Bittersweet

by Danielle Steel

  “It sounds like an ugly story.”

  “It will be.” But it was more up her alley than the wedding, although it had pained her to see the photographs of the children they were using. They were planning a raid in two days, and they had invited her to be there when they did it.

  “Will it be dangerous for you?”

  “It could be,” she said honestly, although she wouldn't have admitted it to her husband. He didn't even know about the story, and she was not going to tell him.

  “I hope it won't be dangerous for you,” Paul said cautiously. He didn't want to interfere in her work, or her life, in any way. But he didn't like to think about her getting injured.

  “They'll have to be careful because of the children. But the guys who run it are a tough group. The police think some of the girls were sold into slavery by their parents.”

  “God, that's awful.” She nodded as if he could see her, and they went on to talk of pleasanter subjects.

  He told her about the book he was reading then, and his plans in Sicily. And he was excited about going to Venice. He had never taken the boat there.

  “I can't think of anything more beautiful than being in Venice on the Sea Star,” she said dreamily, thinking of it.

  “It's a shame you and Sam won't be with me.”

  “He would love that.”

  “So would you.”

  They chatted for a while, and then he said he had to adjust some sails, and check the radar, but he said he'd call her the following night. They had talked about Annabelle's, and Harry's Bar, and Mark's Club, and all his favorite hangouts in London. But he also knew it would be a long time before he went back there.

  And from the next morning on, her days of elegance in London would end. From then on, she would be working with police, hanging out in smoky rooms in blue jeans, drinking cold coffee.

  She read some of the material the police had given her that night, to give her further background on the story, and the men who were running the operation. They sounded like monsters, and just thinking about children Aimee's age being used as prostitutes and slaves turned her stomach. It was a world her children would never know and could never have imagined. Even as an adult, she found it unthinkable, just as Paul had.

  She went back to meet with the police the next day at noon, and at eight o'clock at night, she was still with them. After they finished their plans for the raid the next day, two of the inspectors took her to dinner at a pub nearby, and it was interesting talking to them. They drank a lot and gave her a wealth of inside information. And when she got back to Claridge's, there was a message from the children. They sent their love and had all gone to a movie. There was another one from Paul, but when she called him back, he was busy. But he called again as she was getting ready to leave the next morning.

  “Sorry about last night. We hit a storm. The wind was fifty knots,” but it was obvious, from what he said, that he loved it.

  She told him what she'd learned from the police then, and that they would be conducting the raid that night at midnight.

  “I'll be thinking of you. Be careful,” he said soberly.

  “I will,” she promised, thinking how odd it was talking to him. There was never any talk of romance between them, and yet he talked to her sometimes like a husband. It was probably out of habit, she assumed, and because he missed Serena. He had never given India any real reason to think he was interested in her in that way, except for the fact that he kept calling. But their conversations were more like the meanderings of old friends than the bonding of two lovers.

  “I don't know what time I'll be through. Probably at some ungodly hour of the morning.”

  “I hope not.” He was getting an increasing sense of the danger she would be in. The men who ran the prostitution ring were not going to walk away from it with their hands in their pockets, and Paul was suddenly afraid that they might come out with guns blazing, and India could get hurt, or worse, in the process. “Don't take any chances, India. Screw the awards, and even the story, if you have to. It's not worth it.” But it always was to her, and always had been, though she didn't say that to him. But now she had her children to think of, it wasn't like the old days. She was aware of that, and intended to be careful. “Call me when it's over, no matter what time it is. I want to know you're safe. I'm going to be very worried.”

  “Don't be. I'll be with about fifteen cops, and probably the equivalent of a SWAT team.”

  “Tell them to protect you.”

  “I will.”

  After she hung up, she ran to Hamley's as quickly as she could, to get some things for the children, mostly souvenirs, and she bought a great pair of shoes and a funny hat for Jessica at Harvey Nichols, and was back with the police by noon, just as she had promised.

  And for hours after that, she did nothing but listen to them, take notes, and take pictures. And at midnight, when they struck, she was as ready as they were. She went in right behind the first team, with a bullet-proof vest they'd given her, and her camera poised for action. And what they saw in the house on Wilton Crescent in the West End was heartbreaking and beyond pathetic. Little girls of eight and nine and ten, chained to walls and tied to beds, whipped and abused, and drugged, and being raped by men of every age and description. And much to the police's disgust, they rounded up two well-known M.P.S along with them. But more importantly, they had caught all the men, and one woman, who ran it. India had taken hundreds of photographs of them, and the children. Most of the little girls didn't even speak English. They had been brought from the Middle East and other places, and had been sold by their parents.

  They were sent off to children's shelters and hospitals to be checked and healed and tended to. There had been more than thirty of them. And India knew it was going to make an incredible story, although it broke her heart to see them. She had carried one child out herself, a little girl of about Sam's age, with cigarette burns and whip marks all over her body. And she had cried piteously as India held her, and carried her to the ambulance. A huge, fat, ugly man somewhere in his sixties had just finished having sex with her when India took her. She had wanted to hit him with her camera, but the police had warned her not to touch him.

