by Anne Weale
Later, when he had gone, she thought perhaps, if he had, she might have yielded. Sometimes, in the night, when she couldn’t sleep, her hunger for love was almost unbearable.
Yet when Jon, whom she liked so much, offered her relief from frustration, she couldn’t bring herself to accept it. Why was that? Not because there was any hope of Van coming back into her life. She had resigned herself to that. Yet still she couldn’t break free from the feeling that, even after all this time, to make love with anyone else would be a violation. A betrayal of something so nebulous yet meaningful that she might not be able to live with the consequences.
CHAPTER NINE
JON’S sterling qualities were never more clearly demonstrated than in the way he reverted, at least on the surface, to an uncomplicated friendship.
He was often away and sometimes when he was in London she was away. But when they were together, he seemed to enjoy their companionship as much as before. As for her own feelings, deliberately, she didn’t spend time analysing them. Her life was extremely busy. There was little time for introspection. She concentrated on her career, channelling all her energy into her work which, like most dedicated effort, soon put her ahead of colleagues whose energies were diversified.
As the years passed, her assignments became increasingly interesting and high-powered until, when her contract ran out, she decided to go freelance. This would broaden her range even more.
Her success papered over the cracks in a life-structure which, deep down, she knew wasn’t as sound as it looked to outsiders.
She suffered from nightmares and spells of depression. But she was determined not to succumb to the usual panaceas for stress—pills, cigarettes and booze—and instead turned to fitness routines and, when she could fit them in, courses to stretch her mind.
Sometimes, when an assignment took her abroad, she fitted in a few days’ holiday. The longer escapes from everyday life to which other people looked forward were something Anny avoided, knowing that two weeks of sun, sea and sand, with warm starry nights, would not only reanimate memories better forgotten but allow time for introspection.
This was a state of mind she was careful to avoid, concentrating on the fact that her life was going the way she had planned it, the way she had chosen.
She had been based in London for five years when on the same day two things happened to shatter the illusion of contentment. One of them she had anticipated...but that came after the thunderbolt of Greg assigning her to interview the reclusive man known to the world as Giovanni Carlisle.
As they walked back to Anny’s flat, on the north side of the park, Jon decided he couldn’t wait till she came back from France to know where he stood with her.
He had known from the outset that Anny was wedded to her career. Whether now she was ready for marriage, he wasn’t sure. But he knew he was...more than ready. He wanted to change his job for something more settled, preferably in the country where the air was cleaner and they could have a garden and start a family. But would that appeal to Anny?
Despite her obvious preoccupation with tomorrow’s assignment, as soon as they reached her flat and had shed their coats, he put his arms gently round her.
‘Anny, you must know I love you...that I want to marry you. I think about it all the time. I’m sure I can make you happy...if you’ll let me. Will you marry me, darling?’
If he had asked her last night, or this morning, might she have said yes? Anny wondered, meeting his anxious eyes with a deeply troubled expression in her own.
What she felt for Jon came very close to love. It was a good imitation. But it wasn’t the genuine article. When love was real it left no room in the heart for other loves, except friendship and family feelings. She had tried to love Jon. She had wanted desperately to love him and had felt she might be succeeding.
But since Greg’s phone call, and the firestorm of emotion which had overwhelmed her when he said ‘Because I’ve set up an interview with Giovanni Carlisle’, she had known it was no use.
As long as the sight or sound of Van’s name had the power to move her, she would never be able to give her heart to another man.
Gently, she freed herself from his loose embrace.
‘I can’t marry anyone, Jon. I hoped I could. I wanted to marry and have children and a family life. But it seems I’m going to have to settle for my career. I’m sorry: I shouldn’t have done this to you. I should have told you at the start that I could only give you friendship.’
‘That’s not a bad basis for a marriage. Friendship lasts. Falling madly in love has a habit of wearing off.’
‘If it’s mostly infatuation, yes. But the real thing lasts for ever, no matter what. You’re one of the most lovable people I’ve ever met. That’s why I thought it would work. You are everything I like and admire in a man. But I can’t give you total love, which is what you deserve.’
His crestfallen face filled her with self-reproach. How could she have done this to him? She should have known how it would end. Somewhere, deep down, she had known but, selfishly, had ignored it.
Jon didn’t argue with her. After a pause, he said bleakly, ‘It can only be because you’re in love with someone else. It’s this guy called Van, I suppose.’ It was a statement rather than a question.
Anny was taken aback. How could he know about Van?
He answered her unspoken question. ‘Ages ago Jill told me that when you were sleeping in the other bed in her room, while your room was being redecorated, you woke her up talking in your sleep. You were having a lot of bad dreams. The only word she could make out was “van”. At first she couldn’t understand why you were always dreaming about a van. Then she saw an American movie with someone called Van in it and the penny dropped.’
His mouth twisted in a wry smile. ‘I thought by now you had got over him. I was deluding myself. I haven’t taken his place. Even if you don’t dream about him now, he’s still there...the spectre at the feast. What happened? What broke it up?’
‘My career broke it up,’ she said flatly. ‘I wanted to be another Martha Gellhorn. He wanted a full-time wife. There was no way to compromise. He wanted me fixed in one place and I needed to be wherever my editors sent me.’
