Destiny (134 page)

"They like squabbling. They both enjoy it very much." Helene smiled. They crossed out from the house onto the gravel sweep at the front, and Edouard opened the door of the black Aston-Martin.

"I know they do." He paused. "Unlike us."

"Unlike us."

Their eyes met; Helene rested her hand in his.

"I love you," Edouard said. He kissed her palm, and then folded her fingers over it, as if they could enclose the imprint of his lips.

He climbed into his car; the engine roared; he lifted his hand in a wave, and Hel^ne watched the car until it disappeared around the bend in the drive.

She lifted her face happily to the sun, and drew in a deep breath of the still, sweet air. In the trees that framed the drive there was a covey of wood pigeons. She Ustened for a moment to their soft murmuring, then she turned back into the cool shade of the house.

Cat came clattering down the stairs at full tilt as Helene walked into the hall. She was dressed for riding, in jodhpurs and a white open-necked shirt; her riding hat swung from her arm.

"Isn't it the most perfect day?" She crossed to Helene, and gave her an impulsive kiss. "I thought I'd go for my ride now—before it gets too hot. May I?"

"I can't come with you now, Cat. ..."

"Oh, that's all right. I'm not going far. We could all go out again this evening anyway, with Daddy. I'll be back in time for lunch—and I'll be starving. Please ..."

"Oh, all right. But don't go too far." Helene smiled. "Oh, and you won't go near Khan, will you. Cat? Your father mentioned it specially. ..."

"Lord, no. I'll take Hermione, I think. Poor old thing. She needs some exercise; she's getting fat. I haven't taken her out for days. Where did I leave my crop?"

"Where you always leave it. On the floor. Cassie put it with the coats and boots, I think. ..."

"Got it."

Cat stopped and turned back with a smile. She tilted her head with a quick impatient movement which was very characteristic of her, and Helene, looking at her tall slender figure, at her tanned eager face, and at the hair, which had now grown back after its savage cutting and once again curled and waved to her shoulders, thought, suddenly: how beautiful she is, my daughter.

Cat turned and ran out of the house, in the direction of the stables, and Helene watched her, the love she felt for her suddenly painfully intense.

When she had disappeared from view, Helene fetched some wine for Christian, who had, indeed, fallen asleep, and then walked through the quiet house to the room she used as a study.

It looked out to the west; in the distance she could just see the small figures of Lucien and Alexandre, hastening across the lawn with Cassie and their nanny. They seemed to be carrying an immense amount of equipment for this picnic. Baskets, and rugs, and cushions, and a cricket bat

812 • SALLY BEAUMAN

. . . She smiled, and began to lay out on her desk the designs for Wyspi-anski's new collection, together with its provisional marketing details.

She worked on them, quietly and pleasurably, for almost an hour. Then, just after twelve, the telephone rang.

She picked it up herself, thinking it might be Edouard, who would have reached Lx)ndon by now. But it was not Edouard: the line buzzed; there was a breathy pause. Then, without explanation or preamble, Thad began to speak. He was calling from Heathrow airport.

For a moment, Helene was so surprised that she could hardly speak; she could not even take in what Thad was saying.

"So, I'm coming down now. I have a car waiting. I can be there in less than an hour. Is your husband there?"

"No, Thad, he's not. How did you get this number?"

"Someone gave it to me, I guess. And the address. Look, I have to see you, and I have to talk."

"Thad, if you want to talk to me, you can do it through my lawyer."

"I can't. I don't like lawyers. They fuck things up. I need to see you. Not just about this. There's something else. It's important."

"Thad. Wait a minute ..."

"You can always shut the door in my face."

He giggled. Helene heard the familiar rusty sound, on its rising note; then the dial tone droned in her ear. He had hung up. Annoyed, she replaced the receiver and opened her desk drawer. There lay the copy of the script Thad had sent; one copy—the other was with Charles Smith-Kemp. Paris and London, a love story of a sort: another reworking, by Thad, of episodes from her life. This time, though, she was determined the film would not be made. She pushed the drawer closed and returned to her work.

