‘Fleur isn’t here, Poppy. She’s in LA. What? I don’t know. I’m worried about it. She seems so – distant. I have asked her. No. OK. Well maybe. She won’t say a date. Won’t even discuss it. I don’t know why, she just won’t. What? Well, I am scared. I can’t help it. Look, I have to go. Bye, Poppy. See you tonight.’
He sounded heavy-hearted. Fleur’s own heart ached, went out to him. What was the matter with her, that she had this lovely, loving, sexy man who adored her, and she was just pushing him around? It was a terrible thing to do. If she wasn’t careful she’d lose him altogether. Fleur carefully and determinedly crushed the thought that she would never lose Reuben, whatever she did to him, and walked very quietly back down the corridor, down the stairs and into her own office. She sat at the desk for a minute, looking out at the still-dim morning. Far below her New York was roaring on its way, cold, noisy, dirty; up here, in the silence of her double-glazed, air-conditioned room, removed from reality, she felt no part of it. It seemed to her to echo her feelings for Reuben. They were there, she knew they were, but they were distant, remote, muffled. Well, she had to work on them. She had to. She loved him and she was going to marry him, and she would be very happy. She was lucky, very lucky. Swiftly, decisively, before she could think about it for another moment, she picked up the phone, dialled his internal number.
‘Reuben? It’s Fleur. I’m here. What? Here in the office. Can I come up and say hallo? LA was OK. Nothing special. I’ll tell you about it later. Now listen, Reuben, just before I got on the plane you said something about March. Would you be good enough to be just a little more explicit, Reuben? I mean did you mean dinner, or the cosmetic launch, or what?’
An hour later, a beaming Sol Morton was opening a magnum of champagne to celebrate the announcement that Fleur FitzPatrick and Reuben Blake were to be married on 24 June, midsummer day, that it could be no sooner than that if the occasion was to receive the attention it deserved, and that he was going to stand in as father of the bride and throw a party they’d never forget at his new duplex on Park Avenue as a wedding present.
Reuben said he was really sorry, but he had to go out that night. He had a meeting with some designers on the cosmetic range, and then he was going to see Godspell with Poppy and her husband. ‘I thought you’d be away,’ he said mournfully. ‘I could cancel if you like.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Fleur. ‘Of course you must go. Those tickets probably cost several arms and legs. Anyway, I have to rewrite some truly terrible copy.’
‘Who wrote it?’
‘I did.’
‘OK,’ said Reuben.
She got home feeling terrible. Her head throbbed, she felt sick, and she was experiencing a sense of rising panic that nothing seemed able to crush. What had she done? What in God’s name had she done? Don’t think about it, Fleur, just don’t think about it. You’re a lucky girl, concentrate on that.
She went into her apartment, drank almost a whole bottle of mineral water, and sat down on the couch staring out of the window at Central Park, trying not to think about it. The trouble was the only other thing she could think about was Magnus Phillips, roaring down the Pacific Coast Highway with Rose Sharon.
She was in bed and half asleep when the phone went. She picked it up, sounding groggy.
‘Fleur FitzPatrick.’
‘Fleur, this is Magnus. I’m in New York. I promised I’d call.’
‘You did? I don’t remember,’ said Fleur, struggling to sound disinterested.
‘Yes, I did. You OK?’ he said, and his voice was genuinely concerned. ‘You sound terrible.’
‘I’m fine. Never better.’
‘It’s early. I’d quite like to see you,’ said Magnus Phillips. ‘Are you busy?’
‘Yes, I’m very busy.’
‘Fleur, are you sure you’re OK?’
Fleur burst into hysterical tears, told him to fuck off and put the phone down.
Half an hour later her buzzer went. She shouted into the phone and told him to fuck off, and he said he was very good at not fucking off and he wanted to see her. ‘I promise I won’t stay long. And I have a present for you.’
‘I don’t want a present.’
‘You’ll want this one.’
Fleur, with extreme reluctance, pressed the buzzer and, anxious to avoid a repetition of his last visit, dragged on a pair of jeans over her nightshirt.
