Destiny

by Sally Beauman

  Ghislaine looked at him with distaste. A monomaniac, a bore, she decided. He emanated a peculiar black negative energy, and she could feel him directing it around the table, sucking them all in, sucking them into some maw of his will.

  Ghislaine did not intend to be manipulated in this way. She turned to Lewis Sinclair. She had been careful to see Short Cut before she left Paris, and she had disliked it intensely. It seemed to her clever, and cold; it was beyond her understanding that it should be so à la mode. Naturally, she kept these opinions to herself. She turned to Lewis, and began praising the film energetically, inserting into her remarks some phrases from the review in Le Monde.

  Lewis Sinclair, who had produced the picture in question, gave her a muted response. He kept looking out the windows to the rocks, and to the sea, which grew dark.

  They had eaten caviar, then quails. They were now eating tiny tender pieces of beef, into which strips of foie gras had been cunningly inserted; the Burgundy was exceptionally fine, and Lewis Sinclair, having moved on from champagne, was now on his fourth glass.

  “Isn’t it rather unusual,” Ghislaine asked, unsure whether it was or not, “for three people to have such a close association over—what is it now—three films?”

  “Four,” Sinclair corrected her. “We began in 1959 with a low-budget film, Night Game…”

  “Oh, but of course…” said Ghislaine, who had never heard of it.

  “So we go a long way back. It’s a way of working that’s more common in Europe, I suppose. Unusual in Hollywood…”

  “Hollywood is changing. The American film industry is changing. I’ve changed it,” Angelini cut in, making this pronouncement between mouthfuls of beef. Gregory Gertz gave a small ironic smile. Angelini returned to his conversation with the American critic as if there had been no interruption.

  His interjection, and the fact that he had been listening to their conversation, appeared to upset Sinclair. He drained the rest of the Burgundy in his glass.

  “As a matter of fact,” Lewis went on in a low voice, “I’ve decided to break away—just for a while. Thad is very tied up right now, and I have a new project I’m developing. To tell you the truth, I don’t find producing entirely satisfying. I feel I could bring more to a project, you know. Just recently, I’ve gotten very interested in writing. I had an idea—it just came to me in a flash—and now I want to do some work on it. Nurse it along…” He paused, slightly dolefully. “A change of direction every now and then. I think it’s essential, don’t you?”

  “Absolutely essential. Invigorating,” said Ghislaine. She glanced up, saw that Angelini was watching them again, and lowered her eyes. A triumvirate, she thought—and Lewis Sinclair was being eased out of it; interesting.

  A waiter removed their plates, and Ghislaine decided to find out a little more. She talked on, while the waiters fussed around them, making quite sure that Sinclair first knew who she was, and what she did. He listened dutifully, politely, without great animation.

  “It’s fun,” she said, having dropped the names of some of her more substantial clients, including that of Louise de Chavigny, to which he did not react at all. “Fun—but not truly creative, of course. Not like your wife’s work. Or yours. To make movies now, that must be—”

  “You’re belittling yourself.” He interrupted suddenly, with a sharp glance. “I know your work. I admire it. I’ve stayed at the Cavendish place in England. You did that, didn’t you?” Ghislaine swiftly revised her opinion of him. Not as gullible as she had thought. Not as drunk. And well connected. She proceeded more carefully, spooning up a cold peach which had been laid in a perfect little sea of hot raspberry sauce.

  She asked as many questions as she dared. Where they lived—a house in the hills above Los Angeles; built for Ingrid Nilsson, the great star of silent movies, and transported to Hollywood from England, brick by brick.

  “It’s pretty preposterous, I suppose. But Hélène likes it.” No, they had not employed an interior designer; his wife had done it herself; very successfully—it was about to be featured in various magazines…Ghislaine listened carefully. This information irritated her—she disliked talented amateurs above all things. Lewis Sinclair, she noticed, seemed to find it difficult to begin a sentence without the use of his wife’s name.

  “And are you interested in property here?” Ghislaine asked. She smiled. “I’m sure Gustav will try to tempt you.”

  “You must ask my wife. It’s Hélène who’s interested in investing in property. She has a highly developed business sense.”

