Deception

by Marciano, Jane

  Alice watched them move away to where a television crew were waiting to record the interview for that night's news. She found a quieter spot where she could take Claude's call when it came. Her hand was wrapped around her mobile in her pocket so she would feel it vibrate. She was not going to let such a life changing moment go straight to voicemail. In a while she would go in search of her sister somewhere among this sea of people who were completely unknown to her, but for the moment she needed to grab what little solitude was on offer to steady herself for the moment she told her parents her plans.

  'Alice? Dear,' she felt her arm being clutched by a lanky woman of indeterminate years, her cropped hair dyed an improbable shade of black, struggling to rescue the trailing fringe of a cream chiffon shawl from under the feet of those who came too near.

  'James,' whispered Esther Barton, her mother's best friend, kissing Alice on the cheek, 'looks dreadful. Too much of this,' she tilted her hand to her mouth as her head simultaneously jerked backward. 'Oh for goodness sake,' she broke off giving her shawl an almighty tug. 'It will be a rag, a total rag if one more person steps on it.'

  'Then take it off,' Alice exclaimed. She reached out to assist her. 'It's boiling.'

  'Certainly not,' Esther clutched the shawl more firmly round her freckled elbows. 'I haven't got the arms any more. Not like you.'

  Alice laughed affectionately. 'You're nuts. Poor James, give him a break.'

  'You don't have to tell me about divorce,' Esther shuddered. '’nearly killed me when I went through mine. It doesn't excuse Maisie and Marcus running wild. He's got no control over them at all. Look. They're ruining the hydrangeas. Oh God, Maisie's eating them, actually eating them. Alice, do something.'

  'I can't,' Alice protested. 'Dad wants me.'

  'Oh? ' Esther immediately paused. 'Anything wrong?'

  'No, nothing. Actually, it’s me who wants to tell him something. And Mum.'

  'Sure that's wise?' Esther arched one eyebrow.

  'Why does everyone automatically think I'm going to annoy him?' Alice protested. 'Honestly,' she rapidly changed the subject. 'Can't Vix organise the kids?'

  'Vix? Esther almost screamed in disbelief. 'Stop it. She's in full-on celeb mode.'

  And she was. Smiling, as James had once muttered, as though she had been plugged into the wall, Alice saw her sister. At thirty five, four years older - or younger by two as Victoria unblushingly allowed the tabloids to report, only too happy to be admired for her less than stellar acting career as her doll-like dark prettiness, was now sitting on a garden bench with a group of admiring men surrounding her.

  'Oh alright,' Alice grumbled to Esther heading off to save her mother's flowers from James' children's assault. 'But they won't take a blind bit of notice.'

  Ten minutes later, having installed the fractious pair in front of a DVD of the latest Shrek movie, with one of the waitresses hired for the day, easily persuaded to switch duties from glass-collector in soaring temperatures to child-watcher in a cool, comfortable drawing room, she caught a fleeting glimpse of James, glass in hand, quietly closing the door of his father's study. She didn't try to stop him. Why bother? With James these days, there was no arguing with a tumbler of whisky. Instead she simply checked her phone. Nothing. Traffic. Yes, that was it. Maybe he just wasn't there yet?

  She tucked her phone back into the pocket of her dress and walked back onto the terrace just wishing all these people would go and she'd get this over with. As she expected, her father was still surrounded as indeed was Victoria. Even her mother, usually so reluctant to be pushed into the centre of things, was quietly beaming at the compliments being showered on her about her beloved gardens.

  'So beautiful, Molly,' Alice heard one of Harry's fan club marvel. ‘You’re a genius. Does Harry ever help?’ they teased, knowing full well the answer.

  ‘I adore Harry,’ Molly jokingly sighed. 'Could run the country. But don’t ever let him near so much as a blade of grass. Quite dreadful.'

  Next day, Alice knew, at least one newspaper would have a picture of Harry with his arm round her mother's shoulder, quoting her word for word while he described her as his rock. And she was. Alice paused taking in the solid scene of respectable family unity. Claude didn't fit in to this. Any more than he did in Neuilly. The one occasion when she had brought him down to lunch, expecting them to be as delighted with him as she was, had resulted in a silent drive back both knowing the entire lunch had been nursing a puzzling subtext.

  Not impolite, her parents would never, especially her mother, be anything but courteous. Her father's mild enquiries into the price of property in France, the high cost of education, if finding backing for any new venture, particularly one as risky as the art market, was as hard in France as it was here, were all delivered in a tone that could have been remarking on the weather. Claude was open, honest, he knew nothing of appearances. Finally he had with a frank rueful shrug said that financially he was so strapped, he wasn't going to be buying a bank anytime soon let alone be able to rely on just being a painter to keep le loup from the door. For the moment, teaching it had to be.

  'Very wise,' her father had said dryly.

  'Coffee? On the terrace?' her mother had said almost hastily.

  Alice felt bewildered. Molly sounded too bright. Too hostessy. Not like her mother at all. If it had been a formal lunch, she could have understood it. In spite of herself, they all knew that unlike her father who revelled in entertaining, the grander the better, her mother had never enjoyed standing on ceremony. Claude, she argued, mystified at him being treated as though he was one of her father's difficult clients, hardly fell into the last category.

