by S F Hopkins
At that very moment, however, she saw Tony and Merrill turn a corner less than a hundred yards away and stroll arm in arm towards them. Two thoughts passed through her head. The first and most obvious was that if Tony was with Merrill he could not also be with her. The second was that, to judge by the lecherous glint in Merrill’s eye, she might enjoy the rest of the evening more if she did not have to think about getting Alice home.
‘Michel has to go back to London,’ she said to Merrill when the two couples were face to face. ‘I’m going to grab a lift with him, if that’s okay with you?’
Merrill cast a gaze of frankly lascivious enquiry over Michel, who himself was looking more than a little surprised. ‘It’s all right with me, honey,’ she said.
Aware that Michel was impatient to be off, Alice touched Merrill on the arm. ‘See you tomorrow evening,’ she murmured. ‘Would you mind bringing my things back for me?’
‘Sure will,’ agreed Merrill. ‘We can exchange war stories.’
Next morning, John was five minutes early at the Chairman’s hotel. He had made his decision. The sooner he put it into action, the better.
He thought for a second that the Chairman would refuse to get into his unprotected vehicle, but the moment passed. The busboys loaded the weathered leather bags into the boot, the Chairman took his seat up front and John scattered reals like confetti (which, indeed, the troubled currency was coming to resemble) before taking the wheel and heading northeast away from the Copa towards the airport.
He wasted no time. ‘I want the job,’ he said.
‘Congratulations, John. I’m really glad. You would always be my first choice.’
‘There’s a condition.’
‘Name it. Within reason.’
‘I want to know who sold me out.’
‘Who…I don’t follow you.’
‘Of course you do. Someone sold my business secrets to Martin Planer. It must have been someone I knew. Someone I trusted. He betrayed me. I want to know who it was.’
‘John. The…the person…’
‘Left the company. You told me that. I still want to know who he was. I want his name.’
‘No, John. You don’t. Trust me.’
‘I do, Chairman. Charles,’ he added with a smile, using the name for the first time. ‘It’s the only condition I make, but it is a condition. I won’t take the job without it.’
The Chairman stared unseeingly through the windscreen. After a long pause, he said, ‘I need time to think.’
John drove the rest of the way in silence. As they drove into the airport, the Chairman turned to look at him. ‘It’s a mistake, John,’ he said. ‘Believe me. You’re better off not knowing.’
John pulled in to park outside the departures hall. At once, porters descended on the car, opening the boot and placing the Chairman’s bags onto a trolley. The Chairman showed his ticket and one of the porters whisked the trolley away towards the first class check-in desk.
The Chairman stood for a moment, deep in thought. ‘I want your undertaking, John. If I tell you who betrayed you, I want your word that you will not change your mind about joining the Board.’
‘You have it.’
The Chairman’s face was without expression. ‘I shall hold you to that.’ He stared closely into John’s face. ‘It was Alice Springer.’
John was as still as if he had been turned to stone.
‘I’m sorry, John,’ said the Chairman. ‘I told you you didn’t want to know.’ He began to turn away. ‘There’s not the slightest doubt, I’m afraid.’
The Chairman walked away towards check-in and home. When he reached the desk, he glanced back. John was still by his car, the doors and boot still open. He had not moved a muscle since being told his betrayer’s name. His mouth was slightly open, but no sound emerged. His eyes focused on something far away. Far in distance and far in time.
‘Could anyone other than you have had access to these bags since you packed them, sir?’ asked the check-in girl.
The Chairman shook his head. ‘No. No, it was all my own work.’
Chapter 13
The following evening, Merrill called Alice. ‘Are you free?’
‘Most people would call me very expensive,’ said Alice. ‘But for you, my dear, I will moderate my demands.’
Merrill laughed. ‘No jokes like the old jokes,’ she said. ‘I fancy an Italian evening. I’ll bring pecorino and sausage. And I have a splendid Barolo.’
