Never Leave Me (37 page)

Greg had turned his head in Jacqueline Pleydall's direction. She was smiling at him, an uncertain, almost nervous smile.

‘I must say I'm not sure myself why the aid has to extend to the Germans,' Frank continued, helping himself to a lobster vol-au-vent. ‘After all, they were the cause of all the damage, weren't they?'

Lisette was not listening to him. Greg had moved away from the circle of people he had been talking to and was now standing with Jacqueline Pleydall. He looked completely at ease, and though she was looking at him with rapt attention, his own attention seemed to be diverted. He kept glancing away from her, as if searching for somebody.

Lisette's lips curved into a smile. He was looking for her. The sudden tightening around her heart vanished. She laid a hand restrainingly on Frank's tuxedoed arm. ‘I'm sorry, Frank. Will you excuse me for a moment?' and without waiting for an answer, she slipped away from his side and crossed the room to her husband.

‘Hello darling, I thought you were lost,' he said with a grin, his arm sliding surely and securely around her waist. ‘I don't think you have met Jacqueline, have you? Jacqueline, Lisette. Lisette, Miss Jacqueline Pleydall.'

‘I'm very pleased to meet you,' Lisette said, feeling large and bulky and very, very pregnant.

‘And I you,' Jacqueline Pleydall said, but the flush had returned to her cheeks and as her eyes met Greg's, Lisette saw undisguised misery in their green depths.

‘It's been a long time, Greg,' she said unsteadily as if Lisette had not joined them. ‘Five years. Frank tells me that Germany was pretty hideous for you.'

‘For me and a few thousand others,' Greg agreed drily.

‘I would have liked to have seen you. Been able to talk about it…'

Greg's arm tightened around Lisett's waist. ‘We're leaving for Europe in a few days'time, but when we return you must have dinner with us. Lisette's cooking is becoming the talk of ‘Frisco.'

Jacqueline Pleydall bit her bottom lip and Lisette felt suddenly very sorry for her. Dinner
á trois
was obviously not what she had wanted. She had wanted Greg, and he had married someone else.

‘Will you excuse us, Jacqueline,' Greg was saying with smooth politeness. ‘We have a lot of people we want to say goodbye to before we leave for France.'

‘Yes, of course.' Her eyes were suspiciously bright. ‘Have a nice trip, Greg.'

Lisette knew that her eyes were following them as they crossed the room to speak to the Warners. She wondered what kind of a letter Greg had written from France telling her of his marriage. When he had written … Before they were married, or after?

‘Let's go home,' he whispered to her, his hand hot around her waist. ‘I've had enough of socialising for one evening. I want you to myself.'

She leaned against him, overcome by desire. Perhaps tonight it would be different. Perhaps tonight she could forget her guilt. Perhaps it could once more be as glorious between them as it had been in Paris.

In the darkness of the speeding limousine she put her hand in his. ‘Were you very much in love with her?' she asked, hoping passionately that the answer would be no.

He had no need to ask to whom she was referring. He flicked the wheel to the right with an easy movement of his hand, speeding up into Pacific Heights.

‘I thought I was,' he said, taking his eyes briefly from the road ahead and smiling down at her, ‘until I met you.'

She breathed a sigh of relief. ‘I think,' she said, leaning her head on his shoulder, ‘that she is very much in love with you, Greg.'

‘And I,' he said, his voice catching and deepening, ‘am very much in love with you, Mrs Dering.'

They sped up the last spur of the hill, sweeping into the drive of their home. She knew that she wouldn't speak of Jacqueline Pleydall again. But she wouldn't forget her. For if she continued to fail Greg in the privacy of their bedroom, she knew that Jacqueline Pleydall would be waiting, willing to offer him any comfort he might desire.

She was ecstatic with joy as their ship neared Le Havre. ‘Here we are again, back to the rain and the wind,' Greg had said wryly, as the mist had rolled back from the approaching cliffs and France had loomed ahead of them.

‘Oh, but it's beautiful!' Lisette said rapturously, turning her face up the rain, drinking in the sight of the grey, storm-tossed clouds, the rain-washed light.

