight across th
e English Channel was short, just over an hour, and I spent most of that time wondering why Jake was still so silent, wrapped up in his own thoughts. I’d tried to make small talk with him, but to no avail. He barely responded, seemed reluctant to say anything at all. And when he did reply to the odd question or comment of mine, his answers were brief and to the point.

  If I didn’t know better, I would have said he was being sulky, but that wasn’t his nature. Jake was not a moody man, nor was he temperamental, and like me he was usually on an even keel. Quite aside from that, I always thought of him as being straightforward, honest, and dependable. The salt of the earth: and my best friend, the one I relied on.

  His quietness, his unexpected reserve, puzzled me a bit, and I wondered if something else was bothering him, something other than Tony Hampton.

  Now I stole a look at him. His head was thrown back against the plane seat and his eyes were closed, but even in repose his expression was troubled. His mouth had relaxed, but there was a tautness in his face, a tenseness in his body, even though he dozed. Poor Jake, I thought, I’ve put him through hell these past few weeks since Tony’s death. I suddenly felt very guilty about that. We had both loved Tony in our different ways, and losing him had traumatized us. Commiserating, we had tried to help each other along, while continuing to miss him.

  But as of today we had a different Tony Hampton to contemplate and contend with, a Tony much less noble, a man without honor as far as I was concerned.

  I asked myself why I had never realized that, never spotted this flaw in him? I prided myself on my integrity, and I found it hard to relate to those who lacked this quality. My grandfather had always held integrity very dear, and he had drilled its importance into me, reminding me about the value of honor, honesty, trustworthiness, and decency. I have tried to live by Grandfather’s rules and standards, and I believe I have succeeded.

  Once, long ago, my little slug of a brother Donald had told me that my standards were too high, that I expected too much from people, that no one could live up to my highfalutin expectations, going on to inform me that the world was full of rotten people. “And most people are rotten, whatever you think, Val Denning,” he had exploded, his rage spilling over. “They stink. They cheat, they steal, they lie. They commit adultery and murder, and they’re shit! Yes, the whole world is full of shitty people, and the sooner you realize that, the better off you’ll be.”