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‘Am I? I’m not sure, Mother, but he does occupy a large part of me, that’s true. He’s there, inside, and he always will be, I think. But I’m smart enough to know I have no future with Tom. He’ll never marry me, or anybody else, for that matter. Nor will he have a permanent relationship, because he can’t. You see, he just can’t forget them.’
‘Or he won’t let himself forget,’ Diane suggested softly.
‘Perhaps that’s true. Perhaps he thinks that if he forgets them he’d be riddled with guilt for the rest of his life and wouldn’t be able to handle it. You brought me up to be sensible, practical, and I believe I am those things. And after we broke up, I knew I had to get on with my life…I knew I couldn’t moon around yearning for Tom. I understood there was no future in that.’
Diane nodded. ‘You were right, and I think you’ve managed to get on with your professional life extremely well. I’m proud, of you, Alexa, you didn’t let your personal problems get in the way of your career. All I can say is bravo.’
‘You once told me years ago that I must never negate my talent by not using it, by wasting it, and I listened to you, Mom. I also knew I had to earn a living, I wasn’t going to let you and Dad support me, especially after you’d sent me to such expensive schools, Anya’s in particular.’
Diane nodded. ‘Just as a matter of interest, how old is he? Tom, I mean.’
‘He’s forty-two, Mom.’
Diane nodded, searched her daughter’s face intently and wondered, ‘Do you love Jack Wilton a little bit at least?’
‘Yes, I do love him, in a certain way.’
‘Not the way you love Tom?’ Diane ventured.
‘No.’
‘You could make a life with Jack, though?’
Alexandra nodded. ‘I think so. Jack’s got a lot going for himself. He’s very attractive and charming, and we get on well. We’re compatible, he makes me laugh, and we understand each other, understand where we’re both coming from, which is sometimes the same place. We admire each other’s talents, and respect each other.’ She half-smiled at her mother. ‘He loves me, you know. He wants to marry me.’
‘Would you marry him?’ Diane asked quietly, hoping for an answer in the affirmative.
Alexa leaned against her mother, and a deep sigh escaped her. Unexpectedly, tears spilled out of her eyes. Then she swiftly straightened, flicked the tears away with her fingertips. ‘I thought I could, Mom, I really did. But now I don’t know. Ever since that invitation arrived yesterday, I’ve been in a turmoil.’
‘You won’t be able to resist seeing Tom if you go to Paris, is that what you’re telling me?’
‘I guess I am.’
‘But you’re stronger than that…you’ve always been strong, even when you were a little girl.’
Alexa was silent.
After a short while, Diane said slowly, carefully, ‘Here’s what your loving and very devoted sounding board thinks. You have to forget Tom, as you know you should. You must put him out of your mind once and for all. He’s not for you, Alexa, or anybody else, in my opinion. What happened to his wife and child was unbearable, very, very tragic, and so heart-rending. But it was years ago. Sixteen years ago, to be precise. And if he’s not over it by now–’
‘He wasn’t over it three years ago, but I don’t know about now–’
‘–then he never will be,’ Diane continued in a very firm voice. ‘Your life is here in New York, not in Paris. For the most part, your work is here, and you know you can make a wonderful life with Jack. And that’s what you should do…’ Diane stopped, tightened her embrace, and said against her daughter’s glossy dark hair, ‘There are all kinds of love, you know. Degrees of love. And sometimes the great love of one’s life is not meant to last…perhaps that’s how it becomes the great love…by ending.’ Diane sighed, but after a moment she went on, ‘I know it’s hard to give someone up. But, in fact, Tom Conners gave you up, Alexa. Not vice versa, so why torture yourself. My advice to you is not to go to Paris. That way you won’t be tempted to see Tom, and open up all those wounds.’
‘I guess you’re right, Mom. You usually are. But Anya’s going to be really upset if I don’t go to the party.’
‘I’m sure she will be.’ There was a slight pause, and then Diane exclaimed, ‘There is an alternative! You and Jack could go to Paris together. Obviously, you couldn’t go looking for Tom if you were there with another man.’
