Where You Belong (21 page)

IV

Leading me into the dining room, he pulled out the chair next to his and said in a more matter-of-fact voice, “I've begun to get a theme going here with the first batch of photos. Look.” As he spoke, he began to spread them out a little more neatly.

After a moment of rearranging them, he continued. “Here are lots of your shots of children . . . children who haven't been injured . . . see, children with little bunches of flowers, with pets, with their siblings. Look at this one, this little boy with a scrap of bread held so close to his chest, as if he's afraid someone will take it away from him. It gets to you . . . in fact they all say so much, and they're very poignant.”

“Yes, they are,” I agreed. I remembered where and when I had taken most of them; the faces of the children were very touching. They were so sorrowful, so pathetic, heart-rending even, and yet there was something about them that suggested hope . . . hope for the future. They brought a lump to my throat, made me choke up. And if they affected me in this way, then surely they would move others. I wanted the book to be a success, most especially for Jake.

I

Having confronted my mother and found out nothing, I decided to take Jake's advice and fling the family garbage out the window.

There was no point in attempting to talk to my mother again. As my grandfather used to say, there's nothing to be gained from flogging a dead horse, and this was true. My mother was in denial about her treatment of me when I was a child, and she probably always would be.

I could think of no way to convince her she had done wrong by me, and so my only course of action was to do nothing. I had to put it out of my mind once and for all, and move on.

This I did by throwing myself wholeheartedly into the book project. Since Jake wanted me to write a great deal of it, I started by working on the captions for the photographs, intended for the presentation to the editor on Friday. “Practicing for the book itself,” I told Jake as daily I bent my head over my yellow pad and drafted the lines I thought would best convey the feeling behind each picture.

After a couple of days I discovered how much I enjoyed writing the rather lengthy captions, and I was extremely flattered to hear Jake's words of praise when he read them at the end of each day.

While I wrote, he spent most of his time sorting and cataloguing his pictures, and also mine, which Mike had said we could take from the Gemstar archive in New York. “As long as you make a copy of each one and send back the original,” he had reminded me on the phone from Paris.

On Wednesday morning we were very busy working at the dining room table, when the phone rang. Jake answered, and after listening a moment, said, “Oh, hi, Marge. Yes, okay. Wait a minute, let me find a pen.”

Automatically I got up, handed him mine, and grabbed the yellow pad, placed it on the side table where the phone stood.

I went back to my chair and stared at the group of pictures I had spread out in front of me. I selected one and studied it for a moment. It was of a ragged-looking little boy, covered in grime, who was hunkered down next to his brother and his mother. They lay dead or dying on a dusty street in a Balkan village. Mounds of rubble surrounded them.

The images I had captured on film the previous year told their own story. What I wanted to do was use the back story, the story behind the photo for the caption. And I needed to do so in a cogent way, but also I had to choose exactly the right words. The whole idea was for the caption to have an emotional impact on the reader, and just as much as the images had.

“Okay, right. I'll call now,” Jake was saying, and when he hung up, looked across at me and said, “You'll never guess who's in New York. Who just called me at the agency.” His eyes fastened on mine, and he stood there, slightly bemused.

Knowing it had to be someone we didn't expect, or unlikely, I racked my brains. “Olivier,” I answered, because I couldn't think of any other likely suspect.

“Don't be ghoulish! No, not Olivier, thank God. It's Fiona.”

“Fiona!” I repeated.

“Yes, Fiona Hampton.”

“I wonder what she's doing here,” I muttered, frowning.

“I'm about to find out,” Jake replied, and before I could say another word, he was dialing.

“Hey, wait a minute, let's not be rash here,” I exclaimed, but he was already asking for her.

The next thing I heard was his cheerful “Hello, Fiona! How are you? And what are you doing in New York?”

He leaned against the antique mahogany sideboard, the phone pressed to his ear, nodding from time to time, listening intently, apparently interested in every word she had to say.

“Just a second, let me ask Val,” he murmured into the phone, and looked across at me.

I sat up straighter in the chair and focused my attention on him. “What does she want?” I mouthed.

“Fiona would like us to have lunch or dinner with her. Which do you prefer, honey?” he asked.

“Are you talking about today?”

“Yep.”

“Then let's make it dinner, since I'm really on a roll here with the captions. I'd like to keep working for a bit.”

Nodding to me, he said into the phone, “Dinner is much better for us, Fiona, and why don't we meet at, let's see . . .” He stared at me, lifting a brow questioningly.

“Le Périgord on East Fifty-second. At eight o'clock,” I suggested.

Jake repeated what I had just said to Fiona, adding, “Yes, it'll be lovely to see you too. Until tonight, then.”

II

“So what is she doing in New York?” I asked Jake once he was off the phone.

“She's here on a little holiday, she said. With a friend. Who she is bringing to dinner—”

“Male or female?” I interrupted.

“It's a man.”

