Destiny (92 page)

"Anything. Anything provided we don't go near a beach. I have an antipathy to beaches. ..."

"When do you have to leave, Ghislaine? Do you have your car here?"

Edouard: being polite again, pretending concern. Ghislaine looked at him with hatred.

"I have my car—and I'll have to go in a minute. I'm driving over to see a friend, he's a property broker—buys and sells villas up and down the coast. His name's Gustav Nerval. You've come across him, perhaps?"

Of course, she thought. The idea of seeing Nerval had not actually occurred to her before, but she would do it. Yes, Nerval—who at least wasn't a hypocrite.

"The name is famihar. ..." Edouard shook his head. "No. I don't think I've met him."

"He's a charming man—you'd like him. Oh—and I almost forgot, do you know—the most extraordinary thing ..." She paused. "He held a little dinner a while ago, over at the Cap, for a lot of film people. I went— and do you know, I met a friend of yours there?"

"A friend of mine?" Edouard had become very still.

"You remember—Helene? Jean-Jacques and I met her once at your place in the Loire—ages ago, 1959, was that it?"

Both men were now looking at her. Ghislaine felt a surge of triumph. She kept her voice entirely casual.

"Helene Harte, she calls herself now. She's in films—did you know that? Quite the new face, so I hear—but then, she is so beautiful. Even lovelier than I remembered. And so nice. Much more grown-up now. I liked her enormously. ... I was sitting next to her husband at dinner. A very good-looking young man. Very charming. It was rather touching, really— they're madly in love. At that stage when they can't take their eyes off each other. And they have a child—a lovely little girl. How time passes!"

She stopped, and gave a sudden little frown. "I reminded her that we had met, of course, and—do you know, Edouard, she couldn't remember it at all? She couldn't remember me, couldn't remember the dinner—even when I said your name, she looked quite blank for a moment. Someone

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else came over then, so I didn't get the chance to talk to her anymore. I expect she remembered later—she must have. It was such a lovely evening, that night in the Loire, and I always thought . . . but then, the very young are like that, aren't they? I find it a bit frightening, the way they can wipe out the past, when for us it seems so close ..." She smiled. "Still, there you are. I thought you'd like to know I'd seen her."

She pushed aside her plate, and stood up. "Now I must rush. Doing all this work for Louise has put me behind with everything. Christian—don't read too much! Edouard, it's been so lovely to see you—and I'm sure Louise—well! We won't talk about that now."

She lifted her hand. "Good-bye. Enjoy your holiday." Then she turned and left them, filled with pride. Well done; perfectly done; she hoped her words choked him.

Gustav Nerval, she thought, as she started the engine of her smart little car. An improvement on Jean-Jacques, anyway. Not exactly a beau ideal, but still: Nerval—why not?

Christian and Edouard listened to the sound of her car as it disappeared into the distance. Christian said, "She's lying. Edouard—she's a stupid poisonous bitch, and she's lying."

"Why should she he? She knows virtually nothing about it. She met Helene once. I've never mentioned Helene to her, ever."

"Even so. She's lying. She was enjoying herself too much. ..."

There was a silence.

"Is she?" Edouard said finally. "She could be. On the other hand—it could be the truth. I know that. I suppose I've always known it."

He had risen to his feet when Ghislaine left. Now he sat down again. Christian opened his mouth to protest, and Edouard, with a sudden savagery that took Christian by surprise, said: "No, Christian. ..."

Christian was silent. Edouard poured coffee. After a few minutes, unable to bear it any longer. Christian burst out: "Oh, for God's sake, Edouard. Why do you have to be like this? Why can't you—oh, I don't know—rage, talk, tell me what you're feeling, what you're thinking—go out and get drunk. What the hell, anything would be better than this. This awful silence. This closing in on yourself. ..."

"All right."

Edouard, to Christian's astonishment, pushed back his chair and stood up.

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"Very well. Let's go and get drunk. Why not? It's a long time since I did that. If I'm not capable of speech, I suppose I'm capable of getting drunk. Let's do just that, Christian."