Want to bet? Alexandra thought, but said, ‘The invitation doesn’t include a guest. Only my name is written on it. And I’m sure Anya’s only invited former pupils and her family.’
‘But she wouldn’t refuse you…not if you said you were coming to Paris with your…fiancé.’
‘I don’t know what she’d do, actually. I have to think about that, Mom, all of what you’ve just said…and implied.’
The invitation stood propped up on the mantelpiece next to the carriage clock, and the first thing Alexandra did when she got home was to pick it up and read it again.
Down in the left-hand corner, underneath the initials rsvp was the date of the deadline to accept or decline: April the first 2001. And in the opposite right-hand corner it said: Black Tie, and underneath this: Long Dress, All the information she needed was right there, including what to wear; attached to the engraved invitation with a paperclip was a small rsvp card, and an envelope addressed to a Madame Suzette Laugen at 158 Boulevard St Germain, Paris.
So, she had the rest of February and most of March to make up her mind, to think about Anya’s birthday and decide what to do, whether to go or not. That was a relief. But she knew she would spend the next few weeks vacillating.
Deep down she wanted to go, wanted to celebrate this special birthday with Anya, an extraordinary woman who had had such an enormous influence on her life. But there was the problem of Tom Conners, and also of her former friends…Jessica, Kay and Maria. Three woman once so close to her, and she to them, that they were inseparable, but they were sworn enemies now. She couldn’t bear the thought of seeing any of them.
April the first, she mused. An anniversary of sorts, since she had met Tom Conners on April the first. In 1996. She had been twenty-five, he thirty-seven.
April Fool, she thought, with a wry smile. But she wasn’t sure if she meant herself or him.
Placing the invitation back on the mantel, she knelt down in front of the fireplace, struck a match and brought it to the paper and small chips of wood stuffed in the grate. Within minutes she had the fire going, the logs catching alight quickly, the flames leaping up the chimney.
Pushing herself to her feet, Alexandra turned on a lamp. Along with the fire it helped to bring a warm, roseate glow to the living room, already shadowed as it was by the murky winter light of late afternoon. She felt tired. After leaving her mother, she had walked all the way down Park Avenue from Seventy-Ninth Street to Thirty-Ninth. Forty blocks of good exercise, but she had finally given in and taken a cab back to the loft.
After glancing out of the window at the lights of Manhattan slowly coming on, Alexa sat down on the sofa in front of the fire, staring into the flames flickering and dancing in the grate. Her mind was awash with so many diverse thoughts, but the most prominent were centred on Tom.
It was Nicky Sedgwick who had introduced them, when Tom had come out to the studios in Billancourt to see his client Alain Durand, who was producing the movie. It was a French-American co-production, very elaborate and costly. Nicky and his brother Larry were the Art Directors and were designing the sets, and at Anya’s suggestion they had hired her as their assistant. But she had become more like an associate, because of all the work and responsibility they had heaped on her.
What a challenge the movie had been, and what a lot she had learned. It was a historical drama about Napoleon and Josephine in the early part of their relationship, and Nicky, who was in charge, was a stickler for historical accuracy and detail. Even now, when she thought of the endless hours she had spent at Malmaison she still cringed. She had taken countless notes, knew that house inside out, and had often wondered why the famous couple had ever lived there. Its parkland and closeness to Paris, she supposed. Nicky had been thrilled with her…with her work, her overall input, and most of all with her set designs. In general, it had been a positive experience, and she worked on most of their films and plays after that, until she left Paris.
The day Tom Conners came out to the studios shooting was going well, and Alain Durand had been elated. He and Tom had invited the Sedgwick brothers to dinner when they wrapped for the day, and she had been included in the invitation since Anya’s nephews had by then adopted her, in a sense.
She had been struck dumb by Tom’s extraordinary looks, his charm and sophistication. So much so, she had felt like a little schoolgirl with him. But he had treated her as a grown-up, with gallantry and grace, and she had been smitten with him before the dinner was over. Later that night she found herself in his arms in his car after he drove her home; two nights later she was in his bed.