“Oh. So the grieving widow is no longer grieving.”

“I never thought she really was grieving,” Jake murmured, coming back to the dining room table, sitting down opposite me. “She was sad, yes, at the memorial, but looking back now, don't you think she was oddly contained?”

I nodded. “You're right, Jake, and there weren't too many tears flowing either during the eulogies or the rest of the service. Mmmm. Well, we'll see, won't we?”

“We sure will.” He began to shuffle the photos.

I said, “By the way, how did she know you were in New York?”

“Don't you remember, she was calling me when we were at Les Roches Fleuries? Calling the Paris office, I mean. I kept trying to reach her, first in Dublin and then London. But she always had a machine on in London. I finally left a message that I was going to New York. I guess she got it, and decided to phone the Photoreal office once she arrived.”

Once more I bent my head and began to write, trying to concentrate on the caption I'd been working on before Fiona's call. But she kept intruding, popping into my mind, and in the most insistent way.

During the year I had been emotionally involved with Tony, he had brainwashed me into believing she was a harridan and a difficult woman. But then I had discovered she was quite the opposite when I finally met her. Ever since that day I had often wondered if she had known about me, but I'd inevitably dismissed this idea. Married men didn't tell their wives about their mistresses. Or did they? Well, certainly not Tony Hampton, because there had been too many women in his life over the years. So many confessions would have surely caused a rift between them.

Gripping my pen, I began to slowly write on the pad, but within minutes Fiona was intruding again, and my concentration fled. Damn, I thought, why did she of all people have to show up in New York? That's all I need, a reminder of Tony Hampton and his double dealing, his lying, his cheating ways, the pain he caused me. And most probably her.

But as it turned out, Fiona's arrival would prove to be fortuitous, although I didn't recognize that until later.

III

Since black dominated my wardrobe, I wore black for dinner, and in doing so I stayed right in step with New York women, who never wore any other color at night.

But instead of my usual pantsuit, I was actually wearing a dress, and Jake let out a wolf whistle when I walked into the living room at seven-thirty on the dot.

“Oh, boy, don't you look great!” he exclaimed as the whistle faded away. “With those fabulous legs of yours, you should wear dresses more often.”

“Thanks,” I said, pleased with his reaction. The dress was simple, just a straight wool sheath, but it was stylish; with it I wore sheer black stockings and high-heeled black pumps. The pearl earrings my grandparents had given me, and a gold-and-pearl pin Muffie had rashly bought for my birthday two years earlier added just the right touches.

“Do you want a drink before we go?” Jake asked.

“No, thanks. And you're very smart-looking yourself tonight,” I said, looking him up and down and then leering theatrically.

He began to laugh and pulled me to him, held me close. “If you're not careful, we're going to end up in the bedroom not the restaurant,” he muttered against my hair.

Pushing him away gently, I also laughed, then I took hold of his hand and said, “Come on, let's go. It'll take us a few minutes to walk up there to the restaurant, and we ought to arrive before they do.”

“So let's go,” Jake replied.

In the entrance foyer I picked up my black wool shawl and a small black evening bag, flung the shawl over my shoulder as we went out of the apartment, making for the elevator.

It was a lovely evening for early October, brisk but not really cold, and after a day inside working on the captions, it was refreshing to be outside.

Jake said as much as we walked along, echoing my own thoughts as we crossed Beekman Place heading for First Avenue. Neither of us was used to being as confined as we had been lately, since we were usually out in the field, wielding our cameras.

Linking my arm through Jake's, I asked, “What do you know about Alexander St. Just Stevens, the painter?”

“Not much really. Isn't he supposed to be today's equivalent of Picasso?”

“Yes, that's right, I believe he is.”

“Why do you ask me about him?”

“Mike wants me to go over and see him, take a look at some of his work. Apparently he's halfway through a new series of paintings. He's preparing a big show to open in Paris. Mike has several magazines interested in spreads on him and his new paintings.”

“I didn't realize he lived in New York. I thought he was English.”

“He is, but according to Mike he's got a loft in New York and some sort of fancy estate in Mexico. I don't think he's lived in England for years. Mike said yesterday that he's currently at the loft in New York, painting, and he wants me to go and see him, get a feeling about the art.”

“I can't help you very much, Val. I've seen some of his work, and I remember that it was very strong, that it makes quite a statement. I know several of his war paintings have been likened to Picasso's Guernica, which, as you know, Picasso painted during the Spanish Civil War in the thirties, and which Robert Capa photographed. Anyway, does Mike want you to shoot the art?”

“No, I don't think so. What he wants is for me to make contact with the artist, find out when the series will be finished, and hopefully get some sort of commitment from him. Mike wants us to have first crack at photographing it.”

“You, I'm sure he wants you to do the spreads, otherwise why doesn't Mike send somebody else from Gemstar in New York to see the paintings?”

I shrugged. “I don't know . . . I guess he wants my opinion about the art itself.”

