by Galia Ryan
She looked around the university auditorium, which was packed with families and friends of the graduates. From the corner of her eye she watched her husband craning his neck to locate his daughter in the line of graduates waiting to approach the dais.
Hopefully Stephanie would take her qualifications somewhere else. Somewhere they would stand her in good stead. Hadn’t she mentioned something about America recently? It was a pleasing thought. Then they could all get on with their lives in peace.
“Look, there she is.” Alain was pointing to a group huddled in front of the stage. “Did you book Auvergne for lunch?”
“Of course. Will you stop worrying and just enjoy the ceremony?”
“Sorry.” He glanced at his programme. “Did she mention anything to you about her plans for the summer?”
Amelie sighed. “Only the usual, that she and Gabi intend to spend some time down in Antibes. Other than that, I’ve no idea.” She smiled to mask her impatience with the topic.
“When was the last time she spent any time with us?” Alain sounded grumpy.
“Oh, for goodness sake, Alain. Why on earth would she want to do that? Look at her. She’s intelligent and beautiful. Let her enjoy it while she can.”
She saw him frown and immediately felt guilty. They hardly ever argued, mainly because she chose not to. She reached over and squeezed his hand in a show of contrition.
“Hmm,” he murmured. Then, “Oh look, they’re going up. You did arrange the portrait sitting?”
“Yes,” she replied, “I did arrange the portrait sitting.”
Amelie knew he wanted everything to be perfect, but there was a limit. For heaven’s sake, if he were like this on her graduation, what would he be like on her wedding day? That would be next, she supposed. It didn’t bear thinking about.
She wondered how much longer the ceremony would go on. The line of students seemed never-ending. If only she could have brought her book with her, or even a magazine. But that would never have done. Alain would not have been happy at all. She stifled a sigh and tried to look interested in the proceedings.
There was movement farther down the row of seats. People were standing and shuffling to let someone through. When the vacant seat next to her was unexpectedly pulled down, she was somewhat annoyed. After all, it wasn’t as if there were no other empty seats in the place.
“Hello, Amelie.”
“Charles, good heavens! Fancy you being here. I didn’t know you were coming.”
She allowed him to kiss her cheek. The day was suddenly looking brighter.
“Alain told me about it a couple of days ago, and so I thought I’d pop along and get the rundown for when Claudette graduates next year. Have I missed anything?”
Alain had already leaned across her. “You’re just in time. Look, Stephanie’s up next.”
* * *
They were meeting for the last time as lovers.
In the future, Charles would be no more to her than her father’s business partner and friend. With a newly dawning maturity Stephanie understood that in his own way he had loved her, just as she, in her own way, had loved him. Both though realized that her graduation marked the end of a chapter.
They were in the apartment, and she was looking sadly at the Odalisque.
“I will miss her.” Exactly as she had done years earlier in that same spot, she turned to accept a glass of wine from him.
“You have an affinity with her.”
“I do. In more ways than one,” she smiled. “Do you remember? This is where we stood the first time you bought me here.”
“I remember.”
“It seems so long ago,” she said softly.
“It was.”
“Do you regret any of it?”
“No.” He, too, was gazing at the painting.
“Neither do I. We had fun, didn’t we? I can’t believe we managed to keep it a secret for all these years.”
“It was touch and go at times.” Charles gave a chuckle. “Do you remember Madrid? When you upset Mathilde Buisson?”
“I was terrible, wasn’t I?”
“You were. For weeks I waited for her to say something.”
“Thank God she didn’t.”
“Indeed.”
“Do you think anyone ever knew about us?”
“I have no idea. I don’t think so.”
“Well, it’s over now.” She felt unbelievably sad. Wanting to change the subject, she added, “Tell me about the Odalisque. How did you come by her?”
“I’ve had her all my life, actually,” he said.
“Literally? You didn’t buy her as an investment?”
“No.”
She gave him an encouraging smile. “I sense a story.”
“Do you?” He was looking at her, his eyes full of love and regret.
“Tell me. Let’s talk about something uplifting.”
“Uplifting?” He frowned. “There is a story, but it certainly isn’t uplifting.”
“Go on.”
Charles was silent for a moment. He seemed to be deliberating. “Okay,” he shrugged, “I was born in Nice, during the Second World War. I spent my childhood there. I’ve no memories of it, though. Too young. Look, give me your glass. If you want to know about the Odalisque, I’m going to need another wine.”
“My mother never spoke of my father.” They were sitting on the sofa, and Charles had taken her hand. “They weren’t married when I was conceived, and I never knew him. Just as well, probably. When I was four or five, she married someone else. In fact, I grew up believing that man was my father.”
“How awful.”
“Not really. He was a good man.” Charles was staring up at the Matisse again. “For as long as I can remember this painting hung on our wall. I was eighteen when my mother died. I was clearing out her things and found some papers.”
Stephanie waited. He had never given this much of himself before, and she sensed he was struggling.
