Never Leave Me

by Margaret Pemberton

  In May she received a letter from her father telling her that Luke and Annabel were divorcing and that Luke was giving up his life in London and was buying a farm on the outskirts of Bayeux. He watched her read it, knowing very well the news that it contained.

  It was common knowledge that Johnson Matthie were looking for a new chairman and the advertising grapevine had quickly passed the word along the line that not only was Luke Brandon leaving Johnson Matthie, but that he was not moving to another agency. He was abandoning his business career entirely and moving, minus his wife and child, to a farm he had bought in the Normandy countryside. There were rumours that the girl he had been in love with had died; that in his grief, he was fast becoming a recluse.

  He looked across at her as she slipped the letter into her desk, her face betraying no hint of what she was feeling. He had no doubt that, for Luke, Lisette was as good as dead. He knew that there had been no correspondence between them. That she had kept her word to him and that the affair was over.

  ‘What does your father have to say?’ he asked, propelling his wheelchair smoothly forward towards her.

  She raised her shoulder in a slight, dismissive shrug, her eyes carefully avoiding his. ‘Maman is not going to visit Valmy at all this year. They will spend two weeks together in Nice in June and then Maman will return to Paris and Papa to Valmy.’

  It was a hot day and she was wearing a pale mauve silk shirt and a brilliant turquoise skirt, her legs bare, her feet in delicate sandals, her hair swept up in an elegant figure of eight.

  ‘Any other news?’ he asked with forced indifference.

  There was a brief, almost imperceptible pause and then she said, with a too bright smile, ‘No, chéri. Madame Bride’s arthritis is worse, Madame Chamot is visiting her daughter in Toulouse, and life in Sainte-Marie-des-Ponts is continuing as usual.’

  His lips tightened. Some devil inside him wanted to hear Luke’s name on her lips. Wanted to hear the inflection in her voice, see the expression in her eyes when she uttered it. Jealousy rocked through him. He had come to terms with his disability. He had come to terms with the fact that Dominic was not his son. But he could not come to terms with the fact that her love was given elsewhere.

  ‘I’m flying to Washington in the morning,’ he said, spinning the wheelchair expertly round and away from her. ‘I want to close the United Motels deal personally.’

  Her too bright smile faded, and the immeasurable sadness that filled her eyes whenever she thought herself unobserved returned.

  ‘Would you like me to come with you, chéri?’ she asked tentatively, already knowing what his answer would be.

  ‘No.’ The wheelchair did not stop in its smooth passage to the door. ‘It’s going to be all work. I would have no time to keep you company.’

  ‘Will your secretary be going with you?’ she asked, trying to keep her voice light.

  The wheelchair halted, he turned round, regarding her steadily with brandy-dark eyes. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘She always travels with me.’

  And then his wheelchair shot out into the hallway and she was once more alone.

  Although he had made no sexual overtures to her since his accident, she knew that it was not because he was incapable of love-making. He was. He was also physically just as attractive as he had ever been. He had returned from Mexico determined that the wheelchair would make as little difference to his life as possible, and he had succeeded admirably.

  He exercised fiercely every day, his arm and back muscles rippling with vigour. He still drove himself, his wheelchair in the boot of his adapted Cadillac limousine. He continued to fly to Washington, to New York, to Houston, to Acapulco. He attended dinners and banquets and film premieres, and by sheer force of will and personality was still regarded as one of the most sexually attractive men in whatever gathering he found himself.

  People who had heard of his accident and had not met him since, expected to feel pity and repulsion, and perhaps even curiosity, when they met him again. None of them did so. He was an object for no one’s pity; he was a big, handsome, powerful man, as much in demand socially as he had ever been.

  Lisette had met his blonde, Swedish secretary only on a few occasions, but they had been enough to convince her that the girl was in love with him. She rose from her desk, her heart hurting, wondering if they slept together. If, when he made his frequent trips to New York, he still met the model he had admitted to having an affair with. Her nails pressed deep into her palms as she walked towards the French windows that led out on to the patio.

