She had asked Reuben to join her, and initially he had seemed enthusiastic, but he had since then talked to Dorothy about it, and Dorothy had said she didn’t think it was the best idea.
‘She said it would be straining the new basis of our relationship,’ he said, ‘and I really have to do what she says.’
‘Of course,’ said Fleur. She was still having difficulty coming to terms with Reuben’s new capacity for conversation.
‘So here I am,’ she remarked to Samson, her Burmese cat and new life-companion one evening in late September, ‘I’ve done it all, all the things I swore I would. I have my own agency, and I’ve done Bella Buchanan down, and I’ve even kind of beaten Nigel Silk to a pitch. Well, I got a bit of Morell business. I did it, Samson, I really did.’ Samson looked at her and she could see she wasn’t fooling him at all. Very often, when she couldn’t sleep, lying awake, trying to divert her mind with some creative or copy problem, or even with some blip in her cash flow, it returned with inexorable, inevitable determination to Magnus Phillips and the heavy, hungry loss she felt for him, and she would hear again and again his voice telling her he loved her, see his eyes as he said it, and then she would hear Rose Sharon’s voice on his phone, and feel rage and betrayal rising in her and tell herself that she was better, far better on her own, conducting her own life; some time towards the dawn, sometimes with the help of a sleeping pill, sometimes a mug of hot milk with bourbon, she would finally manage to persuade herself that she believed it, and fall asleep and dream about him.
It was early October when Chloe called her; she had arranged for them to go and stay with Michelle Zwirn for a couple of days in the middle of the month, was that all right?
Sure, said Fleur, absolutely all right, and if they could synchronize their flights into LA they could hire a car and drive up to Santa Barbara together.
‘It’s a beautiful drive up the coast, you’ll really like it.’
Magnus Phillips’s arm was still extremely painful. It haunted his sleep at night and wrecked his concentration during the day; it made him bad-tempered, miserable and spoilt his appetite. He felt, he realized, glaring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror one morning, totally wretched: there seemed little to rejoice about. He had no new project to work on, nothing had captured his interest in the sparky, almost sexual way Tinsel or Dancers or The House had done; nobody seemed even worth profiling for a newspaper or a magazine; there was no part of the world he wished to visit, no friends he wanted to see, no woman he wanted to pursue. Except one: and she was out of bounds. Magnus did not often regard a woman as out of bounds; he was slightly unsure why he felt it so strongly about Fleur. He had in his time with the most efficient ruthlessness broken into marriages, disturbed love affairs, come between friends. But he was not prepared to do that for Fleur. He had spent long hours wrestling with the reasons, and was forced (feeling slightly foolish) to admit it was because he loved her. Love had done the impossible and made him careful, considerate, unselfish. Love, he thought, staring at his gaunt, grey face, was powerful stuff. It was also a bitch.
It was October now: many months since he had seen her, fucked her, told her he loved her. Almost as many since she had told him, in her rather individualistic way, to – well, to leave her alone. Magnus half smiled, thinking of Fleur, the strength of her feelings, the power of her language. And then stopped smiling abruptly, struggling to drag his mind away from her, angry at the extent to which she had monopolized his emotions, his sexual concentration. How the hell had she done it, on one sexual encounter, however savagely, wonderfully powerful it had been? And for that matter what right did she have, when he had trusted her enough to tell her he loved her, to turn hostile, angry, aggressive? What the hell had he done, that she should feel she could reject him so contemptuously? When he had, after all, been phoning as a friend? His anger grew, as it so often did when he allowed his mind to trail down this particular avenue: she had no right to his consideration, his concern; she did not deserve it.
Unless – and he could never think afterwards quite why this thought had not occurred to him before, except that the welter of powerful and dangerous events that had taken place had rendered his sense of time and place oddly impotent – unless she had called him. When Rose Sharon had been there. It was just possible. He had expressly forbidden Rose to answer the phone, had stressed the danger of such a course, had kept the answering machine on at all times: but it was a possibility. That would have hurt Fleur badly. It suddenly seemed important to try to reach her, to set the record straight. It was probably fruitless, and in any case she was probably married by now, married to her eccentrically silent boyfriend.