She felt as she always felt when she was first confronted by Magnus: slightly weakened, as if the huge force of his energy somehow attracted some of hers, drew it off. She forced a smile; there was after all no reason to be hostile to him.
‘Hi.’
‘Hi.’
‘Do you want a drink?’
‘What I’d really like,’ he said, ‘is some –’
‘Toast and marmalade. Sure, I’ll fix you some. Coffee?’
‘Please. So your sexy lady cleaner got me some Cooper’s, did she?’
‘Yes, she did,’ said Fleur, putting it on the kitchen table. ‘I tried it, it’s horrible. So strong.’
‘I like strong-tasting things. I like curry and chilli and pickled onions and very strong lemonade,’ he said.
‘Me too,’ said Fleur. ‘Very strong lemonade, anyway.’
‘You look tired,’ he said.
‘No, I’m fine. Well, maybe a bit tired. I got up very early this morning.’
‘Couldn’t sleep?’
‘No,’ said Fleur. She was aware he was genuinely concerned for her and smiled at him apologetically. ‘Sorry. I do feel really shitty.’ She made a huge effort to be more friendly. ‘What have you been doing?’
‘Oh – talking to your friend Miss Sharon some more.’
‘My friend! I would have thought she had become yours,’ she said, She had meant to sound light-hearted, amused, and she knew it sounded harsh and hostile.
‘And if she had?’ Magnus’s dark eyes were gently amused.
‘Well, fine,’ said Fleur. ‘I’m delighted for you both.’
‘You don’t sound delighted.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake. What am I supposed to do?’ she said. ‘Congratulate you? Send flowers?’ and promptly burst into tears. ‘Oh shit,’ she said, ‘shit, Magnus, you’d better go. I’m sorry, I do feel perfectly awful.’
Magnus stood up and walked out of the kitchen, into the living room, and sat down on the big couch by the window. He patted the seat beside him.
‘Here,’ he said, ‘come and sit down. Tell me what the matter is.’
‘Nothing,’ said Fleur, sitting down slightly warily beside him.
‘I think there is. Come on, tell me. I’m a very good listener.’
‘Yes,’ she said, her voice tart again, ‘so I observed.’
‘Oh, Fleur. That was work. That was professional.’
‘Oh, really? Like sitting behind her on that fucking bike and telling her every other minute how gorgeous she was?’
‘Yes,’ he said, quietly. ‘Yes it was.’
‘Well, good,’ said Fleur, and sat feeling very silly.
‘Look,’ he said, putting his hand into his pocket, ‘look what I have for you. Rose sent it.’
‘Rose did?’
‘Yes she did. She was concerned for you. She said it came with her best love.’
Fleur took the package he handed her. She had been expecting some fancy. Beverly Hills wrapping, and was surprised to see some plain white tissue wrapped round what felt like a frame. She opened it cautiously: it was a frame, and the picture in it was of herself, aged about eight or nine, sitting on the beach at Sheepshead Bay with her father beside her, his arm round her. He was smiling, and his head was very close to hers. She was dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, and her hair was very long and blowing in the wind, and she wasn’t just smi
ling as her father was, she was laughing, laughing so wholeheartedly and happily she could almost hear herself.
‘Oh,’ she said, ‘oh, I remember that day, it was my dad’s birthday; we had such a good time, we took Grandma and she made us a wonderful picnic, I can even remember what it was, fried chicken and coleslaw, and she brought a birthday cake; we couldn’t get the candles to stay alight for even a minute, but he blew them out anyway, and we sang Happy Birthday and he built a sandcastle and he said, “One day, Fleur, we’ll have a real castle, you and I.” In the evening we went to Coney Island, and we only had enough money for two rides, and I just didn’t care.’
‘Did you have a friend with you?’
‘No, of course not,’ said Fleur, surprised he should ask. ‘I never wanted a friend, if my dad was there. He was my best best friend.’
