The Vow (6 page)

The sound of their laughter drifted away as they left the room and Lucy judged it safe to come out. Checking her hair in the mirror Lucy had to smile at what she had heard, nothing too bad about herself at least, but who was
Lydia with the pointy little nose she wondered.

The tables were cleared and before the dancing there was an auction, the lots very diverse and the bidding enthusiastic. The minister bought the racing silks worn by Lester Piggott when he rode his last ever race, the actress a day’s sky diving, for her son she explained, and Marcus bid successfully for a case of vintage Champagne.

The final lot was an exclusive front row seat, alongside the fashion editor of Vogue, at the Autumn Paris Fashion Week.

‘
I should think that would be fun,’ commented Lucy.

He waited until the auctioneer called
‘going once, going twice.’ to up the bidding by a considerable sum.

The hammer fell.
‘Sold to Mr Delacroix!’

Lucy squeaked with excitement,
‘Oh Marcus, is it for me? Thank you!’

‘
My pleasure.’

She leant forward and whispered,
‘Are you going to indulge my every whim?’

‘
Within reason, if you’re a good girl.’

She put a hand on his sleeve and still whispering told him,
‘Then I shall be very good.’

He lifted her hand to his lips kissing her fingers. Amused, he asked,
‘Are you flirting with me, Lucy?’

This little scene did not go unnoticed. Knowing looks were exchanged amongst the guests who knew Marcus and were intrigued to see him in the company of this young woman who was seemingly more than just a friend.

The orchestra struck up and Marcus led Lucy onto the dance floor. The thin man in the bad suit standing at the bar didn’t take his eyes off them.

At the end of the eveni
ng, as everyone said their good-byes, the minister’s wife told Lucy, ‘It’s been so nice meeting you, Lucy. Good to see Marcus with some female company at last. I’m sure we’ll be seeing you again soon.’

~

Marcus saw Lucy to her door, and while she fumbled for her key he looked at his watch and said, ‘Two-thirty, I hope your train isn’t too early in the morning, Lucy.’

She stifled a yawn.
‘No, Mum says there’s an eleven-thirty, she’s meeting me off it and it doesn’t take long to get from here to Liverpool Street.’

‘
Well goodnight then. Have a pleasant weekend and I’ll call you next week.’

‘
Goodnight, Marcus. And thank you, I had the best time.’ She waited. Nothing happened. She had thought he might kiss her, but he made no move so she stood on tiptoe and pecked his cheek. Shutting the door quietly behind her she took off her shoes and crept up the stairs. It had been a lovely evening and she wished Amy was still up so she could share it all with her like she’d done so many times before. But it was very late, and it occurred to her that Amy probably wouldn’t want to hear it anyway. The thought made her sad.

Travelling up front for the rest of the journey home Marcus told Saule,

‘She intends to catch the eleven-thirty to Colchester from Liverpool Street, when you’ve checked that she does you can call the rest of the weekend your own. If there’s a problem, call me.’

On her way to Liverpool Street Lucy bought a newspaper and found herself mentioned in Martin Culver’s column for the second Saturday running. Not a photo this time although there were several taken at the previous evening’s event, the whole page being devoted to the occasion. But there she was in the third paragraph.

Communications magnate Marcus Delacroix seemed to enjoy the evening in the company of his new squeeze, Ms Lucy Weston. Daughter of renowned photographer Kit Weston, Lucy, a silversmith, is recently returned from France where she has been living with a Gallic lover for the past year which, I’m given to understand, is as long as she stays with any partner. Perhaps a multimillionaire will be able to hold her interest longer. At twenty-eight Ms Weston is twenty-four years Delacroix’s junior, Helena his late wife was eighteen years his senior. Obviously a man of extremes.

Lucy read the lines again and again. She was troubled. How did he know those things about her? And was she imagining it or was the tone a little less than friendly?

~

The red Porsche pulled into its usual place in Grayling’s driveway. Its driver got out and unloaded a basket of groceries, a bunch of rather ostentatious flowers and a small piece of leather luggage. Crossing to the front door she used her key to let herself in.

Alicia Wyndam-Price was a tall woman but the resemblance to her brother stopped there. With more style than beauty, the fair prettiness of her youth having at fifty simply faded away, it was the impression of her immaculate clothes, hair and make-up that stayed with people. She didn’t have Marcus’s astonishingly green eyes, hers were merely hazel and she certainly didn’t have his charisma. A vain, humourless woman given to petulance and discontent, she lived life with the nagging worry that someone somewhere was doing better and having more fun than she was.

