Brilliant (23 page)

F  I  F  T  Y  -  T  W  O

I switched on the day/night timer for the lamps, redisguised myself, and left through the service entrance, rushing down the back stairs in the dark. Once I’d satisfied myself the mews were empty, I crossed through to a passageway that cut to the street beyond and caught the Underground for Heathrow.

The train car was almost empty. I looked at my reflection in the window: I could have been anybody’s grandmother, traveling to see her family. My size, instead of being a voluptuous asset clad in well- made clothes, cut to flatter, was crammed into a seemingly too-small, old wool suit that unbecomingly hugged my stomach, back, and hips like plaid wallpaper. What looked like rolls of fat mounded up between my shoulders and hips like a stack of thick bicycle tires were in fact rolls and rolls of thickly padded diamonds. A short, curly, grayish brown wig covered my blond hair; I’d removed my nail polish; and a nondescript pair of bifocals camouflaged my eyes, which bore no makeup. I’d put the brown lenses back in and added a smear of bright pink lipstick in a girlish attempt to appear done up. I was a baby boomer gone to seed. A woman who spent all her extra funds on gifts for her grandchildren instead of a face-lift for herself. I was the reality of myself if I hadn’t had any money.

I wasn’t feeling particularly anxious, but the train couldn’t go quite fast enough to suit me.

My disguise was so effective, a businessman helped me get my suitcase onto the escalator when we arrived at the airport, and it wasn’t because he wanted to hit on me. “I’d want someone to do the same for my mum,” he said.

“Thank you, dear.”

The line at the Air France counter was nothing compared to what it would be later in the spring and throughout the summer—the demand for weekend travel to the south of France on Thursday night hadn’t started yet. Even so, there were about twenty people waiting to check in, most of them looking much smarter than I, which was just the way I wanted it. I was invisible. At one point I thought I saw Thomas Curtis talking to one of the armed guards that patrol the airport, and my heart stopped. My grip tightened on my purse. Steady on, steady on, I warned myself. He’s not looking for anyone who looks like you, but nevertheless, I couldn’t control the shaking in my legs. The look-alike turned out to be an older gentleman evidently asking directions.

By the time I reached the head of the line, I’d regained my poise. My hands and legs were solid. I handed my Swiss passport and credit card over the counter to the agent.

“
Merci
, Mme. Chaise.” She returned my documents and boarding pass without a second look. “The flight starts boarding in twenty minutes. You just have time.”

I dashed to security as quickly as I could. Get me out of here.

Security to gain access to the concourses at Heathrow is always extremely tight—teams of guards with submachine guns and attack dogs scrutinize every action. And tonight, even though all the metal detectors and high-speed scanners were operating, the line was gigantic, as though there’d been some sort of scare or alert, and the guards were being particularly conscientious. I checked my watch, only thirty minutes till my flight left. I could possibly make it. The cache of stones I’d crammed into my specially constructed jacket and padded bra dug into my torso and breasts. The guards were body searching all the passengers, which they always did, but tonight each search seemed to be taking more time. A small trickle of sweat rolled down my back. Minutes kept disappearing on the overhead flight monitor.

Finally, it was my turn. I placed my suitcase and purse onto the conveyor and passed through. The female guard was thorough, patting up and down my sides, her hands circled my breasts intimately and then ran up and down my legs, inside and out.

She passed me through, as I knew she would. My smuggler’s costume wasn’t bulletproof but it was definitely grope-proof.

I raced to the gate. They were just closing the doors that lead to the ramp down to the last bus.

“Oh,
merci Dieu
,” I said to the girl as I ran onto the half-full conveyance. She examined my passport and boarding card, and returned them without comment. The bus doors slid shut with a quiet swoosh and we rumbled our way through the maze of roadways painted on the tarmac, stopping and starting in the middle of nowhere at invisible, empty intersections. Two minutes later I was climbing the stairs onto the plane, and a couple of minutes after that we left the ground and quickly disappeared into the heavy cloud cover. Outside, the plane’s strong lights turned everything white until we broke through into a moonlit, starry night and sailed along—a little rocket speeding over a silver carpet.

