Secrets From the Past

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  Several years ago, Cara, my lovely sister who was often the bearer of bad news, had told me to beware, that Zac was self-involved and selfish. It was ‘all about Zac’ was the succinct way she put it. I think I’d always known this, deep down. Of course, like most people I could also be self-absorbed. Yet I did not lose my temper or my control, and I always endeavoured to see other people’s point of view. I liked to give them the benefit of the doubt, and I prided myself on my sense of fair play.

  I sighed under my breath, filled with regret. I should have told him I was pregnant before we left for Tripoli. I realized that now. But he had so desperately wanted to be on the front line, with me by his side, I hadn’t had the heart to disappoint him. We had been apart for a year, and I was truly happy that we had reconciled. And so was he. There was no question in my mind that he had been looking forward to a future together, as had I.

  Well, he was the one who had stridden out without a backward glance, filled with anger and indignation, I thought. Still, I had allowed him to go, believing he would cool down, that we would talk it through later. But he hadn’t come back by four o’clock, and this had worried me.

  At five in the morning I had been even more anxious about him. I had gone to the sitting room to see if he was sleeping on the divan, but found Yusuf instead. He was sitting at the desk, using his laptop; he had looked up when I had appeared, and greeted me affectionately.

  I had asked him if he knew where Zac was, and he had quickly explained that he had put Zac to bed in the room that Ahmed and Jamal shared on another floor. ‘Because he was very drunk, really out of it,’ Yusuf had continued. ‘I thought this was the best thing to do. You weren’t feeling well when we’d gone off to the CNN party. Also later, after he’d been to see if you were okay, he came back to the party in a rage. He told me you and he had had a nasty quarrel. He was still seething about it.’

  It was while Yusuf was telling me all this that I began to shake inside; tears welled. I understood I must leave at once. I no longer wanted to be in Libya covering a war. It was all too much for me now. Nor did I wish to share a suite with Zac, considering the angry mood he was in, and the way he had behaved towards me. My emotions were flaring. I tried to get a hold of myself, not wanting to break down in front of Yusuf.

  Once Yusuf knew how anxious I was to leave, he had made everything happen with great speed. He had chartered the private plane from the company that Global used in Europe. This had been flown in to Tripoli, without delay, with a turnaround time of four hours. I had been dressed, packed and out of the Rixos Hotel before Zac had even woken up.

  On the drive to the airport, Yusuf had been the soul of discretion, and we had talked about other things; Zac was not mentioned at all. I held myself in check; my heart ached. I called Claudia in Venice and told her I would be arriving at the bolthole later on, and I spoke to Harry in New York, once we got to the airport.

  It was six o’clock in the morning there, but he was an early riser and answered the phone immediately. I filled him in; said that I still wasn’t feeling great after my bout with food poisoning, and thought it wiser that I left the war zone.

  He agreed at once, and was pleased Yusuf had chartered a plane. I told him Zac was staying on to continue covering the revolution, then handed the BlackBerry to Yusuf.

  They talked for a few seconds about the situation in general in Tripoli, and then Yusuf clicked off and gave the BlackBerry back to me.

  ‘Harry didn’t say it, but you’ve just made his day, Serena. He’s delighted you’re putting distance between yourself and the war.’

  ‘You’d better believe it,’ I said, smiling at my old friend.

  I tried to take a nap, but I found that to be impossible. I was far too agitated inside, pent up, not calm at all. Just the opposite. I’d have liked to shout and jump up and down, have a real tantrum. Release the anger inside. I wished I had a copper frying pan. I wanted to bash something hard, over and over again. The windows? That wasn’t possible, of course. The plane would crash.

  I began to realize that my rage with Zac was surfacing. Until now I had played it cool. Suddenly I wanted to let it all out. He had been so wrong. I had wanted – no, needed – his comfort, not his criticism.

  I began to shake inside once more. He’d hurt me, hurt my feelings. I sat back in the seat and closed my eyes. I felt the tears pricking behind my lids. I struggled not to cry. If truth be known, I was angry with myself. I had hurt myself, so it was a double hurt. And all because I had gone to Libya. I should not have been so hellbent on pleasing Zac. I should have given more thought to myself, to the baby. The tears started, trickled down my face. I felt my sense of despair … I’d lost my baby.

