Remember

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  ‘How did you get to Hong Kong?’ Nicky asked, her curiosity now getting the better of her.

  ‘Many people help me. Ordinary people. They hate government. They hate what government did to students. They sorry for students. They like democracy movement. Many different people help me. Mai’s mother help me go to Shenzhen—’

  ‘That’s adjacent to Hong Kong,’ Clee cut in, looking at Nicky and explaining, ‘It’s an economic zone, something like Hong Kong, and it became a sort of boom town overnight. Correct, Yoyo?’

  Yoyo nodded. ‘You know Shenzhen, Clee?’

  ‘Yes. I did a story there about a year ago.’ Once again he glanced at Nicky. ‘It’s kind of honky-tonk, full of criminals and low life, as well as legit businessmen and entrepreneurs. But continue with your story, Yoyo.’

  ‘I needed papers to go to Shenzhen. All Chinese citizens need special certificate. Mai’s father have friend. This friend have guanxi—connections. This man buy certificate for me.’

  ‘But how did you get to Shenzhen from Beijing? It’s a long way,’ Nicky asserted.

  ‘Mai’s father take me to Shanghai. In car. His brother help. He pass me along. To many friends. It is network, Nicky. They help students. I cannot say more. Okay? You understand?’

  ‘Yes, of course I do,’ she said. ‘You don’t want to divulge too much about the network, because other students may have to use it as an escape route.’

  ‘That is correct, Nicky. I arrive Shenzhen beginning of August. I have special connection. Friend of friend. I stay two weeks. Friend in Shenzhen take me to Zhong-Ying Street one day. It busy shopping street. One side China. Other side Hong Kong. Many tourists. We bribe police. They look other way. I go over border.’

  ‘But there are Hong Kong police stationed on the other side of Zhong-Ying Street,’ Clee said. ‘On the Hong Kong side. I know that area because of the story I did on Shenzhen. How did you manage once you’d crossed over?’

  ‘I run. I slip through back streets. Alleyways. I hide. I get to water. Hong Kong on other side of bay. Mr Loong have boat waiting. Every day boat wait for me. Until I come. I go to Hong Kong on Mr Loong’s boat. Mr Loong look after me in Hong Kong. He good man.’

  ‘Who exactly is Mr Loong, Yoyo?’

  ‘Oh Nicky, he brother Mai’s mother. He very important man in Hong Kong. Big businessman. He leave Shanghai in 1948 before Communists come in 1949. He start export-import business in Hong Kong. Now he very rich man. He help me. He bring me to Paris.’

  ‘You were an illegal immigrant in Hong Kong with no papers. How did you manage? And how did you get out?’ Clee asked. ‘You have a Chinese passport, I know, but what about visas and all that?’

  ‘Mr Loong fix everything. He has many friends. Important friends. He buy me real Hong Kong passport. It is in my name.’

  Nicky said, ‘May we see it, Yoyo? You don’t mind showing it to us, do you?’

  ‘No, Nicky.’ He reached into his jacket and pulled out the passport, handed it to her.

  Clee rose and walked over to join her on the sofa. Together they examined it, and then looked at each other. They had expected to see a forgery. But it appeared to be an authentic and valid Hong Kong passport in Yoyo’s full name: Chin Yong Yu.

  Handing it back to him, Clee said, ‘Very good, Yoyo. Your friend Mr Loong obviously has big guanxi.’

  Yoyo laughed and nodded.

  ‘And what are your plans?’ Clee now asked. ‘Are you going to stay here in France, or what?’

  ‘Mr Loong has Paris office for import-export company. He brought me here as secretary. Maybe I stay. Maybe I go New York.’ As he said this he looked at Nicky questioningly.

  ‘We’ll talk that over tomorrow, decide later, shall we, Yoyo?’ she said, and eyed the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘I think we ought to be going. Isn’t Mr Loong expecting us at eight o’clock?’

  ‘Yes.’ Yoyo got up, and continued, ‘He and Mrs Loong expect us then. At Ritz Hotel. Place Vendôme. Ernest Hemingway suite.’

  Clee caught Nicky’s eye and they stared at each other in astonishment, and then before she could stop herself Nicky burst out laughing. Clee stood next to her, grinning.

