Destiny (88 page)

"You wore jeans a lot. And there was a blue cotton thing you used to wear that I always liked. And the coat you bought in London that time. But not a Givenchy. No—I suppose I must have forgotten that. Did he give you jewelry as well? After all, that's what he's famous for, isn't he?

540 • SALLY BEAUMAN

Jewels—giving them to women? I remember those stories. I remember one of my sisters, reading it out loud. Some gossip column. How he matched the jewels up to the women. She loved that—my sister, I mean. She thought it was the most romantic thing she ever heard. I didn't. I thought it was dumb. Why give presents like that, when you can get it for free?"

"I'm not going to listen to this anymore, Lewis. I'm going to sleep. I have to be up at six. ..."

"You lie very well, you know. Awfully well. You almost took her in, that woman, Ghislaine whatever her name was. And Thad. I'll bet Thad believed you, every word. I nearly believed you, but not quite. There's a httle thing you do—you ought to watch it, I'm sure you can work on it—it's very tiny, just something in the eyes. I see it because I know where to look. I've had so much practice, I suppose, night after night, day after day. It's there when I kiss you, did you know that? That little thing in the eyes, just for a minute, before you smile, they go a tiny bit dead. It's one of the things that puts me off". There are others, just a few, like the fact that you can't stand it when I touch you. Like the fact that you're so busy you can't spare me five minutes in a day. Just a few things. Nothing very serious. Nothing we can't clear up. Nothing to cry about. ..."

He had begun to cry. Helene could hear the tears in his voice.

He wiped them away with the back of his hand, and then he said in a quite ordinary voice, "It was a good year, 1959. I really liked it. We made the movie, and I met you. It was a very good Christmas. Do you remember the tree? We bought it on Christmas Eve, and then we decorated it, and then . . . He's Cat's father, isn't he? I suppose that does make sense? He taught you to ride and you met all his friends. He gave you a Givenchy. And he gave you Cat. You could have told me. I don't understand. I don't understand a lot of things, but especially that."

There was a long silence. Lewis was sitting on the end of the bed. He stared at the empty glass, and did not look up.

Helene felt sick; she felt as if a band were being tightened around her chest, so she could hardly breathe. Her heart was beating terribly fast, and her mind darted away in a thousand directions at once. She looked at Lewis, and the pity and the guilt she felt were so intense it made her body ache. I did this to him. I did it. It's my fault —the thought went around and around in her head. When had it begun to go wrong? Why, no matter what she did, couldn't she stop it from going wrong?

After a long pause, Lewis lifted his head and looked at her. When he was drunk, it never affected his appearance; occasionally it made his eyes glazed, slightly, as if he did not quite see her, that was all. But now he was looking at her directly, with his clear hazel eyes. He looked a little puzzled.

DESTINY • 541

Helena moved. She knelt beside him. She looked at him, and he looked at her, and after another silence, she said, "Very well. It's true. I was there. But it was a long time ago, Lewis. I've never seen him again. Not since we —Lewis, please, I'm married to you. ..."

"Is he Cat's father? Is he?"

"Lewis, no. He isn't. He isn't. ..."

Her voice had risen; Lewis had taken hold of her arm. He looked down into her face, and then he let go of her. He said in a flat voice, "I don't believe you. Why should I? You're lying again. You lie all the time. Half he, evade. You don't even know when you're doing it, I think. ..."

"Lewis, I'm not lying. It's true. I wouldn't lie about that. I couldn't. Lewis, please ..."

She had caught hold of his arm, and was pressing it tight in her hands. It suddenly seemed desperately important to convince Lewis, and for one moment she thought she had done so. His face softened, and she immediately felt an extraordinary relief. Then his face hardened again.

"Okay. Then who is?"

Helene had begun to cry. The tears welled up out of her eyes, quite silently. They would not stop. Lewis ignored the tears; he seemed not to see them.

"Who is?" He caught her by the arm and shook her. "I think I should know. I think I have a right to know. You never think what it's like, living with her in the same house, seeing her day after day, and not knowing, wondering ... It breaks me up, doing that. It breaks me apart. I was all right till she was bom. We were all right. I felt—it's a very stupid thing, but I felt she was mine. I don't know why. I loved you so much, maybe. I thought she was mine, in a way. I knew she wasn't, but I felt as if she were. Until she was bom, until I looked at her. And then I knew. She wasn't mine, and you weren't mine either. You think about him, whoever he was, and when you do that, I . . ."

