Playing the Game

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  “So I see,” Jack responded. “And I think this room is my favorite. Not just because of the many windows, the fantastic views, and the fireplace, but because of its proportions. And I love the kitchen.”

  “So do I,” Lucy said. “It’s a perfect replica of the farm kitchen but scaled down, and I can’t wait to cook the first meal in it.”

  Fifteen

  Jack poured himself another glass of white wine and sat down on one of the stools at the big kitchen table, his eyes and his thoughts focused on Lucy.

  She was busy taking the casserole out of the oven and putting it on top of the stove; she lifted the lid and looked inside, stirring the stew gently, concentrating on the dish.

  He sniffed. The fragrant smells emanating from the big pot were making his mouth water. “Oh boy, does that tantalize me!” he exclaimed. “I can’t wait to taste it, Luce.”

  “I’m glad,” Lucy said without turning around. “I made it especially for you.”

  “I know, and thank you. I also know you much prefer to stick to your cuisine du soleil, which is much lighter.”

  “Not my cuisine du soleil but Roger Vergé’s,” Lucy answered. She put the lid back on the pot and turned her attention to the bowl of potatoes which she had boiled earlier.

  Glancing around, Jack noticed that Claudine was not with them, and, frowning, he asked, “Where’s your aunt?”

  “She’s probably still over at the little house, as she calls it, but she won’t be joining us for supper, Jack. She says she’d feel like the third shoe. Redundant. But she did bring up two bottles of marvelous red wine from the cellar, and knowing her she probably opened one of them already. To let it breathe.”

  Jack strolled across to the plate-glass window which overlooked Nice on the right and Beaulieu to the left, and in the far distance he could see the glittering lights of Monte Carlo. What a fabulous panoramic view it was, and it never failed to impress him.

  As he picked up the wine bottle and read the label, he noticed that Claudine had poured half of the bottle into a decanter, which stood on the table. He called across to Lucy, “She opened the bottle, decanted some of the wine.”

  “Oh good,” Lucy muttered, concentrating on what she was doing.

  As he walked back to the big table, Jack studied her again, thinking how lovely she looked tonight. Lucy had long black hair, which she normally wore in a plait, especially when she was cooking, but tonight her hair fell down her back, looked like flowing black silk. She was wearing tight black trousers and a loose red cotton tunic, Moroccan in design, the kind she favored.

  She was a fabulous cook, and he knew that with her it was a true vocation. She had started cooking as a little girl when she came to stay with her mother’s family here at the farm; eventually she had gone to Roger Vergé’s cooking school in Mougins. Later she had trained under the famous Vergé himself, working in the kitchens of his renowned restaurant Moulin de Mougins, and her style of cooking was based on his own creation, “cuisine of the sun,” which accented the fresh, light flavors of Provence.

  Swinging around, interrupting his thoughts about her, she said, “Come over here, Jack, I want to serve you some of the boeuf bourguignon.”

  “Immediately,” he answered, and hurried over to the stove where she was standing, filling a plate for him. “It looks wonderful,” he said.

  “I’ll bring the bowl of potatoes,” she murmured, and shooed him over to the table near the glass window.

  Picking up the decanter, Jack poured the red wine, and sat waiting for her. She arrived a moment later with her own plate and the bowl of buttered parsley potatoes. “The perfect addition to the beef stew,” she announced, and sat down opposite him.

  “Oh, it’s delicious, Luce,” he sighed after the first few bites. “Absolutely fantastic. I don’t know how you get it to taste like this.”

  “I follow Julia Child’s recipe,” she said, laughing, deciding to tell him the truth, and picked up her fork, taking a bite herself. “Oh, yes, it is good tonight,” she muttered almost to herself.

  He raised his glass. “Here’s to you, Luce, my favorite chef.”

  “And to you, Jack, my favorite writer.”

  They were both hungry and enjoyed the beef stew, and when Jack’s plate was empty Lucy suggested he go for a second helping.

  “I think I will,” he said, and got up, took his plate, and served himself.

