Where You Belong

Jake moved away from the corner of the room at last, sauntered over to me and looked down. He said, ‘You seem a bit pensive. Are you all right?’

‘I’m fine. I’ve just been sitting here, thinking. Thinking things through.’

Jake nodded, gave me a small lopsided smile. ‘We’ll talk later. In the meantime, how about coming into the dining room, getting a little food? You should try and eat something, Val, before we go to the airport.’

I agreed.

V

In the end it was the study that told the real story.

Jake and I had just finished eating when Fiona came over. Leaning closer to us, she said in a low confidential voice, ‘Let’s slip away. I want you to choose something of Tony’s as a memento.’

I jumped up at this invitation. Jake and I followed her out of the dining room, up the stairs, down the corridor and into the long spacious room which had been Tony’s private abode.

The moment I stepped inside I knew that no one else could possibly have occupied it; his own unique imprint was stamped on it everywhere.

The first thing I noticed was the baseball cap, and my stomach lurched.

How could I miss it? I had bought it for him last year, on our vacation in the south of France. There were a number of other hats hanging on the antique mahogany hat-stand near the door, but my baseball cap had been his favourite. The way it hung there now, a bit lopsidedly, made me catch my breath. He might have just flung it onto the peg a moment ago.

Feeling decidedly queasy, I glanced away and moved farther into the room.

Along one wall, a series of built-in cupboards ran down towards the window, and I guessed that this was his filing system; those cabinets more than likely housed hundreds of his photographs and all of his records. And God knows what else. I wished I could get into them, but no hope of that I knew.

Stacks of magazines, piles of books, and a selection of very expensive cameras were carefully arranged on top of the cabinets, and above the long countertop the wall was lined with cork. Onto this Tony had pinned a lot of photographs. Including some of mine, I noticed with a small jolt of surprise.

Walking closer, I looked at them, remembering. Remembering so much.

I instantly closed my mind to those memories. With a rush of irritation I knew he had put them up there as souvenirs of our vacation in France last summer. All of them had been taken near St Tropez, where we had spent a week sailing. Seascapes. Empty beaches. Sunsets. Shots of the endless sky. Close-ups of flowers, trees, birds, nature in all its forms. Beautiful shots which were a relief for me to take after the horrors of war. They were unidentified, but they were mine all right.

Then my gaze fell on the camera I had given him. A Leica.

Automatically, I reached for it, held it in my hand, thinking of Tony, suddenly angry with him again. I felt betrayed and used by him.

Fiona must have seen me pick it up, because she exclaimed, ‘If you want the camera, please take it, Val dear. Rory and Moira have chosen the ones they prefer. I’m so pleased she’s taking after Tony, following in his footsteps. I’m sure she’s told you all about her plans, Jake, hasn’t she?’

I turned around to face the two of them.

Fiona stood near the big partner’s desk in the middle of the room, and she was looking up at Jake.

He said, ‘Yes, she has been filling me in. She’s very excited that she’s going to join Tony’s agency next year.’

As I continued to look at them it struck me suddenly that Jake looked very tired, as if the day had affected him as deeply as it had me. Also, I couldn’t help wondering what Moira and Rory had been talking to him about. Their father, no doubt.

Picking up the camera, I went to join them both. Jake put his arm around me, drew me closer to him, almost protectively, I thought.

‘Thanks, Fiona, I’d like the camera,’ I murmured, although I didn’t want it at all. But I thought it would look churlish, perhaps even odd, if I didn’t take something of his, since we had worked together.

Looking pleased, Fiona now picked up a small leather box which was on the desk, and opened it. She showed the contents to us; it held a pair of cufflinks. Glancing at Jake, she said, ‘I thought you might like to have these, as a memento of Tony. They’re good ones, you know. They’re made of eighteen-carat gold, and lapis, as you can see.’

For a split second Jake looked as though he was about to refuse the blue cufflinks but apparently changed his mind. ‘Thanks,’ he said, taking them from her. He studied them for a moment, closed the box and put it in his jacket pocket without another word.

‘Would you like to select one or two of Tony’s cameras?’ she asked him.

Jake shook his head. ‘I’ve got so many of my own, honey, but thanks for offering.’