The more he thought about it that morning, whether because he was particularly exhausted, or the pain in his arm was exceptionally wretched, the angrier he became. What right did she have, whatever her feelings, to quite so harsh a response? Surely the baring of a soul, the revelation of a tenderness, deserved some consideration, some courtesy even. Arrogant, harsh little bitch; he wanted to communicate the fact, to show her what she was. Magnus looked at his watch. Nine. Four in New York. Too early: not that he would greatly mind waking her. But it would hardly be appropriate, to drag her from sleep at dawn and berate her with a lack of common courtesy. He waited: his rage, his sense of outrage unabated, until twelve. Seven o’clock; she should be ready for him now. He was certainly ready for her.
But she was apparently not: Tina answered the phone.
‘Miss FitzPatrick’s residence.’
‘Is that you, Tina? This is Magnus Phillips. You may not remember me –’
‘Mr Phillips, I certainly do.’ In spite of his anger, Magnus smiled at the bridling voice. ‘How could I forget you, Mr Phillips? Are you in New York? We have plenty of your marmalade here, why don’t you come on over and I’ll give you breakfast?’
‘No, Tina, I’m not in New York, I’m afraid. Is Miss FitzPatrick there?’
‘She is not, Mr Phillips. She’s gone to California.’
‘California? Really? Well –’ He really had no right to start quizzing Tina about Fleur’s whereabouts. On the other hand, having no right had never stopped him doing anything before. ‘Whereabouts in California? Do you know?’
‘I do, Mr Phillips, yes. She left a number, because she’s starting this creating thing of hers very soon, and she didn’t want any calls to go astray. She’s gone to – let me see, yes, here it is, Santa Barbara. Santa Barbara 785–68943.’
Dear God in heaven: the Zwirns. What on earth was she up to now? ‘Er – has she gone with – with her husband, Tina?’ he said, gripping the edge of his desk with fingers that he noticed to his immense irritation had become slippery with sweat.
‘Her husband? Mr Phillips, she got no husband. I think she’s ab-so-lute-ly crazy.’ Tina’s voice was dark with disapproval. ‘She had that beaut-i-ful Mr Blake, just about mad in love with her, the wedding all lined up, the dress still hanging in the closet here, the reception booked, everything fixed, and what does she do, she cancels the lot.’
‘Well,’ said Magnus. His mind was racing, he couldn’t think of anything else to say.
‘She needs a man, Mr Phillips. She needs keeping company and looking after. We all do, but her more ’n most. She’s all mouth, Miss FitzPatrick is, all mouth. Nowhere near as tough as she thinks.’ There was a long silence, then Tina said, ‘You should come over here, Mr Phillips. Come over here, see her again. You married yet, Mr Phillips?’
‘No,’ said Magnus, ‘no, I’m not married, Tina. Not the marrying kind.’
‘Mr Phillips, we’re all the marrying kind. My man thought he wasn’t the marrying kind, till he fell over me in the dark.’ She laughed. Magnus could almost hear her bulk heaving. ‘You got that number, Mr Phillips?’
‘Yes,’ said Magnus, ‘I’ve got the number. Thank you, Tina.’
Fleur and Chloe both arrived a
t LAX within an hour of one another mid afternoon one golden October day. They looked at each other, awkwardly, oddly shy; then Fleur said, ‘You must be a lot tireder than I am. Let’s go and sort out a car.’
She took charge: took Chloe’s bag, threw it on a trolley, led her out to the street, hailed a Hertz bus, climbed on to it. Chloe followed her in silence.
‘I never had to do anything like this for myself,’ she said, rather soberly. ‘I’m only just beginning to realize how hopeless I am.’
‘Not hopeless,’ said Fleur with a grin, ‘just untrained. Spoiled, you could say.’
‘I suppose you could.’
They pulled into the Hertz offices; Fleur said they’d take anything, as long as it was convertible. The girl offered them a small T-bird: ‘Perfect,’ said Fleur, taking out her Gold Amex card, signing for the car.
‘It’s over there, in H 17. The red one. Here are the keys.’
‘Great.’
They got into the car. ‘I’ll drive, shall I?’ said Fleur. ‘I’m used to this side of the road. You OK?’
