Chapter 8
I
The following morning Jake called me as he had promised he would during our flight back to Paris. We made a date to have lunch.
Several hours later I met him at the Bar des Théâtrés on the avenue Montaigne, a little bit down the street from the Hôtel Plaza Athénée. It was one of his favorite haunts, since it was frequented by the gorgeous models who worked at the Balmain haute couture salon on the Rue François 1er nearby.
I couldn’t help thinking how much better he looked today as he stood up to greet me. The tan he had acquired in the South of France last week gave him a healthy look anyway; but it was his eyes that were different. They were bright and alert again, and he was smiling broadly. It was quite a change from the day before. In London he had been so gloomy, and introspective on the plane, had appeared weary, worn out, and not a bit like the Jake I’d come to know. He was usually so outgoing, energetic, and vital.
After giving me a quick peck on the cheek, he said, “You look wonderful, Val, the white suit is great on you. Much better than black.”
Well, I’m not in mourning anymore, I thought with some acerbity, but I didn’t say a word. I simply smiled back at him and murmured, “You don’t look so bad yourself.”
Once we were seated opposite each other at the table, he asked, “What would you like to drink?”
“Not sure . . .”
“I’m thinking of having a dry martini. Want to try one?”
I hesitated but only fractionally. “Why not?” Then quickly I added, “But I might get drunk if I do.”
“You don’t have to worry, you know I always look after you.”
I shook my head. “Perhaps I’d better not have a martini, Jake. It’s far too strong. A glass of white wine instead, please.”
He grinned at me. “And I’ll have the same, you’re right about the martini. It is too potent, especially at lunchtime.”
Once Jake had ordered the drinks, he turned to me and began. “I know you have the pressing need to talk to me about Tony, and I’m ready to listen. Now, or later after lunch, whatever you prefer.”
“Yes—” I paused and sighed. “I’ve had a sleepless night, running everything through my mind again and again, going over every detail. But whichever way I twist and turn, I keep coming up with the same answers, and—” I broke off, shook my head.
“And what?” he prompted.
“I know that certain things are true, without the benefit of anyone giving me information or telling me anything. Tony was a liar, Jake, and he did lead a double life, playing other women off against Fiona. Who now has my pity, by the way. He wasn’t divorced from her, nor was he intending to be. Tony wanted his cake and he wanted to eat it. I know I’m not wrong.”
“I tend to agree with you. And it’s a very male characteristic, isn’t it, Val?” He looked at me intently. Then he went on. “Tony wanted a wife and a mistress apparently. And there’s nothing new about that, is there? Mistresses have been around for centuries, since the beginning of time. And if you’re going to have a wife and a mistress and lead a double life, then you have to be a liar, and a damned good one. Because it seems to me the two go hand in glove.”
“That’s true.” I cleared my throat. “I want you to know something else, Jake.”
“Go ahead, tell me.”
I was silent for a split second; the waiter had arrived with our drinks. But once we were alone again, I continued. “Just over a year ago, before Tony and I became involved, before he’d even invited me out on a date, he confided in me over lunch one day . . . he said he’d just gotten a legal separation from Fiona, that he was in the process of divorcing her.”
“I’d no idea he’d said a thing like that,” Jake replied, looking surprised. Picking up his glass, he said “Cheers” and took a sip of the white wine.
“Cheers,” I answered, and tasted the Sancerre. “I now believe that that was a downright lie, that he invented the story. He knew I would never go out with him because he was a married man. He knew what I felt about married men. They were verboten as far as I was concerned.”
“Yes, he did know that. We both did.”
“In the end it’s all a matter of integrity, isn’t it?” I shook my head sadly. “Tony Hampton didn’t have any integrity, although until yesterday I thought he did.”
“So did I,” Jake muttered in a low voice. “Yes, well, he had integrity in his work, of course, but not in his personal life. Obviously.”
“Correct.”
Jake settled back in the chair, his expression reflective.
