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 lo
ok 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.
IV
Fortunately the conversation about Tony’s women ended as everyone studied their menus. Jake pushed his leg against mine under the table, and when I looked up at him, he smiled and sent me a reassuring message with his eyes.
There was a bit of discussion about some of the dishes, and since I knew the restaurant better than anyone else at the table, I made a few recommendations. I myself settled for oysters and grilled sole, as did Fiona; Jake and David both ordered smoked salmon to be followed by the beef stew country style.
With the orders given, Jake studied the wine list, ordered a bottle of Pouilly-Fumé and his favorite Saint-Émilion, and then, turning to Fiona, he said, “I’m sorry it’s such a short trip for you.”
“ ’Tis very short, I’m afraid. David’s got to get back to England. We’ll be leaving on Tuesday, so it’ll have been less than a week. We’re staying with Pamela until Monday night, flying out the next morning. Directly to Manchester.”
“Manchester,” Jake repeated. “Whatever for?”
Fiona burst out laughing, since he had said the name of this northern city in the most disparaging way. “Manchester’s not so bad. It rains a lot in Lancashire, mind you. And we’re flying to the north because I’ve bought a house in Yorkshire and I’m in the process of furnishing it.”
“Are you moving from London?” Jake asked. He sounded surprised, and looked it. “You’re not selling the beautiful house in Hampstead, are you?”
“Oh, no, not at all. I’d never sell that. It’s too special, and part of me. But I will be living in Yorkshire in the summer, when the weather’s always better. I bought a business there as well, you see.”
“My goodness, Fiona, you’re full of surprises,” I exclaimed, staring at her intently across the table. “What kind of business?” Fiona fascinated me; Tony had never done her justice when he had spoken about her. More fool he.
“A restaurant and bar,” she said. “David’s in the wine and food business, always has been, and when he retires, he’ll be running it with me. In the meantime, his son Noel will be working alongside me . . . Noel’s a superb chef.”
“Where’s the house? And the restaurant?” Jake asked.
“The house is in Middleham, so’s the restaurant, actually. It’s a lovely place, Jake, ’tis indeed. You and Val have to come and stay with me and sample the food at Pig on the Roof . . . that’s its name. Noel’s a Cordon Bleu chef, you know—”
“And a great chef,” David interjected, “even though I do say so myself. He’s made good old-fashioned English fare his specialty. You know, steak and kidney pudding, roast leg of lamb, lamb stew, roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, game pies, meat pies, fish pies, bangers and mash—all the dishes that are so very tasty when properly made. I think Fiona’s going to have a great success.”
“So do I! I love that kind of food,” I confessed. “It’s really my favorite, and it’s a good thing I don’t live in England, I’d be as fat as a pig! And where’s Middleham exactly?”
“North Yorkshire, just outside Ripon,” David told me. “That’s a lovely cathedral town in the Dales. Middleham has a very famous ruined castle, which used to be called the Windsor of the North, and it was exactly that. It was the stronghold of the great magnate Richard Neville, the Earl of Warwick, who brought up Richard III, and who put the Plantagenets back on the throne of England.”
“It sounds like a beautiful place,” I remarked.
“Oh, it is.” He laughed and added, “Well, it is if you like uninhabited rolling moors strewn with heather and gorse, endless empty skies, flocks of sheep, and quaint old stone cottages. I’m afraid there’s really not much there—”
“Except lots of horses,” Fiona interjected. “There are a number of very famous stables around Middleham, and some of England’s greatest racehorses have been, and are, trained there. You see, Yorkshire is truly horse country, Val, and in case you hadn’t guessed, David’s a Yorkshire-man through and through.”
“And you come from Middleham,” I asserted, smiling across at him.
“No, actually, I don’t,” David answered. “I know it very well indeed, but I hail from Harrogate, which isn’t very far away, of course. I’m taking early retirement next year, and moving to Middleham. I’ll be working with Fiona in the restaurant.”
“He’s my business partner in it,” Fiona suddenly thought to point out. “As well as my life partner.”
V
Our first course arrived and everyone fell silent as the plates were put in front of us and the white wine poured.
I demolished my six oysters so rapidly, I felt slightly embarrassed, then realized that Fiona, too, had finished quickly.
The conversation turned to all manner of subjects during the main course. Fiona asked lots of questions about the book, and Jake and I told her what we were doing. Then she and I talked about the best shops in Manhattan, while the two men fell into a discussion about sports.
Suddenly it was time to look at the dessert menus, which we did. Fiona and I both ordered chamomile tea only; Jake went for a floating island again, as he always did here at Le Périgord, and so did David.
It was when we were sitting waiting for the desserts that Fiona dropped her first bombshell.
Quite out of the blue, and very unexpectedly, she brought up Tony again, when she said to Jake, “Tony was a charmer, a bit of a rogue, as we all know, but a very lovable one. Wouldn’t you agree?”
She was looking at Jake and me. I nodded, afraid to say a word, and Jake said, “You’re right, Fiona, I always said Tony had kissed the Blarney Stone . . . I don’t think I ever met anyone more charming than he was. And he was my best buddy, I loved him.”
“And he loved you too,” she said. “But he was also very jealous of you, Jake. He always wanted what you had or what he thought you wanted. He couldn’t stand for you to get there first.”
My eyes were on Jake, and I saw how startled he was. He sat there, staring back at Fiona, saying nothing.
Seemingly without a second thought, she hurried on. “Take the Robert Capa award . . . you won it, he didn’t, and he never got over that. He always felt that you and Clee Donovan had one up on him.”
Finding his voice at last, Jake murmured softly, “But Tony did win other awards, lots of them, and he was a world-famous war photogr
apher, Fiona.”
“Oh, I know, but he had set himself up in competition with you, so naturally he was jealous, because some of your awards were more important than his.”
Obviously at a loss, not knowing what to say, Jake simply shook his head, leaned back in his chair, and sipped the last of his red wine. Although I knew him well, knew his moods and feelings, I couldn’t define the expression in those bright blue eyes. It was unreadable.
Fiona said, “I’m not telling you this to run Tony down, to denigrate him in your eyes, but I do want you to know the truth.” She was speaking very softly, and then she glanced at me and said in that same quiet voice, “It was the same with you, Val. He was awfully jealous of you . . . professionally.”
“Oh,” I said in a low voice. I was relieved she had added the word professionally. I went on. “I can’t imagine why. He was a much better photographer than I was.” My heart was pounding against my rib cage; I wondered what was coming next.
“In some areas, yes,” she replied. “Action. Wars. But your pictures of children are very moving, and your still lifes are superb. Didn’t you recognize some of them in Tony’s study that day . . . the day of the memorial?”
“Yes, I knew they were mine” was all I could muster, and I settled back in the chair, just as Jake had, and sipped the water.
It was at this moment that David pushed back his chair and excused himself, went off to the men’s room.
Once we three were alone, Fiona dropped her second bombshell.
Looking from me to Jake, she said, “When your divorce was coming through from Sue Ellen, and you were about to be a free man, Tony moved in on Val.”