‘Pidge, I am. Really happy. Because I’ve come up with a great name for my book. At least, I think it’s great. I don’t know how you’ll react, though.’
‘So go on, tell me, and you’ll know what I think immediately, since you claim you can read me so well.’
‘Okay,’ he answered, leaning against the island in the middle of the kitchen, his eyes roaming over me for a moment, appraisingly. ‘You do look sexy in that short little dress, Pidge. Good enough to eat. You make my mouth water.’
I knew he was teasing me, that he was in a playful mood, but then when he moved towards me I realized he was keen to pull me into his arms, had more serious intentions.
I dodged him, exclaimed, ‘Don’t come near me. You know I’ll succumb to your charms instantly. And then you won’t have any dinner tonight.’
‘I don’t care, I’ll make do with you,’ he shot back, and winked.
‘I’m making a cottage pie, one of your favourites. So come on, tell me the title you’ve come up with.’
He nodded. ‘It’s Semper Fi.’
I stared at him for a split second, puzzled, and then I exclaimed, ‘Oh, that has to do with the Marines, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes. It’s short for Semper Fidelis, which is Latin for “always faithful”, the Marine Corps motto. What it actually means is: always faithful to the country’s call. But for all Marines it means faithful to each other. Let’s not forget that Marines never leave their buddies behind – they bring out their dead as well as their wounded. I’ve almost always been standing next to a Marine on the front line, and I admire them greatly. And my memoir is mostly about my days on the battlegrounds … with Marines as my buddies. So it works for me.’
‘I do know that, Zac, and the title is very appropriate. I like it a lot. No, correction, I love it.’ I put the spoon down, and took off my apron. ‘It’s a wonderful title. Works for me, too. And so we must toast it right now.’
I reached into the fridge, took out the bottle of pink Veuve Clicquot, and handed it to Zac. ‘Please open it, and I’ll drain the potatoes for the pie, so they don’t disintegrate.’
He had a huge smile on his face once again, as he popped the champagne cork, then took two crystal flutes out of the cupboard.
‘I’m so glad you think the title works, Serena. I trust your judgement. I’ll try it on Harry later, but since you like it so much, that’s it for me. Semper Fi it is.’
We clinked glasses, and drank some champagne, and then Zac said, ‘Let’s go into your mom’s sitting room for a minute or two, there’s something else I want to tell you.’ He picked up the bottle of champagne.
I simply nodded, and followed him out of the kitchen, holding my glass.
We settled on the sofa, and Zac said in a more serious, somewhat subdued voice, ‘I know you’re not going to like hearing this, Serena, but I feel I have to go to Libya, to cover the uprising, and—’
‘Oh Zac, no!’ I cried, taken by surprise, my heart dropping. ‘You promised you’d never go back to the front line. I won’t let you, you can’t.’ I sat staring at him, aghast.
‘But it’s not like the usual war zone, it’s an uprising, taking place in the streets of Tripoli. I want to go, just for a week or two. I thought—’
‘But what about your book?’ I interjected, cutting him off once more.
‘I’ll put it on one side for a couple of weeks … and what I was starting to say was that I want you to come with me. Let’s do it, Pidge. For old times’ sake. One last assignment together as photojournalists, sort of like one last throw of the dice.’
‘It might well be one last throw of the dice in the worst way. We might get killed. You’ve lost your edge, and so have I. And anyway, Harry would never let us go. He’d block us. He’s afraid for us, Zac, I know that. He wants us to have a happy life together.’ I paused, tears coming into my eyes, but I swallowed them back.
He put down his glass, and drew closer, put his arm around my shoulders, held me tightly. ‘Nothing’s going to happen to us, Serena. We’ll go in and out. Two weeks max. Come on, say yes. Come with me, be my old buddy, as you’ve always been. I’ll have your back, you’ll have mine, and we’ll do a great job together. And then we’ll come out, and stay out. Forever.’
When I was silent, he said again, ‘I promise.’
I drew back, stared at him coldly. ‘You promised you’d quit, that the front line would never tempt you again.’
