Breaking the Rules (9 page)

L
aurence Vaughan stood staring out of a window in the library of his father’s apartment on Beekman Place. He loved this view of the East River and Long Island City beyond, especially after dark, and tonight was no exception.

It was two o’clock in the morning but some of the colourful lights in the city were still brightly reflected on the rippling surface of the river. It flowed on towards the Atlantic under a high-flung sky unimpeded by the usual forest of Manhattan skyscrapers. An ink-black sky, cloudless, was littered with tiny pinpoints of light. A beautiful, romantic, starry night…

Larry sighed under his breath, thinking of the unique and provocative young woman he had met earlier. It sometimes happened like that—meeting a special person when one least expected it, and being taken totally by surprise. She was lovely, captivating in her dark beauty, and she
was
beautiful. There was certainly no need for her to emphasize her resemblance to a dead actress, he thought.

He couldn’t help wondering why the photographer had considered this so important. M was a knockout as herself; she had no need to be an imitation of someone else.

Larry ran the evening through his head, reliving it, thinking of the fun it had been, so light-hearted in mood at times. But it had also been extremely emotional for him. There was no question in his mind that he had been swept away by her. And as never before. Not ever in his entire and somewhat adventurous life had he been so knocked for a loop by a woman.

Over the years, many different women had occupied his time and his life, but none of them had captured him quite like she had. Even now, at this very moment, he still felt stunned, taken aback at himself and his extraordinary reaction to her.

Engulfed,
he thought, that’s what it is. I’ve been engulfed by her. And excited by her…by the way she makes me feel.

Larry had wanted to bring M home with him to this apartment after dinner, reluctant to let her out of his sight. Then, unexpectedly, outside Le Refuge, he had changed his mind. Once they were standing in the street, facing each other, he had finally given in to the urgent need he had to grab her, hold her in his arms. As he had reached for her, she had reached for him, and they had drawn together willingly, kissing passionately, clinging to each other. M had responded to him ardently, as aroused as he was, and seemingly willing to follow his lead.

When they had finally drawn apart, a little stunned and reeling, he had been taken by surprise when he noticed the awful look in her eyes. It was one of undisguised apprehension. He had recoiled slightly, not only baffled but also worried, wondering what was wrong. It struck him then that she was not very experienced when it came to men, even though she had appeared to be a genuine sophisticate. And so, because he had serious intentions, he had taken her home instead of into his bed, dropping her off at the brownstone on West Twenty-Second Street where she rented a room from Geo.

Detecting a hint of disappointment in her as they had ridden downtown in the cab, he had put his arms around her and pulled her close to him. ‘Will you spend tomorrow with me?’ he had
asked, and she had nodded, giving him the benefit of a very big smile. ‘It’s already tomorrow,’ she had murmured. ‘If you’re referring to Sunday, that is. It’s nearly one o’clock.’ They had both laughed, and intuitively he had known that whatever it was that had troubled her outside the restaurant, it had now vanished.

And so she would come here later. At noon he had told her. They would have brunch and perhaps go to a movie, and he would let things take their natural course. He did not want to rush her, or spoil anything, and he had all the time in the world to court her properly.

Turning away from the window, Larry moved across the library. As he did, his eye fell on the photograph of his mother in a silver frame; it sat on a walnut chest amongst other family photographs. He stood staring at it, thinking what a beautiful woman she was, with her mass of blonde hair and light eyes.

Pandora Gallen.
One of England’s greatest actresses, but still his mother, nonetheless, and mother to his many siblings, and wife to his father. As he often did, he heard her light, musical voice echoing in his head, explaining something of importance to her. ‘You can know a person for forty years and never know them. Yet you can also meet someone and know them in an instant, in the space of an hour, even less. It’s all about recognition, you see, Larry. Recognizing that you’re the same blood type. Or, if you prefer, from the same tribe.’ She had smiled at him that afternoon and given him a very knowing look. And he had instantly understood that perhaps at some time in her life his mother had met someone whom she had recognized immediately and wanted to be with.

