Harry smiled grimly to himself, wondering if he had clipped Anne’s wings and cramped her style by being in Paris so much these days because of business.
Ten years, he thought suddenly: we’ve been together almost ten years. I was thirty-four when I first set eyes on her, and she about nineteen. I’ll be forty-four in July, and she’ll be almost twenty-nine. Ten years. Good God, a decade together.
How time flies … and to think of all the trouble she had caused him … He had fought Catherine for a divorce and probably broken her heart in the process … he’d made that poor woman ill, hadn’t he? Then he had fired Thomas Wolsen, on Anne’s urging, and for ineptitude as his solicitor of all things. How stupid he had been, listening to her. Wolsen had died not long after. Had it been of a broken heart? They had been so close, and for twenty years.
There was no denying that Wolsen had been the most brilliant man he had ever known, and good to him, the best adviser he had ever had. And what about poor Tommy? He had picked on Tommy Morle, quarrelled violently with him, and without genuine cause. All because of Anne Bowles. Their quarrelling had been so violent at times that the rows had obviously made Tommy sick in heart and mind and body, and he had passed away some months after their last most horrendous falling out.
And what of his wife of some twenty years? Catherine. Mother of Mary. She had suddenly died, and in so doing she had set him free … for Anne to take at last, take as a husband. Anne had been his heart’s desire for years … but it had all gone wrong.
How could it have gone wrong? Was it his fault? Or hers? Or were they both to blame? He had no answers for himself … only sudden, unexpected heartache.
What in God’s name was he going to do? He and Anne were estranged, if the truth be told. They were living in a kind of … armed truce. He didn’t want to live like this any longer. Marriage was supposed to make a man happy … that’s what he wanted, to be happy, and with the right woman. A woman who could give him his son and heir. Obviously Anne Bowles could not.
He had no son. He must have a son.
He had two daughters, yes, and he loved them both. Harry’s face now softened as he thought of Elizabeth, who would be three years old in September. And then there was Mary, Catherine’s child, a grown-up young woman. She was twenty and studying art history in Florence, and they had become friends at last, thanks to his sister.
Harry had a strong parental streak in him, and he did love his daughters. He thought of them now: it was May, and he would take them on holiday later this summer. He made a sudden snap decision. He would charter a yacht for July or August, and they would go sailing together, down the coastline of France and on to Italy. The girls would love it and so would his sister and Charles. He must make a guest list when he arrived at the office.
His face brightened considerably, and the spring came back into his step. He looked up at the sky. It was varying shades of light and deep blue, filled with huge, full-blown white clouds. The sunlight was brilliant today, but not too hot. It was one of those perfect May days. His spirits instantly lifted. He strode out, heading up the beautiful avenue towards the Arc de Triomphe where the Tricolor was blowing in the breeze. Harry straightened his shoulders, and increased his pace. Within minutes he would be arriving at the Deravenels building on the corner of a side street facing Avenue George V just across the Champs-Elysées.
Now he couldn’t wait to get there. He had just had another brilliant idea. He would ask Jane Selmere to join them on the yacht. She was not only a wonderful personal assistant, most efficient and caring, but a lovely young woman. And of late she had become quite indispensable to him … Very important, now that he thought about it.
On Thursday evening Harry went ahead with his little celebration dinner, even though Anne and Greg were absent, off to the Loire in search of antiques.
He took his guests to Le Grand Véfour, the ancient restaurant which went as far back as the French Revolution. It was a landmark, situated under the arches of the Palais-Royal, and a favourite of his.
There were only four of them for dinner, and Harry was now pleased about this. He glanced around the table, smiling at his sister Mary, and her husband and his best friend Charles, the two family members closest to him. Finally, his blue eyes settled on Jane Selmere. She had accepted his invitation to dinner with alacrity, and now, as he looked at her intently, he realized that she was looking really lovely tonight in a soft, gentle way. She wore a simple delphinium blue silk dress and a string of pearls which he himself had given her last Christmas. He had not realized until now how truly fine the pearls were. They looked wonderful on her and they reflected her exquisite English rose complexion. Yes, that’s what she was – an English rose.