I put my head back and closed my eyes and said a prayer of thanks. After that, I didn’t know what to think about first. Deceit. Sex. Bold moves. Or Owen with some lilting, little Scottish stewardess in some silly little kilt and tartan underwear. I thought about murdering him.

“Aperitif, Madame?” The flight attendant placed a small linen napkin and a ramekin of cashews on the console between the seats.

I opened my eyes. “Johnny Walker Black, please. Double. No ice.”

I thought about Thomas Curtis’s ideas about Owen and decided he was nuts.

I thought about if I really was falling in love with Owen.

I thought about if I would go back or not, or if this was really it. Was I really gone? My life in London over?

I thought about Lady Melody alone in there with Owen. And dead. I thought about the secret door from the street to Owen’s office, and I pictured Tina on the sofa. Dead. Could I really believe that Owen would inject her between her toes with a killer dose of heroin? No! Kill two women in one day? It was way too crude. Too tawdry. Too melodramatic.

I thought about his and Gil’s furniture scam. And the bomb.

I had another drink.

How glad I was to be on this plane on my way home and wondered if there were any dinner party invitations waiting for me.

I thought again about Owen in Scotland at Lord Spaulding’s castle and how Owen had insisted it was going to be men only and how, no matter how much I tried to, I didn’t believe him. In spite of trying to drown it with scotch, the green worm of envy was having a field day in my stomach—turning, twisting, digging in.

I thought about Owen’s trio of dead wives and decided although the deaths might have been odd, or oddly convenient, they weren’t suspicious. I knew Owen too well—I think I probably knew him better than any woman he’d ever known, except possibly his mother. I would know if he was lying, whether it was about murder or other women. I wondered how many other women had thought the same thing: That they knew him better than anyone but his mother.

I wondered if he’d miss me.

I thought about how complicated everything had gotten. I wanted it all to be peaceful again, the way it used to be.

I thought about Owen’s hands on my body and I shifted in my seat. I let the alarm bells that clanged in my head drift away, buried completely by feelings of pleasure and longing and intense desire.

F  I  F  T  Y  -  T  H  R  E  E

After an hour and a half in the air, we plunged back into the clouds and touched down in Marseilles.

Rain fell in sheets—pelting everything mercilessly. It was a deluge. But it was also surprisingly warm for so early in the year, and the air was fresh, ocean-filled, not the damp, frigid, exhaust-drenched city air of London. I wouldn’t have cared if it’d been a blizzard or a typhoon; I couldn’t even believe how glad I was to be there.

I buttoned up my raincoat, popped open my umbrella, and strode the distance to the long-term parking lot, its overhead lights muddled by the rain. The lot was full of cars, but, at this late hour, it was empty of people except for a handful from my flight. I watched where each one of them went and waited until they were on their way to the exit before going to my own car. When I pushed the remote on my key, the lights on my black Mercedes station wagon winked. I smiled hugely and got in. The stones in my jacket and bra even stopped hurting. I yanked my wig off. Then I pulled the pins out of my hair and ran my fingers through it, massaging my scalp. I unbuttoned my jacket. Removed the glasses and contact lenses, put on lipstick and blusher, lit a cigarette, slipped the car into gear, paid the man, and turned onto the Autoroute du Soleil.

The highway was almost empty—and after the big interchange at Salon-de-Provence there was little traffic, mostly trucks. It was just me speeding along over the rolling hills in the rain. I made reasonably good time to my exit at Senas, and onto the smaller route to Orgon, where I turned left onto a country road. My country road that ran through les plaines, the flat-bottomed land at the foot of Les Alpilles. It was pitch-black out. The avenue of budding platane trees, their awning of craggy branches lit up eerily by my headlights, waved above as I drove slowly through the ferocious storm. Rain pounded deafeningly on the car. Just before I reached the town of Éygalières, I turned right, crossed the Canal des Alpilles, and drove through a nondescript gate, my nondescript gate, onto a rocky dirt lane banked with olive trees that wound through fields newly planted with sunflowers. I rounded a stand of trees and there it was. A single light burned in the front-room window of my little yellow farmhouse with its hyacinth blue shutters.