Greg shot her a quick, surprised look. In the year they had been in America, she had never given any indication that she might be homesick. He had assumed that she had been as delighted to leave a war-torn France as he had been. In his eyes Normandy was insufferably cold and grey. He found the thickly hedged fields and narrow winding lanes claustrophobic, the high, slate-roofed houses dour. It had not occurred to him that she felt differently and he realised, with a stab of shock, how insensitive he had been.

‘Look,' she cried, as they neared the coast. ‘Salt marshes, Greg! Sand dunes! Oh, is that Sainte-Marie's church spire? And is that Valmy, Greg? Oh, it is! I'm sure it is!'

Henri de Valmy was waiting to greet them on the dockside. ‘Welcome home,
ma chére'
he said, hugging her close. ‘Welcome back to France!'

‘It's so good to be home, Papa!' She turned swiftly round to where Simonette was standing, a warmly wrapped Dominic in her arms. Joyously she took him from her. ‘This is France, Dominic! You must take your first footsteps on French soil!'

Dominic, who had already taken many faltering ones on board the
Normandie
, laughed delightedly.

‘Walk, Maman,' he said, his eyes shining. ‘Walk.'

‘It's so good to have you home,' her father was saying, his eyes suspiciously bright. ‘Your mother is waiting for us at Valmy. She hasn't been very well lately. A cold that she cannot seem to get rid of.'

‘Is she staying at Valmy long?' Greg asked him as they walked across to the waiting Citroen.

‘For the Christmas celebrations and New Year. Valmy is now remarkably comfortable. Reconstruction work has been going on non-stop since April. The left wing is completely habitable, though the main rooms, the grand dining-room and the salon, are going to take much longer to put to rights.'

‘Have Luke and Annabel arrived, Papa?' Lisette asked as they all squeezed into the Citroen.

‘Two days ago. His wife is a very nice girl. They came over to visit me shortly after their marriage. I think he would live in Normandy if he could. It seems to have seeped into his blood.'

Greg asked him how long he thought the reconstruction work would take before it was complete. What he thought of Churchill's view of an iron curtain having descended across Europe. If de Gaulle's popularity was still as strong. But as the Citroen roared along the familiar country roads and lanes Lisette fell silent. She had been away for little more than a year and now she was back again and nothing had changed. The landscape was still at the mercy of the sea. The trees along the coast still leaned landwards, leafless and bent beneath the force of the gales that blew in from the west. The waves still hurled themselves unceasingly at the foot of the cliffs. And Valmy still stood, its golden walk scarred, blackened by smoke, but still wonderful, still superbly magnificent.

They sped past the gatehouse and she averted her head swiftly. The cherry tree would be bare. Dieter's grave would be stark. She dare not allow herself to think of it with Greg so close beside her, so aware of every shift in her emotions. She would visit it in the morning. Alone. She would plant spring bulbs and take a posy of winter aconites. She saw her father's eyes fly to hers in the driving mirror. She saw all his unspoken questions about herself and Greg. About Dominic. About the coming baby. She smiled at him and saw him visibly relax. She would not burden him with the unhappiness she had carried within her for the past few months. It was nearly at an end now. The baby would be born while they were in France. No one would ever know the price she had paid for her deceit.

The ancient Citroen rattled past the last of the linden trees, rounding the huge circle of grass that fronted the chateau. The winter sun sparkled on the tall, narrow windows. The slate-roofed turret pierced the sky line. The great oak door opened and her mother ran out from the hall towards the still-moving car, Luke and a tall, fair-haired girl walking swiftly in her wake.

‘Welcome home,
chérie!
' her mother cried, and before the Citroen had even shuddered to a halt, a heavily pregnant Lisette had flung open the car door and was running, hurtling into her mother's outstretched arms.

It was so good to be home that she wept for joy. Valmy's walls enfolded her. The chateau's gutted heart had been lovingly rebuilt. The grand dining-room and the main salon were yet to be completed, but Valmy still stood, was lived in again.

‘It's wonderful, Papa!' she said, gazing round at the new plasterwork, the new woodwork, her eyes shining. ‘I can't believe so much has been done in only a year!'

‘I had nothing else to do with my time but harass the workmen,
ma chére
,' Henri said, his pleasure at her approval obvious.