‘I’m sure I can rustle up some fettuccine,’ said Alice. ‘I could make a sauce with smoked salmon and cream?’
‘I’ve got a jar of artichokes I brought back from Milan.’
‘We’re in business.’
The cheese was the mature Roman kind, so much saltier and sharper than Tuscan pecorino ever got to be. They ate it in slivers with bread and pieces of cold garlicky sausage as Alice prepared the pasta.
‘Since when did smoked salmon become Italian?’ asked Merrill.
‘Since now,’ said Alice. ‘This wine is excellent. Will one bottle be enough?’
‘We have grappa to drink with the coffee.’
The water came to the boil and Alice dropped in the fettuccine before turning the heat to a slow simmer.
‘Take it easy there,’ said Merrill. ‘English people always overcook pasta.’
‘Am I doing this or are you?’ Alice ripped up handfuls of rocket and basil to sprinkle over the dish at the last moment. ‘So. Tony Frejus. Tell all. Good grief. Was that unseemly noise a giggle?’
Merrill put her hand to her mouth. ‘Tony is a sweetie,’ she said.
‘Did you disgrace yourself?’
‘To the contrary, chérie. I think Mister Frejus would say I gave a very good account of myself.’
‘As did he?’
‘He was magnificent,’ affirmed Merrill.
‘I’m glad both bedrooms weren’t wasted.’
Alice strained the pasta and took the plates from the warming drawer. ‘Do you want to top up our glasses? This is about ready to eat.’ She forked the sauce into the fettuccine and scattered the herbs on top.
‘Mmm,’ said Merrill as she began to eat. ‘Good.’
‘Not overcooked?’
‘Perfectly al dente. My own mother could hardly have done it better.’
‘Mrs Abercrombie is Italian?’
‘Mrs Abercrombie was born Irene Secco.’
‘Aha. All becomes clear. So a Bolivian…’
‘Would be a good Catholic boy, and highly acceptable.’
‘Merrill! Is this getting serious?’
‘After one night? Please. But I think Tony and I will be seeing more of each other.’ She took a mouthful of pasta. ‘What about you?’
‘With Michel? I don’t think so. He’s far too wrapped up in himself.’
‘I thought that was obvious. So why did you go off with him?’
‘Why? Because I was heading back to reclaim a handsome Bolivian, and I found that someone I considered a friend had stolen him away.’
Merrill laughed. ‘I wondered. It was fairly obvious he hadn’t invited you to go back to London with him. But he did ask you for a walk in the Lanes.’
‘Ah, yes,’ said Alice. ‘That was pure paranoia on my part.’
‘Say some more?’
‘He mentioned Honfleur.’
‘Honfleur?’
‘Honfleur. On the coast of...’
‘I know where it is.’
Alice finished her pasta and mopped up the last of the sauce with the last of the bread. She raised her glass of Barolo and stared into its red depths. ‘That’s exactly what Martin Planer said.’
‘Martin…? Alice. You’re talking in riddles.’
Alice sighed. ‘My mother has done it again.’
‘Stolen money from Planer?’
Alice nodded.
‘And he let her? Why?’
‘To get to me. I think.’
‘You’d better explain.’
So Alice
did. In full. When she had finished, Merrill stared at her in silence.
‘Speak,’ said Alice.
‘Alice. I don’t believe you. If you mean what you just said, you intend to go to a French fishing village you adore…’
‘It’s not really a fishing village any longer.’
‘Don’t pick nits. You intend to go there with a man you detest. A man two porters had to tear off you only last week in this very apartment. You plan to put on some utterly sleazy undergarment solely in order to let him to take it off you again. At which point you will put yourself completely at his mercy. Have I got that right?’
‘I think that’s a pretty good summary, yes.’
‘Well. What can I say? You English girls, you’re something else.’
‘But you do understand why I’m doing it?’
‘Understand? No. No, Alice, I don’t. I think you’re crazy.’
