To Cut a Long Story Short (2000) (26 page)

I cursed, quickly threw on some clothes, not even checking my appearance in the mirror, and rushed out of the door still wondering who the murderer could possibly be. I jumped into the lift and
cursed again when the doors opened at the ground floor, because there was Susie standing in the foyer waiting for me.

I had to admit that in that long black dress, with an elegant slit down the side which allowed you a glimpse of thigh with every step she took, I was almost willing to forgive her.

In the taxi on the way to the restaurant she was at pains to tell me how pleasant her room was and how attentive the staff had been.

Over dinner - I must confess the meal was sensational - she chatted about her work in New York, and mused over whether she would ever return to London. I tried to sound
interested.

After I had settled the bill, she took my arm and suggested that as it was such a pleasant evening and she had eaten far too much, perhaps we should walk back to the hotel. She squeezed my hand,
and I began to wonder if perhaps …

She didn’t let go of my hand all the way back to the hotel. When we entered the lobby, the bellboy ran over to the lift and held the doors open for us.

‘Which floor, please?’ he asked.

‘Fifth,’ said Susie firmly.

‘Sixth,’ I said reluctantly.

Susie turned and kissed me on the cheek just as the doors slid open. ‘It’s been a memorable day,’ she said, and slipped away.

For me too, I wanted to say, but remained silent. Back in my room I lay awake, trying to fathom it out. I realised I must be a pawn in a far bigger game; but would it be a bishop or a knight
that finally removed me from the board?

I don’t recall how long it was before I fell asleep, but when I woke at a few minutes before six, I jumped out of bed and was pleased to see that
Le Figaro
had already been pushed
under the door. I devoured it from the first page to the last, learning all about the latest French scandals - none of them sexual, I might add - and then cast it aside to take a
shower.

I strolled downstairs around eight to find Susie seated in the corner of the breakfast room, sipping an orange juice. She was dressed to kill, and although I obviously wasn’t the chosen
victim, I was even more determined than before to find out who was.

I slipped into the seat opposite her, and as neither of us spoke, the other guests must have assumed we had been married for years.

‘I hope you slept well,’ I offered finally.

‘Yes, thank you, Tony,’ she replied. ‘And you?’ she asked innocently.

I could think of a hundred responses I would have liked to make, but I knew that if I did, I would then never find out the truth.

‘What time would you like to visit the exhibition?’ I asked.

‘Ten o’clock,’ she said firmly, and then added, ‘if that suits you.’

‘Suits me fine,’ I replied, glancing at my watch. ‘I’ll book a taxi for around 9.30.’

‘I’ll meet you in the foyer,’ she said, making us sound more like a married couple by the minute.

After breakfast, I returned to my room, began to pack and phoned down to Albert to say I didn’t think we’d be staying another night.

‘I am sorry to hear that, monsieur,’ he replied. ‘I can only hope that it wasn’t …’

‘No, Albert, it was no fault of yours, that I can assure you. If ever I discover who is to blame, I’ll let you know. By the way, I’ll need a taxi around 9.30, to take us to the
Musee d’Orsay.’

‘Of course, Tony.’

I will not bore you with the mundane conversation that took place in the taxi between the hotel and the museum, because it would take a writer of far greater abilities than I possess to hold
your attention. However, it would be less than gracious of me not to admit that the Picasso drawings were well worth the trip. And I should add that Susie’s running commentary caused a small
crowd to hang around in our wake.

‘The pencil,’ she said, ‘is the cruellest of the artist’s tools, because it leaves nothing to chance.’ She stopped in front of the drawing Picasso had made of his
father sitting in a chair. I was spellbound, and unable to move on for some time.

‘What is so remarkable about this picture,’ said Susie, ‘is that Picasso drew it at the age of sixteen; so it was already clear that he would be bored by conventional subjects
long before he’d left art school. When his father first saw it - and he was an artist himself - he …’ Susie failed to finish the sentence. Instead, she suddenly grabbed
my hand and, looking into my eyes, said, ‘It’s such fun being with you, Tony.’ She leaned forward as if she were going to kiss me.

I was about to say, ‘What the hell are you up to?’ when I saw him out of the corner of my eye.

‘Check,’ I said.

‘What do you mean, “Check”?’ she asked.

‘The knight has advanced across the board - or, to be more accurate, the Channel - and I have a feeling he’s about to be brought into play.’

‘What are you talking about, Tony?’

‘I think you know very well what I’m talking about,’ I replied.

‘What a coincidence,’ a voice said from behind her.

Susie swung round and put on a convincing display of surprise when she saw Richard standing there.

‘What a coincidence,’ I repeated.

‘Isn’t it a wonderful exhibition?’ said Susie, ignoring my sarcasm.

‘It certainly is,’ said Rachel, who had obviously not been informed that she, like me, was only a pawn in this particular game, and was about to be taken by the queen.

‘Well, now that we’ve all met up again, why don’t we have lunch?’ suggested Richard.

‘I’m afraid we’ve already made other plans,’ said Susie, taking my hand.

‘Oh, nothing that can’t be rearranged, my darling,’ I said, hoping to be allowed to remain on the board for a little longer.

‘But we’ll never be able to find a table in a half-decent restaurant at such short notice,’ Susie insisted.

‘That shouldn’t prove a problem,’ I assured her with a smile. ‘I know a little bistro where we will be welcome.’

