She got back to London a nervous wreck, quite convinced that her pregnancy was clearly visible to anyone who so much as glanced in her direction, and wrote a total of fourteen letters to Ludovic telling him about it, all of which she tore up.
Fleur always thought about Chloe at Christmas time. She tried not to but she couldn’t help it. Sitting there, in her perfect house, with her perfect family, trimming some perfect tree, going to church, having all the work done by some family retainer, everyone smiling, smirking round the table, no doubt with Caroline there as well, sharing in it all: no real problems, nothing to worry about. Fleur didn’t like Christmas. She had hated it ever since her father had gone away. Before that it had been wonderful, they had had such fun with her grandmother and all her aunts, always lots of games, and midnight mass of course, and after that, her father carried her home on his shoulders singing carols all the way; but ever since he had gone, it had been the lowest spot of the year, apart from her birthday which anyway followed so hard on its heels, a dark, hollow occasion, with all the joy knocked out of it.
The years since she had left home had been better of course: she spent it either with the Steinbergs who celebrated Christmas determinedly and joyfully, the tree in one corner of the kitchen, the Hanukah candles in another, or at Mrs Blake’s house at Sagaponack, where they ate their way through the holiday; but it was still something she always dreaded, wished over. This year had been strange: the Blakes, especially Mrs Blake, were beside themselves with pleasure at the engagement, which Reuben had announced with a certain informality at Christmas Eve supper with the words, ‘Like the ring?’ and Fleur had sat there, being kissed and exclaimed over and smiled at and welcomed into the family, smiling, laughing, holding Reuben’s hand, her own eyes filled with tears of what was clearly, had to be, happiness; and finally lying in her own small room (for Mrs Blake held strong views about pre-marital sex) telling herself the reason she was unable to sleep was because she was so excited and happy.
Now she was on a plane to Los Angeles, and so, she supposed, was Magnus Phillips, only coming from a slightly different direction; she had told Reuben she was going on family business and told him she’d explain when it was all settled, and he’d gone to Kennedy with her and kissed her goodbye tenderly and said he would miss her.
‘I’ll miss you too,’ said Fleur, hugging him hard at passport control.
‘March’d be good,’ he said, and then he turned away and she watched his tall, awkward body making its way through the crowd and felt very unhappy as she went slowly through the departure lounge and joined the queue for her flight.
Rose had sent her driver to meet her at LAX: a grizzled Hispanic with mournful black eyes in a strangely incongruous grey uniform. ‘Miss Sharon sends her apologies, she’s at the studio till dinner time. I’m to take you back to the house, and see you settled.’
‘Thank you,’ said Fleur, ‘that sounds good.’
Rose lived in a house off Coldwater Canyon, set up high from the road by a winding drive, and barred from view by a pair of high wrought-iron gates. Inside there were lush gardens, bank upon bank of flowering shrubs, bougainvillaeas, azaleas, camellias, and a sloping lawn leading at the side of the house down to the pool and a white poolhouse. The house itself was low and square, built of the glorious rose-golden stone so beloved of the best of Beverly Hills architects; a huge wisteria grew over the heavy, double grey door, and sprawled around the upstairs windows.
A young woman opened the door, smiling, held out her hand to Fleur: ‘Hi. I’m Sue. Rose’s housekeeper. May I show you to your room? Ricardo, bring Miss FitzPatrick’s cases.’
Sue did not look too much like any housekeeper Fleur had ever known; she was pretty, tanned, with curly brown hair, dressed in a linen shirt-dress. She talked entirely in questions, most of which needed no reply.
‘How was your flight? Aren’t you terribly tired? Would you like a swim when you’re unpacked? And some ice tea? Or maybe something stronger? Did Ricardo explain that Miss Sharon is at the studio? Now, will you be all right until she gets home, or will I call her there for you? She said to do that if you needed anything special.’
Fleur said she’d like a swim, and some ice tea, that she didn’t need anything else in the world, and was lying by the pool, sipping ice tea and feeling rather as if she should be in movies herself when Ricardo brought out a telephone.
‘Call for you, Miss FitzPatrick.’