Chloe nodded. ‘Fine. I’ll settle up with you later, Fleur.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Fleur. She looked at Chloe. ‘You’ve no idea what a perverse pleasure it gives me to be in charge in this particular situation. Paying for it even. Let me enjoy it.’
‘All right,’ said Chloe. ‘You enjoy it.’
It was already four thirty; but the air was gloriously warm.
‘We’ll keep the lid up for now,’ said Fleur, ‘let it down when we hit the highway. It’s a bit polluted round here.’
They drove through the suburbs in silence; Chloe was half asleep. As they reached Santa Monica, tipped down the hill on to the Pacific Coast Highway, Fleur pressed the button that sent the roof down. The rush-hour traffic was heavy, thudding along by the brilliant sea.
‘How long will it take to Santa Barbara?’ asked Chloe.
‘Oh – I don’t know. A couple of hours. We could have gone on the 101, but this way along the coast is so beautiful, especially at sunset. I thought you should see it.’
‘You seem to know it very well.’
‘Not really. But I came here a few times. Once with Joe.’
‘With Joe?’
‘Yeah, when I wasn’t much more than a child,’ she said and sighed at the memory.
‘Do you like Joe?’ said Chloe interestedly, with a sudden thud of jealousy.
‘I did love Joe. I probably could again. But he – well, we had a huge fight at one point. And I got really really angry with him. My fault as much as his I expect.’
‘I expect so too,’ said Chloe briskly.
Fleur looked at her. ‘I think we could be quite good for each other, in time,’ she said and laughed.
They drove on; the sun gave its glorious nightly exhibition, and sank into the brilliant dark turquoise of the Pacific in a series of colour changes, red, orange, pink, as the mountains to their left grew darker, larger. They swung on to the 101 as darkness fell, the sudden, soft California darkness; Fleur had put the top back on the car. Chloe was asleep. She turned the radio on: George Harrison was singing ‘My Sweet Lord’. It seemed to go with her mood: hypnotic, powerful, almost mystic. She felt very close to her father suddenly; so close she felt almost scared. She was about to find him, who he had really been, what he had really been doing, maybe how it had all ended; and looking at that, down fifteen years, was heady, heart-stopping stuff.
‘Hi, Dad,’ she said suddenly, involuntarily, and then felt very foolish, as she saw Chloe turn her head, open her eyes, look at her.
But Chloe only smiled, a soft, sleepy smile.
It was after seven thirty when they finally reached Santa Barbara; a friendly gas station attendant directed them to Voluntario Street.
‘You’ll love it here,’ said Fleur. ‘It’s terribly peaceful. Kind of a time warp. Not a bit like LA.’
She parked the car outside the house, and they sat looking at it, suddenly both of them scared to go in. It was small, but pretty, slightly Spanish in style, with a path up to the door between two lawns. Fleur took a deep breath, grabbed Chloe’s hand.
‘Come on. Let’s go for it.’
And then the front door opened, the porch light went on and a woman stood framed in it: a stout, rather dumpy figure, wearing Bermudas and espadrilles. She came down the path, rather slowly: Fleur got out first. Michelle Zwirn looked up at her.
‘You’re very like your father,’ she said.
She had cooked them a wonderful American meal, of fried chicken and sweet potatoes and apple pie: she sat watching them eat, smiling at them.
‘Aren’t you going to have any?’ said Chloe anxiously.
‘I don’t eat too much,’ said Michelle Zwirn.
She didn’t look like someone who didn’t eat much; she was very plump indeed with round cheeks and little fat hands, bedecked with rings. She was blonde, bright blonde, her hair dressed in a style reminiscent of Rita Hayworth, caught back with bright pink combs, and she wore flamboyant wing-framed glasses that matched the combs. The eyes behind them were faded blue, and very sweet.
‘I just can’t believe you’re here,’ she said, ‘I just can’t believe it. Times I said to Gerard, too bad we’ll never meet Piers’s wife. But I don’t think he saw it quite that way. No offence,’ she added apologetically.
