Desperate Measures (13 page)

of Sidonie de Courcy.

'Hello,' she returned politely, concealing her dismay. 'I didn't

realise you were interested in abstract painting.'

'I'm not,' Sidonie said, shrugging. 'But there is a shop near here

where I buy some of my clothes. Is that what you are doing—

shopping?'

The question seemed so pointed that Philippa wondered if by

some mischance Sidonie had seen her with Fabrice.

'Why, no,' she said coolly. 'I've been at the studio, painting. The

session finished early today.'

'Ah, yes,' Sidonie said with faint derision, 'your art lessons. Well, if they amuse you, what harm is there? And you will need something

to do with yourself, after all, when Alain divorces you.'

Philippa's fingers tightened painfully on the strap of her bag, but

she kept her face impassive.

'Is Alain planning to divorce me?' she asked lightly. 'He hasn't

mentioned it to me.'

'You mean you didn't know that the Baron de Somerville-Resnais

has had a heart attack, and is seriously ill? In fact, he is not expected to live longer than this week.' Sidonie's eyes widened in well-simulated surprise. 'But perhaps Alain has kept the news from you—

out of compassion. It cannot be very nice for you to have to live with the knowledge that you have just been used as a stopgap. Of course,

when the poor Baron dies, and you are no longer required as a decoy,

it will be a different matter. Everyone is asking how long Marie-Laure will pretend to be the grieving widow.'

She gave a little giggle. 'Poor Alain, how angry he must be! He

has gone to all the trouble of marrying you, and now he must face the inconvenience of a divorce, when, if he had only waited a few little

weeks, Marie-Laure would have been free anyway. Everyone finds the

situation fort amusante, you understand.'

'I can well believe it.' With a superhuman effort, Philippa crushed

down the nausea which threatened to overwhelm her. 'It would

obviously solve a lot of problems if I also had a heart attack—and just faded out of the picture.'

Sidonie giggled again. 'Oh, I do not think Alain would expect you

to go to those lengths, I am sure if you simply agree to the divorce, and don't make trouble for him, you will find him more than generous.'

Philippa's heart was beating slowly and painfully, thudding

against her ribcage.

'In that case, I have nothing at all to worry about.' She made

herself smile at Sidonie. 'I hope your shopping is successful.' She let her eyes travel over Sidonie's unbecoming outfit of a beige coat and

skirt, teamed with a saffron-yellow camisole. 'But if you'll take my

advice, you'll try a different boutique altogether,' she added, and

walked away, leaving Sidonie gazing after her with an expression of

baffled rage.

Philippa rounded the corner, then stopped, leaning against the

wall for a moment. She was shaking all over, and her legs felt like jelly.

Waves of anger, mingled with desolation, were buffeting her.

Was this really what Alain intended? To dismiss her with a

generous pay-off so that he could marry Marie-Laure after the usual

decent interval—whatever that

meant? Her nails dug sharply into the palms of her hands.

It was true he'd seemed even more abstracted lately, but in view

of their rift Philippa had hesitated to ask if anything in particular was troubling him.

She closed her eyes. According to Sidonie, everyone seemed

certain that the Baron would not survive his heart attack. True, he was much older than his wife, but that didn't mean the worst had to

happen.

How awful to be simply written off like that, she thought,

shuddering. But at least he didn't know. No one had actually stopped

him in the street and told him he was no longer wanted, and that the

whole of Paris was discussing his successor.

'
Madame
?' Marcel was coming towards her, cap in hand, his face a picture of concern. 'Are you ill?'

It was useless to pretend that everything was fine and perfectly

normal when you were leaning against a wall, trembling like a leaf, with your face every shade between white and green.

She said, 'I felt giddy for a moment, that's all.'

He was all solicitude, helping her to the car, and keeping a wary

eye on her in the mirror as he drove home, ultra-carefully.

Probably doesn't want me being sick over his precious

upholstery, Philippa thought, torn between laughter and tears.

He must have used the car telephone while she was on her way

up to the apartment, because when she got there Madame Giscard

was waiting in obvious agitation.

Before Philippa knew what was happening, she was lying on her

bed, with her shoes removed, the curtains drawn, a cloth fragrant with cologne across her

forehead, and a tisane steaming gently on the table beside her.

She had no idea what was in it, but the herbal infusion was refreshing and oddly relaxing, and in spite of her inner turmoil she found herself slipping into a light doze. But dreams pursued her even there, and she found herself running endlessly down the shadowy nave of some great

cathedral, trying to reach the altar where Alain stood waiting, but not, as she realised, when he looked past her, his hand stretched out in

welcome—not for her.

She cried out his name, in anguish, and heard him answer.

Dazedly she opened her eyes, and found him bending over her.

'What's the matter? Madame Giscard tells me Marcel found you

ill in the street.'

'Not really.' Hastily Philippa struggled into a sitting position. 'I

just felt—odd for a moment. It's nothing.'

'Isn't it?' He sat down on the edge of the bed, his brows drawing

together in a frown. He was silent for a moment. 'Philippa, tell me—is it possible you could be—enceinte!'

Swift colour rose in her face. 'No—no, of course not.' For a

moment she thought the concern in his face was for her, then she saw

the unguarded relief that replaced it, and the hope shrivelled.

Of course, she thought, anger building inside her again, a

pregnant wife would be that much more difficult to discard. And if

there's to be a baby, he wants it to be born from the woman he loves

—always supposing she's prepared to spoil her figure for nine months.

She said curtly, 'Fortunately, it's hardly likely.'

'No?' He was still frowning, his mouth twisting cynically as he

looked at her. 'Well, you know best

about that, of course.' He stared down at the floor, for a

moment, then said slowly, 'I will leave you to rest now,
ma femme
, but soon—very soon, we must talk seriously, you and I.'