  “Are you okay?” Paul asked anxiously when he heard her. True to her word, she called him the minute she got in, at six o'clock in the morning. He had stayed up all night, worrying about her.

  “I am. Physically. Mentally, I'm not so sure. Paul, I can't even begin to describe to you what I saw tonight. I know I'll never forget it.”

  “Neither will the world, after they see your pictures. It must have been just awful.”

  “It was unspeakable.” She told him a few of the things she'd seen and he felt sick listening to her. He was sorry she had had to see it. But he supposed she'd seen worse in her younger days, but nothing more heart-wrenching than the little girls they'd rescued. There had been a few boys too, but not nearly as many.

  “Do you suppose you can get some sleep now?” he asked, even more worried. But at least she hadn't been injured.

  “I don't think so,” she said honestly. “I just want to walk, or take a bath, or do something. If I lie down, I'm going to go crazy.”

  “I'm so sorry.”

  “Don't be. Someone had to do it. And it might as well be me.” She told him about the little girl she'd carried to the ambulance, and the cigarette burns all over her tiny, emaciated body.

  “It's hard to imagine any man doing things like that to children.” And then he asked, “Are you finished with the story?” He hoped so, but she wasn't. She had to go back for the next few days, to wrap it up. But she said she'd be through by Thursday. And then she was flying back to New York on Friday. He had almost wanted to ask her if she wanted to fly to Sicily to meet him on the boat for a couple of days, but he knew she couldn't. And he wasn't sure yet if he was ready to see her. In fact, he was almost sure he wasn't. But he would have, if it would have helped her to forget the story. It was certainly a universe
apart from the wedding.

  They stayed on the phone with each other for a long time, and the sun came up over London as they talked. He felt as though he were there with her, and she was glad she had him to talk to. Doug would never have understood what she was feeling.

  Finally, he told her to get into a hot bath, try and get some sleep, and call him later. And after they spoke, he walked out on deck and looked out to sea, thinking of her. She was so different from Serena in every way, and yet there was something so innately powerful about her, something so clean and strong and wonderful that it terrified him. He had no idea what would become of them, or what he was doing. And he didn't even want to think about it.

  All he knew was that he needed to talk to her, more and more frequently. He couldn't imagine not talking to her every day now. And India was thinking exactly the same thing as she lay in the bathtub, and wondered where it was going. And what was she going to do when she got back to Westport? She couldn't call him constantly. Doug would see it on the bill, and wonder what she was doing.

  She had no idea what she was doing with Paul, or why. And yet she knew she needed him now. He was like a drug she had become addicted to, without realizing how it had happened. But it had. They needed each other. More than either of them was willing to admit, or knew. But little by little, over time, and from a great distance, they were moving slowly toward each other. And then what, she asked herself, as she closed her eyes. What in God's name were they doing? But as she opened them again, she realized it was just one more question to which she had no answer.

  And on the Sea Star, thinking about her, and realizing how relieved he was that she was all right, Paul put his hands in his pockets with a thoughtful expression, and walked slowly back to his cabin.

  Chapter 11

  INDIA CONTINUED to work with the police that week, filling in the details of the story. She took more photographs of the perpetrators, and some heartbreaking ones of the children. In the end, there were thirty-nine children involved, and most of them were in hospitals and shelters and foster homes. Only one, who had been kidnapped two years before, had been returned to her parents. The others had all been abandoned, or sold, or given away, or even bartered. They were truly the lost children, and India couldn't imagine, after what they'd been through, how they would ever recover.

  Every night she poured out the horror stories she'd seen to Paul, and that led to talk of other things, their values, their fears, their childhoods. Like hers, his parents were both gone, and he was an only child. His father had been a moderate success, but in most ways nothing like him. Paul had been driven to succeed, by demons of his own, to achieve in excess of everyone around him. And when India talked of her father and his work, it was obvious to Paul that she thought him a hero. But she was also well aware of what his constant absences had cost her. They had never been a real family, because he was always gone, which made her own family life now seem all that much more important. It was the hold that Doug had on her, she now realized, and why she didn't want to lose him. It was why she did everything he said, and followed all his orders, met all his expectations. She didn't want her children to have a life without their father. And although her own mother had worked, her job had never been important to her. It was her father who had been the central figure of their life, and whose absence, when he died, had nearly destroyed them. But she also recognized that the strain his lifestyle and his work had put on them had challenged her parents' marriage. Her mother had never thought him quite the hero that she did, and a lot of the time she was very angry at him. And India knew that his long absences had caused her mother a lot of heartache. It was why she was so nervous now about following in his footsteps, and why she had allowed Doug to force her to abandon a life, and a career, that meant so much to her. But just as her father had never been able to give up the drug of his work, and the passion he had for it, although she herself had sublimated it for so long, she had come back to it, and discovered all too easily in the past few days, how much she loved it. And she knew, as she took photographs of the children's ravaged faces and eyes and lives, that somehow she was making a difference. In exposing their pain to the world, through her camera and her own eyes, she was making sure that it could not so easily happen again. She was making people feel the agony of those children. It was precisely what her father had done with his work, and why he had won the Pulitzer. He deserved it.

