The small print stated that on publication she would be expected to do a publicity tour of the States. She emailed back saying that if her lawyer approved the contract she would be delighted to comply with their wishes. She was no fool. The contract seemed straightforward, but nevertheless she had her English lawyer look it over before signing.
Three months later she set off on her big adventure. Before she arrived, there had been plenty of pre-publicity but as she was not all that well known in the States her personal appearances would boost the sales.
She flew into Boston for the start of the tour. It would be a long time before she returned home to Goa.
*
Life in Paris had settled back into its steady rhythm of diplomatic encounters and pleasant social events – at which there was no sign of Jutta Weidenfeller. It was as if she had never been. If Philip had any regrets about the woman, it was that he had been taken in by her. He had been gullible and it had almost caused a rift between him and his sons. Thankfully, that had been healed and he saw them whenever possible.
Jack was now seriously into languages, not yet sure how he would use them, but determined he would. Jamie was still uncertain about what he wanted to do but was showing a flair for the sciences. Philip rather hoped he would not go into research – eminently worthwhile, though he felt it might be rather a lonely life for such a gregarious young chap.
He never made observations of this nature to Jamie, leaving it to the boy’s good sense. They had grown up so much. He felt Helen would be proud of them. He certainly was.
From time to time he would think of Liz, and wonder what she was doing. He wished they hadn’t lost contact, for a short and precious time there had been such a bond between them.
*
Boston, the first city Liz visited, had been such fun. Vivien Brown, a personal assistant at the publishing house met her from the plane and never seemed to leave her side. She was a highly efficient young woman of around twenty-five who had Liz’s itinerary at her fingertips.
Fortunately, the two women hit it off instantly. Although at first Liz found her general breezy and apparently boundless energy exhausting, she soon found it was a delightful stimulus. Together they attended literary luncheons where Liz was the guest speaker. She had been interviewed by local television and radio companies and signed more copies of her book than she could believe, and this was only the start!
Vivien had planned the tour down to the last meticulous detail, allowing a day or two at the beginning or end of each stop to give Liz a chance to become a real sightseer. Visiting the Boston Tea Party Museum on the quayside and listening to the somewhat negative recorded “declarings” regarding “the British” made her smile and reminded her of learning about the Boston Tea Party at school. As she listened to the saga of the bales of tea being dumped overboard, she thought it seemed so much more interesting actually being in situ.
They ate lobster at the restaurant Pier Four and the bell clanged at intervals announcing another ship coming in. Many of the clangs were unrelated to what was happening outside, but it certainly made for an entertaining atmosphere.
By car, they traced the route of the Paul Revere ride and Liz was charmed by the clapboard houses built around village greens – the early settlers trying so hard to re-create the country they had left behind. Names like Plymouth, Newcastle and Dover speaking volumes. Liz knew she must return here one day, ideas for future books darting in and out of her brain.
From Boston, they flew to Chicago. There, the huge expanse of river and the moored riverboats, evocative of another age, excited and stimulated her. The book was already selling well and she had three solid mornings of book signings in different parts of the windy city. Her right hand felt quite numb with the effort, but it was, she felt, worth it to see the pleasure on people’s faces. Once again she spoke at a literary lunch. About two hundred women attended. The questions were, for the most part, fairly straightforward: the “where do you start?” and “do you plan the whole book in advance?” and “do you find the experiences in your own life influence what you write?”
Liz met some charming and interesting people and dinner invitations followed. On Vivien’s advice, she refused them all. “To accept one means you offend others, and,” continued Vivien, “you need the evening space to have a quiet meal, go to the theatre, watch television or have an occasional early night.”
Liz, a social animal, felt a momentary pang but she also realised Vivien was right. Certainly, she was tired by evening and the two women often shared a room service meal. Vivien always left her by ten p.m. saying they both needed space.
Once again Liz found her professionalism comforting, knowing she was being “managed” but preferring it to floundering on her own, which she would have done without VB, as she began to call Vivien.
Liz had adored New Orleans. The music, the way people spoke, permanently sounding relaxed and laid back. An illusion, she knew, but one she enjoyed. The Creole food was delicious, spicy and different and she searched for a Creole cookbook to take back as a present for Aarav. The spices were different too and with Vivien’s help, she chose a small selection of the rarer ones.
She was tiring now, her voice was even tired, and Vivien, anticipating this, had suggested before travelling to Phoenix that they could spend a few days in Sedona. Liz had heard of Sedona of course. The red rocks, the place where countless films had been made and, of course, the Grand Canyon.
Liz thought it a fabulous idea and when they finally arrived at the log-built hotel with its spa, masseuse and straightforward American food, Liz realised how much she needed to relax. She slept for twelve hours the first night, putting it down to the wonderful air and the fact that she had five whole days to wind down.
