Later, heading for the door, she paused, one hand on the frame her face suddenly serious. “If anyone calls I’m not expected back until tomorrow.”
Chapter Eight
14th May. I never knew what having a broken heart meant until just now. My heart isn’t broken, it’s ruptured.
He woke with the soft golden sun shimmering on the wall over his head and he knew he was alone again, just as he’d always been alone. He’d always been a solitary figure running around on his uncle’s estate with no one to play with apart from the servants and they were either too busy or less than interested in a scruffy orphan child.
He could vaguely remember his parents, distant shadowy figures that used to come in a cloud of perfume and cigar smoke to hug him goodnight. Sometimes in the small hours he squeezed his eyes tight and, with arms wrapped around him, tried to recall what it felt to be hugged like that. To be embraced by someone that loved him unconditionally for himself alone and not for what they could get out of him. But he could never get it right. He could never replicate or quite remember the feeling of security that was now only a vague faded memory.
There were of course plenty of women happy, more than happy to hug him as he made love to them. But that wasn’t unconditional love, more unconditional no strings sex. There wasn’t love involved, at least not on his part. And since he’d been trying to set up his business, there’d been no one. In truth he’d been too tired at the end of the evening to think of anything other than bed.
Draping the spare end of the sleeping bag across his chest he breathed in the remains of her scent as he tried to recapture the feeling of being held by the woman he loved. But already her fragrance was fading; soon all he’d have to remember her by was the cutting in his wallet and that was not going to be enough.
He’d loved her the first time he’d set eyes on her. He could even remember having to grab on to the rail in front of him as his gaze lingered on her body, her face, her scraped back hair. He’d felt punch drunk with the emotions exploding within his chest and only managed to drag his eyes away after Rexi had shouted at him for probably the millionth time to pass him another brick. And now with the sound of her voice and the feel of her hands fresh in his memory? What did he feel now except regret; regret and sadness for this the last hug, the last kiss, the last time.
She’d said she wouldn’t see him again, and he knew her well enough to know she’d keep that promise even if it was only made out of some false sense of loyalty. She’d also said Rupert would break him. He didn’t care about that. He’d only agreed because of the damage he’d do to Sarah along the way. She said he had dozens of photos which he’d showed her. Photos he’d happily flood both the French and UK press with and she’d end up with nothing. Her reputation would be in tatters and her parents would never speak to her again. Yes she’d inherit but a relationship; their relation could never survive with resentment at its heart. She’d grow to resent him and what his love had done to her. It was only this had made him agree to her request.
He sat up at the sound of the security railings being rattled, heralding yet another day. Bundling up the sleeping bag he was just in time to slip on his jeans and pull up the blinds before unlocking the door. There was nothing left for him now but work. He’d better just get on with it.
But he couldn’t.
He couldn’t get on with it because there was nothing to get on with. He was now a victim of his own hard work, a victim of his vision and finally a victim of his own success. The morning she’d disappeared out of his office and out of his life was when Le Figaro, France’s second largest newspaper published a double page spread on the birth of the Le Monsieur Builder. His project manager, arriving back on site, slapped the open newspaper on his desk almost upsetting the cold expresso and uneaten croissant Rexi had dropped on his desk hours earlier.
“Thanks for covering for me patron, but I think you’ll have enough to be getting on with,” his voice low as he tapped the article with his forefinger. “Now don’t you be getting above yourself Le Monsieur Builder, not that the lads will let you. It’s time for you to look for a new project and leave the building work to the experts.”
“Perhaps, Pierre.” His mind and his gaze turned towards the now empty apartment opposite. He suddenly had no enthusiasm for the building, just as he couldn’t give a jot for the article staring back up at him.