  Yusuf had thought of everything, and once the Cessna Mustang landed at Marco Polo Airport and I had been through passport control, I was met by a young woman who often worked for him. He had told me to expect her, to look for her in arrivals. She was a travel agent, and carried a large white card with the name Pidge written on it in black letters.

  I smiled inwardly as I greeted her. We shook hands, and, calling me Miss Pidge, she led me outside to a water taxi she had waiting for us. Her name was Lucrezia and she insisted on riding into Venice with me, explaining that Yusuf had instructed her to take me right to my front door.

  There was no point arguing, because she was adamant, so I settled back in the speedboat and chatted to her as we headed towards La Serenissima. It was a typical August day, sunny and hot under a blameless blue sky, and I enjoyed the ride and the familiar sights. In a way, it was like coming home.

  Once we arrived at the Piazza San Marco, I was glad Lucrezia was with me. It was tourist time again, and on this Sunday afternoon, the piazza was full of people from all over the world, milling around. She insisted on pulling my roller suitcase, and I carried my camera bag, with my shoulder bag filled with all my credentials and money slung over my shoulder and across my chest, for safety.

  Yusuf had been right. Lucrezia had made my life easier, and I thanked her profusely once we were finally standing outside the bolthole door. She left with a cheery goodbye and a smile, and I unlocked the door of the apartment and went inside, bracing myself.

  I had expected the bolthole to be full of the aura of Zac and me after our last visit en route to Libya. But this was not so. It was redolent of Dad and Harry and Mom, and me and my sisters, when I was a child. Memories of the past assailed me, welcomed me, comforted me; all the visits we had made here rushed back …

  Closing the door behind me, I stood for a moment looking around. The living room was fragrant with the scent of fresh roses, and I noticed the big bowl of them on the coffee table, pink and white and in full bloom. And mingling in with their perfume was the citrus smell of Jo Malone’s grapefruit-and-rosemary room cologne, which I loved.

  On the dining table stood a large plate of fresh fruit, and all this was due to Claudia’s thoughtfulness, her kindness. I knew that the fridge would have all the right food in it; she always stocked up when she knew someone from Global was coming to stay, whether it was me or Harry, or some other photographers exiting a war.

  The apartment was so familiar and welcoming, I relaxed. And I felt it embracing me – or, rather, it was the memories of long ago that were taking over, putting their arms around me. I had toyed with the idea of staying at the Bauer Palazzo when I realized I had to get out of Tripoli. Now I was glad I hadn’t booked a room there. This was the only place to be because it was ours.

  Wheeling my suitcase into my parents’ former bedroom, I sat down on one of the beds, took out my BlackBerry and dialled Harry at Global in New York.

  When he answered his cell phone, I said, ‘Harry, it’s me, and I’m here. In the bolthole, and I’m fine. Everything is fine.’

  ‘Thank God you’re out of the war zone!’ he exclaimed, sounding happier than he had for weeks. ‘I worried so much about your safety, even though I had Yusuf and his lads surrounding you.’

  ‘He’s the best, but t
hen you know that,’ I answered.

  ‘I do indeed, but how are you feeling, Serena? Do you think you ought to go and see a doctor? The earlier bout of food poisoning might not have been that at all. You could have picked up some sort of parasite.’

  ‘I don’t think so, Harry. Zac and Yusuf were hit with it, too, and as far as I’m concerned, I do believe a lot of stress and tension fed into it and didn’t help me. My stomach feels pretty much settled down today, honestly. I’m okay.’

  ‘You know best – just take care of yourself, relax and enjoy Venice. I’ll talk to you later.’

  ‘I’ll be right here,’ I answered. ‘And thanks, Harry, for pulling me out.’

  ‘Now you know very well that was all Yusuf’s doing,’ he said in a cheerful voice. I sensed his relief that I was on safe ground. I was relieved myself.

