‘No.’ She frowned, her brain clearing itself of the previous fears and suspicions and starting to frame fresh ones. ‘Come and join me for a drink,’ she told him.
She watched him rotate the glass in slow agitation. ‘Has she told you?’ he asked.
‘She tells me very little,’ Rachel commented. ‘Is she safe?’
‘I hope to God she is.’
Someone stop this agony, prayed Rachel. She had dared to hope that Xavier would be able to reassure her on that one thing – even if some other disaster was about to spring itself on her.
‘She was fine a couple of hours ago at the concert,’ he said, his voice heavy with apprehension.
‘When you have a girl you worry about murder and attack and rape and unwanted pregnancy,’ Rachel said. ‘Is that what I should know about? Is she pregnant? I’ve had my suspicions.’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s yours!’
‘Yes.’
‘You unspeakable bastard!’ she said flatly.
He made no reply. ‘Where would she have gone? To that young man?’
‘No, that’s all over. He’s not old enough yet to deal with someone like Tara.’
‘Quite.’
Rachel felt hollow and sick. When the telephone rang she grasped it as though it were a raft in a rough sea. ‘Yes.’ She listened for no more than a few seconds. ‘Yes. I’ll come – right away.’
She turned to Xavier. ‘She in St Stephen’s Hospital. Bleeding; suspected miscarriage.’
‘I’ll drive you,’ he said.
‘I think I’d rather accept that favour from anyone in the world but you,’ she said bitterly. ‘But I’m well over the limit now – and there’s no one else is there?’
They were there in fifteen minutes. Xavier drove like a madman. Sitting next to him in the passenger seat Rachel began to realize that his feelings were violently aroused. A sense of impotent desperation seemed to fill the car.
This was not the picture of a mature man who has been fooling around with a sexy young girl and now regrets his actions and his wife’s anger. This was a picture of a man in real pain.
She supposed she should be grateful that at least her daughter had not been used as a casual plaything by a man who had no appreciation of her. Or was there some other, more devious reason?
Rachel did not know. She could not be bothered to conjecture. All that mattered was Tara coming through this. Regaining her strength and rediscovering her zest for living. Coming home.
‘Who takes preference here?’ Rachel asked Xavier as they progressed down the corridor towards the room the night sister had indicated. ‘The father of the unborn child or the mother of the suffering daughter?’
His grey eyes were utterly bleak and Rachel saw that it would be unthinkable to play the possessive parent, even if that had been in her nature.
Tara was lying stretched out under the sheets. The bed was tilted so that her feet were higher than her head. Her eyes, watery dark with the aftermath of panic and pain, leapt between lover and mother, anxiety and defiance jostling one another for position.
She nodded towards her raised feet. ‘They’re trying to stoop it leaking out,’ she said shakily.
Rachel was almost weeping with the blessed relief of seeing Tara alive.
Xavier was holding back, his massive self control stretched to the limit as he looked at this miracle of femininity on the bed: death white, gaunt, grey crescents of puffy skin under her eyes. Hair sticky with sweat and entirely without artifice. Utterly, heart-stoppingly desirable.
‘It’s still there,’ Tara told them with a tight little smile. ‘Fighting like hell to hang on.’
‘Oh God!’ said Rachel.
‘I’m sorry Mum.’ Tara looked with appeal at Rachel. ‘I should have told you.’ Her gaze rested only briefly on her mother and then switched longingly to Saul.
Rachel felt her heart crushed. ‘I’ll leave you two alone for a few moments,’ she said quietly, moving out into the corridor where she walked up and down without purpose.
Tara took Saul’s hand and drew it to her face, kissing it tenderly. ‘I’m not going to lose this baby,’ she told him. ‘I won’t let it go. I promise you. The doctor said my cervix hadn’t dilated so there’s every chance.
He stroked her head. Never in his life had he experienced anything approaching the depth of emotion that was aroused in him now. Even his greatest moments of musical elation and triumph were eclipsed. He would move heaven and earth for this small astonishing creature who was battling so fiercely for the life of his child. Their child.