  ‘What is it?’ Yoyo looked puzzled.

  ‘I can’t help thinking that your luck has changed, Yoyo. Mr Loong is definitely good joss.’

  ‘Oh yes, Mr Loong very good joss,’ Yoyo agreed.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Anne Devereaux had been on Nicky’s mind ever since Madrid, and on Sunday morning she decided to phone her at Pullenbrook.

  ‘It’s lovely to hear your voice, Nicky,’ Anne said.

  ‘And yours, Anne. I’m here in Paris with Clee, and I thought I’d call to say hello. How’ve you been?’

  ‘Oh, all right, I suppose. I’m so glad you phoned… I didn’t know where to find you… I’ve been wanting to talk to you.’

  Nicky caught something odd in Anne’s tone, and she shifted in the chair, sat up straighter. ‘What about?’ she asked carefully.

  ‘Charles. Nicky, I—’

  ‘Oh Anne, I’m so very sorry I came to see you at Pullenbrook two weeks ago. I know how much I upset you. It was wrong of me. I acted impulsively, without really thinking things through. Charles did commit suicide three years ago. I know he did. It wasn’t him in the news segment. I was wrong about that.’

  ‘I’m not so sure anymore,’ Anne said.

  Nicky stiffened, gripped the phone tighter. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking… mostly about the two photographs you had. When you first showed them to me I did see the resemblance. In fact, I thought it was quite striking. But then I immediately convinced myself that they couldn’t possibly be of Charles. For the simple reason that my son would never do anything shoddy, like fake his own death. But in the last two weeks those photographs have haunted me, Nicky.’

  ‘Forget them, Anne! It wasn’t Charles! Honestly, it wasn’t.’

  ‘I’d like to see the pictures again,’ Anne said quietly. ‘Would you be kind enough to send them to me please?’

  ‘I don’t have them. I destroyed them.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘There was no point in keeping them, Anne.’

  ‘You really don’t have them?’

  ‘I told you, I got rid of them, they were torn up and thrown away.’

  There was a silence at the other end of the phone. Nicky waited for a moment, and then she said, ‘Anne, are you there?’

  ‘Yes, I’m here, Nicky.’

  To Nicky her voice sounded very faint, and she exclaimed, ‘Aren’t you feeling well?’

  ‘I haven’t been sleeping much lately, to tell you the truth. I suppose my mind has been on Charles. So many memories coming back…’

  ‘Oh, Anne darling, don’t do this to yourself,’ Nicky said very softly, filling with compassion for the other woman. ‘This is all my fault. I don’t know what to do to help you, to put your mind at rest, to make you feel better.’ When there was no response at the other end of the line, Nicky said, ‘Is there anything at all that I can do?’

  ‘Could you come to England, Nicky? I would like to talk to you… need to talk to you… there’s no one else. Perhaps if I saw you I’d feel less alone…’

  Nicky’s heart dropped, and she was about to refuse, but knowing she was responsible for this woman’s present pain and heartache she changed her mind. Instead, she said, ‘I could come over tomorrow, Anne, but only for the day, I’m afraid. I wouldn’t be able to come to Pullenbrook. Could you meet me in London? Maybe we could get together for lunch?’

  ‘Of course I can come up! That would be marvellous, Nicky!’ Anne’s voice sounded suddenly stronger, more cheerful and she hurried on, ‘Why don’t we meet at the flat? It’s quiet and private, and so much more comfortable than a restaurant.’

  ‘Yes, that’ll be fine, Anne. I’ll see you tomorrow—let’s say between noon and twelve thirty.’

  ‘I’m so looking forward to it.’

  ‘
Give my best to Philip.’

  ‘I will. He’s out taking a walk at the moment, otherwise I would have put him on. I know he would have wanted to say hello. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, darling, goodbye.’

  ‘Bye, Anne.’

  ***

  After Nicky had hung up she sat in the chair at Clee’s desk in his small den, pondering her conversation with Anne for a few minutes. Anne had sounded wan and low-spirited at the beginning of their conversation, and she knew it was her fault. She was the one who had ripped open a wound that had partially healed during the past three years, and in so doing had created new suffering.

