Читать книгу Three Weeks in Paris - Barbara Taylor Bradford - Страница 10

Seated at the mahogany table in the elegant dining room of her parents’ apartment on East Seventy-Ninth Street, Alexandra was savouring the tomato omelette her mother had just made, thinking how delicious it was. Hers inevitably turned into a runny mess, despite having had her mother, the best chef in the world, to teach her over the years.

‘This is great, Mom,’ she said after a moment, ‘and thanks for making time for me today. I know you like to have your Saturdays to yourself.’

‘Don’t be so silly, I’m glad you’re here,’ Diane Gordon answered, glancing up, smiling warmly. ‘I was just about to call you this morning, to see what you were doing, when the phone rang and there you were, wanting to have lunch.’

Alexa returned her mother’s smile and asked, ‘When’s Dad getting back from the Coast?’

‘Tuesday, he said. But it could be Friday. You know what the network is like. You grew up with networks and their schedules, lived by them when you were a child.’

‘And how!’ Alexa exclaimed. ‘I suppose Dad’s going to see Tim this weekend.’

‘Yes, they’re having dinner tonight. Dad’s taking him to Morton’s.’

‘Tim’ll love that, it’s his favourite place in LA. I guess he’s going to stay out there after all. When I spoke to him last week he sounded very high on Los Angeles, and his new job at NeverLand Productions. He told me he was born to be a movie maker.’

Diane laughed. ‘Well, I suppose that’s true. Remember what he was like when he was a kid, always wanting to go with your father to the television studios, to be on the set. And let’s not forget that Grandfather Gordon was a very highly thought of stage director for many years. Show business is in Tim’s blood, more than likely.’ Diane took a sip of water, then asked her daughter, ‘Do you want a glass of wine, darling?’ a blonde brow lifting questioningly.

‘No, thanks, Mom, not during the day. It makes me sleepy. Anyway, it’s fattening…all that sugar. I prefer to take my calories in bread.’ As she spoke she reached for a piece of the baguette, which her mother had cut up earlier and placed in a silver bread basket. She spread it generously with butter and took a bite.

‘You don’t have to worry about your weight, you know. You look marvellous, really well,’ Diane remarked, eyeing her daughter. She couldn’t help thinking how young she looked for her age. It didn’t seem possible that Alexandra was thirty. In fact, in the summer she would be thirty-one, and it seemed like only yesterday that she was a toddler running around her feet. My God, when I was her age I had two children, Diane thought, and a husband to look after, and a growing business to run. Thirty-one, she mused, and in May I’ll be fifty-eight. How time flies, just disappears. Where have all the years gone? David will be fifty-nine in June. What is even more incredible is our marriage. It’s lasted so long, so many years, and it’s still going strong. A record of sorts, isn’t it?

‘Mom, what are you pondering? You’re looking very strange. Are you okay?’ Alexa probed.

‘I’m fine. I was just thinking about your father. And our marriage. It’s amazing that we’ve been married for thirty-three years. And what’s even more staggering is that the years seem to have passed in a flash. Just like that.’ She snapped her fingers together and shook her head in sudden bemusement.

‘You two have been lucky,’ Alexa murmured, ‘so lucky to have found each other.’

‘That’s absolutely true.’

‘You and Dad, you’re like two peas in a pod. Did you start out being so alike? Or did you grow to resemble each other? I’ve often wondered that, Mom.’ Her head on one side, she gazed at her mother, thinking how beautiful she was, probably one of the most beautiful women she had ever seen, with her peaches-and-cream skin, her pale golden hair and those extraordinary liquid blue eyes.

‘You’re staring, Alexa. You’re going to see all my wrinkles!’

‘Oh Mom, you don’t have one single wrinkle. I kid you not, as Dad says.’

Diane laughed, and murmured, ‘As for you, my girl, you don’t look a day over twenty-five. It’s hard for me to believe you’ll be thirty-one in August.’

