Hungry as the Sea (32 page)

“Are you sleeping with that child?” she asked, and now the fury was raw in her voice.

Nicholas stood up from the sofa. “Goodbye, Chantelle.”

She turned and flew to him, taking his arm. “Oh, Nicholas, that was unforgivable, I don’t know what possessed me. Please don’t go.” And when he tried to dislodge her hand. “I beg you, for the first time ever, I beg you, Nicholas. Please don’t go.”

He was still stiff with anger when he sank back on the sofa, and they were silent for nearly a minute while she regained her composure, “This is all going so terribly badly, I didn’t want this to happen.

“All right, let’s get on to safer ground. Nicholas,” she started, “you and Daddy created Christy Marine. If anything, it was more yours than his. The great days were the last ten years when you were Chairman, all the tremendous achievements of those years.” He made a gesture of denial and impatience, but she went on softly. “Too much of your life is locked up in Christy Marine, you are still deeply involved, Nicholas.”

“There are only two things I am involved with now,” he told her harshly, Ocean Salvage and Nicholas Berg.”

“We both know that is not true,” she whispered. “You are a special type of man.” She sighed. “It took me so long to recognize that. I thought all men were like you. I believed strength and nobility of mind were common goods on the market –“she shrugged. “Some people learn the hard way,” and she smiled, but it was an uncertain, twisted little smile.

He said nothing for a moment, thinking of all that was revealed by those words, then he replied. “If you believe that, then tell me what is worrying you.”

“Nicholas, something is terribly wrong with Christy Marine. There is something happening there that I don’t understand.”

“Tell me.”

She turned her head away for a moment, and then looked back at him. Her eyes seemed to change shape and colour, growing darker and sadder. “It is so difficult not to be disloyal, so difficult to find expression for vague doubts and fears,” she stopped and bit her lower lip softly. “Nicholas, I have transferred my shares  in Christy Marine to Duncan as my nominee, with voting rights.”

Nicholas felt the shock of it jump down his nerves and string them tight. He shifted restlessly on the sofa and stared at her, and she nodded. “I know it was madness. The madness of those crazy days a year ago. I would have given him anything he asked for.” He felt the premonition that she had not yet told him all and he waited while she rose and went to the window, looked out guiltily and then turned back to him.

“May I get you a drink?”

He glanced at his Rolex. “The sun over the yard-arm, what about Duncan?”

“These days he is never home before eight or nine.” She went to the decanter on the silver tray and poured the whisky with her back to him, and now her voice was so low that he barely caught the words. “A year ago I resigned as executrix of the Trust.” He did not answer, it was what he had been waiting for, he had known there was something else.

The Trust that old Arthur Christy had set up was the backbone and sinews of Christy Marine. One million voting shares administered by three executors, a banker, a lawyer and a member of the Christy family.

Chantelle turned and brought the drink to him.

“Did you hear what I said?” she asked, and he nodded and sipped the drink before he asked, “The other executors? Pickstone of Lloyd’s and Rollo still?”

She shook her head and again bit her lip, “No, it’s not Lloyd’s any more, it’s Cyril Forbes.”

“Who is he?” Nick demanded.

“He is the head of London and European.”

“But that’s Duncan’s own bank,” Nick protested.

“It’s still a registered bank.”

“And Rollo?”

“Rollo had a heart attack six months ago. He resigned, and Duncan put in another younger man. You don’t know him.

“My God, three men and each of them is Duncan Alexander – he has had a free hand with Christy Marine for over a year, Chantelle, there is no check on him.”

“I know,” she whispered. “It was a madness. I just cannot explain it. It’s the oldest madness in the world.” Nick pitied her then; for the first time , he realized and accepted that she had been under a compulsion, driven by forces over which she had no control, and he pitied her.

“I am so afraid, Nicholas. I’m afraid to find out what I have done. Deep down I know there is something terribly wrong, but I’m afraid of the truth.”

“All right, tell me everything.”

“There isn’t anything else.”

“If you lie to me, I cannot help you,” he pointed out gently.

“I have tried to follow the new structuring of the company, it’s all so complicated, Nicholas. London and European is the new holding company, and – and –” her voice trailed off. “It just goes round and round in circles, and I cannot pry too deep or ask too many questions.”