  This was said, quite suddenly, with detectable malice. As if he realized that himself, he immediately became contrite. “That is, well, she’s very clever in that respect.” He had corrected himself quickly, making his tone more gentle; still, for a moment, the resentment had been palpable.

  “How clever. How remarkable. And she looks so young…”

  “Not so remarkable. She works at it.” He gave a small bitter smile. “I help her, of course. Or I used to.”

  “And tell me—do you have a family, children?” Ghislaine gave him a warm smile.

  “We have one daughter. Yes. She’s just two.”

  “How charming! A little girl. And does she take after her mother?”

  “I’m sorry?” He was looking at her blankly, as if he hadn’t heard what she said. Ghislaine was slightly thrown for a moment.

  “I meant…”

  “Oh, I see. No, not really. No. She doesn’t look like Hélène at all. I’m sorry. It’s very noisy in here, and…”

  He was looking around again for a waiter, one hand grasping the stem of his empty wineglass. His need for another drink was suddenly so naked and so obvious that Ghislaine almost felt sorry for him.

  To ease the moment, as much as anything else, Ghislaine leaned forward slightly and pressed his arm. “You are a fortunate man. To have a wife who is beautiful, and so accomplished. I can’t think how—” She broke off. Lewis Sinclair had turned back to her; he appeared distressed, though whether because of the need for a drink, or the compliment to his wife, Ghislaine could not tell. Across the table, Thad Angelini had lifted his heavy head; he was looking directly at them once more. The light winked and blinked against his spectacles; Lewis glanced at him, glanced back at Ghislaine.

  “Oh, Hélène can do anything,” he said in a throwaway tone. He tossed his napkin onto the table, pushed aside his coffee cup, and lit a cigarette.

  “Almost anything,” he added as if it were an afterthought, and across the table Thad Angelini smiled.

  Ghislaine waited until it was almost the moment to leave. They had all returned to Nerval’s suite for cognac; she had had, as promised, a long conversation with Rebecca Stein, had reassured her on the question of French plumbing, and had overwhelmed her, she devoutly hoped, with her own chic. She would go to inspect the Maison Jasmine with the Steins and Nerval the next day—she might even take them to look at the work being done on Louise’s villa, which should impress them, and then she would fly back to Paris for the meeting, the great meeting, with Edouard.

  Should she tell him she had met Hélène Harte? No, she thought not. It was better not to remind him. Should she even speak to her as she had planned, or should she just forget the whole thing, and go? After all, what was she? Just one of Edouard’s ex-mistresses, and there were many of those.

  She had almost decided to go; her mind was very nearly made up; and then Rebecca Stein made her remark.

  “Isn’t she beautiful?” she said in a wistful voice. She looked across the room to where Hélène Harte stood, her husband, looking bored and morose, on one side of her, Thad Angelini on the other, all smiles.

  “So lovely.” Rebecca Stein shook her head. “Wouldn’t you give just anything to look like that? I know I would.”

  For a moment Ghislaine could hardly believe her ears. She shot Rebecca Stein a venomous glance, but the stupid woman seemed entirely unaware of her lack of tact.

  “Of course, she�
��s young.” Rebecca Stein smiled. “I guess that helps. After all, neither of us will see forty again, right?”

  Forty? Rebecca Stein looked fifty-five if she was a day, and the fact that she had estimated Ghislaine’s age with such casual certainty filled Ghislaine with impotent rage. She wished the woman good night curtly, and crossed the room.

  She approached from the side, so Hélène Harte did not see her until they were next to each other, and Ghislaine was shaking hands with Lewis Sinclair. Ghislaine murmured a few pleasantries and then turned to Hélène Harte with what she felt was the perfectly calculated tone of innocent surprise. She spoke half to Sinclair, half to his wife.

  “Quelle bêtise. I’m so sorry. You must think me very rude—but I’ve only just this moment realized. Your wife and I have met before…”

  Hélène Harte turned her head; their gaze met, and Ghislaine gave her a warm smile.