Sitting down at the desk, Fiona opened the centre drawer, took out a large, office-sized cheque book and turned the pages. ‘Tony must’ve owed you money, Jake. Five hundred pounds, to be exact.’ Her expression was questioning, and then she went on, ‘He made out this cheque to you, dated and signed it, then forgot to tear it out before he left for Paris at the end of July. I found it the other day, when I’d finally screwed up the courage to go through his desk.’

Jake was obviously not surprised by her words. Nodding, he explained, ‘Tony told me he’d left the cheque behind by mistake. I said he should forget it, that it didn’t matter.’ Jake cleared his throat, and added, ‘I’d loaned him some money to buy film when we were in Jordan in March. Look, it’s not important, Fiona.’

‘No, no, I insist you take it,’ she exclaimed, tore out the cheque and handed it to Jake. Since I was standing next to him, I couldn’t help noticing that the cheque came from a joint account. An account bearing Fiona’s name as well as his.

Well, so much for that, I thought. She had a joint account with him. She has his children. His house. His garden. A whole life with him to remember.

As for me, what did I have?

CHAPTER SIX

I

Jake did not have much to say on the way to the airport. In fact, he was not only silent but rather glum. In contrast, I was brimming with thoughts, theories and comments, and desperately wanted to talk to him. But in the end I remained silent, deeming it wiser to hold my tongue for the moment.

It was obvious to me that he didn’t want to talk about Tony and Fiona, or Rory and Moira either, with whom he had spent a lot of time at the lunch. Nor did he want to discuss that lunch, which we had just left, or the memorial service of earlier. I didn’t blame him. Everything had become as painful for Jake as it had for me, or so I believed.

Heathrow was as busy as it always was, crowded with people, and as we pushed our way through the bustling throng heading for all corners of the world, I got the distinct feeling Jake couldn’t wait to get back to Paris. I hurried along next to him, hauling my one piece of luggage, a fold-over bag which had travelled the world with me.

‘Hey, honey, let me help you with your stuff,’ he suddenly said, becoming aware of the difficulties I was having with the large hold-all slung over one shoulder.

‘I can manage, Jake. Please don’t worry, you’ve enough to carry of your own,’ I replied, but I was still struggling, and before I could protest further he grabbed the fold-over bag out of my hands.

‘I’m sorry, Val, I should have carried this for you all along. No excuse for me, except that I’ve been preoccupied.’ He gave me a faint smile, and finished, ‘I’ve been very neglectful.’

‘Please, it’s okay!’ I exclaimed. ‘I’m a strong, tough girl who can carry her own luggage and take care of herself in any situation.’

Staring down at me, he gave me an odd look, and muttered, ‘I’m not so sure about that, Kid.’

I didn’t answer. I simply trotted along next to him, trying to keep up with his long strides. After a second or two I remarked, ‘Anyway, I know what you mean about being preoccupied. I’m on overload myself at the moment.’

He nodded, gave me a swift glance and said, ‘Yes, you are. Emotional overload. The point is, we’re both top-heavy with a lot of crap, a lot of disturbing and conflicting feelings. I just need to clear my head, Val, so that I can look at…things as clearly as possible.’

‘I understand,’ I answered, ‘and I realize now is not the right time to talk, since we’re rushing through an airport like maniacs, trying to make a plane. But we should sit down and chat, Jake. We need to understand about Tony and Fiona. Whenever you want, but we really must do it,’ I insisted.

When he made no response whatsoever, I eyed him worriedly, and pressed, ‘At the lunch you said we’d talk later, remember? We have to make sense out of Tony’s behaviour, you know.’

‘I guess we do,’ he muttered, and his face became closed, his mouth grimly set. He plunged ahead, making for the gate, deftly handling our luggage.

I sighed under my breath. So much for that illuminating conversation, I muttered to myself, and ran after him to board the plane to Paris.

II

The flight across the English Channel was short, just over an hour, and I spent most of that time wondering why Jake was still so silent, wrapped up in his own thoughts. I’d tried to make small talk with him to no avail. He barely responded, seemed reluctant to say anything at all. And when he did reply to the odd question or comment of mine, his answers were brief and to the point.

If I didn’t know better I would have said he was being sulky, but that wasn’t his nature. Jake was not a moody man, nor was he temperamental, and like me he was usually on an even keel. Quite aside from that, I always thought of him as being straightforward, honest and dependable. The salt of the earth: and my best friend, the one I relied on.