He could hardly even remember the interview all those months ago when, keen to raise the profile of his work, he’d sent out letters of introduction to every newspaper across Paris. All he could remember was a meeting at Le Bristol Hotel with one of their up and coming journalists. He couldn’t remember her name or indeed her face. He couldn’t remember anything about that afternoon except her keenness to prolong the interview into the evening and beyond. Later he’d reasoned the absence of any article, after such a comprehensive grilling was more down to his polite refusal than any inherent dislike of what he was trying to achieve.
As part of him wondered at the journalist’s change of heart, the other part was reliving over and over again waking up to find her gone. He’d raced across the street but he’d been too late. Madame Du Pont came out of her door chattering away about the champagne she was planning on having with her supper, but that’s all she could tell him; that’s all she knew.
She’d run away as he’d known she would and he didn’t know where. She could have gone running to Rupert for all he knew, but he hoped not. Surely she couldn’t after what had happened between them? She’d given herself to him; Rupert would be the last thing on her mind.
For the first time since he could remember, he left the site early. The Parisian sun was still bouncing off the new green shoots of the tall proud plane trees that lined the street when he pulled out of the car park and headed for home.
What a difference a day made, his mouth a grim line. It had taken one day, not even one day for investors to fly out of the woodwork keen to get a slice of what they now knew was the best thing to hit Paris since automatic baguette dispensers. The estate agents, so reluctant to list his apartments were nearly beating down his door in an effort to be part of the action. He would have laughed at the irony if his heart wasn’t broken to the core. Now he had all the money in the world at his feet and yet he couldn’t have the one thing that meant anything to him. He couldn’t have her.
His men, so in tune with his ways, curtailed their congratulations, their faces wary as if they too felt his inner grief. It was only Rexi, the loudest of them all, who noticed the missing article from behind his desk. It was only him that put two and two together. It was only him that patted him on the shoulder and told him to go home.
Home, was it even that, his eyes travelling over the stone frontage he’d lovingly repointed brick by brick? It wasn’t home; it was a house, an empty house. His mind stilled, his gaze snagging on a pair of beady eyes staring at him from the security of his bedroom window and suddenly the quiet car devoid of anything but his thoughts was filled with the echo of laughter.
* * *
She wandered aimlessly around her parents lounge, gently fingering her mother’s collection of Lorna Bailey cats, her mind unable to fix on any way out of her current dilemma. With the house now full of strangers, she felt confined to the apartment; imprisoned as she watched from the window as they decanted from the stream of coaches, their greedy eyes roaming around for glimpses of the landed gentry they knew still resided here.
She hated them, all of them and now wished with all her heart her parents had accepted that offer from the Russian oligarch. At least then she wouldn’t have to see their eager little faces, mouths agape as they gossiped and gloated about how the other half lived.
Turning back to the tea tray Beverley had dropped in only moments before she selected a wafer thin cucumber sandwich before sinking into the folds of the leather sofa. She wasn’t hungry, but she knew she’d upset them both if she didn’t make some kind of start on the three-tiered cake stand crowded with scones drip
ping with homemade strawberry jam and fresh cream from the farm not to mention the tiny melt in the mouth fairy cakes she used to love as a child.
She’d been home over two weeks; two weeks of waiting for the call that never came. She’d expected to hear from him by now. It didn’t matter she’d told him not to contact her, those were only words; words he’d know she didn’t mean. But instead of hearing from him, she’d heard from Rupert.
Her eyes flickered to her laptop still open on the email he’d sent from his work address. Trust him to fit her in between business meetings. He’d probably added her to his Outlook Calendar on a diary repeat come to think of it. He seemed to email her with remarkable regularity, and always at the same time, as she eyed his terse missive with a frown. If she was that important the very least she could do was ensure she was out when he eventually decided to pick up the phone.
What could she do? Her eyes now closed as she tried to think herself out of her predicament. What could she do? Was there anything she could do? She’d do anything not to have to marry him, but he held all the cards, marked cards ensuring that whichever way she turned he’d win. She couldn’t even go to her parents because of the way he’d slime-balled his way into their affection.
