Crimson (32 page)

One afternoon, when Annabel phoned, Clare found herself asking, “How’s your love life, darling?”

After a pause, Annabel said, “Mechanical.”

“Yours tooT “I always know when Scott’s got something big going on at the station, because his head is someplace else when he’s with me.”

“I don’t believe it! After you had me believing that Scott was God’s gift to women?” “He seems to be taking a sabbatical,” Annabel said curtly, and changed the subject.

. Clare bad noticed that SaWs libido perked up when young actresses clustered around him at poolside bars and in smart hotel lounges; for them, a producer was a producer, and Sam s ‘till had his reputation. Sam clearly felt soothed by this flattering attention, but Clare felt sad, and a little jealous. She wished she had what those women obviously thought she had, which was what she herself had expected: a powerful, all-protecting, sexy husband. Perhaps if the two of them could get away alone to some perfect place … When Sam asked Clare the day after her big party if she’d like to accompany him to the Cannes International Film Festival, he was surprised when she decided to leave Josh alone with Kathy for ten days: but Clare looked forward to a carefree second honeymoon.

Unfortunately, at the last minute, Sam unaware of Clare’s romantic plans invited Elinor, who was recovering from another bad bout of bronchitis; he thought she would be company for Clare, who would then not mope around alone all day while he he hoped put deals together. Sam decided to stay at the Carlton rather than Elinor’s villa in St-Tropez, which was too small and too far from the action.

MONDAY, 6 MAY 1963

One week later, Clare, Sam, Elinor, and Buzz sat on the terrace of the Carlton Hotel under a dazzling sun. White yachts flitted across the bay; crowds on the beach peered at starlets; photographers snapped girls in spangled bikinis, mink bikinis, and flower-covered bikinis. Clare could spot no stars: Sam said they generally stayed in the hills behind Cannes in luxurious rented villas, descending only for their own screenings when the publicity machine had been organized to receive them.

and Sam smiled at each other across the table. She happy to be here watching the cinematic rites of ngElino r noticed the exchange and felt relieved. A baby %’-‘“often reunited a couple who had been having problems.

“ifte hoped that little episode was behind them.

week later, cigar smoke wafted from the windows of the Carlton and the Negresc o as negotiations became and deals firmed up-, but Sam seemed to have no part in them. Clare learned not to ask, “But was anything definite agreed?” after he returned weary but still hopeful from lunch with some big player at the hotel du Cap or the Eden Roc at Antibes. Sam’s wonderful aura of assurance, which had originally captured Clare’s heart, was visibly wilting.

Then one evening, Sam and Clare dined at the Majestic with a distributor who had clinched deals in seven major territories, was clear to closing another nine, was working at his negotiating strategy for the remaining twenty-one major territories, and just hoped he could pack it all into the remaining week of the festival. Watching Sam’s face, Clare wondered if her husband’s desperation was as clear to other people as it was to her.

After dinner, she suggested a stroll along La Croisette, the palm-tree-lined promenade: she hoped that the two of them might walk in the dark beneath the stars and forget the feverish atmosphere of the festival.

On the darkened beach, small groups of young people drank, smoked, talked, laughed. Who are they all?” Clare asked.

“Young movie hopefuls and out-of-work actors you’ve already seen most of them; they prowl around hotel and restaurant lobbies, deeply disappointed to find they’re talking to each other and not Dino De

Laurentiis or Franco Zeffireffi,” Sam said.

“They’re all impoverished dreamers, would-be screenwriters, directors, and producers. They turn up from all over the world, carrying cans of film, files of projects, ideas, treatments, scripts … Most of them will have sold nothing by the time they fly back to reality.”

“But what are they all doing on the beach?” “If they can’t find a cheap pension outside town, they sleep here.” Clare could not feel sorry for these healthy young hopefuls necking in the moonlight on a Riviera beach. But she felt increasingly sorry for Sam. Lack of success seemed to make it necessary for him to talk a little louder, tip a little too much, flirt a little more with would-be starlets, who didn’t realize they were wasting their time.

As they reached the deserted end of the beach, Clare nudged Sam.

“Let’s go down on the sand,” she suggested, taking his hand.

Where the sand ran into the dark sea, Clare kicked her shoes off, turned to Sam, and put her arms around his neck.

