Another Woman (9781468300178)

by Vincenzi, Penny

  And ‘No,’ she said, ‘no of course not. Although – well, in a way, I suppose I have. I mean I’ve met your mother, seen how she is, what she has obviously done for your – your father. I can’t do that, Rufus, and I can’t be part of your world. Not ever. It’s impossible.’

  ‘And you’re not prepared to try? Because,’ he added, his voice infinitely heavy with sadness, ‘I’ve tried very hard to be part of yours. And not done entirely badly, I don’t think.’

  ‘That’s different,’ said Tilly.

  ‘Why? Why is it different?’

  ‘Well, it’s easier, more fluid. The people I know and work with don’t wear a uniform, and talk with the same accent, and go to the same schools, and serve up the same food on the same tablecloths and talk the same fucking shorthand.’

  ‘Yes they do,’ said Rufus, ‘of course they do. And I’ve found it quite hard, some of it. I don’t even like a lot of it. I don’t like people saying fuck all the time for a start. And thinking it was terribly terribly important to be wearing the right jacket and having the right haircut, and to know who did those wonderful pictures in British Vogue this month. But it’s been worth it, to feel part of you, to feel I’m helping you. You obviously don’t have the same concerns. So maybe you’re right, Tilly, maybe it’s better we do part. Especially if you can make a major decision like going away for twelve months without any reference to me whatsoever.’

  To her horror, she realized he was going, and in spite of the heat, the flat seemed suddenly cold, deathly, horribly still and cold; and although she knew it was the right, the only thing to do, she was more afraid than she had ever been in her life. She sat there staring at him, and panic rose in her, a huge, choking panic, at the thought of life without him, without his company, his comfort, his love for her. It seemed incredible to her suddenly that she had got through nineteen of her twenty years without him, and impossible that she would get through more than another hour of the rest of her life on her own. And yet, and yet the alternative was impossible, unthinkable; and so she didn’t do what she longed to, didn’t explain, didn’t try to tell him what she was thinking, what she knew, just sat there, willing herself to be silent, to be still.

  ‘Well,’ he said, after a very long time, ‘well, I might as well leave. Goodbye then, Tilly.’ He walked over to the door, turned and looked at her; she saw there were tears in his brown eyes, that one was actually rolling down his face. She clenched her fists until her long nails dug into her palms, folded her lips together, terrified that some word, some noise even, would betray her.

  He opened the door, waited another moment, then walked out and shut it quietly behind him, and she heard his feet going down the stairs and knew what it must feel like to be bleeding to death, to feel life ebbing away; and still she sat motionless, enduring it. And then as she heard the outside door shut (for the night was very still now), heard his car start, heard it drive slowly away, away, she remembered that she had never heard, had never asked even, what it was he actually wanted to talk to her about.

  The Next Day

  Chapter 23

  Theo 5:30am

  Flying, Theo Buchan had been often heard to say, was the greatest physical pleasure, next to sex. Flying yourself of course, he would add, not sitting in some godawful lorry in the sky, drinking inferior champagne; many, many parallels could be drawn, he would go on to say, the intense concentration, the surging, soaring exhilaration, the sense of absolute release – and afterwards the sweet, sweet peace. It was famously said of Theo that if he was serious about a woman, he took her flying; that was how she knew.

  He was flying to Paris that morning: the physical presence beside him was that of James Forrest, but it was Harriet Forrest who filled his head and his heart and his senses, Harriet who was haunting the strange beautiful other-world he had up here, Harriet’s lovely, slightly gaunt face he saw, as he had last seen it, with its extraordinary, fearful blend of hatred and desire, Harriet’s voice he heard, harsh with anger, with scorn, and yet heavy with yearning, Harriet’s body, its joyous, intent hunger denied him totally, and yet greedy for him still.

  James had called him soon after she left, as he’d sat shaking with despair, with helplessness, said he had to talk to him, and ‘Not now, James,’ he’d said, ‘Please not now, I’m done for.’ But James had begged him, said he had to have companionship or he would go mad, and Theo had finally, wearily, agreed.

  James, coming in drawn, grey-faced, had told him at once about Susie, about Rufus: ‘What do I do, Theo, what the hell do I do?’ and Theo, shocked himself, had counselled caution, restraint: ‘Leave him to think about it, James, to come to terms with it. Don’t rush in with justifications, explanations, for Christ’s sake. And certainly not fatherly sentiments.’