They were flying back from Nice; the film festival was over. The limousine was large, but not air-conditioned; it was very hot. In the back sat Thad, who was humming to himself; Lewis, who was silent; and Helene, who stared out the window.

As they approached the airport, they stopped at traffic lights, and a car came up behind them. Helene heard its engine first, that distinctive full-throated roar; then it drew alongside, a long, low, black sports car: an Aston-Martin.

Her heart seemed to stop beating. She leaned forward, craning her neck: but it was not Edouard's car. It had different upholstery, and was driven by a stranger. The lights changed, the Aston-Martin overtook them effortlessly, and she saw, dully, that it had a Swiss, not a French, license plate.

She rested her head against the glass of the window, and shut her eyes. The shock of seeing the car had broken down all her usual defenses, and for a moment her mind was flooded with Edouard. She could hear his voice; feel his touch; smell the scent of his skin and hair. He was closer to her than at any time since she had left him, closer even than when she slipped out that night, and stood in the Rue St. Julien in Paris. The love she felt, and the longing, were acute, and acutely painful, and they left her dissociated, dazed, so that for an instant she forgot where she was, who she was with, what had just happened.

At the airport, they were delayed by photographers. Short Cut had just been awarded the Palme d'Or; Helene had received the award for best actress.

The photographers jostled to get shots of Thad Angelini. They fought to get close to Helene. Lewis hung back, pushed to one side, and unnoticed.

The photographers were yelling at Helene in French and English and Italian: flashes of light, and flashes of sound. They became even more excited—she appeared not to hear them.

Eventually, Thad took her arm.

"They want you to smile," he said. "Listen. Can't you hear? They're trying to tell you something."

"What?" She looked at him blankly. "What? What are they saying?"

"The same thing I've always said," Thad answered. "You're a star."

And he pressed the soft skin of her arm with one of his fingernails, gently.

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¥ ou have behaved appaUingly. Thoughtlessly. Selfishly. You stayed J. out all day, and half the night. I heard you come back—both of you. They could have heard you in St. Tropez. You were drunk. Both of you. Christian was singing."

Louise was quivering with anger. Edouard had been summoned to her room, in which there were signs of packing.

"I'm leaving. I shall return to Paris today. You may stay or go, as you please. But before you go, you will kindly explain to me exactly what has happened, and you will not fob me off with evasions and excuses. I want ... I want to know exactly what has happened to Philippe. Where is he? Why did you dismiss him? Why can't I see him? I've been trying to telephone his house and there's no answer—no one there, not even the servants. ... I demand to know, Edouard. I demand it. ..." She was almost in tears.

"Maman ..."

"I want to know, Edouard! I won't be treated like this—as if I were a child. How dare you do that! How dare you ..."

"Very well." Edouard looked at her, saw her tremble. His head ached; his body ached; the sunlight hurt his eyes; he was unshaven, and the previous day's drinking had been pointless. It had left him feeling more bleak than before, distanced from himself, distanced from hfe, and above all, at this moment, distanced from his mother. He looked at her and did not even feel anger, just a cold disgust, and for that reason, perhaps, he told her what had happened, and what he had done and why, rather more baldly and directly than he would have otherwise.

Louise sat down when he began speaking. For once she did not interrupt him, but listened.

When he had finished, she sprang to her feet, and for one moment Edouard thought she was going to strike him.

"Oh, you fool! How could you have done that—how could you? How dare you interfere! How dare you make decisions like that without even speaking to me, without even asking me. Do you know what you've done? Do you understand? No—of course you don't. Because you're too bUnd. Too blind and too arrogant, and too stupid ..."

"Listen, Maman. What I did was for the best. It may be unpleasant, but you asked me to tell you, and I'm telling you. De Belfort was using my company, and he was also using you. ..."

"Do you think I don't know that?" She rounded on him, her voice shaking with emotion. "Do you think I'm so very stupid? I suppose you

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do. Well, I'm not. I'm not, do you hear? I knew exactly what Philippe de Belfort was—I knew it the very first time I met him. And I didn't care. It didn't matter to me—what his reasons were—if he wanted my money, if he wanted my influence—so what? He wasn't the first to want those things —not by any means. It didn't matter—what mattered was that he was there. He bought me little gifts. Sent me flowers. Telephoned. Sent his car to meet me. When I was with him, I felt young again—and I enjoyed myself—I was happy. ..."