  The visit hadn't been repeated and her mother had dismissed Alice's dismay as Alice just being over anxious. But Alice knew she wasn't.

  There was still no word from Claude as the last lingering visitor was being waved off. It was with a herculean effort that Alice forced herself not to ring him instead, breaking their rule that she never phoned while he was with his family. For the umpteenth time she checked her phone, scrutinised her messages knowing perfectly well he hadn’t left one, but it was driving her mad not knowing.

  So it was, that the sun was beginning to dip behind the two sturdy oak trees through which a glimpse of the square Norman church, that had been there long before the rectory, could be seen before Harry’s guests started to make their reluctant way home.

  Victoria had disappeared to change. Molly was rounding up her grandchildren. James had emerged from Harry's study only to retreat again to close his eyes ‘just for ten minutes'. Provisional estimates for the amount raised in one afternoon could have put a sizeable dent in the Peruvian National debt. The weight of Harry's name behind the cause, was, Alice knew, quietly powerful. A moment of pride in having him as her father, briefly flickered. Suddenly, Alice felt a hand on the small of her back.

  'C'mon then,' Harry said lightly. 'Let's hear this amazing news of yours.'

  He was smiling, but she knew that smile. It had nothing to do with his eyes. It was watchful, guarded. Then and only then - and much too late - Alice wondered what on earth had made her think he would, at the very least, try to understand.

  *

  ‘Are you mad?’ Harry thundered. It had taken less than five minutes to tell him.

  A deep breath, all in one go. But as usual, confronted by him, she had sounded defensive, nervous, along with the last guest, her confidence had fled.

  His face was suffused with rage. 'He will never divorce his wife,’ he roared. ‘Men like that never do.'

  ’It's her,' Alice protested. 'It's not Claude. I doubt there's a divorce law in France she hasn't dismantled to stay married to him.’ Alice was almost shouting as she followed him from the garden into the kitchen. 'He's asked her again and again. Long before he and I even met.'

  'Met? You mean lost your mind?'

  'Harry?' Molly’s voice held a warning. 'The children. They'll hear. And the waiters are still here. And you know what
John said?’

  'Oh, what do bloody doctors know?' Harry retorted impatiently. His anger had made him white with rage. Suddenly he looked exhausted. 'I'll outlive him.'

  Alerted by the raised voices, Victoria strolled in still glancing through the gossip column in one of that day's papers, only interested as Alice knew, in finding her own name.

  'So, let’s see,’ Harry went on ignoring Victoria’s raised eyebrows and Alice’s pale face. 'You're throwing everything away for a man you've known for five minutes.'

  'Three months,' she interrupted, 'almost four.'

  'Who lives in Paris and goes home to his wife every weekend?'

  ‘To see his children; not her.' She knew she should stop talking, walk away, but this time it was too important. 'One of us has to compromise. It can't be them. He has to be near them.'

  ‘Really?’ He replied with heavy sarcasm. ‘Let’s just see, shall we, what compromise means?' He began counting off on his fingers. 'You're going to sell your gallery - and presumably your house - and buy one in Paris. With him?'

  'Of course.'

  'I see. He can barely afford to run his flat - he told me so himself - and pay for his children, who, by the way, have never met you, and yet he's going to find half the money needed to buy a gallery? And last time I looked, Neuilly-sur-Seine was about as bloody expensive as you can get. And you're not worried?'

  'Why?' Alice demanded. 'Why should I be worried? He owns his flat. I'll be living there. If anything I'll be living off him.’ Alice tried to stay calm but inside the familiar sickening shaking that had gripped her from childhood, whenever he raised his voice to her, began to stir. 'Look, please just listen.'

  ‘What's to listen to? If he wanted a divorce, really wanted one, he'd get it. What the hell does it look like?’

  ‘Look like?' she gasped incredulously. What’s that supposed to mean?’ But she knew. All their life their father had warned them of the need to be discreet, not let the tabloids, who at the merest hint of a scandal would relish the chance of prising open the family life of a man in line for a peerage, whose slightest observation on the state of the city could see share prices rise or fall, ‘Appearances’. She was sick of hearing the word. ‘What will I look like? She demanded.

  'That you’ll look cheap,’ Harry told her bluntly. ‘Deluded. A laughing stock. And I’m not having a daughter of mine held up to public …..’

  ‘For God’s sake,’ Alice stuttered. 'When they're divorced we'll get married and ..'

  ‘Oh puh-leese,’ Victoria threw the paper down and rolled her eyes. 'Divorce his wife? What are you? Stupid?'

  'That's rich, coming from you,' Alice snapped back. It was out before she could stop herself. The film director who had finally toppled into oblivion Victoria's short lived marriage to a minor baronet, had never left his wife. But the minor baronet had decamped the day he found out that a tabloid had pictures of his wife leaving the director's apartment in Chelsea at dawn when she was meant to be on location in Cumbria overnight.

