There had been a lot of socializing in our free time. Alexander had invited us all to dinner at the villa every night; we also had lunch together during the photography sessions. But even though two ex-wives and two ex-mistresses lived within the compound in their own villas, they had not been included in these social occasions. Len and his wife, Jennifer, were always present, as were Neal Lomax and Kevin Giles, Alexander’s devoted assistants who worked with him in the studio. Marcia Dermot, Alexander’s secretary, was often there as well, but not always, since she had a three-year-old daughter.
Alexander lived alone at the main house, the white marble villa. It was there that he did his lavish entertaining, although I knew he often worked in the studio long after we had all gone to bed. He was obsessed with his art; it was his life, he told me.
It was Jennifer Wilkinson who had explained that there was no one special in Alexander’s life at the moment. However, this had been an offhand remark, not pointed in any way. And I had merely nodded, made no comment whatsoever.
When I arrived at the studio, I paused for a moment and looked up at it. Poised as it was close to the edge of the cliff but within the encircling outside wall, it looked grand and imposing in the early morning sunlight.
Walking on, I pushed open the heavy oak door and went inside, and, as I usually did, I remained standing in the doorway, admiring this extraordinary interior.
The studio itself was one vast room with a wall of glass that soared to the ceiling and overlooked the sea. This glass wall moved up onto the ceiling to form a wide skylight, which cut through the roof at one end to allow more light to enter the space.
At another end, a raised platform, a kind of stage, was used to display the finished paintings, some of which were huge. Behind this stage there was a fully equipped kitchen, a bathroom, and a bedroom where Alexander frequently slept when he was working at night.
A second platform was built at the opposite side of the studio. Here light flooded in through the skylight as well as the wall of glass; Alexander painted both day and night on this platform, and overhead ceiling spots flooded the area with artificial light after dark.
I hesitated in the doorway. There was no sign of Alexander, and the studio was quiet. “Hello! Hello!” I called and walked into the room, glancing around.
“Is that you, Val?” Alexander’s voice boomed out, and he suddenly appeared from behind the stage. His face was covered in shaving soap and he was holding a razor. Bare-chested, he wore a pair of white cotton slacks badly smeared with paint, and tennis shoes that were equally as messy.
“Who else but little old me,” I said, laughing. “Good morning, Alexander, I hope I’m not too early.”
He glanced at his watch and shook his head. “No. Anyway, you could never be too early for me. Give me a minute and I’ll be right with you. They’ve already brought breakfast over from the kitchens.”
“I’ll wait for you on the terrace,” I said as he disappeared.
I went outside; the terrace was on the far side of the studio, quiet, secluded, and hidden from the rest of the buildings in the compound. It overlooked the sea, and there was a table with a sun umbrella attached, as well as four chairs. I sat down at the table to wait, and within a couple of minutes Alexander came out carrying a large wooden tray. He was now properly dressed in white cotton slacks, pristine tennis shoes, and a white Mexican shirt.
II
“I’ve been working,” he said, putting the tray down on the table.
“All night?” I asked, looking up at him.
He shook his head. “No, since dawn. I wanted to finish something—something special, I think. I’ll show it to you later.”
He served the coffee and motioned to the basket filled with thick slices of home-baked bread and pound cake, and slices of toast.
I shook my head. “I’m not hungry,” I murmured, and sipped my coffee.
Alexander also drank his coffee, then buttered a piece of toast and munched on it. And we sat together in a compatible silence for a short while.
Finally I said, “Would it be all right if we started shooting in the studio this morning? I mean, could I do the first shots of you with the finished paintings?”
“Yes, if you wish, Val.” His green eyes rested on me for a moment before he said, “I’d like to keep the pictures of me to a minimum, Val, if that’s all right with you?”
I nodded. “Okay, but I would like to get a couple of shots of you painting, as well as standing next to the ones you’ve completed. And also—” I stopped, hesitating, suddenly wary of continuing.
“You’re not going to ask me to pose with my former wives and mistresses, are you?”
I was silent.
“I know my ex-wives are somewhat reluctant to be photographed, and certainly Danielle and Carole are extremely shy. They too prefer not to be featured in the story.”
“Well,” I began, and stopped.
“Well, what?” he asked softly.
“I guess I can understand that, but—” I paused again and stared at him. “I guess I thought it would add a human touch to the story.”
He smiled at me, and very knowingly so. “Listen, Val, I’ve led, still lead, a somewhat unconventional life. Many people think I’m crazy to have everyone living here at the compound, but it’s none of their business, and I consider it best for the ladies and my small children. They are all safe, protected, well looked after, and taken care of all the time. They can come to no harm here. But I am not too certain about advertising my lifestyle to the world.”
“I realize that, Alexander, but I thought that perhaps a photo of you with the children?” I raised a brow.
He shook his head. “Oh, no, I don’t think so. The world is full of crazies, you know that, and I don’t want to expose my children to the possibility of kidnapping.”
“But they live here with you in this highly protected compound.”
“True.” He sighed, gave me a long, penetrating look, and finished, “Let me think about it.”
