Читать книгу The Flirt - Kathleen Tessaro - Страница 9

Olivia Elizabeth Annabelle Bourgalt du Coudray sat in the gold-and-blue breakfast room of number 45 Chester Square, twisting the enormous diamond eternity ring round on her finger, waiting for her husband’s wrath to begin.

She’d made the mistake of getting up in the night, waking her husband. So he’d spent the entire night tossing round as violently as he could, whipping the sheets on and then kicking them off again, pulling at the pillow and sighing in frustration. And now, sick with nerves, Olivia sat holding her cup of coffee, knowing that as soon as he came down he’d lecture her and accuse her of keeping him up.

Her husband, Arnaud, liked to get angry. Along with Cuban cigars, and being recognized in public, it was one of his favourite things. There was nothing like a good rant to start the day off; his eyes lit up and his skin glowed. It didn’t matter that he owned half of the world’s tennis-ball factories or that his family wealth was such that he was regarded as a political figure in France (his views were petitioned on everything from the future of the European Union to cheese production). Even billionaires could have their peace destroyed by an insomniac wife.

As one of six daughters of the famous Boston Van der Lydens, Olivia had spent her youth gliding between New York, the Hamptons and the French Riviera, lingering in Boston only so long as it took to scrape together a degree in Art History. She’d been privileged, emulated; photographed regularly for Vogue and Harper’s Bazaar. When Arnaud began his rigorous courtship of her, the American press greeted it as a union between two shining stars in the international social firmament. But here in England she was virtually invisible. And in Paris with Arnaud’s family, she felt positively gauche. It didn’t help that Arnaud’s mother, the fearsome Comtesse Honorée Bourgalt du Coudray, followed her around her own wedding reception at the Paris Opéra correcting her French and apologizing for the state of her new daughter-in-law’s hair.

Olivia glanced up, catching sight of her reflection in the oval mirror that hung across the room. She possessed the wholesome American glamour that inspires Ralph Lauren and Calvin Klein; athletic good cheer coupled with classical features. Her blonde hair was thick and even, her blue eyes large, her cheekbones high, but, as she’d heard her mother-in-law declare loudly one evening to Arnaud, ‘She’s unremarkable, bland, no cachet.’ Then she’d uttered the damning verdict that had obsessed Olivia ever since. ‘Why choose fromage frais when you could easily afford camembert?’

Even now, the spectre of her mother-in-law haunted her; a constant front-row critic in her head.

Bland. Unremarkable. The Comtesse had only articulated what she had suspected all along: she was a fraud; a pale imitation of a person with no real talents or original thoughts, no tangible purpose in life. Her beauty and breeding had been sufficient for so many years. And now that she was forty, even those were fading.

Olivia was Arnaud’s second wife. By the time she married him, he already had two grown-up children, a huge social network spanning several continents, a daunting diary of engagements, houses all over the world, a variety of businesses, and armies of staff. He also had a reputation as an incurable playboy. At the time, she’d been foolish enough to think she could influence him. But after ten years of marriage, the opposite had happened.

And she’d failed in the one role nature might have provided.

No wonder Arnaud had grown so indifferent.

She sipped her coffee.

It was cold.

He had always been difficult, dictatorial. But before, she’d occupied a privileged position in his psyche; she was the prized object, perfect, unassailable.

Last year changed all that.

She’d wanted children so badly, for so long. Then she finally discovered she was pregnant. No longer clinging, limpet-like to Arnaud’s life, she developed poise and sureness. Best of all it endowed her husband with the one thing money couldn’t buy. He was young again, about to be a father; bursting with unassailable masculinity. Hand over her growing bump, he ferried her around London with pride. Never before had they been so close. Together they’d chosen nursery furniture, selected schools, debated names.

Then at eighteen weeks, she woke in the middle of the night. There was blood, sticky and warm, between her legs and pain, like a tightening fist, gripping her torso.

Arnaud was out of the country. She’d gone alone to the hospital. The delivery was long, painful.

She never saw her child; never held it.

Arnaud refused to mention the miscarriage. Instead, he bought her the eternity ring: flawless; gleaming; hideously expensive.

Night-time haunted her ever since.

So Olivia sat, holding the cold coffee in the beautifully decorated Regency-inspired gold-and-blue breakfast room of Chester Square. Behind her, on the mantelpiece, the ghastly ormolu clock the Comtesse had given them as a wedding present ticked loudly.