As he had just done. He had told M she seemed so familiar to him that he was positive they had met before. She had insisted they hadn’t, and yet he
had
recognized her. She and I are very alike, he suddenly thought. We’re the same breed. There was no need for her to tell him anything about herself: he already knew
everything there was to know just by spending an evening with her. She was from an upper class family, well spoken, highly educated and cultivated. Probably one of a brood, he decided, more than likely the youngest, both picked on and adored. It struck him that she had more than likely crossed the Pond to make it under her own steam without the help of family.

He smiled to himself, liking this idea. Plucky, he thought, she’s plucky and courageous…and just possibly a carbon copy of me.

Larry found it hard to sleep. He tossed and turned for two hours and, finally, in desperation, he got up. He went to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of milk, and then sauntered into the library. This was a comfortable, charming room, and the one he used the most.

Turning on a lamp, settling in one of the big armchairs, he took a few swallows of the milk and put the glass down on the table next to the chair. His father’s chair. No, it wasn’t his father’s chair any longer.
It was his.
He had bought this apartment and its contents several months ago, and it was his home now, his only home, and the first he had ever owned.

‘We really wanted to give you the apartment,’ his mother had told him a few weeks ago when she was in New York to pack up her belongings, clothes and other favourite possessions, as well as his father’s clothes and objects of importance. ‘But we couldn’t, because of the others. They would have kicked up a fuss. That’s why we decided to offer it to all of you at a good price. A bargain price.’

All of us,
he thought, grimacing.

He was one of six; he had three older brothers and two older sisters. All of them were contentious, competitive, contradictory and complex. They had fought like hell when they were growing up in the big old house in Hampstead, and sometimes they still
did, but they loved each other nonetheless. Or at least some of them did—others paid lip service to that idea. He
did
love his brother Horatio and his sister Portia, but Miranda was too aloof and remote for him, and by far the most snobbish woman he had ever met. His brother Edward had made his life miserable when they were kids, but now they were friendly and there was a truce between them. Well, sort of. As far as his brother Thomas was concerned, Larry respected and admired him, the first-born of the Vaughan tribe, but they had never been close. The age difference had probably been a stumbling block.

None of his siblings had wanted to buy the apartment, mainly because they did not want to live in New York. Edward commuted between Los Angeles and London; Thomas had a manor house in Gloucestershire and a pied-à-terre in London, and Horatio was a Londoner born and bred, and would never dream of living anywhere else on earth. Portia felt the same, whilst Miranda was a country bumpkin in rural Kent when she wasn’t working on set designs up in town. She owned a small studio near Eaton Square where she stayed when she was working on a play, but mostly she preferred to muck about in the country.

There were no two ways about it, his father
had
sold him the apartment at a bargain price: exactly what he himself had paid for it twenty years ago, and not a penny more. If it had gone on the market, the price would have been four times as much, if not more. But his father hadn’t been trying to make money; he had simply wanted to be rid of the apartment he no longer used, because he was rarely on Broadway these days. Larry had believed his mother when she had confided they had genuinely wanted to give him the apartment lock, stock and barrel, but had been extremely wary of his siblings, their older children.

Quite right too, he thought, shifting his weight in the chair. The buggers would have made a hell of a stink if Dad had done that.
Jealousy.
He’d always been a target of their insane jealousy
because he was the youngest; they considered him the most favoured and spoilt.

‘You’re also the best looking of the bunch, and the most talented,’ his mother had frequently reminded him, but he did not agree, felt she was trying to make him feel better. And he had to give his siblings credit where it was due. They were all brilliant in their own way, and good looking to boot. Actors all, except for Miranda.

‘The Glorious Vaughans’, they had been dubbed by the press, who dubbed them the first theatrical family in the land: theatrical royalty, in fact. Six brothers and sisters who won all the prizes, took all the bows on both sides of the Atlantic.

