Fragrance of Violets

by Paula Martin

  “Hey, why the frown?”

  She’d been so deep in thought she hadn’t realised Jack had opened his eyes. “Do you know anything about pancreatic cancer?” she asked.

  He blinked several times. “Oh my, what a question to wake up to.”

  “I’m sorry.” She waited while he rolled onto his back. “Louise told me yesterday that our father has been diagnosed with it.”

  “I see.”

  “It can be treated, can’t it? With chemo or radio therapy?”

  Jack eased her head against his shoulder, and she snuggled next to his warm body. “It’s called the silent killer,” he said. “There are no real symptoms in the early stages, and when symptoms do start to arise, they can be mistaken for a lot of other things to begin with. By the time the cancer’s eventually diagnosed, it’s probably already spread to other places.”

  “Louise said they’re going to run more scans to see if it’s spread. How come you know so much about it?”

  “A colleague of mine had it about six years ago. I researched a couple of articles with him.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “He died about four months after it was finally diagnosed.”

  Abbey tightened her hand on his. “I’m sorry.”

  They were both silent for a few moments, and she wasn’t going to say anything more. But this was Jack, and he would understand. “Louise said he wants to see me again.”

  “And how do you feel about that?”

  “I know how I felt when she first told me. Now I’m not so sure. I told her I’d think about it.”

  “Only you can decide, Abbey.”

  “Yes, I know, and I will think about it, but not now. This weekend I want to think about us, here in Paris.” Dismissing her dilemma, she reached up to kiss him. “We don’t need to get up yet, do we?”

  “I thought you wanted to drag me around the sights of Paris.”

  “Only the Musée d’Orsay.”

  Jack picked up his watch from the bedside table. “Eight o’clock. Plenty of time.”

  “I thought you’d be hungry.”

  “I am. For you.”

  They made love again, gently and unhurriedly except for the last few minutes when their passion heated and took them on the roller-coaster ride to blissful release.

  “What’s condom in French?” Jack asked later as he came out of the bathroom, freshly showered and shaved.

  Abbey grinned. “They didn’t teach us that in French lessons at school.”

  “Guess I’ll have to go into a drugstore and point.”

  “You still sound very American at times, you know.”

  “Why? What did I say?”

  “Guess equals suppose, and drugstore equals chemist. Here it’s pharmacie, I think. They have a green cross sign outside them.” She gave him a mischievous grin. “You’re running out of supplies?”

  He chuckled. “I have to confess I didn’t anticipate such a hot babe in my bed.”

  Abbey rolled out of bed and struck a pose in front of him. “Hot babe? Could we change that to sophisticated lover, please?”

  As she turned toward the bathroom, he patted her rear. “We’ll compromise with hot lover, shall we?”

  * * * * *

  They had breakfast, fresh warm croissants and large cups of coffee, on their balcony, and studied a map of the Paris Métro. After working out their route, they reached the Musée d’Orsay without getting lost. Housed in a converted railway station, it was vast, but Abbey insisted on finding the impressionist gallery first.

  She stood, awestruck, in front of the paintings by Van Gogh, Monet, Degas, and others. “I’ve seen so many prints, it’s hard to believe these are the originals.”

  “Which is your favourite?” Jack asked.

  “Monet’s Pont d’Argenteuil, I think. The way he paints the water in the river is amazing. Which is yours?”

  “Van Gogh’s bedroom. I bet he didn’t normally keep it as tidy as that.”

  “He probably threw everything out of the window while he painted it.” She shook her head sadly. “A genius, but a tortured one.”

  They had coffee on the museum terrace, overlooking the Seine, and took the Métro to Montmartre. After cheese omelettes for lunch at a café on the Boulevard de Clichy, they used the petit train, the small tourist bus, to take them up the hill to the white domed Sacré Coeur cathedral high above the city.

  The cathedral was too ornate for Abbey’s taste, but she loved the nearby Place du Tertre. Part of the square was filled with café tables under brightly coloured parasols, the other half was occupied by artists who, as well as to trying to sell their paintings, offered five minute portraits.

