‘When you asked me to marry you, over twenty years ago, when you asked if you could adopt Deborah and raise her as your own, we made an agreement!’ Claire’s turquoise eyes were blazing now, her fear of him forgotten for a moment. ‘I would never tell Deborah you were not her birth father, and you would never ask me about the man who was. I have kept my end of the bargain! All these years, not a word to her, not a hint! You, on the other hand, have been at me constantly in the past few years! What did he look like? Why did he disappear? Does he know he has a daughter?’
‘Does he? Do you talk to him sometimes, tell him about her? About me? Is that why you love your job so much? So you can travel all over to be with him?’
‘Stop it, Mark.’
He grabbed her wrist roughly, and instinctively she let out a cry of pain. She was already bruised from last night. ‘Do you two laugh about how afraid I am that one day Deborah will find him, and won’t want anything to do with me?’ he hissed in her face.
‘You know better than that! What is wrong with you, Mark? I have not seen nor heard from him in over twenty years.’ She wrenched her arm from his grasp. ‘And if I had, he would not ask about Deborah, because he doesn’t know she exists!’
Tears of anger and frustration were streaking her cheeks now. ‘Hear me, Mark! This is the last time I will ever, ever discuss this subject with you. I’m going to bed.’
‘Don’t walk out while I’m talking to you!’ He lunged for her, but she sidestepped him and raced, still limping, into the bedroom, slammed the door shut and locked it.
Mark was after her in a flash, kicking at the oak door, hitting it with his shoulder. ‘You open this door! Claire, open it or I swear I’ll knock it down.’
‘If you do that I will call the police.’ Claire was trembling but her voice was calm. ‘They would probably be curious about how I got the bruises all over my body. Did I mention that you cracked a rib this time?’
Mark continued to batter on the door.
‘I’m not bluffing, Mark. I’ll do it. I’m sure the Washington Post would have a field day with the story: President’s special envoy to the Middle East arrested at his home.’
‘You wouldn’t dare.’ But he stopped his attempt to break open the door. ‘Too much is at stake.’
‘Don’t test me.’
Mark and Claire stood on either side of the bedroom door, both breathing hard. Finally, Mark took a step away, his face distorted in frustration and rage.
‘Don’t sleep too soundly tonight.’ He spoke softly, almost in a whisper, but every word came through the thick wood. ‘This isn’t over, Claire. Not by a long shot.’
And Claire knew that he spoke the truth.
Four
Claire was fragile but gaining strength each day. With Mark away in the Middle East, she had allowed herself to sleep deeply without the ever-present fear that he would come home and find something to be angry about. She had worked from home all week, to avoid questions about her injuries. She had been relieved this morning when she saw that the bruises, which had stained her face, were mostly gone. The marks on her body were disappearing too.
Her heart? That would take longer to heal.
She pushed herself hard as she jogged along Beachside Avenue, past houses of another era, each one grander than the one before. She ran past the inlets where the tide pushed and frothed as it was pulled out to sea. How long had it been since she felt safe, really safe, she asked herself as she ran. The blare of a car horn jolted her out of her musings.
‘Are you trying to get yourself killed, lady?’
‘Sorry, sorry!’ she called after the car as it swerved around her and sped away. She slowed to a walk, her heart pounding, the good feelings slipping away. A reminder, she thought, determined to stay on her guard from now on. The world can be at its most dangerous when you’re feeling safe.
Martel was a French-style bistro plonked right on the line where Westport met Southport. When you walked through the etched-glass doors, you could imagine you were in Paris.
Marty, the larger-than-life owner, knew his patrons well.
Claire, Sasha, Julia and Paulina had been having lunch there most Saturdays since the doors opened, and always enjoyed being there.
Claire had showered quickly after her run and slipped into cream trousers and a cashmere sweater. A low-slung belt and a cropped leather jacket, the same turquoise colour as her eyes, completed the outfit. It was simple but striking.
‘Where were you last Saturday?’ Marty, the owner, greeted her like a lost love. She was his favourite.