Prising the wings away from the top of a fairy cake she licked away the butter-cream icing. Her mind tried to latch on to anything to make it all disappear, but there was nothing she could think of apart from murder; either hers or his, and that was all a bit drastic.
Popping the remainder of the cake in her mouth her eyes wandered across to one of the only antique pieces of furniture in the room; her grandmother’s Kingwood ormolu writing-table. She didn’t know much about it, only that her grandfather had bought it for her on their honeymoon as a belated wedding gift, their honeymoon in Paris.
It was a sign, it had to be. Jumping to her feet she longed now to follow the intricate floral marquetry with her fingers, the feel of the cool wood flooding her with so many happy memories that she felt tears spring from nowhere.
Her grandparents had loved each other with a passion her father often thought embarrassing but she didn’t. She used to sit in the drawing room and listen as he tinkled away on the grand piano in the corner, his eyes never far from his wife sitting quietly as she worked on her tapestry. That’s what she wanted, and that’s what both Aunty Popsy and now Rupert had stolen from her. Slamming her hand down on the top of the desk was a mistake, the brittle cabriole legs creaking their distress.
“Sorry, it’s not your fault,” her fingers sliding an apology across its smooth surface, as a blush coursed through her cheeks at the idea of speaking to a table!
Surely to God this isn’t what Aunty Popsy envisaged when she’d drawn up her will?
Her fingers flat on the table top suddenly clenched as the glimmer of an idea flickered across her field of vision, a glimmer of an idea she grabbed with both hands.
The will: maybe there was something in the will.
Her eyebrows pulled into a frown as she struggled to remember Rupert’s words and something about a codicil. But what about a loophole; if there was a loophole she’d find a way of wriggling through it.
Funny that. Slinging her bag across her shoulder she picked up the heavy silver tray. Funny that Rupert seemed to know more about her affairs than she did.
“You shouldn’t be doing that, Sarah,” Beverley said out of nowhere, trying and failing to wrestle the tray off her. “And you’ve hardly touched your tea…”
“I wasn’t really hungry.” She smiled briefly as she began to stack her dishes beside the draining board. “Do you mind if I borrow your old mac?” her eyes now on the black gabardine hanging on a hook beside the door. “I’m just going to pop into Wraysbury and I intend to pass myself off as the second scullery maid if anyone stops me.”
“Second scullery maid is it,” she said on a laugh. “You’ve been watching too much television, my love. I don’t know what your mother will say, I’m sure. We use it when we’re cleaning out the chicken coop. While you’re there Hopper quite likes the smoked kippers from the fishmongers if you could pick up a couple?”
Chapter Nine
30th May. I’m not looking my best; I’m not smelling my best either, thinking about Hopper’s kippers. I can’t believe how the last few weeks in Paris have changed me; I wouldn’t have dreamt of leaving the house looking like a tramp, now I don’t care.
Pushing the door open of Messrs. Pike, Pidgeon & Prue was like jumping between the pages of a Charles Dickens novel. As far as she could make out, the décor, desk and even the receptionist were the exact same as the last time she’d visited many years earlier. All that was missing were gas lights and quills and she’d think she’d just walked through a time tunnel. The receptionist, rising to her feet even remembered her name.
“Good afternoon, Lady Sarah, how may I help you?”
“Hello,” offering a shy smile. “I was wondering if Mr Pidgeon would be able to see me? I’m afraid I don’t have an appointment, but I’m happy to wait.”
“I’m sure that won’t be a problem.” She felt herself examined from head to foot and wished now she’d had the farsightedness to ditch the mud stained mac in the back of the Mini but it was too late now.
“May I take your, er, coat?”
A tide of colour rushed up her cheeks. “No, best not. Lord only knows what the brown stains are on the bottom. It’s a disguise.”
“A disguise?” The grey eyebrows arching over tortoiseshell frames.