‘I know. But this is different, and you’re aware of that. This is an uprising. The people against an overbearing government. Against the Gaddafi regime.’
‘There are many uprisings, not just one in Tripoli – they’re springing up all over Libya.’
‘I want to get the truth out. The world must know what’s going on there.’
‘Other war correspondents and war photographers are doing that, Zac. We’re not needed. Let others risk their lives.’
‘Yes we are needed. We’re not just the best, we’re better. Harry will let us go. Come on, relent, say yes. We’ve always been a team, like Harry and Tommy were.’
Not quite, I thought, and remained silent. I wondered how long Zac had been planning this little speech, and then decided he hadn’t planned it. He had said all of this on the spur of the moment. He was manipulative at times, and he had an easy, very persuasive charm, but he was not calculating. I was certain of that.
‘Why are you so quiet?’ he asked, turning my face to his, looking into my eyes, his own loving and warm.
‘I don’t think I can make a decision at this moment,’ I said at last. ‘I have to think about it.’
THIRTY-SEVEN
‘I think there is a fine line being drawn here,’ I said quietly, and shifted slightly in the chair, adjusting my linen jacket.
‘I’m not sure what you mean,’ Harry answered, puzzlement flickering in his blue eyes. ‘Who is drawing the fine line?’
‘Zac is.’ I paused, then half smiled. ‘Or perhaps it’s me; maybe I’m the one doing it.’
I realized he still didn’t quite understand what I was getting at, and added, ‘Zac says that going to Libya is not going back to the front line, because it’s an uprising in the streets, civilians confronting soldiers. I say it is a front line, because the civilians are armed like soldiers. That it’s a dangerous place, and our lives are at risk. But he won’t have any of that.’
‘Well, he’s wrong, Serena, and you’re right. I’m not sure I’d call it drawing a fine line, though, I think it’s more like splitting hairs. But whatever we call it, Tripoli, Benghazi, Sirte, and all those other Libyan cities are indeed battlegrounds, and highly dangerous places to be. I certainly won’t allow you to go. And I won’t allow Zac to go on his own either. It’s too soon after leaving Afghanistan for him to be in the line of fire. He’s not ready yet; in fact he might never be ready. He’s lost his edge.’
‘So we’re on the same page, Harry. But try and convince him we’re right. You won’t succeed. He’s very stubborn, and once again possessed of that supreme self-confidence. He’s sure he knows better than anyone else.’ I shook my head. ‘It’s only a few months since I was flying off to Venice, to help him recover his health and wellbeing, and to cope with his bouts of PTSD.’
‘I know. He told me he didn’t want to be a war photographer any longer, wanted a normal life. With you.’ Harry raised an eyebrow, the expression in his eyes quizzical. He also seemed concerned to me, but then I was important to him, and he wanted only the best for me.
There was a moment of silence, and then I said, ‘He actually made a promise to me, Harry. Zac said he would never go back to the front line. And now he’s broken that promise. And can you believe it: he doesn’t understand why I’m upset? Actually, “disappointed” would be a better word to use.’
‘Oh, now I understand. I see what you’re getting at. Zac thinks he didn’t break his promise to you, because he’s not actually going to the front line … just to Tripoli, a city in disarray. Is that it, hon
ey?’ He leaned back in his chair, his loving gaze on me.
‘Yep, that’s it,’ I answered. ‘Listen, I’m not only disappointed. To be honest, I’m not sure that I can trust him again.’
‘That’s understandable, but let’s not be too hasty, Serena. He hasn’t left yet. And where do you two stand, actually? How’s your relationship?’
‘It’s okay, because we didn’t quarrel last night. He told me he wanted to go to Libya, to cover what’s happening there, and added that he wanted me to come with him. When I said I’d have to think about that, because I wasn’t at all sure we should do it, he let it drop. I told him I’d give him a decision later.’
‘So no big rows?’ Harry asked softly.
‘No, not at all. To be honest, I was so shocked when he mentioned Libya I was incapable of saying very much. So I just let the evening roll along. We had supper, watched a movie, went to bed. Everything was normal. This morning, when I was leaving, he was just getting up. I said I had a lot of errands. He simply said, ‘See you later,’ and gave me a big hug. And I left.’