Fifteen minutes later Arnaud descended. At sixty-two, he was still tanned and trim; he was an avid tennis player and kept up to three yachts moored in Monte Carlo, depending on his mood. His black hair was thinning. He had it trimmed each morning by his valet so that it fell over any balding patches. He shook his head now, it tumbled into place.

Olivia ran her fingers over her hair; there was the familiar fear of being less than satisfactorily groomed in his presence.

Gaunt, the butler, stalked in, delivering fresh coffee and toast with grim formality.

‘Good morning, sir.’

Arnaud grunted.

Gaunt slunk away.

For a while Arnaud said nothing; tossed his toast aside, folded open the paper loudly…

Then, of course, she had to ask. ‘How did you sleep?’

His black eyes narrowed. He put the paper down. ‘How did I sleep? Let me ask you, how do you think I slept?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Badly! That’s the answer: badly!’

‘I’m sorry,’ she faltered.

‘Up and down! Up and down! What do you do all night?’

‘I don’t know. I’m sorry, Arnaud.’

‘You need a pill! You need to go to the doctor and get a pill.’

‘Yes.’ She stared hard at her plate, at the black interlocking chain design that bordered its silvery white edges.

‘I’ll have my things moved into another room if this goes on.’ He pushed away from the table. ‘I have important things to attend to. Gaunt! Gaunt!’

‘Yes, sir?’ Gaunt appeared out of thin air.

‘Get Mortimer on the phone for me! I promised Pollard supper at the Garrick tonight. We have to discuss marketing strategies.’ He tossed his napkin down.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘I want the car out front in forty minutes.’

‘Very good, sir.’

‘Will you…’ Olivia hesitated.

He stared at her. ‘Yes? Will I what?’

She hated asking the question; her voice sounded small, plaintive. ‘Will you be home tonight?’

‘Sweetheart, what have I just said? I’m meeting Pollard at the Garrick tonight. Perhaps if you slept at night instead of wandering around like a cat I wouldn’t have to repeat myself.’

He stalked away, taking the paper and his coffee with him. Halfway up the stairs, she could hear him ranting at Kipps, the valet, who’d placed his slippers on the wrong side of the bed. Eventually a door slammed.

In the silence that followed, Olivia was aware of countless pairs of unseen eyes upon her; witnesses to their growing domestic disharmony. The months that Arnaud had spent wooing her belonged to another lifetime.

His personality was so strong, so forceful; he always knew exactly what he wanted and what to do. Then he turned the full glare of his powerful attention on her. Her initial indifference spurred him into unprecedented romantic gestures. Fresh boxes of flowers were delivered to her each morning; gifts of diamond earrings, a sapphire ring, even a rare black pearl necklace, were sent from the finest jewellers. Once he bought her a Degas sketch she’d casually admired in a Bonham’s catalogue. They’d travelled in his private jet to exotic locations all over the world where her every need was quickly catered for. She receded into the shadow of his larger-than-life persona. It was a relief to slot into a readymade life; where every decision was made for you.

But all that was gone now.

Slowly, she pushed her chair back.

Suddenly Gaunt was there again, picking up the napkin from the floor, folding it, holding the door open.

‘May I get you anything, ma’am?’

His attentiveness almost felt like kindness. The prick of tears threatened. ‘No,’ she forced a smile. ‘Breakfast was lovely. Just perfect. Thank you.’

She wandered out into the hallway. Hours stretched out before her, empty and unbearable.

‘Begging your pardon…’ Gaunt hovered like a dark shadow in the doorway.

‘Yes?’

‘The gardener would like a word about the new water feature.’

‘Oh. Of course.’

Olivia followed him outside.

It was a London garden: a small courtyard leading to a narrow patch of grass, augmented by neat rows of flower beds. A tiny fountain trickled away in one corner and there were three long, slender eucalyptus trees near the back wall for privacy.

A dark-haired young man was waiting with his back to her.

He turned as Olivia stepped forward into the sunlight; for a moment its rays blinded her. But as her eyes adjusted, she realized that he was in fact a she; a tall, tanned young woman with dark, cropped hair. She was wearing a white T-shirt, her thumbs hooked into her pockets. Her dark eyes met Olivia’s, lips parting into a slow smile.