“Well, I'm sure Alexander St. Just Stevens will jump at it. Artists, like everyone else, love publicity. It helps them sell their wares,” he said, chuckling.

We were almost at the restaurant on Fifty-second Street, when I stopped a bit abruptly and looked at Jake. “I feel funny all of a sudden about seeing Fiona. Do you think she knows that Tony and I were involved?” I asked worriedly.

“I'm sure she doesn't know, so don't feel awkward, Val. And she was very pleasant with you at the memorial. Fiona's a lovely woman, take it from me, and very straightforward,” he answered in a reassuring voice. “You always know where you stand with her, so please relax, Val.”

“I'll try to, but it suddenly hit me this afternoon . . . the thought that she might know something. But you're right, she is very straight, that was one of the first things that struck me about her.” I took a deep breath. “Okay, come on, then, let's go inside.” I laughed as I slipped my arm through his and added, “She'd hardly be wanting to see us if she suspected anything about me.”

“True,” Jake agreed as we arrived at the door of the restaurant.

As always, Georges, the owner, was there to greet us, and he showed us to a lovely table for four in a quiet corner. Jake and I had just settled ourselves, when Fiona arrived, escorted by an attractive-looking man with premature silver hair and a fairly ruddy complexion.

Jake and I both stood up, hugged Fiona, and then were introduced to David Ingham, who I immediately realized from his accent was English.

Once we were all settled and drinks had been ordered, Fiona said, “It's lovely that you were able to have dinner with us tonight. We arrived yesterday, and today's our only free time in New York. Yes, it's lucky for us you were free.”

Jake smiled, then asked, “And where are you going?”

“Connecticut,” Fiona answered, and explained, “David's daughter is married to an American and they live in Greenwich. We'll be driving up there tomorrow evening.”

David said, “Pamela, my daughter, and her husband, Frank, have a lovely house on the water. I know Fiona's going to enjoy the weekend.”

“It's a pretty town,” I murmured, glanced at Fiona and asked, “How're Moira and Rory?”

“Oh, thanks for asking, Val, they're both getting along fine, very fine indeed. They're adjusting now to Tony's death.”

Jake said, “I did try to get hold of you in Dublin, you know, Fiona, but you'd checked out of the hotel by the time I called.”

“Oh, don't be worrying about it, Jake, I was only phoning to say hello, to see how you were. And you both look wonderful, 'tis the truth. And what are you doing in New York, the two of you?”

“I had business here with a publisher,” Jake began, looked at me, and took hold of my hand lying on top of the table. “And I insisted Val come along . . . she and I—”

“Oh, don't tell me, Jake, you and she . . . oh, that's so lovely . . . you're an item, then, are you?”

“I guess you could say that,” Jake replied, laughing, motioning to the waiter, ordering a second round of drinks.

“I suppose you could say Fiona and I are an item too,” David volunteered, glancing at us and then turning a loving smile on Fiona.

I thought she looked uncomfortable for a moment, but perhaps it was my imagination, because she instantly beamed at Jake and me and confided, “David's a very old friend, and he's been wonderful to me these last few years, what with Tony traveling so much and all. Anyway, he's proposed to me, and I've accepted, but we won't be getting married until next year. 'Tis a bit too soon right now, and we decided to wait. We thought that was the decent thing to do, although Moira doesn't agree, under the circumstances.”

Jake stared at her. A puzzled look crossed his face. “What does that mean?”

Fiona gave a little shrug of her shoulders, and a faint smile flitted across her pretty mouth before instantly disappearing. “Well, Jake, surely you know Tony and I were married in name only for the last few years. . . .” Leaning across the table, she said sotto voce, “I couldn't compete with all of his other women. I didn't want to, if the truth be known.”

I sat back in my chair, and my hand crept toward Jake's knee. I felt uncomfortable, awkward again. Jake took my hand in his and squeezed it. I knew he was trying to reassure me, but the moment Fiona had mentioned other women I had gone cold inside. Did she count me among them? Surely not, I told myself, eyeing her surreptitiously. Her expression was warm and loving; I decided there was nothing devious about this very charming and pretty woman with her halo of burnished red hair and beautiful eyes. Jake's assessment of her was accurate, I felt.

Jake had given his entire attention to Fiona, and now he was saying to her, “To tell you the truth, I didn't pay too much attention to Tony's private life, I'd enough problems of my own to contend with. And I'd no idea, none at all, Fiona, that your marriage was in name only. He never told me.”

“Oh, no, he wouldn't, that was Tony,” Fiona responded quietly. “He loved to play games with everybody. He always maintained they were harmless, but they weren't. They were most dangerous games indeed.”

Thankfully, at this moment the waiter arrived at our table and handed around the menus. It was with a degree of relief that I opened mine and hid behind it, not wishing to be drawn into this particular conversation. I was worried about where it was drifting, what Fiona would announce next.