“Not only did I discover I was illegitimate, but I found out I was the result of an affair my mother had with a German officer. It’s not something I’ve ever spoken about. Not even to your father.”
“I’m so sorry,” she breathed. Her heart ached for him.
“Anyway, before he abandoned her—and me, of course—my father gave her two paintings. She was supposed to sell them if she needed money.”
“Why didn’t she?” Stephanie asked.
“She did. At least I believe she sold one.”
“But not both,” Stephanie said.
He shook his head slowly. “No. Why, I have no idea. Perhaps because, other than an unwanted pregnancy, it was all she had left.”
“Oh. She must have loved him.” Stephanie turned towards him, but his face was set. She glanced at the painting again, unsure of what to say next.
“I have often wondered something, though.” He spoke hesitantly.
“What’s that?”
“Henri Matisse lived in Nice at the same time as my mother. His models were often local women.”
“You think she might have modelled for him?”
“Who knows?” Charles said.
Stephanie’s voice was full of awe. “But that would be amazing. Her lover would have bought it from Matisse as a gift. Perhaps that’s why she kept it.” She smiled at him.
“Maybe. Anyway, knowing all that, do you still want her?” he asked.
“Of course I do. Look at her. What man could resist such an offer? His every wish obeyed and yet she asks nothing in return. Of course I want her.”
At last he took her into his arms. “Then she will be yours one day.”
“Do you promise?” Leaning back, she looked into his eyes.
“Didn’t I tell you so all that time ago? Just let me keep her a little while longer. I want to be reminded of you.”
Chapter 15.
A week later Stephanie was again lodging with Olivia. This time at her flat in Kensington, London. She wasn’t sure how she felt
about the city. It was nothing like Bologna or Madrid, or any other European metropolis she had visited. Those places had vibrancy, a particular light and colour. Regardless of the time of day, this city appeared sombre. But she was not there for the architecture, she was there to polish her conversational English, and for that reason had signed up for an advanced course at a language school.
Olivia had been delighted to see her, and happily suggested she stay as long as she wished. It would be the perfect opportunity to introduce her to the remains of the Season. Not that there was much left, she had complained on meeting Stephanie off the Eurostar train. A month or two earlier and she would have been able to do so much more for her. Ascot, Wimbledon and Henley, for example.
When Stephanie pointed out she wasn’t really into sport, so perhaps it was just as well, Olivia threw up her hands in despair. “Darling, it’s not about sport. It’s about being seen.”
Luckily there was still polo. “That you will enjoy,” Olivia promised as they crossed the station concourse and emerged into the stifling summer heat and traffic. “Lots of beautiful men on horses, and of course anybody who is anybody, including royalty.”
“I like the sound of that. I quite fancy the idea of a prince or two.”
“Well, you’ll have to get in line.” They were heading towards the taxi rank. “And believe me, it will be a very long one.”
Later, they went to Clarige’s for tea.
“There are certain things one has to do here,” Olivia said, “and afternoon tea is one of them.”
Stephanie smiled and shook her head. “The English and their traditions.”
“You’ll get used to it. It’s what makes the place what it is.”
Over champagne and savouries Olivia continued to outline her plans. “Like I said, there’s polo. We’ll go down to Windsor for that. The Queen will be there, of course, and Philip. The Prince of Wales plays, you see.”
Stephanie tried to look suitably impressed.
“And we’ll make sure we get down to Cowes for the regatta and a ball or two. I don’t suppose you’ve sailed at all?” she asked hopefully.
Stephanie shook her head. “Sorry, I haven’t the first clue about boats.”
“Not to worry, you won’t be the only one, I can assure you. But I do need to get you in front of the right people, especially now that you have graduated. Oh! I nearly forgot. Congratulations, darling. Well done.” She raised her glass in salute.
“Thanks. I have to say, though, I’m glad it’s all behind me. Now I can live a little.”
She spied the scones and clotted cream, wondering if she dared. It was all too easy to put a little weight on. On the other hand, she could join a gym while she was there.
“And Charles,” Olivia was saying, “I hear you are no longer lovers?”
“No. We will always be friends, though.”
“I am glad to hear it. It’s always good to have a man like him on your side.” Olivia delicately bit into a ham, mustard and redcurrant butter sandwich. After swallowing, she dabbed her mouth and said, “Now, isn’t this just delightful?”
Stephanie hadn’t seen Giancarlo since leaving Bologna, nor had she expected to. As far as she was concerned they were friends and nothing more. She had made sure of that.
She was therefore surprised when he called. The sound of his voice was more irritating than unwelcome. Who had given him Olivia’s phone number?
He explained that he was en route to the Sudan and only in London for a day. He wondered if she wanted to catch up.
Her first instinct was to refuse. She cast about for an excuse, any excuse. But she had to admit, she was curious. Was he really an aid worker? He’d always said it was something he wanted to do. Well, she had little else planned and could spare an hour. She agreed to meet him at Speakers’ Corner, on the northeast corner of Hyde Park.