  Once he was back at the table, and had eaten a few forkfuls, they finally began to have a conversation. It was Jack who spoke first, apologizing. “I’m sorry I didn’t talk much when we first sat down,” he said. “I’m afraid I was very busy with this most perfect stew. So it’s your fault I was silent, actually.”

  Lucy looked across at him and nodded. “I didn’t say much either because, like you, I really did need to eat.” She had finished her own food and did not want any more; she leaned across the table and said quietly, in an even voice, “Thanks, Jack, for bringing the gifts for us all, and especially for the twins. It was so sweet of you, very caring.”

  “Well, I did promise her the cat, you know. And I didn’t want to disappoint her. And I couldn’t come without anything for Chloé, that wouldn’t have been nice. Or for Claudine, or you.”

  “You spoil us.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Lucy sat back, falling silent, endeavoring to relax at last after a busy day.

  In the last thirty minutes or so they had made only desultory conversation about the success of her second cookbook, the new one she was writing, and Jack’s magazine pieces, and yet Jack fully understood that much more was going to be said. Very shortly. On the surface everything was calm, easygoing, friendly, but Jack knew that Lucy was not pleased with him. Yes, she was being nice, and especially about the gifts, but there was an undercurrent of irritation running through her, although she wasn’t being obvious about it.

  He was very intuitive, could pick up on things quickly, and he also knew her. She was somewhat possessive by nature, and he had long ago realized that she wanted a steady and continuing relationship with him, one which was meaningful and which would eventually lead to marriage.

  He was uneasy with himself when it came to thoughts of marriage, of settling down and making a proper commitment. He enjoyed his travels, his journalistic career, and all the places it took him. He really wasn’t prepared to give that up. Not yet. Within himself he knew that Lucy would prefer it if he were in Beaulieu all the time, writing his books and being with her, being a permanent fixture in her life.

  Quite suddenly she stood up, startling him, and picked up their plates, carried them over to the work area of the kitchen.

  Sitting up straighter, he called, “Do you need help, Luce?” Not waiting for her to respond, he pushed back the chair, rose, and picked up the bowl of potatoes. He carried it over, put it on the countertop, touched her shoulder lightly.

  “Thanks.” She gave him a quick smile, went over to the island counter, and said, “I hope you have room for dessert.”

  “You know I can’t resist anything you make,” he answered, and asked, “What is it? My favorite blood-orange tart, I bet.”

  “Exactly.”

  He laughed. “They say a way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, so you have my heart, Luce.”

  She glanced at him, gave him a hard stare, and said nothing.

  Suddenly he felt like an idiot, stood there waiting as she cut two portions of the blood-orange tart, put them on plates, poured a trickle of vanilla cream sauce on them, and handed him one.

  “Thank you,” he said as he took it from her.

  Together they walked across to the table without saying a word to each other. They remained silent as they ate dessert, and Jack wished he had kept his mouth shut a few minutes before. The look she had given him confirmed what he had been thinking. She was upset with him, probably even angry. He decided to be quiet, believing it was better to let her open up to him if she had something on her mind. Why seek out trouble?


  “I want us to talk, Jack,” Lucy suddenly said, putting down her wineglass. Without saying another word, she rose, went to the fireplace, and threw on another log, poked it into place.

  Jack sat back on the sofa, watching her, admiring her dark beauty, the streaming jet-black hair almost waist length, the dark intense eyes, the lightly tanned skin, the lovely face, totally without makeup. She was a natural beauty, slender but shapely, and she had a unique physical grace when she moved. He could kick himself for neglecting her, for being so ambivalent. Lucy was a prize and in so many ways, and he had been very stupid.

  As she walked back to the sofa and sat down at the far end it, she exclaimed, “You were staring at me awfully hard just now.”