  ‘How dare you?’ Victoria gasped holding their father's arm. ‘Those pictures were fake, you know they were.’

  'Fake?' Alice raised an incredulous eyebrow. 'Fake? 'Then why-‘

  ‘Stop it, both of you,’ Harry shouted over them. There was instant silence. But Alice noticed he didn’t remove Victoria’s arm from his. God knows how much he’d paid to get those pictures back.

  'Listen to me my girl.' Harry simply picked up where he'd left off. 'If you didn't have your head so stuck in the clouds, you'd see what's really happening here,' he roared. 'He sat right here and told me himself he has no money. Any fool can see all he wants is a fall-back position to pay for this family of his while he just bloody trundles on with his life. And you'll be providing the cash to do it.'

  'What? How? And why didn't you think of that when you introduced us?'

  'Introduced you? As if. Etienne did. Don't rewrite history. My part was merely to ask my daughter - as a treat - if she wanted to come to an art exhibition. Not find her a scrounger to hang off my bank account for the rest of his life.'

  It was so not what had happened. Surprised, delighted she had of course said yes, when he mentioned he was going to meetings in Paris and would be attending a charity art exhibition at Musee D’Orsay then dinner at Le Meurice organised by Etienne Leconte, head of the Paris office. Alice could remember feeling silly at such delight that for once her father had asked her and not Victoria.

  He could not have chosen a better time to single her out. Even though she had studied in Paris for two years, she hadn't been back for ages and her small gallery in London had become a struggle. It seemed in straightened times, buying art plummeted to the bottom of even the most ardent collectors list. She needed an injection of something to give the gallery a lift. Some new French artists, might do it. God knows she had tried everything else. And then there, at the reception, in the centre of the room, surrounded by a wall full of the work of new, engaging artists, had been Claude, talking to her father who occasionally leaned forward to study the painting in front of him.

  Etienne had whispered, turning away slightly so as not to be suspected of gossiping.: 'Wonderful imagery. Teaches at Beaux Artes. Wants to start a gallery.'

  'Must be mad,' she shuddered. 'Why?'

  'Money. Two or maybe three children. I’m not sure. Marriage broken up. Expensive wife.'

  'Is that what he's bending Dad's ear about?' He had amazing eyes she noticed when he glanced in her direction. For some reason, she couldn't look away.

  Etienne shrugged. 'Maybe.' He took her arm as he spoke. 'Come. Meet him.'

  He led her to where they were talking. She thought he said: 'Alice? This is Claude Fauborge. Claude? This is Harry's daughter. You may have heard of her gallery. In London?'

  Of course he hadn't heard of her. Or her tiny, narrow gallery perched on the corner of Jacobs Yard on a gently bustling corner in Pimlico, but he had politely agreed that he had. She took in dark curly hair, pale olive skin, and little darts of grey around the temples. Mid thirties? Not especially tall. Even white teeth. And he had not taken his eyes off her face. Later, Grace, Alice's best friend, said it had been a coup de foudre. Alice said if that felt like being dropped without a parachute down a cliff, then quite possibly.

  On her advice, Harry had bought the painting. A retirement present, he had said, for someone on the board. It was a mesmerising piece of work. Impressionist. A shaft of sunlight on the Seine at its modest source in Dijon.

  'You like it?' Claude had asked carefully as the others moved away.

  'More than like it,' she had said.

  She had felt ridiculously breathless and at the same time annoyed, that her father could even think of giving such a painting to just anyone. In a few years it would be worth a fortune. Of that she was certain. 'Could we,' Alice remembered saying to Claude. 'I mean, would you, like to talk about having one or two in my gallery? In London?'

  She never made Le Meurice.

  Within days, in the shadow of his energy and passion that seemed to be built into his very bones, Alice was no longer capable of rational thought. In awe of his capacity to live his life just the way she had often dreamed she would lead hers, passionately, alive, aware of colour, sounds, feelings. They spoke in French because Claude's English was practically non-existent and so hilariously wrong when he tried, and her French was almost fluent - it was much easier. They still did.

  She spent her days wanting to make him happy, and it was so easy when he openly adored her, gently teased her and made her feel clever. Never in her life had she been so pursued, so loved. No-one could take it away. No-one. Not even her father, now standing in front of her, demanding that she abandoned her whole future.

  The phone in her pocket vibrated. Alice clutched it, fumbled for the button and switched it off. Not now.

  'For heaven's sake, girl,' Harry leaned across the table glaring at her. His face was now not red but quite pale. 'Do you think I'd part with a penny of my m
oney to someone so blatantly using my daughter?'

  'Using me?' She yelled. 'Where'd you get that idea?' The insulting implication that she was loved only for her money – or rather his – left Alice speechless with rage.

  'Exactly,' Harry said coldly mistaking her silence for uncertainty. ‘So, until you come to your senses, I’ll make damn certain he won’t get his hands on my money.’

  'Your money?' Alice yelled after him as he walked out. 'Claude doesn't want your money. Why would he? Nor do I. I’m not Victoria. I’m not James.’

  ‘More’s the pity,' Harry shouted back, slamming the door of his study. It was the last thing he ever said to her.