The Four of Us (32 page)

Seated in the back of the limousine, André's heavy thigh close against hers, she had felt beads of sweat break out on her forehead. It was too late now for her to head back to France, but if she'd known Kiki and Francis were to be in London, not America, then she would never have accepted André's invitation. Never. Not in a million years.

Nursing the Rémy, she went back outside, this time walking down the broad shallow steps that led on to the gravel. At the far end of the small garden was a trellised wall thick with ivy, and in front of it, beneath the boughs of a silver birch, was a small wrought-iron table and a single chair. Still cradling the Rémy, she sat down, looking back over the dark green density of the box-hedged parterre and its infill of white anemones, wondering if Kiki had contacted Artemis and Primmie when she was in London.

In the hideous hours after the telephone call from Rome, Artemis, still in her matron of honour dress, had vowed that for as long as she lived she would never have anything to do with Kiki. Primmie hadn't echoed her, but Primmie's shock at Kiki's action had, she knew, been deep and it was impossible to imagine her ever condoning it. That, though, had been six years ago, and six years was a long time.

She took another deep swallow of cognac. Perhaps, by now, Artemis and Primmie were again on speaking terms with Kiki. Perhaps they and their husbands would be attending the concert at the Albert Hall and afterwards perhaps they would have dinner with Kiki and Francis or, as Kiki and Francis's guests, go to a glamorous showbiz party with them.

A blackbird flew down from the silver birch and began searching the ground beneath the choisya for worms. She watched it, knowing she was making a huge assumption where Primmie was concerned. Primmie might not be married. She might be quite content to be a high-flyer at BBDO. She was very likely a senior account director by now, or perhaps even on the board.

At the thought of how much she missed Primmie, a spasm of pain crossed her face. If only she could visit Primmie and have Primmie visit her – but she'd known from the moment she had embarked on escort work that she couldn't possibly remain in contact with Primmie and Artemis. It simply wouldn't have been fair to either of them to have her world touching theirs in any way, shape or form.

The blackbird, a worm in its beak, flew back into the tree. The light was changing now, deepening into the spangling blue dusk of mid-evening. She rose to her feet. She hadn't played back her answerphone messages yet and there would, as always, be a long stream of them to listen to and to respond to.

Fifteen minutes later, seated at her Empire-style secretaire, listening to the messages with a pen in one hand and a large diary open in front of her, she was every inch a career woman running a highly successful business. And a career woman was how she thought of herself.

‘It ees a business, yes?' Dominique, a fellow student on the fine arts and antiques course she'd been attending, had said to her after breaking the astounding news that she was funding her way through the course by working for an escort agency. ‘How else could I afford such expensive fees?'

Geraldine hadn't known, because it was a question she'd never had to address. Her place on the course had been paid for out of an allowance that came from family money.

The knowledge of how Dominique was financing herself hadn't interfered with their casual friendship. They generally spent their lunch-times together, buying a baguette at one of the many cafés near to the Louvre and then walking the short distance to the Seine to sit and eat. Only when Dominique had realized that she didn't have a boyfriend had their casual friendship turned into something a little deeper.

‘That is very strange,
n'est-ce pas
?' she had said, taking it for granted that a girl with Geraldine's striking looks would have no trouble finding a boyfriend if she wanted one.

Previously in such circumstances Geraldine had kept her thoughts to herself. This time, to her great surprise, she had found herself telling Dominique all about Francis and Cedar Court – and all about Kiki.

It had forged a bond between them. From then on, though Dominique never took the place that Artemis, Primmie and Kiki had once held in her life, she had become someone she spent time with, both at the Louvre and away from it.

Then had come the day when, just as they were about to go in to a lecture on eighteenth-century ceramics, Dominique had been told there was a telephone call for her.

Half an hour later, they had met up at their usual lunch-time café. ‘
Merde
!' Dominique had said, her part pixie, part Joan of Arc face stressed. ‘My father is going to be in Paris overnight and wants to spend the evening with me – and I'm scheduled to meet a client at eight o'clock at the George V.'