Her heart skipped a beat. She said with a little gasp, 'It really

isn't necessary...'

'Ah, but you are wrong,' Alain cut across her, his smile half

wintry, half rueful. 'I assure you, ma
chere
, there is all the necessity in the world.' He lifted her hand, kissed it lightly, and left the room.

Left to herself again, Philippa cradled her hand against her

cheek, fighting back her tears. She knew what he wished to discuss,

and she wanted to tell him that there would be no problem. He could

have his divorce, and except for a proviso that Gavin's treatment

should continue as long as necessary she wouldn't ask for a thing.

Just my freedom, she thought, as quickly and easily as possible.

Only it wasn't possible, she acknowledged, as she lay staring

sightlessly into the gathering darkness of the evening. Because

leaving Alain would be like wrenching herself apart, and she knew, in her heart, that she would never be free again.

She was woken the next morning by Madame Giscard with a

breakfast tray.

'That's very kind of you,' she said awkwardly, sitting up.

'It is nothing,
madame
.' She received a searching look. 'How are you this morning.'

'Oh, fine. I must have had a slight migraine.'

Madame's usually vinegary face registered an expression of

disappointment, fleeting but unmistakable as she left the room.

Good God, Philippa thought as she sipped her chilled apricot

juice. They've all been thinking that I'm pregnant!

But, unlike Alain, she thought sadly, Madame Giscard had been

hoping it was true. Perhaps that impassive, well-trained exterior

concealed a much softer side to her nature.

As she reached for the croissants, Philippa realised that there

was an envelope propped beside them, with a note attached in Alain's

handwriting.

'This arrived this morning,' it said. 'I think you will agree that it changes a great deal. I shall not return home until late this evening, so perhaps you will be ready to discuss it with me tomorrow.' It was

signed simply with his initial.

Like an office memo, Philippa thought wryly, but the fact

remained that it was one of the few written communications she had

ever received from him, and that made it, in its own way, precious.

As she extracted the typewritten pages from the envelope, she

realised with a shock that they formed a detailed report from Gavin's clinic.

A lot of the medical jargon used meant little to her, but the

summary at the end was more explicit and comprehensible.

The course of treatment, although experimental, had been

largely successful with no damaging side-effects, she read. The

amount of drugs being used was now being severely reduced, and

replaced with an intensive course of physiotherapy, to which the

patient was responding extremely well. The physician in

charge of Mr Roscoe's case saw no reason why he should remain

at the clinic for any longer than another few weeks, although the

patient would continue to require a qualified course of medication,

probably for the rest of his life, and it was also desirable that the physiotherapy regime should continue after his return home.

Philippa saw the words 'return home' through a blur of sudden

tears. Gavin's well, she thought incredulously. They're sending him

home. He can take up his life—paint again.

Breakfast forgotten, she pushed back the bedclothes and swung

her feet to the floor. Zak, she thought. I'll phone him at once. He'll be so thrilled. She grabbed up her robe and sped into the hall. The

morning paper was lying beside the telephone, and as she grabbed

the receiver it fell to the floor. Impatiently she bent to retrieve it. It had been folded to one of the inside pages, and Henri de Somerville-Resnais' face looked starchily out from the news column.

She knew what that meant immediately. She knelt to the floor

and read the brief obituary. It spoke of his service to the government, and his military honours in Indo-China. It mentioned his widow, and

the fact that he had died childless. It stated that his estates and

personal fortune would now pass to a cousin.

Philippa replaced the paper gently on the table and stared

sightlessly at the blank wall. There had been, she thought detachedly, so much it hadn't said. Like the grieving widow's plans to remarry. Was that where Alain had gone—to be with Marie-Laure? Was that why he

would not be back until late? If so, it was frankly indecent.

Marie-Laure is free, and Gavin is cured, she thought. That

cancels all obligations on both sides. That's what he's going to tell me tomorrow.

She got slowly to her feet. Suddenly she felt bitterly,

frighteningly cold, and she tightened the sash of her robe with a

shiver.

Well, perhaps she wasn't prepared to stand meekly by and wait

to be given her marching orders. Maybe she didn't want to watch

Marie-Laure step triumphantly into her shoes. To know that everyone

was talking about her, pitying her, laughing at her. Oh, no, that was too much to expect.

She thought, I've got to get out. I can't stand it otherwise.

She wandered into the salon. Across the room, her father's

painting of the bridge at Montascaux blazed in its sunlit glory. Every time she entered the room her eyes were drawn to it, and she found

herself smiling at the memories it evoked.

She thought, I shall miss it, when I go...and paused, with a little

gasp, as sudden excitement replaced the chill within her.

She needed somewhere to go. And Zak had told her she needed

time on her own to paint. Well, that was what she would do. She would take the bare necessities from her wardrobe, and enough cash from

Alain's overly generous allowance to subsist on, and she'd go back to Montascaux. She'd rent somewhere in the locality—the house in the

clouds if it was available—and just paint, go for broke, see if she could make it, exactly as her father had done before her.

She swallowed. And perhaps, by the time Gavin was well enough

to leave the clinic and come home, she

would have a roof to offer him, and a place where they could

both work—get back on their feet again.

We'll share a studio, she thought. Just as we always planned.

Perhaps Gavin need never even know about Alain, she thought

hopefully. That was a wound she would prefer to remain private.

Not for the first time, she wished she could drive. It would be so

much easier to put a travelling bag and her painting things in a car, rather than tote them on a long and probably complicated train

journey.

And she would have the painful satisfaction of knowing that it

was she who had walked away from the marriage. Alain would not get

the chance to dismiss her from his life, because she would be leaving first. And although he would undoubtedly be relieved that she'd taken matters into her own hands, she had little doubt that his pride would be dented just the same.