The phone on Harry’s desk began to ring, and he answered it. I sat back in the chair, glancing around, looking at all the familiar photographs on the wall and Harry’s awards. My office here at Global Images was pretty much the same; it had been Dad’s, and was filled with all of his mementos, awards and pictures; I felt very at home in it. But then, I’d known it all of my life. I now owned this company with Harry, but that never sank in. I let him run it the way he wanted, as he and Dad had run it always.
Harry hung up and went on, ‘So he’s not made a song and dance about it, and that’s good. Perhaps he’s not as self-confident as you think. The other thing is, he does have to talk to me, be accredited to the agency, and we have to make all the arrangements for him to fly off. He can’t just do it all on his own, and you know that.’
‘And when he does show up, to announce that he wants to go to Libya, what will you say?’ I asked.
‘No. That’s what I’m going to say. No, he can’t go. I’m going to tell him I won’t allow it. First, I’ll remind him that he had more or less retired from war photography. Next, I’ll point out that he made a commitment to you, promised he wouldn’t go back to battlegrounds. I think I shall also explain that, in my opinion, he’s not ready to be in the line of fire, that it’s too soon after his trials in Afghanistan.’
There was a small pause, and then Harry continued. ‘To be very honest with you, Serena, I would be extremely worried about Zac’s safety. It’s very chaotic out there, from what I’m hearing from our guys. Don’t fret, honey, Zac will get the absolute truth from me. No holds barred.’
‘Oh, I know he will, Harry. And listen, I’ve had another thought.’ I leaned over his desk, and said slowly, ‘It could be a bit of bravado on his part. A longing to be back at the front, yet knowing he’s not really up to it.’ I flashed Harry a smile. ‘It’ll turn out all right, you’ll see.’
‘I’ve no doubt about that, honey. So come on, let’s go to lunch. It’s not often that I get that pleasure.’
I don’t suppose I will ever forget the date: 14 July 2011. Because that’s when I knew for sure that Valentina Clifford, Mom’s first cousin, was alive. Not only alive, but alive and kicking and still working as a war photographer.
Always an early riser, I was up at six o’clock the next morning and drinking a cup of coffee in the kitchen. And looking at the New York Times. On page 6A of the International Pages a photograph of a group of women caught my eye. Actually, it was the face of Marie Colvin that drew my attention. There was no missing her with her famous eye-patch.
And then I noticed the woman standing next to her. It was Valentina Clifford, according to the caption. The two women were part of a group of war correspondents and war photographers, six of them altogether. They had just arrived in Tripoli to cover the fighting between the armed civilians and soldiers – the uprisings all over the country.
Startled, even shocked, I dropped the paper on the floor and sat back in my chair, endeavouring to calm myself. It was then that I realized my heart was thudding and I felt slightly sick.
After a few minutes, I reached down and picked up the paper. Turning again to A6, I studied the photograph intently. To be truthful, it wasn’t a very good shot; it was rather hazy in fact. And if Marie Colvin’s face, and her eye-patch, weren’t so well known, I might have missed it altogether.
The famous war correspondent for the London Sunday Times was an international star, much admired. Marie was American-born and had been brought up on Long Island. Zac was probably her greatest admirer. He had always called her ‘the brave and brilliant Marie’, and I think that was the way the whole world thought of her. Certainly I did.
I folded the A section of the newspaper, picked up my mug and took both to my little office overlooking the East River. I sat down on the sofa and sipped the coffee, my mind racing. I sat there for a long time, wondering what to do.
The game had changed, hadn’t it? Now there was another player in it.
THIRTY-EIGHT
‘I want to talk to you about Libya,’ I said to Zac a little later that morning, after we’d had breakfast together.
Immediately his eyes brightened, and he beamed at me. ‘So you’ve made a decision, you are coming with me,’ he exclaimed, reaching across the kitchen table, grasping my hand. ‘I knew you would in the end.’
‘Well, I haven’t actually said I’m coming,’ I murmured, staring hard at him. ‘I just said I wanted to talk to you about Libya.’
