Peach (52 page)

Peach wandered through the cloister of trees circling Barcelona’s fascinating Parque Guell, not caring where she was going. She had roamed the anonymous city streets all morning escaping from a sleepless night in a tiny claustrophobic hotel room in the “Ramblas,” where the upper storeys of ancient buildings leaned across the narrow alleys until they almost touched in the middle and noise and music and laughter from the cafés and bars went on until all hours.

Peach was sure now she had lost Wil for ever. Harry had told her his detectives had been following her in Paris for months—not that she’d ever tried to hide anything, she’d just never discussed it with him. After all, it was Harry’s infidelities that had shattered their marriage and she had merely been picking up the threads of her own life. And now he was planning on using it all against her to make sure he got custody of Wil.

Harry had pointed out how unsympathetic the British courts would be to a woman who lived in Paris while her child lived in England—even though Peach had protested that she saw Wil every possible moment she was allowed. But Harry had been remorseless. “And a woman who is an adulteress,” he’d said over-dramatically—even though Peach had pointed out again that their marriage had been non-existent for years, thanks to him. And there was no doubt that Harry’s position in English society gave weight to his case. He was an Establishment figure and he would
use it to his advantage—he’d be bound to get the sympathy of the courts.

Finally, Harry had told Peach that if she contested the divorce with her version of his infidelities it would mean the whole story would be splashed across the tabloids with disastrous effects on Wil. And it would all be
her
fault.

No, Harry had made it quite clear. If Peach didn’t contest the divorce and the custody order he would make sure that the case went through discreetly. If she did, then it would only go further to prove what a bad mother she was. And she would still lose Wil.

Peach sat on an undulating mosaic wall designed by the art nouveau artist Gaudi, oblivious to its strange beauty. Her gaze was fixed on the small boy riding his bicycle round and round the large empty arena with solemn solitary pleasure. The lonely child symbolised all she had lost and Peach began to cry, mopping at her eyes with the last of the tissues she had bought that morning. There was no way she could win. No way at all.

From the shade of the avenue of trees, Noel watched her. He had been at the café opposite her hotel since six-thirty that morning, drinking endless cups of coffee and sharing a table with blue-overalled workmen dropping in for a breakfast of black coffee, brandy and a hunk of crusty bread dipped in pungent olive oil. When Peach had emerged at seven-thirty, looking pale and wearing dark glasses, Noel had known it was the wrong moment to speak to her. He’d tracked her solitary route to Guell Park up on the hill overlooking the city and now, watching Peach watching the child, he could see that she was crying. Noel couldn’t hold back any longer. Walking towards her he held out his hand. “Peach,” he said quietly, “let me help you.”

Peach spun around, startled—and she was looking into the shadowy grey eyes and the lean harsh-boned face of a
man she knew … someone she had met years before … “You’re Noel Maddox,” she said.

“Of the Maddox Charity Orphanage,” added Noel with a faint smile.

With a stab of guilt, Peach remembered the party in Boston. “I thought you were going to kill me when I said that,” she stammered. “And I wouldn’t have blamed you—it was stupid and unforgivable. It was just that I had remembered your face suddenly from all those years before.”

Noel shrugged. “That’s all in the past, and right now I have a feeling we should be talking about your future.” He blotted her tears with his handkerchief. “Come with me, we’ll get you a cup of coffee and you can tell me all about it.”

Peach didn’t know why it was so easy talking to Noel. Perhaps it was that he was uninvolved—he was a person who wouldn’t judge her on her past or Harry’s, the way the family would, but who could offer impartial advice. He sat opposite her in the little restaurant, arms folded, listening, and he looked strong and calm as though nothing would ever be beyond his control. Noel would never make a mess of his life, the way she had. “I just don’t know what to do,” she said finally.

Noel looked at his watch. “It’s seven in the morning in New York. I’m going to call my lawyer and find out who to contact in London. Do you have a copy of that court order?”

Peach rummaged in her bag. “Here it is.”