She swam for an hour every morning, going gently up and down the pool. It was set into rocks and it was so cleverly designed it looked almost as if it was a natural pool. She enjoyed the spa too and had a daily massage when she let her mind wander and thought of Philip. For a short while, she had felt loved and felt she loved him too. The boys had written their different accounts of Jutta and her unseemly departure. What she loved was that each boy credited the other for having been instrumental in “getting rid of her”. What pleased her most though was it had, in a way, brought their father closer to them, and she noticed they both seemed to write of him more frequently with a sense of fondness as well as filial respect.
Liz had written to Kathy and the boys giving them her itinerary for the two months she was travelling and also the contact details of her publisher – she wanted to be sure they could always get in touch with her. The boys were her sons, maybe in spirit only, but they were her sons…
Before leaving Boston, the ever-efficient Vivien had asked for her next of kin. When Liz raised her eyebrows, Vivien had explained it was quite usual with writers on tour. “We’ve never had any sort of incident – but once one of our writers developed chicken-pox and we had to fly him home in the company plane.”
Liz had come to enjoy the company plane. It had six passenger seats and enough space to walk around. Checking in at airports was so easy and Liz decided it was definitely the way to travel. After a moment’s hesitation, she provided not only Kathy’s details, but contact details for Jack and Jamie. She could not imagine any reason for them to be contacted but felt in the event of “something” they should at least “know”.
Now, the tour was drawing to its conclusion. Lying in a jacuzzi, Liz reflected on some of her experiences. New York, The Plaza Hotel, the Broadway shows, the splendid dinner with the Chairman of the publishing company, along with his wife and senior colleagues at the famous Mama Leone restaurant. Would she ever forget the finest Italian food she had ever eaten? Her mouth watered at the memory.
Her New York audiences had been her toughest though. The usual literary lunches but the questions were perhaps more penetrating at times. Questions, too, about
her change of publisher, someone produced a copy of the newspaper article written by Alex and asked what had caused her to change her agent/publisher. “After all,” the disembodied voice from the audience continued. “Alex Wylde is respected and well known. He has stated that your writing is now passé. Have you changed this novel in any way as a result?”
Liz grimaced as she thought back. She had, she admitted afterwards to Vivien, been knocked off course. For a moment she had stumbled over her words. “I shall be frank,” she had said, finally pulling herself together. “Alex Wild Wylde was a guest in my home in India. I threw him out because he overstepped the mark.” – Let them think what they want, she thought – “I chose to remove my book from his agency and his ‘revenge’ was to write that article. That,” she had continued, “is the truth and I am not prepared to discuss it further. Next question?” she smiled, remembering the moment of total silence, and when she finally left the podium she was still shaking.
Vivien had been brilliant. “Well done, Liz,” she had said. “Sometimes it pays to speak out – it will stop speculation and gossip. Now tell me,” she had continued. “What on earth did he do?!”
It had been good to tell someone the truth, for after he had left she had so much to do repairing all the damage and hurt he had caused to her friends that her own feelings had been pushed to one side. Vivien had listened in horrified fascination. “What a sod,” she had said finally, causing them both to fall about. It had been good to talk, Liz thought, as the jacuzzi jets continued pulsating around her, it had been quite a cathartic experience – washed it out of her so to speak.
She smiled happily. Yes, she was feeling great. Better and happier than she had felt for quite some time. She mentally paused. Better than before Philip or rather after Philip. She was, at last, realising irrevocably that she would never see him again.
chapter 36
Over breakfast the next morning, Liz and Vivien were enjoying a desultory conversation when Vivien suddenly asked about Liz’s life in Goa. Liz had mentioned it of course but now at Vivien’s insistence, she described the villa, the gardens, the beach and Ashok and his family and the little home they had in the grounds. She talked too about Anjali and Aarav and even Bernadette, her husband and the children they were caring for.
“Oh Liz, you must write about it all. It sounds so heavenly.”
“It is my bit of heaven,” admitted Liz. “I miss everyone and everything – even my horses.”
“You have horses too! Where do you ride?” Vivien wanted to know. Liz told her about the sunrise and sunset rides, about riding bareback and swimming in the sea with Coco and Guinness. The more she talked about it the more homesick she became and the thought of another month in the States was suddenly unbearable.
She looked reflective and Vivien intuitively knew that Liz was feeling really homesick. “I ride,” she said, quite suddenly.
“Really?” said Liz her mind still on thoughts of Goa.
“I have a brilliant idea, why don’t we leave here two days earlier than scheduled and we can go via Wickenburg en route to Phoenix. There is a super ranch there and I’ll ring and see if they can fit us in for a couple of days.”
Liz looked slightly dubious, “I really don’t want to ride in a line—” she began.
“Leave it to me,” Vivien said cheerfully and, taking her mobile out of her bag, she pressed a number of digits. “Hi Nancy, Vivien Brown. Yes, I’m fine – now something special.” To Liz’s embarrassment, Vivien explained that she was looking after a famous author who had her own horses but was missing them and would love to have a couple of days riding at the ranch. “Free riding,” she continued. “With a wrangler of course. Just a moment, Nancy,” she paused, realising Liz was frantically signalling to her.