His quietness, his unexpected reserve, puzzled me a bit, and I wondered if something else was bothering him, other than Tony Hampton. But perhaps not.

Now I stole a look at him. His head was thrown back against the plane seat and his eyes were closed, but even in repose his expression was troubled. His mouth had relaxed, but there was a tautness in his face, a tenseness in his body, even though he dozed. Poor Jake, I thought, I’ve put him through hell these past few weeks since Tony’s death. I suddenly felt very guilty about that. We had both loved Tony in our different ways, and losing him had traumatized us. We had tried to help each other along, commiserating with each other, while continuing to miss him.

But as of today we had a different Tony Hampton to contemplate and contend with, a Tony much less noble, a man without honour, as far as I was concerned.

I asked myself why I had never realized that, never spotted this flaw in him? I prided myself on my integrity, and I found it hard to relate to those who lacked this quality. My grandfather had always held integrity very dear, and he had drilled its importance into me, reminding me about the value of honour, honesty, trustworthiness and decency. I have tried to live by Grandfather’s rules and standards and I believe I have succeeded.

Once, long ago, my little slug of a brother Donald had told me that my standards were too high, that I expected too much from people, that no one could live up to my highfalutin expectations, going on to inform me that the world was full of rotten people. ‘And most people are rotten, whatever you think Val Denning,’ he had exploded, his rage spilling over. ‘They stink. They cheat, they steal, they lie. They commit adultery, and murder, and they’re shit! Yes, the whole world is full of shitty people, and the sooner you realize that the better off you’ll be.’

I had gaped at him in astonishment at the time, wondering what rock he had crawled out from under, and then I had turned away in disgust. Over the years I had constantly endeavoured to avoid these confrontations with my brother as best I could, but I hadn’t always succeeded. Ever since childhood I had loathed getting embroiled with him because he was so opinionated, and he never ever listened. I can’t remember now what had set Donald off that particular day, but whenever he started to rant I usually did a disappearing act.

I suddenly remembered that Tony had also once said my standards were too high, and like Donald he had pointed out that very few people could live up to my expectations of them. I wondered now if he’d been thinking of himself that day. Of course I would never know; and the enigma of Tony would puzzle me for the rest of my life.

III

Jake suddenly awakened, stretched and turned to me. ‘Well, I’ve not been much company, have I, Val?’ He made a face. ‘Sorry about that, honey, but I felt bushed when we got on the plane. I just had to grab a bit of sleep.’

I nodded my understanding. ‘Do you feel better?’

Jake grimaced. ‘Not really. London’s been a tough trip, especially for you, and we will talk about Tony and Fiona, I promise. But later, okay? I’m just not up to it tonight.’

‘Whenever you can, Jake, because it’s important to me.’

‘I’m aware of that. It’s just as important to me, in more ways than you can imagine.’ He reached over, took hold of my hand and squeezed it. ‘I’ll drop you off at your apartment, and I’ll call you tomorrow, Val.’

‘All right,’ I murmured, feeling disappointed. I’d hoped to have dinner with him tonight, so that I could discuss Tony. But apparently that wasn’t to be. Never mind, I could bide my time until he was ready.

CHAPTER SEVEN

I

PARIS, SEPTEMBER

The persona Tony Hampton had presented to the world had been dazzling. Intrepid war photographer, one of the most brilliant photojournalists of this decade, courageous, charismatic, a handsome and divine ladies’ man, raconteur par excellence, bon vivant, and most generous host.

But there had been another side to him. He had been a liar and a cheat and he had undoubtedly led a double life. This is what I now truly believed even though I had only my own intuition to go on.

Maybe Jake wouldn’t entirely agree with me, but I felt quite certain there had been a much darker side to Tony. Being in the bosom of his family at the memorial service earlier today had convinced me of this. And I was now absolutely positive he had never been divorced from Fiona. From his family’s behaviour, and all that they had said, I placed him right in their midst until he left London in July. It was then he had come to Paris to pick us up, so that we could head out to Kosovo together. And he had been happily ensconced in their midst, from what I deduced.

I was sitting at the desk in my bedroom, and I reached out, picked up the photograph of Tony in its silver frame. I held it in both hands, staring at his face. He stood there on the deck of the sloop anchored off St Tropez last year, squinting in the summer sunshine. So dashing, so debonair…so enigmatic…

And I couldn’t help wondering about him, wondering about his complicated life, and what it had been all about in the end.