The four of them were enjoying the setting. It was mellow and intimate, and there was something quite magical about this most distinctive decor of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.
Once the Krug rosé champagne had been served, Harry picked up his flute and said, ‘Here’s to our new acquisition, the Banque Larouche, and may it prosper. And may we all prosper.’
Charles grinned at Harry, and added, ‘And here’s to your brilliance. You made a great deal, Harry.’
‘But I couldn’t have, not without you,’ Harry shot back.
They all clinked glasses and sipped the sparkling pink wine.
Mary, looking at Jane, said with a warm smile, ‘This is like a family restaurant for us, Jane. Harry and I were first brought here by our mother, Bess Deravenel Turner, and she had been brought here by her father.’
‘The great Edward Deravenel,’ Jane remarked, and looked from Mary to Harry, and added, ‘And that’s how you will be known now, Harry. They’ll call you the great Harry Turner.’ She smiled at him over the top of her crystal flute, her eyes full of promise, her whole demeanour flirtatious, encouraging him.
Harry, smiling back at her, experienced a marvellous rush of excitement, thrilled that she had come to dinner and quite certain he would be extremely welcome in her bed tonight. Certainly he aimed to try. Jane was in her early thirties, and obviously ready for a man like him, he was sure of that. There had to be some experience there, didn’t there? She had never married, and this pleased him in a curious way. She moved slightly, turned to speak to Charles and he saw the curve of her milky white breasts as the vee neckline of her dress shifted slightly. He had a terrible urge to reach out and touch them, but he obviously could not. His heart was racing and he was wonderfully aroused by this soft-spoken, serene young woman, in a way he had not been for some time. Still waters run deep, he thought, wondering how she would be in bed. Sensual and willing, he decided.
There were lots of antique mirrors on the ceiling and lining the walls of the restaurant, and as Harry glanced around, seeking a waiter, he suddenly saw a number of reflected Janes smiling at him from various angles. He said softly, leaning across the table to her, ‘Wherever I look I see you, sweetheart … because of all the mirrors. I can’t begin to tell you what a pleasure that gives me, Jane.’
‘I want to give you pleasure,’ she whispered, and looked at him very directly, her mouth open slightly; when she took a sip of her champagne she let her tongue linger on the edge of the crystal glass, and he knew it was all right. He was home. She would be his tonight. And if it was the way he thought it would be, between the two of them, perhaps it would be forever. A son, he thought. Jane will surely give me a son.
When the waiter arrived, Harry asked for the menus, and then started to tell Jane about the history of the restaurant, how Napoleon and Josephine had eaten here, and many other famous people over the centuries, and she listened attentively. At one moment she slipped her foot out of her shoe, and slipped it onto the edge of his chair, where it rested between his legs.
Momentarily taken by surprise, he then inclined his head slightly, and she smiled at him, began to rub his crotch with her foot. She’s a naughty one, he thought. What joy.
‘The food here is delicious, Jane: the chef is very famous
– Raymond Oliver,’ Mary explained. ‘I am going to have the sole, it’s simply divine, but another favourite of mine and Harry’s is pigeon stuffed with foie gras. It’s one of their specialities, nothing like it in the world.’
‘That’s what I shall have,’ Harry announced, his gleaming blue eyes fixed on Jane. ‘I love stuffed pigeon.’
‘Then I shall try it,’ Jane murmured, and finally removed her foot, put it back in her shoe, understanding she was tantalizing him unbearably. I’ll make him truly happy later, she told herself, excited by the thought.
Charles ordered the duck, and then they all settled back and chatted amongst themselves, enjoying being together. Charles, touching Mary’s knee at one moment, signalled to her that he had always been right about Jane. She was after Harry; and he was positive she would succeed.
SIXTY-THREE
‘Here are all of the final contracts, Harry,’ Charles said, passing the documents to his brother-in-law. ‘Once you sign these, the bank is yours.’ It was Monday morning, the twentieth of May, in 1974.