‘This is Ricki, the gardener,’ Gaunt introduced them.

‘Hi.’ She offered a firm handshake. ‘So, you want to get rid of this fountain, is that right?’

‘Yes, it makes the most irritating dribbling sound.’

‘Humm. It’s easily done. Have you thought about what sound you want it to make?’

‘You mean I can choose?’

‘Yeah, water makes different sounds depending on the material the feature’s made of, how high the drop is, the depth of pool underneath…it’s up to you. Personally, I’d move it out of the corner, get something a bit more dramatic going, right here,’ she indicated the centre of the lawn, ‘right down the middle. Do you have any kids?’

‘No,’ Olivia replied sharply. ‘Why?’

‘Nothing. Only kids and water don’t mix; it’s dangerous.’

‘Oh. Yes. Of course.’

‘But since that’s not a problem,’ Ricki continued, ‘we could do something fantastic. An aluminium gulley maybe, running the full length of the lawn.’ She strode into the centre. ‘Water can be fed in from a tall black slate waterfall here at the back, against this wall. See, the aluminium catches the light, contrasts with the density of the slate. Really stunning! And in the summer when the grass is bright green, it’s like a silver blade, cutting the lawn in two. Placed high enough it makes the most wonderful, rolling sound, you know, no burbling or babbling brook bullshit, but something strong, soothing…What do you think?’

The vision of a blade of water slicing across the lawn intrigued Olivia. And Ricki’s enthusiasm was compelling. ‘Oh, yes! That sounds beautiful! There’s only one thing: my husband will hate it.’

Ricki laughed, shrugged her shoulders. ‘So what?’

‘You don’t know my husband,’ Olivia smiled wryly. ‘It’s safer if we go for something a little more traditional.’

‘Let me guess, a seashell bird bath with a peeing cherub on top?’

‘Yes, that sounds more like what he was expecting,’ she admitted.

Ricki shook her head, looking at her hard with those large black eyes. ‘Sometimes the most dangerous thing you can do is play it safe. We could do something really interesting here—something bold.’

To her surprise Olivia blushed. ‘Well, yes, but…’

‘Pardon me, madam.’

It was Gaunt again.

‘Simon Grey from the Mount Street Gallery is waiting in the drawing room. He doesn’t have an appointment but he says it’s a matter of some urgency.’

‘Of course.’ She turned back to Ricki. ‘I’m sorry, I must go.’

‘So, it’s peeing cherubs all round?’

‘Yes. Yes, I’m afraid so. Lovely to meet you.’

Ricki tilted her head. ‘And lovely to meet you.’

Heading back into the house, Olivia felt perplexed. Simon, here, at this hour? How strange.

Simon Grey was the curator of the Mount Street Gallery, which she generously helped fund for the promotion of young artists. At his urging, she’d recently become chairman. They were opening their biggest show ever in two weeks’ time: The Next Generation, featuring the work of a controversial new performance artist named Roddy Prowl.

Art was one thing that ignited Olivia’s whole being. She often regretted she had no ability herself. Not that she’d ever dared to take a drawing course. But when she first expressed a desire to paint at the age of nine, her parents steered her firmly towards the old masters.

‘This is painting,’ her mother explained, removing a bit of lint gingerly from her daughter’s otherwise immaculate school uniform. ‘So don’t even try.’

‘When a Van der Lyden attempts, a Van der Lyden succeeds!’ her father boomed in his gin-soaked voice.

They suggested art history instead. ‘So much more useful and infinitely less messy than dabbling with paint.’

Perhaps this is what inspired Olivia’s appetite for the postmodern.

She pushed open the drawing-door door. ‘Simon. Oh, dear! Simon?’

Normally fastidious and fearsomely arranged in the manner of only the truly visually gifted, Simon’s state of disarray was shocking. His sleek dark hair was all on end, his trademark Paul Smith scarf askew; he paced the floor like a caged animal. In an instant, she knew something was terribly wrong.

‘What’s happened?’

‘Olivia, it’s nothing short of a disaster! Roddy Prowls checked himself into rehab! He refuses to come back!’ Tears filled his prodigiously lashed brown eyes; his long aquiline nose flared red at the end. ‘We have no enfant terrible, Olivia! The entire show is ruined!’