‘Tell the agency you can't make the appointment. Another girl will have to go,' she'd said, buying baguettes for them both.

‘It is not so simple, Jerraldeen.' As she had softened the g and rolled her r's, Dominique's dark eyes had been despairing. ‘It is a first-time client – a very important first-time client – a sheikh. If I tell the agency I can't meet with him, they won't give me the chance of such a good offer again. I was very lucky to get him in the first place – and I was hoping he would become a regular. Then I wouldn't have to spend so many evenings with boring fat businessmen.'

Geraldine had made a sympathetic noise and handed Dominique her baguette.

‘You just don't know how competitive agency work is,' Dominique had said glumly as they walked out of the café and began walking towards the Seine. ‘I'm not regarded as being very committed, because it's known I'm only working to fund my studies. And a sheikh! He was probably only assigned to me by accident and now I can't capitalize on it! It simply isn't fair!
C'est un crime
!'

‘Couldn't you get another girl to take your place without letting the agency know?' she had suggested, trying to be helpful.

Dominique had pondered the suggestion for a moment or two and had then shaken her head. ‘
Non
. I've told you, this is a very competitive business. If I did, I'd never get him back again.'

They sat down on a bench beside the river, looking across its glittering surface towards the turrets of the Conciergerie and the spires of Notre Dame.

‘Then I have no more suggestions,' she had said, thinking of the ground-floor apartment she had just viewed near the Madeleine, and wondering if she had the front to ask her father if he would increase her already substantial allowance so that she would be able to afford its exorbitant rent.

‘Ah! But I have one!' Dominique's flawless-skinned face was no longer glum, but radiantly alight. ‘If
you
took my place, there would be no such problem. It is a perfect solution,
n'est-ce pas
? You simply tell him that you are me – and if he asks for you again, when I turn up I will explain to him and keep him happy.'

‘And if he's disappointed that it is not me he is seeing again?' she had asked teasingly.

‘Once I am with him, there will be no chance of that,' Dominique had said smugly. ‘I am a professional – or, at least, a semi-professional. And I am French,' she had added, as if that settled the question.

Laughter had risen in Geraldine's throat. Dominique was quite right in assuming herself to be streets ahead in sexual experience where numbers of partners were concerned, but she rather felt she could make quite an impression, if she so wanted – and the assumption that French women were far superior to English women in the sexual expertise stakes rankled.

‘Would you like to take a bet on it?' she had said good-humouredly.

‘I would love to take a bet on it,
chérie
,' Dominique had responded, vastly relieved that her problem was solved.

Sheikh Abdul Mustafa was Eton educated and an erudite man and, much to her chagrin, Dominique had lost her bet.

With the last appointment neatly pencilled in her desk diary, a corner of Geraldine's mouth tugged into a smile as she continued responding to her many answerphone messages and reflecting on how shamelessly easily she had slipped into her new lifestyle.

She had never been on the books of any agency. She hadn't wanted to be. At first she had merely continued to be the sheikh's paid companion whenever he was in Paris – which was often – and then, when her course at the Louvre came to an end and she had been faced with the prospect of finding a job, she had decided that any job would be too restrictive.

She enjoyed her free time. She enjoyed not having to be up in the morning at seven or eight o'clock. She enjoyed being able to choose when she would work and when she would not. And she enjoyed the company of wealthy men.

If she had been on the books of an escort agency, she would, she knew, have found herself spending most of her time with men she would never, under normal circumstances, ever want to spend time with, let alone go to bed with. Abdul had been an exception, and it was only exceptional men she was interested in. He'd had friends. There had been introductions. With nine out of ten introductions, it had never gone any further, because she'd been very, very picky as to whom she added to her client list.

That she wasn't reliant on the income she earned from selling her body and companionship infuriated and bewildered Dominique. ‘Then why do it, Jerraldeen?' she had demanded. ‘Why not just find a rich boyfriend and marry and be happy?'

