The Vow (2 page)

~

Lucy spent the next few days mooching around the house, doing chores for Amy and a lot of thinking. She thought mainly about Laurent. It had been around this time early last summer that they had met. Her father had won another prestigious award, this time for his photos of war torn Iraq, and commissions were flooding in. Happy to swop the disappointing English weather for a few days in sunny Gascony, she had accompanied him in his quest for images to illustrate a book on rural France.

Wandering around a pretty
bastide
town her father had caught a glimpse of an enchanting walled garden, and Lucy’s French being the better of the two she had been dispatched to ask permission to photograph it. The elegant old building housed the offices of the town’s
Notaires
and the girl on reception had summoned Laurent knowing he spoke some English. He produced an enormous rusty old key that unlocked the gate which Kit was still craning his neck to see through when they joined him in the road. Introductions were made. Laurent knew Kit’s work and was happy to give them access to the garden.

While Kit explored, Lucy and the Frenchman sat on a stone bench in the sun and chatted in a mixture of their two languages. The attraction was immediate, powerful and mutual. By the time she and her father were due to leave
France, Lucy didn’t know if it was love or obsession, just that she wanted to be with him every minute of every day. When Laurent asked her to stay she didn’t hesitate.

I
t was the beginning of a roller-coaster ride. For a while it had been wonderful, that time at the beginning of an affair when everything is shiny and new, when the rest of the world ceases to matter and being together is all that counts. French is a language made for love and she fell under its spell. Who could resist the softly whispered Je t’aime et je t’aimerai toujours, tu es la femme de ma vie? He would blow her kisses like only a Frenchman can, buy her red roses every week and make love with a slow hand.

She was happy, and more content than she had ever been. Her French improved rapidly, she made friends and settled into life in the small country town. Setting up a workshop in the small barn attached to Laurent’s house, she found outlets for her jewellery in the surrounding towns and, more excitingly, the smart boutiques of
Toulouse.

At thirty-five there had been many women in Laurent’s life, several of whom she got to meet. Petite and chic each one, they were quick to tell her how hard Laurent was to keep, how as soon as the initial excitement began to fade his attention started to wander. She wasn’t concerned as this was a pretty accurate description of herself too. She was certain it was different for her this time so why not for him? In the end it just hadn’t been different enough, for either of them.

~

‘
Mr Delacroix, I have the report you requested from Mr Yates.’

He sat back in his chair and read the report with interest and increasing satisfaction.

Lucy Olivia Weston: Born 18-4-78

Marital Status: Single

Father: Christopher (Kit) Weston, award-winning photographer. Married twice since Miss Weston’s mother.

Currently single but living with Sarah Thompson, researcher, in Barnes, London.

Mother: Amelia Bradshawe, solicitor, practices in
Colchester. Lives with second husband, James Bradshawe, architect, in north Essex.

Siblings: None

Religion: Baptised C of E but not a churchgoer.

Financial: No mortgage. Above average personal debt.

Political Affiliations: None recorded.

Sexual Orientation: Heterosexual.

Drugs: No evidence of usage. Wine drinker, occasional social smoker.

Criminal Record: None.

Health: No known problems. Blood Donor (A+) last donation eighteen months ago tested negative for HIV.

Education:
Colchester High School for Girls. Three A levels at grade A. Foundation Art course at Braintree College of F.E. Art Degree from Central St Martins College Of Art.

Teachers’ and Lecturers’ comments: Talented but lazy. Outgoing and good humoured. Has potential but
lacks drive. So laid back as to be horizontal. Well liked by her peers and staff.

Employment: Very little formal employment. After college joined a workshop co-operative where she worked as a silversmith with moderate success. Worked regularly as assistant to her father. A company she did occasional design work for described her as having considerable talent but not being a team player.

Social: Large range of acquaintances, handful of close friends the closest being Amy Fardell, physiotherapist, currently living in Finsbury, London.

Recent: Spent the last year living with a French lawyer named Laurent Casteran in the department of the Gers, South
West France. Has not been seen there since the beginning of the week. The relationship is known to be stormy.

He knew much of this already but the report confirmed his overall impression of her. Intelligent, artistic and easygoing, she lacked any real work ethic and was cruising through life spending more than she earned. She was shaping up as a good candidate.

~

‘Hi, Mum, how you doing?’

‘
Lucy, darling! I’m fine, how about you? Enjoying the sunshine no doubt. It’s grey and miserable here today.’

‘
I know. I’m in London with Amy.’

‘
And Laurent?’

‘
It’s over.’

‘
Oh dear. I thought it was love this time.’

‘
It was. It is. It’s complicated, Mum.’

‘
I thought it might be. Oh Lucy, you are so your father’s daughter!’

‘
Have you seen him lately?’