‘It’s my new short haircut. It takes years off me.’

‘I guess it does. But then short hair makes most women look younger, perkier. And it’s certainly the chic cut this year.’

‘You once told me short hair was the only chic style, and that no woman could be elegant with hair trailing around her shoulders. And you should know, since you’re considered one of the chicest women in New York, if not the chicest.’

‘Oh, I’m not really, but thanks for the compliment. Although I should point out that the whole world suspects you’re a bit prejudiced.’

‘Everyone, the press included, cites you as a fashion icon, a legend in your own time. And your boutiques have been number one for years now.’

‘We’ve all worked hard to make them what they are, not only me, Alexa. Anyway, what about you, darling? Have you finally finished those winter sets?’

Alexa’s face lit up. ‘I completed the last one of the snow forest earlier this week, on Tuesday actually. Yesterday I saw blow-ups of them all at the photographic studio, and they’re great, Mom, even if I do say so myself.’

‘I’ve told you many times, don’t hide your light under a bushel, darling. It doesn’t do to brag, of course, but there’s nothing wrong in knowing that you’re good at what you do. You’re very talented, and personally I was bowled over by the panels I saw.’ Diane’s pale blue eyes, always so expressive, rested on her daughter thoughtfully. After a moment, she said, ‘And so…what’s next for you?’

‘I have one small set to do for this play and after that my contract’s fulfilled.’ Alexa laughed a little hollowly, and added, ‘Then I’ll be out of work, I guess.’

‘I doubt that,’ Diane shot back, the expression on her face reflecting her pride in her only daughter. ‘Not you.’

‘To be honest, I’m not worried. Something’ll turn up. It always does.’

Diane nodded, and then her eyes narrowed slightly. ‘You said on the phone that you wanted to talk to me. What–’

‘Can we do that later, over coffee?’ Alexa cut in swiftly.

‘Yes, of course, but is there something wrong? You sounded worried earlier.’

‘Honestly, there’s nothing wrong. I just need…a sounding board, a really good one, and you’re the very best I know.’

‘Is this about Jack?’

‘No, and now you’re sounding like all those other mothers, which most of the time you don’t, thank God. And no, it’s not about Jack.’

‘Don’t be so impatient with me, Alexa, and by the way, Jack Wilton is awfully nice.’

‘I know he is, and he feels the same way about you. And Dad.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. But how does he feel about you? That’s much more important.’

‘He cares.’

‘Your father and I think he would make a good–a very nice son-in-law.’

Alexa did not respond.

Half an hour later Alexandra sat opposite her mother in the living room, watching her as she poured coffee into fine bone-china cups. She was studying Diane through objective eyes, endeavouring to see her as clearly as possible. It suddenly struck her, and most forcibly, what a unique person she was, a woman who was savvy, smart, successful, and highly intelligent as well. And she really did understand human frailties and foibles, because her perception and insight were well honed, and she was compassionate. But would she comprehend her dilemma, a dilemma centred on two men?

After all, there had only been one man in her mother’s life, as far as she knew, and that man was her father, who Diane Carlson had met at twenty-four and married within the year; they had been utterly devoted to each other ever since. I know she’ll understand, Alexandra reassured herself. She’s not prudish or narrow-minded, and she never passes judgement on anybody. But how to tell her my story. Where do I begin?

It was as though Diane had read her daughter’s mind, when she announced, ‘I’m ready to listen, Alexa, whenever you want to start. And whatever it’s about, you’ll have all my attention and the best advice I can give.’

‘I know that, Mom,’ Alexa answered, adding, Thanks,’ as she accepted the cup her mother was passing to her. She put it down on the low antique table between them, and settled back against the Venetian velvet cushions on the cream sofa. After a second or two, she explained, ‘Late yesterday afternoon I got an invitation to go to a party in Paris. For Anya. She’s going to be eighty-five.’

