Dangerous to Know (28 page)

She had fed us delicious food, bustled about, chastised us if we were naughty and generally fussed over us like a mother hen. Jack and I genuinely grieved for her when she died. She had been like a favorite cuddly aunt.

When we were little Jack had always been in charge of me, and I had tagged along no matter what he was doing. Fortunately, he had never seemed to mind this, had always been the protective older brother looking out for my welfare, always kind and good-natured with me even when I was up to mischief.

I thought of the discussion I’d had with him about Locke Industries before lunch. Jack had not erupted angrily, as Gerald had predicted he would before I left London this morning. However, my husband had been right about one thing: Jack had no intention of giving up what was his birthright.

It was not often my judgment was flawed when it came either to business or my brother, but in this instance it had been. However, Jack had taken it well, and no harm had been done to our relationship.

He knew I liked to take control, be in charge. Also, he no longer over reacted now that he’d stopped his heavy drinking.

After taking off my suit and putting on a dressing gown, I carried my laptop to the bed and spent the next hour working.

Vivienne arrived punctually a couple of minutes before six, and Florian led her into the small sitting room where I was waiting.

There had always been a certain amount of animosity between us and since neither of us was a hypocrite we made no pretense of great friendship by hugging and kissing. Instead we greeted each other rather formally and shook hands.

I sat down in my usual chair near the fire.

Vivienne took the one opposite, and said, “You look very well Luciana.”

“Thank you, so do you,” I replied, trying to be nice.

Then taking control of the situation in my usual way, I got straight to the point before she had a chance to say anything. “How can I help you?

What do you want to know about Sebastian that you don’t al ready know?”

She looked uncertain for a moment, then cleared her throat and said, “I was hoping you could tell me what he was like the last year of his life.

You saw him more than Jack and I, didn’t you?”

“Yes. He was in London around this time last year. Early April, actually, and I spent a few days with him at the office. He came back in May. It was a weekend and he drove down to Kent on the Sunday, to have lunch with us at Goldenbrooke. He was very much himself on those two visits, by that I mean low-key, slightly remote, even a bit melancholy. Still, that was par for the course, right? He was a moody man, Vivienne, as you well know. Certainly we witnessed his mood swings and temperament when we were growing up.”

“He could be morose,” Vivienne concurred. “Often on the edge. He seemed to be carrying the burdens of the world on his shoulders.” She gave me a hard stare, asked, “Did he tell you if he had any special plans? For the future?”

I shook my head. “No, he didn’t.”

“Can I come in?” Jack asked from the doorway. “Or am I interrupting?”

Vivienne exclaimed, “Hello, Jack. And no you’re not interrupting.

Come and join us.”

Jack strolled in, gave her a peck on the cheek, then went and opened the bottle of Veuve Cliquot that stood in a silver bucket on the con sole.

“How about a glass of bubbly, you two? Or would you prefer something else?”

“Champagne’s fine,” I said.

“Thanks, Jack, I’ll also have a glass.” Vivienne turned back to me and went on, “So Sebastian was being Sebastian right to the end?”

“You’re not going to dwell on his suicide in the profile, are you Vivienne?” I demanded, my voice suddenly turning sharp.

“I’m devoting exactly one line to it, that’s all, Luciana. I am only interested in writing a profile of him as he was. So there were no new ventures on the horiii:on? Either at Locke Industries or the Locke Foundation?”

“Not that I know of,” I responded and glanced at my brother. “Did Sebastian tell you anything about his future?”

“Nope. It was business as usual with him. And there was nothing different on his agenda. I’ve already told Viv that.”

Looking across at her, I said swiftly, “Just before Jack came in, I was about to mention that Sebastian was in good spirits when Jack and I were staying with him last October. This stuck in my mind, because I hadn’t seen him happy very often in my life.”

“I noticed that too,” Vivienne murmured quietly.

“I didn’t witness this happiness,” Jack muttered as he brought us our flutes of champagne. “If you two agree he was, who am I to argne9

There must be something to it.”

We all said cheers and raised our glasses.

I said, “There’s more to this than just the profile, isn’t there?

You could easily write it without talking to either of us or anyone else.

