Where You Belong (9 page)

IV

Reaching for Tony's photograph once more, I gave it a quick glance, then opened a drawer in the desk and placed it inside. Sometimes it seemed to me that his brilliant dark eyes followed me as I moved around my bedroom. It was most disconcerting.

Perhaps I ought to take it out of the frame and tear it up. Yes, I would do that, I decided. I would tear up every one of his photographs and destroy those little notes and letters and cards he'd sent me this past year. Tomorrow though, not tonight. I was far too tired, exhausted actually. It had been a very long day, and emotionally draining.

But there was one thing I could do now.

I glanced down at my right hand and then I pulled off the Grecian ring with the aqua stones, held it in my hand for a moment, studying it. I was about to throw it in the wastepaper basket and then I changed my mind. Janine was coming to clean the apartment the next day; she would undoubtedly find it and put it on my desk, not understanding that I had deliberately thrown it away.

I went into the kitchen, dropped the ring in the trash can, emptied the used coffee grains on top of it, and then added a lump of wet paper towels to the mess. That way, Janine would never find it, not unless she scrabbled through my kitchen garbage, which I very much doubted.

I went back to the desk in my bedroom and sat down again. My brain still raced. I knew deep down within myself that my ultimate conclusions about my dead lover were absolutely accurate. Right on the mark.

Furthermore, I accepted now that I'd been used, abused in a sense, and played for a fool. The first time Tony had taken me out on an actual date, he had confided that he had started divorce proceedings against Fiona. Not true. And he'd never intended to marry me.

A long sigh escaped me. I knew I must pull myself together, start over again, make an effort somehow to get on with my life. But before I could do that, I had to unburden myself, get all of this off my chest. I had to talk to Jake, that was imperative. No one else would understand my turbulent feelings, my distress, my terrible hurt inside. And certainly no one else cared in the way that he did. He was my best friend, wasn't he?

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 duped 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.