Larry saw Edward in his mind. Tall, slender, blond and green-eyed. He was an elegant and charming man today, with a mind like a whiplash and a tongue to match, but a tantrum-throwing little thug as a child. How cruel Edward had been when he was little…Closing his eyes, Larry drifted with his thoughts, caught up on an old memory from long ago…

Laurence stood his ground, his feet firmly planted on the gravel driveway, the cheap child’s sword in his right hand, his left hand on his hip. He was seven years old, and proud of his stance. His father had shown him exactly how to stand, and taught him how to fence properly, and so he knew he was the best.

His twelve-year-old brother Edward unexpectedly jumped forward, startling him, brandishing his own sword, and shouting, ‘I’m coming in for the kill, you knave!’ But Edward merely leapt around on the spot, behaving like a wild circus dog, and looking silly.

Thrust and parry, thrust and parry, Larry reminded himself, picturing his father’s performance as Caesar in one of his films. Taking a deep breath, he moved forward. Tin met tin in a clash
of toy swords, and he immediately jumped back, hastily retreating from Edward, who was well known to be dangerous, and never played by the rules.

His brother sprang closer to Larry, and suddenly he slashed out, catching Larry on his left arm. ‘You’ve cut me, Edward!’ Larry cried. Much to his surprise and horror, he saw blood spurting through the cotton fabric of the fake chain-mail tunic. ‘You’re not supposed to do that,’ he shrieked, backing away, dropping the sword he was holding, bringing his right hand to his left arm, endeavouring to staunch the flowing blood.

‘Coward! Coward!’ Edward shouted, waving his sword over his head, and advancing on Larry, crazily jumping from side to side and laughing wildly. ‘I will defeat you now, you alien dog! Not one of
us.
Not one of
us.
Changeling! Darkling! You’re not one of
us.
’

Suddenly growing frightened of his brother, Larry picked up his sword, then backed away and tripped, fell down on the gravel, his sword now skittering across the drive. Catching his breath, he tried to push himself to his feet.

Laughing, enjoying his triumph over the younger boy, Edward zeroed in, knelt down next to Larry and began to pummel him, hitting him on his shoulders, chest and face. ‘No mercy for the enemy. Kill the enemy!’ Edward snarled, a spiteful gleam in his pale eyes.

Wrapping his arms around his head, Larry attempted to protect his face, whilst still pressing his hand on the sleeve of his blood-soaked cotton tunic. He tried to move again, to get up, but Edward was much stronger than he was, and held him down, gloating.

The clattering of high heels running through the hall and down the front steps sent enormous relief rushing through Larry. Their mother’s voice was thunderous as she screamed, ‘Get off him, Edward! Get off him at once! You’re really in for it, my lad.’ She was suddenly looming over Edward, her face furious,
and grabbing him by his collar, she unceremoniously yanked him to his feet, shouting into his gaping face, ‘I’ll have your guts for garters, you little bugger!’

Literally throwing Edward to one side, and looking totally undisturbed as he fell hard on the ground, his mother crouched next to Larry. She was appalled by the amount of blood covering his tunic, and also alarmed. Larry’s face was bruised and bloody where his brother had hit him hard.

‘My God! I can’t believe this!’ Pandora exclaimed, and she put her arms under her youngest child and lifted him closer to her, held him for a moment against herself, hurting for him. She said, ‘Do you think you can get up, darling?’

He nodded.

Pandora stood and, bending over Larry, she helped him to get to his feet. Slowly they walked across the drive and up the front steps, and Pandora murmured to him lovingly, reassured him he would be all right as they stepped inside the house.

‘Mother,’ Edward said from the driveway.

Pandora glanced over her shoulder. Her face was white with shock, her anger unabated. ‘What?’

‘I didn’t mean to hurt—’

‘Like hell you didn’t!’ Pandora raged. ‘You’re getting to be a menace. I’ve just about had it with you.’

‘But Mother—’

‘Shut up. And stay out of my way. I don’t want to see your face. And I will certainly deal with you later, in an appropriate way. It would be wise of you to prepare yourself for harsh punishment.’

Edward gaped at her, his face now as white as hers, and stricken. He was terrified of his mother when she was angry. None of them knew what she might do when she was in the grip of a monumental fury such as this.