‘Spontaneous combustion,’ he had called it; not very long after this he had said it was a coup de foudre, clap of thunder, love at first sight. Which they both knew it was.
But that easy charm and effortless grace hid a difficult man of many moods, a man who was burdened down by the needless deaths of his wife and child, and by an acute sorrow he was so careful to hide in public.
Nicky had teased her about Tom at times, and once he had said, ‘I suppose women must find his dark Byronic moods sexy, appealing,’ and had thrown her an odd look. She knew what he was hinting at, but Tom was not acting. He really was in pain. But it was Larry who had been the one to warn her. ‘He comes to you dragging a lot of baggage behind him, emotional baggage,’ Larry had pointed out. ‘So watch out, and protect your back. He’s lethal, a dangerous man.’
Alexa stretched out on the sofa. Her thoughts stayed with Tom and their days together in Paris. Despite his moodiness, those awful bouts of sadness, their relationship had always been good, even ecstatic when he shed the burdens of his past. And it had only ended because she had wanted permanence with him. Marriage. Children.
She wondered about him sometimes, wondered who he was with, how his life was going, what he was doing. Still suffering occasionally, she supposed. She hadn’t been able to convey to her mother the extent of that. She hadn’t even tried. It was too hard to explain. You had to live through it with him to understand.
He was forty-two now, and still unmarried, she felt certain of that. What a waste, she thought, and closed her eyes, suddenly craving sleep. She wanted to forget…to forget Tom and her feelings for him, forget those days in Paris…she was never going back there. Not even for Anya Sedgwick’s eighty-fifth birthday.
Chapter Four Kay (#ulink_2e7d6ebb-c5b3-505a-bc7f-8c14c02fe4f4)
I remember dancing with him here, right in the centre of this room, under the chandelier, she thought, and moved forward from the doorway where she had been standing.
Her arms outstretched, as if she were holding a man, Kay Lenox turned and whirled to the strains of an old-fashioned waltz which was playing only in her head. Humming to herself, she moved with rhythm and gracefulness, and the expression on her delicately moulded face was for a fleeting moment rhapsodic, lost as she was in her thoughts.
Memories flooded her.
Memories of a man who had loved and cherished her, a man who had been an adoring lover and husband, a man she was still married to but who no longer seemed quite the same. He had changed, and even though the change in him was minuscule, she had spotted it from the moment it had happened.
He denied her charge that he was different in his behaviour towards her, insisting she was imagining things. But she knew she was not. There had been a cooling off in him; it was as if he no longer loved her quite as much as before.
Always attentive and solicitous, he now appeared to be distracted, was even occasionally careless, forgetting to tell her if he planned to work late or attend a business dinner, or some other such thing. He would phone her at the very last minute, giving no thought to her or any plans she might have, leaving her high and dry for the evening. Although she seethed inside she said nothing; she was always patient, understanding and devoted.
Kay had never believed it possible that a man like Ian Andrews would marry her. But he had. Their courtship had been idyllic, and so had the first two and a half years of their marriage, which had been, for her, like a dream come true.
And these were the memories which assailed her now, held her in their thrall as she moved around the room, swaying, floating, circling, as if in another kind of dream. And as she danced with him, he so alive in her head and her heart, she recalled his boyishness, his enthusiasm for life, his gallantry and charm. He had swept her off her feet and into marriage within a month of their first meeting. Startled though she was, she had not objected; she had been as madly in love with him as he was with her. Besides, it also suited her purpose to marry him quickly. She had so much to hide.
A discreet cough intruded, brought her out of her reverie and to a standstill. She glanced at the door, feeling embarrassed to be caught dancing alone, and gave Hazel, the cook at Lochcraigie, a nervous half smile.
‘Sorry to intrude, Lady Andrews, but I was wondering about dinner…’ The cook hesitated, looking at her steadily, and then finished in a low voice, ‘Will his lordship be here tonight?’
‘Yes, Hazel, he will,’ Kay answered, her tone firm and confident. ‘Thanks, Hazel. Oh, by the way, did you see the dinner menu I left?’
‘Yes, I did, Lady Andrews.’ The cook inclined her head and disappeared.
