I drifted with my thoughts, lost for a short while in the past … I remembered how once my mother’s picture hat had blown away, floated across the piazza, carried by a sudden gust of wind.
We’d been sitting somewhere near here, enjoying our ice creams, and the hat had just whirled and swirled away. Our mother had half risen in her chair, then swiftly sat down again, having realized she would be recognized at once if she ran after her hat.
It had been Cara and I who had raced across the piazza, chasing it, finally catching it. We’d waved it in the air, laughing as we ran back to her, looking triumphant, I recall now.
Following Zac’s example, I closed my eyes, and turned my face to the sun. Behind my lids I could suddenly see my mother’s face as she had looked that day, dressed in pale pink and white, her light blonde hair a golden halo around her exquisite face, her blue eyes the colour of the sky.
I had loved my mother so much; we had all loved her. And she had loved us in return. It was that particular summer we had moved out of the bolthole and into the Gritti Hotel, because my mother decided we needed much more space. Especially for her luggage. We were all growing irritable, and had agreed with her at once. I now remembered it had been 1992, and I had been eleven years old … so long ago …
It was during lunch that my cell phone began to buzz. I seized it at once. ‘Serena here.’
‘It’s Cara, darling. All is well. Thankfully, no broken bones. Jessica’s fine, and she wants to speak to you.’
‘Hi, Pidge,’ Jessica said a moment later, sounding perfectly normal.
‘Hello, Jess, are you really all right?’ I asked worriedly.
‘I am. Honestly. I think what happened is that I was in shock after the fall. It … well, it sort of surprised me, the way I went down. It jolted me, actually. But I haven’t broken anything, I promise. Cara says you’ll be here in a day or two, or thereabouts.’
‘About the twentieth, if not before,’ I responded. ‘And thanks for calling, Jess. I must admit I was concerned, worried about you.’
She began to laugh, then said through her laughter, ‘Remember what Mom used to call you?’
‘Many things,’ I said, laughing with her. ‘Which name are you referring to?’
‘Not a name really, but she did often say that you were a professional worrier. But she was joking, of course.’
‘No, she wasn’t,’ I shot back. ‘She was serious. She used to say I was so good at it I was like a professional.’
A loud burst of Jessica’s laughter echoed down the phone, and I was laughing too as I hung up.
SEVENTEEN
As we walked down the Calle Vallaresso toward Harry’s Bar at the far end near the Grand Canal, Zac suddenly grabbed my hand, swung me to face him. He stood staring at me without saying a word.
‘What is it?’ I asked, frowning, because he looked so serious.
He didn’t answer me, just pulled me forward into his arms and held me close to him. After a moment, he released me, and said in a low voice, ‘I’m always so happy when I’m with you, Serena. I wonder why that is?’
Surprised by this question, I raised a brow, then said, ‘Is it because we are extremely compatible? When we’re not having a big row?’
‘I guess that’s it. Compatibility.’ A wry expression struck his mouth briefly, and was instantly gone. ‘We don’t have many rows,’ he protested, scowling at me.
When I didn’t say anything, he asserted, ‘You know we don’t.’
‘Perhaps not. But when we do have one, it’s very tempestuous, wouldn’t you say?’ There was a smile on my face when I said this, a hint of amusement in my voice.
He immediately picked up on my tone, and laughed, looked relieved.
I took his hand in mine, and we went on walking down the street. He fell into step with me, and said, ‘We’d better not go there right now, discuss our disastrous rows. Why spoil this tranquil mood?’
‘I agree. Let’s forget about our quarrels of the past, and move on, Zac. Let’s have a nice evening with Geoff, and give him a great send-off.’
Zac nodded. ‘I’m pleased we’re meeting him at Harry’s Bar, it’s one of my favourite places.’
‘Mine too,’ I replied, and a second later I announced, ‘And here we are.’ Pushing open the door, we went inside and were immediately greeted by one of the waiters we knew.