‘I picked up a little bug, but I’m fine now. I missed you too, Marty.’ Her quick kiss on the cheek put the smile back on his face. ‘Am I the first to arrive?’
Marty gestured to the back room. ‘They’ve been back there for an hour with their heads together. Plotting the overthrow of the government is my guess.’
Claire hurried towards the back room and slid into her usual place next to Sasha in the big corner booth. The others were already halfway through a carafe of the special house wine, which Marty kept for his favourites. ‘Did you have breakfast here?’ she asked, air-kissing her three friends.
‘Having it now,’ Paulina said, pouring Claire a hefty glass.
‘Marty tells me you are up to something,’ Claire remarked.
‘We’re celebrating!’ Sasha answered.
Claire raised her glass. ‘What’s the occasion?’
‘That you’re here, of course.’ Sasha said. ‘Last Saturday was deadly, right ladies?’ The three friends clinked glasses and toasted Claire. ‘Marty sulked. And without you we were so depressed we all ordered healthy meals.’
‘You didn’t!’ Claire felt that warm rush of happiness that always came over her when she was with these women. Friends, especially women friends, gave life something extra. She wondered if men knew what they were missing. ‘Don’t tell me you had salads!’
‘Worse!’ Paulina exclaimed. She had the body of a swimsuit model and the wit of Joan Rivers. She wore her jet-black hair short and spiky, and could be as funny as the writers of the comedy shows she oversaw for a television network. ‘We shared salads!’
‘It was hell! But you’re here now, and all’s right with the world.’ Julia lovingly cut a large slab of rich pâté, plopped it on a plate and pushed it towards Claire. Julia was the chef at Gumbo, the hotspot just off Park Avenue on 83rd Street in Manhattan. She and her partner, Alexa, had opened it five years ago. They specialised in food from Julia’s hometown of New Orleans.
Julia had an ongoing love affair with food. She had been raised in a city where eating was a religion, and not enjoying food was a sin. Gathering her flaming red hair into a ponytail, as though preparing for battle, she tore off a large chunk of bread for Claire and one for herself. ‘I think I’ll torture myself and just sit here and watch you eat that, Claire, and not gain an ounce! It’s very hard being the friend of someone who stays slim whatever she eats.’
Claire ate with gusto, and moaned with delight, ‘It’s perfection!’
Julia did the same. ‘See. I just put on a pound and you look just the same. One day soon I won’t be able to wear clothes, even those fabulous rags you pick out for me at Gilda. I’ll have to be upholstered, like a chair.’
‘Stop it,’ laughed Paulina. ‘You are beautiful, Julia.’
‘And don’t worry,’ Claire said, taking a sip of the wine. ‘Curves are back!’
‘In that case …’ Julia helped herself to another slice of the gourmet pâté.
Claire looked at Sasha who had been somewhat quiet. ‘You all right, Sash?’
‘Of course I am. Just speechless at all this pigging out.’ Sasha signalled for Marty, and continued, ‘We missed you on the train this week, Claire.’
Sasha reached over and gently squeezed Claire’s hand, just as Marty arrived at the table.
‘I see you’re all happy now the band is back together.’ The other women always insisted he had a crush on Claire,
which was probably true. ‘Glad to have you back, pretty lady,’ he now murmured, looking at her.
‘Thanks, Marty. The place looks great!’
‘So, ladies, what’s your pleasure?’
Sasha topped up Claire’s wine glass. ‘You know what we like to eat, Marty. You choose. Just bring more wine, please.’
Lunch had lasted until three o’clock. Claire and Sasha lingered over their espressos after the other women had gone off for their usual Saturday activities. The good feelings Claire had felt on her run had begun to return, surrounded as she was by the warmth of her friends. But Sasha, usually the life of the party, had been quiet all through lunch. Claire studied her. ‘So what’s going on with you?’
‘I’m worried about you.’ Sasha added another cube of sugar to her coffee.
‘You didn’t say anything to the others?’
