Voice of the Heart

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  He did not like his realities. On the other hand, he was aware that his aversion to them would not make them go away. And they presented one dilemma which, at this moment, seemed to him to be insoluble: he had to bring order to his chaotic personal life whilst continuing to write. Yet it was not humanly possible to do both at once and succeed at either.

  In a sense, the truth had crept up on Nick stealthily, had unexpectedly struck him harshly in the face when he had least expected it, and he was only just beginning to recover from the blow. Slowly, it was dawning on him that his work must take priority; therefore, he would have to put his personal problems on one side, in order to dedicate himself to finishing the novel. Past experience had taught him this was not always easy. The slightest disruption or pressure impinged on his concentration, cluttered his head when he needed absolute clarity of thought. Also, Nick’s tendency to worry excessively had increased, rather than lessened, with the years, and worry was destructive to his creativity.

  Turning all this over in his mind yet again, coldly and objectively assessing, he resolved to make a supreme effort to isolate himself from the household, Carlotta in particular, so that he could continue with the novel in an atmosphere of calmness. If necessary, he would acquiesce to the trip to Venezuela, providing she went alone, without their child; or perhaps he ought to go away himself. Where would he go? Che Sarà Sarà was one place he had always found conducive to work and he had written well there in the past. But Victor was coming to New York shortly, on one of his infrequent business trips, was planning to stay for a month at least. So there was hardly any point in going out to the ranch, or going anywhere for that matter. He had no intention of missing Vic’s visit, or forgoing the time they had planned to spend together. Victor Mason was the one constant in his life, and after almost thirty years of friendship they were as close as they had ever been, if not closer.

  I’ll just have to stay put and cope, Nick decided. He rose, went to throw another log on the fire. As he straightened up he noticed that the Taurelle above the mantelpiece was crooked, and he moved the frame slightly to the right. Stepping back, his head on one side, he eyed it carefully, and, satisfied it was level, he returned to the chair.

  Nick’s gaze lingered on the painting, a modern Impressionist work by one of his favourite contemporary artists. It was of a lovely young girl standing in a sea of flowers in the middle of a sun-drenched garden, her nudity discreetly, and partially, hidden by the blossoms and foliage. With its subtle coloration, and its extraordinary play of trembling light on the girl and the pastoral scene, it was reminiscent of a latter-day Renoir. He had fallen in love with the Taurelle the minute he had seen it, and its airy pastel colours and the sunny mood it depicted were perfect in the living room.

  Nick had decorated this in a mélange of cream, white and sandy tones, highlighted with touches of apricot and the palest of greens and blues. The ripe wood tones of the antiques, which he had purchased over the years on trips to England, added balance to the light colours and enhanced the traditional setting. It was very much his room, expressed his taste for quality, comfort and elegance, and everyone who entered it remarked on the beauty and tranquillity which prevailed.

  Dragging his eyes away from the painting, he lifted the Georgian silver coffee pot but immediately put it down. Impatiently, he leapt up, filled with the restlessness which had become so paramount in him lately, and on the spur of the moment he decided to go out. A long walk would further clear his head, he reasoned, and he was certainly not in the right frame of mind to do any work at this hour.

  Hurrying downstairs, he took his camel-coloured cashmere overcoat and scarf from the hall closet and stuck his head around the kitchen door. Pearl, and Miss Jessica, the marvellous Scottish woman who was his son’s nanny, were engrossed in a pile of cook books, chatting about recipes. He told them he was going out for an hour and left the house.

  Nick swung up Madison Avenue, and by the time he reached the Carlyle Hotel, only two blocks from his home, he was already regretting his decision. The weather had turned colder and there was a stinging icy wind. This buffeted him forward, tore at his hair, whipped his face and made his eyes water. He ducked under the awning of the hotel and peered at his watch. Flagging down the first cab he saw, he leapt in, gave the driver the address of Elaine’s on Second Avenue, and sat back, shoving his hands in his pockets to keep them warm.