  He nodded. “I was, because you’re gorgeous.” Sitting up straighter, he said, “You want to talk and so do I. Look, I know you’re angry with me—”

  “No, I’m not angry,” she cut in. “I think hurt might be a better way of putting it.” When he said nothing, she hurried on, “Listen to me, Jack, you and I are supposed to be in a relationship, but you didn’t even come up to see me when you first got back. I just don’t understand that.”

  He said swiftly, “I was wrong, Lucy, I realize that now. But I was suffering from a combination of things . . . jet lag, genuine fatigue from that very busy New York–L.A. trip, and the pressure of having to finish my magazine pieces. But I did call you twice.”

  “Not the same thing,” she shot back, staring at him. “I was longing to see you, but obviously you didn’t feel the same.”

  “I did, but I became focused on my work. Selfish. I was being selfish. And you know I have to keep at it and at a good pace. I do have to earn a living, you know.”

  “I understand. And so do I. I need money, too.” Lucy now spoke in a lower voice, steadying herself, squashing the sudden flare of anger. “When my aunt gave me the farmhouse, she didn’t give me the money to run it. That’s my responsibility, although she does share the cost of the two gardeners. And yes, she’s good about paying rent for her apartment in the farmhouse. But that’s about to stop, since she’s going to move into her little house. And Alexandre’s a shit. He’s supposed to pay child support, but it’s always late, and sometimes it doesn’t come at all.” She shook her head and sighed. “That’s why I have to do the cookbooks as well as run the school. Like you, I need the money.”

  “I know, and I realize you’re under pressure, just as I am. And that makes us awfully stressed. . . .” He stopped, gave her a long loving look. “I’m sorry I didn’t come up for a quick meal or a quick kiss. I really am, Lucy darling. I was wrong. Will you accept my apology?”

  “Yes, but I do want to ask you where we actually stand. Are we going to continue together, have a relationship? Or do you want out? I need to know and you must be honest.” She took a swallow of the red wine and finished, “Whatever you say, I’ll accept, and I won’t make a big scene.”

  Since he had been thinking hard about their involvement for the last twenty-four hours and had come to certain conclusions, Jack had his answer ready. “No, I don’t want out, Luce. I truly don’t. I want to be in this relationship with you. Let’s see where it takes us, shall we?”

  “Yes, I’d like that, too.”

  “However, I can’t just stop traveling. I have to move around for my work. I love being a journo, you know that. I get a kick out of it. I’ve built a fairly good career for myself, and I do have to be in London for part of the time. That’s where most of my work comes from.”

  “So what you’re saying is that things will be the same,” Lucy answered in a steady voice.

  “No, I’m not . . . not really. I’ll pace myself better. I’ll spend more time with you when I’m here. And look, I will be starting another book soon, so I’ll stay put in Beaulieu for long periods.”

  She nodded, but he noticed the worried look in her eyes, the sudden tautness of her shoulders.

  “Let’s not be rigid . . . about a routine, I mean. I can’t live that way. My life has to be much more fluid. Also, you’ll be busy with your new cookbook, and with the cooking school in a few months. Surely we can work it out. It’s got to be give-and-take between us, that’s the only way it’s going to work. Because of who we are and what we do.”

  Lucy did not respond. She sat quite still, staring off into the distance, her mind racing.

  Jack moved closer to her, put his arms around her shoulders, and said, “Let’s have a new beginning, Lucy. I’ll try harder not to get carried away with my work all the time, to be there for you more.”

  She turned finally and looked at him thoughtfully. She knew he was ambivalent about her at times, just as she was about him. And yet they did have something special together; she understood he was being sincere, that he didn’t want to break up. And that was good enough for her. At this moment in time.

  Leaning into him, she kissed him on the mouth. He responded at once, kissing her back, and ardently so. After a moment, he pulled away, said, “And we’re good at this, good together like this, I mean.”

  Lucy smiled. “Perhaps we can make it work, Jack.”

  “I’m sure of it.” He touched her cheek lightly. “Can I stay the night?”

  “I should hope so. And I wouldn’t let you leave, the state you’re in, Jack, and—”

  “Yes, I am a bit hot and bothered,” he interrupted. “And ready to jump on you.”