A huge smile spread across Diane’s face, and she exclaimed, ‘Good Lord, I can’t believe it! She’s a miracle, that woman.’

‘Oh, I know she is, and aside from looking so much younger than her age, she’s full of energy and vitality. Whenever I speak to her on the phone she sounds as busy as ever, running the school, entertaining and travelling. Only last month she told me she’s started writing another book, one on Art Deco. She’s just so amazing.’

‘I’ll say she is, and what a lovely trip for you. When is the party?’

‘On June second, at Ledoyen. It’s a supper dance, actually.’

‘That’ll be fun, we must find you something pretty to wear. Is it black tie?’

‘Yes, it is, but look, Mom, I’m not sure that I’m going to go.’

Diane was startled, and she frowned. ‘Whyever not? You’re close to Anya, and you’ve always been a special favourite of hers. Certainly more than the others–’ Diane stopped abruptly, and stared at her daughter. ‘But of course! That’s it. You don’t want to go because you don’t want to see the other three. I can’t say I blame you, they turned out to be rather treacherous, those women.’

With a small jolt, Alexandra realized that she hadn’t even thought about her former best girlfriends, who had ended up her enemies. She had been focused only on Tom Conners, and her feelings for him. But now, all of a sudden, she realized she must throw them into the equation, along with Tom. Her mother was quite right, they were indeed an excellent reason she should stay away from Paris. They were bound to be at the party…Anya would have invited them as well as her…together the four of them had been her greatest pride the year of their graduation…her star pupils. Of course they’d be there…with bells on.

‘You’re right, Mom, I have no desire to see them,’ Alexa said. ‘But they’re not the reason I don’t want to go to Paris. It’s something else, as a matter of fact.’

‘And what’s that?’

‘His name’s Tom Conners.’

Diane was momentarily perplexed. The name rang a bell but she couldn’t pinpoint the man. She leaned forward slightly, her eyes narrowing. ‘Tom Conners. Do I know him? Oh yes, now it’s coming back to me. Isn’t he the Frenchman you introduced to us a few years ago?’

‘That’s right, but Tom’s half French, half American. If you remember, I did tell you about his family. His father’s an American who went to live in Paris in the early fifties, married a French girl and stayed. Tom was brought up and educated there, and he’s always lived in France.’

‘Yes, so I recall, darling. He’s a lawyer, if I remember correctly, and very good-looking. But I didn’t realize there was anything serious between the two of you. I thought it was a brief encounter, a sort of fling, if you like, and that it was over quickly.’

‘It lasted almost two years, actually.’

‘I see.’ Diane sat back, wondering how she had missed this particular relationship. On the other hand, that was the period Alexa had lived in Paris, working with Anya’s two nephews in films and the theatre. However, her daughter had certainly kept awfully quiet about Tom Conners, had confided nothing. Odd, really, now that she thought about it. She said slowly, ‘Somehow you’re still involved with Tom Conners, I think. Is that what you’re trying to say?’

‘No…Yes…No…Look, Mom, we don’t see each other any more, and I never hear from him, he’s never in touch, but he’s sort of there…inside me, in my thoughts…’ Her voice trailed off lamely and she gave her mother a helpless look.

‘Why did you break off with him, Alexa?’ Diane asked curiously.

‘I didn’t. He did. Three years ago now.’

‘But why?’ her mother pressed.

‘Because I wanted to get married, and he couldn’t marry me.’

‘Is he married already?’

‘No. Not now, not then.’

‘I’m not following this at all. It doesn’t make sense to me. I just don’t understand what the problem is,’ Diane murmured, her bafflement only too apparent.

