The Postcard (17 page)

These words chilled Phoebe to the core. How could she warn Caroline? Any criticism of her inamorato would be seen a sour grapes. Better to wait and watch but worry in private. Thank goodness she
was busy at Elstree and Pinewood Studios, where they were churning out motion pictures. She was in demand for character work; housekeepers, country ladies in tweeds, landladies were her speciality
roles. She mustn’t grumble, but when the door closed each night she felt as if part of her was missing.

London was changing and there were rumours of war. First Italy had invaded Ethopia, now Spain was at war with itself, and there was worrying news from Germany for her Jewish friends in the
theatre, whose families were under threat of persecution. Where would it all end? Hadn’t they fought the war to end all wars? All those brave young men sacrificed, and now it might happen all
over again if the doom-mongers were to be believed. At least Caroline was safe in Egypt, living the life of Riley. Perhaps there’d be news of a baby, though she’d never see it unless
she took a long trip out. However, not once had she been invited.

That first fury with her daughter hadn’t lasted long once the shock had faded. She was just sad that Caroline was so naïve as to choose the first dashing man who showed an interest in
her, one whom she’d heard had a poor reputation with girls. Did she realize she was marrying an unreliable cheat? It was so hard to sit and watch someone you love fall into a trap of her own
making. She worried that all this was her fault for being reticent about her past. Callie had seen Ted more recently than Phoebe had herself, and look what misunderstanding had come of being
secretive then. If only she had held up Arthur as an example of bravery and sacrifice, a man of gentlemanly virtues, then perhaps Caroline would have had a better example to follow. Her own silence
was to blame for this.

Now the poor girl would have to learn the hard way, would be hurt and disillusioned. It was path everyone took at some time in their life. It was the nails along that pathway that made us
stronger in the end, so they said. Phoebe was not sure. She must trust to Providence to guide her daughter from harm.

Callie sat out on the veranda of the beach cabin, admiring the long curved golden beach of Sidi Bishr, and eyeing the box of pastries from Bandriot’s café with
lust. She was spending her vacation with Monica and Ken while Toby was travelling to Palestine to meet clients. It was high summer and Alexandria was the coolest place on the coast. She loved
Ken’s summer villa, with its shady palms and lush gardens, a far cry from her own modest bungalow.

Alexandria looked so different here from the port where they first arrived two years ago. It was teeming with holidaymakers of all nationalities, always a cosmopolitan crowd on the promenade:
Greeks, Lebanese, Maltese, French, as well the British families who rented beach huts for the summer, their children digging sandcastles with their nursemaids. The scene reminded her of Dalradnor
summers with Marthe, except there they were without the flies. ‘Not true,’ she thought, remembering the Scottish pests called midges.

Monica was bringing back friends for drinks while Callie was lazing with the latest novel from England, which Primrose had said she must read, though she was finding it heavy-going. This was two
weeks away from the office, but it was too hot to do anything but drink sherbet and take siestas.

She’d found a temporary position filling in for a girl who had returned to England for a family bereavement. Jarrolds was a small company providing candidates for other clerical positions
in the city. Applications arrived from all over Europe and Callie’s language skills came in useful. There was nothing taxing about sifting through applications and arranging interviews, but
it was useful to be picking up typing skills and getting to know the business quarter of the city, too. It was something to get her up in the morning, especially when Toby was away, and it gave her
a little salary to augment their dwindling funds. She could never understand how their money disappeared. Toby’s income seemed to be either famine or feast, and when it was feast it all
vanished to pay for the famine debts.

Money was something they argued over constantly. He never wanted to pay bills on time while she insisted they did, reminding him of the Cavendish Hotel debt, which made him sulk and slam the
door. Then he’d refuse to sleep with her, saying he was too hot, and he’d sleep out on the veranda. The passion of that first year had cooled into a worrying indifference in the second,
an avoidance of closeness that hurt her more than she wanted to admit. It was as if she was now part of the furniture, invisible unless needed, and once or twice she suspected that when he’d
stayed out all night he had not been alone. It was as if they no longer had much to share.

