Objects of Desire

‘The end of an era, the beginning of a new one.’ And Page cut off their conversation by the flick of a switch.

  Page was feeling depressed, not about herself but about the women who had answered her ad, so many lost women roaming the world looking for a life. It was heartbreaking. When she had placed the ad in the International Herald Tribune in the hope of finding two women not unlike herself who wanted to change their lives and share an adventure of discovery and new horizons, she never dreamed how few of them were truly looking for a second chance. Most only wanted to slip back into the world they had known and had been ostracised from for one reason or another. It seemed that all they wanted was to recapture their former lifestyles and the husbands who had abandoned them or died, or lovers who had become bored and dropped them.

  She had been one of those women for the last ten years, fooling herself that she was building a lifestyle that had nothing to do with the past. A lie. All she had done was manage to survive on rather a successful and sometimes rewarding scale, when in truth what she wanted was to have Oscar back and the lifestyle that went with him. She could understand those women, have pity for them, for she had at last come through the pass and into a greener valley.

  But if she were disappointed by the women she met who had answered her ad, they were equally disappointed by Page. They had hoped that the woman who had placed the ad was going to be a lady who knew where she was going. One who was planning every step of her future, setting out on a new life which they could latch on to. No such thing. Page was offering nothing except to join hands with women of like mind who were prepared to jump off the deep end into a loose and free existence. No plan except to go where the wind blew them, travel the globe together to get a new perspective, and just live. They each of them would create new lives for themselves and as sisters under the skin might learn one from the other as they learned for themselves, a better way to live and find peace and contentment.

  Eleven women she had interviewed, and she had no desire to have lunch with one of them never mind travel the world for a year. Women in their fifties or forties; one had been over sixty but looking more like thirty-two years old. They had Elizabeth Arden faces, Daniel Galvin hair, and work-out bodies. They had been impeccably well turned out; designer labels to keep them warm instead of men. One woman, a fifty-five-year-old earth mother who had gone through four husbands and was looking for a fifth, and dressed in expensive ethnic, had at least been amusing about what she expected travelling with a couple of women. Beverly Campbell-Royce had her itinerary all worked out: India, Kathmandu, Goa, Eastern Europe. She was in search of yet another new guru, and dope. Dope she told Page was essential to her new voyage of discovery. Dope and young men – rock hard flesh. ‘I’m not ashamed to say, I’m into orgasm.’ Page had wanted to say: ‘Who isn’t, you silly cow?’ But merely told her, when the woman offered a macrobiotic lunch, ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’

  One woman, no great beauty, very bright but spinster-like, rejected Page when told: ‘I don’t care where I go, what I see, who I meet, what I do with my time. I intend to take it as it comes and so will my companions, otherwise there is no point in going on an adventure.’

  A Swedish blonde was the one who asked the most interesting question: ‘Why don’t you go alone?’ And Page had answered her honestly. ‘Because I don’t know how. I need friends, companions, who don’t know how to get a new life together either. Together we can struggle through to get where each of us wants to go. Hopefully we’ll support each other, learn from each other.’

  It was a bright and sunny day and Page took a long walk through Mayfair, thinking about all those women she had met. She had known it wouldn’t be easy but was still prepared to carry on with the exercise. She had travelled alone for long enough.

  She still had that sense of happiness she had discovered in Paris. It seemed to be a part of her life now. She stopped at the tea shop Richoux in South Audley Street and ordered tea and cucumber sandwiches, then sat back and people-watched. Women and more women, not unlike those she had been meeting, not unlike herself. All her adult life Page had known women like these. She had worked for them, dashed in with flowers to brighten their already bright lives, and dashed out again. But she had never had the companionship of women, and somehow now, at this stage in her life, she understood that she had missed out on something. Yes, she would try and find women who needed to have women friends in their second time around in the life game.

  She remained a long time in the chic tea room, watching the women come and go and wondering about their lives. Several men took a table near to her and she saw the marked difference it made. The women, including herself, perked up; men did put the edge into being alive. They did make a difference in women’s lives.

