Destiny

by Sally Beauman

  For a moment he wanted to cry. Then Stephani came back into the room, shyly, wrapped from head to mid-calf in sable.

  “What do you think? Oh, Lewis. It’s so soft. Do you think it suits me?”

  “It suits you,” Lewis said. “Come here.”

  She approached him slowly, and stopped just a foot away from him. She looked at him, and Lewis saw that her eyes were both dreamy and intent. She passed her tongue across her lips. He knew that expression. He knew what she wanted.

  “I’ve been bad, Lewis. Just a little bit bad. Don’t get mad now…”

  She lifted her hands and slowly opened the fur coat. Underneath it she was naked. Her skin looked white, almost translucent, against the fur.

  “Come closer. Stand still.”

  Stephani advanced another step. Her nipples were hard and erect. She was trembling. Slowly and deliberately, Lewis began to pick up the jewelry from the bed. Piece by piece. “Don’t move. I want you to wear it. I want you to wear it all…”

  His voice was slightly hoarse; his hands were shaking; not because he was aroused, he was hardly aroused at all, but because he felt angry and afraid. He lifted the silver belt and fastened it around her waist. He took her wrists and clipped bracelet after bracelet around them. He held out her fingers and pushed the rings onto them. Her fingers were not as narrow as Hélène’s, and some of the rings would not fit. Lewis gave a cry of exasperation. He began to thread them on the long necklaces. He looped the necklaces around Stephani’s throat; he fastened the dog collar of diamonds. Stephani never said a word. He removed her own earrings, and tossed them to one side. He lifted out two exquisite chandelier earrings of emeralds—he did not recognize those…who had given her those?—and screwed them carefully to Stephani’s ears. There were still more bracelets; two he fastened around her ankles, others he looped from the belt, and from the necklaces.

  “Oh, Jesus,” Stephani said. “Oh Jesus.”

  “Wait. I haven’t finished.”

  There was one more pair of earrings, a perfectly matched pair of solitaire diamond clips, each fifteen carats at least, maybe more. He had not given her those, either, and they were lying in a box from de Chavigny. Bitch, bitch, bitch; he felt anger flare in his mind.

  “This is the important part. Keep still.”

  He knelt down. He pressed his face against the wiry pubic hair between Stephani’s pale thighs. She peroxided it, which Lewis had never liked, but he did not care now. Very carefully, Lewis parted the lips of her sex. He licked the soft slit of flesh, and sucked the hardening point of her clitoris between his lips.

  Stephani moaned, and Lewis drew back. The folds of flesh were glistening, as pink as a rose or a wound compared to the pallor of her thighs. He picked up the two earrings, and with trembling hands, fastened them to the lips of her sex, so they gripped the tight curls of hair, the two folds of flesh. He looked at them, and let out his breath in a long sigh. They looked like two stars, or two eyes above a second mouth.

  That idea aroused him; he felt his body stir. He leaned forward and pressed his lips against the diamonds. He licked their flat table with his tongue. They were startlingly cold; ice cold. He lapped at Stephani’s flesh, and its warmth, its musky wetness, after the coldness and hardness of the diamonds, made his mind surge. Stephani cried out.

  “Jesus. Lewis. Oh, my God…” She arched slightly, moving against his mouth with a small erratic frantic movement. Then she stood still, and Lewis drew back. The diamonds danced before his eyes. Stephani gave a small shiver.

  “Lewis—you think, maybe, we ought to—they hurt, Lewis…”

  “No, they don’t. They don’t hurt at all. You like them. You like diamonds. You like furs. You like all that stuff. You like it when I do this to you. It makes you hot.”

  He stood up and gave her a little push.

  “Lie down.”

  Stephani stared at him. Her small pink tongue passed across her lips. She reached her hand down and touched the two diamonds, delicately, with the tip of one finger; then she touched herself, one finger, with its scarlet painted nail, between the diamonds, between the folds of flesh. She withdrew it, glistening, and pressed it against Lewis’s lips.

  “It makes me wet.” She gave a small smile, and backed away from him slowly. Holding his gaze, she lay down on the bed. Carefully, she stroked and arranged the folds of sable; still smiling, she parted her thighs. From the ballroom, Lewis could hear strains of music; they were playing a tango.