Alexa hesitated, wondering if she could bear to tell her mother Tom’s story. It was so painful, harrowing. But when she glanced at her mother’s face and saw the worry settling there, she decided she had no option. She wanted her to understand…

Very softly, Alexa said, ‘Tom was married very young, Mother, to his childhood sweetheart, Juliette. They grew up together, and their parents were friends. They had a little girl, Marie-Laure, and seemingly, from what he told me, they were an idyllic couple…the poster couple, I guess. Very beautiful, very happy together. And then something bad happened…’

Alexa paused, drew a deep breath, and continued, ‘In July of 1985 they went to Athens. On vacation. But Tom also had to see a client from Paris, who owned a summer house there. Towards the end of the vacation, Tom arranged a final meeting with his client before he took his family back to Paris. That morning he told Juliette he would meet her and Marie-Laure for lunch at their favourite café, but Tom was delayed and got there a bit late. It was chaotic when he walked into the square where the café was located. Police cars and ambulances were converging in the centre, and the human carnage was horrendous. People were dead and dying, there was blood and body parts everywhere, as if a massacre had taken place. The police told Tom that a bomb had exploded only minutes before his arrival, more than likely a terrorist’s bomb that had been planted on one of those big tour buses, this particular one filled with Americans from the hotel in the square. About sixty people were on the bus, and they all died.

‘As the bus was leaving the square it suddenly blew up, right in front of the café where Juliette and Marie-Laure were waiting for Tom. The impact of the blast was enormous. People sitting at the various cafés around the square were blown right out of their chairs. Many were killed or injured…’ Alexa stopped, and it was a moment before she could continue.

After taking several deep breaths, she went on: Tom couldn’t find Juliette and Marie-Laure, and as you can imagine he was worried and frightened, frantic as he searched for them. He did find them eventually, under the rubble in the back of the café…the ceiling had collapsed on them. They were both dead.’ Alexandra blinked, and her voice was so low it was almost inaudible as she finished, ‘Don’t you see, he’s never recovered from that…that…nightmare.’

Diane was staring at Alexandra in horror and tears had gathered in her light blue eyes. ‘How horrendous, what a terrible, terrible tragedy to happen to them, to him,’ she murmured, and then looking across at her daughter, she saw that Alexa’s face was stark, taut, drained of all colour.

Rising, she went and sat next to her on the sofa, put her arm around her and held her close. ‘Oh darling, you’re still in love with him…’

‘Am I? I’m not sure, Mother, but he does occupy a large part of me, that’s true. He’s there, inside, and he always will be, I think. But I’m smart enough to know I have no future with Tom. He’ll never marry me, or anybody else, for that matter. Nor will he have a permanent relationship, because he can’t. You see, he just can’t forget them.’

‘Or he won’t let himself forget,’ Diane suggested softly.

‘Perhaps that’s true. Perhaps he thinks that if he forgets them he’d be riddled with guilt for the rest of his life and wouldn’t be able to handle it. You brought me up to be sensible, practical, and I believe I am those things. And after we broke up, I knew I had to get on with my life…I knew I couldn’t moon around yearning for Tom. I understood there was no future in that.’

Diane nodded. ‘You were right, and I think you’ve managed to get on with your professional life extremely well. I’m proud, of you, Alexa, you didn’t let your personal problems get in the way of your career. All I can say is bravo.’

‘You once told me years ago that I must never negate my talent by not using it, by wasting it, and I listened to you, Mom. I also knew I had to earn a living, I wasn’t going to let you and Dad support me, especially after you’d sent me to such expensive schools, Anya’s in particular.’

Diane nodded. ‘Just as a matter of interest, how old is he? Tom, I mean.’

‘He’s forty-two, Mom.’

Diane nodded, searched her daughter’s face intently and wondered, ‘Do you love Jack Wilton a little bit at least?’

‘Yes, I do love him, in a certain way.’

‘Not the way you love Tom?’ Diane ventured.

‘No.’

‘You could make a life with Jack, though?’

Alexandra nodded. ‘I think so. Jack’s got a lot going for himself. He’s very attractive and charming, and we get on well. We’re compatible, he makes me laugh, and we understand each other, understand where we’re both coming from, which is sometimes the same place. We admire each other’s talents, and respect each other.’ She half-smiled at her mother. ‘He loves me, you know. He wants to marry me.’