I sipped my wine, watching him closely. Waiting. He seemed to be mulling something over in his mind.
Finally, after a few more moments of deep reflection, Jake said, “Your intuition was correct yesterday. In the Brompton Oratory, I mean, when you suddenly knew in your bones that Fiona was his widow and not his ex-wife.”
“She told you!” I cried, sounding a bit triumphant, I must admit. I fixed my eyes on him expectantly.
“No,” he said. “No, she didn’t, Val. But I’m certain of it, after talking to Rory and Moira at the lunch. They were both full of Tony, singing his praises, telling me what a good father he’d been to them, and right until the end. Rory explained that Tony had spent a wonderful six-week period with them in June and July before going off to Kosovo. And Moira became very weepy for a few seconds; she told me how glad they all were they’d been able to have this special time with him. And that he’d taken her to his photo agency and gotten her a job and she was starting there next year.”
Although Jake was merely confirming what I already believed to be the truth, I still crumpled a bit, slumped down in my chair. I felt my eyes filling up.
Jake leaned forward, grabbed my hand, and said in a concerned tone, “Don’t get upset, Val. Please. You’ve done enough weeping about him. And he’s not worth it.”
“He was a bastard,” I whispered.
II
“Let’s look at the menu and order lunch.” As he spoke, Jake motioned to the waiter, who was at his side in an instant.
“What’re your specials today, Antoine?”
The waiter told us, and Jake, looking across the table at me, said, “How about the green salad, entrecôte, and French fries? Sounds good to me.”
I wasn’t very hungry, but I nodded in agreement, not wanting to argue with him.
After giving the waiter instructions about how he wanted the steaks cooked, Jake added, “And let’s have two more glasses of wine, please, Antoine.”
“Oui, Monsieur Newberg,” Antoine responded, smiled, and hurried off.
“Got to put some flesh on you,” Jake murmured, and grinned at me.
I grimaced and sipped my wine. After a moment I said, “You were very quiet on the plane last night. Preoccupied, you said. Was that because of Rory and Moira? And what they’d said to you about Tony?”
Jake sighed. “Yup, that was it. I suddenly realized your instincts were correct, and I was appalled at what he’d done to you.”
“There’s something else, Jake. I think Tony’s apartment on the King’s Road was just a place for him to develop film and seduce women. I could never reach him there. The answering machine was always on, I was forever leaving messages. He’d call back, of course, but always hours later. Sometimes I tried him on his cell phone, but a lot of the time that was turned off. I know the flat was properly furnished and all that, and he did have clothes and stuff there, but now I think it was just a front. I bet you anything he really lived at the house in Hampstead with Fiona.”
Jake was silent for a minute or two, and then he said very quietly, “You’re probably right, Val. It’s true, he never picked up the phone at his flat. And basically, I have the same problem as you—believing he lived there, I mean. I could hardly ever reach him in London because his cell phone was turned off more than it was on. I left countless messages with his photo agency when I really needed to get him.”
“We were both du
ped by him,” I muttered, giving Jake a hard stare. “I’m glad it wasn’t just me.”
III
After lunch we went for a walk along the Seine. It was a nice afternoon, quite balmy, and although the sun wasn’t shining, the sky was a clear, gentle blue dotted with pale clouds.
We ambled along, heading toward the Pont des Arts, the only metal bridge in Paris, not talking very much, lost in our own thoughts. Jake and I were comfortable together; we didn’t have to keep up a nonstop conversation.
I was the first one to break our compatible silence when I suddenly stopped, turned to Jake, and said, “Do you think Tony was psychotic?”
Also coming to a standstill, he stared at me and exclaimed, “Val, that’s an odd thing to say! And off the top of my head, no, I don’t think he was psychotic. From what you and I think we know about him, I’ll grant you he was a sexual predator and a very clever liar, but not sick in the head. At least, not the way you’re suggesting. He always had his wits about him, knew what he was doing, what he was saying. Yes, he was smart—and very devious. But psychotic?” Jake shook his head.