  Jack persuaded her to have her portrait drawn, and stood grinning as she tried to sit still and not giggle while the artist drew her. The result was a passable likeness, and she laughed as she handed it to him.

  “There, you can put that on your bedroom wall and pretend it’s a Van Gogh.”

  In the evening, they went to the Pont d’Alma to board their dinner cruise boat on the Seine. An accordionist played traditional French songs as the bateau-mouche glided along the river, and they enjoyed a meal of smoked salmon with cucumber cream, followed by veal in white wine sauce, and crème brûlée with raspberry drizzle.

  After they’d eaten, Abbey smiled when Jack moved to sit next to her instead of across the table. He slipped his arm around her, and she nestled against him as the boat reached the eastern end of the Île de la Cité and turned, giving them a stunning view of the towers and flying buttresses of Notre Dame Cathedral.

  “Today’s been perfect, Jack.”

  He squeezed her shoulder. “For me, too. I love you so much, Abbey.”

  She started to reply, but the words wouldn’t come. Damn it, why couldn’t she say it? She was sure she loved him, so why couldn’t she vocalise that final commitment to him?

  Because you’re still scared, her inner voice said. Scared he’ll let you down and hurt you. For a fleeting moment, she thought of her father, somewhere in a hospital room, and remembered her dream. No, Jack’s different, she’d said in the dream. And he was, but she still held back from responding.

  Instead she pressed herself against him, and stroked his thigh with her hand.

  * * * * *

  It was hard saying goodbye to him at the airport the following afternoon. They’d enjoyed another glorious night together, and spent the morning wandering hand-in-hand around Les Puces, Paris’s famous flea market, where the stallholders sold everything from tacky souvenirs to genuine antiques.

  “I’ll be back on Wednesday,” he said after he gave her a kiss before she went through to passport control and security. “Will you still be at home?”

  “Of course I will. Why shouldn’t I be?”

  “What about the play?”

  “I’m not doing it. I don’t want to be in London for a month. I want to stay in Rusthwaite with you.”

  “It’s only a month, Abbey. Promise me you’ll think about it?”

  “I have to let Sylvia know by tonight, so yes, I’ll think about it while I’m on the plane.”

  “And you’ll think about going to see your father again?”

  She nodded hesitantly, and he kissed her again. “Call me when you get home.”

  “Yes.” She reached one hand up to caress his cheek. “Thank you for a wonderful weekend.”

  “It’s been wonderful for me, too. Safe journey, sweetheart.”

  * * * * *

  She arrived home shortly before seven o’clock, called Jack, and smiled when she heard his voice.

  “What did you decide about the play?” he asked, after she told him about her flight and the long delay at the baggage carousel.

  “I’m staying here. I’m going to ring Sylvia and tell her.”

  “And what about your father?”

  “I—I’ve not made up my mind.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you on Wednesday.”

  “Yes. I can’t wait u
ntil you’re home again.”

  After ending the call, she rang Sylvia’s number. Her agent’s answer service clicked on, and she left a short message: “Sylvia, please tell Peter I’m sorry, but I can’t do Importance. I’ll talk to you later.”

  Her mother had gone out for a meal with a friend and wouldn’t be home until about nine-thirty, and so she showered, changed into jeans and a sweater, and walked into the village.

  The pub was busy, and she waited at the bar. Sally winked when she saw her. “Give me a minute to pour these drinks, and we’ll go into the living room. I want to hear all about your weekend in Paris.”

  “Paris, eh?” said a man’s voice.

  Abbey turned to see Nathan Garside leering at her. He gave her a knowing smirk. “With lover boy Jack, was it, Abbey?”

  “None of your business, Nathan.”

  The lean, unattractive man grinned. “A-ha, it was, wasn’t it? But it’s too late for you to get the lead in his TV series, even if you do go to Paris for the weekend with him.”

  Abbey frowned. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “The Rycroft Saga, of course. We know Marsha Hewitt has grabbed the lead. It came through on the wires ages ago.”