“Mmm from the yokels. Downton Abbey has a lot to blame itself for and Wednesdays are our busiest day for sightseers; something to do with 20% off for the over sixties, or so I’m told.”
“I see.” Her eyes wide, as she smoothed pencil slim skirt over pencil slim knees. “I’ll just find out if Mr Pidgeon is free.”
Sarah took the brief respite as an opportunity to roll up Beverley’s mac into a tight ball and stuff it under the sofa. Her parents would never forgive her if she saw old Mr Pidgeon smelling of what she suspected was either chicken poo or horse shit.
Standing up, she was just in time to pin a smile on her face and extend a hand to the elderly man making his way towards her with outstretched arms.
“My dear, so good to see you again and I do hear that congratu…”
“Mr Pidgeon,” she interrupted only too aware of the tortoiseshell glasses now swivelled in her direction. “How good of you to see me at such short notice.”
“Of course, of course. Come along to the office and let’s see how I can help you.” He turned bright blue eyes on his secretary. “Tea please, Maud, if you’d be so kind.”
He only continued speaking when he’d taken up residence behind his desk; both elbows perched on faded green leather.
“I had that fiancé of yours popping in to see me yesterday…”
“Well, it’s not official, so I’d appreciate it if you’d keep it private for the moment.”
“Oh, of course, you can always trust your solicitor to keep things quiet,” he said, chuckling at his little joke, only to become serious again at the knock on the door.
“Yes, on the desk is fine. Thank you, Maud.”
Leaning forward, she spoke on a whisper because she was pretty certain she hadn’t heard the sound of Maud’s footsteps echo a retreat across the wooden floorboards. “Mr Pidgeon, I’d like to see a copy of my aunt’s will.”
“Certainly,” his hand reaching out to press the intercom. “I’ll just call Maud back to…”
“Don’t you have a copy here? It would be a shame to disturb your secretary, she looked busy,” her eyes roaming over the bulging shelves behind his desk.
“Actually, it probably doesn’t look it, but we’re quite modern at Pike, Pidgeon & Prue,” he said, giving her a wink. “I can even work this old thing,” tapping the side of the PC beside him. “And as wills are available online…” He booted up his machine and, after a couple of minutes, the sound of printing interrupted his cosy questions abou
t how her parents were doing.
“Right then, it’s all pretty straightforward.” He glanced over the top of his half-moon specs. “Your aunt Portia, or Popsy as she liked to be known, in an effort to cut down on inheritance tax decided to leave everything to you when you reach the ripe old age of twenty-three instead of your father who, as her sibling, was her next of kin being as she died without issue. Got it?”
Her eyes widened at all the legal terminology but she did indeed get it!
“But that’s not all, is it?”
“No, as you say, that’s not all. It seems that she was well aware of how this would make you a target for fortune hunters so no, she didn’t leave it to you outright. To meet the requirements of the will, you have to be in a serious public relationship by the time of your twenty-third birthday…”
“Hold on a moment,” her eyes scanning the printout as she repeated his words back to him. “Serious public relationship, what does that mean? My father told me that if I wasn’t engaged by then I’d forfeit everything to…?”
“The Battersea Dog’s Home, yes that’s quite correct, or at least the second part is.” He paused and, removing his glasses, rubbed at his eyes for a moment. “Have your tea my dear and I’ll try to explain. Your Aunt,” he continued, his gaze now focussed anywhere and everywhere except at Sarah. “Your aunt was an amazing woman, but you probably don’t remember her?” His eyes flicking back briefly.
“I was only twelve when she died. I knew she was a very talented sculptress,” she answered, placing the bone china cup back against its saucer with a steady hand. “I remember she used to blow in and out with that friend of hers, arms full to the brim with presents but that’s about all. Father said she was too tied up in her glamorous life in New York to moult away in a mausoleum like Cosgrave Manor.”
The Englishwoman Trilogy: Box set of: Englishwoman in Paris, Englishwoman in Scotland, Englishwoman in Manhattan Page 11