Susie scowled as I moved out of check, and refused to talk to me as we all left the museum and walked along the left bank of the Seine together. I began chatting to Rachel. After all, I thought,
we pawns must stick together.

Jacques threw his arms up in Gallic despair when he saw me standing in the doorway.

‘How many, Monsieur Tony?’ he asked, a sigh of resignation in his voice.

‘Four,’ I told him with a smile.

It turned out to be the only meal that weekend that I actually enjoyed. I spent most of the time talking to Rachel, a nice enough girl, but frankly not in Susie’s league. She had no idea
what was happening on the other side of the board, where the black queen was about to remove her white knight. It was a pleasure to watch the lady in full flow.

While Rachel was chatting away to me, I made every effort to listen in on the conversation that was taking place on the other side of the table, but I was only able to catch the occasional
snippet.

‘When are you expecting to be back in New York …’

‘Yes, I planned this trip to Paris weeks ago …’

‘Oh, you’ll be in Geneva on your own …’

‘Yes, I did enjoy the Keswicks’ party …’

‘I met Tony in Paris. Yes, just another coincidence, I hardly know him …’

True enough, I thought. In fact, I enjoyed her performance so much that I didn’t even resent ending up with the bill.

After we had said our goodbyes, Susie and I strolled back along the Seine together, but not hand in hand. I waited until I was certain Richard and Rachel were well out of sight before I stopped
and confronted her. To do her justice, she looked suitably guilty as she waited to be chastised.

‘I asked you yesterday, also after lunch, “If you could do anything in the world right now, what would it be?” What would your reply be this time?’

Susie looked unsure of herself for the first time that weekend.

‘Be assured,’ I added as I looked into those blue eyes, ‘nothing you can say will surprise or offend me.’

‘I would like to return to the hotel, pack my bags and leave for the airport.’

‘So be it,’ I said, and stepped into the road to hail a taxi.

Susie didn’t speak on the journey back to the hotel, and as soon as we arrived, she disappeared upstairs while I settled the bill and asked if my bags, already packed, could be brought
down.

Even then, I have to admit that when she stepped out of the lift and smiled at me, I almost wished my name was Richard.

To Susie’s surprise, I accompanied her to Charles de Gaulle, explaining that I would be returning to London on the first available flight. We said goodbye below the departure board with a
hug - a sort of ‘Perhaps we’ll meet again, but then perhaps we won’t’ hug.

I waved goodbye and began walking away, but couldn’t resist turning to see which airline counter Susie was heading for.

She joined the queue for the Swissair check-in desk. I smiled, and headed for the British Airways counter.

Six years have passed since that weekend in Paris, and I didn’t come across Susie once during that time, although her name did occasionally pop up in dinner-party
conversations.

I discovered that she had become the editor of
Art Nouveau,
and had married an Englishman called Ian, who was in sports promotion. On the rebound, someone said, after an affair with an
American banker.

Two years later I heard that she’d given birth to a son, followed by a daughter, but no one seemed to know their names. And finally, about a year ago, I read of her divorce in one of the
gossip columns.

And then, without warning, Susie suddenly rang and suggested we might meet for a drink. When she chose the venue, I knew that she hadn’t lost her nerve. I heard myself saying yes, and
wondered if I’d recognise her.

As I watched her walking up the steps of the Tate, I realised that the only thing I had forgotten was just how beautiful she was. If anything, she was even more captivating than before.

We had been in the gallery for only a few minutes before I was reminded what a pleasure it was to listen to her talk about her chosen subject. I had never really come to terms with Damien Hirst,
having only recently accepted that Warhol and Lichtenstein were more than just draughtsmen, but I certainly left the exhibition with a new respect for his work.

I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised that Susie had booked a table for lunch in the Tate restaurant, or that she never once referred to our weekend in Paris until, over coffee, she
asked, ‘If you could do anything in the world right now, what would it be?’

‘Spend the weekend in Paris with you,’ I said, laughing.

‘Then let’s do it,’ she said. ‘There’s a Hockney exhibition at the Pompidou Centre that has had glowing reviews, and I know a comfortable but unpretentious little
hotel that I haven’t visited in years, not to mention a restaurant that prides itself on not being in any of the tourist guides.’

I have always considered it ignoble for any man to discuss a lady as if she were simply a conquest or a trophy, but I must confess that, as I watched Susie disappear through the
departure gate to catch her flight back to New York on the following Monday morning, it had been well worth the years of waiting.

She has never contacted me since.

J
AKE BEGAN
to dial the number slowly, as he had done almost every evening at six o’clock since the day his father had passed away. For the next
fifteen minutes he settled back to listen to what his mother had been up to that day.

She led such a sober, orderly life that she rarely had anything of interest to tell him. Least of all on a Saturday. She had coffee every morning with her oldest friend, Molly Schultz, and on
some days that would last until lunchtime. On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays she played bridge with the Zaccharis who lived across the street. On Tuesdays and Thursdays she visited her sister
Nancy, which at least gave her something to grumble about when he rang on those evenings.

On Saturdays, she rested from her rigorous week. Her only strenuous activity being to purchase the bulky Sunday edition of the
Times
just after lunch - a strange New York tradition,
which at least gave her the chance to inform her son which stories he should check up on the following day.