He was surprised at my comment, and he sat back in his chair, looking at me intently. ‘Okay, go ahead. I’m listening.’
When I remained silent, he smiled at me, in an encouraging way, I thought.
I said, ‘First of all, I want to remind you that you made a promise to me. You said you would never go back to the front line. But that is exactly what you want to do. Have you forgotten that promise, Zac?’
‘No, of course I haven’t,’ he said, eyeing me warily. ‘And going to Tripoli is not going to the front line. It’s—’
‘Stop right there!’ I said in a tough voice. ‘You’re splitting hairs. You don’t want to admit that you’ve broken a promise, and so you fudge everything. By claiming that the events unfolding in Libya are civilians rioting, fighting the soldiers, that it’s just an uprising. And maybe you’re right. But it’s still effectively a front line, because it’s dangerous, and we could as easily get killed there as we could in Helmand Province. Why won’t you admit that? Certainly we know it’s a bloody awful battleground, and that people are dying.’
His face changed, became more serious, and he said quietly, ‘Okay, you’re right. It’s really bad, from what I’ve been seeing on television, but in all honesty, Pidge, I don’t think of it as a front line.’
‘Then you’d better start, if you want me to go with you. I’m not going if we can’t be brutally honest with each other. Tell each other the truth at all times.’
He knew I was angry, and that I had a very strong will, and so he was smart enough to simply nod, and he did so swiftly and vehemently.
I said, ‘I will go with you, Zac, on certain conditions.’
‘Okay fine, anything you want, just tell me.’ He sounded eager.
‘This has to be the last time we put ourselves in danger. If you ever want to do this again – go to a front line – it’s over between us. I don’t even want you to promise me. I just want you to truly know that I mean what I say.’ I leaned forward. ‘Tell me you understand, Zac.’
‘I do. And I know you mean every word. Okay, it’s a deal. This is our last time.’ I knew he was sincere, and I noticed the apprehension in his eyes. ‘I love you, Serena, very much. I don’t want to lose you. We must be together always,’ he said, and I was sure he meant it.
‘We will be, as long as you stick to this deal.’ I smiled at him. ‘And I love you, too.’
‘Thank God. You said conditions. What are the others?’
‘I want you to help me find this woman, when we’re in Tripoli,’ I replied, handing him the New York Times, folded to the International Pages on A6.
He looked at it and then at me. ‘Do you mean Marie?’ He was frowning. ‘I thought you’d met her.’
‘I did, a long time ago, with you and Dad. But I’m referring to the woman standing next to her. Valentina Clifford.’
He glanced at the newspaper again and shook his head. ‘But I don’t know her. Who is she?’
‘She is Mom’s first cousin, and we, meaning my sisters and I, lost touch with her. We didn’t know whether she was still alive. And neither did Harry. She’s a war photographer. Anyway, there she is this morning, staring out at us from a newspaper.’
‘Okay fine, but why do you want to meet up with her? I guess that’s a stupid question. Because she’s long-lost family, right?’
‘Yes, that’s one reason.’
‘You mean there are others?’ he asked, baffled.
‘Yes. I need to clear something up with her.’
‘What? Is it to do with your family?’
‘Yes, and with me.’ I paused for a moment, and then I got up, went to one of the kitchen drawers and took out the blue folder from Dad’s studio in Nice, where I had put it an hour ago. I then told him the story about finding it, and showed him the pictures and the captions on the back of them, explained that Harry had been at the dancing shoot.
He scowled when he saw the photographs of a very pregnant Val, and immediately read the captions. He looked up at me, and exclaimed, ‘Why is your name in the captions? Are you the Serena referred to? Another stupid question, since your mother was Elizabeth.’ There was a moment’s pause. He gazed at me, opened his mouth to make a remark, and then closed it, obviously changing his mind.
I said, ‘Yes, Mom was my mother. I have my birth certificate in the safe. And my sisters confirm everything. But there’s just something strangely odd about these pictures, Zac, and now that I know she’s alive, I want to talk to her.’
Secrets From the Past Page 23