  ‘Christ Almighty, Theo, what do you think I am?’ said James, genuinely shocked, and Theo said, not entirely seriously, an insensitive egotist with a talent for trouble.

  ‘Do you think he’ll talk to people, want his family, my family to know?’ said James, draining a second jug of coffee, reaching for the phone to order a third.

  ‘Probably not,’ said Theo coolly, knowing why he asked, thinking that he should, indeed did, despise James for the question, the reasons behind it, forty years of friendship holding him loyal. ‘He’s not a child, and he’s a very conventional young man. And sensitive. I daresay he’ll tell Tilly Mills though.’

  ‘Christ,’ said James, ‘dear Christ,’ and added suddenly, with a look of desperation at Theo that was truly childlike, ‘Theo, you’ll see me through this, won’t you? You won’t let me down?’

  And Theo said of course he would stand by him, would see him through; and the conversation had then switched to Cressida, to what she had done, was doing, where she might be, and he had listened for a while to James agonizing, theorizing, before pleading exhaustion and then suggesting he came with him next morning on his quest for Cressida, his pilgrimage to Sacré-Coeur. ‘I had thought that Harriet might come, but – well, I think perhaps it would be better if it was you.’

  James had not known about the photograph; he was shocked, shaken, not only by what it revealed, but because Harriet hadn’t told him. ‘We are not friends just at the moment, she and I,’ he said, and Theo, struggling to keep emotion from his voice, said it was much the same for him.

  ‘Oh really? Why’s that, do you think?’ James asked, and ‘Oh, I tried to interfere in her business,’ Theo said casually, thanking God that James had clearly never had the slightest shadow of suspicion that there had been anything remotely more than paternal in his love for Harriet, no inkling of the glorious, dreadful love affair that would surely and finally have shaken their friendship to death. And still might, he thought, still might. ‘And of course she’s angry with me about the flying lessons, I suppose. As well she should be.’

  ‘Yes, well I’m not,’ said James with a sigh. ‘At first, perhaps, but after all I’ve learnt about Cressida today, Theo, how capable she is of such infinite deceit, I could blame no one for any of it. I’d like to come to Paris with you, like to try and find her.’

  Theo had driven to the Court House to collect him at 4.30 in the morning, as another perfect day was breaking through the mists, and together they drove to the small airfield near Kidlington where Theo had had his plane taken during the night, and climbed into the plane and took off feeling, against all possible odds, strangely and cheerfully excited as if they were on some schoolboy adventure. ‘Where it all started, Paris, wasn’t it?’ said Theo, setting the plane at a steady 90 knots and visibly relaxing for the first time. ‘Our lives together, that first holiday, when we went to stay in my father’s apartment and you met Janine. Do you remember eating that bad oyster?’

  ‘Yes, and you deserted me, left me with my head down the pan.’

  ‘Well you got the best of it in the end. Initiation in Janine’s hands. Literally. You’ve always been a lucky bugger.’

  ‘I think my luck’s run out finally,’ said James.
‘Finally and forever.’

  ‘Get any sleep?’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘Poor sod,’ said Theo. ‘Pour me some coffee, would you, out of that flask? I feel half dead. There should be some croissants in that picnic bag. And some pains au chocolat, I hope. Myra usually organizes those as well.’

  ‘She’s some secretary,’ said James. ‘Yes, here they are. Want one? One of each?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘You eat too much,’ said James, looking at him. ‘How much do you weigh?’

  ‘None of your bloody business.’

  ‘Yes it is. I don’t want to lose you yet.’

  ‘I had a fitness test only the other day,’ said Theo cheerfully, ‘heart, lungs, cholesterol, the lot. The guy said I was absolutely fine. It’s all muscle, you know, not fat. Hit me, go on.’

  ‘No thanks,’ said James, ‘I don’t want the plane to crash. There’s some orange juice here. Want some? Oh, and two half-bottles of bubbly. For Buck’s fizz I suppose. Christ, Theo, you’re spoilt. Do I detect Sasha’s hand in this?’

  ‘No you don’t,’ said Theo briefly.