  “Yes, I know about Marsha, but what do you mean about Jack’s TV series? What TV series?”

  Nathan’s eyes widened. “Oh, come on, Abbey, you can’t be serious. Surely Tremayne’s told you his pen name is John Tyson? He wrote The Rycroft Saga.”

  The world jerked on its axis, and Abbey had to grip the edge of the bar counter to stop its dizzying effect.

  CHAPTER 17

  Two seconds later, Abbey dismissed Nathan’s allegations. He was probably up to his usual trick of trying to cause trouble.

  She gave a short laugh. “That’s absurd, Nathan. Jack’s a journalist, not a novelist.”

  Nathan shrugged. “So? Journalists can write novels, can’t they? Plenty of ’em do, and I’m telling you that John Tyson is the wonderful Jack Tremayne.”

  Abbey bridled at his mocking tone, but before she could retort, he went on, “Ever ask yourself where he got all the money he gave to the Old School?”

  “Just because he donated a lot of money doesn’t make him a bestselling novelist. That money was from—” Abbey stopped. Nathan Garside didn’t need to know about Jack’s apartment in L.A. “Anyway, where’s your evidence?”

  “Evidence? How about the fact that Gordon Fowler saw him doing a book signing session at Watson’s in Carlisle a few weeks ago? Gord recognised him because he was here with me the night Tremayne refused to explain why he wrote his article about the gatehouse.”

  “Oh, you’re making that up.” Although she spoke dismissively, unease stabbed through her. A few weeks ago, Jack had called her from Carlisle and told her he was going up to Glasgow. He said he had meetings, and she hadn’t asked him what they were about. Could they have been book signing sessions?

  A series of unconnected thoughts tumbled through her mind. When they climbed Coniston Old Man, he spoke knowledgeably about the copper mines. In his speech at the village meeting, he said he’d done a lot of research into the area. At the drama club meetings, he talked about the problems young people had in the past. He even referred to the heroine of The Rycroft Saga as a rebel. How did he know that? Her blood started to run cold when she remembered his mother’s maiden name was Tyson.

  Oh, stop it, she told herself crossly. She was jumping to ridiculous conclusions.

  “Okay, I’ve finished here,” Sally said. “Come on, Abbey.”

  Abbey followed her out of the bar without a backward glance at Nathan.

  Sally looked at her curiously as they sat down in the living room. “Is Nathan stirring, as he usually does, or could it be true?”

  “He’s stirring,” Abbey replied, trying to banish the doubts from her mind.

  “Are you going to ask Jack?”

  She thought for a moment, and shook her head. “No, I have a better idea. Louise’s boyfriend is John Tyson’s agent. I’ll ask him.”

  She pulled out her phone and hit the shortcut for Louise’s number.

  Two rings, and Louise answered, “Hey, Abbey, how was Paris?”

  “It was fantastic, and I’ll tell you about it later, but there’s something I want to ask Farrell. Can you give me his number?”

  “No need, he’s here with me now, but why—?”

  “Could I have a word with him, Lou?”

  “Okay.”

  After a couple of seconds, Farrell’s voice said, “Hi, Abbey, how are you?”

  “I’m fine, thanks. Listen, this is going to sound a bit odd, but you said you were John Tyson’s agent. Is John Tyson a pen name?”

  She sensed Farrell’s hesitation and started to tremble.

  “I can’t divulge—”

  “Farrell, please be honest with me. It’s important. Is John Tyson the pen name used by Jack Tremayne?”

  Farrell didn’t answer, and Abbey closed her eyes as a lead weight dropped inside her. “Thanks, Farrell.” The calmness of her voice surprised her. “That’s all I need to know.”

  “Abbey, there’s a reason—”

  “I don’t need to know any reason for anything, I really don’t.” Her throat felt blocked as she tried to speak. “Tell—” She struggled to swallow. “Tell Louise I—I’ll call her tomorrow.”