  After we had hung up, I called Jessica in Nice to tell her I was out of Tripoli and in Venice, but her answer service kicked in. So I left a message, and began to unpack and put everything away. I didn’t have any plans for the next few days. I just wanted to rest, calm myself, and take stock of my life. I thought of Zac and my throat tightened. Don’t go there, I warned myself, and jumped up, left the bedroom.

  I noticed a note on the coffee table next to the roses. Claudia had welcomed me, and suggested we have coffee tomorrow. I would do that. I wanted to see her, and also to thank her for all she had done to spruce up the bolthole, and for the flowers and food. And settle my bill with her for the food.

  In the kitchen, I made a mug of lemon tea and a ham-and-cheese sandwich, and sat at the small table eating it. I happened to glance up, noticed the copper frying pan hanging on the wall opposite me, along with some other copper items.

  I shuddered when I thought of Zac destroying the TV with it, and wondered yet again why I had not known we owned such a thing. I had probably never paid any attention to it, nor even noticed it amongst the other pieces of copper. Oddly enough, now I understood his need to bash something to pieces out of frustration and anger.

  My mind zeroed in on Zac’s post-traumatic stress disorder, and I reminded myself that this caused much of his anger. And his incipient violence at times? Possibly.

  He had been a war photographer for sixteen years, always in combat, actually, and had most likely suffered from PTSD for longer than Harry and I understood. As I continued to focus on his condition, caused by war, I accepted that I wasn’t afraid of Zac harming me physically. The undercurrent of violence was more verbal than anything else. Nonetheless, he had shaken me, holding me by the shoulders last night, and that had upset me.

  Sighing, I took the dishes to the sink, rinsed them and went back to the bedroom, suddenly feeling tired. I lay down on the bed, hoping to fall asleep, but this didn’t happen. Instead, I began to think of the miscarriage, and instantly started to cry. Now that I was alone I could finally let go.

  I wept into the pillow for a long time, for the baby I had lost, would never know, never see grow up. I was overwhelmed by my loss, and the sadness, and I again chastised myself for going to Libya in the first place.

  As the weeping abated, finally, I began to retrace my steps, thinking of every day I had been in the war zone. I quickly came to understand that I had done nothing untoward. I had not put myself at risk. Yusuf had always been with me, protecting me, along with Jamal and Ahmed. And Zac. I’d been fully aware that he always had my back, even when he was in the thick of taking pictures.

  I hadn’t done anything hectic physically, like jumping off walls, jeeps and trucks, as I had done very often in the past. Food poisoning aside, I had eaten very carefully, and had watched myself at all times, fully conscious of the baby, not wishing to harm it in any way.

  In the inner recesses of my mind, words echoed, words I’d heard long ago. I concentrated, heard them again: A woman can have a miscarriage for no reason at all. It just happens. Don’t worry, you’ll get pregnant again.

  The voice had been my mother’s, and I remember now that she had been talking to Jessica when she was still married to Roger. And I had been with them on the terrace at Jardin des Fleurs.

  I felt unexpectedly comforted. Sometimes things like that happen, remembered incidents come to mind, little rays of happiness shining out in the darkness, like sunlight glinting through deep water.

  I must have fallen asleep. The buzzing of my BlackBerry on the bedside table roused me. I grabbed it, saw that it was Harry, and pushed myself up into a sitting position.

  ‘Hello?’ I said, realizing I sounded groggy.

  ‘It’s me,’ Harry said. ‘Are you all right? You sound funny.’

  ‘I’m great, Harry, I’ve been resting. I didn’t get much sleep last night.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ he exclaimed. ‘I understand that you and Zac had a terrible row, that he was shouting and screaming at you.’

  I stiffened slightly on the bed, and exclaimed, ‘Yusuf must have told you.’ As I said these words, I couldn’t believe he would do such a thing – not my good old friend.

  Harry confirmed this when he said, ‘Of course it wasn’t Yusuf who blabbed. He’s too discreet. Zac told me.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Just a short time ago. He phoned me from Tripoli. He said you hadn’t been well when he left for the CNN party, that he’d come back to check on you, and you’d quarrelled. He sounded so down in the dumps, I wondered if you’d broken off with him?’