  She had been as loving towards him, as physically demonstrative as it was possible to be when meeting with no encouragement. As the weeks had turned into months and his attitude towards her had not altered, she had been filled with growing despair. There were scores of men who would have been only too happy to offer her comfort, but she had frozen any overture the instant it had been made. She didn’t want another affair. She didn’t simply want sex. She wanted sex with Greg.

  She stepped out into the early summer heat. In a few weeks’ time she would be thirty. If Dieter had lived, he would have been forty-four. A tide of grief swept over her, ripping wide the dusty years and sending them scattering. Dieter had loved and understood her. There had been no lies between them. No deceit. In that moment, on the patio of her San Francisco home, her pain at his loss was as raw as it had been on the morning of his death.

  ‘What am I to do?’ she whispered. ‘Oh, Dieter, my love, what am I to do?’

  ‘Why couldn’t Mel visit us at Easter?’ Dominic asked, when she came into his room that night to check that he had finished his homework.

  He turned down the volume on his record player, subduing the raucous tones of a young white singer who sounded black. ‘She wanted to come.’

  ‘Who is the singer?’ she asked, wondering what she could say to him to soften his disappointment.

  He shrugged impatiently. ‘A guy called Presley.’ He took out a crumpled blue air letter from his school bag. ‘She says she had to go to her grandmother’s for three weeks because her mother went on a trip to Italy with friends. She says her grandmother finds her a nuisance and she didn’t like it there. She wants to know if she can come here for the summer holidays instead.’

  Lisette hugged his shoulders. ‘It’s a very long way, mon petit. And Melanie’s mother will probably have made other plans.’

  ‘But we could ask,’ Dominic persisted. ‘Please, Maman.’

  Lisette wondered what Greg’s reaction would be to the prospect of having Melanie once more beneath his roof. He had liked her enormously, and his generous nature wasn’t one that was likely to bear resentment towards a child, no matter what his feelings for her father.

  She spoke to him the evening he returned from Washington. ‘… and so Dominic would like Melanie to come over for the summer holidays. They get on so well together, chéri, and if Annabel is agreeable …’

  He stared at her as if she had taken leave of her senses. ‘Have Brandon’s daughter!’ Dominic’s sis …’ He broke off sharply. ‘Have her here? After all that has happened? Sweet Christ, you must be mad!’

  She had been writing a letter to her father. Her eyes flew to his, the blood draining from her face as she saw the depth of his fury. His eyes were like live coals, his knuckles white on the arms of his wheelchair.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she stammered, thinking of his heart, terrified that he was going to have another attack. ‘Truly I am. I won’t mention it ever again …’

  The expression in his eyes made her gasp. There was such bitter, burning contempt in them that she could hardly breathe. ‘Greg, please …’ She rose dizzily to her feet but he shot the wheelchair round, not even pausing to look behind him as she swayed against her desk, her face ravaged.

  The whole hideous scene had been for nothing. A week later she received a terse, typewritten letter from Annabel in which she said that she had discovered that Dominic and Melanie were corresponding. She had forbidden Mela
nie to continue the correspondence and wished Lisette to instruct Dominic likewise. Luke was in Normandy. There was to be a divorce on the grounds of his desertion. He had, however, told her the truth. That he had never loved her; that it was Lisette he loved, and had always loved. He had told her of their affair. That he had no intention of ever living with herself and Melanie again. Lisette would understand that there could be no further communication between them, or between their children. Their friendship, so grossly betrayed, was at an end.

  Dominic had been uncomprehending. ‘But why can’t I write to Mel any more?’ he asked bewilderedly, ‘Why won’t Aunt Annabel let her write to me?’

  ‘Because she and Uncle Luke no longer live together,’ Lisette had said, hating herself for being the cause of his hurt, hating Luke for his unnecessary callousness to Annabel.

  ‘But I still don’t understand …’

  ‘Aunt Annabel has been very hurt, Dominic. She doesn’t want to be reminded of the past, and we are part of her past. And so she has asked that we don’t communicate with her, or with Melanie.’

  ‘That’s silly, and I shall still write!’ Dominic said savagely, pulling away from her, not allowing her to comfort him.

  She never knew how long he persisted in writing, but no letters came back in reply. Her father told her that Annabel and Melanie never visited Normandy and that Luke rarely spoke of them. He had bought a fifteen-hundred acre farm some sixteen kilometres from Valmy, and was a regular visitor.