Vivienne sat back, crossed her legs, and nodded. “Certainly. But I told you, I want to get an all-around picture of him. Sebastian as seen through many eyes.”

“Vivienne, I’m not stupid. Madge told me about the so-called girl friend. But you’re wasting your time because I know nothing ah out her.

No one does. You’re the only one he confided in.”

front of the fireplace, sipping his drink. t

“If she exists,” Jack murmured as he came to join us. He hovered “Oh she exists all right.” Vivienne sounded so confident, I stared at her swiftly.

Jack murmured, “Maybe you’re right, Viv. But you’ll never track her down. How can you? You don’t have a name.”

“Oh but I do have a name. Actually I just found it. I know who she is, Jack. I hope to interview her within the next couple of weeks, and perhaps she might be able to shed some light on Sebastian’s suicide.”

“What do you mean by that exactly?” I asked.

“She might have a clue why he did it,” Vivienne answered.

“Oh for God’s sake! Forget all that nonsense, Viv!” Jack exclaimed.

“I want to know who the hell she is. And how you managed to find her.

Jesus! Talk about a needle in a haystack!”

“Let me first tell you how I found her,” Vivienne said. “This past weekend I was going through an old appointment book, checking a date for Kit Tremain, when the diary fell open to a day last July.

Monday, July the eleventh, 1994. I’d made a notation that I’d spoken to Sebastian that morning. He’d called me from Paris. As I stared at the page I started to remember our conversation. He’d told me he was staying at the Plaza-Athene, that he was in Paris to attend a s’s more to this than just the profile, isn’t there? You could easily write it without talking to either of us or anyone else.

Vivienne sat back, crossed her legs, and nodded. “Certainly. But I told you, I want to get an all-around picture of him. Sebastian as seen through many eyes.”

“Vivienne, I’m not stupid. Madge told me about the so-called girl friend. But you’re wasting your time because I know nothing ah out her.

No one does. You’re the only one he confided in.”

front of the fireplace, sipping his drink. t

“If she exists,” Jack murmured as he came to join us. He hovered “Oh she exists all right.” Vivienne sounded so confident, I stared at her swiftly.

Jack murmured, “Maybe you’re right, Viv. But you’ll never track her down. How can you? You don’t have a name.”

“Oh but I do have a name. Actually I just found it. I know who she is, Jack. I hope to interview her within the next couple of weeks, and perhaps she might be able to shed some light on Sebastian’s suicide.”

“What do you mean by that exactly?” I asked.

“She might have a clue why he did it,” Vivienne answered.

“Oh for God’s sake! Forget all that nonsense, Viv!” Jack exclaimed.

“I want to know who the hell she is. And how you managed to find her.

Jesus! Talk about a needle in a haystack!”

“Let me first tell you how I found her,” Vivienne said. “This past weekend I was going through an old appointment book, checking a date for Kit Tremain, when the diary fell open to a day last July.

Monday, July the eleventh, 1994. I’d made a notation that I’d spoken to Sebastian that morning. He’d called me from Paris. As I stared at the page I started to remember our conversation. He’d told me he was staying at the Plaza-Athene, that he was in Paris to attend a special dinner with a friend of his. It was a medical dinner. I asked him if he’d like to come to Lourmarin for a few days, and he said no, he couldn’t, that he had to go to Zaire for the Locke Foundation.

Anyway, once I’d remembered this conversation, I realized I had something to go on at last. A real clue. The medical dinner. It was the key to me.

Since Sebastian was a very wellknown figure, I was quite sure he would be listed as one of the important guests attending the dinner.

In press reports, if there were any.

“Following this hunch of mine, I flew up to Paris for the day on Monday morning. I went straight to Le Figaro and asked an editor I knew there to arrange for me to have access to their back-issue files for July 1994. He did. Unfortunately, there was nothing in the newspaper about the medical dinner, so I grabbed a cab and shot over to Pans Match. I have a friend on the magazine, Patrick Brizzard, a photographer I’ve worked with in the past. Patrick helped me to go through last year’s July issues, and I found what I was looking for, a brief mention of the dinner in the newsmakers section. And there, staring at me as large as life, was a photograph of Sebastian. He was accompanied by a couple of French doctors. Male. And a French scientist. Female.