‘Where did he want you to be? Somewhere out in the sticks? What is he? A farmer?’
She shook her head, sensing that Jon’s curiosity was akin to the strange compulsion to probe a painful tooth.
‘It was long ago and far away. When I met you, I really believed I could make a fresh start,’ she said sadly. ‘Jon, I’m so terribly sorry. I never meant to hurt you.’
Hours later, when he had gone and she was packing her flight bag with the few things she would need, Anny wondered if Jon would recover from loving her. She hoped so. A love that didn’t work out but refused to die was an affliction she wouldn’t wish on anyone. But perhaps in Jon’s case there was a woman somewhere who, in the years to come, would make him thank his stars that Anny Howard had refused him.
Life was such a strange business. If Van’s parents had stayed together and if her parents hadn’t died, his life and hers would have been different. He wouldn’t have spent so much time at Orengo, she wouldn’t have grown up on Sea Dreams: their paths might never have crossed. If she had never known him, she could have loved someone else. What she had never had, she would not have missed. Now, because for a time he had loved her, and she him, she was fated always to compare other men to him and always to find them wanting.
She slept badly and woke with a headache. Normally she loved travelling, even the parts that most people disliked such as sitting around in airports. Now that she was well-known and given carte blanche on expenses, she no longer flew tourist. The intervals between check-in and flight times were shorter and the waiting took place in more comfortable conditions.
At one time receiving the preferential treatment earned by her skill with words had given her a buzz. Taking taxis instead of buses or underground trains had made her feel special. She had r
evelled in all the perks, but most of all in the chance to meet famous people; captains of industry, statesmen, opera stars, outstanding athletes.
After a while, the excitement had begun to wear off. Today was the first time in months she had set out on an assignment feeling intense curiosity to find out what international fame and a business worth billions of dollars had done to the man who might, had things worked out differently, have been her husband.
When, driving the rented car, she reached the last bend in the road before the great gateway in the wall surrounding Orengo, Anny’s mouth was dry with apprehension.
The wall itself gave the first indication that much had changed in her absence. It had been re-painted the colour she thought of as Mediterranean-pink. Unkempt overhanging creepers had been severely pruned, making them flower more profusely.
Even with peeling stucco and some of its finials missing, the gateway, surmounted by a bell in an ornamental arch, had always been impressive. Restored, it was even more imposing.
Anny parked the car close to the wall. As she approached the elaborate wrought-iron gates, no longer being eaten by rust, a man in uniform emerged from the lodge.
She spoke to him in Italian and had to show identification before he opened the gates for her. Clearly the days when an adventurous child could trespass here were long gone. Tight security prevailed.
She drove slowly down the sloping drive, taking in all the changes. It was in immaculate order with many new shrubs replacing those which had died from neglect. She saw more than one gardener at work and some comfortingly familiar glimpses of the ancient wistarias which for many years had grown up through the branches of tall dark cypresses and still adorned them with cascades of deep mauve flowers. But the place she remembered and loved had gone and could never be recaptured. Would its owner be equally changed?
A neatly dressed middle-aged woman was standing on the steps of the palazzo when Anny drove under the archway leading to the large courtyard at the rear of the building.
She introduced herself as Charlene Moore, Mr Carlisle’s personal assistant.
‘We were misinformed about your time of arrival, Miss Howard. We weren’t expecting you until late afternoon. Mr Carlisle is out. He has kept tomorrow morning free for the interview. Tonight he is giving a dinner party at which you will meet some of his friends. Let me show you to your room. Benito will bring up your flight bag and garage the car.’
Anny was furious at finding her suspense extended. But she felt sure the mix-up wasn’t the PA’s fault. She looked efficiency personified.
Containing her irritation, Anny said, ‘I was expecting to fly back to London tonight. I can manage without a nightdress but I can’t attend a dinner party in this.’ She indicated her suit.
‘All the bedrooms are provided with overnight necessities for guests whose luggage has been mis-routed,’ Charlene told her. ‘I’m sure we can find you something to wear for the party.’
Like the grounds, the interior of the house looked very different from Anny’s memories of it. Richly coloured Oriental rugs and runners muffled their footsteps as they crossed the hall to the staircase. More rugs formed a pathway along the wide upstairs corridor. Fine paintings adorned the walls. Lavish arrangements of flowers in scale with the lofty ceilings and tall double doors stood on top of antique chests or on pedestals. The impression was one of sumptuous elegance. But this wasn’t what Anny had visualised when she had dreamed of living here. This was how houses looked when professional interior decorators had been given a free rein to achieve their idea of perfection. The results were always subtly different—and, in her view, inferior—from a house which was the creation of generations of a family, or of one inspired amateur.
‘Is Mrs Carlisle at home?’ she asked. ‘Perhaps I could talk to her?’
‘Mrs Edward Carlisle, Mr Carlisle’s mother, lives in Connecticut. Mr Carlisle isn’t married.’
‘Oh...I had heard that he is...or was thinking of marriage.’