  Lisette was scrupulous in making no reference to Luke in her answering letters, but her father continued to document Luke’s visits, happily unsuspecting that his information was unwelcome. In 1959 he wrote, jubilant about de Gaulle’s return to power, ‘At long last the man destined to govern France is governing her. I can’t tell you how happy I am to see mon cher General once again in the Elysee Palace. As for Luke, he is to marry a young school teacher from Caen. Her name is Ginette Duboscq and she has been several times to Valmy. She is very pretty and twenty years Luke’s junior.’

  Lisette put the letter carefully away and hoped that Luke would be happy. She knew now that she never would be. Nothing had changed in her relationship with Greg. There was an unseen barrier between them that was never either scaled or broken down. The memory of the happiness they had known when Melanie had visited them was no longer a comfort to her, but a torment. Her sexual feelings had always been strong. She knew now that it was her own sexuality that had precipitated her affair with Dieter. That had given her the rashness to enter into marriage with a man she barely knew. And that sexuality now had no outlet. She was thirty-four. She was still beautiful, still desirable, but her emotional life was a desert, her inner loneliness absolute.

  Very occasionally she received news of Annabel and Melanie. Annabel had continued to keep in sporadic touch with Heloise. Christmas cards were exchanged, postcards sent. A year after Luke remarried, Annabel followed suit. Her new husband was a peer of the realm, a widower, and extremely wealthy. Melanie was fourteen and attending Benenden Girls’School in the depths of the Kent countryside. Lisette’s impression was that Melanie was an encumbrance whom Annabel’s new husband was quite happy to do without.

  Dominic no longer asked about her. He was fifteen, happy in his schoolwork and with a large circle of friends. Despite his disability, Greg’s camping trips with him continued. One summer they went as far north as Alaska, another as far south as Oaxaca. There was never any suggestion from Greg that she should accompany them. Those days were over, destroyed by her faithlessness and the death of his love for her.

  ‘I wish we could go and visit Grandmére and Grandpére this summer,’ Lucy said one afternoon as they sat around the pool. ‘We haven’t been back to Valmy for years and years and years, and yet Daddy is always flying to Europe on business trips.’

  From a portable transister radio, Connie Francis bemoaned the fact that her lover had lipstick on his collar.

  ‘Yes, why can’t we?’ Dominic asked, rolling over on to his stomach, putting down the book he had been reading. ‘We’ve all got masses of free time in the summer and Grandmére and Grandpére would love to see us.’

  Lisette was grateful for the dark glasses hiding the expression in her eyes. ‘On verra,’ she said with a slight shrug. ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘Does Daddy visit Valmy when he’s in Europe?’ Lucy asked interestedly, looking across to the far side of the pool where Greg was asleep.

  ‘I imagine so,’ Lisette said, knowing very well that he did not. Luke’s presence so near to Valmy ensured that Greg never paid any visits.

  Connie Francis was replaced by a warbling Neil Sedaka.

  ‘Then it’s high time we all went,’ Lucy said, stretching her arms high above her head. ‘A lovely, long, lazy summer in Normandy. It will be delicious.’

  ‘But probably not possible,’ Lisette said lightly, trying to keep the strain she was feeling from showing in her voice. ‘Grandmére and Grandpére go away to Biarritz in the summer.’

  Dominic looked at her curiously. ‘But you haven’t seen them since we were tiny, Maman. Don’t you miss them?’

  She flashed him a quick, brilliant smile. ‘Alors! Of course I miss them, but we exchange letters nearly every week, and photographs …’

  ‘Grandpére sent me some photographs last week,’ Lucy said, delving into the tote bag at her side. ‘I forgot all about them look, here is one of Grandmére in the rose garden and here’s another of her with Uncle Luke.’

  Luke stood with his arm lightly around her mother’s shoulders. He was as tall, as dark as ever. He was wearing a turtleneck sweater and jeans, smiling into the camera, an attractive droop of unaffected self-deprecation twisting the corners of his mouth. She put the photograph down quickly and Dominic picked it up.