But will he be here? Kay asked herself, walking to the window where she stood looking out across the lawns and trees towards the hills that edged along the pale blue skyline. After breakfast he had announced he was going into Edinburgh to buy a birthday gift for his sister Fiona, and it was true that it was their birthday tomorrow and they were seeing her for Sunday lunch, a birthday lunch. But she couldn’t help wondering why he hadn’t asked her to pick something out earlier in the week, since she went to her studio in the city three days a week. On the other hand, he and Fiona were twins and unusually close, and perhaps he felt the need to do his own selecting.
Turning away from the long expanse of window, Kay walked across the terra-cotta tiled floor, heading for the huge stone hearth. She stood with her back to the fire, thinking, as always, what a strange room this was, and yet it succeeded despite its strangeness. Or perhaps because of it.
It was a conservatory which had been added on to one end of the house, built by Ian’s great-great-grandmother in Victorian times. It was airy and light because of its many windows, yet it had a cosiness due to the stone fireplace, an unusual addition in a conservatory, but necessary because of the cold Scottish weather in winter. Yet in summer it was equally pleasant to be in, with its many windows, French windows and cool stone floor. Potted plants and wicker furniture painted dark brown helped to give it the mandatory garden mood for a conservatory, yet a few choice antiques added charm and a sense of permanence. A curious but whimsical touch was the Venetian blown-glass chandelier which hung down from the beamed ceiling, and yet this, too, somehow worked in the room despite its oddness.
Kay bit her lip, thinking about Ian, worrying about their relationship, as she had for some time now. She knew why there had been this slight shift, this moving away…it was because she had not conceived. He was desperate for a child, longed for an heir to his lands and this house, where the Andrews family had lived for four hundred years. And so far she had not been able to give him one.
My fault, she whispered to herself, thinking of her early years in Glasgow and what had happened to her when she was a teenager. A shudder passed through her slender frame, and she turned bodily to the fire, reached out to warm her hands, shivering unexpectedly as she filled with that old familiar coldness.
Lowering herself on to the leather-topped club fender, she sat staring into the flames, her face suddenly drawn, her eyes pensive. Yet despite the sadness there was no denying her exceptional beauty: with her ivory complexion, eyes as blue as speedwells and red-gold hair that shimmered in the firelight, she was a true Celt. But at this moment Kay Lenox Andrews was not thinking about her beauty, or her immense talent, which had brought her so far in her young life, but of the ugliness and degradation of her past.
When she looked back, growing up in the Gorbals, the slums of Glasgow, had been something of an education in itself. There were times when Kay wondered if she might have been a different person if her early environment had not been quite so difficult and harsh.
She knew there were those who said environment helped to create personality and character, while others believed you were born with your character intact, that character was destiny, that it determined the roads you took, the life you ultimately led. She herself tended to accept this particular premise.
The road she took was the road to success. At least, that is what she repeatedly told herself when she set out to change her life. And her positive attitude, plus her determination, had helped her to accomplish wonders.
When she was a teenager, the thing that had driven her was the need to get out of the Gorbals, where she had been born. Fortunately, her mother Alice Smith felt the same way, and it was Alice who had helped her to move ahead, who had pushed her out into the bigger world. ‘And a much better world than it is here, Kay,’ her mother had repeatedly told her, always adding: ‘And I want you to have a better life than I ever had. You’ve got it all. Looks, brains, and that amazing talent. There’s nothing to stop you…but yourself. So I’m hoping to make certain you bloody well succeed, lassie, I promise you that, even if it kills me trying.’
Her mother had plotted and planned, scrimped and saved, and there had even been one moment when she had actually resorted to blackmail in order to rescue Kay and fulfil her own special plans for her daughter. Alice had enormous ambitions for Kay, ambitions some thought were ludicrous, beyond reach. But not Alice Smith. Nothing and no one was going to stop her grabbing the best for Kay; eventually, all that shoving and pushing and striving, and sacrifice had paid off. Her cherished daughter was launched with a new identity…a young woman of background, breeding and education, who happened to be stunningly beautiful, unusually talented, and all set to become a fashion designer of taste and flair.
