Darling Sweetheart (20 page)

For it was another quirk of timing that, after a year of nonstop partying, she should retreat from alcohol only to find herself surrounded by it. Watching the pub’s clientele, she thought to herself how everyone acts all day long, playing the part they’re expected to play, then uses booze to let their real selves out – like caged animals being released for exercise. She imagined herself a spy; she began to watch people everywhere, not just in the pub but at school, on the tube, in the supermarket, constantly gathering intelligence, adding to her store of expressions, gestures, patterns of speech – all material for future recycling.

One day, passing a builder’s skip in the street, she noticed an old wardrobe, dumped with its mirrored door still intact. That night, she returned with a screwdriver and a pair of gloves. It was harder than expected and she must have looked a sight to any passers-by, but she retrieved the door for her bedsit and spent hours in front of it, copying everyone and anyone. She especially enjoyed being her father. She could do him quite well, but she didn’t do Froggy, because he wasn’t there.

Leaving the Goddards had caused the second major change in her circumstances within fourteen months. However, just as she had thrown herself into life with Lucy, so she embraced life without her. For now she had a mission; unusually for a sixteen-year-old (albeit one only weeks from her seventeenth birthday), she knew exactly what she wanted to do with her life, thanks to Sylvia’s tutelage. And thanks also, in a less obvious way, to Lucy. Thanks, indeed, to her father for sticking his hand down Lucy’s pants, then writing a letter to say she would never amount to anything. Thanks to her mother and her indifferent neglect; thanks to the bullies and the gossiping inhabitants of Kilnarush. Thanks to you all, she thought, because you’ve given me the strength to do this thing for myself.

She settled into a busy yet productive routine and, for a while, she was happy. Then, one night in November 2001, Monica Goddard walked into the darkened assembly hall of Broken Cross. Annalise, Sylvia and the other three students were working their way through Act II, scene 2 of
Richard III
. Annalise hadn’t seen Monica in months. Her former guardian stood below the stage.

‘I’m sorry,’ her voice was small, ‘I need you to come home with me.’

‘But I don’t finish here for another hour.’

‘I’m really sorry, but you must come, now. Something’s happened.’

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Please.’

Annalise glanced at Sylvia for permission. Her tutor would normally cut interlopers off at the knee; instead she wore a look of concern. ‘Go, dear,’ was all she said. Feeling suddenly lightheaded, Annalise descended the stage steps. She could see that Monica had been crying.

‘What is it? What’s happened?’

But Monica just hugged her then pulled her towards the door. ‘I have a taxi waiting.’

It was cold outside and somehow colder in the taxi.

‘If this is about me moving out…’ she tried again, but Monica shook her head and averted her face to the window. The Goddards’ house was just a few minutes away and when Annalise saw the police car parked in front, her light-headedness was supplanted by a thick, heavy dread. She climbed the steps to the yellow door with a leaden belt around her waist. Every item in the hallway stood out with absurd clarity: the mahogany bureau with its assortment of art nouveau knick-knacks, the Turkish rug on the parquet floor and the old copper dinner gong that Annalise had always had to stop Lucy from bashing with its padded hammer when they stumbled in giggling in the
wee small hours… Lucy! It was Lucy. A policeman stood with Geoffrey by the fireplace of the front reception room and a policewoman perched on the sofa, but no Lucy, no Lucy… Lucy was gone, dead in a ditch, she’d finally pushed it too far; she had become Laura from
Twin Peaks…

‘Annalise, it’s about your father,’ Geoffrey began, but his words barely registered because, mentally, she was waiting to hear what atrocity had befallen Lucy. ‘His aeroplane has been found in the sea near… where did you say it was, officer?’

The policeman was young. ‘Twenty miles off a place called Cap Bon, Sir. That’s in Tunisia.’

‘ Tunisia, hmmm.’ Geoffrey scratched his beard. Lucy walked into the room, carrying a cup of tea which she handed to the policewoman. Her face was pale and grave.

‘Can I get you something?’ she asked. Dumbly, Annalise shook her head. Only then did the realisation dawn that this awfulness concerned her, not her former partner in crime. Lucy joined the policewoman on the sofa, folded her hands and innocently flicked her gaze from adult to adult.

‘But wasn’t it the Italians who ah… who ah…’ Geoffrey reprised, like a bumbling tourist seeking directions.