‘Would you marry him?’ Diane asked quietly, hoping for an answer in the affirmative.

Alexa leaned against her mother, and a deep sigh escaped her. Unexpectedly, tears spilled out of her eyes. Then she swiftly straightened, flicked the tears away with her fingertips. ‘I thought I could, Mom, I really did. But now I don’t know. Ever since that invitation arrived yesterday, I’ve been in a turmoil.’

‘You won’t be able to resist seeing Tom if you go to Paris, is that what you’re telling me?’

‘I guess I am.’

‘But you’re stronger than that…you’ve always been strong, even when you were a little girl.’

Alexa was silent.

After a short while, Diane said slowly, carefully, ‘Here’s what your loving and very devoted sounding board thinks. You have to forget Tom, as you know you should. You must put him out of your mind once and for all. He’s not for you, Alexa, or anybody else, in my opinion. What happened to his wife and child was unbearable, very, very tragic, and so heart-rending. But it was years ago. Sixteen years ago, to be precise. And if he’s not over it by now–’

‘He wasn’t over it three years ago, but I don’t know about now–’

‘–then he never will be,’ Diane continued in a very firm voice. ‘Your life is here in New York, not in Paris. For the most part, your work is here, and you know you can make a wonderful life with Jack. And that’s what you should do…’ Diane stopped, tightened her embrace, and said against her daughter’s glossy dark hair, ‘There are all kinds of love, you know. Degrees of love. And sometimes the great love of one’s life is not meant to last…perhaps that’s how it becomes the great love…by ending.’ Diane sighed, but after a moment she went on, ‘I know it’s hard to give someone up. But, in fact, Tom Conners gave you up, Alexa. Not vice versa, so why torture yourself. My advice to you is not to go to Paris. That way you won’t be tempted to see Tom, and open up all those wounds.’

‘I guess you’re right, Mom. You usually are. But Anya’s going to be really upset if I don’t go to the party.’

‘I’m sure she will be.’ There was a slight pause, and then Diane exclaimed, ‘There is an alternative! You and Jack could go to Paris together. Obviously, you couldn’t go looking for Tom if you were there with another man.’

Want to bet? Alexandra thought, but said, ‘The invitation doesn’t include a guest. Only my name is written on it. And I’m sure Anya’s only invited former pupils and her family.’

‘But she wouldn’t refuse you…not if you said you were coming to Paris with your…fiancé.’

‘I don’t know what she’d do, actually. I have to think about that, Mom, all of what you’ve just said…and implied.’

The invitation stood propped up on the mantelpiece next to the carriage clock, and the first thing Alexandra did when she got home was to pick it up and read it again.

Down in the left-hand corner, underneath the initials rsvp was the date of the deadline to accept or decline: April the first 2001. And in the opposite right-hand corner it said: Black Tie, and underneath this: Long Dress, All the information she needed was right there, including what to wear; attached to the engraved invitation with a paperclip was a small rsvp card, and an envelope addressed to a Madame Suzette Laugen at 158 Boulevard St Germain, Paris.

So, she had the rest of February and most of March to make up her mind, to think about Anya’s birthday and decide what to do, whether to go or not. That was a relief. But she knew she would spend the next few weeks vacillating.

Deep down she wanted to go, wanted to celebrate this special birthday with Anya, an extraordinary woman who had had such an enormous influence on her life. But there was the problem of Tom Conners, and also of her former friends…Jessica, Kay and Maria. Three woman once so close to her, and she to them, that they were inseparable, but they were sworn enemies now. She couldn’t bear the thought of seeing any of them.

April the first, she mused. An anniversary of sorts, since she had met Tom Conners on April the first. In 1996. She had been twenty-five, he thirty-seven.

April Fool, she thought, with a wry smile. But she wasn’t sure if she meant herself or him.