‘I feel very chuffed about this, Charles.’ Harry grinned as he picked up his pen, and began to sign his name. Looking across at Jean-Pierre Larouche, he said, ‘It is the first time Deravenels have owned a bank … I’m thrilled we’ve bought it.’
‘And I am thrilled to have sold it to you,’ the French banker replied. ‘I have been wanting to retire for some years now. My wife Claude is also thrilled. And she thanks you most profusely.’
The small group of men in the boardroom at Deravenels all chuckled, and Charles then announced, ‘We have booked a small private room at Fouquet’s for a celebration lunch, gentlemen. Once these last formalities are over we can walk across –’ Charles paused as Jane put her head around the door, and beckoned to him.
He rose, went to speak to her, noticing as he approached that she was as white as a sheet. She whispered something to him, and he caught his breath, then steadied himself. Turning around he said, ‘Harry, can I see you in your office for a moment? There seems to be a problem. A personal problem.’
Harry was startled, and he frowned, annoyed by this odd interruption, and then seeing how serious Charles and Jane looked, he stood up, patted the contracts as he did. ‘All is in order, gentlemen. Please excuse me for a few minutes. There seems to be a private matter I must attend to before we go across the Champs-Elysées to lunch.’
Jean-Pierre Larouche, speaking for his group of associates, replied, ‘Please, take your time, Mr Turner.’
‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ Harry asked once they were outside in the corridor.
‘Let’s go into your office, Harry,’ Charles said, and took his arm, propelled him forward, urgency in his manner.
Jane hung back, not sure what she should do when Charles turned, indicated she should follow them. She did so, shocked by the news she had just heard.
Once they were in Harry’s office, he turned around and looked from Charles to Jane, and exclaimed, ‘For God’s sake, what is it? You both look as if you’re the bearers of bad news.’
‘I’m afraid we are,’ Charles responded a little shakily, and taking hold of Harry’s arm he added, ‘You’d better sit down here on the sofa.’
Harry did so, frowning in puzzlement. He again stared at Jane, who was a ghastly colour, and speechless, then at Charles. ‘Tell me, for Christ’s sake!’
Charles sat down in the chair opposite Harry and signalled Jane to sit next to him on the sofa.
‘There’s been a tragic accident,’ Charles began. ‘Anne and her brother Greg, and the other two fellows who were with them, were in a car crash in the early hours of this morning. On their way back to Paris from the Loire Valley.’
‘Oh, my God, no! I told her not to drive,’ Harry cried, his face turning red. ‘She must have been at the wheel.’
‘I don’t believe she was,’ Charles answered in a gruff voice.
‘Are they in hospital?’ Harry asked. ‘Which hospital? Where did the accident occur?’
‘I’m not quite sure of that, but we’ll soon be informed.’ Charles swallowed and went on in that same hoarse voice, ‘Apparently it was a horrendous crash. Harry … Anne’s dead. I’m so sorry … so very sorry, but they’re all dead … all four of them.’
‘Oh, my God! No! What happened? Tell me what happened, for God’s sake!’ Harry demanded. All the colour left his face; he turned grey and he was shaking. It seemed to him that all of his blood was draining away. He could not move, nor could he speak, so stunned was he by the news. It was so unexpected and so sudden. Anne was dead. Greg was dead. And Mark and Philippe. It didn’t seem possible … it was hard to take in. All of them gone … just like that … in a flash.
Jane took hold of his hand, wanting to console him, but she was in a bad state herself. He simply sat there gaping at Charles, shaking his head in utter bewilderment. It was obvious he was in shock. ‘It just can’t be,’ he mumbled all of a sudden and brought a hand to his face. ‘Tell me what you know, tell me all of it, Charles. Please,’ he begged at last.
‘I don’t know much, Harry. But the police are waiting to see you. Jane took them into my office.’ He glanced at her and went on in a low tone, ‘What did they say, Jane?’