  Page went with her bill to the cashier and stood next to a man buying a cake. He smiled at her. She knew men’s smiles such as his, and smiled back. ‘For your little girl?’ she asked.

  ‘No. For me. I have a sweet tooth and no little girl.’

  He wasn’t a particularly handsome man, but he had sexy eyes and a good body, was well dressed in that attractive Savile Row tailoring. Experience had taught Page to recognise a good lover. He was one, and for a moment she was tempted. She left the shop before he did, but he followed her.

  ‘This is awfully forward, but will you come home and share my cake with me?’

  ‘How sad for me,’ she said, ‘but I’ve just had tea and sandwiches and I don’t have a sweet tooth.’ And giving him one of her most charming smiles, she added before she walked away, ‘Maybe another day our paths will cross.’ She always left an admirer with hope.

  Page sat for half an hour in Grosvenor Square. She thought about that man, the image he had of her, and pondered on something she had never thought of before she received the print of Hervé’s photograph that had arrived that morning. She looked in the mirror every day and thought she knew very well what she looked like, just how attractive she was. Then the photograph arrived and she realised that what she saw was not the same as what other people saw. Hervé had caught an image of her that she did not know. With all the men who had fallen in love with her, those who had chased after her, even the occasional one night stand, still she had no idea how very beautiful and desirable she looked. She really had a different vision of herself from the one that she projected. Did most women? She thought probably they did.

  She was just in time for her next appointment. Maybe this woman would be better. This one she was meeting in the bar of the Connaught. It had been the other woman’s suggestion. Page was just walking up the steps to the entrance when Anoushka came through the door.

  ‘Page!’ she called out.

  She had to think for a moment, having totally forgotten Anoushka once she had given her to Hervé. Nevertheless she was pleased to see her again.

  ‘What are you doing here, Page?’ asked Anoushka.

  ‘I’ve come to meet someone in the bar. And you?’

  ‘I’m staying here. It’s really so nice to see you again, Page. Can we meet?’

  ‘Well, if you have nothing better to do, then come along and have a drink.’

  ‘I don’t want to intrude.’

  ‘You won’t be. I don’t even know the woman.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I should explain. I’m interviewing her. I placed an ad in the International Herald Tribune: “Woman seeks others who are interested in adventure. A year’s travel in search of new horizons. Only apply if you have left the old ones behind.” ’

  ‘I wish I’d seen it.’

  ‘Would you have applied?’ Page asked, a smile on her lips, knowing very well that Anoushka would not have.

  ‘Well, I am looking for a new life.’

  Page liked Anoushka. She had liked her right from the first when they had met at the Café Flore. She liked her still when she had encouraged her to go with Hervé. She could just possibly be the right travelling companion, thought Page. She had after all been game enough to accept a sexual tryst wit
h Hervé. ‘Well then, come on, let’s talk about it. Champagne cocktails are terrific here at the Connaught.’

  Together they walked through the entrance to the bar. The woman Page was to meet hadn’t arrived as yet so they took a table in a quiet corner of the room. Page ordered the drinks. ‘What are you doing in London, Anoushka?’

  ‘Life can be so strange. We create richly patterned routines for ourselves only to find life has no pattern. I suppose that’s how I happen to be in London again. That and Hervé. It was actually meeting you and him that set me thinking I should do something with myself.’

  ‘Oh?’ Page was puzzled.

  Anoushka took a sip of her drink and then told Page, ‘It was a strange thing what you did, giving me Hervé, emboldening me to go off with him. And even stranger that I should have done it. I’m not very good at promiscuity, too long a faithful wife. A generous gift to a stranger. I don’t ever remember any woman being so generous with me.’

  ‘Don’t read too much into that, Anoushka, it amused me to do it.’

  ‘You were right when you told me I would have a great time with him. I enjoyed myself thoroughly. He was a wonderful lover. Do you mind if I tell you something about it?’