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘I haven’t a clue. I don’t care.’ He was extremely surprised to find it was true. Well, he supposed he knew why. The confrontation with love, raw, real, unarguable last night, had left Sasha already a shadow. ‘She’s left me,’ he added, forestalling an interrogation. ‘Yesterday. Taken a whole lot of goods, including a company I wanted, and scarpered. And before you say anything, I want you to know I deserved it. I treated her very badly. And not how you think either.’

  ‘How then?’ asked James.

  ‘I put her down. Belittled her. Underrated her. Bad thing to do that, James. Don’t ever do it yourself.’

  ‘I won’t get much chance, will I?’ said James. His voice was heavy, full of pain.

  Theo turned to look at him. ‘I was wondering about you and – and Susie. If –’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘If – oh, I don’t know, that this might be a time for honesty. So you could be together for a bit. Concentrates the mind, that sort of thing. Makes life seem more precious.’

  ‘Good God, no,’ said James, ‘Susie would never want to do anything like that. Rock her beloved family. No, I just have to go on biting the bullet and taking it. Playing understudy to bloody Alistair. Hopefully she’ll come through.’

  ‘Shit,’ said Theo. ‘Life’s a bitch, isn’t it? A real bitch. I’m sorry, James. So sorry.’

  ‘Yes, well.’ James was quiet for a moment, then he said, clearly with immense difficulty, ‘So – any more thoughts on Rufus?’

  ‘Not really. Just – leave things be. For a while. I suspect he’ll want to do the same. Poor little bugger. Bit of a shock.’

  ‘Yes,’ said James shortly.

  ‘I always liked Rufus,’ said Theo thoughtfully. He grinned at James. ‘Chip off the old block.’

  ‘It’s not funny, Theo, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘No, no, of course not. Sorry.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘When will you hear about – about Susie?’

  ‘Later this morning.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Another silence. Then: ‘What do you think Cressida might be up to?’

  It was obviously an easier subject, horrible as it was. Theo’s heart went out to James; as he’d said his luck had finally run out. ‘God knows,’ he said, ‘but whatever it is, I really don’t think we’ve begun to scratch the surface of it. She must be very seriously mixed up.’

  ‘Yes,’ said James, ‘and Theo, what really scares me is what the hell happens if we find her? We can hardly just take her home as if nothing had happened and rearrange the wedding, can we?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Theo. ‘Not now.’

  They landed at a small airfield outside Paris just before six, seven French time. The admirable Myra Hartman had organized a car, a large Mercedes. ‘You drive,’ said Theo, ‘we’ve hit the rush hour, it’s going to be hell, and I’m bushed.’

  He went to sleep almost at once, to dream not of Harriet, nor even of Sasha, but of Cressida. She was sitting on the bridge in her wedding dress, laughing at them all. He woke up angry, to realize they had arrived at the Butte, the street below Sacré-Coeur. He felt very hot and sick. James was easing the Mercedes into a spot far too small for it.

  ‘You’ll never get it in there.’

  ‘Yes I will.’

  ‘Arrogant bugger. Christ, I feel terrible.’

  ‘Should we have coffee somewhere? I’m sure the priest won’t be there yet.’

  ‘No, let’s go up. Someone will be there. It opens at six forty-five. Is the funicular working?’

  ‘Doesn’t seem to be. Come on, Theo, I thought you were fit.’

  ‘I am,’ he said, and ran up the first fifty steps to prove it, then sat down, fighting for breath, waiting for James who was proceeding more slowly and steadily. Theo looked round and up at the exquisite pictures behind him, the stark white domes of Sacré-Coeur carved out of the blue, blue sky. It was like a vision, like something in a children’s Bible. You could see why the Church got such a hold on people: it was enough to make you believe in God. He said as much to James, who looked up at it and grinned. ‘Harriet loathes it. Says it’s kitsch. That’s the smart view generally, I’m told.’

  ‘Yes, well, we can’t all be smart. Bloody snobbery if you ask me,’ said Theo irritably and continued his climb. For some reason it eased the pain Harriet had caused, was causing him, to criticize her, however mildly.

