Her Own Rules/Dangerous to Know (45 page)

“I will,” I said.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-SIX

My brother was amiable and affectionate with me for the remainder of the day.

After a pleasant lunch at the château we walked over to the winery, where we spent some time with Olivier Marchand, and then I was given a grand tour of the ancient
cave
by the two of them.

From there Jack and I strolled across to the Home Farm and visited with Madame Clothilde, who insisted on serving us coffee and cake as we reminisced about the past.

Later Jack took me through his vineyards, talking to me proudly about the wines he would make this year. We went down to the lake, had a long walk through the woods, and finally came back to the château.

Here we had a cup of tea together in the small sitting room, a ritual started by Antoinette Delaney that had continued over the years.

After this Jack went back to work for an hour or two, and I retreated to my room to rest for a while before getting ready for the evening.

Earlier in the day I had spoken to Vivienne. She had agreed to drive over from Lourmarin to talk to me about the profile of my father she was writing. She had accepted Jack's invitation to stay to dinner, had sounded so friendly, so cordial I made up my mind to be as pleasant as I could with her. Being mean to her, making snide remarks had become habitual, and now I was determined to hold myself in check.

Whenever I came to visit Jack at the château he gave me the room that had been mine as a child. It was large, filled with light from the many windows and I loved the view of the meadows and the Home Farm.

Now I walked over to one of the windows and stood looking out at this view, which was so familiar to me and had been ever since I was a little girl.

Together Jack and I had run in those fields filled with wildflowers, climbed the great trees in the woods, swum in the lake, picked fruit in the orchard, and had picnics under the vine-covered loggia at the Home Farm. In those carefree days of our childhood it had been Clothilde's mother Madame Paulette who had ruled the roost. She had fed us delicious food, bustled about, chastised us if we were naughty, and generally fussed over us like a mother hen. Jack and I genuinely grieved for her when she died. She had been like a favorite cuddly aunt.

When we were little Jack had always been in charge of me, and I had tagged along no matter what he was doing. Fortunately, he had never seemed to mind this, had always been the protective older brother looking out for my welfare, always kind and good-natured with me even when I was up to mischief.

I thought of the discussion I'd had with him about Locke Industries before lunch. Jack had not erupted angrily, as Gerald had predicted he would before I left London this morning. However, my husband had been right about one thing: Jack had no intention of giving up what was his birthright.

It was not often my judgment was flawed when it came either to business or my brother, but in this instance it had been. However, Jack had taken it well, and no harm had been done to our relationship. He knew I liked to take control, be in charge. Also, he no longer overreacted now that he'd stopped his heavy drinking.

After taking off my suit and putting on a dressing gown, I carried my laptop to the bed and spent the next hour working.

 

Vivienne arrived punctually a couple of minutes before six, and Florian led her into the small sitting room where I was waiting.

There had always been a certain amount of animosity between us, and since neither of us was a hypocrite we made no pretense of great friendship by hugging and kissing. Instead we greeted each other rather formally and shook hands.

I sat down in my usual chair near the fire.

Vivienne took the one opposite, and said, “You look very well, Luciana.”

“Thank you, so do you,” I replied, trying to be nice.

Then taking control of the situation in my usual way, I got straight to the point before she had a chance to say anything. “How can I help you? What do you want to know about Sebastian that you don't already know?”

She looked uncertain for a moment, then cleared her throat and said, “I was hoping you could tell me what he was like the last year of his life. You saw him more than Jack and I, didn't you?”

“Yes. He was in London around this time last year. Early April, actually, and I spent a few days with him at the office. He came back in May. It was a weekend and he drove down to Kent on the Sunday, to have lunch with us at Goldenbrooke. He was very much himself on those two visits; by that I mean low-key, slightly remote, even a bit melancholy. Still, that
was
par for the course, right? He was a moody man, Vivienne, as you well know. Certainly we witnessed his mood swings and temperament when we were growing up.”

“He could be morose,” Vivienne concurred. “Often on the edge. He seemed to be carrying the burdens of the world on his shoulders.” She gave me a hard stare, asked, “Did he tell you if he had any special plans? For the future?”

I shook my head. “No, he didn't.”

“Can I come in?” Jack asked from the doorway “Or am I interrupting?”

Vivienne exclaimed, “Hello, Jack. And no you're not interrupting. Come and join us.”

Jack strolled in, gave her a peck on the cheek, then went and opened the bottle of Veuve Cliquot that stood in a silver bucket on the console. “How about a glass of bubbly, you two? Or would you prefer something else?”