  When he pushed through the door of Elaine’s five minutes later, Nick was relieved to see the bar was not as jammed as usual, and after throwing his coat on a hook, he slid onto a stool. He ordered a Remy Martin and lit a cigarette. Elaine spotted him, waved, and sailed forward to greet him, welcoming him with her usual warmth and friendliness. He joked with her for a few minutes, until she was called away to deal with some restaurant problems. The cognac was smooth and it warmed him, tasted just fine with his cigarette. He was suddenly glad, after all, that he had ventured out, come here. He was beginning to relax, the tension easing out of him, and he was enjoying the noise and bustle of the place, the sense of life, of people, which it gave him.

  He cupped his hands around the brandy balloon, stared down at it, musing. He had long ago ceased to crave happiness… who the hell was happy in this goddamn world? Anyway, as Colette had once written, happiness was a matter of changing troubles. Nonetheless, he had hoped that by now he might have snared contentment at the very least. Even this eluded him. Jesus, in a few months he would be celebrating his fifty-second birthday. What had happened to time? It had slid through his fingers, taking so much with it… the romantic idealism of his youth, so many dreams, so many hopes… leaving behind the ashes of shattered verities and disillusionment and despair and an intangible sorrow in his soul. Yes, the years had passed in the twinkling of a star, disappeared before he had had a chance to—

  ‘Well, well, well, if it isn’t Nicholas Latimer. The one and only Nicky.’

  He swung his head swiftly, found himself staring into the bright and beaming face of Estelle Morgan. Slipping off the stool, he grasped the outstretched hand, leaned forward to kiss the proffered cheek. ‘Hello, Estelle,’ he said. ‘How’ve you been? And where’ve you been hiding yourself?’

  ‘I’m terrific, and I’ve been around and about, pushing the old pen, as usual,’ she said, gazing up at him with her usual adoration, which had not waned with the years. ‘You’re certainly looking pretty good. As handsome and as charming as ever, dear Nicky.’

  Nicky grinned. ‘What’s it been? Two years?’

  ‘That’s right. I haven’t seen you since I did the interview with you for Now. I’m still with the magazine. I just adored your last book, and knowing you, I bet you’re in the middle of a new one.’

  ‘Sure I am. Coming into the home stretch. Say, Estelle, can I get you a drink?’

  ‘No thanks. I can only chat for a minute. I’m having dinner with a bunch of chums over there.’ She nodded in the direction of a table just beyond the bar.

  Nick glanced at the group, saw a few familiar faces he could not name, plus a well-known actor, a controversial French film director and a Broadway press agent he vaguely knew. Nick inclined his head to the press agent, turned back to Estelle. ‘Too bad. Not even a quick one?’

  ‘No, thanks anyway.’ She drew closer, touched his arm tentatively. ‘It’s funny I should run into you tonight. I’ve been trying to reach you all day.’

  Nick pricked up his ears, threw her a sharp look. ‘Have you been calling the house, by any chance?’ he asked, realizing suddenly that she was probably the culprit, the mysterious female who had so riled Carlotta earlier.

  ‘Yes. Several times.’

  ‘You should have left your name,’ he chastised, trying to keep his voice mild. He felt like throttling her for the trouble she had caused.

  ‘I was running around all day, kept ’phoning you from the outside,’ Estelle explained. ‘So there was no point in leaving my name. You wouldn’t have been able to reach me.’

  ‘I see. Did
you want to speak to me about something important?’ he asked curiously, his expression quizzical.

  ‘Sort of… I have a message for you… from an old friend.’

  ‘And who might that be?’

  ‘Katharine.’

  The name floated between them, suspended in the air, and for a moment Nick was unable to reply. He had felt his body stiffen at the mention of that name, was fully aware of Estelle’s beady eyes watching him closely. Finally, he echoed, ‘Katharine.’

  ‘Yes. Tempest.’

  ‘I know which Katharine you mean,’ he snapped sharply and he laughed a little too loudly. Attempting to clamp down on the considerable agitation he was feeling, he forced more laughter, shook his head. ‘You’ve got to be kidding, Estelle. A message from her. For me!’

  ‘I don’t know why you look and sound so surprised. You were the great love of her life, Nicky.’

  He was silent. His heart skipped a couple of beats, and he thought: After all these years. He said quietly, ‘What’s the message, Estelle?’

  ‘Katharine wants to see you, Nicky. She’s going to be in New York in about ten days.’