In her mid-
twenties she had married the eldest son of a family of merchant bankers, already wealthy he went on to be extremely rich just as Alicia had known he would. Her married life had been all she expected; they moved in the very best circles, travelled extensively and were seen in all the right places. She shopped, lunched and sat on charitable committees. If she had more acquaintances than friends she didn’t notice and the fact that no children arrived was not the disappointment to her that it was to her husband. Their homes ran like clockwork, she entertained with style and she had no doubt she was the perfect wife. When Peter Wyndam-Price left her for a much younger woman she was astounded, humiliated and furious. It was around the time of Helena’s death and Alicia considered that her brother had had the better deal. She would much preferred Peter to have died. The following year when the new Mrs Wyndam-Price presented her delighted spouse with a bouncing baby boy she was almost apoplectic.

Peter had been prepared to be generous over the settlement and then, unknown to her, Marcus had intervened. He suggested to Peter how embarrassing and damaging to the reputation of the bank would be the information that the chairman’s new wife had put herself through law school by lap dancing and appearing in soft porn movies. Alicia emerged from the divorce a seriously wealthy woman. This was no more than she had considered her due but it did not compensate for the loss of status or the curtailment of her social life. Hostesses don’t know quite what to do with unattached women of a certain age. These hostesses were also the wives of Peter’s friends and business associates and given that Alicia had never been overly popular the flow of invitations quickly slowed to a trickle. She was acquainted with one or two spare men but was wary of their
invitations, suspicious they might be looking for more than just her company.

She started to spend an increasing amount of time with her brother; they had many interests in common, art, the opera, golf and sailing. Time permitting he was happy to escort her to functions in town and her regular weekends with him at Graylings were a welcome alternative to what could be lonely days in
London.

Alicia moved around the house with the familiarity of a frequent visitor. She unpacked her bag in the bedroom she regarded as her own, stowed the groceries in the kitchen, arranged the flowers in a crystal vase and was grinding coffee beans when she heard the crunch of tyres on the gravel. Minutes later her brother walked into the kitchen, dropped his overnight bag on to a chair and gave her cheek a perfunctory kiss.

‘Coffee, wonderful, just what I need.’

‘
You look tired, Marcus,’ she remarked. ‘Late night?’

‘
Fairly, yes. And a hard week.’

‘
So you said on the phone.’ Her tone was dry.

When it was ready, they took their coffee into the garden and sat, one at each end, on a wooden bench in the shade of a spreading horse chestnut tree. Marcus surveyed the garden with satisfaction. May was always a good month at Graylings and with the early onset of very warm weather the herbaceous borders were hitting their best already. Foxgloves, borage, alliums, Canterbury bells, lupins and columbine were amongst those fighting for supremacy in the wide sweeping beds. He sat listening to the birds, the sun warm on his skin, and was content.

He reached out for his cup which sat on a small garden table and Alicia enquired, ‘What happened to your hand?’

He looked down at the thin red scratch marks and laughed.

‘Oh, that was Silk. I suggested he might like to get off the piano and he disagreed with me.’

Alicia said with a frown,
‘I don’t know why you don’t get rid of that wretched creature.’

Marcus stopped smiling but replied evenly,
‘Because Helena adored him and I quite like him myself. He is delightfully perverse; he’s recently taken a sudden shine to Saule, keeps going around to the coach-house and demanding to be let in.’

Alicia’s expression was one of distaste.
‘That’s not so much perverse as lacking in discernment. Why on earth you’ve never employed a driver more suitable for a man of your standing I don’t understand.’

Seeing Marcus’s expression darken she knew she had made a mistake but somehow just couldn’t stop herself from going on.
‘The same could be said about this Lucy person. Your association with her has earned you another mention in that dreadful man Culver’s column. It’s really not very dignified in a man of your age, Marcus.’

He rose to his feet, his words were clipped and his tone dangerous.

‘The cat stays, the driver stays and Lucy is likely to become my wife so I suggest you start getting used to the idea, Alicia.’

He turned on his heels and walked away from her. She was left more than a little shaken, she knew she had gone too far but she couldn’t believe what she had just heard. Marry some young woman he hardly knew and who was almost certainly after his money? Not if she had anything to do with it!

~

Amy sat in t
he staff canteen having her mid-morning coffee break. She borrowed a colleague’s newspaper and turned straight to the society page. What she read there made her smile.

On the rota to work the weekend shift, she had been at home Thursday morning when Martin Culver called, just as she had hoped he would.

‘I’m afraid you’ve just missed Lucy,’ she informed him.

‘
Yet again!’ he said with a theatrical sigh. ‘I’m beginning to think she may be avoiding me.’

Amy laughed.
‘I think you could be right, Mr Culver.’

‘
Call me Martin. I’m sorry I don’t think I caught your name.’

‘
That’s because I didn’t offer it, but it’s Amy.’

‘
Well, Amy, it’s a shame your friend won’t talk to me, I only want a little background information.’

And you are about to get it thought Amy slyly. When she spoke it was with an air of innocence.
‘Perhaps I can help you there, Lucy and I have been friends since we were small. What would you like to know?’