‘
I spoke to him a couple of weeks ago, he was off on a shoot in Brazil. He’s split up with Sarah, or to be accurate she’s thrown him out.’

‘
Poor old Dad, always in trouble.’

‘
Well nothing seems to change, that’s for sure.’

‘
I wanted to ask you something. Do you know anything about a businessman called Marcus Delacroix?’

‘
If you mean
the
Marcus Delacroix then we were at university together, well, at the same time anyway, I never really got to know him. I’ve followed his career with interest though. Very successful, heads up the Delacroix Corporation, mainly communications, magazines, newspapers, a mobile phone company that sort of thing. It’s a public company now but he owns a controlling interest. He’s a vocal supporter of the government and quite chummy with the Prime Minister. They say he’s brilliant and completely ruthless. He lost his wife a couple of years back, as I recall she was a good bit older than him. Why do you ask?’

‘
I met him on the way back from France. I’m due to see him again at the end of the week and I’ve got a feeling he’s going to offer me a job.

‘
Good Lord! Well I can’t imagine which of your dubious talents he thinks he has a use for, but if he makes you an offer you’d be a fool not to give it serious consideration.’

‘
Oh well, we’ll see. I’ll come to see you and James soon. Love you, Mum.’

‘
You too. Ciao.’

~

Friday evening the car arrived on the stroke of eight.

‘
Good evening, Miss Weston. Mr Delacroix sends his apologies for not being here himself, but he has been slightly delayed. He will meet you at the restaurant.’

During the drive she discovered that like his boss the chauffeur was good at not actually answering questions. She did manage to learn that his name was Saule, she was left uncertain as to whether this was his Christian or surname, and he had worked for Marcus Delacroix
‘right from the beginning.’

Arriving at the restaurant, and noticing her look of uncertainty Saule told her,
‘You just go straight on in, Miss Weston. Mr Delacroix will be there, he never keeps anyone waiting.’

He was right. Marcus was standing at the bar chatting to the bartender. Spotting her in the doorway he came forward, smiling, to greet her. Kissing her on the cheek he told her,
‘You’re looking lovely this evening, Lucy.’

She thanked him; if nothing else, her time in
France had taught her the art of graciously accepting a compliment. The maitre d’ who had been watching for the arrival of Marcus’s guest came to show them through to their table. Heads turned to watch the progress of the imposing man with the elegant young woman dressed in black velvet, her hair caught up in loose curls. Marcus paused at a table to shake hands with an acquaintance; the man looked at Lucy with interest. Marcus did not introduce her.

Seated at the table he asked,
‘Will it be Champagne again?’

‘
Oh I think so, don’t you?’

They sipped their drinks and discussed the menu. He was amused at her enthusiasm for food; he had eaten with too many women who seemed content to push a lettuce leaf around their plate. During the entrée and main course they debated the merits of the world’s cuisines, voted for their favourite restaurants, his in
Tokyo and hers Paris, and discussed their own efforts in the kitchen.

Over dessert Marcus asked how she had spent the last few days and if she had made any plans.

‘Well, I’m not really any further forward yet. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking but just find myself going round in circles. I can stay as long as I want at Amy’s which is great and I’ve been in touch with the workshop I was in before going to France, they have space for me but I’m not sure it’s what I want. I do hate treading the same path twice. Actually, after what you said on Monday I was rather hoping you might have something for me, Marcus.’

Coffee was served, he dropped a single sugar lump into his cup, and stirring it he looked thoughtful.

‘I do have a suggestion but not, I’d guess, quite what you may be expecting. Marry me, Lucy, and give me a son.’

Lucy woke to the sun streaming through the thin curtains and stretched like a sleepy cat. She heard Amy thunder up the stairs and then came the pounding on her door.

‘
Luce wake up, quick, quick! You have just got to see the newspaper!’

Ten minutes later, teeth brushed, and wrapped in her towelling robe Lucy sat at the kitchen table staring in disbelief at the paper spread out in front of her. It was one of the better quality tabloids and there in the gossip column was a photo of her and Marcus Delacroix leaving the restaurant hand in hand.

Growing impatient, Amy read out the accompanying piece.

‘
“Spotted last night leaving a fashionable Mayfair eatery, business tycoon Marcus Delacroix and an unknown young raven-haired temptress who apparently flew in from France with him earlier this week. Not seen in the company of a woman since the death of his beloved wife Helena two years ago, Delacroix is certainly looking pleased with himself. A welcome distraction no doubt in a week that has seen the Delacroix Corporation’s takeover of NewsLine referred to the Monopolies Commission.” Well, I have to hand it to you, Lucy, you don’t let the grass grow!’

‘
Amy, you don’t know the half of it!’

~

In a converted Essex barn near the Suffolk border, Amelia Bradshawe and her husband sat companionably at the breakfast table. The French windows were open on to the garden, the birds singing and the coffee perking. With no offices or meetings to rush off to, they enjoyed these relaxed weekend breakfasts together. They discussed the events of the past week and made plans for the coming day as they browsed through the newspapers.