‘There have been many rumours, most without any foundation.’ His PA opened a doorway and waited for Anny to precede her. ‘This bedroom has its own loggia with a view of the coast. I hope you’ll be comfortable, Miss Howard. If there’s anything you need, you have only to ask. I’ll go look for something you can wear to the party.’
Left on her own, Anny cast a journalist’s eye over the luxurious room. It had a painted ceiling, an antique Italian bed with tall gilded posts at head and foot, and curtains of coral felt with deep quilted hems. The adjoining bathroom had walls of dark rose-veined marble with taps in the form of rams’ heads. Flasks of iridescent Roman glass shimmered in the alcoves at either end of the bath. There was no overhead shower fitting, but a hand-held spray allowed hair-washing. Not for the first time, Anny felt grateful that her thick fair hair, nowadays expertly cut every six weeks, did not need professional attention to look good on special occasions.
She unzipped her flight bag and began to arrange its contents on the writing table. A state-of-the-art laptop had replaced the one given to her by Van when she was in her teens. Her second most important gadget was a tape recorder, small enough for her subjects to forget it was there. Completing her equipment was a 35 millimetre single lens reflex camera.
She was leaning on the balustrade of the loggia, gazing at the view and wondering where Sea Dreams was now, when Miss Moore returned with an ankle-length black georgette skirt and a white silk blouse.
‘I think these will fit you, Miss Howard.’
‘Are they yours?’
‘Yes, but you’re welcome to borrow them.’
‘That’s very kind of you. Rather than hang about, waiting for Mr Carlisle to come back, I think I’ll go to Nice and look round the shops. Is my car where I left it?’
‘If not, it can soon be brought round.’
Driving to Nice, Anny couldn’t help wondering if making her wait till tomorrow for the interview, and forcing her to attend a smart dinner party in borrowed clothes, was a game plan to put her at a disadvantage. Van hadn’t been that kind of person when she knew him, but money and power changed people. Some rich men became eccentric to a point not far short of madness.
Although she was grateful for his PA’s willingness to help out, the blouse was not Anny’s style. It was too dressy for her to feel comfortable in it. She would have to find another outfit and perhaps some outrageous junk jewellery to raise the eyebrows of the other women whose diamonds and pearls would be real.
Her shopping didn’t take long. She went to a boutique she remembered from the days when she could only gaze at the chic displays in the window. This time she went in, emerging half an hour later with several carriers.
This was in the part of town where smart shops alternated with bars and pavement cafés used by locals as well as tourists for watching the world go by. Anny chose a café at a point where several streets met and a mime artist was standing motionless, waiting for someone to throw a coin in the box at his feet.
She ordered tea with lemon and watched him go through his thirty-second routine while half-listening to two Frenchwomen in animated conversation at the table next to hers. Then, as the mime artist froze, her attention drifted to an elegant woman in the pavement café on the far side of the place. The man sitting with her was Van.
To catch sight of him unexpectedly was as shocking as yesterday’s call from Greg. She felt as if all the air had been sucked out of her lungs and her heart had stopped pumping her blood. It felt as if all her vital functions had suffered a power cut.
Still mesmerised by Van’s face, she watched him nodding agreement with something the woman was saying. What was different about him? Something: but precisely what she wasn’t sure yet. His body hadn’t changed. He hadn’t begun the gradual deterioration of men who ate too well and exercised little or not at all.
He had always been sparing with gestures, keeping his hands noticeably still, rarely if ever using them to emphasise what he was saying. More than anyone she had known
, he had focussed on the person he was talking to, giving them his whole attention. She could see he was doing that now. When she looked more closely at his companion, Anny could understand why.
The woman was not a beauty but even from this distance she emanated charm and character. She looked to be in her forties, an age group when, in Anny’s observation, women either began to worry about losing their looks or they bloomed as never before. Van’s friend clearly belonged in the second category. She was dressed in a simple but extremely chic suit. Her skirt was a more discreet length than those of the girls sauntering by in tight minis or short swingy kilts. But none of them drew Van’s gaze away from his friend’s attractive face, Anny noticed. She found it painful to watch their absorption in each other.
Was this woman his mistress? Had he given up thinking of marriage, finding it more satisfactory to have a relationship with someone who didn’t even share his house but was always available when he wanted her?
Forgetting her tea, Anny sat glowering angrily at the man she had come to interview. She knew what she felt was jealousy, an emotion she had always despised. But it wasn’t the woman who inspired this bitter resentment. It was Van: for forcing her to come here, for still being compellingly attractive, for causing the break-up with Jon which would always be on her conscience until she heard he had found someone worthier of him.
Presently the unknown woman glanced at her watch and stood up, her manner making it clear she was reluctant to leave. Van also rose, kissing the hand she gave him. He watched her walk away. Then he resumed his seat, the glass on the table beside him being half full of what looked like Pernod and water.
He was still there, making his drink last, when Anny paid her bill. She debated joining him, but decided against it. She needed more time to compose herself.
They came face to face an hour later, in the belvedere where they had met. But this time Anny wasn’t talking to herself and he didn’t take her by surprise. She heard his footsteps on the path while she was looking at the sea. She turned, her eyes masked by dark glasses, and was leaning her hips against the stone balustrade when he came into view.