Geoff was already there, seated at one of the best tables at the back of the room. He immediately jumped up when he saw us being ushered towards him. We hugged, kissed and greeted each other warmly, and I couldn’t help thinking how well Geoff looked tonight. There was a sparkle in his eyes, and his normally slightly dour expression had been erased. He looked relaxed and easy-going for once. I bet he’s taken the job in London, I thought as I sat down. I hoped he had.
‘I’m having a Bellini,’ Geoff said. ‘What would you like, Serena? Zac?’
I said, ‘I’d love a Bellini, too, please Geoff, and why don’t you have one, Zac?’ Peach juice and prosecco wine would do him no harm, I decided as I said this.
‘I will. That’d be great. Thanks, Geoff,’ Zac said.
Once Geoff had ordered the drinks, he announced, ‘I enjoyed being in London, it was great, and the guys at Global are the best. Tops. But I’m not sure I can take the job—’
‘Why not?’ Zac cut in peremptorily, his voice rising. ‘It’s an ideal place to be. You get to cover the whole of Europe from there. You shouldn’t pass on this one,’ he added, looking suddenly concerned.
‘Are you hesitating because of your ex-wife?’ I asked.
‘I think so, Serena,’ Geoff answered. ‘I explained that to Harry earlier today. I do wanna try for a reconciliation with her. I miss Chloe, and she needs a Dad … me. Not some other guy.’
‘Is there another guy in the picture?’ Zac asked swiftly, staring intently at Geoff once more.
I was startled by this question, and Geoff looked as if he was too. He said, ‘Not as far as I know, but Martha’s young, attractive. Who knows what could happen?’ He sighed. ‘Having a normal life these past couple of weeks, being here with you two, and then going to London … well, to be honest, I wanna keep living this way. No more wars, I gotta tell you that. War is a dangerous game, and I’m not up to playing any longer.’
‘You don’t have to tell me,’ I said, then paused as the drinks arrived.
After we’d toasted each other, I continued, ‘What has Martha said about the idea of moving to London with you?’
‘I haven’t told her about that possibility yet. I needed to go there, meet the guys, look things over,’ Geoff explained. ‘Get the lie of the land, so to speak.’
‘But you have discussed a reconciliation with her, haven’t you?’ Zac now asked, leaning forward across the table, his dark eyes focused on Geoff with great interest and also concern.
‘Some time ago, yes. And she said she’d consider it if I wasn’t putting myself in danger any more. In other words, she wanted me to quit going to war zones.’
‘Geoff, London’s the best place for you!’ Zac exclaimed. ‘For one thing, there’s no language barrier, and everything else is pretty much the same as the States. Martha and Chloe would fit in.’
‘Well, maybe not,’ Geoff replied. ‘London’s not California.’
‘But she’d get used to it,’ Zac shot back. ‘You ought to talk to Martha immediately, get things settled as soon as possible.’
‘I agree with Zac,’ I said. ‘What are you waiting for, Geoff?’
‘To be honest, I’m going to call her tonight. Don’t forget, it’s nine hours’ time difference between LA and Venice. I just hope she really does want to reconcile … I certainly do. I can’t think about much else these days.’
‘Then you must convince her,’ Zac told him. ‘Make her understand how much you need her.’
As he said this to Geoff, Zac glanced across at me, and smiled that endearing, lopsided smile of his. I found myself smiling back, and then sat up straighter in
the chair, fully aware that Zac’s inbred charm was surfacing once more. Reconciliation was on his mind. I glanced across at a waiter and silently mouthed, ‘Menus, please.’
‘And what are your plans?’ Geoff asked, looking from Zac to me.
‘We’re going to Nice next week,’ I explained. ‘I promised my sisters I’d be there for the first anniversary of Dad’s death, and Harry agrees Zac should come with me. Anyway, I think we’ve both had it with the bolthole. It can be very confining, as you well know.’
‘It can,’ Geoff replied. ‘And how’s your health?’ he went on, turning to look at Zac. ‘All okay?’ He threw Zac a penetrating stare.
‘A few bad dreams. One lousy flashback, but I’m doing better than I expected, aren’t I, Serena?’