  “You don’t remember—well, why should you? It was some years back. Nineteen sixty? No, fifty-nine, I think. At dinner one evening in the Loire. You were staying with Edouard de Chavigny—now do you recall?”

  There was a little silence. Hélène Harte frowned, then smiled and shook her head.

  “I’m sorry. I think you must be mistaken. We’ve never met—I would remember, I’m sure.”

  “Oh, but you must! It’s not so long ago—it all comes back to me now. You were wearing the most wonderful white dress, Givenchy, I think. Alphonse de Varenges was sitting next to you, and Edouard had been teaching you to ride, was that it? Yes, I’m sure it was, because I remember, Edouard said—”

  “I must have a twin. Or a double.” Hélène Harte laughed. “It sounds lovely, but I’m afraid you’re mistaken. I’ve never stayed in the Loire.”

  It was perfectly done. She spoke so naturally, and with such an air of easy amusement, that for one insane moment Ghislaine herself nearly believed her. She opened her mouth to say something more, and before she could speak, the director, Angelini, took a little step forward.

  “Hélène. I’m sorry—I think Joe Stein wants a word…”

  With that he extricated her; it seemed almost done deliberately. He led the actress away; she looked back with a quick apologetic smile and a lift of the hand; Ghislaine’s opportunity had gone.

  She and Lewis Sinclair were left alone. They looked at each other. Had he believed his wife? Ghislaine couldn’t be certain, but she thought not. He glanced away in her direction, and his face looked crumpled, pinched, like a child’s about to cry. Ghislaine almost regretted, then, what she had done.

  “How stupid of me,” she said quickly. “How could I have made a mistake like that?”

  “We all make mistakes,” he said dully. He turned back to her, and then, like a child suddenly remembering its manners, offered her his arm.

  “You’re going now?” he said politely. “Please, let me show you to your car.”

  “Do you have a twin?”

  “Lewis…”

  “Or a double?”

  “This is silly, Lewis…”

  “Of course you don’t. You’re unique. We all know that. Hélène Harte—the most beautiful woman in the world. They’re calling you that now, did you know that? I read it in your clippings just the other day. ‘Is this the most beautiful woman in the world?’ it said. And there was a picture of you underneath. They were inviting readers to write in and vote. I’m sure they all voted for you. I would. I’d have sent in the coupon, there and then, only it was an Italian magazine and I didn’t have the right stamp.”

  “Lewis. It’s late, and you’re tired.” Hélène lifted her hand to him. “Come to bed.”

  “I don’t think I will, thank you. Not just yet. And it’s kind of odd you should think I’m tired, because I don’t feel tired in the least. I feel fine. I’ve been enjoying myself no end. A Givenchy dress. I never knew you had a Givenchy dress—before you met me.”

  “Lewis. I keep telling you. She made a mistake…”

  “You wore jeans a lot. And there was a blue cotton thing you used to wear that I always liked. And the coat you bought in London that time. But not a Givenchy. No—I suppose I must have forgotten that. Did he give you jewelry as well? After all, that’s what he’s famous for, isn’t he? Jewels—giving them to women? I remember those stories. I remember one of my sisters, reading it out loud. Some gossip column. How he matched the jewels up to the women. She loved that—my sister, I mean. She thought it was the most romantic thing she ever heard. I didn’t. I thought it was dumb. Why give presents like that, when you can get it for free?”

  “I’m not going to listen to this anymore, Lewis. I’m going to sleep. I have to be up at six…”

  “You lie very well, you know. Awfully well. You almost took her in, that woman, Ghislaine whatever her name was. And Thad. I’ll bet Thad believed you, every word. I nearly believed you, but not quite. There’s a little thing you do—you ought to watch it, I’m sure you can work on it—it’s very tiny, just something in the eyes. I see it because I know where to look. I’ve had so much practice, I suppose, night after night, day after day. It’s there when I kiss you, did you know that? That little thing in the eyes, just for a minute, before you smile, they go a tiny bit dead. It’s one of the things that puts me off. There are others, just a few, like the fact that you can’t stand it when I touch you. Like the fact that you’re so busy you can’t spare me five minutes in a day. Just a few things. Nothing very serious. Nothing we can’t clear up. Nothing to cry about…”

  He had begun to cry. Hélène could hear the tears in his voice.