‘For me? Oh, thank you.’ She took the phone. ‘Fleur FitzPatrick here.’
‘You sound very at home,’ said Magnus Phillips’s voice. ‘I bet you’re playing at movie stars. They said you were by the pool.’ He sounded amused.
Fleur scowled into the phone. ‘I am most certainly not playing anything. I’m waiting for Rose to get back.’
‘Ah. Where is she?’
‘At the studios. Where are you?’
‘At the Beverly Hills Hotel. You’d love it.’
‘I have been there,’ said Fleur with dignity. ‘And I quite like it. I prefer the Bel Air myself.’
Her sole experience of both had been on a whistle-stop tour with Joe: the Bel Air they had only peered at from the car park on the wrong side of the bridge. But she was not going to let Magnus Phillips think she was some hick who thought LA began and ended with the Hilton and the Star Homes tour.
‘Well, I wondered if you and Miss Sharon would like to dine here with me tonight? Or maybe it would be beneath you?’
‘Of course it wouldn’t be beneath me,’ said Fleur irritably, ‘but I’ll have to ask Rose. She may have other plans.’
‘Of course. Well, just ring me. I’m in Bungalow 12.’
‘Fine. I will.’
‘You OK?’ he said suddenly.
‘Yes, of course I’m OK. Thank you.’
‘Good. I’ll wait to hear from you.’
Rose got back from the studio at five thirty. She looked tired, and thinner than Fleur remembered. She hugged Fleur, told her it was good to see her, then sighed, and said, ‘I’d like a swim and then a quiet dinner. It’s been a tough day.’
‘In what way?’
‘Oh – contract problems. Nothing that my agent can’t fix, but the wretched studio people will try to twist your arm when you’re not looking.’ She laughed. ‘If that isn’t a mixed metaphor.’
‘It isn’t,’ said Fleur. ‘Er, Rose, Magnus Phillips is here, he’s invited us to dinner at the Beverly Hills tonight. I said I’d have to ask you.’
‘I can’t think of anything worse,’ said Rose. ‘Please thank him though. I’ll meet him tomorrow. Here would be much nicer. Sue darling, would you fix us some dinner for – would seven be all right, Fleur?’
‘Of course.’
‘Good. We’ll just have some chicken, something like that, OK? Is the pool warm enough, Fleur? It can get a little brisk this time of year.’
‘It’s gorgeous,’ said Fleur. ‘It’s all gorgeous. I love your house. It’s so – gentle somehow. Like you,’ she added, and promptly felt silly.
Rose smiled, put out her hand and touched Fleur’s cheek. ‘How sweet,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
They sat by the pool until the swift dusk came down at six thirty, bringing a cool to the air, then moved inside. The house was infinitely charming, its background all shades of gold: golden wooden floors in the living rooms, natural slub silk wallpapers, chintz curtains and covers; the kitchen had large golden-rose tiles on the floor, pale oak tables and chairs, the bedrooms pale golden beige carpets, print papers, silk drapes. Every wall was covered with pictures, photographs, book-shelves, every room was filled with flowers, plants, baskets of dried flowers.
‘I’ve lived here for ten years,’ said Rose, ‘and every year I’ve added to it, without changing it. I love it, it’s my family this house.’
They were sitting, drinking Ca
lifornian Chardonnay, chilled to the exact temperature that only Californians seem able to attain; Sue’s meal had been deliciously perfect, Parma ham and asparagus, cold chicken mayonnaise, with wild rice, and a great basket of fruit. Fleur had already eaten her way through a pound of strawberries, a pineapple, half an ogen melon, a great bunch of grapes and was now idly peeling a pear.
‘I wouldn’t like to keep you in fruit,’ said Rose laughing, pressing the tiny buzzer on the table: Sue appeared. ‘Coffee, Sue, please, and some more grapes. My guest has polished off the lot.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Fleur apologetically. ‘I just can’t ever seem to stop eating the things. Once I start.’
‘Darling, you don’t have to. I was only teasing you. I’m happy for you to eat California clean of grapes. Tell me about this boyfriend of yours.’
‘Oh – well, he’s very nice,’ said Fleur.
‘Handsome? Rich?’