His voice choked. Helene said, in a quiet voice, "That's not true, Lewis. I don't. I try not to. And—" She stopped, began again. "His name was Billy. He was an American. I knew him a long time. And he's dead. He died before I even met you."

It cost her a great deal to say that. She had to make herself say the words one by one, and they fell into the silence between them like small stones tossed into water. When she had finished, she drew in her breath, and a small flat voice in her mind told her that it would be all right now. She had told Lewis the truth, and Lewis would believe her. She had done everything she could do, and now everything would be—all right.

But it wasn't. Lewis's hand tightened on her arm, his face darkened with anger and he began to shake her. He said, "You bitch. You fucking bitch.

542 • SALLY BEAU MAN

You were sixteen years old when I met you. How many of them were there, for God's sake? How many? How many?"

Then he hit her, one stinging blow with the flat of his hand, right across her face. He had cried before, and he had been angry before, many times. But this was the first time he ever hit her, and it shocked them both.

Ghislaine Belmont-Laon had asked to meet him—it was urgent, she had said—^and it was Ghislaine who had suggested their meeting place, the jardin interieur at the Paris Ritz. She was not to know of its associations for Edouard, but, that evening, as he sat there at the small table, they crowded in on him, images so sharply vivid that, for some time, he hardly heard what Ghislaine said.

He saw himself, approaching the table where Isobel sat in her violette de Parme dress; he saw her lift her face to his, and the shock of her emerald eyes, their expression first amused, and then anxious. Isobel had been dead five years; now, for an instant, and quite distinctly, he heard her voice.

He bent his head slightly, and pressed his hand across his brow; he tried to force himself to concentrate on what Ghislaine was saying, aware, dimly, that he felt very tired—a draining exhaustion and despondency, which he could not shake off". It had been with him ever since he returned from New York, and it had the effect of dissociating him from his surroundings, so that aU action seemed pointless; it was even pointless to speak.

He made an effort. He looked up again and smiled at Ghislaine abstractedly. Her glass was already empty, and he ordered her another drink.

Ghislaine appeared very strung up, and she was a capable, efficient woman who had never, so far as he could remember, invented unnecessary dramas. He could not imagine why she had been so determined to see him tonight. She was dressed with particular care; Edouard, who always noted what women wore, noted that; a black suit. Saint Laurent, he would have said severe, like all Ghislaine's clothes, emphasizing her uncompromising, slightly masculine chic. He complimented her on it, and on her appearance —for she looked very well—as the waiter brought her her drink. A dry martini, like Isobel. He felt, illogically, that he wished she had ordered something else.

Edouard had to return to his office; he had to see de Belfort, and talk to Richard Smythe, and he was still worrying about the takeover bid. Though he tried, politely, to disguise the fact that he was watching the time, Ghislaine, who was quick, obviously sensed his impatience. She lit a cigarette,

DESTINY • 543

inhaled deeply, and then, as if deciding rapidly to come to the point, began to speak.

"I know you're busy, Edouard. I know I'm taking up your time, but I felt I had to speak to you. It's rather difficult, but I'm terribly worried, and it concerns you. Well, indirectly it concerns you. I would have spoken to you sooner—but a confidence is involved. Loyalty is involved. I wasn't certain it was the right thing to do." She paused. "It's a financial matter— well, partly a financial matter. You see, I was given a tip, a stockmarket tip, and—"

"Ghislaine—I'm sorry. I never advise my friends on the market. I'm too closely involved. It's a rule I never break. ..."

Ghislaine looked at him. Edouard was just beginning to feel impatient, when she said, "Rolfson Hotels Group."

"What did you say?"

"Rolfson Hotels Group." She leaned across the table. "Edouard, please be patient. I'm so terribly worried. You see—well, this is a Uttle personal— but Jean-Jacques and I keep our financial affairs quite separate, and I don't have a great deal of money of my own to invest. When I was given this tip —it seemed such an opportunity. So—I bought some stock. And it rose— dramatically. It was so exciting, and then—the last couple of days. Well, you'll know, probably, it's started to fall. And I'm so frightened. I don't know what to do, whether to hang on or to sell at a loss, or what and—"

"Ghislaine. I'm very sorry." Edouard's face had become set and cold. "I cannot advise you on this. You should talk to your broker. ..."