  The past had come rushing back to torment this lovely woman, who deserved so much better. Nicky experienced a flash of sudden anger, thinking of Charles and what he had done to his mother when he had vanished, and then she instantly pushed this to one side. He no longer played a part in any of this, and certainly not in Anne’s life. She was going to find a way to stop the bleeding, to help Anne’s wound to heal again. In order to do this she had to go to London, and so she would fly over in the morning. It was only an hour’s flight, after all. And when she got there she was going to convince Anne Devereaux that her son was dead. He was—to all intents and purposes.

  The front door banged and startled her, and she jumped up and went into the small entrance foyer. Clee was standing there, his arms laden with shopping bags. Two baguettes poked out of one, vegetables out of another, and flowers were balanced on top of a third.

  ‘Hi, babe,’ he said, grinning at her over the top of them. ‘Come on and talk to me while I unpack this stuff.’

  She followed him into the kitchen. ‘It looks as if you bought enough food to feed an army!’ she exclaimed. ‘What are you intending to make for lunch?’

  ‘Donovan’s famous farm omelette, for one thing,’ he replied, dumping the armful of bags on the kitchen table.

  ‘And what’s that, may I ask?’

  ‘You’ll have to wait and see. It’s my speciality, and it’s delicious. You’ll love it.’ Whipping the bunch of flowers out of the bag, he spun around and handed it to her.

  ‘For my best girl,’ he said, leaning forward, kissing her on the cheek. ‘And the top of the mornin’ to you, mavourneen,’ he added in a strong Irish brogue.

  ‘Oh Clee, how sweet of you, thank you,’ she said, taking them, pressing her face into the blooms. Then impulsively she went to him, threw her arms around him and hugged him close. Her face was next to his, and she whispered, ‘I love you.’

  ‘I love you too, Nick.’ He lifted her face with one hand, looked into her eyes, and added, ‘And you’ll never know how much… I’ll just have to try and show you. In the meantime, I’ve got to get started and make brunch, otherwise we’ll be eating at four o’clock this afternoon.’

  ‘What can I do to help?’

  ‘Once I’ve moved the groceries over to the counter top, you can set the table. Then you can open the bottle of champagne and pour us two glasses, and add a dash of orange juice to them. After that, you can sit here and watch me make the omelettes. Okay by you?’

  ‘Okay by me, chief,’ she said, laughing, and helped him to carry the grocery bags to the other side of the room before putting the flowers in a vase of water. Once she had spread the cloth on the table, and added the plates and knives and forks, she busied herself with the bottle of champagne. Her father liked Bucks Fizz, the mixture of champagne and orange juice, and now she made it with great expertise.

  ‘Here’s to the girl I adore,’ Clee said, clinking his glass against hers. ‘Santé.’

  ‘Santé, darling,’ she murmured and smiled at him.

  Clee strode to the long counter top under the window, began emptying the bags, and then started to prepare the food.

  Nicky sat watching him, thinking how fast and efficient he was as he handled the vegetables, all of which were obviously intended as ingredients in the omelette. Looks as if he’s making a Spanish omelette to me, she thought, and bit back a smile.

  ‘Are you still going to Brussels tomorrow, Clee?’ Nicky asked after a moment.

  ‘Yep, sure am, honey. Why?’

  ‘I called Anne Devereaux while you were out buying the groceries, and I was a bit upset when I heard how depressed she sounded. That’s a bad word; I thought she was troubled, Clee.’

  He turned around and looked at Nicky thoughtfully. ‘I guess you think you’ve opened a can of worms. Or, perhaps more appropriately, Pandora’s Box. Is that it, babe?’

  ‘Yes. And it really is my fault, Clee. I was very stupid, rushing to see her the way I did. It was far too impulsive on my part. I should have waited, thought things over, and spoken to you.’

  ‘You most certainly should have done that, and I would have told you to forget it. But never mind. No use crying over milk on the floor.’ He turned back to the counter, and began to peel the three large potatoes lying on the chopping board. ‘What do you want to do about her, Nicky? Is there a way to help her?’ he asked as he worked.

  ‘She wanted me to come and see her. Asked me to, in fact. She says she has no one else to talk to but me.’

  ‘What about Philip? Isn’t he sympathetic to her needs?’

  ‘I’m sure he is, but she and I have always been extremely close, and anyway, I was…’ She let her sentence trail off.