“Champagne's fine,” I said.

“Thanks, Jack, I'll also have a glass.” Vivienne turned back to me and went on, “So Sebastian was being Sebastian right to the end?”

“You're not going to dwell on his suicide in the profile, are you, Vivienne?” I demanded, my voice suddenly turning sharp.

“I'm devoting exactly
one line
to it, that's all, Luciana. I am only interested in writing a profile of him as he was. So there were no new ventures on the horizon? Either at Locke Industries or the Locke Foundation?”

“Not that I know of,” I responded and glanced at my brother. “Did Sebastian tell you anything about his future?”

“Nope. It was business as usual with him. And there was nothing different on his agenda. I've already told Viv that.”

Looking across at her, I said swiftly, “Just before Jack came in, I was about to mention that Sebastian was in good spirits when Jack and I were staying with him last October. This stuck in my mind, because I hadn't seen him happy very often in my life.”

“I noticed that too,” Vivienne murmured quietly.

“I didn't witness this happiness,” Jack muttered as he brought us our flutes of champagne. “If you two agree he was, who am I to argue? There must be something to it.”

We all said cheers and raised our glasses.

I said, “There's more to this than just the profile, isn't there? You could easily write it without talking to either of us or anyone else.”

Vivienne sat back, crossed her legs, and nodded. “Certainly. But I told you, I want to get an all-around picture of him. Sebastian as seen through many eyes.”

“Vivienne, I'm not stupid. Madge told me about the so-called girlfriend. But you're wasting your time because I know nothing about her. No one does. You're the only one he confided in.”

“If she exists,” Jack murmured as he came to join us. He hovered in front of the fireplace, sipping his drink.

“Oh she exists all right.” Vivienne sounded so confident, I stared at her swiftly.

Jack murmured, “Maybe you're right, Viv. But you'll never track her down. How can you? You don't have a name.”

“Oh but I do have a name. Actually I just found it. I know who she is, Jack. I hope to interview her within the next couple of weeks, and perhaps she might be able to shed some light on Sebastian's suicide.”

“What do you mean by
that
exactly?” I asked.

“She might have a clue
why
he did it,” Vivienne answered.

“Oh for God's sake! Forget all that nonsense, Viv!” Jack exclaimed. “I want to know who the hell she is. And how you managed to find her. Jesus! Talk about a needle in a haystack!”

“Let me first tell you
how
I found her,” Vivienne said. “This past weekend I was going through an old appointment book, checking a date for Kit Tremain, when the diary fell open to a day last July. Monday, July the eleventh, 1994. I'd made a notation that I'd spoken to Sebastian that morning. He'd called me from Paris. As I stared at the page I started to remember our conversation. He'd told me he was staying at the Plaza-Athéneé, that he was in Paris to attend a special dinner with a friend of his. It was a medical dinner. I asked him if he'd like to come to Lourmarin for a few days, and he said no, he couldn't, that he had to go to Zaire for the Locke Foundation. Anyway, once I'd remembered this conversation, I realized I had something to go on at last. A real
clue.
The medical dinner. It was the key to me. Since Sebastian was a very well-known figure, I was quite sure he would be listed as one of the important guests attending the dinner. In press reports, if there were any.

“Following this hunch of mine, I flew up to Paris for the day on Monday morning. I went straight to
Le Figaro
and asked an editor I knew there to arrange for me to have access to their back-issue files for July 1994. He did. Unfortunately, there was nothing in the newspaper about the medical dinner, so I grabbed a cab and shot over to
Paris Match.
I have a friend on the magazine, Patrick Brizzard, a photographer I've worked with in the past. Patrick helped me to go through last year's July issues, and I found what I was looking for, a brief mention of the dinner in the news-makers section. And there, staring at me as large as life, was a photograph of Sebastian. He was accompanied by a couple of French doctors. Male. And a French scientist. Female. His girlfriend, the one he told me about.”

“Not necessarily,” Jack said. “She could've been anybody”

“Not the way she was looking at him and he was looking at her!” Vivienne put down her glass and stood up. “Excuse me a moment, I left my briefcase in the hall.”

Alone with my brother, I said, “Maybe Vivienne's stumbled onto the real thing.”

Jack shrugged. “Could be.”

Vivienne came back carrying her briefcase. She took out a copy of
Paris Match
and a black-and-white photograph. “I was able to get this back issue through Patrick, who also made me a print of the photo. If those two people are not involved with each other, then I don't know a thing about human emotions,” she finished, handed them to me, and sat down.