His girlfriend, the one he told me about.”

“Not necessarily,” Jack said. “She could’ve been anybody.”

“Not the way she was looking at him and he was looking at her!”

Vivienne put down her glass and stood up. “Excuse me a moment, I left my briefcase in the hall.”

Alone with my brother, I said, “Maybe Vivienne’s stumbled onto the real thing.”

Jack shrugged. “Could be.”

Vivienne came back carrying her briefcase. She took out a copy of Pans Match and a black-and-white photograph. “I was able to get this back issue through Patrick, who also made me a print of the photo.

If those two people are not involved with each other, then I don’t know a thing about human emotions,” she finished, handed them to me and sat down.

I regarded the photograph first. There was my father, looking impossibly handsome in an immaculately tailored dinner jacket. He was flanked by a couple of men on his left; on his right, a woman stood next to him. She was gazing up at him, rather than at the camera, and he at her. They had eyes only for each other; it was perfectly obvious how they felt. Even though I hated to admit it to myself, Vivienne was correct about their feelings. They looked as if they were in love.

Jack, who was leaning over my shoulder, said, “She’s a good-looking woman. She reminds me of somebody. I don’t know who. So tell us, Viv.

Who the hell is she?”

Before Vivienne could respond, I glanced at the caption in the magazine and read aloud, “Doctor Ariel de Grenaille of the Institut Pasteur .”

“I called the institute yesterday when I got back to Lourmarin,”

Vivienne said. “And she does indeed work there. Except that she’s not in Paris at the moment. She’s involved in a special project.

In Aflica.

Since yesterday I’ve been trying to arrange a meeting with her, through the institute. However, she is unavailable, according to the institute.

She’s heading up some sort of experiment with a highly infectious disease. Quite literally she is in a sort of .

. . quarantine. They won’t even say where she is exactly. For the last twenty-four hours I’ve been trying to get in touch with her family.”

“I’ve always said you’re like a dog with a bone. You just won’t let go of something when you get your teeth into it,” Jack remarked.

“Or was it luck that you managed to find her?”

“Not luck. I’m a damned good journalist, Jack, and that’s the reason I found her,” Vivienne shot back.

“I agree,” I said, glancing at Vivienne. Although I had disliked her most of my life I had to admit that she was a true professional. I had also come to understand how much she had really loved my father Her unswerving pursuit of the truth about his death had convinced me I am an old woman.

I must admit that to myself today, for it is the truth. Until very recently I thought I had escaped it, thought old age had passed me by.

I felt so strong, so vigorous, so full of zest. But lately I have grown decrepit and worn Out. It is as if all the life has been drained out of me, leaving only a fragile shell of a woman.

When one is young one never thinks of growing old, pays no mind to age.

Youth lies to us, blinds us, gives us a false sense of immortality, makes us believe we are supreme, unbeatable, everlasting.

How frightening it is to learn that we are only too mortal, vulnerable, and that in the end we must die. To be no more, to cease to exist, boggles the mind.

Last week, on April the sixth, I celebrated my seventy-third birthday.

That evening, when I sat looking at myself in the mirror of my dressing table, I saw myself objectively for a fleeting moment.

What I saw startled me, made me suck in my breath in shock.

Surely the image staring back could not be me, was not me, surely not.

No, this woman was not me.

I was called the great Zoe, the beautiful Zoe, the woman every man desired. I had been irresistible to men all my life, with my chestnut hair and sky-blue eyes, my height and lithesome grace, my hourglass figure and perfect breasts and my long, long legs.

Last Thursday the woman in the mirror had only the remnants of her great beauty left-the fine blue eyes and the high cheekbones. The chestnut hair was no longer thick and luxuriant, owed its rich color to the skill of the hairdresser. The height and the legs and the elegance -had not been diminished with the passing of time, but the figure had thickened.

But oh how glorious I had been once, when I was in my prime. I had 196Barbara Taylor Bradord reigned supreme. My beauty had been extolled far and wide. Men had worshipped me, fought over me.