  It was her last night in London. She had finally finished the story, and she was leaving in the morning. She hadn't seen Paul while she'd been there, but in a way, she felt as though they'd spent the week together. They had discovered things about each other she had never said before, or dreamed about herself, or remotely guessed about him. He had been astonishingly open with her, about his dreams, his most private thoughts, and his years with Serena. And the portrait he painted of her taught India a great deal, not only about her, but about Paul, and what his needs were.

  Serena had been powerful in so many ways, she had pushed and driven him further toward his immense success, and supported him when he had doubts about it. She had been a driving force, always right behind him. But she had rarely leaned on him herself, was leery of needing him too much, and although she'd been his closest friend, she was afraid of being too close to him or anyone, though Paul didn't seem to mind it. They had been partners, but she had never nurtured him or anyone the way India did with everyone around her. Paul had discovered in his new friend a never-ending source of warmth and tenderness and comfort. And the gentle hand she held out to him was one he trusted. In every possible way, the two women couldn't have been more different. And India's kindness to him was what seemed to keep him afloat now, just as his ever-present strength for her seemed to have become essential to her survival. The question was, for both of them, where did they go now?

  He called late the night before she left, and he sounded lonelier than usual. “Will you call me when you go back?” Paul asked. She never had before. It had always been Paul who called her. But even he realized that it would be awkward to call her regularly in Westport.

  “I'm not sure I can,” she said honestly, thinking about it, as she lay comfortably on her bed, in her cozy room at Claridge's. “I'm not sure Doug would understand it. I'm not even sure I do.” She smiled, wishing he would clarify it for her. But he couldn't. He was still far too steeped in his memories of his wife, to know what he wanted from India, if anything. What they both cherished from each other was their friendship. And even if Paul no longer was, India was after all still married.

  “Can I call you there? Often, I mean …like now …?” he asked. They had both come to rely on their daily phone calls. After speaking to the children every night, she looked forward to their long conversations. But back in Westport, it would be different.

  “I think so. You can call me during the day.” The time difference would work well for them, as long as he was still in Europe. And then she sighed, thinking of Doug, and what she owed him. “I guess I should feel guilty about talking to you. I wouldn't want Doug doing the same thing …talking to some woman….”

  “But you wouldn't treat him the way he's treated you either, would you?” In fact, they both knew she hadn't.She had always been loving, supportive, kind, reasonable, and understanding. She had more than lived up to her half of the bargain, the “deal” Doug constantly spoke of. It was Doug who had let her down, by refusing to meet her needs or understand her feelings, and giving her so little warmth and comfort.

  “He's not a bad man, Paul. … I was very happy for a long time. Maybe I just grew up or something. We were so busy for so long, with all the kids, or at least I was, I guess I stopped paying attention to what he was giving me, or wasn't. It never occurred to me to say, ‘Hey …wait … I need more than this … or ask him if he loved me. And now, it feels like it's too late. He's gotten away with giving me so little for so long, that he doesn't understand that I want more, for myself, and from him. He thinks I'm crazy.”

  “You'
re not crazy, India. Far from it,” Paul reassured her. “Do you think you can get it back, to get what you want out of it again?”

  “I don't know.” It was what she had asked herself over and over. “I just don't know. I don't think he hears me.

  “He's a fool if he doesn't.” Paul knew that very clearly. She was a woman well worth keeping.

  “Did you and Serena ever have problems like this?” He said funny things about her sometimes, about how demanding and difficult she had been, but he didn't seem to mind it.

  “Not really. She didn't put up with much. When I stepped on her toes, she let me have it. And when I didn't give her enough, she told me. Serena made her needs very clear, and her expectations, and she set very clear limits. I guess that made it easy. I always knew where I stood with her. She taught me a lot about relationships. I made a real mess of it the first time. Kind of like Doug, probably even a little worse. I was so busy establishing myself and making money, I let the relationship go right down the tubes and never saw it. And I walked all over my wife while I did it. I told you, she still hates me. And I'm not so sure I blame her.” And then he laughed into the phone, thinking about it. “I think Serena trained me. I was pretty dumb before that.”

  But if he had been, he no longer was. India knew by then that he was not only extremely sensitive, but also unusually perceptive and able to express his perceptions. And no matter what she explained to him, he always seemed to “get it.”

  “The only trouble is,” he went on, “I can't imagine doing all that again, without Serena. It wasn't generic. It worked because of her, because of who she was, her powers and her magic. I don't think I could ever love another woman.” They were hard words to hear, but India believed him. “There will never be another person in my life like her.” Nor would he try to find one. He had decided that on the Sea Star.

  “That may be true right now,” India said cautiously, thinking of him as he lay in his cabin, “but you don't know what the future will bring. You're not old enough to give all that up. Maybe in time, you'll feel differently and someone will come along who is important to you.” She wasn't pleading her own case, so much as pleading for him. It was impossible to think that, at fifty-seven, that aspect of his life was over. He was too young, too vital, too decent, and at the moment much too lonely.