‘If it were your mother…’
‘My mother wouldn’t put me in that position, Alice. But if she did I’d make it very clear to her that she was on her own. You’ve already lost the love of your life because of your mother and now you’re going to…to…well, Alice, words fail me.’
‘That’ll be a first.’
‘I’m glad you can laugh about it, Alice. But, actually, it isn’t very funny.’
John Pagan held a party in O Belisco, his favorite Ipanema club, to say goodbye to his many Brazilian friends. Mostly they thought he was his usual friendly self; those who noticed any change assumed that he was a little sad to be leaving Rio, and a little daunted to be taking on a main board role. No-one guessed the truth.
For in reality John was entirely cold inside. How Alice must have laughed, when they met at Gatwick, to realize that he still carried a torch for her – in his dreams the only woman he had ever loved; in reality the traitor who had got close enough to him to be able to steal his most precious business secrets and hand them to a deadly rival.
He could guess what she had gained from this cruel deception. When Alice had pretended to love him – and he had no doubt now that it had been, must have been, pretence – she had actually been carrying on an affair with Martin Planer. He had never heard of any subsequent romance between Alice and Planer, and he knew she was now with David Tucker, so their affair must have run its course and ended.
John had learned, as most people do, that the person who holds a grudge is the one who suffers. His generosity of spirit was one of the things that had earned him so many friends, to say nothing of Alice’s love (though he no longer believed in that love) and he knew it was in his own interests to forgive, forget and move on. He hoped he would one day be able to do so. It certainly wasn’t possible right now.
‘Well,’ said Merrill. ‘Enough recriminations. If you’re dumb enough to do what Planer wants, I’m dumb enough to let you. Tell me about Michel.’
‘There isn’t a lot to tell. Being with Michel is like watching an actor. He knows how to move around the stage and speak the lines. What you never get is the slightest feeling of sincerity.’
‘How sad.’
‘The only time he really comes alive is when he thinks he sniffs a story. I told him we have a huge show coming up and suddenly he got interested. You coming, by the way?’
‘Try to keep me away.’
‘I’ll arrange a good seat.’
‘You couldn’t make it two?’
‘For Tony?’
Merrill nodded.
‘Of course, I will,’ smiled Alice. ‘And you must both join us at the party afterwards.’
‘Funny you should mention that. An old friend of Tony’s is coming back to England after years away. Tony thinks he’d be perfect for you.’
Alice laughed. ‘Well, I’m promising nothing. But it’s fairly clear Michel LeGrand isn’t the answer to this maiden’s prayer. Tell Tony to invite his pal to the party and we’ll go on to dinner afterwards.’
‘I’ll book the table. Is this before you go to Honfleur with the loathsome Martin Planer, or afterwards?’
‘The show’s next Thursday. I go to Honfleur on Friday.’
Chapter 14
The weather that greeted John on his return to Britain was hardly designed to raise his spirits. Mild but persistent rain fell from a sky that looked as though it would never be blue again. He thought with regret of the clear skies and warm sunshine he had left behind in Rio.
There was little time for dreaming, however. His first few days were spent with Tom McGarrick, who was anxious to impart everything he could about the job before leaving to look after the wife he loved. They moved from meeting to meeting, subsidiary to subsidiary, department to department. There were bankers to meet, and marketing agencies. Strategies that had seemed clear enough when he was charged with putting them into effect took on a different appearance when it became his job to shape them.
Nor were the evenings his own. Charles took over then, organizing cocktail parties and dinners at which John could meet the key people from other companies he needed to work with in his new role.
His only contact with Tony during that first week was very short. Yes, he would love to join Tony and his new lady at a party. Yes, he would be happy to go on from there to dinner, even though a blind date formed part of the deal. He did not say that he had lately received a terrible piece of information about a former love, or that this dreadful news might very well be the catalyst that allowed him to transform his life, healing a ten year old scar and letting him move on. He did not say those things. But he thought them.