Once, Thad's interference would have affected her so much that she would have found it impossible to concentrate on anything else. But not now. Now Edouard had made her responsible for this collection, and for the development of the whole jewelry division of de Chavigny. That mattered to her; she would not allow even Thad to intrude. She bent her head, and after fifteen minutes or so, almost forgot him.

Once, in the distance, out of sight from this side of the house, she heard the sound of hooves. Cat was leaving for her ride; she looked up, and smiled, then bent again to Wyspianski's designs.

DESTINY • 813

Just when she made the decision, Cat was not sure. Was it before she even left the house? Was it when she came to the stables, and looked at sweet-tempered Hermione, who was such a dull ride? Or was it when, hesitating between the other horses, she approached the stall where Khan was stabled, and he whinnied as she lifted her hand? She stroked him then, tentatively, for she knew he was unpredictable, and Khan blew gently down his nose, and nudged her with his velvety muzzle—Khan, sixteen hands high, the most beautiful black stalhon she had ever seen—whom she had expressly been forbidden to ride.

She was not conscious of making any decision even then. One moment she was in the yard, the next she had fetched the saddle and tack. He stood docilely while she fixed them in place; when she led him out, he came as obediently as a lamb. Cat looked at him doubtfully; it was still not too late to change her mind. But it was such a beautiful day, and he was so beautiful, and she knew she rode well. She imagined the scene, later that afternoon.

"Oh, by the way, Daddy. I rode Khan. ..."

Edouard might be angry, but he would also be impressed. Suddenly the temptation was too strong to resist. She mounted him, and Khan let her mount without any sign of nerves. The moment she was on his back. Cat felt a winging confidence. She pressed her knees against his flanks, and urged him on; Khan obediently walked out of the yard, down the back drive, along the lane, up onto the bridle path that went on for miles over the Downs.

There was not one other person in sight. The sky was a cloudless blue; the sun warmed her arms; Khan had a mouth like silk, responsive to the slightest touch. With a feeling of elation, she urged him into a trot, and— as always when she was on horseback—all Cat's anxieties fell away. Nothing seemed terrible anymore, not even the things Marie-Therese had said. They were distanced now, by the weeks in this place she loved. What did she care for Marie-Therese? She was petty. The things she said were petty, and in any case. Cat would never see her again.

A lark rose ahead of them, soaring into the sky, and Cat reached forward to stroke Khan's powerful neck. She began to chant to him softly, the poem which had given him his name:

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree; Where Alph, the sacred river, ran

814 • SALLY BEAUMAN

Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea . . .

She loved the words, and Khan seemed to hke them too. His ears pricked; he moved gracefully from a trot to a canter. It was so exhilarating that Cat wanted to shout aloud. She leaned with him, moving with the rise and fall of his body; Khan increased his stride.

If only her father were here to see her now. The thought came into her mind, and then went out of it again; for the first time since she had mounted she felt a dart of fear. Khan had begun to gallop; faster and then faster—she had never ridden so fast. She gave him his head for a while, then, when she felt herself tiring, she tried to rein him back. Nothing happened; the reverse happened. The more she pulled on the reins, the faster he galloped. It was then that she began to feel very afraid, and terribly alone. The horse sensed her fear; they always did.

She saw his eyes roll, his ears flatten; she felt a shudder pass through his body, and braced herself; then, again, his stride lengthened. They were already at least three miles from home.

?f A

/l mazing," Charles Smith-Kemp said with languid enthusiasm.

XA." Amazing, what some of these newfangled typing machines can do."

He leaned over his secretary's desk, and peered down into the workings of her typewriter, rather in the manner of a seer consulting the prophetic entrails of some bird. He straightened up, and the young woman gave him a bright smile.

"CoflFee, Mr. Smith-Kemp?"

"In about twenty minutes, Camilla." He paused, and glanced at Edouard. "Unless you'd like a glass of sherry?"

"Neither, thank you. I'm eager to get back. ..."

Edouard repressed a smile. Clearly the glasses of sherry had been dispensed with, along with the old shabby paneled offices, the worn leather chairs, the atmosphere of a gentleman's club. Perhaps coffee went with plate glass and rubber plants, gleaming chrome and dividing panels, he thought inconsequentially.