I regarded the photograph first. There was my father, looking impossibly handsome in an immaculately tailored dinner jacket. He was flanked by a couple of men on his left; on his right, a woman stood next to him. She was gazing up at him, rather than at the camera, and he at her. They had eyes only for each other; it was perfectly obvious how they felt. Even though I hated to admit it to myself, Vivienne was correct about their feelings. They looked as if they were in love.

Jack, who was leaning over my shoulder, said, “She's a good-looking woman. She reminds me of somebody. I don't know who. So tell us, Viv. Who the hell
is
she?”

Before Vivienne could respond, I glanced at the caption in the magazine and read aloud, “Doctor Ariel de Grenaille of the Institut Pasteur.”

“I called the institute yesterday when I got back to Lourmarin,” Vivienne said. “And she does indeed work there. Except that she's not in Paris at the moment. She's involved in a special project.
In Africa.
Since yesterday I've been trying to arrange a meeting with her, through the institute. However, she is unavailable, according to the institute. She's heading up some sort of experiment with a highly infectious disease. Quite literally she is in a sort of. . . quarantine. They won't even say where she
is
exactly. For the last twenty-four hours I've been trying to get in touch with her family.”

“I've always said you're like a dog with a bone. You just won't let go of something when you get your teeth into it,” Jack remarked. “Or was it luck that you managed to find her?”

“Not luck. I'm a damned good journalist, Jack, and that's the reason I found her,” Vivienne shot back.

“I agree,” I said, glancing at Vivienne. Although I had disliked her most of my life I had to admit that she was a true professional. I had also come to understand how much she had really loved my father. Her unswerving pursuit of the truth about his death had convinced me.

P
ART
F
OUR

ZOË
T
RUTH

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-SEVEN

I
am an old woman. I must admit that to myself today for it is the truth. Until very recently I thought I had escaped it, thought old age had passed me by. I felt so strong, so vigorous, so full of zest. But lately I have grown decrepit and worn out. It is as if all the life has been drained out of me, leaving only a fragile shell of a woman.

When one is young one never thinks of growing old, pays no mind to age. Youth lies to us, blinds us, gives us a false sense of immortality, makes us believe we are supreme, unbeatable, everlasting. How frightening it is to learn that we are only too mortal, vulnerable, and that in the end we must die. To be no more, to cease to exist, boggles the mind.

Last week, on April the sixth, I celebrated my seventy-third birthday. That evening, when I sat looking at myself in the mirror of my dressing table, I saw myself objectively for a fleeting moment.

What I saw startled me, made me suck in my breath in shock. Surely the image staring back could not be me, was not me, surely not. No, this woman was not me.

I was called the great Zoë, the beautiful Zoë, the woman every man desired. I had been irresistible to men all my life, with my chestnut hair and sky-blue eyes, my height and lithesome grace, my hourglass figure and perfect breasts and my long, long legs.

Last Thursday the woman in the mirror had only the remnants of her great beauty left—the fine blue eyes and the high cheekbones. The chestnut hair was no longer thick and luxuriant, owed its rich color to the skill of the hairdresser. The height and the legs and the elegance had not been diminished with the passing of time, but the figure had thickened.

But oh how glorious I had been once, when I was in my prime. I had reigned supreme. My beauty had been extolled far and wide. Men had worshipped me, fought over me.

Charles came to Paris last week for my birthday. “You look so very, very beautiful,” he said to me that night, lifting his crystal flute of champagne to me, toasting my birthday. Well, beauty
is
in the eye of the beholder.
Charles.
My son. My pride. My joy. Ma raison d'être.

He came from Normandy with his wife Marguerite and they took me for a celebration dinner at Tour d'Argent, my favorite restaurant. I have always been entranced by the views from its many floor-to-ceiling windows, breathtaking views of the River Seine and the bateaux mouche, Notre Dame Cathedral and the glittering sky, panoramic vistas of this city that I made my own long ago. Forty-five years ago this month.

I came to Paris in April of 1950.

The chestnuts were in bloom in the Bois de Boulogne, gaiety filled the air, and Paris was still rejoicing that the war was over. Love, laughter, life lived to the fullest—those were the things we cared about then.

Five years after I had chosen this city to be my home I met Édouard. I fell in love. I loved him so much, I loved him until the day he died. I would have done anything for him. Anything at all. And I did.

