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‘I think we both know—all that we need to know. The decision has been taken.’
She wanted to cry out. He seemed to be saying that he really had recognised her, that the two of them still lived in a world that excluded the rest of the universe and only they understood the language they spoke.
But no! She wouldn’t let herself believe it. She must not believe it, lest she go crazy.
Crazier than she’d been for the last ten years? Or was she already beyond hope? She drew a deep breath.
But then, while she was still spinning, he returned to earth with devastating suddenness.
‘Now that we’ve settled that, tell me how you got here last night,’ he said.
His voice sounded normal again. They were back to practical matters.
‘In a taxi,’ she said.
‘I’m glad. It’s better if you don’t drive for a while after what happened.’
‘My head’s fine. It was only a tiny bump. But I’ll take a taxi to the office.’
‘Good. I’ll call you later. Now I must go. I have an appointment with the bank. We’ll meet tomorrow.’
He was gone.
At the office Mr Smith greeted her news with pleasure. When she’d cleared her desk he took her for a final lunch. Over the wine he became expansive.
‘It can be a good job as long as you know to be careful. Men like him resemble lions hovering for the kill. Just be sure you’re not the prey. Remember that however well he seems to treat you now, all he cares about is making the best use of you. When your usefulness is over you’ll be out on your ear. So get what you can out of him before he dumps you.’
‘Perhaps he won’t,’ she said, trying to speak lightly.
‘He always does. People serve their purpose, then they’re out in the cold. He’s known for it.’
‘Perhaps there’s a reason,’ she said quietly. ‘Maybe someone deserted him.’
‘Don’t make me laugh! Dump him? Nobody would dare.’
‘Not now perhaps, but in the past, maybe when he was vulnerable—’
Mr Smith’s response was a guffaw. ‘Him? Vulnerable?
Never. Amos Falcon’s son was born fully formed and the image of his father. Hard. Armoured. Unfeeling. Oh, it’s not how he comes across at first. He’s good with the French fantasy lover stuff. Or so I’ve heard from some lady friends who were taken in when they should have known better. But don’t believe it. It’s all on the outside. Inside—nothing!’
‘Thanks for the lunch,’ she said hurriedly. ‘I must be going.’
‘Yes, you belong to him now, don’t you?’
‘My time belongs to him,’ she corrected. ‘Only my time.’
She fled, desperate to get away from the picture he showed her of Marcel—a man damaged beyond hope. Hearing him condemned so glibly made her want to scream.
You don’t know him, don’t know what he suffered. I knew him when he was generous and loving, with a heart that overflowed, to me at least. He was young and defenceless then, whatever you think.
Only a few hours ago her anger had been directed at Marcel, but now she knew a surge of protective fury that made her want to stand between him and the world. What did any of them understand when nobody knew him as she did?
She checked that her cellphone was switched on and waited for his call. It didn’t come. She tried not to feel disappointed, guessing that the bank would occupy him for a long time. And she had something else in mind, for which she would need time to herself.
When she reached home she locked the front door behind her. For the next few hours nothing and nobody must disturb her.
Switching on her computer, she went online and settled down to an evening of research.
She forced herself to be patient, first studying Amos Falcon, which was easy because there were a dozen sites devoted to him. An online encyclopaedia described his life and career—the rise from poverty, the enormous gains in power and money. There was less detail about his private life beyond the fact that he’d had three wives and five sons.
As well as Darius and Marcel there was Jackson Falcon, a minor celebrity in nature broadcasting. Finding his picture, she realised that she’d seen him in several television programmes. Even better known was Travis Falcon, a television actor in America, star of a series just beginning to be shown in England. The last son was Leonid, born and raised in Russia and still living there. About him the encyclopaedia had little information, not even a picture.
There were various business sites analysing Amos’s importance in the financial world, and a few ill-natured ones written in a spirit of ‘set the record straight’. He was too successful to be popular, and his enemies vented their feelings while being careful to stay just the right side of libel.