‘The Italians found a small amount of wreckage, Sir, but the Tunisians were out searching too, and we think it was they who found the actual pieces of… uhh…’ the policeman glanced at Annalise ‘… to be perfectly honest, we’re not sure who’s in charge down there, our people are doing their best but apparently it’s all been a bit–’

‘Wreckage?’ she whispered. She felt like she’d been kicked in the stomach.

‘Yes, Miss… they’ve established that your father took off from Palermo yesterday in his, uh, private plane to fly to Tunisia in connection with his film work. He was piloting himself, as we believe he frequently did, but when he, uh, failed to land the film’s producer alerted the Tunisian and the Italian authorities, so they both sent out search parties. So we’re dealing with two
jurisdictions, and it seems there’s not much co-ordination between–’

‘Is he dead?’

The policeman’s eyes flickered at Geoffrey, but he was no help whatsoever.

‘Annalise…’ Monica began from behind her, but the policeman pressed on.

‘Our understanding is that the plane either exploded or hit the water with quite some force, because only scattered debris has been found. However, the authorities say that amongst the debris is a very small amount of…’ he coughed, ‘umm… human remains and that your father’s status has been changed from missing to officially deceased. We traced your mother in Ireland and she directed us to this address…’ His eyes widened and he lunged as Annalise’s legs gave.

‘Darling Sweetheart!’ she cried. ‘I want Darling Sweetheart!’

The gloom was thickening beneath the oaks as she emerged from the forest path into Saint-Christophe, wearing a riding cloak that she’d taken from wardrobe and carrying a parcel across her saddle with Roselaine’s ‘good’ dress in it. She wiped the moisture from her eyes and looked around from her elevated position. She had yet to see a single French person in the hamlet’s only street, although a first-storey window had its shutters open. She smelled food and heard the tinny declamations of a television set. She felt sadly jealous for the cosy life its owner seemed to lead. Her horse clopped quietly as she approached the front gate of the château, where Levine waited, arms folded, still wearing sunglasses against the dusk. She did not notice as, behind her, the guard called Bernstein staggered from the forest track, his black clothes stained with sweat and soil. Panting, he half-sat, half-collapsed by the roadway, as Levine admitted her through the castle gate.

‘ Get up, Harry! For Chrissakes, get up!’

‘ No, I’m deadly serious.’ His face, in fairness, was deadly serious.

‘Yes, but…’

She looked desperately around. They were alone. The waiter had disappeared and the bodyguards had been ordered to stay outside in their jeeps. The air was still, the sun a cinnamon ball drifting down the river. They sat – or rather she sat while Emerson knelt – at a table on the terrace of a restaurant called L’Age d’Or, which occupied a verdant ledge overlooking the village of La Roque-Gageac. Swallows swooped all around; La Roque was even more picturesque, if such a thing were possible, than Beynac. Their table was surrounded by outdoor candles that reeked of lemon. She had thought it odd, upon arriving, that such a charming venue should be empty of other diners – only now did she realise that she had been walked into a trap that had ‘romantic location’ written all over it.

The ring was surprisingly modern and tasteful and looked as if it had cost a fortune – white gold set with a rough-cut, unpolished ruby, dark as coagulated blood. Annalise wore one of Roselaine’s costumes, a moss-green gown embroidered with gold thread. It didn’t complement the ring at all, which, superficial as that seemed, freaked her out even more. Now she understood why Emerson had wanted her to wear the Nichols dress – the ring would have been perfect with it.

‘But… what?’ His face was still deadly serious.

‘But… we’ve only known each other for three days!’

‘So?’

He remained kneeling on the grass, the ring smug in its black velvet box on his outstretched palm. Ridiculously, she was conscious that her meal was going cold. She had ordered cassoulet,
a stew of white beans and pork that would have been common in Roselaine’s day. Emerson had asked for a tomato salad.

‘So… so…’ she scrabbled desperately, ‘so I don’t know what to say!’

‘Might I humbly suggest “yes”?’

‘God!’

‘Honey, my knee is goin’ stiff.’

‘As long as it’s just your knee,’ she cackled, then slapped a hand to her mouth.

‘What?’

In spite of aeons of evidence to the contrary, she wondered why men imagined that women like unexpected surprises. Expected ones, yes; but not bolts from the blue. As if watching herself through an out-of-body experience, she saw her hand reach out, lift the elegant little box and place it on the table.