  ‘And anyway, you were engaged to Charles,’ he finished for her, glancing over his shoulder. He smiled at her. ‘You don’t have to tiptoe around me, about Charles Devereaux, I mean. You were engaged to him, and you did have a relationship with him, and none of us are without a past, a history, at our age. We all carry a certain amount of baggage with us.’

  ‘Thanks for understanding. Anyway, I did agree to go to London tomorrow, to have lunch with her at the flat in Eaton Square. Since you’d said you were going to be in Brussels for two or three days I thought you wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘I don’t, and I wouldn’t have minded even if I were going to be here. You have to do what you have to do, and I’m never going to put a leash on you. Hey, Nicky, I’m not that kinda guy.’ He turned to face her, and leaning against the counter top, he added, ‘And I hope you’re not going to put a leash on me either.’

  Nicky shook her head. ‘Never! That’s verboten, for sure. Besides, you’re a bachelor at heart, remember? You cast yourself in the same mould as Robert Capa years ago, when you were still a boy. And I know that you want to take your camera and roam the world as he did, footloose and fancy free. I understand, and it’s acceptable to me, Clee.’

  He put the knife he was holding on the counter top, walked across the kitchen, and stood looking at her. Then he took the glass out of her hand and placed it on the table, pulled her to her feet.

  ‘Listen, honeybunch, I might want to roam the world taking photographs, and I might want to be footloose, but I certainly don’t want to be fancy free. I want you at my side.’ He brought her into his arms and kissed her hard on the mouth, then he held her away from him, and the lopsided smile flickered.

  He touched her face lightly with one finger, and said, ‘Shall we get married?’

  Nicky was totally caught off guard, and she stared at him. ‘You’ve taken me by surprise… do I have to decide today?’

  ‘No, you don’t have to decide today.’ He grinned and kissed the tip of her nose. ‘You can decide tomorrow or next week, or whenever you want, just as long as you say yes.’

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Like Pullenbrook, Anne’s flat in Eaton Square was beautiful, and impressive in its own way. It had been decorated years before by the great English interior designer John Fowler, one of his last assignments before his death.

  The living room was spacious, high-ceilinged, its walls painted a peculiar faded pink, which the late interior decorator had named Ointment Pink. The taffeta draperies at the two tall windows were slightly deeper, and this soft shade, used throughout, helped to give the room its rosy glow. Georgian antiques, an Aubusson rug on the floor, and several large horse
paintings by Stubbs added to the room’s quiet elegance. As she always did, Anne had put her inimitable stamp on it; there were skirted tables laden with family photographs in silver frames, pots of tall white orchids, vases of flowers everywhere, and slow-burning scented candles.

  On this sunny Monday morning, Anne and Nicky sat on a small sofa in front of one of the windows overlooking Eaton Square and the leafy green bower of trees in its central gardens.

  Anne was more at ease with herself than she had been since Nicky’s last visit, and this showed in her face. The tight lines around her mouth had all but disappeared, and her body was less taut. In fact, most of the tension had fled, and she was relaxed and smiling.

  Nicky, relieved that she had succeeded in putting Anne’s mind at rest, was also feeling more comfortable, and she was pleased she had come to London. The trip had been worth it just to know that the wounds she had opened would quickly heal now. Anne was already looking and sounding more like herself.

  These two women had always been compatible, and after their intense, hour-long talk this morning there seemed to be an even deeper bond between them.

  ‘You don’t know what it means to me that you came,’ Anne said, reaching out for Nicky’s hand, taking it in hers. ‘You made me see sense, helped to put me back together again, and for that I’m very grateful, darling. I had become rather depressed, and sad.’ She paused, and shook her head. ‘I think I was even beginning to feel sorry for myself, which is not like me at all. I can’t abide self-pity, it’s such a sign of weakness, and I’m intolerant of it in others. Anyway, thank you, Nicky, you’ve worked wonders.’

  ‘You don’t have to thank me, Anne, I was glad to come,’ Nicky said, squeezing her hand. ‘Quite aside from loving you, and caring about your well-being, I feel very responsible. It was I who opened Pandora’s Box and let all the horrors out. I wanted to put things right, make you feel better, if I could.’