‘How long will they keep you here?’ he asked. ‘If I didn’t think it would be dangerous I’d steal you from them right now.’
‘I don’t know. Maybe a few days; the doctor said they had to be sure the bleeding had stopped. Not long.’
‘Far too long,’ he said with a grim smile. ‘And then I shall take you to my house in Oxford. You’ll like it there.’
She smiled back. She was too weak to put up any opposition to this breathtaking masterfulness. And even if she were stronger she doubted if she would make a stand. The temptation to be with Saul, to exist in the glow of his presence, to rest in his arms was simply too powerful to resist.
In the depths of her consciousness some little spark of premonition suggested to her that some older Tara, in some future moment, might look back on all this with tolerant amazement.
But just now all she wanted was him.
And like Saul, Tara had a strength of belief in herself that allowed her to pursue her own ends long after other people would have bowed to the demands of compromise.
The next day Rachel came to visit on her own. She brought some early daffodils and slender sprays of mauve freesia. Beside the five dozen red roses and the huge stargazer lilies which Saul Xavier had sent earlier they looked somewhat insignificant.
Breathing in the heavy scent of Xavier’s flowers Rachel felt queasy.
‘Well?’ She looked down at Tara with a gentle smile.
‘Still there,’ Tara said cheerily. Her colour had come back, her hair was washed and shiny and her eyes sparkled with the renewed joy of living. ‘I think it’s a survivor.’
Rachel tried to think of ways to say what she knew she had to say. Seconds passed.
‘Are you sorry I didn’t lose it?’ Tara asked. ‘At least this way you’re spared the embarrassment of wondering whether to say something about it “being for the best”.’
‘When did I ever make that kind of comment?’ Rachel asked, deeply hurt.
‘You’d have thought it though, wouldn’t you?’ Tara challenged.
‘Yes, I’m afraid I would.’ Rachel hesitated. ‘I’m on your side, you see.’
‘Which means?’
‘Which means I think it’s crazy for you to be having a baby when you’re hardly more than a child yourself, when you’re not married to the father and he happens to be some twenty years your senior – and about whom you know scarcely a thing.’
‘Well, that certainly puts it in a nutshell! Thanks a lot.’
‘Was it just a mistake?’ Rachel enquired gently, already miserably aware that whatever battle they were embarking on, she was going to lose it.
Tara stared at the riot of roses. ‘That question is so inappropriate to what happened and how it felt that I can’t even begin to answer it.’
Rachel winced, hearing an echo of the teenage scorn that Tara used to heap on her and Richard, three, four, five, six years ago.
‘Oh, Mum – that was cruel. I didn’t mean it to sound like that. But the way it happened was just so – well, inevitable.’
‘You’re really in love with Saul Xavier?’
‘Yes. I know it sounds ridiculous, but it’s true. And I know I shouldn’t have made love with him. It was wrong and stupid – irresponsible too. But I just feel like a changed person.’
A black cloud of helpless gloom settled around Rachel at the prospect of Tara’s feisty spirit being ta
med by pregnancy, childcare and dependence on a rich man’s protection. ‘He has a wife, Tara. Have you thought of that?’ Rachel demanded. ‘Have you thought about her?’
‘Of course I have. What do you think I am – some sort of monster?’
Rachel felt physically assailed by Tara’s anger. ‘What is he offering?’ she enquired calmly. ‘Marriage? Or setting you up as an expensive mistress in a luxury Knightsbridge flat with a charge account at Harrods?’
‘Now who’s turning the knife?’ Tara flashed back. Her face became vulnerable and wistful. ‘I don’t know the ins and outs yet. He may not be able to get a divorce. Not straight away.’
Rachel sighed. She refrained from comment. If only the young didn’t always have to learn all the most commonplace and obvious pitfalls through experience.
‘Look Tara – I admit I’m shocked. And dismayed as well. You’re letting yourself in for a lifetime of responsibility. Children are chains and fetters even if totally wonderful. I should know. And you could have had years of freedom to achieve something for yourself before all that.’
