The Vow

Georgia
Fallon

Copyright © 2013 Georgia Fallon

2013 e-Book Licensed by
Marble City Publishing

Kindle Edition

No reproduction without permission

All rights reserved

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

For my dear friend Chris Hogan
1944 - 2010
With grateful thanks for her unfailing
support, advice and enthusiasm.

A cool breeze caught the filmy fabric of the curtains and they billowed gently. The Indian summer, so often forecast, so rarely seen, was coming to a close. She sat by the open French windows, chilled by the breeze but unwilling to move, unable to move. Waiting.

She looked out onto the garden still beautiful despite the lateness of the season. Tall feathery cosmos swaying in the light wind, nerines glowing pink and rosa rugosa in bloom yet again. She was waiting, waiting for the answer.

It wouldn’t be long now. She glanced at her watch; slim and gold, an expensive gift perhaps undeserved. Two minutes to go. Extraordinary that a question so important, so life changing, could be answered in such a short time.

The cat, long-legged and elegant, strolled through the doorway and stared up at her with his icy blue eyes. He spoke in his imperious oriental voice and slowly she leaned forward, scooping him up onto her lap. He immediately jumped back down and strutted off, his tail twitching in irritation. Why don’t you like me? she asked silently. Because you are false, came the unspoken answer.

Check the watch again; time up. Suddenly she didn’t want to know; couldn’t bear to face the future. She took a deep breath and forced herself to look at the seemingly innocuous plastic-coated
stick lying on the low table next to her. She stared unseeing for a moment, unable to focus and then, finally, it registered.

The die was cast.

As she stood watching it the monitor clicked into life and her heart sank. A two-hour delay was really not what she needed. Not today of all days.

‘Putain de merde.’

She thought she’d said it under her breath, but from behind her came the response,
‘I couldn’t have put it better.’

The man she turned to face was tall, distinguished looking and hard to age, late forties early fifties she guessed.

A smile on his handsome face, he continued, ‘Provincial though it may be, this airport does boast an Executive Club lounge with a decent enough Champagne on offer. It’s really the only civilised place during a delay.’

She wasn’t sure what the
Toulouse airport authorities would have made of being called provincial, but he had a point.

‘
Would you care to join me?’ he asked.

‘
Nice idea, but as I only have an economy ticket they’re not likely to let me in,’ she replied.

‘
Oh I don’t anticipate a problem.’

Somehow this didn’t surprise her. Silk suit, Louis Vuitton briefcase, Italian loafers, he didn’t look like a man who was often refused.

She studied him for a moment, thought what the hell, and said with a grin, ‘Lead on.’

As they crossed the concourse he introduced himself as Marcus Delacroix and again she wasn’t surprised. Men like him were never called Harold Brownlow or Arthur Ramsbottom. Anyone who was anyone always seemed to have just the right name, and she wondered if being plain old Lucy Weston had held her back. Perhaps if she started calling herself something like Lucinda Lacroix success would come her way. Or perhaps, as her mother was so fond of pointing out, it was just her natural indolence and lack of direction that were getting in the way.

Arriving at the lounge Marcus was instantly recognised.

‘
Good afternoon, Mr Delacroix, how nice to see you again. Apologies for the delay of your flight.’

They were ushered in. She felt the deep-pile carpet underfoot and glanced around at the leather sofas, muted lighting and fresh flower arrangem
ents. She thought of the coffee bar she would have otherwise gone to with its grimy tables and overflowing ashtrays. Perhaps her luck was changing.

She was impressed at how quickly the bottle of Taittinger appeared. The waiter filled their glasses and set the bottle in the ice bucket.

Raising his glass Marcus said, ‘Santé! So what takes you to London, business or pleasure?’

‘
Neither really.’ She sighed. ‘It’s rather a long story.’

He smiled.
‘Well, apparently we have two hours.’

She sprawled casually across the sofa opposite him. Her jeans and leather boots were well worn but her bag was Fendi and the sweater, tied negligently around her shoulders, cashmere. She had an easy grace that he liked.