James was suggesting a visit to Beth Chato’s gardens in Elmstead Market when his wife suddenly interrupted him with,
‘Goodness me, I don’t believe it! I am convinced that girl has not inherited a single gene from me, she is Kit in stockings. God help us!’

James surveyed the page she passed over and congratulated himself, not for the first time, on having no offspring.

~

Kit Weston was sprawled across the bed trying to balance a cup of tea, a slice of toast and the morning’s paper.

‘Is it my imagination or does that look a lot like Lucy?’ he asked.

Sarah struggled out from under the duvet, cast an eye over the photo, yawned and replied,
‘It is Lucy, no doubt about it. Way to go, Luce!’

With that, she slithered back under the covers. Kit had only been back from
Brazil thirty-six hours and had spent all that time persuading the long-suffering Sarah to take him back. He smiled at the mop of blonde curls which were all that was now visible of her. After two years together Sarah was looking for a commitment. When it had not been forthcoming she had told him not to bother coming back after the Brazil trip.

He would marry her of course, he adored her, but he just wasn’t good at committing. He thought of his three ex-wives Amelia, Catherine and Ellen, ACE as they were collectively known. He had loved them all, still did, that was the problem of course, he just loved women.

But what of Lucy? When he had spoken to her three weeks ago she was in France with Laurent and had sounded perfectly happy. Kit liked Laurent. He had enjoyed watching his daughter and the good-looking Frenchman fall in love the previous summer. Now she was swanning around town with a seriously rich man the same age as her own father.

He would ring Amelia to find out what was going on with his only child but meanwhile there was still a lot of making up to do. He threw the newspaper aside and dived under the duvet.

~

Marcus was enjoying the drive in the early morning sun. The weather was set fair for the weekend, he was leaving the city behind and driving himself, something he didn’t get to do during the week. The Aston Martin accelerated smoothly as he joined the motorway. He relished the power of the car as he relished power in every aspect of his life.

His destination was a small village in Sussex on the outskirts of which stood the house he escaped to as often as possible. He and Helena had bought Graylings ten years ago as a bolthole from the increasing pressures of business. She had overseen its complete refurbishment and he still felt her presence there especially in the garden she had created with such pleasure. The thought of Helena filled him, as ever, with an overwhelming sense of loss.

He tuned the radio to Classic FM and turned his thoughts to the last week. The referral of the NewsLine deal to the Monopolies Commission was no surprise as they always took an interest when a national paper changed hands, circulation figures of his most recently acquired magazine were showing a healthy improvement, but the staffing difficulties at TalkTime were still causing concern. His trip to
Toulouse had been most satisfactory with an unexpected bonus in the shape of Lucy Weston.

Last night had gone well, he thought. He liked this young woman more and more. Her reaction to his proposal, he laughed to himself at the term, had been interesting and rather what he had been hoping for. She had been surprised obviously, but having established that he was serious there had been no immediate refusal. She had listened carefully to what he had to say, asked some very pertinent questions, and then told him she would think about it. All very promising.

The big car ate up the miles and it was only just after ten when he turned into the tree-lined drive which led up to the house. He came to a halt alongside the red Porsche Boxster already parked on the gravel expanse to the front. Pausing to admire the roses and honeysuckle that threatened to engulf the front porch he let himself in. The house was filled with the sound of a Mozart violin concerto. He dropped his overnight bag on the flagstone floor of the hall and made his way through to the kitchen.

Fresh flowers stood in a vase on the big scrubbed pine table and a newspaper lay open next to them. He had just enough time to take in the photograph before a voice behind him said,
‘An explanation is due, don’t you think?’

~

There were another two hours to kill before her standby duty was finished. With a bit of luck the airline wouldn’t call and she’d be able to pop over to see her sister and the kids for the afternoon. She took the mug of tea, cordless phone and newspaper into the garden and sat in the sun.

She smiled when
, turning the page, she saw the photo of Marcus Delacroix and the girl from the plane; it would mean a little cash bonus coming her way. Given the size of this month’s credit card bill it would be welcome.

It had been eighteen months since the thin man with the comb-over of lank dark hair had cornered her at a friend’s party. He stood too close and each time she stepped back he closed in again, he had trouble raising his eyes from her cleavage whilst talking to her, and she had been about to make her escape when he asked her what she did for a living. The conversation suddenly became much more interesting.

Since then she had been passing on anything noteworthy she saw or heard amongst her more illustrious passengers in the First Class cabin. If any of her tip-offs resulted in a piece on Martin Culver’s gossip page she received a cash reward. The rich and famous had a habit of treating stewardesses as if they didn’t really exist, just purveyors of food and drink on demand. It was surprising what a sharp pair of eyes and ears could pick up. Her relationship with the sleazy Mr Culver had proved to be quite lucrative.