The information about Marcel told her little that she hadn’t already learned from Freya, but there was much about La Couronne, his hotel in Paris. From here she went to the hotel’s own site, then several sites that gave customers’ opinions. Mrs Henshaw studied these closely, making detailed notes.
Then Cassie took over, calling up photographs of Marcel that went back several years. Few of them were close-ups. Most had been taken at a distance, as though he was a reluctant subject who could only be caught by chance.
But then she came across a picture that made her grow tense. The date showed that it had been taken nine years ago, yet the change in him was already there. Shocked, she realised that the sternness in his face, the heaviness in his attitude, had settled over him within a year of their separation. This was what misery had done to him.
She reached out and touched the screen as though trying to reach him, turn time back and restore him to the vibrant, loving boy he’d once been. But that could never happen. She snatched her hand back, reminding herself how much of the tragedy was his own fault for concealing the truth. She must cling to that thought or go mad.
She came offline. But, as if driven by some will of their own, her fingers lingered over the keys, bringing up another picture, kept in a secret file. There they were, Cassie and Marcel, locked in each other’s embrace. She had many such shots, taken on a delayed release camera borrowed from a photographer friend.
‘I want lots of pictures,’ she’d told Marcel, ‘then we’ll always have them to remember this time when we were so happy.’
‘I won’t need help to remember you,’ he’d told her fervently. ‘You’ll always live in my heart and my memory as you are now, my beautiful Cassie. When I’m old and grey you’ll still be there with me, always—always—’
Gently he’d removed her clothes.
‘This is my one chance to have a picture of you naked, because I couldn’t bear to have any other photographer take them. Nobody else must ever see you like this—only me. Promise me.’
‘I promise.’
‘Swear it. Swear by Cupid and his bow.’
‘I swear by Cupid, his bow and all his arrows.’
As she spoke she was undressing him until they were both naked, and he took her into his arms, turning her towards the clicking camera so that her magnificent breasts could be seen in all their glory.
‘This is how I’ll always see you,’ he murmured. ‘When we’re old and grey, I’ll show you these to remind you that in my heart this is what you really look like.’
‘You’ll have forgotten me by then,’ she teased.
To her surprise, he’d made a sound of anger. ‘Why do you say things like that? Don’t you know that we must always be together because I will never let you go?’
‘I don’t want you to let me go.’
But he hardly seemed to hear her.
‘Why can’t you understand how serious I am? There is only you. There will only ever be you. I’ll never let you go, Cassie. Even if there were miles between us I would still be there, holding onto you, refusing to let you forget me. You might try to escape but you won’t be able to.’
What mysterious insight had made him utter those words, so strangely prophetic of what was to come? Miles and years had stretched between them, yet always he’d been there as he’d promised—or was it threatened?—always on the edge of her consciousness until the day he’d appeared again to reclaim her.
There it was again, the tormenting question. Had he recognised her, or had she only imagined that he’d called her Cassie?
And his remark that the decision had already been taken, had she not simply read too much into it? Was she hearing what she wanted to hear?
But there was more. Just before she’d left him that morning there had been another clue, if only she could remember what it was. She’d barely noticed at the time, but now she realised that his words had been significant. If only—
Frantically she wracked her memory. It was connected with the cellphone number—something he’d said—something—something—
‘What?’ she cried out. ‘What was it?’
She dropped her head, resting it on one hand while she slammed the other hand on the table again and again with increasing desperation.
A few miles away someone else was conjuring up pictures online. The one word, ‘Cassie’ brought her before him in a website that analysed the careers of models who were no longer around.
For two years she rode high and could have ridden higher still, but suddenly she gave up modelling and disappeared from sight. After that she was occasionally seen in luxurious surroundings, places where only rich men gather. And always she seemed weighed down with diamonds.
Why hadn’t he seen it happening? Her choice of himself over wealthy admirers had made him love her a million times more, but it had always been too good to be true. It was a game she’d played, until she’d succumbed to the lure of serious money. While he’d thought he was her true love, he’d been no more than her plaything.