‘Claire, they’re not blind. We’ve all been friends for ever. I would expect that they know. Wouldn’t you know if something was going on with one of them?’
‘I suppose.’
‘They’re just nicer than I am, and keep their mouths shut. But they’re worried too.’ Another cube of sugar went into her cup. Sasha was nervous and trying not to show it. ‘Any word from Mark?’
‘Not a word. He usually calls every morning, whatever time zone he’s in.’ Claire forced a smile. ‘But I know he’s all right. If he so much as sneezed, the press corps would have it on the front page of the Wall Street Journal.’
‘I’m not worried about Mark, and you know it.’
Claire leaned back, staring at her hands. All week she had tried to push Mark’s warning from her mind. ‘Don’t sleep too soundly,’ he had said. ‘This isn’t over.’
‘Do you have any idea what sets him off? Is it really just that he wants you to quit working?’ Sasha tried not to look at her friend’s wounded arm.
Claire took a sip of her coffee, remembering Mark’s questions about Deborah’s birth father. ‘No,’ she lied. ‘No idea.’
‘When is he back?’
‘Tonight, late. It’s okay. We’ll talk things through.’
Sasha was ready to cry out with frustration. ‘What is the matter with you, Claire? You need to see a lawyer. Get some sort of restraining order.’
‘You know I can’t do that! The newspapers—’
Sasha cut her off, her voice rising. ‘To hell with the newspapers! Your life is at stake.’
‘There’s nothing I can do right now, Sasha. Believe me, I would if I could!’ Claire was crying now. ‘I’m trapped.’
Marty suddenly loomed over the table, a worried look on his face. ‘Everything okay here?’
‘Fine, Marty, thanks. Just, you know, missing Deborah. Her birthday was last week.’ Claire slipped out of the booth and grabbed her bag. ‘I’ve got to get to the cleaners before they close at four. Marty, lunch was more than wonderful.’ She blew Sasha a kiss and headed for the door. ‘I’ll see you on the train Monday.’
It was a full five minutes before Sasha could bring herself to move from the table.
Five
Claire guided her sleek navy blue Audi into a parking space behind Green Earth Cleaners. As usual, hers was the only car in the small car park that was reserved for employees and delivery vans. It meant entering the dry-cleaners through the back door, and making her way through racks of plastic-wrapped garments, but she preferred that to the Saturday bustle of the car park at the front.
‘Mummy, are you still there?’ Deborah’s voice came through the car’s built-in telephone system.
‘Just parking. So tell me more about your performance for the college. Were you nervous?’
‘At first. But once I started to play, I just got lost in the music. I played the Rach, masterfully I might add, and then Mozart, a sonata, and finally I finished off with a little Bach.’
Claire couldn’t help but laugh. ‘A little Bach? Only you would be so at home with that mighty music that you call it little. Are you happy there, my Deborah? Do you really love London?’
‘Soooo much. I miss you and Daddy, of course, but this is where I want to be for now. Is he back from Cairo yet?’
‘Tonight,’ Claire said, trying to keep the dread from her voice. ‘Has he called you?’
‘No call, but he sent me about ten over-the-top birthday presents. You know how he is.’
Claire forced herself to sound casual. ‘Yes. Yes, I do know how he is. So I’ll call you next Saturday?’
‘Yep! Oh, and thanks for all your birthday goodies. The clothes are gorgeous, of course, but that book, the David Dubal, how did you get your hands on that?’
‘I can’t tell you all my secrets.’
‘I read the Horowitz piece three times – my favourite pianist. You always know what will really thrill me.’
‘That’s what we moms do.’
‘You do it better than most. Take care, Mums.’
‘I will, sweetheart. Don’t waste a moment of this wonderful time over there worrying about me.’
‘Same to you! I’m twenty-one now and completely an adult.’
‘Bye, Granny.’ Claire laughed. She was about to ring off, when her daughter stopped her.
‘Wait! Wait! I forgot to tell you. The most amazing thing happened at that concert I went to at the Albert Hall, on my birthday.’