‘Yes,’ I murmured. ‘You’re doing good.’
Zac went on. ‘I don’t have PTSD, Geoff, and so I don’t think I need medical help. And I’m okay to travel.’
‘That’s great news!’ Geoff exclaimed with a wide grin, obviously thinking we had made up.
I did not say a word, simply smiled benignly and accepted a menu from the waiter. I ordered carpaccio, the thinly sliced raw beef with slivers of Parmigiano cheese, to be followed by grilled branzino; Zac and Geoff selected the same first course, and ordered risotto primavera for their main dish.
Once the order had been taken and we were alone again, Geoff turned his attention to me. ‘If I don’t take over Global’s London office, why don’t you do that, Serena? You and Zac together, I mean.’
I was somewhat taken aback by this suggestion, and gaped at Geoff. I think Zac was also startled, but he was the first to answer. He quickly jumped in, and exclaimed, ‘That’s not a bad idea, Geoff, not bad at all!’
This comment surprised me, and I said in a businesslike voice, ‘I can’t see you sitting in an office, running Global Images, Zachary North. You’d last a day. Not even that. Half a day. Maybe.’
‘Yes, I’m afraid you’re right,’ Zac answered. ‘But London is a good jumping-off spot. Aside from covering the UK from end to end, we could go to Russia, all of Europe, and Africa.’
‘There’s some truth in what you say, but it doesn’t excite me,’ I announced in a firm voice.
Zac was silent, sipped his Bellini.
Geoff changed the subject. He began to talk about his ex-wife and the idea of moving back to California permanently, to be close to her and their child. But only if London did not appeal to her. I knew he was genuinely serious about this. He’d often talked to me about her in the past, and I’d always understood how much he missed her, and Chloe in particular. I couldn’t help thinking how smart he was being. He had chosen life over possible death – certainly over endangerment – and that was a good thing.
Geoff ordered another round of Bellinis and then the carpaccio was served. Zac and Geoff fell into a long conversation about football. And I fell down into my thoughts as I ate, preoccupied with my own future, as well as Geoff’s.
I hoped that Zac had digested Geoff’s words about his reasons for quitting, and that they had made an impression. He was after a reconciliation with me, of that I was quite positive tonight. He had made it clear, without really coming out and saying it. Would it work? Only if he didn’t go back to being a combat photographer.
Would he become bored? Restless? Would he succumb to the need to be in danger? The need for that adrenaline rush? I wasn’t sure. How could I be? On the other hand, I knew he wanted and needed to expunge those terrible memories of death and destruction and move on. And I would help him as much as I could.
As I listened to him, watched him, I found myself falling under his spell once more. There was no one like him. He was as much an original as my father had been, and just as charismatic. And he was the only man I had ever really loved. Still loved, if I was honest with myself.
Would it work if I went back to him? Wouldn’t I be walking back into danger? Perhaps. But wouldn’t I regret it one day, if I didn’t try?
Later, on our walk back through the piazza, heading for the bolthole, Zac stopped abruptly, and pulled me into his arms. He kissed me passionately, pressing me into his body. I responded, clung to him as if never to let him go. We went on kissing. I was dizzy with desire, wanting to be in bed with him. Then, suddenly, I thought, No. I can’t do this!
PART THREE
Revealing Angles:
Nice, April
The beauty of the world … has two edges, one of laughter, one of anguish, cutting the heart asunder.
Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own
If two lives join, there is oft a scar,
They are one and one, with a shadowy third;
One near one is too far.
Robert Browning, ‘By the Fireside’
EIGHTEEN
My mother used to tell us that she had an innate ability to walk around a house or an apartment and ‘sniff it out’.
She genuinely believed that the walls of a dwelling place sucked in the history of those who had lived there over the years, and whose lives had created the atmosphere that prevailed.
We girls knew she was truly happy when she began to smile as she prowled around a room, and suddenly announced that it lived and breathed. We were fairly positive we would probably move there at some point in the future.