Welcome home, Kick.

Ahh. I can breathe.

I dashed through the rain into the kitchen, a good-sized, brightly tiled room with a professional, eight-burner range, three ovens, and a long oak refectory table, upon which sat a large bowl of fresh fruit. A note from Pierre, my farm manager, lay on top of the stack of mail:

Welcome, Madame. Hélène has stocked the refrigerator with a few necessities. She will be available tomorrow if you have need of anything. The mail is on the counter. I have to visit the doctor in St. Rémy in the morning but will be on the property in the afternoon—we must discuss your garden. I hope your trip was satisfactory. Pierre.

The mail consisted of bills and notices, and a couple of invitations. I poured myself a Scotch and took it into the darkened living room and stood by the window which, in daylight, looked across the valley to the mountains. I don’t know how long I stood there, thinking about nothing but how incredibly lucky, and happy, I was. I smoked a cigarette and watched my reflection in the dark glass. I looked more comfortable and relaxed than I’d looked in months. I hated being energized and on-point. I smiled and started laughing. Oh, my God, I was happy.

Shortly, I rinsed out my glass, put it in the dishwasher, straightened everything up, turned off the lights and went into the bedroom— everything pale yellow and white, serene and luscious. I lit the fire in the fireplace, tossing in some dried rosemary branches, and turned on the steamer in the shower. While it heated up, I undressed and put on my old, pink terry-cloth robe. Then, I got down on my hands and knees and removed a two-foot-square section of pale yellow, ceramic-tile bathroom floor and opened my safe.

I hadn’t brought a lot of stones with me, only my finest ones, ranging in size from one to twenty-five carats, mostly perfect diamonds, for which the market was always strong, and the Kashmirs, of course. The Velcro sealing the compartments in my jacket and bra separated with a satisfying rip, exposing the dozens of individual, glittering pockets. I sorted them back into their proper order, put them into their
briefkes
, and laid them in the safe, along with the Queen’s Pet, and my Léonie Chaise passport and paperwork. I withdrew other documents: my French driver’s license, insurance and health cards.

I was home. My own name, my own house, my own town, my own life.

I lay down on the hot tiles of the bench in the steam bath and didn’t think about anything. I brushed my teeth, cleaned my face, and went to bed, and slept like I was dead, lulled by the rain.

I have no idea when the storm stopped, but when I woke up at nine- forty-five, there was no sound of the storm, only birdsong. I pushed the shutters open and there before me was a perfect, warm day. Sunlight sparkled off the washed lawn and trees with their tiny lime green, still-furled leaves. A thin misty veil, sensed more than seen, covered the fields and chalky white rock hillsides of Les Alpilles, and made the ancient ruins of Église Sacre Coeur de Marie on a nearby hilltop seem illuminated by flocks of whirling angels.

I pulled on my robe and walked through the house and out the kitchen door into the kitchen garden. This particular garden was my bailiwick—Pierre couldn’t touch it no matter how much he wanted to, which, by the looks of it, I imagined was pretty desperately, as his note implied. It did need a lot of work. Rosemary, basil, tarragon, parsley, enormous bushes of lavender—no shamrocks—all fought for space with spiny winterkill and hardy weeds. The gravel path crunched under my slippers as I assessed my project. There was much to do—weeding, restaking, replanting. There was no rush.

Pierre had come by earlier and left a fresh baguette lying on the counter along with a paper sack of two fresh croissants and today’s
International Herald Tribune
. I started a pot of coffee and set the table in the kitchen window with my best Limoges breakfast china—sweet pink rosebuds on a glazed white field—with linens to match, a thick slice of butter and a pot of golden Mirabelle preserves. I whipped up a cheese and fines herbes omelette.

The air was so rich with its own sounds, I didn’t even put on any music. Not a note of rock and roll to be heard anywhere. Ever again.