  He stood at the edge of the bed, looking down at Stephani. Against the darkness of the furs, her skin was alabaster white; her breasts jutted upward through the jewels. She rested her hands across her thighs, and Lewis saw sex in colors, black as fur, white as skin, red as her painted fingernails, bright as the diamonds that glittered in the pale pubic hair like twin stars.

  “Tell me you’re mine. Tell me you belong to me. I own you. You sold yourself to me. Tell me the truth for once. Tell me…”

  He had spoken without being conscious of doing so. The voice he hardly recognized as his own. Stephani bit her lip; through the sudden crazy anger and pain that swirled around in his mind, he could see that she was afraid, and excited, and that she did not understand. He realized that he did not want to look at her. The hair was wrong. The face was wrong. Everything was wrong.

  He made a lurching movement toward the bed and lay down on top of her. He pressed his weight on her hard; he insinuated his hand between their bodies, and felt for the diamonds, felt for her. Nothing happened. His own arousal had gone. His body felt small and diminished, as still as a stone.

  After a while, Stephani unzipped him. She coaxed, and stroked, and squeezed and touched. Lewis fumbled for her breasts, and sucked on them; he knelt back and stared at the diamonds, and the pale pubic hair; the fissure between the lips of her sex looked more and more like a red gash, a terrible wound. Still nothing happened, and Lewis began to cry. Stephani put her arms around him, and rocked him.

  “Lewis, honey, don’t do that, don’t cry. It doesn’t matter. You’ve had a lot to drink, Lewis, that’s all…” She hesitated. Stephani had her own kind of tact. “Maybe, you know, maybe it’s because this is where you do it. With Hélène.”

  She gave a little shiver. Her voice became sad.

  “And I don’t look right tonight. It’s always better when I look right. Oh, Lewis, don’t cry.”

  Lewis lifted his head. The tears had stopped, as suddenly as they began; he started to laugh.

  “That’s what you think? Well, you’re wrong. I hardly ever come in here. This is the first time I’ve been here in two years. Maybe more…”

  Stephani’s eyes grew round. She stopped stroking him, and lay very still.

  “You mean,” she said in a puzzled voice, after a little pause. “You mean, you don’t sleep here, with Hélène?”

  “Of course I don’t sleep here. I sleep in my own room.”

  “But you don’t…you and Hélène don’t…”

  “I’ve just told you. No. Not in two years, maybe longer. I can’t even remember…”

  Lewis got up angrily from the bed. He did up his pants, straightened his shirt, adjusted his tie. Stephani lay absolutely motionless, watching him.

  “Wasn’t it…wasn’t it very good? With Hélène?” she said at last, in a small voice.

  “It’s none of your business, but since you ask—no. It was not. At the beginning maybe, but not anymore. It was goddamn torture, if you want to know.”

  He crossed the room, and poured out another half glass of whiskey. His hand shook.

  “For God’s sake, Stephani. Get up. Take that stuff off. Get dressed.”

  “All right, Lewis,” she answered, still in that quiet little-girl voice. She stood up, and began to take off the jewels, one by one. She put them back on the bed. She took off the sable coat, and laid it carefully next to them. She walked into the dressing room, and reemerged, some five minutes later, in the fishtail dress. She crossed to the mirror and powde
red her nose thoughtfully. She took out her lipstick and painted her lips glossy pink. She picked up Hélène’s silver brush and touched her hair into place. She came back to Lewis, who had slumped in a chair, and stood looking down at him. When Lewis finally looked up, he saw that she had an odd expression on her face. If it had been anyone but Stephani, he would have said it was disdain.

  “You should have told me, Lewis.” The words came out in a little rush. “You should have. If I’d known…” She stopped and lifted her chin slightly.

  “You can’t be right for her, that’s all. I’m sure that must be it. You’re just not right, and that must be horrible for her. I know how that feels. I’ve felt it, lots of times. Half the time, the men never notice. They can’t tell the difference, or they don’t care. Poor Hélène. I always thought she looked sad—you know, you’d see it in her face, when she thought you weren’t looking at her. I see why now.”