She was leaning against the railings, scanning the passersby. He was late. Or maybe he was lost. She had thought the location would be easy to find. For God’s sake, Marble Arch tube station was on the corner. How hard could it be? She glanced at her watch again. She would give him a little longer, and then go.
“Stephanie.”
She only just heard her name above the din of the traffic.
Giancarlo was weaving dangerously between lines of impatient drivers waiting for the traffic lights to turn green. To her surprise, her first thought was how good he looked. Even in jeans and a t-shirt. She frowned. Back in Bologna she hadn’t thought so. What had changed? As the traffic roared into life he narrowly missed being hit by a delivery van. Leaping for the pavement, he gave a cavalier wave to the driver. The gesture in return was obscene.
“Whoever said Italians were crazy drivers has never seen London traffic.” He laughed, throwing his arms around her. “Ciao, bella.” He placed his lips softly on hers.
“You never give up, do you?” she replied drily, easing from his embrace at the same time.
“You wouldn’t want me to, cara.”
“And stop using those endearments.”
“Okay.” He grinned. “Where do you want to go?” He gazed at the wide expanse of park.
“Let’s get a coffee. Then you can tell me all about what you’ve been up to recently.”
“Okay,” he said easily.
They strolled along the path. The weather had been warm earlier in the day. Now it was simply hot. Stephanie was glad she was wearing something light. He must feel the same, she thought, stealing a glance at his muscular, tanned arms.
Suddenly she realised what was different about him.
“Where are your glasses?”
“I only wear them now when I’m really tired. Contact lenses.” He opened his eyes in an exaggerated fashion.
“Oh.”
They strolled on.
“I thought you might come back to Bologna.”
“I was going to, but you know how it is.” Her response sounded lame, even to her.
“So,” he said, “what are you doing in London?”
“Taking a course in English,” she replied.
“But your English is fine.”
“Not if I want to land a good job.”
“And how many languages do you think it will take? More than French, English and Italian?” He gave her a long look. “So, you are still focused on climbing to the top?”
“Where else is there?”
“There’s Africa.”
Impulsively, she tucked her arm in his and gave it a squeeze. “That’s your passion, not mine. But if you give me an address I’ll write while you’re away.”
“Will you? Then your letters will keep our love alive.”
“Giancarlo ...” She pulled away again. “There is no love to keep alive.”
“And so now you break my heart.” Seeing the look on her face he hung his head to hide his grin. “I’m sorry. I won’t tease you anymore,” he said contritely.
“Good. Because if you don’t stop, I’m going home right now.”
He raised his hands in surrender.
“Okay,” she said. “Over there for coffee. You’re buying.”
“And I was worried you might have changed, cara.”
Stephanie had no intention of spending any more time with Giancarlo than it took to drink a cappuccino. But at some point she seemed to have suggested a stroll down Oxford Street. And that wasn’t all. Dim sum at a Chinese restaurant in Soho had also been her idea.
As evening fell, they wound up in one of the city’s side streets and a pub dating from Victorian times. Boldly renovated with “period” features and an overdose of gilt the facade was also festooned with dozens of baskets of garishly coloured petunias. The barman was from Australia, his strident antipodean tone making everything seem even more extraordinary.
Giancarlo had made his way back from the bar with a second round of drinks. The place was so busy that the only seats they could find were the low stool he was perched on and the end of a long, upholstered bench seat.
“About a year.”
He had already explained he was in the city to meet up with two other aid workers, who were both old hands returning to Africa.
“I’m the trainee,” he laughed.
When had he become so confident? she wondered.
“Aren’t you worried at all?” she wanted to know.
“Not worried, exactly. More,” he paused, “more concerned about whether I’ll be able to cope with what I find.”
She was unsure what to say. She knew she would never go to such places. Why would anyone purposely choose to witness such suffering? Anyway, if he really wanted to help, all he had to do was donate money to an established charity. Wasn’t that what they were there for?
He took a mouthful of his beer. “You know,” he went on, “the media is always full of pictures, so I can’t say anything over there will be a shock. But you can turn away from a photo.”
At that moment she knew she would sleep with him that night. Not fucking but making love. She felt her cheeks burn.
“What’s wrong?” He regarded her with a puzzled expression.
“Nothing. Tell me more about Africa.”
As he spoke she studied him. No longer hidden behind glasses, his dark brown eyes were so much more alive. You could almost fall into their depths. She cursed herself. Get over it. It’s only Giancarlo. She obviously needed to get out more, meet some decent men.
She could see he was surprised when she suggested they go back to Olivia’s apartment.
“I always thought it was what you wanted.” She spoke with deliberate indifference. “Or am I’m wrong?”
“I do want to,” he said simply.
They took a taxi back to Kensington. At one point during the journey he placed his hand over hers. She removed it. Their relationship was not that of lovers, so there was hardly a need for intimate gestures.
He looked confused, even a little hurt. She stared from the window of the cab. He needed to get real, toughen up.