Setting down her glass she told him, ‘I’m not sure you’d be very interested, it’s an end of a love affair story. A year ago I came here to do some work with my father, met someone and stayed. I thought it would last forever, it didn’t. Voilà!’

Flippant words, but her smile was forced and she couldn’t meet his eyes. He looked at her thoughtfully and asked,
‘What are your plans now?’

‘
To be honest I don’t have any. I only decided to leave this morning and was lucky to get a flight. I’ve rung my friend Amy in London and I’ll stay with her until I work out what comes next.’

Marcus leaned back in his chair and watched her as she spoke. Her hair was long, silky and almost black. She had a habit of winding a tress around and around her finger as she spoke. Not exactly pretty, she was certainly striking with flawless skin, high cheekbones and full sensuous lips. Although expertly made-up, the cosmetics could not completely hide the shadows under her large dark eyes, or the evidence of recent tears. She seemed wounded and fragile. The wave of compassion he felt was as fleeting as it was rare.

The waiter reappeared and poured more Champagne. Marcus asked another question. ‘What do you, as the French so quaintly put it, do in life? You mentioned working with your father.’

‘
Dad’s a photographer. You may have heard of him. Kit Weston?’

He nodded.
‘Yes, I saw one of his exhibitions, three or four years ago I think. Life with the Navajo or something like that, it was most impressive.’

‘
He’s very talented, has a way of approaching things which is very emotive. I used to work regularly as his assistant, but I’m actually a silversmith. I specialise in jewellery, a fusion of ultra-modern and Victorian styling using semi-precious stones like jet and marquisette.’

Her tone when speaking of her father and her work was noticeably more animated.

‘Are you good?’

The question made her smile.
‘Do you mean good or successful? There’s a big difference. I’m very good, but only moderately successful. It’s hard to find the right outlets. I used to have a workshop in Camden where I worked mainly on commissioned pieces which I enjoyed.’

He continued to ask her questions that she answered with unaffected frankness. She spoke more about the father she obviously adored, his work and many marriages. Her mother, the academic of the family, despaired at Lucy’s inability to stick at anything for long but their relationship was close.
She told him of her almost life-long friendship with Amy, how she had missed her during her time away, and couldn’t wait to see her again. She made no further mention of the lover she was leaving behind.

Suddenly aware she was doing all the talking she enquired,
‘But what about you, Marcus? What do you do in life? I assume you’ve been in Toulouse on business?’

‘
Yes, talks with a company I’m interested in acquiring. Early days yet.’

He offered nothing further so she tried again.

‘Who do you work for?’

‘
The Delacroix Corporation.’

He didn’t enlarge.

‘And the Delacroix in the Delacroix Corporation would be…?’

‘
Me, yes.’

This is like pulling teeth, she thought and trying for a lighter note
asked, ‘Are you hugely rich and powerful?’

‘
Enormously,’ he said with a laugh.

‘
How lovely. And such modesty!’

He obviously wasn’t willing to talk about himself so she ventured just one more question before letting him steer the conversation to more general topics.

‘Are you married, Marcus?’

‘
I was.’ His voice was even and his face expressionless.

As he told her about the classical concert he had been taken to the previous evening
, she became aware of the looks he was drawing from a group of businesswomen sitting nearby. It wasn’t, Lucy decided, just his chiselled features and extraordinarily green eyes – coloured lenses, she wondered? – the man had a presence. A compelling mixture of authority and supreme self-confidence which avoided arrogance, but only just. He was tanned and fit looking; she imagined his weekends spent on the golf course or out sailing. He wore his thick but heavily grey streaked hair longer than she would have expected for a businessman. She thought fondly of her father who was about the same age and definitely going soft around the middle and thin on top.

The conversation moved on from the concert to music in general, books and cinema. The remaining
Champagne was drunk and the time slipped away companionably.

When their flight was finally called she refused to let him upgrade her ticket so he announced his intention of joining her in Economy. Lucy laughed and asked when he had last travelled at the rear of a plane and, after due consideration, he replied that he didn’t think he ever had. She laughed all the more. It was a pleasing sound, light and infectious. Marcus found himself joining in.