  ‘I didn’t actually say that to him, that it was over, nor did he. But it could be that it is …’ I stopped speaking. My throat had tightened, and I was choked up.

  ‘Surely not! You’ve been so good together, Serena. Don’t you want to make up with him? Give it a try?’ Harry sounded worried.

  ‘I don’t know,’ I muttered.

  ‘Why did you have such a big row? It can’t be that bad, can it?’ he asked, anxiety lingering in his voice.

  ‘I think it is,’ I said, my own voice suddenly wobbling. There was a silence on my part for a moment, and then I said, ‘I had a miscarriage on Saturday night, Harry …’ I did not finish my sentence, started to weep. But somehow I managed to control myself within seconds. And then I told Harry all about the events in the suite at the Rixos Hotel.

  He listened, not interrupting. When I’d finished he said, ‘I understand, understand everything. I’m sorry this happened to you, that you lost the baby, Serena. But I must admit, from what you’ve told me, I don’t think you should have gone. If I had known you were pregnant I would have forbidden it.’

  I was startled, and I heard the annoyance in Harry’s voice.

  ‘Zac blames me, and says it’s my fault,’ I muttered. ‘And he behaved very badly.’

  ‘I suppose it was natural, he must have been very shocked – maybe even hurt – that you hadn’t told him you were expecting his child. The first he heard of it was when you’d lost it. I can well imagine how he felt, and why he reacted.’ Harry sighed heavily.

  I remained silent, surprised by his words. I knew he was shocked and disapproving of me. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘So sorry, Harry.’

  ‘I see from my watch that it’s nine o’clock over there,’ Harry went on. ‘Let’s talk tomorrow and decide what you should do.’

  ‘All right,’ I replied, filled with exhaustion and a little disappointment. ‘Good night.’ I paused, then added, ‘I love you.’

  ‘I love you too, Serena.’

  As I hung up I was aware that I did not feel better. Talking to Harry had not really helped me, or comforted me, because I knew I’d displeased him by going to Libya in my condition. He had made it plain. I felt more alone than ever.

  It wasn’t very often that the landline rang in the bolthole, but suddenly it was shrilling. Once again I pushed myself up on the bed and grabbed the phone.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi, Pidge, it’s Jess. Your cell phone’s been busy for ages.’

  ‘I was talking to Harry. I just hung up.’

  ‘Pidge darling, we�
��re so relieved you’re out of Libya! I bet Harry is too.’

  ‘He is, and so am I. Are you there with Cara?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, she is here, and she’s grabbing the phone from me.’

  Suddenly Cara was saying, ‘We can now admit that we’ve been very worried about you, Serena. In fact, we’ve had mental images of you coming home in a body bag.’

  This was said in that gloomy voice of hers, which I so dreaded, and I exclaimed, ‘I’m sure that horrible image was in your head, Cara, and not Jessica’s.’

  Cara laughed. ‘You know, she worries about you all the time, and a bit more than I do, baby sister. But she wants a word again – here she is.’

  Jess said, ‘I do hope you’re coming to Nice soon. There’s no real reason to linger in Venice, is there? And you are all right, aren’t you? You’re not wounded, or anything like that?’

  ‘No, I’m not, I’m fine,’ I told her in a quiet voice, suddenly feeling low. In a way, I was wounded, at least emotionally. Taking a deep breath, I added, ‘I’m getting it together. I’m alive and well and kicking.’

  ‘You don’t sound it,’ Jessica answered softly, as usual able to pick up on my moods since my childhood. ‘Just the opposite. So what’s wrong? Tell me, Pidge, it helps to get things out.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong, honestly,’ I replied, and in the strongest tone I could muster.

  There was a moment of silence at the other end of the phone, then Jessica made an aside to Cara. They were talking together, but I couldn’t quite hear what they were saying.

  I waited for a moment, then exclaimed in a shrill voice, ‘What’s going on?’

  Jessica said, ‘Cara wants to know if Zac is with you? Did you come out together?’

  For a moment I hesitated. ‘No,’ I managed to say. ‘He stayed behind in Libya.’