He followed Smith-Kemp into his inner office, from where there was an excellent view of the depradations being practiced upon the City by a new generation of architects. He settled himself in an uncomfortable chair on one side of the desk; Smith-Kemp settled himself on the other. He, too, had a new chair; it was covered in black matte leather, and it rotated.

DESTINY • 815

Smith-Kemp seemed to enjoy this novelty, for he swiveled it back and forth a few times, Uke a child with a new toy, before he got down to business. Smith-Kemp had been educated at Winchester, and he had an arrogance of mind familiar in products of that school, carefully disguised, in his case, by an habitually languid manner. His expression was usually that of a man about to fall asleep; now he propped himself against his desk as if only that support prevented somnolence. When he spoke, however, what he said was always incisive and sharp. This morning, he permitted himself a small smile.

"We've won," he said without preamble. "Basically, we've won. I have the letter here from Angelini's production company. It arrived via their solicitors this morning, by hand." He fingered the letterhead of the lawyers in question. "Not an awfully impressive firm."

He passed the letter across the desk. Edouard read it quickly.

"They're going to back down," he said. "I've read letters like that before."

"Oh, indubitably." Smith-Kemp swallowed what might have been a yawn. "He had trouble raising the backing, in any case, or so I gather. He's been hawking this particular property all over London, and he wouldn't have done that if he could have raised backing in the States. This production company aren't committed—and they won't commit now. I knew they'd back down at the first hint of htigation. All that remains now is to get all copies of the script withdrawn, and that should be straightforward enough. It constitutes a gross act of libel—counsel had no doubts on that score, and neither had I." He paused. "The man really does have the most extraordinary nerve. To write it is bad enough, but to assume he could actually persuade Helene to take part in it—he must be mad."

"I would not call him a balanced man."

"So, you can tell Helene not to concern herself. This film will not be made."

"You're sure there are no possible loopholes?"

"Loopholes? My dear Edouard. Certainly not."

"That's good to know." Edouard leaned forward; he glanced at his watch. "Now, you said there were one or two other matters ..."

"Only minor ones, Edouard. Signatures, really ..."

Smith-Kemp began to speak again, and Edouard listened, but with only half his attention. His mind drifted away to the past, to those old, oak-paneled offices, and to the day, so many years before, when he had sat in them, trying to explain to Charles Smith-Kemp's father exactly what he wished done regarding Madame Celestine Bianchon, and the house in which she Hved in Maida Vale.

He had stammered and blushed; he had tried to sound nonchalant; he

816 • SALLY BEAUMAN

had tried to sound like Jean-Paul. And Henry Smith-Kemp, presumably primed by Jean-Paul, had been reassurance itself. . . .

"If you would be good enough to confirm that I have the correct spelling of the name. Bianchon. Celestine. Charming, charming. Three or four weeks I should anticipate. If you would remind Jean-Paul that I shall be needing his signature ..."

Edouard shut his eyes. From outside the plate-glass windows came the steady hum of the City traffic. For a moment the past felt close: he could reach out—he could touch it.

He opened his eyes again. Charles Smith-Kemp had passed some documents across his desk. Edouard read them quickly, took out his platinum pen, and signed. He glanced at his watch. It was half-past twelve.

"You mentioned one other matter—concerning my brother?"

"Ah, yes. Yes indeed."

To Edouard's surprise, Smith-Kemp's manner became less languid. He came as near as he ever did to looking embarrassed. He turned, opened a cupboard behind him, and drew out an old-fashioned black metal deed box. He placed it in front of him on the desk. Across the front, painted in perfect copper-plate writing, were the words: baron de chavigny.

"It was discovered during the course of the move." Charles Smith-Kemp sighed. "It's occurrences like this that make me reahze we should have moved years ago. Those old offices were quite impossible. No room for storage. The most disorderly system—we rehed on the older clerks, and when they retired, one by one, I'm afraid things were misplaced. Lost." He paused. "This should have been handed over to you at the time of your late brother's death, with all his other papers. It's a bad oversight on our part. I apologize, Edouard."