  Lewis wanted to stand up. He managed to lean on his chair, and get to his feet. He began to shout. He could hear himself shouting, as if he were outside the room, and the voice was inside it.

  “What are you saying? What are you goddamn well saying?”

  The words echoed and reechoed in his head. Stephani did not answer him, and Lewis knew there was no need. He knew the answer anyway, he could read it in her face. She had wanted him because she thought he was Hélène’s; now that she discovered he was not, she didn’t want him anymore. The expression in her face was now pitying, and that enraged him so much that he wanted to hit her.

  “I’m going home.” She turned away.

  Lewis clutched at her. “I’ll come with you. I’ll drive you. Wait…”

  “You’re drunk, Lewis. You couldn’t drive. And I don’t want you to come home with me. I don’t want you to come over tomorrow. If you do, I won’t see you. I never want to see you again.”

  The room suddenly seemed to Lewis to be full of rushing noises, as if the windows were open, and a wind was blowing. It whirled around the room; it howled at him. He took a step forward, and fell over. Stephani looked at him, hesitated, and then went out and closed the door.

  “Hélène…” Lewis cried, and there was no answer. He closed his eyes. He rested his head on his arms. He curled up in the fetal position and lay very still.

  He was still there, a few minutes later, when Hélène came into the room. She had passed Stephani on the stairs, but she had been hardly aware of her. All her mind was concentrated on coming into this room, closing off the noise of the party, picking up the telephone. The band was playing a waltz; she could hear it faintly as Edouard’s name danced in her mind. The certainty that, in just a few minutes, she would hear his voice, made her shake. She walked toward the telephone, seeing, for a moment, nothing else.

  Then she stopped. She saw first the coat, folded across her bed, then the crumpled cover and pillows, then the little heaps of jewelry. Lewis moaned slightly; she turned and saw him. He was out cold.

  The next afternoon, she came into Lewis’s room. He had dragged himself back there at some point in the night, and he had slept all morning. The room was in disarray. There were leather suitcases everywhere; Lewis was packing.

  Hélène sat down on a small upright chair. Lewis did not stop, or look at her once.

  “Was it Stephani Sandrelli?” she said finally in a cold tired voice.

  Lewis paused. He looked up. “Yes. It was. If it’s of any interest to you.” He thrust a shirt into a suitcase.

  “Did you have to take her to my room? Take out my clothes? My jewelry?”

  Lewis looked at her. Her face was pale and set. Lewis shrugged. “I didn’t have to, but I did. And don’t for Christ’s sake ask me how long it’s been going on, or something like that. Spare me that kind of farce, at least.”

  She stood up. “Are you leaving, Lewis?”

  “Yes. I’m leaving. I was well brought up. I thought I’d save you the trouble.”

  “You’re not to come back. Not this time. I won’t live with you anymore, Lewis.”

  Her voice was flat. Lewis slammed the suitcase shut. “I think you’re supposed to say that we’re tearing each other apart—isn’t that the usual line?”

  “I don’t know, Lewis. It’s you that spends all day writing the usual lines.”

  Lewis stopped. He stood quite still, staring at her. The cruelty of the comeback was so unlike her; it shocked him as much as it hurt him. It shocked her too; faint color came into her face, and she turned away.

  “You see?” she said. “We’ll get worse. More cruel. More vicious. You and I, both of us.”

  Lewis hesitated. He closed the other suitcases, one by one. He carried them to the door and put them outside in the hall. He walked around his room, and carefully closed each closet door, each drawer. Hélène did not move. She seemed utterly dejected. Lewis went into his bathroom and swallowed four little red pills from the store he kept there. His eyes looked bloodshot. He smoothed his hair back into position, and looked at himself with hatred.

  He walked back into the bedroom and put on the jacket of his suit, a pale gray Prince of Wales check, made for him in Savile Row, years ago, when he and Hélène were first in London.

  He tried to think about that time; he tried to think about it very hard, because he felt that, if he did so, he might not say the thing he was going to say next. He waited; his mind darkened; he felt split in two, one half of him pleading against, the other urging for. The words would be spoken, they would not be held back.