‘Of course not,’ said Chloe, and then because it was important, so important that Michelle should understand how she felt, she said, ‘Michelle, I do want you to know that I really feel so happy about all this. I mean it’s a little strange of course, but Piers was – well, very complex.’ She paused, carefully looking for the right words. A discovery of unfaithfulness, as the Zwirns might perceive it, would be very hurtful, damaging. To them Piers was a perfect, almost a saintly figure; it would be cruel to disabuse them of that. ‘I think I always knew there was someone else. And finding out who it was made me feel so much better. I hope you can understand that.’
Michelle nodded. ‘I do. I’m glad you do, that’s the thing. Fleur, you’re not eating. Have some more apple pie.’
‘I couldn’t,’ said Fleur, and then said, gently, ‘so, Michelle, tell us about Gerard.’
‘Well, he was very brave. Very good. He lay on his back for fifteen years in pain and couldn’t move and only complained once in a very rare while. He lived in there’ – she pointed to a room off the dining room – ‘and in the garden, of course. We had a bed on wheels for him, and he had a wheelchair. But that was difficult for him, because he couldn’t control his head; he was better on the bed. Would you like to see some pictures of him?’
‘Yes, please,’ said Chloe.
Michelle stood up, got a large album, sat down beside her, pushed the dishes aside. Chloe started turning the pages and watched the story of the love of her husband’s life unfolding and thought what a strange and powerful thing that love had been and wondered at the extraordinary blend of sheer, blind selfishness and self-obsession and absolute generosity and unselfishness that Piers had been.
‘Here he is, a little boy, dancing even then you see; he won all the prizes going: went to Hollywood High, and then here he is on graduation day, and here the day he opened his dancing school. Tip Top Tap it was called; don’t you like that? Oh, he was so excited, so proud. “I did it, Chelle,” he kept saying, “no, we did it.” I saw to the paperwork, you know, the bookings and the bills.’
They looked at Gerard: he was small, boyish, with floppy dark hair, big eyes, and a wonderful, wide smile. He had obviously been a snappy dresser; when he wasn’t in his dance gear, he wore slacks, two-tone shoes, proper shirts rather than Ts, sweaters tied loosely round his shoulders. ‘He’s very good-looking,’ said Chloe carefully.
‘Well, he was very sweet-looking,’ said Michelle. ‘But there were a lot of
lookers around. You had to be very special to stand out. Now look, here are some of the kids –’
‘Shit,’ said Fleur sharply, ‘shit, there’s my dad.’ And there he was, tall, graceful, leaning on the barre in the studio, a cigarette in his mouth, smiling through the smoke. ‘Did Gerard know him well?’
‘Pretty well. He came to classes, that’s how they met, then joined in the crowd. When he was allowed. Later on when Naomi got her claws into him, we didn’t see him very often. Such a handsome man, he was. Couldn’t dance of course, but he liked to try.’
‘I remember him dancing rather well,’ said Fleur defensively.
‘Well, dear, he could dance all right for a person,’ said Michelle, stressing the word, ‘but he was not a dancer. No way was he a dancer.’
‘Well, he didn’t want to be a dancer,’ said Fleur.
Michelle looked at her and smiled, a sweet, tender smile. ‘Of course he didn’t. He wanted to be an actor. And oh, he was a charmer. Such a charmer. Too charming, I guess. For his own good. Now here they are, on the beach, look, all of them, all that crowd, Gerard, and there’s Piers, and look, that’s Rose Sharon, she was nobody then –’
‘Rose?’ said Fleur. ‘I don’t understand. Rose said Piers wasn’t in Hollywood then, that she never met him until he was a big name. Or –’
‘Of course she met him. I always thought she rather liked him. But of course she was still in love with your father then, Fleur. Even though Naomi had broken them up. She never did get over him. Never, never.’
Fleur was silent, staring at the album.
‘Who’s this then?’ said Chloe, pointing to a girl in a bikini, with a blonde pony-tail, in between Gerard and another man, an arm round each of their waists.
‘That’s Kirstie,’ said Michelle. ‘Kirstie Fairfax. Gerard would still be here today, if it hadn’t been for Kirstie.’
‘Why?’ said Chloe.
Michelle told them.
AN Outrageous Affair Page 94