‘I see.’ Magnus looked at her thoughtfully. Then he leant over and took the frame. ‘You have to see what’s inside.’ He took the back off; tucked between the picture and the cardboard that held it in place was a note. In Brendan’s writing.
‘Fleur, aged nine,’ it said. ‘The real love of my life. Just so you don’t get too complacent. Brendan.’
‘Oh, shit,’ said Fleur. The words blurred as she looked at them. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, and sat staring at herself, at the little girl she had been, the happy little girl, with the father she adored, unthreatened, unhurt, safe, infinitely loved, and she thought of the woman that little girl had become, hurt, angry, toughened, difficult, and she felt a sense of such loss she could hardly bear it. Not just for her father, but for the child that she had been.
‘Shit,’ she said again, and she turned and looked at Magnus, saw him watching her, tenderly, concerned, and she tried to smile, tried to be brave and she couldn’t, just sat there, staring at him, struggling to hold back the great flood of her grief.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said gently, ‘I’m so sorry,’ and he took her in his arms, and held her, and suddenly, inexplicably, her pain was gone, her tears magically dried and she lay there, surprised by the fact, soothed, restored to herself, for a long time.
‘That was nice of Rose,’ she said suddenly, ‘really nice.’
‘I thought so too,’ said Magnus. ‘She was most insistent you should have it. She was very upset you left so suddenly.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Fleur, and then she looked up at him, and grinned and said, sounding and feeling much more herself, ‘but I’m sure you were able to console her.’
‘I tried,’ he said, ‘although not quite in the way that perhaps you think.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Oh yeah. She really is not my type.’
‘And what is your type?’ asked Fleur tartly, sitting up away from him, pushing back her hair. ‘You must be very hard to please.’
‘I am,’ he said lightly, and smiled at her and then suddenly he stopped smiling, and the whole room, and indeed time itself, seemed to freeze: Fleur stared at him, feeling she had never seen him before, or rather as if he had always been out of focus before and now had come clear, sharp, easily read. She felt she was not just discovering him with her eyes, but with all her senses; she was drawn, pulled towards him, she could hear no sounds except his breathing, was aware of no movement except his own eyes, exploring hers. And then very slowly, very carefully, as if afraid of breaking the spell, he reached out and took her hand, picked it up, without looking away, and turned it over and kissed the palm. Gently, tenderly at first, and then slightly harder, his tongue began to move on her hand, feathering over it, then pushing into it, exploring it, first the centre of her palm, and then the fleshy part by her thumb, his tongue becoming harder, more insistent, and it was the most extraordinarily and powerfully sexual thing she had ever known. She put out her other hand and touched his face, very gently, stroking it as he kissed and tongued her hand, and all the violent emotion of the past few days, the frustration, the jealousy, the pain, the remorse over her relationship with Reuben, all centred somewhere deep within her, and then became less emotional, more physical, a great shifting, violent force, and she moved, still without taking her eyes from Magnus, nearer him, nearer, nearer; he lifted his head and stared at her, his expression almost shocked, and without dropping her hand, he leant forward and began to kiss her. His mouth was slow, careful at first: then as it had been on her hand, harder, more erotic; Fleur closed her eyes, moaned gently. They sat there for a long time, kissing, then suddenly he set her back, sat staring at her, looking shocked, almost frightened.
‘Dear God,’ he said, ‘I think I’d better go.’
And Fleur, as shocked as he by her desire for him, by what had so nearly happened, nodded, said, ‘Yes, I think so too.’
He stood up and walked over to the door and she followed him, her legs weak, aching, her entire body feeling strange, light, shaken, as if she had just had some terrible shock, and she stood at the door, and said, ‘Goodbye, Magnus,’ and he said, ‘Goodbye, Fleur,’ and she shut the door behind him, swiftly, desperately, and leant against it as if he had been some intruder she had managed to evict. As, indeed, she supposed he was.
January – February 1972
Chloe’s first thought was that she must have died. Her second was of thankfulness that she had done so. Then she realized that she was in considerable pain, that she had a drip in her arm, and that standing at the foot of her high hospital bed was Joe, looking at her with an expression of great tenderness and concern. Her mouth was very dry; she licked her lips, tried to smile.