  Nicholas Latimer was struck dumb. This was the most staggering news he had heard in a long time, and he also found it hard to believe. His blondish brows lifted in amazement. ‘Come off it, Estelle. If this is a joke, it’s a bad one. She’d hardly want to see me. You know damn well we parted company in the worst possible circumstances. I haven’t set eyes on her, or heard a peep out of her, since then. Jesus, it’s at least ten, no, twelve years.’

  ‘I wouldn’t joke about a thing like this, knowing how you felt about her, how you felt about each other,’ Estelle protested. Quickly she lowered her voice, ‘She does want a meeting. Honestly. Whenever it’s convenient.’

  ‘Why? I wonder why she wants to see me?’ Nick’s enormous bafflement was evident as he lifted his drink, took a sip. He placed the glass on the bar, pinned his eyes on Estelle intently. ‘Did she give you a reason?’

  Estelle shook her head. ‘I can guess though. I think she wants to be friends again. With you and several other people she asked me to contact as well.’

  ‘Who for instance?’ Nick asked.

  ‘Her brother, for one.’

  ‘Good God, the Senator from Illinois! The great white hope of the Democratic Party, the one they’re whispering will seek the presidential nomination in 1984. I’ll be damned! Now that is interesting. They were daggers drawn for years. Still must be if she’s seeking to effect a reconciliation.’ His look was questioning.

  The journalist merely nodded in agreement.

  Nick pursed his lips, his eyes thoughtful. ‘You stayed pretty close to her, Estelle, when everything started to fall apart for her. And presumably the friendship has continued. Have you seen her?’ Nick’s curiosity was getting the better of him and he could not help wondering how she looked these days, now that she was in her forties.

  ‘I haven’t seen her for a while. She ’phones me from time to time, as she did the other day, to ask me to try and reach you.’

  ‘Where did she call from? Is she still living in Europe?’

  ‘Not exactly…’ Estelle found herself hesitating, uncertain whether she should divulge Katharine’s whereabouts, tell him she was at the Bel-Air Hotel. Opting for a compromise, Estelle said cryptically, ‘She’s in the States, but that’s all I can tell you at the moment.’ Not wanting to hurt Nick’s feelings, she felt bound to add, ‘Katharine’s sort of travelling around.’

  Nick threw her a hard stare, decided not to press. ‘Who else did she ask you to get in touch with, apart from Ryan and myself?’

  ‘Francesca Cunningham, I mean Avery. I guess Katharine’s trying to pick up the threads with her, and—’

  ‘That’ll be the day,’ Nick cut in, and laughed hollowly.

  ‘Yes, I agree.’ Estelle’s face stiffened. ‘Her ladyship was snotty, very snotty. She hasn’t changed, she’s still cold and imperious. Anyway, she refused to meet Katharine, and practically threw me out of the apartment.’

  Not surprising, Nick commented to himself. After a tiny silence, he said, ‘I’m afraid I have to pass too, Estelle. Tell the lady thanks, but no thanks.’

  Estelle had expected him to agree, to fix a firm date, and she blinked rapidly, appeared flustered. ‘Are you sure?’ she asked, touching his arm. ‘What harm is there in—’

  ‘No way, Estelle,’ he interjected in a firm tone.

  Not bothering to disguise her disappointment, Estelle remarked in a saddened and resigned voice, ‘It’s a pity really. You did love her so…’ Her voice trailed off.

  ‘A long time ago, Estelle. Things are different now.’

  ‘Yes.’ She knew it was useless to argue, knew this would only anger him. She did not want to risk that. She had always had a soft spot for Nicholas Latimer. Estelle began to edge away, a rueful smile playing around her mouth. ‘I guess I’d better get back to my friends. You know where to reach me, Nicky. You might change your mind, you know.’

  ‘No, I won’t, Estelle.’ Nick smiled faintly. ‘Nice seeing you.’ He turned abruptly and hunched over the bar, sipping his cognac. And he was shaken and alarmed by the fierce emotions which had seized him, and which he could neither quieten nor dispel.