“Let’s forget everything for a few minutes,” she whispered.

“Let’s forget, movies and money and deals and doubts. Let’s enjoy the soft sound of the sea on the sand. Let’s enjoy each other.” Sam pulled her close and said helplessly, “I can’t figure out what I’m doing wrong … I’m sorry, Clare.”

“It doesn’t matter. Forget it for a few minutes.” She took his face in her hands and kissed his mouth hard.

“Nobody can see us.”

They kissed with passion, holding each other tightly. For once, Sam allowed Clare to share his human vulnerability. For the first time, he felt her strength and reassurance. For the first time, he shared, in whispers, his doubts, fears, regrets.

Clare pulled his head down and kissed away his words.

“it doesn’t matter, Sam. I swear it doesn’t matter. Forget that. Just remember that we’re together … and I love crushed her against him, and Clare could feel his feed or her. And there on the damp, cold sand, Clare fivally felt what she had always yearned for, the release she d searched for: to her surprise, she recognized Elinor’s descriptions of twin souls uniting. Finally Clares d-for moment came, as she and Sam shared joy.

TUESDAY, 14 MAY 1963

On the eighth morning of the festival, Elinor gazed around the lobby of the Carlton, lined with film posters for Cleopatra and Tom Jones.

Beside her, Buzz sniffed, “Bloody circus. Crowds everywhere. Waiters rushed off their feet. Can’t get a decent cup of tea Behind her, Elinor heard drifts of conversation.

“When does your plane lea veT “Why, whenever I’m ready, of course.”

“.. . I can’t get decent vegetable gardeners.”

“I have a couple of Filipinos. Costs forty dollars a carrot, of course, but at least I know they’re fresh…”

“Richard Burton isn’t going to buy that chiteau at Saracen after all. Sounds like alimony…”

“Did you hear that, Buzz?” Elinor said.

“Do you suppose that chiteau really is for sale? Why don’t we drive there and see?” She knew that Saracen, one of the few unspoiled medieval French villages, had been deemed a national treasure: no new building was allowed.

Buzz grunted, “Anything to get away from this lot.” So they picked their way past the Afghan hounds, disdainful borzois, and exquisitely groomed Pekinese, whose owners sat in the sun drinking champagne or expensive bottled water. Elinor obliged two Scandinavian backpackers,

who asked for her autograph. Eventually they found Sam’s air-conditioned limousine and drove east.

In contrast to the noise, heat, and dust of Cannes, the surrounding countryside looked eager, freshly washed, and pretty as a girl before a dance. To their right was the sparkling azure sea; to their left were lavender fields and dark green forests, behind which mountains rose, to fade in soft lines of mauve back to the white horizon.

None of Saracen’s labyrinth of winding streets were wide enough for a car, so the air of the village was fresh and clear. Some of the streets opened into small, unexpected squares, each shaded by lime trees around an old stone fountain. The narrow houses had mysterious porches and bridges that crossed from one building to another; on many a worn wooden door hung the iron hand of Fatima, to ward off evil spirits.

The high ironwork gate of the chfiteau creaked open at Elinor’s tentative touch. She and Buzz walked into a cobbled courtyard choked by weeds. Against the castle walls grew white oleander and rosemary bushes, and trees that drooped beneath strange, pale yellow blossoms: the branches were so low that the two women had to stoop beneath a ragged arch of green and yellow to reach the front door an ancient slab of oak studded with ironwork of different periods.

They rang the bell and waited. Elinor’looked up to see, high above her, a row of narrow slits. She imagined the castle defenders hiding behind, shooting arrows at invaders.

Just as Elinor decided that the building was deserted, the front door was slowly opened by an unsmiling grey-haired woman who wore a cotton overall and a pair of sneakers, cut to allow her bunions to protrude. This caretaker confirmed that the chdteau was for sale, but she knew nothing of price or avaiiability; it was for the agent to occupy himself with such matters.

Eventually Elinor persuaded this harpy to telephone for the agent, a thin, dismissive young man who clearly didn’t take these English women seriously. Everyone knew that the English no longer had money. At breakneck speed, he showed them around the chAteau.