Joe went forward, handed her a glass of water. She took a sip with an enormous effort and then lay back on her pillows, exhausted.
‘Sorry to sound corny, but where am I?’
‘In the London Clinic. They said I could visit you for a minute. Piers is on his way. He should be here in a few hours. How do you feel?’
‘Terrible,’ said Chloe, and then she remembered everything suddenly, and turned her head away from him, and started to cry.
‘Chloe, darling, don’t cry. Please. It won’t help. Try not to. It may be all right still.’
‘What?’ said Chloe stupidly.
‘The baby. They may still be able to save it.’
‘Oh, God,’ said Chloe and cried weakly on.
Joe sat on the bed, carefully, took her hand. ‘Honeybunch, don’t. Hang on.’ He managed a smile. ‘The nurse will send me away if you cry.’
‘Oh, Joe,’ said Chloe, ‘oh, Joe, if only you knew. There is so much to cry about. So much. Oh, God, this hurts.’ She managed a feeble smile of her own. ‘Poor Joe. You’re always with me in some awful gynae situation, aren’t you? Childbirth, miscarriage . . .’
‘Shall I get someone?’
‘No. No, it’s all right. I think – yes, Joe, please do. Please.’
He rang the bell; she hung on to his hand. Waves of pain going through her, sharper, harder, more raw than anything she could remember of childbirth: awful, dead, hopeless pain. Joe was banished; a doctor came, examined her, injected her with something, asked her if the pains had any kind of pattern. Chloe shook her head through clenched teeth. The drug took effect, the pain receded, became at least duller.
‘I’ll get someone to sit with you,’ he said.
‘Am I going to lose the baby?’
‘I – don’t know. Of course we hope not. But it seems – possible. I’m so sorry. So very sorry.’
‘Is Mr Simmonds coming? He might . . .’ Her voice tailed away. What was the point anyway? Of anything Mr Simmonds might do.
‘Mrs Windsor, he’s away. But your husband will be here. In a few hours.’
‘Oh God,’ said Chloe, her voice rising in panic, realizing the implications of this, ‘you mustn’t tell him. You must not tell him.’
‘All right,’ he said soothingly, and she could tell he thought she was simply a f
oolish, hysterical woman. ‘All right, Mrs Windsor, we won’t tell him anything you don’t want us to.’
‘No, really, you mustn’t. He mustn’t know. He didn’t – oh, God –’ The pain seemed to be winning its battle against the drug; it was rising again. It was very bad.
‘Try to rest. It’s all you can do. For the baby’s sake.’
She lay back, trying to be calm, to distract herself, remembering, remembering, like some terrible horror movie, the events of the day – or was it the day before – playing and replaying in front of her eyes.
The endless wait while International Directory looked for a number in Santa Barbara for Zwirn. ‘Would that be B. Zwirm, ma’am?’
‘I don’t think so, no – G. For Gerard.’
‘Nothing under that name, ma’am. Just B. Zwirm, with an “m”, that’s a store, in Salinas Street, and then a Stanley Zwirne, with an “e”. I could give you those, ma’am, if that would be helpful.’
‘No,’ said Chloe. ‘No, it’s all right. They aren’t what I’m looking for.’
She slammed the phone down, sat looking at it, impotent tears stinging at the back of her eyes.
God, who were these people, sent like demons to haunt her? Where were they that they were not listed in the phone directory? And who, what were they to Piers that he sent them a thousand dollars every month, and she had never ever heard of them? What had they got on him, what had he done? Should she ring him, confront him? Would that be better? But no, he wouldn’t tell her, and besides, she wanted the truth, not some carefully contorted lie.
She remembered suddenly the bottom drawer, the locked bottom drawer that she had so blithely assumed to contain such innocent things as bank statements and birth certificates. That must, surely, contain a clue. That was what she needed. She ran down to Piers’s study, pulling, tugging, kicking the drawer; it remained stubbornly, defiantly locked.
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