Claire had to smile. She loved her daughter’s passion for life. Everything was amazing to her.
‘Well, first of all, how I got the tickets. They just turned up in my mailbox, inside a birthday card. Two tickets to this concert that was completely sold out for ever!’
‘What a great gift. Who were they from?’
‘I don’t know. There was no name on the card. It was probably Dad though, don’t you think?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe. So what happened at the concert? Someone drop a cymbal?’
‘No. The conductor, this Maestro Connelly, introduced a new piece, a rhapsody he had written, and guess what it was called?’
‘I can’t guess. Tell me.’
‘Rhapsody for Claire. It said it right there in the programme.’
‘So I have my own theme song now. Like Gone With the Wind.’
‘It was a pretty awesome piece of music. Kind of sad, kind of romantic. And he played brilliantly. I’m going to learn it, and play it for you when you come visit in July.’
‘I can’t wait to hear it. Now you must let me go, or the cleaner will be closed, and your father will have no clean shirts.’
‘Horrors! For lack of a clean shirt, Middle East peace never happened. Go, go. Love you.’
‘Love you back.’ Claire pushed the button to disconnect and just sat for a moment, smiling in spite of everything. How lovely to have a daughter. No matter what she’d given up to give Deborah a wonderful life, it had all been worth it. Mark had been a good father. No matter how bad things had become between the two of them lately, he had kept Deborah out of it.
She released the boot lock of her car so she wouldn’t have to wrestle with the shirts later, got out, and, as usual left her keys on the dashboard of the car. The back door of the cleaners had scarcely closed behind Claire, when a very large four by four with blacked-out windows coasted into the lot and parked close, too close, to Claire’s car.
Five minutes later, Claire emerged with an armload of plastic-covered shirts on hangers. She stopped dead in her tracks, looked around, unable at first to take in what she was seeing. Her car was gone. She had parked right here, she knew she had.
‘Hey, can I help you with that?’ A youngish man, with dark curly hair, was leaning against the four by four. ‘That’s quite a load. I hope you’re not walking.’ Smiling he grabbed the hangers that were threatening to slide out of her arms onto the ground.
‘No. I mean, I drove. My car … it was right here five minutes ago.’
The man made a show of looking around. ‘I just pulled in, but there was no car here. Were you with someone? Maybe they moved it.’
‘No
. I was alone. This is crazy.’
‘How could someone just drive away with your car? It takes time to jump an engine.’
Claire was kicking herself. ‘I left my keys in the car. Dear God, I’m a fool.’
‘Don’t beat yourself up. It’s easy enough to make a mistake. All it takes is once, I guess. You should call the police. Do you have a phone?’
‘In the car. Naturally.’ She made a face.
‘Mine is at home. Looks like we’re two of a kind. Hop in. I’ll run you down to the station.’
Claire looked at him now for the first time. Something, some instinct, was raising alarm bells in her mind. She took a step back. ‘Have we met? You look familiar.’
‘I don’t think so. I’d remember. Hop in.’
Claire stared at the man, trying to place him, her discomfort growing by the second. ‘Thanks, but I’m going back inside the shop to call.’ She moved to the open back door of the car, and began gathering up her dry-cleaning.
It happened with lightning speed. The man lifted her off her feet, swept her into the car, and slammed the door.
Claire’s heart was pounding at twice the normal rate, and the ringing in her ears was deafening. But the sound was not so loud that she couldn’t hear the unmistakable, bone-chilling sound of the doors locking.
She tried to pull the door open but it was securely locked. She pounded on the blacked-out partition between the driver and the back seat. There was no response.
Now she felt the car being put into gear, the lurch as it rolled over the speed bump and out of the car park. Claire was screaming for help now, pounding on the windows, but no one heard her. The car picked up speed, throwing her back against the leather seat.
Mark, she thought, and with the most chilling clarity. Mark is behind this.
Six
Claire had lost all sense of time and direction. During those first terrifying moments after she was taken, each nerve, every instinct in her body, had been on full alert.