Brilliant (24 page)

F  I  F  T  Y  -  F  O  U  R

“
Bonjour
, Madame Keswick,” the girl in the cheese shop said. “It’s getting to be that time of year again isn’t it? All of our good friends come back. I’m very happy to see you.”

“I’m very, very happy to be home. Now, let me see . . .” I made my selections and proceeded into the patisserie next door and into the charcuterie next to that, then the vegetable stall, and finally into the wineshop. I loaded everything into the “backseat” of my Panther Madrigan—the groceries filled it completely—and cut through the old town center to the Café des Alpilles for lunch; cassoulet and a glass of Burgundy. I took out my book,
Rule Britannia
, a Daphne du Maurier I’d discovered in a used book shop in London.

Outside on the tree-lined street, traffic buzzed past, friends greeted each other, plump women in dresses carried net bags of groceries, workmen in blue overalls tore up a section of sidewalk. At the newsstand across the way, tourists in rainproof anoraks basked in the sunny morning and studied a spinning rack of postcards.

I couldn’t concentrate on the book—I kept thinking about Owen. I tried to picture this idyllic life—idyllic to me anyhow—through his eyes.

He would be interested for two or three hours—tour the town, lovely lunch that he would pretend to appreciate, followed by lovely, passionate, lovemaking. But then the break would be over. He’d need to be on the phone, or we’d be talking business, finance, angles, projects.

On the other hand, I could picture someone like Thomas Curtis or Bertram sitting through a long lunch, the longer the better, talking, talking, savoring the wine, appreciating the food, having a big walk, sticking his head into one or two antiques shops, then taking a long nap. Or reading a book. It occurred to me I’d never seen Owen read a book. We’d never even talked about books.

Okay, what about sex? Well, I just couldn’t picture it with Thomas or Bertram, but it used to be that I couldn’t picture it with anyone, so who knew. Besides, they both make me laugh, and sometimes laughter is better than sex. At least that’s what I used to think.

I started laughing and buried my head in my book. What am I going to do?

“Kick!” Flaminia Balfour dashed through the traffic, her hand waving. I was about halfway through lunch. “When did you get back?”

“Late last night.”

“Isn’t it glorious? A little break from the rains.”

“So beautiful I can hardly stand it. Do you want a coffee?”

“No, thanks. No time. What are you doing tonight? Can you come to dinner? There’s a man I’d like you to meet—at least I think he’s going to be in town this weekend.”

We both laughed. This was an old joke between us—she was always promising to fix me up with some great fellow or other, but somehow he never materialized.

“Sure. I’d love to.”

“Eight o’clock.”

“I’ll be there.”

Flaminia and Bill Balfour’s farm—Ferme de la Bonne Franquette— was in the hills outside of St. Rémy near the village of Les Baux-de- Provence, only about twenty minutes from my place, and my Madrigan V-12 made quick work of the distance. La Bonne Franquette had a big, old, tile-roofed, stone farmhouse that rambled along the top of a hill with a spectacular view of the surrounding countryside. Vineyards and olive groves carpeted the hillside. Flaminia had filled the house with comfortable furniture and works of art. The Balfours prided themselves on their hospitality and were known for throwing the most beautiful parties. They lived in Brussels, and we’d known each other for years. I’m not sure what Bill did—importing and exporting, or something. And Flaminia—a part-French, part- Italian, part-Iranian, art and antiquities expert, and as mysterious and languid as an Abyssinian cat—occupied herself with making sure everything they acquired was the finest available.

It didn’t make any difference what they did. In St. Rémy, everyone came to escape business, and we only talked about what we’d done that day or planned to do tomorrow. Unless we had to leave tomorrow, then we’d talk about what we planned to do when we got back. Or we talked about vacations, a subject I couldn’t really contribute to, but I was a great listener.

With the sun gone, it was too cold for cocktails outside. Eleven of us gathered around the fire in the living room.

“Bad news,” Flaminia said. She’d knotted her black hair into a ball and tucked a couple of shocking pink rhododendron blossoms into it to match her silk pant suit. “Our friend isn’t here this weekend. Maybe next time.”

I followed her into the dining room and watched as she put out the place cards. “Give it up, Flaminia. I’m happy with things the way they are.”

“I will not give it up. One of these days, some straight, rich bachelor is going to walk through my door, and I’m going to wrestle him to the ground and hold him there until you get here. And the two of you will look at each other and fall in love. And we’ll all dance at your wedding. Speaking of weddings”—she held up one of the place cards—“did you meet Harry Conroy’s new wife?”

I shook my head. “I don’t think I’ve met the Conroys before.”