  She ended the call, and stared numbly at her phone. Half a minute later, it rang, but when she saw Louise’s name on the screen, she ignored it.

  Instead she looked across at Sally. “Nathan’s right. Jack is John Tyson.”

  Sally gaped at her. “And he never told you?”

  “It’s more than that. Last December, he turned me down for the lead role in the TV series.” A shudder ran through her. “Oh, God—” She covered her face with her hand. “I can’t take this in.”

  Images of their weekend flashed through her mind, as well as all the other times they’d been together. Why hadn’t he told her? The question pounded relentlessly through her mind but without any answers.

  After a few moments, an icy calm descended on her.

  “Well, that proves it, doesn’t it? Men are all the same. They can’t be trusted.”

  “Abbey—” Sally said helplessly.

  “Sorry, Sally, I need to make another call.” The decision had been made for her, and she called Sylvia’s number. It was the answer service again.

  “Sylvia, ignore my previous message. Tell Peter I’ll come down to London tomorrow, and ask him to ring me, please.”

  “What’s that about?” Sally asked.

  “I’m going to play Gwendolen again, in the West End this time. And to hell with Jack Tremayne!” She screwed up her face as the pain ripped through her.

  “Aren’t you—” Sally hesitated. “Aren’t you being rather hasty, Abbey?”

  “No way. I’m through with men. In fact—”

  On an impulse, she jabbed her screen.

  When Jack answered, she had to turn everything inside her to steel. She couldn’t let the sound of his voice or the memories of their weekend soften her.

  “Hi, sweetheart,” he said. “I was thinking about you and wishing—”

  “When were you going to tell me, Jack? Or should I call you John? The famous, best-selling John Tyson.”

  There was silence.

  “Who told you?” he said eventually.

  “That doesn’t matter. What does matter is that it wasn’t you.”

  “Abbey, I can explain—”

  “Oh, I’m sure you can.” The anger flared inside her. “And I’m sure you can also explain why you turned me down for the Maggie Rycroft role. You obviously think Marsha Hewitt is a better actress than me, so good luck with her.”

  “No, I don’t, but—”

  “But I rejected you ten years ago, and now it was your turn to reject me?”

  “I hope you know I would never be so vindictive, but there were various reasons—”

  “Oh, of cou
rse, and there were probably various reasons why you didn’t tell me you were the author.” Her jaw tightened. “You built our whole relationship on a lie.”

  “I’ve never lied, Abbey.”

  “You didn’t tell me the truth. It’s the same thing. Did you think I’d never find out?”

  “No, I was going to tell you, as soon as I—”

  “I’d actually started to think you were different.”

  There was a pause before Jack spoke again. “Different from your father, you mean?”

  “This has nothing to do with him.” She clenched her hand around her phone. “This is you. You’re the same as every other lying, deceitful bastard.”

  “I understand you feel let down, betrayed, whatever, but if you’d listen to my reasons—”

  “Reasons?” She spat the word out. “Reasons are excuses, and excuses are usually lies. Reasons don’t matter.”

  “Yes, they do, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. I know your father’s reasons and excuses turned out to be lies, but it doesn’t mean every man is going to lie to you or let you down.”

  “No? How can I believe that when I discover you’re John Tyson? Not just because you turned me down for the Maggie Rycroft part, but all the time while we were sorting out what happened ten years ago, you still didn’t tell me. I thought I could trust you—”

  “And now you’re damning me out of hand without giving me a chance to explain anything.”

  “There’s nothing to explain. The facts speak for themselves.”

  “And there’s the real problem. You jump to your own conclusions and you’re not prepared to reserve judgement until you find out more. That’s hard to handle, you know. You’re measuring everything by some arbitrary standard that seems to depend on what your father did.”

  “I’ve already said this has nothing to do with him. It’s what you’ve done.”

  She heard his deep sigh. “Look, I think we ought to continue this conversation when we’re face to face. There were reasons, and I do want to explain them to you, but at the moment you’re too angry to listen. I’ll catch a flight home in the morning.”