  He cleared his throat and heard himself say, in a perfectly casual voice, “I saw Cat’s father on television a few weeks ago. I meant to tell you.”

  Her face lifted, as if he had hit her; her eyes widened with surprise and with pain.

  “Did you miss it? Obviously you did. He was being interviewed about some merger, or some takeover—I forget which…”

  “Cat’s father is dead.” She sprang to her feet. Her face was chalk-white. “Stop this, Lewis. It’s cruel…”

  “Oh, I know you told me he was dead,” Lewis heard himself go on, in a reasonable voice. “But I’d have said he’s very much alive. There was that interview; there was an article about him in The Wall Street Journal, only last week…”

  “You’re crazy.” She drew in her breath. “You drink so much, and you take those pills. You imagine things. You can’t remember what happened yesterday, an hour ago…”

  “I can remember that, I remember it quite distinctly. Because of the shock, I suppose. You see, he looks so much like Cat, doesn’t he? The hair, the eyes, everything. It’s unmistakable, and I suppose it was very stupid of me not to have realized before. After all, I’ve seen photographs before, but they were mostly in black and white. And I’ve read articles, of course. The endless expansion of the de Chavigny companies—there’s something about him, somewhere, most weeks. But in color, seeing him speak—well, that was different, of course. As soon as I saw that, there was no doubt.”

  He stopped. For a moment he thought she was going to faint, she was so drained of color. She swayed slightly, and then stood still.

  She said, “Lewis. Go away. Just go away.”

  “All right.” He started toward the door, and then stopped. A thought came to him, and he turned back.

  “You know.” He paused, looking now almost bewildered. “If you hadn’t lied, if you’d told me right from the first, it might have been different. I might have been able to accept it then. It was not knowing, imagining, trying to understand—it, and you—that was what went wrong.” He hesitated. “Hélène. Why didn’t you tell me? You could have, you know. Right back at the beginning. You didn’t need to lie…”

  “I wasn’t lying. How could I tell you something that wasn’t true?” She swung around to him, her voice rising in her agitation. “You’ve imagined this. You’ve made it up. Your mind plays tricks on you, Lewis…”

  “Yes. It does, sometimes.” He looked at her intently. “I wonder. Does yours?”

  The evening
of the day Lewis finally left, Hélène went to her daughter’s room. She read Cat a story, and Cat leaned back on the pillows, listening. When the story was over, she talked a little about what she had done that day, and Hélène wondered if she might ask about Lewis, for he had been seen to leave, by the servants, by Madeleine and Cassie, and the atmosphere of pity and embarrassment that permeated the household was intense. But Cat did not ask; Lewis was absent so often anyway. Hélène hesitated, and then decided—it would be better to break it to her gradually, and to answer the questions when, and not before, they were asked. She was not sure whether Cat would mind, or how much she would mind: she had spent so little time with Lewis.

  She sat looking at her daughter, at the small fierce little face, at the hair which would stand up in spikes, and not lie down. And she saw then, that however much she loved Cat, however close they might be, her daughter was a separate person, not a baby now, but a little girl, with her own mind, her own feelings, her own memories, removed from her, and full of mysteries. Cat was old enough now to hide things from others, she no longer had that absolute transparency of the very young child. She tried to hide hurt—Hélène had seen her do it in front of Lewis. What else did she hide?

  It made Hélène’s heart ache a little, to acknowledge this little distance, this separation between them. She looked at Cat, and she studied her face and her hair and her eyes. It was, of course, what she had come into this room to do, what she had postponed doing all afternoon, since Lewis left. Now she looked, and was afraid to look, and had to force herself.

  The hair was very dark—but her own mother’s hair had been brown, and while Billy’s hair hadn’t been as dark as Cat’s, some of his brothers and sisters had taken after their mother, who was surely as dark as Cat. And Edouard’s hair was straight, whereas Cat’s curled, a little. The eyes, and the straight dark brows above them: sometimes, it was true, when Cat had a certain expression on her face…But now she was sleepy, and they had a soft dreamy expression, not like Edouard’s at all.

  “What are you thinking?” Cat leaned forward.