‘Oh please!’ Tara threw her eyes to the ceiling.
‘But I’m glad as well, because there’s a new life beginning. A life that belongs to you and me and Daddy as well as Saul. This baby is good for me too in a curious kind of way.’
A pause. ‘Yes’ Tara sounded less than enthusiastic. ‘I suppose it’s a bit like a re-birth, a resurrection for Daddy.’
Rachel smiled, warmed by a new feeling of closeness.
‘When you’re home we’ll make all kinds of plans,’ Rachel said, suddenly enlivened by the prospect of visits to baby stores and the chance to nurture Tara through this problematic but hugely exciting period.
‘Mum, I’m not coming home,’ Tara stated brutally. ‘I’m going to live with Saul.’
Rachel stared at her.
‘From now!’ Tara said, making things crystal clear, digging the knife in deep.
Rachel felt anger surge inside her in a beating red wave. Oh, the brazen effrontery of youth, she thought looking at her daughter, buoyant and irrepressible, completely restored to the delightful task of planning her life when less than twenty-four hours before she had been at the gates of hell. A daughter who was about to go home with a man whose wife – cast off and probably perfectly innocent – had shared with him sufficient years to represent a lifetime. Tara’s lifetime certainly.
‘Don’t look at me like that.’ Tara warned.
There was worse to come. As they blazed at each other with eyes and wills, Saul Xavier appeared in the doorway.
‘Rachel,’ he said in the deep soft tones he had used when he spoke to her at the funeral. He placed his hand on her shoulder, sympathetic and understanding.
‘Don’t make things more difficult,’ Rachel told him caustically. ‘I want to hate you.’
Xavier nodded, taking due note. He moved to the bed, stood looking down for a while, then bent and took Tara in his arms.
His strong deep kiss sent a thrill through Tara’s nerves. She looked at him with deep admiration. Any other man in this situation, confronted with the bitter and angry mother of the girl he had knocked up – and he knew Rachel was quite capable of coming out with that kind of phrase – would have been diminished, stripped psychologically naked and humiliated. But Saul Xavier’s dignity and conviction shone through the cringing embarrassment of the scenario. His self and esteem and integrity were in no way damaged.
‘I was just saying to Tara that if I were your wife I should feel like committing murder,’ Rachel observed.
Saul nodded thoughtfully. There had been a particularly distasteful scene with Georgiana in the early hours of the morning. Rachel probably had a point about her feeling murderous. ‘I think she will find that she prefers living her own life once she gets used to the idea of my being with Tara,’ he said calmly, refuelling Tara’s admiration and sending chills of horror down Rachel’s spine.
‘So when did this amazing love affair spring into life?’ Rachel enquired.
‘When I heard Tara in the church singing the Pie Jesu for her father.’ Saul responded without hesitation. ‘If I thought a child of mine would sing like that at my funeral I would die a happy man.’
‘I hope your child brings you happiness whilst you’re alive,’ Rachel told him drily. ‘I wouldn’t wish it wish it even on you for your child to grow up and throw her or his youth away.’
There was a brittle silence.
‘It’s time I went,’ Rachel said, ‘before I say things I really mean.’
‘Oh Mummy!’ Tara’s eyes filled suddenly with tears. ‘You’ll come and visit us lots, won’t you?’
‘Oh yes. I’ll soon get used to the idea of all this – just like Saul’s wife. And of course I can always find consolation In Don Giovanni’s arms.’ She gave Tara an ironic smile, then turned to the watchful Maestro.
‘Good-bye’ she said to him. ‘I can see that you are already infatuated with the idea of your child. Please don’t forget to cherish mine.’
CHAPTER 13
Georgiana awarded herself an especially self-indulgent day.
First there was a lengthy visit to her hairdresser, then a manicure for fingers and toes. After that a bikini-line wax which whilst a touch painful left her with a satin smooth finish on her inner thighs. And then a truly wonderful treat – a long sensuous massage designed to soothe away all tension from her muscles. Georgiana knew she suffered from tension in her muscles for the masseuse always told her so.