  Page sensed that Anoushka had to talk about it to someone. ‘No,’ she answered, being more kind than curious though she did try to show interest for Anoushka’s sake.

  ‘Hervé was happy enough with me, or at least expressed happiness and declared me sexually an exciting woman. But at five o’clock in the morning in a bistro, over bowls of onion soup and chunks of hot bread and butter, he could barely hide how bored he was with me, my mind, me as a person rather than a sexual playmate. I couldn’t believe we had nothing to talk about, but we didn’t. I was a boring housewife to whom he gave a great fuck. I could see that was what he was thinking. It was there in his face, in the conversation he was trying to have with me. It was very humiliating because I knew he was right. I have had two men since my husband dumped me, Hadon Calder and Hervé Lacoste.’

  ‘Anoushka, I am impressed! They’re after all men of fame and fortune, and very discriminating in their choice of women.’

  ‘Don’t be. Both men were appalled that I was satisfied with achieving less than my potential, though Hervé had the good grace not to talk about it whereas Hadon didn’t.’

  ‘It sounds to me like you’re being hard on yourself, Anoushka.’

  ‘Don’t be kind, Page. You can’t tell me that you didn’t see that very same thing at the Flore. It’s true. I was perfectly content with what I had. What need did I have to stretch myself when I had a husband and family to pamper me and tease me, I thought lovingly, for my inadequacies? You can’t tell me it’s not true that men like Hadon, Hervé and Robert don’t admire women with some substance to them.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know the other two men, but that’s true of Hervé. You have substance, Anoushka. If we hadn’t seen that in you, heard that in your laughter, we wouldn’t have bothered speaking to you.’

  ‘But not like you, Page.’

  ‘Maybe not, but I worked awfully hard at being a woman of substance, and maybe that was because I didn’t have the husband I wanted or the children to cater to and hide behind. But never mind all that. So you came back to London.’

  ‘Yes, to see a publisher and get a job.’

  ‘And did you get it?’

  ‘Yes, only yesterday. I’m going to translate one of Hadon Calder’s novels.’

  ‘Into what language?’

  ‘Japanese.’

  ‘How wonderful, and how extraordinary that you are fluent in Japanese.’

  ‘Well, nearly fluent.’

  ‘So you’ll stay here in London?’

  ‘Oh, no. I have six months to do the translation. I can go anywhere I like to do it. And he’s paying me.’

  ‘I should hope so.’

  ‘Quite a lot of money. More money than I have ever earned before.’

  ‘Have you ever earned any money before, Anoushka?’

  ‘No, actually, not with my brain.’ And Anoushka smiled. She was obviously delighted with herself.

  Page raised her glass. ‘I’m happy for you, Anoushka. Here’s to new beginnings.’ She brushed back her hair with her fingers so that it fell away from her face. She did it with grace, a sensual gesture that came naturally, one that charmed men and was a Page Cooper habit.

  ‘Oh, your earrings! They’re coins. How beautiful.’

  ‘Yes. My favourites. They’re special to me.’ Page took one off and showed it to Anoushka. ‘Are you interested in coins?’

  ‘I never was before, but yes, I am now.’

  The coins were mounted in a double band of gold and hinged in a manner that allowed them to be swivelled so that they could be worn with either side of the coin facing.

  ‘Oh, I love them, Page. How clever. I have some coins. Would you mind if I copied the idea some time? Where did you buy them?’

  ‘I didn’t. I have a friend who has a fine collection of Greek and Roman coins. He gave them to me for my birthday one year. These are Roman. Do you collect coins?’

  ‘Well, not exactly.’ Page could hardly miss the look of embarrassment on Anoushka’s face. ‘I took them as part of a divorce settlement, and frankly I’m confused as to what to do with them. In fact, I’m going to Zurich tomorrow to see some dealers there. I’ll try and sell one.’