I wouldn’t have made it to where I am today without Mam, Kay now thought, still gazing into the flames of the roaring fire, ruminating on her past life. But a moment later she was brought back into the present by the sound of loud knocking on a glass windowpane. She sat up swiftly and glanced across the room.
Kay was startled to see John Lanark, the estate manager, on the terrace, bundled up in a Barbour jacket and scarf, hovering on the other side of the French windows. Jumping off the fender, she ran to let him in, surprised he was paying a call on Saturday.
Unlocking the door, she exclaimed, ‘John, come in! Come in at once. It’s freezing out there.’
He flashed her a breezy smile, stepping into the conservatory quickly, pulling off his tweed cap as he did. ‘Morning, Kay. I know I ought to have phoned instead of barging in, but it just so happened I was passing in the Land Rover on my way to the village, and I remembered I’d promised Ian I’d let him know about the progress on the septic tanks at the Home Farm. Would he be about?’
‘No, he’s not, John. He drove into Edinburgh this morning, but he’ll be back this afternoon. Do you want to leave a message, a note perhaps?’
‘No, no, I’ll phone him later. Basically, everything’s now in proper order, but I’d like to fill him in with the details.’
‘I’ll tell him. And how’s Margo?’
‘Oh she’s just wonderful. Busy with the church festival for spring. It’s a little way off, as you know, but she likes to get started early.’
Kay nodded, then smiled at him. She had always liked this loyal and genial man.
He said, ‘Look, I’d better get off. I don’t want to take up your time. And I’ve a lot of paperwork waiting for me.’
‘That’s all right, John. But like you, I have work to do and the morning seems to be escaping.’
‘Tempus fugit,’ he murmured, said goodbye and let himself out.
Kay left the conservatory and walked towards the front hall set in the centre of the house. It was a vast open space, with a high-flung cathedral ceiling and a double staircase, with carved balustrades, which ran up to the wide upper hall. The main feature of the latter was a soaring stained-glass window which bathed the front hall below in multi-coloured light, almost like a perpetual rainbow.
She took the left-hand side of the staircase, running up to the second floor, where her design studio was located in what had once been the day nursery at Lochcraigie.
As she opened the door and went in on this bitter February morning she was glad to see that Maude, the housekeeper, already had a fire burning brightly in the grate. It was a large, high-ceilinged room with six tall windows, and it was flooded with the cool northern light she loved, and which was so perfect for her work. In this crystalline light all colours were true, and that made her designing so much easier.
Stepping towards the old Jacobean refectory table that served as her desk, she reached over and picked up the phone as it began to ring. ‘Lochcraigie House,’ she said, walking around to her high-backed chair and sitting down.
‘It’s me, Kay,’ her assistant said.
‘Hello, Sophie. Is something wrong?’
‘No, nothing. Why? Oh, you mean because I’m calling on Saturday. No, all’s well in the world, as far as I know. At least it is in mine, anyway.’
Kay smiled. Sophie was a darling, full of energy and life, and a joy to work with. At twenty-three she was bursting with talent, enthusiasm and ideas. ‘Then you are the lucky one,’ Kay said at last, wishing that all was well in her little world. She went on, ‘I just came up to the studio, and as I’m sitting here talking to you I can see that vermilion piece which came from the mill the other day…I like it, Sophie, I really do. It’s such a change from the colours I’ve been using this past year.’
‘I agree. It’s really vibrant, but also sort of…smoochy.’
‘What do you mean by smoochy?’
‘You know, smoochy, as in kiss-kiss-kiss.’
Kay burst out laughing.
Dropping her voice, Sophie now said confidingly, ‘I called because I finally got that information for you.’
‘What information?’
‘About the man my sister recently heard of…you know we discussed it two weeks ago.’
‘Oh, yes, of course. Sorry, Sophie, I guess I’m being a little bit stupid today.’ She clutched the receiver more tightly, filled with sudden expectancy.
‘His name is François Boujon, and he lives in France once again.’
‘Where exactly?’