A silence fell between us and I did not want to break it. I needed a moment to collect my thoughts and rethink some of the photographs I’d planned on taking. I glanced away, stared up at the sky. And then I stretched slightly, turned my face to the sun, and closed my eyes for a few minutes.
At last I sat up straighter in the chair and turned to Alexander. “I’m sorry if I’ve asked too much, but the photographs are so important, and the feature is going to be appearing worldwide.”
“Oh, I know, and I want you to do the pictures, Val, but I prefer to keep my private life out of this shoot.”
“I understand,” I responded, realizing I was not going to win this one, and I didn’t want to antagonize him by pressing further.
Alexander suddenly said, “I’ve enjoyed having you here. You like Hacienda Rosita, don’t you?”
“I certainly do!” I exclaimed, my enthusiasm apparent. “It’s beautiful, peaceful . . . a paradise. And there aren’t many of those left in this world.”
“Why don’t you stay on a bit longer?”
“I wish I could, but I’ve got to leave at the end of the week. Got to get the pictures back to Paris.”
“If that’s the only reason you have to go, I can easily send Neal. He’d love a trip to Paris.”
I stared at him speechlessly.
He said, “I like you, Val. When I first set eyes on you, I knew you’d do me good.”
Still I didn’t say anything. I just looked at him, and I wondered what he would say next.
“We’ve had some good talks this past week, Val,” Alexander said in his mellifluous voice. “I’ve never opened up to anyone the way I have with you, at least not since I was an art student in Leeds.” He offered me a warm smile. “And you know all about those days now, about my whole life, about me and what makes me tick. And I know you, and what you’re all about, and that’s quite unique.”
“I feel the same way, Alexander. You’re a wonderful listener. . . .” I began
to laugh. “You’re the possessor of all my secrets. I think I’ve really bent your ear, talking so much.”
“I did my portion of talking too, and I’m glad you stayed up late with me, sharing so many things. It’s not often that happens to me these days.”
“I think we’ve become truly good friends, don’t you?”
“I hope we have.” He leaned forward and pinned his eyes on me. “Stay a bit longer, Val. You’ve brought something special here.”
“I’ll think about it,” I replied, not knowing how to answer him. It was true, we had confided a great deal in each other. We’d talked about our childhoods, our lives, and those we had loved. We had become exceptionally close, although that wasn’t so surprising under the circumstances. We had been thrown together, and we had clicked.
III
It was a long day.
I shot endless film of Alexander in the studio and with his two assistants. We worked well together, and it was a smooth shoot, with Donald and Alexis backing me up. They were efficient yet relaxed about things, made no fuss.
We all had lunch together on the terrace and then went on working until early evening. Finally we packed it in at seven. I was tired, but Alexander was still full of energy and vitality. He insisted on cocktails on his terrace at the villa, a swim in the pool before supper, and after we had eaten we sat and watched a movie in his screening room, eating popcorn and laughing at the comedy he had chosen.
At midnight I said, “I’m on my last legs, I’ve got to go to bed.” I got up and started to leave the screening room with the others.
He nodded, and I knew he wanted to walk me back to the villa. But Donald and Alexis sidled up to me, and that was that.
When we got back to the guest villa there was a fax from Mike. In it he told me that Françoise was finally back in Paris and that all was well. He had not mentioned Jake, and so I assumed that he was still alive and in Kosovo.
Later I fell asleep easily, because I was so exhausted. And I had a dreamless sleep for once, awakened refreshed and rested the next morning.
IV
Toward the end of the week, Alexander asked me to meet him in the studio for a drink. He said I should come alone, because he wanted to show me something.
I’d had a good day with him, taking some marvelous pictures of him with the Yorkshire Mafia, and I looked forward to our drink as I now walked down the path to the studio.
The main room was empty when I went in, and as I always did, I called out, “Alexander, I’m here!”
He appeared instantly, coming out from behind the platform where the large paintings were displayed. He had a bottle of champagne in one hand, two glasses in the other.
“There you are, Val!” he exclaimed, hurrying forward, smiling hugely. “A drop of the old bubbly first, and then the unveiling.”
“Unveiling,” I repeated, looking at him alertly. “Don’t tell me there’s a picture I haven’t yet seen?”
“Yes, there is. And it’s just finished, that’s why I haven’t shown it to you before.”
Placing the glasses on one of the tables, he poured the champagne, gave me a glass, and took one himself. Lifting his flute, he touched it to mine and said, “Here’s to you, Val, may you live a long and happy life.”
“And to you, Alexander, may you enjoy the same.”
Putting his arm around me, he led me over to the far side of the studio, to the platform where he painted. We went up the steps, walked toward an easel that was covered with a large white cloth. He positioned me where he wanted me to stand, then walked over to the easel and pulled off the cloth.
I stared at the painting. I was stunned. Alexander had painted a portrait of me, in his own very special style, but it was very obviously me. I stood against a seascape, and I looked extraordinary.
“Alexander, it’s just beautiful! I don’t know what to say . . . I’m so flattered. But how could you paint me? I mean, I didn’t sit for this.”