One day, when I was about thirteen, I had asked her to explain this belief of hers. She told me that people put their imprint on a dwelling without realizing it, and that this imprint lasted forever. She had then added, ‘Haven’t you heard that expression, If only walls could talk, Serena?’
She had smiled in that lovely, enigmatic way of hers, and added, ‘I think everything that happens in a family – good, bad, happy or sad – lingers within the home forever. Marriages, births, deaths, sickness … every place has seen joyousness, success, failure and unhappiness. And has perhaps even witnessed something horrendous like a murder, or some other terrible tragedy. Yes, the sheltering walls know everything.’
Certainly my mother had left her indelible imprint on Jardin des Fleurs, as my father had also. But it was my mother’s spirit, her joie de vivre, and her deeply rooted love for the old manor house that pervaded every room, and the gardens.
My mother had first seen the house in the hills above Nice when she was making a movie in the south of France. This was in 1970, when she had left her third husband. It had been an acrimonious divorce, and she had been relieved to leave Hollywood for a while to make the film abroad.
She had been taken to Jardin des Fleurs by Louise Obrey, her devoted friend and longtime makeup artist, whom she always used whenever she was filming in England or France.
The house was owned by Louise’s friend, Pauline Doumer, whose husband Arnaud had founded a renowned cosmetic company and had run it until his death. Apparently, my mother had been captivated by Jardin des Fleurs from the first moment she saw it, and had returned with Louise several times to attend dinners given by Pauline Doumer. Two years later, in 1972, Pauline died, and when the house came on the market, Louise let my mother know at once.
As it happened, my parents, then just newlyweds, were in Paris, and they had flown to Nice immediately. ‘I wanted to “sniff it out” again,’ Mom had explained to me and Jessica one day, when she’d been reminiscing about the early years of her marriage to Dad and their grand romance, which had never waned.
‘And what was it that you sniffed?’ Jessica had asked, her eyes riveted on our mother.
‘Love,’ my mother had answered instantly, without a moment’s hesitation. ‘Love in all its splendour, in all its different guises and colours. Your father felt it too, as well as that warm, welcoming atmosphere, an overall feeling of peace and tranquillity. So I bought it.’ She had laughed and blown a kiss to Jessica, confiding, ‘You and Cara were conceived the very first night your father and I slept there. I’ve never told you that, but it’s true.’
Zac and I had arrived from Venice last night. And now here I was, back at Jardin des Fle
urs, sitting in the famous octagonal room located at the top of the main staircase. Jessica and Cara loved this room as much as I did. Aside from being the personification of our mother’s taste in decorating, it was, in a certain sense, our room, where we had confided in her, shared our secrets, our troubles, asked her advice and passed many happy hours with her … until the day she died. It was her private haven, but we were always welcomed.
The walls were painted that strange pale green faintly tinged with grey, a colour that only the French seem able to mix correctly. The polished parquet floor was bare except for a lovely old Aubusson rug in front of the fireplace, where a sofa and two French chairs were grouped around an antique coffee table. A bureau plat, the flat-topped French desk my mother preferred, stood in front of the high, arched window. There were other French country pieces scattered around, echoing the decorative theme of the entire house – French Provençal for the most part.
My father painted as a hobby, and some of Tommy’s better watercolours were arranged on one wall; above the fireplace hung a full-length, life-sized portrait of my mother. It had been painted by Pietro Annigoni, when my mother was about twenty-seven, and it was my favourite of all the portraits of her.
In the painting she stood in the foreground, posed slightly sideways and gazing into the distance. Behind her was a delicate garden landscape and a faded, high-flung sky. My mother looked absolutely beautiful, ethereal in a pale blue evening gown and a filmy cape made of pale blue organza. The artist had captured that unique, enigmatic quality my mother had possessed: the faraway, dreamy blue eyes, the mysterious smile, the serenity …
I suddenly sat up straighter and glanced at the door as it opened.
My sister Jessica came in, exclaiming, ‘There you are, darling, I thought I’d find you up here.’ Her arched black eyebrows drew together in a frown as she walked towards me. ‘Are you all right, Pidge? You look troubled.’
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