Dominique had long ago given up escort work. The instant she had her qualification from the Louvre beneath her belt, she had found herself a job in a small gallery on the Left Bank and couldn't understand why Geraldine didn't do the same.

‘Because I don't want to have to be up early every morning and be at someone else's beck and call all day,' she had said with blunt honesty. ‘And I'm not in the market for a husband. People only have one soulmate in a lifetime – and I've known the identity of mine since before I could walk. I won't find another soulmate, Dominique. It isn't possible.'

Aware that Francis was beginning to fill her thoughts and not wanting him to, she pushed her diary to one side and rose to her feet.

She had no appointments to keep. The evening was hers, to do with as she pleased. She put an LP on to her record player and, as the sound of Maria Callas singing Verdi filled the apartment, went into her bedroom to take off the cream linen suit she was wearing.

The suit was a businesswoman's suit and it was typical of the way she now dressed. The floaty, vintage clothes she had once loved so much were a thing of the past. They gave out the wrong image. The key to frequenting hotel lounges and bars without attracting the unwelcome attention of the management was to dress as if for an executive meeting.

The telephone rang. She waited for the answer-phone to click on.

‘
Chérie
,' Dominique said impatiently. ‘Pick up the phone. I need to talk to you.'

Switching the answerphone off, she picked up the receiver and settled herself comfortably on her king-size bed.

‘
Soir
, Dominique,' she said affectionately. ‘What is it you need to talk about?'

‘I have an old school friend who wants to do escort work, but doesn't want the hassle of doing it via an agency – and who hasn't the connections to sort it for herself,' Dominique said, not beating about the bush. ‘Would you take her under your wing, Jerraldeen? Make some introductions for her? She's only interested in the “if you have to ask the price, you can't afford it” end of the market – and she's happy to pay you a hefty commission.'

Geraldine's lips twitched in amusement. ‘I thought you were upset that I was still doing escort work myself, Dominique? Don't you think beginning to pimp is even worse?'

‘
Non
.' Dominique's voice was quite decisive. ‘Pimping is the way you should go,
chérie
. You are a great organizer and you know many, many rich men – especially rich Englishmen.'

Geraldine's mouth twitched again. When Dominique had first realized the kind of social background she came from she had been over the moon with delight. ‘But these men – these polo players and these friends of your father's and your uncle's – they will
love
to be introduced to beautiful, upmarket French escort girls whenever they are in Paris!' she had said when she had realized Geraldine's connections. ‘You have contacts too good to ignore!' Aware that Dominique was still waiting for a response from her, she said, ‘Does your friend have her
baccalauréat
?'

‘
Merde
!' Dominique's voice rose several decibels. ‘Yes! But what does it matter? She wants to earn money as a call-girl, not as a brain surgeon!'

‘Because the kind of clients I cultivate are the kind who expect intelligent company as well as glamorous company. I've got my own reputation to consider here, Dominique.'

‘Then you will do it?
Merveilleux
! I will get Veronique to ring you.'

Later, relaxing in a deep, foam-filled, scented bath, Geraldine reflected on how easy it would be for her to run her own escort business. The girls would have to be very carefully selected, but as she knew from her client list, she was good at careful selection.

The sound of Callas singing ‘O Don Fatale', from Verdi's
Don Carlos
permeated the lamp-lit apartment and she closed her eyes, enjoying Callas's interpretation of the imperious and strong-willed Princess Eboli, about to be banished from court for betraying the Queen. As Callas's stupendous voice expressed passionate anguish, Geraldine reflected that if she were to run an escort agency she was going to have to expand her client list dramatically.

She didn't envisage it being a problem. She had, as Dominique had previously pointed out, plenty of excellent contacts, all of which could be quarried hard. She slid a little lower beneath the scented bubbles. And she could run classified ads in the
International Herald Tribune
. As long as the ads were worded in such a way that glamorous ‘company' was all that was being offered, she wouldn't run foul of the law.