Flaminia shook her head. “You know, it’s kind of sad, but so many of these trophy wives are interchangeable. Hostesses never even have to change the place cards—this is the same card from a year ago. Mrs. X is Mrs. X. Their first names don’t make any difference.”

“That’s pretty brutal.”

“I know, but it’s reality—the women get left behind. Sometimes you have to choose. Harry and Carol were married a long time, maybe thirty years, and he took up with this new girl—oh, goodness, I’ve forgotten her name—and Carol decided to make an issue out of it. So now she’s back there in Greenwich all by her middle-aged self, and this new girl’s in France—the new Mrs. Conroy—with all of Carol’s old summertime friends, entertaining them in Carol’s old summertime house. She should have just kept her mouth shut and it all would have blown over.”

“I think that would be hard to do. It’d be hard to trust someone again after that.”

Flaminia shrugged. “It all depends on how old you are and what you want.” She straightened a flower in the centerpiece. “If Carol had ridden it out, she’d be here tonight, not this silly, overdeveloped girl. It’s just so shortsighted. So . . . American.”

I followed her back into the living room.

“Here, have one of these teeny squabs. Dip it in the Chinese mustard.”

I popped the grilled, minibird into my mouth and crunched it up. “How do you suppose they get the feathers off these things, they’re so little? Who has fingers little enough to pluck them?”

“I don’t know. Children, maybe?” She shrugged, Gallicly unconcerned at possible child-labor issues. “Bill,” she called to her husband. “Kick needs another Scotch.”

The dinner was very fun—a table of new and old friends—even the new Mrs. Conroy was funny. Every now and then I’d think about Owen and wonder how the fishing had gone today, and what he was doing for dinner, and try to picture him here at this delightful table. Would he fit in? No. He couldn’t have a social conversation if his life depended on it. And friends? Other than Gil, he didn’t have any. I don’t think he believed in them. He couldn’t afford them. And when we were together? We didn’t need them. We didn’t need anybody.

F  I  F  T  Y  -  F  I  V  E

By the time I left to go home the rains had moved in again, and on Saturday morning, it was still pouring buckets. I lit fires in every room. Well, even though I say “every” room, as though there were dozens, all there are are four: kitchen, living room, my bedroom, and a guest room. I tossed dried lavender on the burning logs, and the little house heated up quickly and smelled like a relaxing spa.

Pierre had left the paper and fresh croissants, and so I sat down and read the news of which, thankfully, there was little—except a small delightful blurb about a Caravaggio turning up in the Victoria Embankment Gardens substation of the London Police Department. Breakfast was sublime: the most delicious Israeli melon I’d ever had. It had an unusual, beautiful, burnt orange sort of color and with a little squeeze of lime became so succulent and sweet-tart that I had seconds. The
pain au chocolat
was still warm from the bakery, the chocolate all gooey and melted into the buttery pastry.

After breakfast, I poured myself one last cup of coffee and went into the living room, shoved aside a pile of books and magazines, and made room for my laptop on a table that had a postcard view of the fields and mountains. I pulled up a chair. I hadn’t checked my personal e-mail for three weeks. I couldn’t believe it. I’d completely forgotten. What if I had a message? What if someone needed me?

No one did.

I sat and stared out the window. Maybe I should just give it up, this adoption connection deal. All I was doing was torturing myself—constantly pulling the scab off a wound that would never heal, no matter how long I lived.

Sadness settled on my shoulders like the clouds that had settled in the fields. Muffled and isolating. I cleaned up the kitchen, took a shower, put on my makeup, stuck my book in the pocket of my slicker, and left for a walk.

I was the only one on the mossy towpath along the canal. Rain had made the trail spongy and weighted down the branches, turning it into a green tunnel. A few times I had to crouch to navigate through. At one point, I pushed and patted my way past a small herd of milk cows huddled under the leafy awning. They were soft, warm, gentle, unperturbed by my presence. The whole time, my mind churned, weighing the pros and cons of returning to London.

Reasons
in favor of
going back to London:

    1.    Owen. Not only the sex—I knew that had a limited shelf life, or so I’d heard. But because he loved me. And he needed me. And I just possibly loved him. I owed it to both of us, to myself especially, to find out, see if this affair was really going to go somewhere.

    2.    Business. The Romanov Collection—the auction would be spectacular. And the Arianna Collection—I knew we’d get it, she’d be nuts to award it to anyone but us. And beyond that, Ballantine & Company was on the verge of a whole new era of prosperity, thanks to Bertram’s brilliant plan. I didn’t want to miss it.

    3.    Thomas. How did he get into this?

Reasons
not
to go back to London:

    1.    The Carstairs forgeries and the chance of being caught and prosecuted and incarcerated and never being here in Provence again.