Luke leaned against one of the newly plastered walls and watched her. Her greeting had been warm and spontaneous and completely asexual. She had hugged him tight. Hugged Annabel. And he had had to clench his hands into fists to prevent himself from seizing hold of her and taking her where she stood. God, but she was beautiful. He had forgotten how much. He had forgotten how unknowingly provocative she was. How innocently sensual.

Gone were the heavy stockings and sturdy shoes that he remembered. The serviceable wool sweaters and tweed skirts. In their place were gossamer sheer stockings and exquisite grey suede shoes and a dress of pale mauve that fell softly from her shoulders, the skirt rustling caressingly against her legs as she walked. Her hair no longer tumbled freely down her back. It was caught up in a glossy chignon, and he wanted to hold her against him; to pull the pins from her hair and to watch as it cascaded down over her shoulders, her breasts; to wind his fingers in it; bury his face in it.

‘Papa says that you never believed Valmy would be habitable by Christmas,' she was saying to him, her voice warm with affection.

They were all in the room that had been her father's study and was now a living room. The chairs and deep cushioned sofas were covered in rose-pink chintz. A log fire was burning pungently in the grate. Henri de Valmy was pouring a sherry for Annabel. Greg and her mother were discussing the changes that were taking place in Paris.

He didn't want to talk about Valmy. He didn't want to utter meaningless platitudes. Polite, social conversation was for other people – not for them.

‘Let's go where we can talk,' he said, his voice low and urgent, his blue eyes hot.

Her eyes flew to Greg, but he was still talking to her mother. Annabel was listening intently to something Henri was saying. No one had overheard him.

‘Not now,' she said. She had hoped that Luke would meet her as a friend; that his marriage to Annabel would have put an end to his desire for her.

A lock of straight black hair fell low across his forehead. His lean, olive-toned face was tense. ‘To hell with later,' he said fiercely, ‘I want to talk to you now!'

‘… de Gaulle's resignation as provisional president of France is a tragedy,' her father was saying gravely. He turned towards them. ‘You saw it coming, didn't you, Luke?'

Luke's nostrils flared with impatience. Everyone's attention was now drawn towards him. Escape with Lisette was impossible. ‘He was heading a coalition government,' he said tersely. ‘It was obvious there would be severe disagreements within the Assembly about the scope of his power, and it was equally obvious that he wouldn't concede an inch, on any issue.'

‘But to resign!' Annabel said aghast. ‘I can't believe it! I remember seeing him on the newsreels when Paris was liberated. Striding down the Champs Elysee, so proud and so sad, a tidal wave of people surging in his wake. He was like a giant! Head and shoulders above all those around him. The newscaster said that it was obvious, that he was the man destinated to govern France.'

‘And so he will, my dear,' Henri said with quiet confidence. ‘Eventually.'

Heloise picked up her embroidery, turning away from Luke and asking Annabel if there were still food shortages in London. Henri rose to his feet, poking the fire and throwing another log on to burn. Luke's hand shot out, encircling Lisette's wrist tightly.
‘Now!'
he hissed savagely.

‘I should offer you the commiserations of the victor, Luke,' Greg said suddenly, rising from the chair and crossing to the drinks cabinet.

Luke released Lisette's wrist abruptly. ‘What the devil do you mean?'

Greg shrugged, pouring himself a calvados. ‘The Chemico account,' he said easily. ‘I won, you lost.'

Some of the tenseness left Luke's body. ‘Oh that,' he said, struggling for self-control. ‘I'd forgotten.'

Greg swirled his drink round the glass. ‘An account that size takes a lot of forgetting,' he said, with a slight quirk of his brow. ‘What else have you on your mind, Luke?'

The atmosphere in the room had changed subtly. Annabel looked from Greg to her husband, perplexed. There was an undercurrent of tension between them that she didn't understand. Luke had been furious when Dering Advertising had picked up the Chemico account, but she hadn't thought it had made any difference to his relationship with Greg. She knew that they had met in the days immediately after the Allied landings. And she knew that those days had affected Luke profoundly. In the year since the war had ended, he had returned twice to Normandy to visit Henri de Valmy and she knew that he had been looking forward eagerly to this reunion with the Derings.