I opened the black satchel thrown over my shoulder, took out a piece of paper, and explained. “Listen to this . . . I looked in the dictionary this morning. Psychotic: Of, relating to, or affected by psychosis. Psychosis: A severe mental disorder, with or without organic damage, characterized by derangement of personality and loss of contact with reality. Don’t you think he’d lost contact with reality, telling us both he was divorced, asking me to marry him?”
“Only if he believed his own lies, Val. That would be a loss of contact with reality. I think Tony lived in the real world, I really do. There’s nothing more real than war, as you well know, and he was always out there, shooting film, looking for the greatest picture, just as we were. No, I can’t say he was psychotic. Just a son of a bitch!”
“Yes, he was, and then some. But he had to be off the wall to a certain extent, mentally unbalanced, doing what he did to me. Jesus, Jake, he was nuts thinking he could get away with it.”
“I agree with you. But even so, I can’t really explain his behavior or his reasoning, because he never confided in me. Perhaps he fully intended to lead a double life with you. Many men have gotten away with that! Fiona in London. You in Paris. Captain’s paradise.”
“And a bigamous marriage with me? Is that what you mean?”
“Maybe, Val. I just don’t know.”
“We’ll never know.”
Jake put his arm around me and we walked on in silence. After a moment he said softly, “I didn’t sleep much myself last night, turning all this over in my mind. I even thought at one point that I should go back to London to see Fiona, to try to find out the state of their marriage when he was killed. Just so you and I would really know the truth. But I changed my mind. Without actually coming out and asking her if they were divorced, I don’t think I’d be able to glean very much having a roundabout conversation with her . . . ” He didn’t finish, just half shrugged and looked down at me, making a small grimace.
“Oh, just leave it alone, Jake! It’s all yesterday’s news!” I exclaimed, and I was startled at the shakiness of my voice.
“Hey, Val honey, I didn’t mean to upset you.” Jake wrapped both arms around me and hugged me close. “You’re right, it is old news. And I’ve got a great idea.”
“What?” I whispered against his shoulder, blinking back incipient tears.
“Let’s go down to Cap-Ferrat this weekend. To Peter Guiseborn’s house. I’ve got the use of it until he comes back from New York.”
“I don’t know if I want to go, Jake.”
He held me away from him and looked at me intently. “It’ll do us both good. We can relax, get the sun, have some delicious meals, not that you ever eat, but you won’t be able to resist the food there. Simone, Peter’s housekeeper, is a great cook. And what are you going to do this weekend anyway, Val? Tramp the streets of Paris, sit alone in your apartment thinking about Tony, getting angry with him. Come on, Val, say you’ll come with me. Listen, you’ve got to move forward now, look to the future.”
“Okay,” I mumbled, giving in, too weary to resist. “I guess it will help to get away from Paris for a few days.”
Grinning at me, he hugged me to him again, and then he took hold of my hand, making for the steps near the bridge. These led up to the Quai Malaquais in Saint-Germain-des-Prés, and just beyond the quai was the Rue Bonaparte, where I lived.
As he hurried me along with him, I couldn’t help noticing again how badly he was limping, and this worried me. But I didn’t dare ask him how his wounds were healing; he usually snapped at me when I did so.
And then I thought: But at least he’s alive, and I’m alive, and he’s right, I have a whole future ahead of me.
And I made up my mind to bury the dead.
Part Two
THE VALUE OF TRUTH
Chapter 9
I
Saint-Jean-Cap-Ferrat, September The house hung on a hillside in Cap-Ferrat, overlooking gardens filled with an abundance of flowers, and beyond, stretching to the horizon, was the glittering deep-blue Mediterranean.
I sat on the terrace of the house, looking out toward the sea, content to drift along with my thoughts, enjoying the perfect stillness, unbroken except for the occasional trilling of the birds, the faint buzzing of a bee. It was a glorious morning, and even though it was sunny and warm, a light breeze blew up intermittently. It rippled through the trees, making the leaves dance, and gave the morning air its freshness.