Alice was equally busy. The run-up to a major show is always frenzied, and especially so for a show as important as this one. Without trusty lieutenant David to make sure all the routine things were done, they might never have made the deadline. As it was, there was little time for socializing and Alice saw little of anyone outside work. Even her meals were eaten at the office, around tables smothered in design work for approval, rejection or re-working.
She could have done without the interruption that came as the weekend approached.
‘I have a Michel LeGrand on the phone,’ said Marissa.
‘I can’t talk to him now. Tell him to call back in two weeks.’
‘I’ve already tried that. He says it won’t wait.’
‘Tough.’
‘He says, does the name Martin Planer mean anything to you?’
Alice stared at Marissa.
‘He says, in connection with your mother? Alice, what is it? You’ve gone white.’
Alice’s heart was pounding. Every thought of business, fashion, the show was driven from her mind. She found herself unable to speak, unable to react – unable, it seemed, to think.
‘Alice? What shall I tell him?’
‘Put him through.’
The phone on her desk rang. How was it possible to be at the same time so hot and yet so cold? Alice reached out a hand and picked up the receiver.
‘Hello?’
‘Alice. At last. Why are you so protected?’
‘I…I’m very busy, Michel. What is it?’
‘I wanted to get your comment on a story about your mother.’
‘What story?’
‘Do you really want to discuss it on the phone?’
‘What…what do you suggest?’
‘Why, that we meet. What else?’
‘Michel, I…’
‘Have lunch with me. I shall tell you everything I know. And you can do the same.’
Alice stared at the mound of paper on her desk, the diary filled with meetings. ‘You could not have chosen a worse time. I’m a week away from the biggest fashion event in Europe this year.’
‘All the more reason to get this cleared up.’
‘I need time.’
‘I’m a journalist, Alice. I don’t have time to give you. If I don’t run this story, someone else might. Someone less likely to be kind, or to get your side first.’
Alice sat in silence, weighing the possibilities.
‘Or I can simply go to press with it, Alice.’
Her mind resolved itself. ‘I can give you fifteen minutes. You’ll have to come here.’
‘C’est bien. When?’
‘Now.’
‘I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’
After the line went dead, Alice sat as though paralyzed. Marissa and David came into her office.
‘Alice?’
She could not let everything collapse now. Too much depended on the next few days. Alice shrugged herself into life.
‘Michel LeGrand is a journalist. He’ll be here shortly. I need to spend some time alone with him.’
‘That’ll play hell with the schedule.’
‘I can’t help it, David. I must see him.’
‘Is it about the show?’
‘No. No, David, it’s…a personal matter.’
‘Right.’ David picked up her diary. ‘You’re due to see Rosie from the show organizers. I’ll do that – it’s routine. And the people from Vogue – if we shuffle things around I can tell them to come at three instead.’ He took Marissa by the arm and made to leave the room. ‘Get onto reception and tell them to show Rosie into conference room two when she arrives, Marissa. Make sure they let me know right away. Then get Vogue on the line.’
Alice looked up. ‘Thanks, David. What would I do without you?’
‘That works two ways.’
Michel was, thank heaven, punctual. Marissa showed him into Alice’s office and brought coffee. ‘I’ll hold all calls, Alice.’ Then she closed the door behind her.
Alice directed Michel into one of the armchairs by the coffee table in the corner of her spacious office. She sat opposite him.
‘I don’t have long, Michel. Tell me what you have to tell me.’ She raised a finger as Michel opened his mouth to speak. ‘On second thoughts, don’t do that. Tell me first how you got onto this story.’
‘Shame on you. Journalists can’t reveal their sources. You know that.’
Alice stared at him. There was little sincerity in his smile. He shrugged.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘You’d have to know, anyway. I was at a party. Journalists love parties. Not for the drink and the food. People tell us things. That’s where we met, if you recall.’
Alice nodded. ‘Go on.’