"I would imagine, Maman, that if that is all it requires to make you happy, you will be happy again very soon. ..."

She did strike him then; one sharp little blow across the face. She had to reach up to do it, and then she stepped back from him, the tears now falling down her face; she was trembling from head to foot with passion.

"You can't understand. You won't understand. You don't understand love, and you never will. You have no heart, and no imagination, Edouard. Jean-Paul was worth a thousand of you, for all his faults—that was why I loved him, why all women loved him. Because he was open and kind and generous, and fun—not like you—what woman would want you, except for your name and your position? No one. It would be like being married to a machine, an automaton. ..."

Edouard took a step away from her.

"That's not true. You should not ... It isn't true. Isobel ..."

"Oh, Isobel!" Louise tossed her head. "Even with Isobel, you were second best. ..."

Edouard stopped. For a moment he felt like a child again. Louise had always had this capacity, to touch him where he was most raw, and to reduce him to a state in which pain and anger were so mixed, so choking, that he could hardly speak. Louise could see that she had hurt him; triumph had come into her face, and spite. It was there for him to see quite clearly for a moment, and then Louise's mouth opened into a httle jagged O of pain.

"He was my last chance," she said. "I'm not young anymore. Philippe was my last chance, and now you've spoiled it, the way you spoiled my hfe, the way you spoiled everything. ... I hate you, Edouard, for this! I hate you. And I'll never forgive you. . . ."

Just for a moment then, her eyes bright with tears, the color staining her cheeks, she looked young again. Edouard's vision blurred; he saw her again, coming up to the nursery, smelling of roses; he heard her brittle laugh. He passed his hand across his eyes, and his vision cleared.

"Your chance was my father," he said in a cold voice. "And that chance you threw away."

He turned, and left the room. Louise had begun to laugh.

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He walked out of the house, across the terrace, and down onto the beach, and there, quite suddenly, from nowhere, Helene came to him. He felt her absolutely, and knew that she was near. He heard her voice; he felt her touch; he could smell the scent of her skin and of her hair. There was no effort of will on his part, and no struggle. One minute he was filled with blinding anger and pain, the next she was there. She wiped out Louise's words, and he felt again the old absolute conviction, and the old absolute calm.

He was afraid to investigate that conviction, afraid to analyze it in any way. He thought, quickly, as he looked out over the water: let be.

He half-expected that this regained calm would not last. It would be with him for a while, he told himself; then, just as before, it would depart. But this was not the case; it was as if he had reached some lowest point, from which there could be no further to fall, and then, just when he was in despair, something miraculous had happened, and he had been lifted up. Christian said, tartly, that the cure had been a good night's drinking. Edouard now thought that it might have been partly that, partly the things which had happened before, and partly the scene with Louise— her accusations had been so vicious that, in some way, he had been freed.

"I saw the other face of love—perhaps that was it," he said to Christian, and Christian sniffed. He remarked that it was that side he usually, unfortunately, saw.

Christian was perplexed by this change in Edouard; at first he welcomed it. Then, after they left St. Tropez, and the months passed, he felt less sure.

Christian was all for change; steadiness unsettled him. He liked to see a crisis resolved, yes—but he hked another crisis to take its place.

He saw Edouard, that summer, in Paris and in London; they met once, when their visits coincided, in New York. He noted his friend's regained energy and sense of purpose; he noted his curious calm. He was glad that Edouard seemed happier, but still, nothing was changed, nothing was resolved, and Edouard's apparent certitude was unfounded, he thought. He began to grow a little impatient with it; Edouard was growing complacent, he said, and when Edouard smiled and said no, that was far from the case, he revised his terms: Edouard was, he decided, hQcommg fatalistic.

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"The beginning of the end," he pronounced. "Edouard, you should snap out of it."