Noel’s suite at the Ritz on Avenida José Antonio was vast and luxurious and Peach wondered what he would say if he saw her odd little room at the Hotel Recuerdo. She prowled his sitting room trying not to listen to Noel’s conversation, staring out of the windows at the traffic surging past and the
flower-seller tucked into her kiosk amid mounds of bright carnations.

“Right,” she heard Noel say, “John Marcher … and the number. Got it. I’ll call him right away. Thanks, Bill. I’ll let you know what happens. Yes. I agree. I’m sure it will. ’Bye.”

Peach watched nervously, thinking of Harry’s threats as Noel dialled again and asked for a London number. Noel caught her eye and smiled. “You’re not going to give up Wil without a fight, are you?” he said encouragingly.

Peach couldn’t bear to listen while he talked to the London solicitor and she shut herself in the bathroom, staring in the mirror. Under the harsh light she looked pale and her eyes were puffy. Noel must think her unattractive and foolish.
Why was he helping her like this? And where had he come from?
She supposed he was in Barcelona on business and had been taking time out to see the sights. Whatever … she couldn’t be more grateful for his offer of a helping hand. He was exactly the sort of calm, logical thinking person she needed.

“Peach,” called Noel, as she emerged from the bathroom, neatly combed and lipsticked. She looked about seventeen and scared. “It’s all arranged,” he told her. “The London lawyers agree that it’s obvious Harry is trying to use intimidation to take the boy from you. Harry’s romantic activities are as well known as his books and so is his affair with Augusta. There would be no problem in you sueing him for divorce—regardless of whatever you do when you are alone in Paris.”

His grey eyes met hers searchingly and Peach turned away. “But Wil,” she said, “I don’t want Wil to be hurt by all this.”

“Wil would be far more hurt losing his mother,” said
Noel abruptly. “Get your head together, Peach, and start thinking straight.”

Peach stared at him in surprise, he seemed suddenly so cold and hard. “What happens now?” she asked in a small voice.

“They’ll be back to us tomorrow, hopefully with the news that the court order has been rescinded. They know Harry’s lawyers and they’ll discuss it with them in that nice polite British way and they’ll arrive at a solution that will be best for you both. But I can promise you this, Peach. You won’t lose Wil.”

Looking into his harsh, attractive face Peach knew she could believe him. Noel Maddox wouldn’t make rash promises. The fears of the past few days began to roll away and she ran to him, flinging her arms around him, relieved. “What would I have done without you? Thank you,” she murmured, gratefully. “It was all so complicated and confused before. There seemed no way out.”

“There’s always a way out, Peach,” said Noel, putting his arms around her. “You just have to look for it.”

“But what were
you
doing in Guell Park?” demanded Peach. “
Why
were you here in Barcelona?”

Noel held her, looking at the face he had kept in his memories all these years, at the wide sloping cheekbones and the straight positive nose, he looked into her dark blue eyes and at her vulnerable soft mouth. It would have been so easy to kiss her.

“Were you sent by God as an angel of mercy?” asked Peach, smiling.

“It was just destiny, I guess,” replied Noel.

The British Airways flight from Madrid touched down precisely on time at Heathrow Airport in London and Peach gathered together her belongings hastily. “Please remain in
your seats with the seatbelts fastened until the aircraft has completed taxiing,” commanded the trim red, white and blue hostess firmly and Peach sank back with a sigh. It seemed eternity instead of only a few hours since Noel had put her on the plane, waving goodbye as he headed off to catch his flight to Paris, and she was already missing his calm authoritative presence.

Noel had looked after her so well, waiting with her in Spain until the lawyers worked out her future, doing his best to divert her with sight-seeing, dinners and movies, cramming her empty days with events until she had complained she was exhausted.

“Good,” Noel had said, “we’ve exhausted you and we’ve exhausted Barcelona’s repertoire of attractions. Let’s try Madrid.” And within a couple of hours they were on a plane to Madrid.