Coming away with Monica was a lifeline, just the tonic Callie needed. Her friend had filled so many gaps in her life. They went shopping in the souks to buys silks, cottons and linens, and
finished off with tea somewhere. Monica helped her find a good hairdresser, who chopped off her hair and pressed it close to her head in the latest fashion. They also found a good tailor who made
up her office suits in cool linens, and Monica led their days out exploring the Nile delta. Monica encouraged her to keep up her French, to read more demanding books and poetry, and to listen to
serious music. If she sensed Callie’s unhappiness she said nothing.

Now Monica was walking down the beach with the group she’d gathered up. ‘Caroline, I want you to meet my good friends Sebastien and his wife, Yvette, and little Elise.’

Callie looked up to see a smart young couple in shorts and sunhats, with a darling baby in a white lawn sundress and bonnet, who was pointing at the sea. ‘And they’ve brought along
their friend and colleague, Ferrand . . .’

Callie turned to him with surprise. She would recognize that strong face anywhere.

‘Ferrand?’ she gasped

‘Caroline, c’est incroyablel
This is amazing.’ He turned to the others. ‘It is a small world,
n’est-ce pas
?’

‘I can’t believe this. What are you doing here?’ she laughed. He looked so different from how he’d been in her château days, with his nut-brown arms in a silk shirt
and linen shorts.
‘Incroyable
’

I’m on the run . . . just a poor school teacher,’ he replied, his eyes sparkling.

Sebastien shook his head to intervene. ‘Don’t listen to him, he’s far too modest. He’s at the university writing a study of Rubens and Van Dyck, and teaching Renaissance
art.’

Between them they demolished the cakes, and then the family went to play by the shore with their baby and returned later with delicious pistachio ice creams, before they all made for the villa,
sun-kissed and ready for a siesta. En route they discussed the new Germany and news of pogroms against the Jewish communities.

‘It’s not looking good in Europe now. My parents are in commerce in Paris. I don’t like to hear such things,’ said Yvette, clutching Elise to her.

‘It won’t come to that, surely, not after the last war. My brother Jean-Luc and his army are well trained,’ said Ferrand, who kept staring at Callie.

‘It’s not the training. It’s about equipment and armaments,’ Monica answered. ‘None of us is prepared in the way that Germany is. They are developing sophisticated
weapons, Ken tells me, and they’ll want oil, and that means Libya and the Persian oilfields, so we’d better watch out here, too. No one will be safe if they go up in flames.’

That evening they talked late into the night, clinking glasses by soft lamplight. Callie couldn’t take her eyes off Ferrand’s face. It was alive with interest, animated when he
argued his point, his hands waving in the air. How he had changed in the past years. His features were fuller, more mature, but he had that same unruly dark hair worn long onto his shirt collar.
When he turned to watch her she sensed his eyes piercing into her, as if he thought her opinion mattered. How different he was from Toby.

The others drifted back into the villa while Callie and Ferrand sat on the steps, smoking, watching the moths fluttering to the lights as music came floating through the door, a familiar ballad
from the 400 Club era that filled Callie with nostalgia, ‘Begin the Beguine’.

She found herself swaying to the rhythm.

‘Like to dance?’ he said. ‘It’s too good a tune to waste.’

Callie stood up slowly and walked down onto the terrace, knowing she should refuse but knowing she would not . . . They melted into each other’s curves, dancing as the melody lent its own
magic to the night under the stars.

He was taller than she recalled, but his effect on her was just the same when he smiled down on her with such intense serious eyes.

‘This is how it happens in books, isn’t it?’ he whispered. ‘Just one look, a spark . . . Do you think it’s written in the stars that we should meet again like this,
or am I too drunk to know what I am saying to you? Please forgive me, Caroline . . .’

‘Callie, Callie to my friends.’ What was happening? He was right, it must be the music and the wine and the heat. She turned her face up to his and their lips met. It was so simple,
one look, one dance and their love affair was about to begin all over again.

‘I saw what happened between you two the moment your eyes met it recognition,’ laughed Monica as they sipped their morning coffee.

‘I can’t believe I did that,’ Callie confessed. ‘It was like a spell.’