“From my memory of you, Val. After all, you’ve been with me practically night and day for two weeks now. Your face is engraved on my mind.”
“I am so flattered,” I said again. “It’s . . . wonderful. What an honor to be painted by you.”
“I’m happy you like it.” He took hold of my hand, led me down the steps, and out onto the terrace overlooking the sea.
After we were seated on a long rattan sofa, he said, “Stay here, Val. Let Neal take the pictures back to Paris.”
“You know I can’t do that. Anyway, I want to see the feature through to the end, and I’ve still got work to do on preparing it.”
“I was thinking the other day . . . how you can know someone all your life and yet never know them. And then meet another person and know them instantly, know all about them. I feel that way about you, Val.”
I stared at him but I didn’t respond. I had no words.
“Did you know that King Hussein of Jordan met, fell in love with, and became engaged to Queen Noor within twenty days?”
I shook my head. “No, I didn’t.”
“So can you understand it when I say this . . . I’ve fallen in love with you.”
“Oh, Alexander.”
“Please stay here with me,” he repeated.
“You know, I don’t think I’m cut out to be your mistress, or anybody’s mistress,” I said softly and sat there, frowning at him.
He laughed. “I’ve always said that when you marry your mistress, you create a job vacancy and—”
“That’s not an original line, somebody else said that before you.”
“Yes, and I knew him.”
“Oh, Alexander,” I said again, and simply shook my head, totally at a loss.
“But it would be different with you. I would be faithful. I wouldn’t be looking for someone to fill the job vacancy.”
When I still remained silent, he moved closer to me on the sofa and took me in his arms. He kissed me tenderly and I found myself responding, returning his kisses, and my arms went around him.
Pulling away, he looked deeply into my eyes. “Stay here with me.”
I was incapable of speech.
“We don’t have to sleep together tonight, if that’s what you think this is leading up to. I’ll be patient . . . if that makes you feel more secure about this old devil.”
“You’re not old,” I said, finding my voice at long last.
“You need a lot of loving, Val, to heal those hurts of yours. I can heal them with my love, you know. And you’re so good for me. Say you’ll stay here at the hacienda.”
I didn’t answer him, and so he folded me in his arms and held me close, and we sat there for a long time on the terrace.
I knew he was sincere, and I did find him attractive and compelling, not to mention sexy. Yes, I could easily become involved with him, maybe even fall in love with him and be happy at the hacienda. We could probably have the best life together.
The problem was, I loved another man. Truly loved him. I was committed to him, and he was my destiny. And that was why I would have to leave.
Chapter 32
I
Kosovo, April It was a cold day even though spring had come to this blood-soaked land, and the sun shone, rode high in a pale-blue sky filled with white puffball clouds. And despite the bitter wind, it was a pretty day. But few people noticed that.
Jake had been right about NATO intervening in the war. The air strike was on and bombs had begun to fall on March 24. NATO was still in the fray, and I suspected the battle would last a long time.
I was in Priština, the capital of Kosovo, looking for Jake, which is where he had been a few days earlier. Jacques Foucher had given me all the information when I had arrived in Paris, having flown from Acapulco to New York, and from there to Paris on the Concorde.
After a night at my apartment on the Left Bank I had filled a small backpack with film, put in an extra camera, a few toiletries and a change of underwear, plus two clean T-shirts. When I left for Belgrade, I was wearing
my combat boots and flak jacket, and thus was able to minimize my luggage, travel light, be mobile at all times.
The streets of Priština were filled with masses of rubble; people were hurrying through the streets, dodging Serbian bombs and gunfire, trying to find somewhere safe to hide.
So many had apparently left, were moving on foot and cart and tractor toward the borders of Albania and Macedonia, hoping to be allowed to enter these countries. But luck was running out now for all these refugees who were fleeing Milosevic’s terror.
It was a hellhole here.
The barrage of gunfire was deafening, and dust rose up from the rubble to choke me. I had a camera slung around my neck and the backpack was on my shoulder. Traveling light worked, I decided as I hustled along, dodging the crowds as best I could.
There were so many people moving through the streets, it was hard to spot anyone, although I’d kept my eyes peeled for Jake ever since I’d arrived that morning.
Suddenly and unexpectedly I spotted Hank Jardine, an American war correspondent with one of the cable networks.
“Hank!” I screamed, and began to run toward him. “Hank, wait! It’s me, Val Denning!”
He was hurrying down the street ahead of me with his cameraman, and it was the cameraman who heard my voice and grabbed Hank’s arm. The two men swung around, and Hank waved when he saw me, looking surprised.
I caught up with them and exclaimed, “Hi, guys.”
“Hi, Val,” Hank said.
The cameraman smiled at me and said, “John Grove.”
“Val Denning.” We shook hands and then I addressed Hank. “I’m looking for Jake. Have you seen him?”
“Sure did, about two hours ago. He was with Clee Donovan, and they were down by the Red Cross tents. About ten minutes down this road. The tents are set up at the edge of a field.”