At an hour and twenty minutes, the flight into Gatwick was mercifully brief for a tall man in a cramped space.

‘
I don’t think they design these seats for people my height,’ he commented.

‘
No, they design them for people with a lot less money. It’ll do you good to see how the other half has to travel.’

Her tone was gently teasing, and with a smile he shrugged self-deprecatingly. They had slipped into the easy ways of friends.

~

It was with considerable interest that the stewardess noted how Marcus Delacroix had forsaken his spacious seat in Business Class to slum it in Economy. She had encountered Delacroix on several occasions finding him unfailingly courteous, but definitely the kind of man who knew his own worth and with a healthy respect for his dig
nity. She wondered who the jean-clad young woman was and what she had that could tempt him into an action so out of character.

~

At Gatwick Marcus helped with her luggage and as they walked through customs into the arrivals hall he said, ‘My driver will be waiting out front, let me give you a lift.’

‘
That would be great, if it’s not out of your way.’

It was considerably out of his way, but Marcus wanted to spend a little longer with her. There were still a couple of things he needed to know.

They made their way out into the early evening sunshine and looking around he said, ‘Good, there he is.’

Lucy glanced over at the big metallic black Mercedes. The driver’s door op
ened and she stared at the dark-suited man who got out. Taller even than his employer his skin gleamed like polished mahogany, face etched with tribal markings. To Lucy he looked more like a Masai warrior than a businessman’s chauffeur.

Walking forward
, his sonorous voice greeted them. ‘Good evening, sir. Good evening, miss, let me take those for you.’

He lifted the two heavy cases from the trolley as if they were empty and stowed them in the boot along with his boss’s overnight bag. As they left the airport and joined the rush hour traffic
, Lucy leaned back into the soft leather upholstery and decided she could get used to this style of travelling.

An hour and a half later they reached her destination in Finsbury and Marcus had all the information he needed.

~

Watching from the window it intrigued Amy to see her friend climb out of a chauffeur driven Mercedes. A good looking older man walked with her to the front door of the small terraced house and Amy tried hard to catch his words as they stood on the doorstep.

‘Have dinner with me Friday evening, Lucy. I may have a little proposition for you.’

Amy waited until he had turned back to the car, opened the door and the two girls fell into each other’s arms laughing and both talking at once.

Curled up in a big squashy armchair, a glass of wine in her hand, Lucy smiled at her best friend. Dear Amy, with her mischievous little pixie face framed by a halo of bouncy chestnut curls, Amy who knew her almost better than she knew herself and had never let her down in all these years. And how she needed the balm of that friendship now.

‘
It’s so good to see you, Amy. I have missed you. Thanks for letting me descend on you like this, I didn’t quite know where else to go.’

‘
I’ve missed you too, and you know you’re always welcome. It’ll be lovely to have your company, but I’m sorry it’s gone sour with Laurent. Do you want to talk about it?’

Lucy sighed.
‘Not really, not yet. Let’s just say that as usual I couldn’t go the distance.’

Amy topped up their glasses
. ‘Well, tell me about your friend with the chauffeur driven Merc instead then.’

‘
Not much to tell really. I had the luck to find a charming man to keep me company during a journey that could have been very depressing. He’s obviously a heavyweight in the business world. Does the name Marcus Delacroix mean anything to you?’

Amy pondered for a moment then shook her head.
‘Nope, but then big business isn’t really my thing.’

‘
Anyway enough about me. Catch me up on what’s been happening with you. How’s it going at the hospital, how is Alex, have you set a date yet?’

~

The window was large, giving onto a cityscape so panoramic it could only be the domain of a man of consequence. He sat at a desk made from a huge slab of blonde wood supported by columns of glass. Its stark minimalism set the tone for the whole office, the same pale wood on the floor, concealed lighting, white walls dotted with unframed abstract canvases. The seating, other than his own, was hard and angular, not designed to make a visitor comfortable.

He tapped on the intercom
. ‘Angela, please contact Mr Yates and ask him to do that which he does so well for us. The subject’s name is Lucy Olivia Weston, date of birth eighteenth of April 1978. Ask him to make it a priority.’