    2.    Owen. The deep-down, actual mature knowledge that I was one of dozens and dozens, maybe hundreds, of affairs, and anytime I thought for one second I was different from the others, I would be fooling myself. To go back for him would be pathetic. There’s no fool like an old fool, I reminded myself.

    3.    Business. I’d committed my last theft and had more than enough cash and stones in my Swiss and French bank accounts to live in extreme comfort for about two hundred more years.

I sat down on a bench and smoked a cigarette and watched my watch and kept mulling over the choices. Finally, it was time for lunch. I walked another half mile into Éygalières and took a window table in the bistro and ordered grilled turbot and a bottle of Montrachet. I drank the whole thing—not sure if I was trying to drown my demons or myself. The only thing I knew for sure was for the first time in my life, I was lonely. And miserable. And okay, my body was practically paralyzed with desire. I had to have him. Have It.

The next morning I returned to London.

F  I  F  T  Y  -  S  I  X

“Do you want to grab an early dinner?” Owen said.

“Sure.” The moment I heard his voice, a huge weight lifted off my chest. I’d called Signature Aviation at Woolwich Field, the close-in military airfield that the Queen, and others fortunate enough to have private jets and royal permission, uses. Lord Richard’s plane had landed at three. It was four-thirty—he’d been on the ground for an hour and a half. I’d been trying not to get paranoid or ticked. “Let’s go to Quentin’s,” I said. “They’re open on Sunday night.”

“I’ll pick you up at six. I can’t wait to see you.”

“Me too. I think I might have missed you a little bit.”

“I’d call that progress,” Owen said. “I missed you a lot.”

“So.” I took my first sip of an ice-cold martini. “Tell me. Was it great?”

“Unreal. I wish you could have seen it.” His face was ruddy with windburn, and his eyes sparkled. “It was so cold I thought I would freeze to death, and Bertram was right, this group takes its fishing very seriously. It was like going to Outward Bound.”

I grinned, trying to look interested. Fishing has never been a big turn-on for me. Mostly I was thinking about what we would be doing after dinner. I ate a handful of sesame sticks.

“He’s got a couple of helicopters—these things are so cool—little Hueys, go like bastards.”

Hmmm. Guess I’m not much interested in helicopters, either. He went on, and on. I watched his lips move around the words, his white teeth, his tongue. The shadow of his beard.

“They dropped each one of us miles from each other, in different spots along the river at six-thirty in the morning.” He jabbed his fingers onto the tabletop indicating the river’s course and the spots along it. I studied his hands—they were so absolute, so decisive. “Out in the middle of nowhere, and let me tell you, this river was wild, out of its banks.”

Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me, I thought. Can’t you tell how much I want you?

“We each got an emergency kit with a bottle of water, a decanter of Scotch, a couple of cookies, a compass, and a map with two Xs, one for where we were being let out, and one for the lodge, in case we had to walk back. No phones allowed.”

“This sounds absolutely horrible.” I finished my drink and signaled for another round.

“Well, it was definitely a guy thing. But, at least they came and got us for lunch . . .”

I continued to watch but stopped listening and thought instead about later. I imagined Owen’s lips on my breasts and his strong hands caressing me, teasing out the dampness between my legs. His hungry kisses. Him, hard inside me. I could feel him moving, slowly at first and then faster, and faster. I could feel myself surrendering to him, my breath coming in quicker and quicker bursts, my throat tightening.

“. . . and then we went out again in the afternoon. And the other guys couldn’t wait to get back out there. I’ve never been so goddamned cold in my life. And I don’t happen to know a damned thing about fishing, either. But who the hell knew? Or cared? I was by myself, and Dickie . . .”

“Dickie?”

“You know, Lord Richard.”

“Ah. Good old Dickie.” I licked my lips and cleared my throat and ran my hands down across my front as though I were arranging my blouse. Felt good.

“. . . wants it all to be catch and release, so no one knew the difference if I’d caught fifty of the damned things or spent three hours trying to get my line untangled from a tree branch.”

Felt great actually. I did it again and recrossed my legs for the tenth time. My God, aren’t you ever going to stop talking? Let’s just forget the dinner. I’ve got some eggs and cheese at my house. We’ll eat afterward. Don’t you appreciate that I’ve come back from France for you? Put myself in jeopardy for you. Made some sort of decision in your favor. Let’s just shut up and do it.

“After dinner, we played bridge for a couple of hours, then hit the sack. I’m glad I got invited, but I’m not sure I’d like to go again.”

“Who else was there?”

“Two other great guys—an American, Sam Tucker, runs Drake Industries; and Ian MacGregor, an old friend of Dickie’s. President of the Bank of Scotland.”

“No stewardesses?”

Owen laughed. “No. No stewardesses.”

He was lying.

I froze.