Placing the invitation back on the mantel, she knelt down in front of the fireplace, struck a match and brought it to the paper and small chips of wood stuffed in the grate. Within minutes she had the fire going, the logs catching alight quickly, the flames leaping up the chimney.

Pushing herself to her feet, Alexandra turned on a lamp. Along with the fire it helped to bring a warm, roseate glow to the living room, already shadowed as it was by the murky winter light of late afternoon. She felt tired. After leaving her mother, she had walked all the way down Park Avenue from Seventy-Ninth Street to Thirty-Ninth. Forty blocks of good exercise, but she had finally given in and taken a cab back to the loft.

After glancing out of the window at the lights of Manhattan slowly coming on, Alexa sat down on the sofa in front of the fire, staring into the flames flickering and dancing in the grate. Her mind was awash with so many diverse thoughts, but the most prominent were centred on Tom.

It was Nicky Sedgwick who had introduced them, when Tom had come out to the studios in Billancourt to see his client Alain Durand, who was producing the movie. It was a French-American co-production, very elaborate and costly. Nicky and his brother Larry were the Art Directors and were designing the sets, and at Anya’s suggestion they had hired her as their assistant. But she had become more like an associate, because of all the work and responsibility they had heaped on her.

What a challenge the movie had been, and what a lot she had learned. It was a historical drama about Napoleon and Josephine in the early part of their relationship, and Nicky, who was in charge, was a stickler for historical accuracy and detail. Even now, when she thought of the endless hours she had spent at Malmaison she still cringed. She had taken countless notes, knew that house inside out, and had often wondered why the famous couple had ever lived there. Its parkland and closeness to Paris, she supposed. Nicky had been thrilled with her…with her work, her overall input, and most of all with her set designs. In general, it had been a positive experience, and she worked on most of their films and plays after that, until she left Paris.

The day Tom Conners came out to the studios shooting was going well, and Alain Durand had been elated. He and Tom had invited the Sedgwick brothers to dinner when they wrapped for the day, and she had been included in the invitation since Anya’s nephews had by then adopted her, in a sense.

She had been struck dumb by Tom’s extraordinary looks, his charm and sophistication. So much so, she had felt like a little schoolgirl with him. But he had treated her as a grown-up, with gallantry and grace, and she had been smitten with him before the dinner was over. Later that night she found herself in his arms in his car after he drove her home; two nights later she was in his bed.

‘Spontaneous combustion,’ he had called it; not very long after this he had said it was a coup de foudre, clap of thunder, love at first sight. Which they both knew it was.

But that easy charm and effortless grace hid a difficult man of many moods, a man who was burdened down by the needless deaths of his wife and child, and by an acute sorrow he was so careful to hide in public.

Nicky had teased her about Tom at times, and once he had said, ‘I suppose women must find his dark Byronic moods sexy, appealing,’ and had thrown her an odd look. She knew what he was hinting at, but Tom was not acting. He really was in pain. But it was Larry who had been the one to warn her. ‘He comes to you dragging a lot of baggage behind him, emotional baggage,’ Larry had pointed out. ‘So watch out, and protect your back. He’s lethal, a dangerous man.’

Alexa stretched out on the sofa. Her thoughts stayed with Tom and their days together in Paris. Despite his moodiness, those awful bouts of sadness, their relationship had always been good, even ecstatic when he shed the burdens of his past. And it had only ended because she had wanted permanence with him. Marriage. Children.

She wondered about him sometimes, wondered who he was with, how his life was going, what he was doing. Still suffering occasionally, she supposed. She hadn’t been able to convey to her mother the extent of that. She hadn’t even tried. It was too hard to explain. You had to live through it with him to understand.

He was forty-two now, and still unmarried, she felt certain of that. What a waste, she thought, and closed her eyes, suddenly craving sleep. She wanted to forget…to forget Tom and her feelings for him, forget those days in Paris…she was never going back there. Not even for Anya Sedgwick’s eighty-fifth birthday.