“‘Why not?” he demanded.

“You don’t know Duncan.”

“I am beginning to,” he answered her grimly. “But, Chantelle, you have every right to ask and get answers.”

“Let me get you another drink.” She jumped up lightly.

“I haven’t finished this one.”

“The ice has melted, I know you don’t like that.” She took the glass and emptied the diluted spirit, refilled it and brought it back to him.

“All right,” he said. “What else?”

Suddenly she was weeping. Smiling at him wistfully and weeping. There was no sobbing or sniffing, the tears merely welled up slowly as oil or blood from the huge dark eyes, broke from the thick, arched lashes and rolled softly down her cheeks. Yet she still smiled. “The madness is over, Nicholas. it didn’t last very long but it was a holocaust while it did.”

“He comes home at nine o’clock now,” Nicholas said.

“Yes, he comes home at nine o’clock.” He took the linen handkerchief from his inner pocket and handed it to her. “Thank you.” She dabbed away the tears, still smiling softly. “What must I do, Nicholas?”

“Call in a team of auditors?” he began, but she shook her head and cut him short. “You don’t know Duncan,” she repeated.

“There is nothing he could do.”

“He could do anything,” she contradicted him. “He is capable of anything. I am afraid, Nicholas, terribly afraid, not only for myself, but for Peter also.” Nicholas sat erect then.

“Peter. Do you mean you are afraid of something physical?”

“I don’t know, Nicholas. I’m so confused and alone. You are the only person in the world I can trust.” He could no longer remain seated. He stood up and began to pace about the room, frowning heavily, looking down at the glass in his hand and swirling the ice so that it tinkled softly.

“All right, he said at last. I will do what I can. The first thing is to find out just how much substance there is to your fears.”

“How will you do that?”

“It’s best you don’t know, yet.” He drained his glass and she stood up, quick with alarm.

“You aren’t going, are you?”

“There is nothing else to discuss now. I will contact you when or if I learn anything.”

“I’ll see you down.” In the hall she dismissed the uniformed West Indian maid with a shake of her head, and fetched Nicholas’ top coat from the closet herself.

“Shall I send for the car? You’ll not get a cab at five o’clock.”

“I’ll walk,” he said.

“Nicholas, I cannot tell you how grateful I am. I had forgotten how safe and secure it is to be with you.” Now she was standing very close to him, her head lifted, and her lips were soft and glossy and ripe, her eyes still flooded and bright. He knew he should leave immediately. I know it’s going to be all right now. She placed one of those dainty ivory hands on his lapel, adjusting it unnecessarily with that proprietary feminine gesture, and she moistened her lips. “We are all fools, Nicholas, every one of us. We all complicate our lives – when it’s so easy to be happy. The trick is to recognize happiness when you stumble on it, I suppose. I’m sorry, Nicholas.

“That’s the first time I’ve ever apologized to you. It’s a day of many first times, isn’t it? But I am truly sorry for everything I have ever done to hurt you. I wish with all my heart that it were possible to wipe it all out and begin again.

“Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way.” With a major effort of will he broke the spell, and stepped back. In another moment he would have stooped to those soft red lips.

“I’ll call you if I learn anything,” he said, as he buttoned the top of his coat and opened the front door.

Nicholas stepped out furiously with the cold striking colour into his cheeks, but her presence kept pace with him and his blood raced not from physical exertion alone. He knew then, beyond all doubt, that he was not a man who could switch love on and off at will.

“You old-fashioned thing.” Samantha’s words came back to him clearly – and she was right, of course. He was cursed by a constancy of loyalty and emotion that restricted his freedom of action. He was breaking one of his own rules now, he was no longer moving ahead. He was circling back. He had loved Chantelle Christy to the limits of his soul, and had devoted almost half of his life to Christy Marine.

He realized then that those things could never change, not for him, not for Nicholas Berg, prisoner of his own conscience.