  “I meant you’ve had too much to drink. I’m not sure you’d make it down the mountain safely. I can’t take that chance.”

  He laughed and stood, pulled her to her feet. “I think we’d better go and find a bed. There are small children in this house and I wouldn’t want them catching us on this sofa doing all sorts of things.”

  Part Three

  A DANGEROUS

  ENCOUNTER

  The angels keep their ancient places—

  Turn but a stone and start a wing!

  ’Tis ye, ’tis your estrangéd faces,

  That miss the many-splendored thing.

  Francis Thompson, “The Kingdom of God” (1908)

  Sixteen

  Annette Remmington stood at one of the windows in her office in Bond Street, staring out but seeing nothing. She was filled with anxiety, and it dominated her at this moment.

  “Do you want me to make coffee or tea, boss?” Esther Oliver asked.

  Startled at the sound of her assistant’s voice, Annette swung around and exclaimed, “You made me jump! I didn’t hear you come in!”

  “Sorry,” Esther apologized. “But I thought it might be a good idea to get ahead of the game, and have something ready when Jack Chalmers arrives.”

  “Let’s get the interview going first,” Annette murmured. “You can always make beverages later, or he might prefer water.”

  Esther was studying Annette. Her eyes were narrowed when she announced, “You’re taut. Tense. You’re not still worrying about the interview, are you?”

  “I guess I am, and I’m probably being neurotic about it. You know I hate any kind of interview. Talking about myself seems, well, so boastful, show-offy. . . .” She let the words fall away, grimaced.

  “You’re not boastful or a show-off. Nothing of the sort. But look, you’ve no choice now. He’ll be here soon, so it’s definitely too late to cancel, boss.”

  “I realize that, Esther. I’m stuck with it.” She let out a long sigh. “Marius told him he could do the three sessions he’d asked for, and you know very well I’d no option but to go along with it.”

  “Listen, he’s doing a big piece for the New York Times Sunday magazine, and that’s great for you and the New York office. Just because you’re not doing the next auction in New York now doesn’t mean you won’t do one another year. It’s great publicity for you, Annette.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “Don’t sound so mournful. He’s only a journalist, after all, and you’ll see, everything’ll be fine.” Esther gave her an encouraging smile. “I hear he’s a nice
guy.”

  “Oh. Who told you that? Marius?”

  “No, Laurie.”

  Annette shook her head and exclaimed, “Now how would she know what he’s like? She’s never met him.”

  “Malcolm Stevens told her. Apparently Malcolm has run into him several times at various functions in the past, and once with Margaret Mellor. He’s done a couple of pieces for ART magazine, so that means he’s not coming cold to the subject of your job, boss.”

  “I do wish you wouldn’t call me that, Esther, it drives me crazy.”

  “I really like it, and it’s a good name for you. I tell everyone you’re my boss lady. I think it sounds great.”

  Annette sighed to herself a little impatiently and walked across the room, glancing around. Suddenly she paused and said to Esther, “I’m glad I had those two French chairs brought in last week, and the coffee table. That corner near the credenza now makes the perfect spot to do the interview.”

  Her eyes fell on the photographic blow-up of the Degas dancer, which she’d photographed several weeks ago, and she hurried over, began to lift it down.

  “Oh, let me help you, Annette!” Esther cried, going to join her.

  “I’ve done it, but thanks.”

  “Why are you removing it?” Esther asked, her curiosity aroused.

  “Because I don’t know whether I’m going to talk about The Little Fourteen-Year-Old Dancer. I want to see what he’s like, test the waters, so to speak.” Carrying the large photograph mounted on board across the room, she opened the cupboard door and put it inside, next to the photographic blow-up of the Rembrandt.

  “Malcolm told Laurie that Jack Chalmers is good-looking, movie-star good-looking,” Esther now volunteered, smiling at her.

  “Oh, God, save me from that! He’s probably got an ego the size of a house and is full of himself, loves being known as the hotshot reporter.”