‘No, not at all handsome. Or rich. But very sexy. And sweet and funny. He manages to be funny without saying more than five words max at a time.’
‘That’s clever,’ said Rose. ‘And are you getting married soon?’
‘Oh, yes, very soon,’ said Fleur quickly. ‘This spring, I guess. There doesn’t seem much point waiting.’
‘I guess not. He sounds perfect.’
‘He is,’ said Fleur. She suddenly recognized the sensations she experienced when she was talking about Reuben, or even when she was with him and thinking about their future: it was like trying on a dress that was absolutely what she had been looking for, the right fabric, style, length, colour – but for some reason not as perfectly flattering as it should be. She stifled the thought and smiled quickly at Rose.
‘What about you? Do you have a boyfriend?’
‘Oh – dozens,’ said Rose, laughing. ‘All beating a path to the door. No, not really. I haven’t been very lucky in love, Fleur. I don’t know why. Too wrapped up in my career, myself, maybe. I seem to pick the wrong one every time. Except your dad of course. He was – well, he was perfect.’
‘Oh, Rose, you can’t think that!’ said Fleur protesting. ‘He treated you like – well, not very well.’
‘I know he did, and that wasn’t so nice. But while we were together, it was really so good. We were so happy. Just the two of us, no thought for anyone else, no worries, except where the rent was coming from. All we wanted was each other. It was – good,’ she finished simply. The wide blue eyes that had gazed so raptly, so tremulously into the camera and out of the screen for more than a decade, enslaving a generation of romantic young men, looked thoughtfully out into the soft darkness of her lush garden. She sighed, then looked quickly at Fleur. ‘Sorry, you must think I’m ridiculous. The ramblings of a middle-aged woman.’
‘Oh, Rose, don’t be silly,’ said Fleur, ‘you’re not middle-aged. You can’t be much older than me.’
‘I’m thirty-five, darling. Getting on a little bit. Too old probably to have babies. Or anyway lots of babies. That’s sad. I dreamed of a big family, you know. But still. I’ve been very lucky in lots and lots of ways. More wine, darling?’
Fleur nodded. She could have sat here for ever, in this exquisite room, listening to Rose talking in her beautiful musical voice about her father, how perfect he had been. She looked at Rose, sitting in a rocking chair, moving gently backwards and forwards, thinking it was almost incredible she was thirty-five, she looked like a young girl, with her sheet of light brown hair, her perfect skin, her slender body. She was wearing a white dress, a silk shift; her feet – and even they were perfect, narrow, elegant feet – were bare, her legs, stretched out in front of her, occasionally pushing against the floor to keep the rocker going, long, beautiful, golden-brown legs.
‘Do you . . .’ She hesitated. ‘Do you have any pictures of my dad?’
‘Of course. I thought you might want to see them. Stay there, I’ll go get them.’
She was back in a minute, smiling, a big album under her arm. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘look, here he is outside Schwab’s. With me. They’re mostly with me, I’m afraid. And here we both are, pretending to be film stars, at the Garden of Allah. On the beach, look: oh, that was a wonderful day. We went to Malibu, tried to surf. He was just terrible, I wasn’t so bad. He got so cross, I can’t tell you.’
Fleur looked at the young man, the young man she had loved so much, laughing into the camera; exactly as she had remembered him, fun, confident, making life good. It was a talent, that: she was afraid she didn’t have it. Rose had it; she could see why they had been so good together.
‘They’re lovely,’ she said, oddly shy, ‘thank you.’
‘Did you see any of his movies?’
‘Of course,’ said Fleur. It seemed an odd question. She saw them all: over and over.
‘He was no actor really,’ said Rose, ‘but boy, was he a looker. The camera adored him.’ She looked at Fleur and smiled. ‘You look so like him. I can’t tell you.’
‘So – how long were you together?’ said Fleur.
‘Oh – about a year. Properly. We were friends before that, shared this terrible room. And then – love arrived.’ She smiled at Fleur, bit her lip. ‘It still makes me sad, you know. To remember. How happy we were, and how wrong it went.’