She swore out loud as the phone beside her started to ring.

~

The Maison de la Presse carried a selection of English newspapers for the tourists and the increasing number of Brits living in the area. They were a day, sometimes two, out of date and more than twice their original price but there were never any left at the end of the day.

On the Monday morning a couple from Kent would order
grand café crèmes
in the bar on the square, and read their paper from cover to cover whilst waiting to meet the
immobilier
who had promised he had just the house for them.

Walking over from his office for his usual morning coffee Laurent Casteran would idly flick through the pages of the paper tidied up by the waitress and left on the bar next to where he stood.

~

Amy went off to visit a colleague who had just had a baby and Lucy decided to sit out in the little courtyard garden to enjoy the sunshine and think about the events of the last evening. She had barely sat down before she was called back indoors by the ringing of the phone.

‘Hello, Lucy. Have you seen the paper?’

‘
Hi, Mum, yes I have.’

‘
Well?’

‘
Well what? I told you I’d met Marcus and was going to be seeing him again.’

‘
I’d rather thought that would take the shape of a job interview not a romantic dinner date. You were holding hands!’

‘
Oh come on, Mum, you know what the papers are like. It’s no big deal, we got on well the other day and he kindly bought me a lovely dinner. He took my hand for a split second, just to guide me towards the car, that’s all.’

‘
Oh, I see. So did he mention a job?’

‘
Yes, he made me an offer, and as you quite rightly said, I’d be a fool not to give it serious consideration.’

‘
Well I suppose it’s only an administrative position, but somewhere like the Delacroix Corporation there should be lots of opportunities. It’s not too late for you to get some sort of career plan you know, Lucy.’

Lucy smiled to herself imagining her mother’s reaction to the future Marcus had laid out for her.

‘Anyway, your father called at lunch time, he’s back home, saw the photograph and wondered what was going on. I told him where you were so no doubt you’ll hear from him. He has some news of his own, but I’ll leave that for him to tell you.’

She hardly had time to question her motives in misleading her mother before she had calls in quick succession from both of her ex-stepmothers. Realising from the newspaper she was back in
London they had guessed she would be with Amy.

Catherine was first up and opened in her customary blunt fashion with,
‘This is quite a departure for you, Lucy. I had you down as too much of a romantic to be interested in a sugar daddy.’

Lucy tried without success to get a few words in but Catherine just kept on going.

‘Still, if that’s the way the wind blows let me give you a couple of words of warning. Don’t let that little weasel Martin Culver get his claws into you. He’s the worse sort of hack, doesn’t deserve to be called a journalist, he has a huge chip on his shoulder and is jealous of the people he writes about. He hates having to write anything pleasant, what excites him is everyone’s dirty little secrets. When he contacts you, and he will, it won’t take him long to find out who and where you are, have nothing to do with him. And don’t be taken in by Delacroix’s smooth urbane exterior, he’s the original iron fist in the velvet glove; no quarter asked for and none given. There have been a few rumours about his methods of dealing with anything or anyone who gets in his way. The man never, but never, gives interviews so if you can get me through the door I will love you for ever.’

Catherine had been married to Kit for most of Lucy’s teenage years. An investigative journalist then, she was now editor of a successful current affairs magazine. Forthright and down to earth, Lucy had always liked and respected her.

She was still digesting this torrent of information when the phone rang again, this time the sweet voice of the lovely Ellen. Kit’s marriage to the model he met on one of his rare fashion assignments had lasted only two years, but the friendship between her and Lucy had gone from strength to strength. Only five years older than her stepdaughter, Ellen’s fragile beauty and soft lisping voice masked a sharp mind and wicked sense of humour.

‘
Lucy darling, how lovely to talk to you. Why didn’t you let me know you were in town? I saw the photo of course, your hair looks good like that but you really shouldn’t wear black, makes you look like Morticia Adams. I can’t believe you’ve dumped the divine Laurent for this ageing captain of industry. Tell me everything!’

Lucy laughed and said,
‘Ellen, you are priceless, and I will tell you everything but not right now. Let’s have lunch next week, your treat!’

Lucy made herself a cup of tea and went back out into the garden. She had sat in stunned silence after Marcus asked her to marry him. She didn’t
laugh, sensing he was completely serious. ‘Why me?’ she had asked. ‘You barely know me.’

His marriage, long and happy, had been childless he explained. At fifty-two and with the recent death of a friend the same age he had started to consider his own mortality. He had built a business empire and the empire needed an heir. Since the death of his wife two years ago he really only socialised with a few close friends or on a business basis, neither of which was conducive to meeting a suitable mother for his children. Anyway he was not looking for romance, just a partner in a mutually advantageous arrangement.