Jane swallowed hard and explained in a shaky voice, ‘That the car was hit head on by a lorry coming in the opposite direction. It was on a main road. It seems … well, it seems …’ Jane stopped abruptly; her voice was muffled as she finally took hold of herself, and continued, ‘It seems that the impact … was very … bad … Everyone was killed outright, the two policemen said. They want to talk to you as soon as possible, Harry.’
Taking a deep breath, trying to stay calm, steady, Harry nodded. ‘You’d better bring them in.’
Jane jumped up and left the room.
Charles rose, went and sat next to Harry on the sofa, put his arm around his shoulder. ‘I’m here. Whatever you need, I’m here to help you.’
‘It’s the terrible shock. What ghastly news –’ Harry’s voice shook so badly he stopped speaking, totally at a loss. After a moment or two he whispered, ‘How am I going to tell Elizabeth?’
‘You’ll do it, you’ll find the strength somewhere, and we’re here to help you, Mary and I.’
‘I know.’ He looked up at his closest and dearest friend, and said, ‘I was angry with her, and disappointed, but I never wished her any harm, Charles, you do know that, don’t you?’
‘I do indeed.’
The two policemen were brought in by Jane, and they sat down, and spoke to Harry in calm, level tones. They explained that the crash had occurred near Brissac, in the Loire Region, and that the four passengers in the car had been killed instantly, as had the driver of the lorry.
Harry listened, nodding from time to time, trying to absorb everything, but he was numb. Charles finally intervened, and took the police to his own office, where they gave him all the relevant details. The bodies were in the morgue of a local hospital near Brissac, and could be brought back to Paris within the next twenty-four hours.
Charles told his secretary to make the proper arrangements with the two policemen; and then he telephoned his wife, Mary.
‘Thank you for coming with me, Jane,’ Harry said as they walked through the Tuilleries the following afternoon. ‘I just needed to get out of the flat, it felt so claustrophobic, and I was feeling so benumbed.’
‘You’re suffering from shock,’ Jane told him, taking hold of his arm, wanting to console and comfort him. ‘Anyway, the air and the walk will do you good.’
‘Anne loved Paris. The city, the people, everything about it. I used to think she was more French than English.’
‘So you’ve told me.’
They walked on in silence. They were comfortable together, and companionable in their silence; they didn’t really need words.
Suddenly Harry came to a halt, stood still, and turned to look at Jane. ‘There’s something I want to say, actually need to say. I didn’t hate her. We
were having our problems and difficulties, but then you knew we were, didn’t you?’
‘Oh, yes, very much so,’ Jane responded quietly.
‘You’ve known for a long time?’
‘I have, Harry.’
‘I didn’t wish her any harm.’
‘I know that.’ Jane squeezed his arm.
‘If she had to die, I’m glad it was … instantly. She didn’t suffer, as far as we know … Do you think she suffered?’
‘No. Anyway, the police told you she didn’t, because the impact was so enormous. They said she must have died at once. And the Medical Examiner would know the time of death. I’m sure the French police were telling you the truth yesterday.’
‘But her neck, Jane – those policemen told us her neck was … well … partially severed.’ A small shudder passed through him at the mere thought of this.
‘Don’t think about that. Just remember, Anne didn’t suffer. You mustn’t dwell on the bad things.’
‘I know. There’s Elizabeth … not yet three until September. How do you tell a child her mother has been killed?’
‘Gently, Harry,’ Jane answered, and there was a hesitation before she said in a soft tone, ‘With my help.’
‘Will you help me, Jane?’ he asked eagerly, staring into her eyes, knowing all of a sudden how much he needed her support.
‘I will do anything for you, Harry, anything at all. I have always loved Elizabeth: she’s the most adorable child, and so like you.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘I do.’
He was silent, studying her.
She met his long, intense gaze steadily. She cared about this man, had strong and loving feelings for him. All she wanted was to help him now.
‘I’ve been thinking about the summer, chartering a yacht, Jane. I mentioned that to you last week.’
‘You did, and I thought it was a good idea.’
‘If I do charter it, will you come with us? There’d be Mary and Elizabeth, my sister Mary and Charles and their daughters, Frances and Eleanor. Would it be too dull for you, do you think?’
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