He would have been a psychiatrist’s dream, I thought. Put him on a couch for analysis and God knows what he would have spilled. Or would he? Psychotics didn’t always do that, did they?

Psychotic.

The word hung there. Silently, I repeated it in my head, considered it carefully, asking myself why it had popped into my mind. And yet it did seem appropriate, didn’t it? Tony was psychotic.

I put the photograph back in its given place on the desk, leaned back in my chair and stared off into space. In the far reaches of my mind, I’d had Tony Hampton under a mental microscope for a good part of the day, and I didn’t like what I’d seen; nor did my conclusions about him elate me.

He was not just a liar, telling small white lies – didn’t we all do that at times? – but a pathological liar telling real whoppers, lies that were dangerous because they could conceivably do damage to people, cause them great heartache, change their lives and not always for the best.

That deep-seated lying had probably become a way of life for him. He couldn’t stop because he couldn’t help himself. Then again, he had needed to lie for his own protection. He had spun a web of deceit he couldn’t crawl out of; he had entrapped himself with his complex machinations.

Then there was his adultery. It had been compulsive, excessive, a dominant force in his life, and it had obviously grown out of hand over the years. It became an addiction, I was sure.

I hadn’t needed Jake to inform me today about the many women Tony had been involved with before me. I was well aware of his countless affairs; after all, we’d worked together, travelled together on various assignments.

Naturally Tony had tried to keep these women under wraps, and a secret, because his private life was his private life. It was none of my business, in his opinion. Nor was it Jake’s business either, and so he had striven for privacy.

However, I could put two and two together, and come up with six, just like everyone else. Tony had always underestimated me and so had Jake. Just because I never discussed Tony’s international sexual dalliances didn’t mean that I didn’t know they existed. I did know, and I didn’t care. After all, I wasn’t in love with him then, not involved in that way. This knowledge hadn’t changed my opinion of him in those days. I thought he was a great guy, a good human being, and naturally I admired his talent as a photojournalist. It was more than that really; I considered it an honour to work alongside him.

But to think Jake believed I hadn’t known about Tony’s very busy love life…how ludicrous that was. I was much smarter than he imagined, than Tony imagined. I suddenly wanted to laugh out loud at the mere idea of it.

All those women…and one in particular whom I had known and disliked.

II

It was April 1996, and for once Tony and I were on assignment without Jake. He had gone to New York to deal with his divorce from Sue Ellen Jones, the famous model, and Tony and I had flown out to the Middle East for our respective news-photo agencies. We were in Lebanon to cover the new hostilities which had erupted between the Israelis and Hezbollah.

The long and fierce civil war was over by that time and things were beginning to mend, beginning to get back to normal, and then the skirmishing had unexpectedly started once more.

For the first time in fourteen years the Israelis had attacked Beirut directly, using laser-homing Hellfire missiles shot from four helicopter gunships off the coast.

The Israelis were not the aggressors, though. They were actually responding to Hezbollah’s recent bombing of their country. And that war of attrition had started up again because Hezbollah had then retaliated after the missile attack, sending forty rockets smack into the middle of Israel. And so it went…

One lovely spring day – late in the afternoon – Tony and I were sitting in the bar of the Marriott Hotel in the Hamra district of Beirut. I suppose I’ll never ever forget that day, because we had had such bad news about a colleague of ours, Bill Fitzgerald of C.N.S., one of the American cable television networks. He had disappeared several days earlier, and none of us knew what had happened to him. We were all a bit nervous and concerned, and afraid for Bill.

Two of his crew, who had been with him out on the streets, had seen him grabbed by three young men, who had hustled him into a waiting Mercedes and then driven off at breakneck speed. The two crew members had been alert, and at once they had jumped into their car and followed in furious pursuit. But the Mercedes had disappeared – into thin air. It was nowhere in sight and they hadn’t been able to find it.

Since then there had been no news about Bill, and none of the terrorist organizations had claimed his kidnapping. Who had snatched him, and for what purpose, we did not know.

But as we sat around in the bar that day, drinking with a group of international correspondents, all of us were offering theories and speculation was rampant…

III

‘Islamic Jihad,’ I had said all of a sudden, glancing around the table at my companions. ‘They’ve got him.’

‘But why would they have grabbed him?’ Tony had asked, ‘and if it is them, what have they got to gain

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