The building was not in a good state of repair: the interior was damp, and the plaster was peeling. Some of “the shutters were hanging off the windows, some were missing, and none had been painted for years. The two upper floors were a dusty, shuttered warren of bedrooms. The only bathroom had been installed before the First World War, and there was no central heating or air-conditioning. The agent assured the women, somewhat unconvincingly, that the chAteau was kept warm in winter and cool in summer by the six-foot-thick walls. Their tour ended where it had started, on the south terrace overlooking the sea.

Elinor sauntered to the ivy-covered balustrade. To her right, in the distance, the Bay of Nice curved like a Dufy painting, edged with tall palm trees and pretty villas. Below her, rough-hewn grey rock fell abruptly to a sandy crescent of beach, where the sea was aquamarine shot with silver: beyond the bay, the water spread, deep blue, to the horizon; the colour changed to indigo as it met an azure sky, across which clouds sailed, fat as cupids, in the brilliant, dazzling, inimitable light of the French Riviera.

“And the price?” Elinor slowly turned to the dismissive agent.

Buzz suddenly realized that this was no casual spring afternoon excursion.

“What would we do with a place this size? Just look at the mess it’s in! Ain’t been cleaned since it was built, if you ask me.” She snorted.

“You’re a romantic idiot, Nell!”

Both women knew that Elinor would buy the chiteau.

Later, as they walked downhill in silence Elinor noticed that a surprising number of trees grew in the narrow streets and little squares: weeping willows, olive and apricot trees. They drank coffee at the only caf, in a street studded with tubs of pink geraniums; pigeons swooped to pick, up the cake crumbs that Buzz threw. Then they wandered past the dark green, studded door of the syndic at d7nitialive and the lavender shutters of the local cooperative to the pale-blue painted mairie that stood next to the blue and green pharmacy. Opposite the ancient Church of St. Peter was the village shop; in the window, plastic champagne glasses stood next to a jumble of red fly swatters bottling jars, dusty casseroles, insecticides, local eau de cologne, honey, and herbs.

“It’s almost too charming,” said Elinor. These quiet sunny streets had altered little over seven hundred years. She and Buzz had driven only a short distance, but they might have been a thousand kilometres from the hustling streets or Cannes.

“It’s a rash, impulsive move,” Buzz grumbled on the return journey.

Elinor laughed. Having unexpectedly and romantically been tempted by fate to leave Britain, she could see only the advantages: no more fog, no more bronchitis. Instead, sunshine, warm sea, delicious food and wine.

“Won’t you miss Starlings?” Buzz couldn’t believe that Elinor would leave her beloved garden.

Elinor suddenly became serious.

“Starlings isn’t the same since the girls left.” The silent void that Starlings had become made Elinor miserably conscious that the girls no longer lived there. Everywhere she looked, something reminded her of them and made her long to relive the past. In her own home, Elinor felt homesick. Perhaps at Saracen, she would find a new way of life; perhaps there she could took forward, instead of being constantly and pain tugged back by memories.

On the following morning, Paul Littlejohn, now a junior er rtn of Swithin, Timmins and Grant, flew from London Nice. Funded by money earned outside Britain and not bject to exchange controls, Elinor eventually found herss v -M mist re of the ancient French chfiteau. Although this-was a relatively simple arrangement, Paul Littlejohn managed to make it sound as complicated as the division of Berlin between the Allies, and charged accordingly.

Buzz urged Elinor to query the bill. Elinor said that she had Adam’s assurance that the charge was normal for such a transaction.

“It ain’t normal to buy an eleventh-century castle,” Buzz retorted.

“And why does that Mr. Littlejohn always write “done under request” on his letters to you?” .

“I request it and he’s confirming it. What’s wrong with that?” Elinor asked irritably.

“I expect the wording covers some legal point, or has something to do with exchange regulations. Besides, it’s not something for us to worry about. Adam and Mr. Littlejohn know what’s best for me, and I trust them. Now where is that decorator?”

THURSDAY, 12 SEPTEMBER 1963 Adam sauntered up the marble steps of the Clanrickard Club. Two years before, the law had been changed to allow gambling in Britain; since then London had become one of the world’s gambling centres. The grandest London clubs were Crockfords in Carlton House Terrace; John Aspinall’s Clermont Club in Berkeley Square, which attracted the richest and most daring gamblers; Les Ambassadeurs, where you dined, danced, and then went upstairs to play chem my and the Clanrickard Club, run by Mike Grant.