‘Yes. It must do,’ said Fleur. ‘But it wasn’t your fault. Yours least of all. Maybe my dad’s – a bit. Mostly Naomi MacNeice. And the system, I guess. Yolande always said it was the system.’
‘Dear Yolande,’ said Rose. ‘Fleur my darling, you must forgive me, but I have to go to bed. I’m so tired. Now when is your friend Mr Phillips coming tomorrow?’
‘Just whenever you want him,’ said Fleur, ‘I said he wasn’t to come until we called him.’
‘Good. I can’t say I’m looking forward to it.’
‘It’s so sweet of you, Rose. I’m so grateful. He really isn’t so bad. Honestly.’
Magnus was finally permitted to arrive at the house next evening, at six.
‘You’re to come for drinks and then you can stay for dinner,’ said Fleur rather fiercely. ‘And you’re not to upset her, Magnus, because she’s really nervous about it.’
‘What a sensitive little soul she is,’ said Magnus.
He arrived just a little early; they were still by the pool. Fleur was in her bikini, having a last swim: Rose was swathed in a huge white towelling robe.
Fleur had done a length underwater; she surfaced, and saw him standing there, slightly blurred through the sparkling water in her eyes, on her lashes. He came into focus, large, dark, brooding; he was wearing navy linen trousers, and a beige linen jacket, and looked more Mafioso than ever. He was smiling; she smiled just a little cautiously back, walked up the steps at the shallow end of the pool. His eyes went over her; she remembered the last time she had seen him, and felt herself, to her huge irritation, blush.
‘Good evening,’ he said.
‘Hi,’ said Fleur, and held out her hand, feeling faintly silly. ‘Rose, this is Magnus Phillips. Magnus, this is Rose Sharon.’
Magnus looked at Rose for a long moment, taking in her famous beauty, the candid, almost challenging expression in her wide blue eyes, and then took her small white hand in his huge brown one and raised it to his lips.
‘This is the greatest honour,’ he said.
And Rose Sharon looked up at him, into his almost black eyes, held them in hers for a while and then smiled, sweetly, relievedly.
‘You’re not at all what I expected,’ she said.
Fleur wrapped herself in her own robe, feeling awkward and suddenly oddly superfluous.
‘So,’ said Magnus, as they sat back after dinner, a more formal, impressive affair that night: artichokes, dressed lobster, strawberry pavlova, served formally, with lace cloths, candles on the table, Sue dressed in a severe navy dress, with M
arcie, Ricardo’s daughter, a ripe peach of a sixteen year old, helping to serve. ‘So, Rose, tell me how you met Brendan.’
He had been listening to her patiently, prompting her for hours about her own career, recalling movies, scenes, plots with formidable skill. She was clearly enchanted by him, relaxed; she even acceded with perfect grace to his request to record the conversation.
‘On one condition. You let me have a copy of the recording.’
‘Of course,’ he said, plugging in his machine, setting the tape rolling. ‘I hate this thing, it’s so big and awkward. I was listening to a guy in the hotel last night, and he said there was something on its way called a personal stereo. Size of a packet of cigarettes, you’ll be able to listen to or record on it, carry it around with you.’
‘Sounds purest fantasy to me,’ said Fleur. They both looked at her, almost surprised to hear from her, so silent had she been.
‘I think I would also like to hear a little more about your book,’ said Rose. ‘Before I start baring my soul to you.’ She was smiling, but her eyes were very distant, almost hard.
‘Hardly your soul,’ said Magnus lightly, ‘but yes, of course. Entirely reasonable. What would you like to know?’
‘Well – you have a publisher?’
‘Of course,’ he said, looking amused.
‘Magnus is a bestseller, Rose,’ said Fleur. ‘I told you.’
Magnus looked at her quickly, frowned imperceptibly, and turned back to Rose. ‘My publisher is Beauman. Very blue-chip, English house. We’re planning to publish this one just before Christmas.’
Rose raised her eyebrows. ‘That sounds like cutting it a little fine. If you’re still doing research.’
‘It is. But the research has gone on rather, we’re running very late and Mr Beauman wants to get his money back.’
‘And over here?’
‘Oh, several people interested. Crown. Doubleday.’
AN Outrageous Affair Page 71