"I've done that. He's useless. He advised me against buying in the first place. And I would have listened to him, I always do. I'm extremely cautious, Edouard, normally. But you see—it's more complicated than that. As soon as I'd bought the stock, I realized I shouldn't have. I knew there was something wrong—I should have come to you right away, as soon as she told me . . ."

She paused. Her eyes were ghttering, and Edouard could see that she was, quite genuinely, upset. As well she might be, he thought grimly; the Rolfson Hotels Group stock, he estimated, had a long way to fall yet.

"Ghislaine," he said more gently, "what are you talking about? Who gave you this tip?"

"That's the awful part. The really dreadful part. She told me in confidence, Edouard, and I respected that. And then, I began to see that there was something wrong, that she might have misplaced her trust. You see, unless she's sold out, she'll lose too—and much more than I will. She'd invested a great deal—not enough to do her any serious damage, but still a lot. And I'm so fond of her, so devoted to Louise. I don't want to see her hurt."

544 • SALLY BEAUMAN

There was a long silence. Edouard's face became hard; she had never seen him look more angry, Ghislaine thought, and through her perfectly genuine anxiety about her own investment, she felt a little thrill of excitement, a touch of triumph.

"My mother advised you to buy this stock?" For a moment, he looked totally bewildered. "When was this?"

"Not long ago. Just over a week maybe. But Louise had been buying since February, she told me. She had cleared one hundred thousand in sterling. . . . Edouard. I blame myself. I should have spoken to you immediately, but Louise made me promise not to. Then I began to see—even before the stock dropped—how vulnerable she was. She's not young anymore, and she's always been so impetuous, and when a man is involved . . ."

He knew at once, as soon as she said that. Every strand of the pattern that had been perplexing him all week, assembled in its natural, obvious, and inevitable place.

"Who was this?" he asked, though he already knew the answer, and Ghislaine, her mind singing with gladness and triumph, told him.

When she had finished, he sat quietly for a moment. Then, to her delight, he reached across and rested his hand over hers.

"Ghislaine. I'm most terribly sorry that this should have happened. It's very serious—more serious than you realize, perhaps. I'm very grateful you did this. I understand your predicament, and I want you to know—I am in your debt." He hesitated. "I shouldn't say this, even now, but I will. You should call your broker immediately, and sell your stock. And then— please—" His tone became formal and awkward. "You will let me know the extent of any losses you have made, and I will repay them, of course."

He removed his hand, and stood up.

"I'm sorry ... if you'll forgive me. I shall have to leave you."

Ghislaine did not leave with him. She stayed at the table, too intoxicated by the touch of his hand, the concern in his voice, to move. She felt as if she could stay there all night; she was so happy, so relieved. The money she would lose—she felt impetuously that she could lose all of it and she would not care. Edouard would make good her loss, but it was not that loss she cared about anymore. It was all the other losses, all the humiliations and dissatisfactions of her life, and the conviction she felt then, the absolute conviction, that—if she was very, very careful—Edouard would repay those too.

DESTINY • 545

There was no point in trying to deny it, and Edouard noted that de Belfort did not make the attempt. He sat in Edouard's office, and listened, while Edouard spoke, point by damning point.

Never once did he show any emotion—they might have been speaking about a hypothetical case, about events from the distant past. He simply sat there, his pale heavy features immobile. He remained gazing steadily, with his pale eyes, at a point somewhere to the left of Edouard's head. When Edouard paused, the faintest of smiles crossed de Belfort's face, and for a moment Edouard had the sensation that in some obscure and perverse way, de Belfort was almost glad to have been found out. Certainly the consequences of his actions seemed to cause no alarm, or fear; in his heavy opaque way, one thing alone seemed to make him react, and that was Edouard's cold anger: that he seemed to be enjoying very much.

"You could have bought stock yourself." Edouard leaned forward, pale with the rage he was trying to control. "You could have used an intermediary. A Swiss bank, even a broker, though I can see that would have been more risky. Why use my mother?"