  ***

  He finished his drink and went home. He found Carlotta sitting up in bed, leafing through the current editions of French Vogue and L’Officiel. He told her about his encounter with Estelle Morgan, whom she had heard about but not met. Hugging the Vogue to her flimsily-covered breasts, Carlotta asked him the reason for the journalist’s innumerable ’phone calls, her dark eyes riveted on him as he undressed.

  Nick dropped one shoe, then the other, shook off his pants. Having anticipated the question, he was ready for her with the most plausible explanation. ‘Estelle wants to do an interview with me,’ he said, not daring to mention the name Katharine Tempest. ‘I told her we’d arrange it when the novel’s finished. I promised to have her over for drinks. And to meet you, darling,’ he added diplomatically.

  Appearing satisfied, Carlotta immediately launched into a glowing account of her evening, chattering on gaily about the other guests, what they had said and done and eaten, and what the women had worn. Nick listened with half an ear as he struggled into his pyjamas and robe. He went and sat on the edge of the bed, nodding and smiling and curbing his impatience to escape, to be alone, to think.

  Eventually, Carlotta finished her convoluted recital and Nick said, ‘You don’t mind if I work for a while, do you, darling?’ He held his breath. Expecting protestations, he was both surprised and relieved to hear her ready and friendly acquiescence. He kissed her on the cheek and left before she had a change of heart, or burst into a tirade about his perpetual sexual neglect.

  Nick closed the door of his study and exhaled thankfully. He groped for the dimmer, turned it until the room was suffused in a soft warm glow. He stepped up to the small built-in bar, poured himself a cognac. He had reached for the bottle automatically, knew he did not really want the drink, nor did he need it since he was wide awake. He glanced at the snifter in his hand and thought: Oh what the hell, why not?

  Sitting down on the sofa, he began to brood. Coming home in the taxi, a singular thought had sliced through Nick’s brain, cutting away all his other troubling thoughts, rendering them insignificant. And he could not rid himself of that thought: For the first time in over two decades the four of them were going to be in the same city and at exactly the same time. Francesca. Victor. Katharine. Nicholas.

  Is it merely one of those odd coincidences? Nick asked himself, frowning deeply. Or is it something beyond our control? A strange and terrible twist of fate? He shivered involuntarily and gooseflesh sprang onto his face. A very long time ago he had believed that their four destinies were so inextricably entwined, their lives so enmeshed that they would always be together. Somehow. Somewhere. It had not played that way. And yet—Perhaps he had been right after all. Perhaps the inte
rvention of time had been quite meaningless, of no import in the overall scheme of things. Were the Fates working in some mysterious and incomprehensible way? Were the four of them being propelled inexorably towards each other? To fulfil their destinies finally?

  Nick froze as he contemplated this possibility, shrinking away from it. Apprehension stabbed at him, and he instantly recalled something Victor had once said. ‘What has to happen happens. Nothing can stop it, old buddy.’ Vic had laughed and shrugged lightly, adding, ‘Che sarà sarà… what will be will be. Accept it, Nicky. I do. It’s not only the name of my ranch, but my philosophy of life.’

  What will be will be, Nick repeated softly, and fell back against the sofa with a peculiar sense of helplessness. Words of his own flew into his head: The past is immutable. He had written that in one of his books and seemingly this was one truth which had not been shattered. The past was inescapable. It kept coming back to swipe him in the face.

  Unavoidably, his thoughts tumbled backwards in time, the years rushing by pell-mell until he was confronting 1956.

  1956… the fateful year. The year they had been drawn together, had become involved on innumerable emotional levels. And they had touched and affected and influenced each other so profoundly, so powerfully, so forcefully, none of their lives had been the same thereafter.

  And they had separated in that year of 1956. They had each chosen their own path. The wrong paths, as it turned out. They had wandered down them boldly, stupidly, alone and lonely, isolated from one another. And not one of them had understood how blind they were being, had recognized that happiness was there for the taking, within easy reach. They had done what they believed they had to do, their emotions running high. They had acted out the scripts they had written for themselves, motivated by pride and hatred and anger and jealousy. Driven by ambition and self-interest, so self-involved, they had missed the best chance each one had ever had.

  How different their lives would have been if they had not behaved so foolishly, if they had done things differently in 1956. It had been the most crucial year in all their lives. But they had not known that then. How could they have known it?