  He wiped them away with the back of his hand, and then he said in a quite ordinary voice, “It was a good year, 1959. I really liked it. We made the movie, and I met you. It was a very good Christmas. Do you remember the tree? We bought it on Christmas Eve, and then we decorated it, and then…He’s Cat’s father, isn’t he? I suppose that does make sense? He taught you to ride and you met all his friends. He gave you a Givenchy. And he gave you Cat. You could have told me. I don’t understand. I don’t understand a lot of things, but especially that.”

  There was a long silence. Lewis was sitting on the end of the bed. He stared at the empty glass, and did not look up.

  Hélène felt sick; she felt as if a band were being tightened around her chest, so she could hardly breathe. Her heart was beating terribly fast, and her mind darted away in a thousand directions at once. She looked at Lewis, and the pity and the guilt she felt were so intense it made her body ache. I did this to him. I did it. It’s my fault—the thought went around and around in her head. When had it begun to go wrong? Why, no matter what she did, couldn’t she stop it from going wrong?

  After a long pause, Lewis lifted his head and looked at her. When he was drunk, it never affected his appearance; occasionally it made his eyes glazed, slightly, as if he did not quite see her, that was all. But now he was looking at her directly, with his clear hazel eyes. He looked a little puzzled.

  Hélène moved. She knelt beside him. She looked at him, and he looked at her, and after another silence, she said, “Very well. It’s true. I was there. But it was a long time ago, Lewis. I’ve never seen him again. Not since we—Lewis, please, I’m married to you…”

  “Is he Cat’s father? Is he?”

  “Lewis, no. He isn’t. He isn’t…”

  Her voice had risen; Lewis had taken hold of her arm. He looked down into her face, and then he let go of her. He said in a flat voice, “I don’t believe you. Why should I? You’re lying again. You lie all the time. Half lie, evade. You don’t even know when you’re doing it, I think…”

  “Lewis, I’m not lying. It’s true. I wouldn’t lie about that. I couldn’t. Lewis, please…”

  She had caught hold of his arm, and was pressing it tight in her hands. It suddenly seemed desperately important to convince Lewis, and for one moment she thought she had done so. His face softened, and she immediately felt an extraordinary relief. Then his face hardened again.

  �
��Okay. Then who is?”

  Hélène had begun to cry. The tears welled up out of her eyes, quite silently. They would not stop. Lewis ignored the tears; he seemed not to see them.

  “Who is?” He caught her by the arm and shook her. “I think I should know. I think I have a right to know. You never think what it’s like, living with her in the same house, seeing her day after day, and not knowing, wondering…It breaks me up, doing that. It breaks me apart. I was all right till she was born. We were all right. I felt—it’s a very stupid thing, but I felt she was mine. I don’t know why. I loved you so much, maybe. I thought she was mine, in a way. I knew she wasn’t, but I felt as if she were. Until she was born, until I looked at her. And then I knew. She wasn’t mine, and you weren’t mine either. You think about him, whoever he was, and when you do that, I…”

  His voice choked. Hélène said, in a quiet voice, “That’s not true, Lewis. I don’t. I try not to. And—” She stopped, began again. “His name was Billy. He was an American. I knew him a long time. And he’s dead. He died before I even met you.”

  It cost her a great deal to say that. She had to make herself say the words one by one, and they fell into the silence between them like small stones tossed into water. When she had finished, she drew in her breath, and a small flat voice in her mind told her that it would be all right now. She had told Lewis the truth, and Lewis would believe her. She had done everything she could do, and now everything would be—all right.

  But it wasn’t. Lewis’s hand tightened on her arm, his face darkened with anger and he began to shake her. He said, “You bitch. You fucking bitch. You were sixteen years old when I met you. How many of them were there, for God’s sake? How many? How many?”

  Then he hit her, one stinging blow with the flat of his hand, right across her face. He had cried before, and he had been angry before, many times. But this was the first time he ever hit her, and it shocked them both.