  ‘But you mustn’t sell to a dealer! Sell direct to a collector. You’ll do very much better financially. My friend, for example, might buy one. Probably all of them. I could give you his telephone number and you could call and ask him if he’s interested. You can say you’re a friend of mine and that I suggested you call. I can’t believe he wouldn’t give you a better price than a dealer. He’s a true collector, discriminating and honourable, more an academic than a businessman about his coins. There are many rogues in antique coin collecting, but you would be safe with him.’

  ‘It would be such a relief if I could sell one. I have such mixed feelings about the coins, even about disposing of one, but I’ve been foolish, and I need the money. They’re very valuable and one sold would give me the financial security that I’m looking for to live and travel and work. I have to establish myself with this first book before I can expect to be self-supporting.’

  ‘François is your man.’

  ‘No! François Audren?’

  ‘Yes, exactly. You know him?’

  ‘No. Only of him. I can’t go to him.’

  ‘Whyever not?’

  Anoushka was in the middle of her story about her coin collection, what she knew about the coins and how she thought Robert had come by them, when a waiter appeared at their table to announce that a Miss Sally Brown had called to say that she was going to be there a little late and would Miss Cooper please wait?

  ‘Well, that’s a few strikes against Miss Brown. She’s already fifty minutes late. She won’t work out.’

  The two women went back to their conversation about the coins. Page was intrigued by it but sorry to see how confused and unnerved the telling of it had made Anoushka. Page could see that she genuinely did not know what to do about the coins. ‘A word of advice. Presumptuous of me, but I would like to give it.’

  ‘Please,’ answered Anoushka.

  ‘The first thing is to stop being emotional about the coins. The second is to do something constructive with them, so call François. Tell him you’re a friend of mine, offer him one of the coins, and not the one that he gave your husband. Don’t even mention that coin or your husband. Don’t give François your married name, you can always do that at a later date if you choose. This way you leave all your options open for the coins and how you want to deal with them in the future.’

  ‘How clever of you, Page. I wouldn’t have been able to work that out on my own.’

  ‘Have the coins been valued?’

  ‘No. They have been given a provenance by the British Museum, but they haven’t been valued. They don’t talk money at
the British Museum if they can help it.’

  ‘Then first thing tomorrow morning you go to Spink’s and tell them you want a valuation of your coins for insurance purposes.’

  ‘They know me at Spink’s, and they know Robert, and I don’t want to go where we’re known and questions might be raised. I don’t want Robert to know what I’m doing with my coins.’

  ‘Then get the British Museum to tell you the name of the best dealer for valuation in Switzerland. Fly there with the coins, get your valuation, then fly to Paris and sell the most expensive one to François. Do you have a Swiss bank account?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You are a babe in the woods. Fly back to Zurich, open a deposit account and get a safe deposit box, the Credit Suisse is good, then deposit the coins in the box for safekeeping, except for the pair you want to make into earrings. And the proceeds from the sale to François, deposit them in your savings account which you can draw from as you need to. And don’t tell your husband what you’ve done. You don’t have to tell him everything, you know, Anoushka.’

  She seemed both amazed and encouraged that things could be done like this. She admitted, ‘I’m not very good at things like this, Page.’

  ‘Well, you’d better be. If you’d been able to manage your affairs for yourself, you might not have been placed in the position you’re in now. A guess, of course.’

  ‘What does that mean, Page?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, Anoushka. And what does it matter what it means? That was the past and this is now.’ She took a pencil and small pad of paper from her purse and wrote down François’s telephone number and his name. ‘There.’ The finality in her voice gave Anoushka the message. That’s done, now let’s move on. Page ordered two more champagne cocktails.

  ‘This Sally Brown … points against her keep mounting. Where is she?’

  PIERS HAMILTON

  STEVEN

  GEORGE HAZLIT

  Chapter 9

  Everything that Page had said about finances and the coins kept turning over in Anoushka’s mind. Life had suddenly become exciting: contracts to be signed at the publishers, a more stable financial future. She was doing something interesting with herself, for herself, by herself.