He should have known when she’d failed to visit him in the hospital. He’d lain there in pain and anguish, certain that she would be here at any moment. Every time the door opened he’d tensed with longing, which was always crushed.
He’d clung to the fragile hope that she didn’t know what had happened to him. If only he could reach her, all would be well. But her cellphone was switched off. When he’d called her apartment the phone rang and rang, but was never answered.
He’d known then, known with such certainty that he’d torn up the letter she’d sent him without even opening it. Who needed to read her miserable excuses?
He’d seen her just once more, the day he’d left for Paris. There she’d been at the airport with her new lover, as he went into the departure lounge.
‘You!’ he’d spat. ‘The last person I ever want to see.’
She’d held out her arms, crying frantically, ‘Marcel, you don’t understand—please—please—’
‘I loved you,’ he raged. ‘I trusted you—now I can’t bear the sight of you!’
‘Marcel—’
‘Get out of my sight! Whore!’
He’d turned and ran from her. He remembered that afterwards with self-disgust. It was he who had run, not her. But there would be no running now. The time had come.
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_dbe39e9c-9605-50c7-a4e0-2c941e6cee8f)
WHEN she rose next morning her mind was firm and decided. Today she would start working for Marcel, getting close to the man he’d become, watching to see where the path led. And, wherever it led, she was ready to explore.
Now she was glad that his younger ghost haunted her. Far from trying to banish that spectre, she would enlist him onside and make use of his insights to confront the present man.
She made coffee and toast and sat eating it by the window, looking down at the street, thinking of another time, another window where she’d watched for a grocery delivery. Cassie had been riding high, with two great modelling jobs behind her and more in the offing. The world was wonderful.
And then the most wonderful thing of all had happened.
The grocery van had drawn up and the delivery man stepped out. That was her first view of Marcel’s tall, vigorous body. Being only one floor up, she could appreciate every detail. When he’d glanced up she’d seen not only his good looks but the cheeky devil lurking in his eyes. That had been what really won her heart.
It was the same with him. She knew that by the way he came to a sudden halt, as though something had seized him, smiling at her with pleasure and an air of discovery. The words, That’s it! This is the one! had sung in the air between them.
A week later, lying in each other’s arms, he’d said, ‘I knew then that I was going to love you.’
‘I knew I’d love you too,’ she’d assured him joyfully.
‘Really? Me, the grocer’s delivery lad? With all the men you could have?’
‘If I can have them I can also reject them,’ she’d pointed out. ‘I choose the man I want. I choose.’ With mock sternness she’d added, ‘Don’t forget that.’
‘No, ma’am. Whatever you say, ma’am.’
He’d given her a comical salute and they’d dissolved into laughter, snuggling down deeper into the bed, and then not laughing at all.
How handsome he’d been that first day, getting out of the van and approaching her. How young, untouched by life!
‘Good morning!’
She jumped, startled by the voice that came from below. A car had stopped and a man was calling up to her, pulling her back to the present, where she didn’t want to be.
‘I’m sorry … who …?’
‘I said good morning,’ Marcel repeated.
‘Oh—it’s you!’
‘Who were you expecting?’
‘Nobody. I thought you’d call me.’
‘May I come up?’
‘Of course.’ She tossed down the keys.
She hadn’t dressed and was suddenly conscious of the thin nightie. By the time he arrived she’d pulled on a house coat. It was unflattering, but it zipped up to the neck and at least he wouldn’t think she was trying to be seductive. Anything but that.
When she emerged from the bedroom he was already there. ‘I’m sorry to arrive so early, but I’m eager to get a close inspection of my new property.’
‘Meaning me?’ she asked, her head on one side and a satirical smile on her lips.
‘A shrewd businesswoman like you should appreciate the description. So I came to collect you, which was perhaps a little thoughtless of me. Finish your breakfast.’
She fetched a cup and poured him a coffee. ‘Let’s talk. I can eat and work at the same time.’