‘It’s called a
coup de foudre . . .
the lightning flash, a bolt out of the blue, a dangerous exhilarating moment of recognition. Here is the one, the one I’ve been
waiting for, the love of my life.’

‘Don’t be silly. I’m married. I don’t believe in such things. We first met when I was a kid. I must be tired, and Toby and I are just a bit humdrum together. Perhaps
I’m bored. Time to go home and be a proper wife.’ She didn’t want to think about returning home but she knew she must.

‘It won’t make any difference. It’s happened and there’s no pretending you weren’t both smitten by the sight of each other. Your passion ignited, lit up in neon
lights for all of us to see.’ Monica said. ‘It’s the night, the stars and the siren song of the desert . . .’ She was mocking her.

‘No, no, it’s just too much sun and wine, just a summer flirtation for a bored housewife, far too indulgent to contemplate.’

‘Plenty people out here have flings, indulge their passions . . . It can happen.’ Monica smiled wistfully.

‘Oh, Monica, I didn’t mean you and Ken. I’m sorry.’

‘Callie, we’re older, had our moments and seen it all before. We’re comfortable with our arrangement; that yearning stage is long past. Those early months of lust don’t
last; nothing lasts, it just evolves into something softer and more permanent, if you are lucky.’

‘I won’t betray my husband with another man. Anyway, it won’t come to that. I must leave tomorrow; my holiday is over.’

‘Running away solves nothing. What will be, will be. If you were truly satisfied in your marriage you might notice Ferrand but look away and forget him,’ Monica smiled, giving her
some Northern home truth she didn’t want to hear.

‘It was that music. The beguine is so seductive – the words, everything, conspired against us. Is he married?’

‘Didn’t you even ask?’ Monica roared with laughter. ‘There you go, both of you drunk with desire. Sebastien and Yvette were very amused.’

‘Did you all plan this?’ Callie accused.

‘Of course not, he just tagged along with them. I couldn’t tell him to go away, now, could I?

‘Oh, Monica, what am I going to do?’ Callie cried, feeling out of her depth by the strength of these emotions and arguments.

‘You do nothing, you wait and see what the Fates have in store. You are now in their power, I’m afraid, in the lap of the Gods.’

‘Don’t say that, it sounds like some Greek tragedy. I’m going for a walk along the beach to clear my head.’ She jumped up, wanting to get as far away as she could from
this conversation.

‘Dear Callie, calm down. Let it be . . . What’s coming for you will not pass you by, so you might as well enjoy it while it lasts.’

On the way back to Cairo, Callie sat bolt upright in the carriage, desperate for things to be normal. To be safe home and yet dreading the moment she’d open the door to
the sameness of it all. She didn’t feel normal, not with this fire inside. How could she face Toby again and he not recognize her treachery? The holiday in Alexandria had turned her skin
golden, her hair was bleached with the sun and her body toned with swimming and riding. Now she must return to Jarrolds’ office and keep busy, and not allow herself to think of Ferrand
working somewhere in the university close by. After all, there had been only one brief kiss, and it was fortunate that he’d arrived at the very end of her holiday, not at the beginning.

Perhaps Monica was right. Perhaps it was only a little flirtation on a starry night with an old lover, she excused herself. How could you fall in love again at one glance? Perhaps she was trying
to recapture that first kiss of all those years ago. It was madness, and hadn’t Toby swept her off her feet the first time they met too? She’d seen too many romantic movies. The problem
was that she and Toby were stuck in a constant stalemate of coming and going, never really spending time together, never sharing or entertaining mutual friends. He had his business cronies and she
had Monica and letters from home.

How pathetic she was being, imagining this was some grand passion. It was just a sign that there wasn’t enough in her life to occupy her racing mind. She needed a challenge, a new venture,
and she knew what just might fill the yawning gap between them.

When Callie arrived back home, Toby was sitting on the veranda smiling, and she flung her arms round him in relief. ‘I’ve missed you . . . oh, how I’ve missed us,’ she
cried.

He almost fell back in surprise. ‘What’s this, what’s this . . . it’s only been two weeks. What are you after? Dinner in the Continental or a new dress? I’ve loads
to tell you.’