Bingo, a blabbermouth friend. Culver was delighted.

‘Oh you know, just things like where she was brought up, what her parents do, what she does herself.’ Lead her in gently, he thought.

Amy chatted away seemingly without guile for the next few minutes with Culver asking the occasional question and then, just when he was about to try to get her to reveal more personal details, she told him,
‘Of course she’s only known Marcus a couple of weeks, she’s been in France for the last year living with a very attractive young French lawyer. But that’s Lucy for you, she’s not very good at relationships.’

‘
Oh, really? In what way?’ he asked casually.

‘
Bit of a butterfly that’s all. Always terribly keen at the start, thinks it’s the love of her life but no one can keep her interest for long. It’s sad really.’

‘
Perhaps it will be different this time,’ Culver offered.

‘
Well, the way he’s throwing money and gifts at her she has good reason to stick around for a bit!’ Amy laughed. ‘I’d better not say any more, I’m being indiscreet.’

Be as indiscreet as you like, thought Culver. His voice was ingratiating when he told her,
‘Well thank you, Amy, you’ve been very helpful. Perhaps we could talk again?’

Amy smiled to herself.
‘I don’t see why not. I’m not at home at lot though. Shall I give you my mobile number?’

Amy reread the lines and decided it was a good start. From this and last week’s piece she got the impression Culver wasn’t much of a Marcus Delacroix fan which suited her purposes very well. She couldn’t believe either Lucy or Marcus would be happy at the inferences being made. All she needed to do now was keep the reporter informed, and misinformed. To do that effectively she would have to make her peace with Lucy and she knew that wouldn’t be difficult. She would do it as soon as Lucy got back on Monday.

She returned the paper to its owner and with a spring in her step made her way to her next patient, a cardiac case just out of Intensive Care and needing to be got up and on the move.

~

Returning home after the successful completion of his errand at Liverpool Street station Saule found the Siamese cat waiting impatiently at the door to his flat.

‘
You again! Shoo, go away, go back home.’

His words lacked conviction and Silk took no notice. Saule unlocked the door and in they went together, Silk making the strange imperious noises which passed for his meows. Winding himself briefly around the big man’s legs, he then sprung up onto the sofa and rolled onto his back inviting Saule to stroke the soft pale fur of his belly. Saule obliged absentmindedly, his thoughts going back to the first time he ever saw this beautiful arrogant little creature. It had been Helena Delacroix’s birthday eight years ago and he had been dispatched early that morning to collect the kitten her husband had chosen for her. A chocolate point Siamese like Xan, Helena’s beloved and recently departed pet, it had wailed pitifully from the moment the cat basket was put in the car until Helena clasped its warm, skinny little body to hers and it had been love at first sight for them both.

‘Oh Marcus, he’s beautiful. Feel his fur, it’s like silk. That’s what I shall call him, Silk,’ Helena had cooed.

Saule felt a wave of sadness at the memory of the quiet, good-natured woman who had, by chance, changed his life.

Benue Province in northern Nigeria has long been the home to large numbers of the Tiv people, a tribe for whom scarification is used to mark rites of passage and the young Saule was content, indeed proud, to bear the facial scars that proclaimed him a man. He was not so content to contemplate a future scratching a living from farming yams, sorghum and bulrush millet. Immensely tall and muscular with a surfeit of natural aggression, he was certainly more warrior than farmer and he was becoming increasingly desperate to escape the small parochial world of the tar: his local community composed of closely related families. His only real chance was to join the army and days after his seventeenth birthday he made the dusty trek to Lagos and joined up.

Nigeria
was still under military rule and the army was the tool of the Supreme Military Council who used it to rule by decree. Saule got his first taste of imposing his will on others and enjoyed it. His commanding officers were quick to recognise the silent and solitary young giant’s aptitude for menace and violence; he was transferred to a special unit where these talents were nurtured. As well as learning surveillance techniques, how best to extract information from an unwilling subject and a whole host of ways to kill a man silently, Saule also perfected his English, the official language of Nigeria but not widely spoken by the Tiv.

At twenty, he could afford to accept an invitation to visit an uncle who had gone to
England many years previously and made his home in London. He never used the second half of his return ticket. He liked the dirty noisy streets of London, it was alive and vibrant, and made him feel that opportunity was around every corner. If his uncle’s high-rise flat was in an area considered rough and dangerous it was certainly no worse than most of Lagos, and definitely more exciting than Benue Province. At six feet five, with his air of latent power and intimidating tribal markings, he found he could walk the streets with impunity, day or night. He was tiring of army life and when his uncle and cousins suggested he stayed on, he was not hard to persuade. He was unconcerned about the repercussions of deserting knowing deep down that he would never return to his home. He was going to build himself a new and exciting life in this land of opportunity.