  Illogically, and without admitting it, Theo felt nervous as he walked slowly into the cathedral through the great south door: absurd, he told himself, as if Cressida might still be there, waiting for them. After the brilliance of the morning, the dimness engulfed him; he could see nothing, nothing at all, only smell the familiar cathedral blend of incense and slight mustiness and the faint smokiness of the banks of candles, already lit, and the equally familiar sounds of oddly distant organ music and muffled voices and shuffling footsteps. He looked up, into the soaring dome, and then ahead at the great mosaic above the high altar, the golden Christ figure, arms outstretched; and then glanced behind him and saw James also gazing up, an expression on his face of reluctant awe mingled with a dreadful sadness.

  A young priest was walking swiftly up the main aisle, his face wearing the careful, courteous smile that seemed as crucial an appurtenance of his calling as faith, his eyes fixed several yards ahead; Theo stepped out and said, ‘Bonjour, mon père. Parlez-vous anglais?’

  ‘A little, yes.’

  ‘Yesterday, a young girl was married here. In the afternoon. You were here, perhaps?’

  The priest shook his head. ‘We had no weddings here yesterday. Not at all. I am sorry.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Quite sure, monsieur. No wedding.’ He smiled rather blankly.

  Theo fumbled in his pocket, produced the photograph of Cressida. ‘Here, you see. This was taken yesterday. We know, because it was a friend.’

  ‘No, monsieur. It cannot have been a wedding. There were none. I am sorry. Now if you will excuse me …’

  He hurried away, up towards the altar; James and Theo looked at one another. ‘Now what?’ said Theo.

  ‘He could have been wrong.’

  ‘He didn’t sound as if he was wrong. Let’s ask someone else.’

  One of the cathedral officials was standing at the back near the racks of postcards. ‘Monsieur,’ said Theo, ‘monsieur, parlez-vous anglais?’

  ‘Non,’ said the man briefly.

  Parisian charm, thought Theo, smiling at him. ‘Monsieur, hier, l’après-midi, une jeune fille était mariée dans cette cathédrale …’

  ‘Non,’ said the man, ‘Il n’y a eu absolument aucun mariage.’

  Theo produced the photograph again, showed it to the man; he looked at it, shook his head, shrugged, and walked briskly away.

  ‘Little sweetie,’
said Theo. ‘How I hate the French.’

  They approached an old nun, who was lighting a candle, carefully, with a shaky hand; she smiled at them sweetly. ‘Bonjour, ma soeur,’ said Theo. ‘Est-ce que …’

  But she put her fingers over her lips, shook her head, sank onto her knees. Theo looked at her, wondering how it must feel to possess such faith, reflecting how greatly simplified life must be.

  ‘Excuse me, monsieur.’ Standing behind them was a plump, smiling old priest; he smelt of garlic and his complexion owed more than a little to a lifetime of good French wine. ‘I heard what you were saying. I think perhaps I can help.’

  ‘Oh really?’ Theo held out his hand. ‘How very kind. My name is Theo Buchan, and this is my friend James Forrest.’

  ‘Messieurs,’ said the old man courteously, with a slight bow. His robe, strained over his large somach, was threadbare, his shoes beneath it cracked and worn, but he carried with him an air of great contentment.

  ‘We have reason to believe a young girl was married here yesterday. We have a picture of her leaving the cathedral in her wedding dress, see.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I see. And I saw her, too. Yesterday. She was here, with her husband. A lovely girl. And a charming young man.’

  ‘You saw them – married?’ said James. His voice shook slightly.

  ‘Non, non, that was not possible, I am afraid. It is not easy to be married here. They knew that, of course. But they asked me if I would give them God’s blessing.’

  ‘Oh God,’ said James. His face was grey; he sat down suddenly.

  ‘Are you all right, monsieur?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m fine. Thank you. Do please go on.’

  ‘Very well. I saw no harm in that. After all, who am I to keep God’s love from a young couple? I asked them to come to one of the side chapels, this one here, and they knelt together and we said a prayer and I blessed them. That is all.’ He smiled his sweet, slightly conspiratorial smile. ‘There may be some here who might have felt I should have asked permission but I do not think I shall do too many extra years of purgatory for it.’ He smiled again. ‘They seemed very happy. She wore a wedding ring, I noticed that. Perhaps they had already been to the Bureau de l’Etat. There is not a problem, I hope.’