He frowned. ‘It’s traditional to put it on.’

‘Harry, please stop kneeling – we need to talk.’

To her partial relief, Emerson resumed his seat. ‘Yeah,’ he nodded, ‘I know what you’re thinkin’. The pre-nup, right?’

Her jaw dropped.

‘Don’t worry,’ he continued, ‘I got it all figured out. In the event of a divorce you’d get one per cent of all my earnin’s plus a place in the Hamptons, one of my New York apartments and my London penthouse. Time-wise, we could go fifty-fifty on any kids, although obviously I’d want custody and they’d be raised in the US.’

Momentarily, curiosity got the better of shock. ‘You own a flat in London?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Where?’

‘I dunno, never been in it. Some place, sounds like an insect.

Mayfly?’

‘Mayfair?’

‘That’s the one.’

‘You own a Mayfair penthouse that you’ve never set foot in?’

‘It’s an investment. I’ve seen photos: it looks okay I guess.’

‘How many homes do you own, exactly?’

He answered slowly, ‘ Uhh, you know… we should probably discuss that with our lawyers present.’

She laughed. ‘ Harry! I’m not gold-digging – I’m only asking because it shows how little I know about you! I don’t even know where you live!’

‘Oh. Well, mosta the time in LA…’

‘I’ve never been to LA.’

‘It sucks, but you gotta keep your face about town. I prefer Aspen or New York, but sometimes Miami. I gotta ranch in Canada that I kinda like.’

‘Yes, but where do you actually
live?
Where’s home?’

‘Wherever I most wanna be.’

‘Sorry, I’m just a bit… I mean, one minute the papers are full of silly stories about us and the next,’ she raised an eyebrow at the ring, ‘well! Here we are!’

‘The newspapers are right – we should get married!’

‘But why?’

‘Can you think of anythin’ better to do with your life?’ Again, her mouth fell open, but he didn’t notice. ‘Y’know, when those stories started up about us, I laughed them off – you saw me laugh them off, right? You were the one that took them seriously.’

‘I was upset!’

‘But sometimes inspiration comes from the strangest places, ya know? And I thought… imagine us, when this movie is over, back in Hollywood together. You really never been to Hollywood?’

‘My agent has been once or twice, but he’s never come back with anything we liked.’

‘There ya go.’

‘There… I go?’

‘You gotta think about your career. When
Heresy
is a hit, for
our next movie we can make whatever we want.’

‘ We don’t have to be married to make films together.’

‘Yeah, but it helps. Look at Brad and Angelina.’

‘Uhh… they were never married.’

‘Yeah, but they acted like they were super-married and it’s been huge for both of them. All that flyin’ around the world, pickin’ up babies…’

‘Playing God with people’s lives!’

‘If it walks like a god and talks like a god, then it probably is a god.’

‘I’d like to think that if I ever have a family, I won’t be collecting it from Africa in a private jet!’

‘No, you’re thinkin’ of Madonna. But I’m kinda glad to hear you say that, ’cos personally, I’m not big on kids. Although I’d understand,’ he added hastily, ‘if you wanted some. In the meantime, we could always fly around the world and save trees and shit instead.’

‘Trees?’

‘Or polar bears.’

‘What?’

He waved a hand impatiently. ‘Ya know, the environment! It’s great for the image!’

‘ I literally don’t know what to say.’

‘You already said that.’

‘Shouldn’t we be in love first?’

He grinned. ‘There are scenes comin’ up where we gotta be very much in love.’

She held a hand to her forehead. ‘In the film that we’re making. That’s not real life.’

‘Hey, you’re the one wearin’ your character’s dress twenty-four-seven and ridin’ a horse to the goddamn set!’ And she didn’t have an answer for that. ‘ Kiddo, movies are a serious business.’

‘How long have you been planning this?’

‘Plannin’ what?’

‘Is this why you cast me in your film? So you could cast me in your life?’

He looked hurt. ‘Y’know… a lotta actresses woulda ripped my arm off to get that ring. Don’tcha wanna be a
star?’

‘I don’t know.’

He sniggered. ‘Whatcha mean, ya don’t know? Why are ya in this game if ya don’t wanna be a star? Everybody wants to be a star!’

‘Harry, all I know is that this film has been a really big break for me and I’m really grateful and I want to make a decent job of it.’