Called Les Roches Fleuries, the villa was aptly named, since so many flowers spilled down over the rocks upon which the house had been built. It was long and rambling, made of a local stone washed pale pink, with a typical Provençal roof of red-slate tiles and green-painted shutters at the many windows.
On the plane to Nice on Thursday, Jake had told me all about the villa. Even so, I hadn’t expected anything quite like this. And although he had described it well, I’d teased him and said, “Well, it’s true what they say, you know, about a picture being worth a thousand words. Better stick to snapping the old Polaroid.”
“Only too true, Val,” he’d laughed as he had taken me on a grand tour. I had at once been captivated by the house, which pleased Jake, since he loved it himself; he felt lucky and privileged to be able to use it whenever he wished. It belonged to his old friend Peter Guiseborn, who had moved from Paris to work in New York for a year, and Peter had told Jake to take advantage of his absence. Jake was also flattered and touched because Peter had not extended this invitation to any of his other friends.
The interiors were cool and restful. All of the rooms had white walls, wood-beamed ceilings, and terra-cotta tile floors, and they were furnished with wonderful Provençal antiques made of polished dark woods. There was very little clutter in the rooms, which added to the feeling of restfulness.
Color, bright rafts of it, was introduced in the vibrant paintings hanging on the walls and in the huge bunches of flowers arranged in large stone pots and placed in almost every room.
“I could move in and live here forever,” I’d enthused. “And so could I,” he’d agreed.
When we arrived we had received a warm welcome from Simone and Armand Roget, the caretakers, who lived in a small house on the property. It was Simone who kept the place so immaculate and sparkling, and the pantry well stocked with her delicious food.
Her husband, Armand, was responsible for the upkeep of the property and the gardens, which were filled to overflowing with bougainvillea, frangipani, honeysuckle, night-blooming jasmine, azaleas, geraniums, and many different species of roses. The flower gardens were set off by velvety green lawns, while a long line of twenty-five stately cypress trees stood guard in the background, dark sentinels silhouetted against the azure sky.
Over dinner on our first night here, Jake had told me the story of the house, at least what little he knew about it. Les Roches Fleuries had been built in the 1930s b
y a French duke for his English mistress, a beautiful opera singer called Adelia Roland. After her retirement from the stage she had made it her permanent home, had lived there until she died at the age of ninety in 1990. In her will she had left the villa and almost everything else she owned to her great-nephew Peter, Jake’s pal from his Oxford days.
I was intrigued by the story of Adelia and the duke, but Jake didn’t know much more than he’d already told me. Neither did the Rogets have a great deal to impart to me when I quizzed them about her. They had been at Les Roches Fleuries for twenty years; for eight of these they had worked for Peter, once he had inherited the property. The preceding twelve years had been spent in the employment of Adelia Roland, but by that time she was already an old lady, and the duke had long been dead. They said she had been charming but cool and reserved. And very mysterious.
Earlier that morning, when I’d strolled outside holding a cup of coffee in my hand, I had spotted Armand working in the garden. Walking over, I had started to chat to him about the house and about Adelia. Suddenly, unexpectedly, he had turned garrulous, and he confided that it had been Adelia herself who had been the brains and driving force behind the planning and execution of these most extraordinary gardens.
Apparently, she had toiled on them herself, and religiously so, had thought nothing of working alongside the various gardeners who had helped her fulfill her plans over the years. The gardens had been ruined during the German Occupation of France, in the Second World War, but she had restored them later, once the war had ended; now they were an exotic paradise.
II
I glanced around when I heard footsteps, and I saw Jake walking along the terrace. I waved to him and he waved back, and a moment later he was standing over the chaise where I lay shaded by an umbrella, looking down at me, smiling broadly.
“This is what I like to see!” he exclaimed.