When we are grown old and horrendous things happen to destroy the fabric of one's existence, age makes it easier to cope in so many ways. We have acquired understanding, wisdom is ours, and we have life's experiences to draw on and sustain us.

But in our youth when trouble comes to plague us we have few weapons with which to combat it, no ready references, no old knowledge stored in our bones, no inner resources to see us through. It overwhelms; it can destroy us.

I know this and I know it well.

It was in my early life that great trouble came to me. My life was difficult, terrible. Unconscionable things were done to me when I was young, destructive acts were perpetrated against me.

I suffered alone. I had no one to help me. No one to rescue me. No one to ease the pain. No one to console me. I sank low in my despair. I did not want to live. I thought that death was my only means of escape. I wanted to end my pain. But I did not take my life. I found courage and strength within myself. I lived again. I came back up. Slowly. I rose higher. I soared.

And ultimately I became the incomparable Zoë.

The woman all men wanted. The woman with the world at her feet.

Édouard wanted me from the first moment he set eyes on me. He was not solely driven by lust, although he lusted after my beautiful body, that is the truth. He wanted love from me as well. Love and devotion. I gave them to him willingly. He accepted them and returned my feelings in full measure. He adored me. He placed me on a pedestal. He made me his wife.

He gave me dignity, my husband.

Édouard died nine years ago at the age of eighty-nine. He never looked his age, nor was he senile in his latter years, but quite strong and robust to the very end. He died peacefully in his sleep, went gently out into the dark night, as gently as he had lived.

The king is dead. Long live the king, the saying goes.

Charles inherited it all. The ancient title, the château and estates in Normandy, the bulk of the family fortune. Charles hardly seemed to care about these material trappings of life. Heartbroken, he long grieved for his father. They had been close, inseparable, the best of friends since he had been a small boy.

Charles had his own son now, my grandson Gerard, who was six and would one day inherit the title. I had ensured the line, at what great cost no one would ever know. Nor should they.

The morning after my birthday last week, we had taken breakfast together, my son and I. He had looked at me at one moment, and said, “Maman, you are a great lady Une femme avec grand courage.”

I had smiled faintly as I had thanked him for his compliment.

Yes, I was of good courage, he was correct in that, and if I was a great lady, une grande dame, then it was because I had made myself one. I had not been born great. Nor had I been born a lady. But I had been born with courage.

Life is hard. It is meant to be hard. To test us, to test our mettle, to break us, or make us. And the lessons of life are equally hard. Yet if we are astute and
quick
then we only have to learn those lessons once.

When I was first married to him, Édouard told me that I had the face of a madonna. I had smiled and thanked him and kissed his cheek.

Later, when I was alone, I had peered at myself in the looking glass, searching my face. There was not a line, not a blemish, not a sign of pain nor a mark of sorrow on that face. How could it be that all the anguish I had suffered did not show?

I could not answer that. Perhaps if they cut me open all the suffering I had endured would be visible on my heart.

It was Édouard who made my life livable. He gave me the greatest of all gifts, the gift of happiness. And slowly, and with infinite love, he erased much of my pain.

I missed him. I was lost without him. Alone. Lonely. Devastated by his death, I lived on because I had taught myself to survive years ago when I was a young girl. I knew no other way to be. But I was only marking time, waiting for the day I died, when we would be reunited in another life, the afterlife.

The antique ormolu clock on the white marble mantelpiece began to chime, startling me out of my reverie. I glanced across at it, saw that the golden hands were sitting at three o'clock on the white enamel face. Then I looked down at the document on the desk. I placed it in the envelope, put that in the small letter case, and locked it. I sighed to myself, returned the case to the drawer of the desk.

I had frequently wondered at different times if there was a grand design, as Édouard had believed, a preordained reason for all the things that happen to a person in the span of a life.

Was
I
part of some great cosmic pattern? Had Édouard been interwoven into it? Were he and I simply pawns of fate, pawns who fulfilled their destinies when they came together, were joined as man and wife?

Once Édouard had said that what must happen
will
happen. Nothing can stop it. “Fate rolls along inexorably,” he had said to me. “And you, Zoë, are my fate. And I am yours, don't ever doubt that.”

My eyes settled on his photograph in the gold frame on my desk. It had been taken forty years ago, the year we met and married. He had been fifty-eight then, twenty-five years older than I, but so vital and alive.

I looked into his eyes and my own filled. Oh Édouard, I said to him silently, help me, give me strength.