  ‘Here’s another one,’ Lucy was saying. ‘This is one of Uncle Luke’s new wife. Doesn’t she look pretty? I can’t remember what Aunt Annabel looked like. Oh look, here’s a dear one of Grandmére’s two spaniels. Aren’t they sweet?’

  The photographs were thrust into her hand. Ginette Duboscq was petite and slender with dark hair curling softly around her face and a wide, curving smile.

  ‘Does Mel ever visit Valmy’? Dominic asked, his brows pulling together in a frown so reminiscent of Dieter that Lisette’s heart jerked in her chest.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she said unsteadily, and then, as his eyes sharpened with concern at the tone of her voice, added with a smile and a laugh, ‘But, on ne sais jamais, mon cher. One never knows.’

  Lucy began to chatter about school and girlfriends and the photographs were put away. Lisette felt inexpressible relief. There were times when she wondered if Luke’s removal to Normandy had been executed with the same callousness which had prompted him to tell Annabel not only that he no longer loved her, but that he had never loved her. While he was a regular visitor to Valmy, visits by herself were impossible. He had ensured, either intentionally or unintentionally, that she could not return home.

  A maid came out to inform Lucy that there was a caller for her. ‘Oh gosh, that’ll be Rod,’ she said, scrambling to her feet. ‘We’re going to the movies, to see Charlton Heston in Ben Hur. ’Bye mom. See you later.’ She gave Lisette a hurried kiss and dashed into the house.

  ‘My siesta is over as well,’ Dominic said, rising to his feet. ‘I promised Alec I’d play baseball this afternoon.’

  ‘Will you be in for dinner, chéri?’ she asked, looking at him with pride as he picked up his book. At fifteen he was already six foot tall, with broad shoulders, and the same air of utter assurance that his father had possessed.

  ‘Maybe. I’ll give you a ring later this afternoon.’ He grinned down at her as he passed her sun-lounger. He adored her, and had never considered it a threat to his masculinity to show how much. His Fingers squeezed her shoulder affectionately and then he was gone, and Greg said quietly, ‘You won’t, of course, allow them to go.’

  She had known that he had overheard. That h
e had simply been waiting for Dominic and Lucy to leave before speaking.

  ‘To Valmy?’ she said with the cool lack of expression that had become a habit over the years. ‘No, of course not.’

  He looked across at her, his eyes narrow, the lines of his face harsh. A moment ago Lucy had unwittingly shown Dominic photographs of his father and Lisette had watched her do so and had not even flinched. He wondered what her feelings had been, and he wondered if Henri had sent other photographs of Luke. Photographs that had never been shown.

  ‘If Lucy and Dominic want to visit Heloise and Henri, it might be possible for them to do so,’ he said, watching her carefully. ‘Not at Valmy, of course, but perhaps they could join Heloise and Henri at Biarritz.’

  She was wearing a one-piece swimming costume of kingfisher blue, the sun golden on her skin, her hair falling softly to her shoulders. It was impossible to imagine that she had a son of fifteen. In the merciless afternoon sunlight she didn’t look a day over twenty-five.

  Her eyes widened, the irises almost purple, the thick sweep of her lashes lustrous. ‘But that would be a wonderful idea, Greg!’

  He knew if he suggested that she accompany them that she could quite easily see Luke. Biarritz was only a day’s hard drive from Bayeux. He could see the homesickness in her eyes, hear it in her voice.

  ‘Why don’t you go with them?’ he said, hating to see her unhappiness, knowing that a reunion between herself and Luke was a risk he must take.

  Her eyes shone and she sprang instinctively to her feet, crossing to his side as if about to give him a kiss of thanks. He moved swiftly, picking up the portable telephone at the side of his sun-lounger, freezing her spontaneous gesture almost the instant it was made.

  ‘I want a Toronto number,’ he said tersely to the operator.

  She halted a few feet away from him and he knew he had only to raise his eyes to hers and that she would step forward again. He didn’t do so. Only by freezing all his desire for her could he continue to live with her in the travesty of their marriage. His sexual energies were expended elsewhere. With women he knew were not motivated by pity. Women who had no guilt to purge, or a sense of duty to fulfil.