This time they stayed in the same hotel but Noel booked a small suite for Peach and a room for himself, and in the daytime they explored the Prado, lingering over the Goya and Velasquez paintings of Spanish courtiers. They toured nearby villages and castles and paradores in a rented car—neither a de Courmont nor a US Auto—but a tiny Seat that they both just managed to fold themselves into amid much laughter. “I’m taller than you,” complained Peach, hunching her knees under her chin.

“And I’m bigger than you,” countered Noel, attempting to flex his elbows.

At night they wandered the city companionably, sipping tingling dry sherry at a bar in the Plaza Mayor, tasting the spicy Serrano ham, and dining on a hundred different little snacks called
tapas
.

By agreement they didn’t talk about Harry or Wil except for the daily telephone call to London. The matter was under discussion, they were told in a lawyerly way, and they
would be kept informed of any progress. “But there doesn’t seem to be any progress,” murmured Peach nervously.

Noel said calmly, “That’s the way it is with lawyers, they don’t tell you anything until they have something definite to tell you.”

Peach couldn’t remember ever talking about herself so much. In the past four days she’d told Noel her entire life story. She told him about France in the war and about Lais and her own guilt. She’d told him about her love for her grandmother and her friendship with Melinda and about falling in love with Harry and how she’d chased him—everything. Except for some reason she didn’t tell him about having polio and having to wear the steel braces on her legs. She still felt ashamed of her weakness and her ugliness. She’d told Noel about buying the tiny mews house in Bel-gravia and holding her hand he’d said, “I’d like to come over and see it for myself.”

Peach had blushed like a silly schoolgirl and said, “Well, of course you must,” wondering if he had meant something more than just that.

“You are the only person who knows what I am,” Noel said to her as they walked through the bustling evening streets of Madrid.

Peach stared at him puzzled. “Don’t you mean
who
you are?”

“I’m nothing,” said Noel with an edge of bitterness to his voice. “I’m just the orphan-kid made good.”

“Tell me how you made good,” demanded Peach.

Threading her arm through his, her head bent towards him, Peach listened. Snatches of music and laughter spilled from the cafés and bars as they walked along, editing his life into patches of light and shadow the way she felt sure Noel himself was doing.

Noel told her about Luke and Mrs Grenfell and Mr Hill,
the sports coach, about cleaning the cars and working at Joe’s Garage and the library books on engines and engineers. He told her about the boxing trophy and about walking the streets of Detroit, cold and penniless and afraid, aged just fourteen. He confessed to lying about his age in order to get a job, so that now everyone thought he was four years older than his thirty-five years. He told her about working his way through the University of Michigan and MIT, commenting that he was still a pretty good barman and a hell of a fast hand with a power wrench from all those years on the assembly line. He told her that he’d climbed the ranks until he was second-in-command to the president of US Auto, adding that it was an odd coincidence that they were both in the same business.

“But I remember,” cried Peach, “when I first saw you at the orphanage, you wanted to look inside the car. It was the
engine
you were interested in even then.”

“I’m the best engineer in the business,” Noel had said, “and engines are still the love of my life.”

“Then there’s no wife? No lover?”

His eyes had locked with hers. “No. There’s no wife, Peach, and no lover,” he said seriously.

She had wondered if he were going to kiss her, but he hadn’t. He’d just said, “It’s the first time I’ve ever told anyone about myself, and it’ll probably be the last. It’s just because in an odd sort of way you seem to have been involved in my life since we first met.”

And then he’d swept her into a café for a glass of wine and they’d listened to the guitars playing plaintive Spanish folk melodies and snatches of Rodrigo and de Falla, until he’d taken her back to the hotel and said goodnight. And again he hadn’t kissed her.

Peach peered out of the aircraft window at the tarmac. The plane was just being attached to its umbilical exit tube
and she wondered if Noel were in Paris yet. He’d kissed her when he left, just a small light kiss on her cheek and she touched the place furtively, thinking about him.

“We are ready to de-plane now,” called the smiling hostess as Peach hurried thankfully for the door. She was home again, and in a few hours’ time she would be with Wil. She was to have joint custody of her son with Harry, and the divorce would go through uncontested with an unnamed woman as the guilty party in Harry’s life. Noel had won her battle for her.