Suddenly he found himself opposite the Kensington Natural History Museum in the Cromwell Road, and swiftly he crossed to the main gates – but it was a quarter to six and they were closed already. Samantha would not have been in the public rooms anyway, but in those labyrinthine vaults below the great stone building. in a few short days, she had made half a dozen cronies among the museum staff. He felt a stab of jealousy, that she was with other human beings, revelling in their companionship, delighting in the pleasures of the mind – had probably forgotten he existed.

Then suddenly the unfairness of it occurred to him, how his emotions of a minute previously had been stirring and boiling with the memories of another woman. Only then did he realize that it was possible to be in love with two different people, in two entirely different ways, at exactly the same time.

Troubled, torn by conflicting loves, conflicting loyalties, he turned away from the barred iron gates of the museum.

Nicholas’ apartment was on the fifth floor of one of those renovated and redecorated buildings in queen’s Gate. It looked as though a party of gypsies was passing through. He had not hung the paintings, nor had he arranged his books on the shelves. The paintings were stacked against the wall in the hallway, and his books were pyramided at unlikely spots around the lounge floor, the carpet still rolled and pushed aside, two chairs facing the television set, and another two drawn up to the dining-room table.

It was an eating and sleeping place, sustaining the bare minima of existence; in two years he had probably slept here on sixty nights, few of them consecutive. It was impersonal, it contained no memories, no warmth.

He poured a whisky and carried it through into the bedroom, slipping the knot of his tie and shrugging out of his jacket. Here it was different, for evidence of Samantha’s presence was everywhere. Though she had remade the bed that morning before leaving, still she had left a pair of shoes abandoned at the foot of it, a booby trap to break the ankles of the unwary; her simple jewellery was strewn on the bedside table, together with a book, Noel Mostert’s Supership, opened face down and in dire danger of a broken spine; the cupboard door was open and his suits had been bunched up in one corner to give hanging space to her slacks and dresses; two very erotic and transparent pairs of panties hung over the bath to dry; her talcum powder still dusted the tiled floor and her special fragrance pervaded the entire apartment.

He missed her with a physical ache in the chest, so that when the front door banged and she arrived like a high wind, shouting for him, “Nicholas, it’s me” as though it could possibly have been anyone else, her hair tangled and wild with the wind and high colour under the golden tan of her cheeks, he almost ran to her and seized her with a suppressed violence.

“Wow,” she whispered huskily. “Who is a hungry baby, then.” And they tumbled on to the bed clinging to each other with a need that was almost desperation.

Afterwards they did not turn the light on in the room that had gone dark except for the dim light of the street lamps filtered by the curtains and reflected off the ceiling.

“What was that all about?” she asked, then snuggled against his chest, “not that I’m complaining, mind you. I’ve had a hell of a day.”

“I needed you, badly.”

“You saw Duncan Alexander?”

“I saw Duncan.”

“Did you settle?”

“No. There was never really any chance.”

“I’m hungry,” she said. “Your loving always makes me hungry.”

So he put on his pants and went down to the Italian restaurant at the corner for pizzas. They ate them in bed with a white Chianti from whisky tumblers, and when she was finished, she sighed and said: “Nicholas, I have to go home.”

“You can’t go,” he protested instantly.

“I have work to do – also.” But, he felt a physical nausea at the thought of losing her, “but you can’t go before the hearing.”

“Why not?”

“It would be the worst possible luck, you are my fortune. A sort of good-luck charm?”

She pulled a face. “Is that all I’m good for?”

“You are good for many things. May I demonstrate one of them?”

“Oh, yes please.”

An hour later Nick went for more pizzas.

“You have to stay until the 27th,” he said with his mouth full.

“Darling Nicholas, I just don’t know.”

“You can ring them, tell them your aunt died, that you are getting married.”

“Even if I were getting married, it wouldn’t lessen the importance of my work. I think you know that is something I will never give up.”

“Yes, I do know, but it’s only a couple of days more.”

“All right, I’ll call Tom Parker tomorrow.” Then she grinned at him. “Don’t look like that. I’ll be just across the Atlantic, we’ll be virtually next-door neighbours.”

“Call him now. It’s lunchtime in Florida.”

She spoke for twenty minutes, wheedling and charming, while the blood-curdling transatlantic rumblings on the receiver slowly muted to reluctant and resigned mutterings.