Bodily refreshed she then went for her weekly session with Dr Denton, the last she would have before setting off to the Caribbean . Although of course when she got things worked out with Xavier he would probably want her to stay at home with him.
Georgiana was not entirely sure what her feelings were about that.
She lay on Dr Denton’s couch, her dove-grey suede boots neatly parked beneath her. Just out of her vision he waited for her opening words.
He thought she was looking particularly delicious today, swathed in soft charcoal-grey cashmere, her baby blonde hair glistening, her white hands clasped together just above her slender waist like a dove of peace.
As usual he felt no concerns about her silences. He was perfectly content to sit close by her and gaze.
‘It’s a time of change,’ she said at last.
He waited. ‘A new year, a new start.’
‘Those are the kind of things we are trained to think of as one year merges into the next,’ he agreed softly.
‘We have to make things change. We have to do it ourselves,’ Georgiana said, surprising Dr Denton a little. She was normally so passive, expecting good things to happen to her in the manner that the sun comes up each morning.
‘Whose voice says that to you?’ Dr Denton enquired.
‘My own,’ Georgiana said, believing that to be the case, forgetting the words of Xavier and Alicia and the countless other strong-willed, successful people who filled her social life. It was the popular doctrine of the day; that you were responsible for you own good fortune, wasn’t it? It was a doctrine never shared by her parents, of course. They had always held the view that certain chosen people are simply destined for good fortune, come what may.
Dr Denton waited, hopeful of some interesting development on this theme. But as usual, Georgiana denied him gratification. She often teetered on the brink, but rarely put so much as a toe in the water.
Once again she steered her discourse back to her early days. On she went, over the old idyllic ground. It seemed to Dr Denton that with every week Georgiana’s childhood became suffused with ever more golden light.
But his attempts to hold up the mirror of life to her eyes and persuade her to confront the changing reflections were always charmingly and stubbornly resisted.
‘How do you think I’ve done?’ she asked unexpectedly at the end of the session.
‘Since when?’
‘Since the beginning.’
‘You have made
good progress,’ he said carefully.
She smiled. ‘Yes, I have, haven’t I?’
He could not tell if she really believed that, or if she was desperately persuading herself it was true.
‘When I next come to see you, I will have something very special to tell you,’ Georgiana confided with a light in her eye. Her smile now had a new quality – something he had not seen before.
As she prepared to leave he felt concern for her. He reminded himself that her actions were not his responsibility. Neither had he any reason – logical, theoretical or intuitive – to believe she might be about to do herself harm.
But might she be capable of doing harm to others? That was a question which had occasionally crossed his mind. But never before, in anything but theory.
Georgiana had a light supper with Alicia. There was a mousse of poached salmon, some slivers of lightly toasted brown bread and a fresh fruit salad to follow.
She hinted to Alicia that tonight she was planning to make some momentous changes, but would say no more than that. Alicia had arched her eyebrows, speculative and approving.
When Alicia left her to go to the theatre, Georgiana made her way to the Albert Hall to watch Xavier conduct the New Year concert; a heady programme of Mozart, Sibelius, Ravel and Beethoven. All very accessible, although the whole thing promised to be tediously long.
However she was entertained by the innovative and dramatic lighting effects, and most especially the dramatically highlighted Maestro. Seeing Xavier like this at a distance; theatrically presented and magical, she could almost imagine that she lusted after him. It was the reality of closeness that alarmed her and switched off desire. Xavier was so powerful, his tongue like a steel rod, his long fingers cruel batons, his thighs hard millstones to crush delicate flesh.
Revulsion ran through her veins, coursing from head to toe.
And yet when she looked at him, a towering figure of authority, so dark, so compelling, so aristocratic, she felt a contrasting shiver of anticipation. Maybe it was the knowledge that other women wanted him that thrilled her. He was known the world over; a sex object for discerning and cultured women, a latter day god of Greek mythology.
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