“Please ask her not to tell anyone – I really would like a private two days,” Liz said. Vivien passed on the message and it was quite clear that Nancy understood and would guard Liz’s privacy.
Liz didn’t usually mind people knowing who she was, in fact usually it was an important part of the necessary publicity, but if she was to have two days riding she perhaps acknowledged, rather selfishly, that she did not want to hear from other guests the oft-quoted, “Oh, I was thinking about writing a book if I had the time.” When this comment cropped up when she was lecturing her response was always the same: “If you really want to write, you will. If you feel a need to write – you will always find the time.” But now with the prospect of a riding break she wanted to savour every moment of “freedom”.
They left for Wickenburg soon after breakfast going via “slide rock” where they enjoyed watching both adults and children sliding down the large smooth rock into the river that flowed steadily past.
“I would love to have done that as a child,” Liz laughed.
“I did,” Vivien confessed. “The first time I came here with my parents and twin sisters. The three of us spent the entire day sliding and swimming and ruining our shorts and tee shirts, in fact, we finished up with no seat in our shorts.”
“Your poor mother.” Vivien laughed.
“She wasn’t best pleased for sure but I think she has forgiven us by now!”
They drove into Wickenburg, eating lunch at a Mexican restaurant that Vivien knew. She then insisted they visit the museum which was in memory of Henry Wickenburg who had set up and mined Vulture Mine many years before. It also provided a picture of times gone by with posters displaying requests for orphans to ride for the pony express. The death rate was appalling, Vivien explained, hence the need for orphans – who would not be missed… “Poor boys,” she continued. “If the Indians didn’t get them exhaustion frequently did.”
A little later they were driving along a bumpy unmade road. Liz had no idea what to expect and the first glimpse of a beautifully tended lawn with a pool set in the middle of it was in great contrast to the barren and dry landscape they had passed on the drive.
The sound of their car brought Nancy and her husband John out to meet them. Vivien was the recipient of warm hugs whilst Liz was made to feel her visit was a real treat for them! “We’ve put you in the homestead VB,” Nancy said. “Perfect,” Vivien answered, as John took a bag in each hand and the four of them walked across a small dusty quadrangle to the door of an adobe house.
The smell of horses filled the air and Liz breathed in heavily, the smell transporting her to her own stables and horses. Here, she could see the horses lived in spacious corrals and stood in small groups, with shade provided by the scattering of bush-like trees and shrubs.
“We always do an orientation here,” Nancy explained to Liz. Liz nodded, Vivien had explained the practice with new guests. “If you folks aren’t too weary we could always do it now so that you can ride first thing in the morning.”
Liz nodded happily. A quick freshen up and she would be all set to go she informed Nancy, delighted that they would be able to ride first thing in the morning. “Great,” enthused Vivien. “I’ll do the orientation as well John. It’s always good to have a brush-up and have a few reminders.” John looked immensely pleased – he always liked guests who entered into the spirit of things.
In the adobe house, which was comprised of a sitting area with fireplace and television and two bedrooms with a shared bathroom, the girls quickly changed into jeans and tee shirts. Neither of them had riding boots with them but they were each able to find a pair in the “loaner” box specially provided for guests who hadn’t their own. Liz thought the adobe house, built of local mud years before, quite perfect and the atmosphere of the ranch and the welcome they had received made her relieved that VB had come up with such a happy idea.
Within half an hour of their arrival, they were on horseback. Liz on a quarter horse called Eclipse and Vivien on Hosea. They spent an hour in the corral which gave Liz a chance to try a western saddle for the first time and learn to hold the reins with just the left hand. It see
med strange at first but soon she had totally adjusted and they cantered around with John making the occasional encouraging comment.
John and Nancy were surprised by how quickly Liz adapted to the western saddle but when they learnt she frequently rode bareback and therefore with a “long leg” they understood. She told them how she rode morning and evening on the big expanse of beach, frequently finishing off by going into the sea with both horses.
“It sounds fabulous,” Nancy confessed. “I can’t even imagine being that free, yet we feel free here, don’t we John?”
“Sure do,” he answered in what Liz was beginning to realise was his normal monosyllabic way.
They had a glorious two days. Liz had already become fond of Vivien but the two days on the ranch cemented their friendship and they enjoyed their rides together. Climbing high, looking down at the town of Wickenburg or looking out at the mountains all around them. Best though, they both agreed, was cantering along the dry sandy river bed of the Hassayampa River.
All too quickly the two-day vacation was over. Of the week’s break they had had, Liz acknowledged that, as much as she enjoyed the beauty of Sedona, the ranch in Wickenburg had been the highlight – a real oasis of peace and pleasure – and she promised her hosts she would definitely return, either at the end of the tour or she would make another visit to the States just to ride on the plains and mountains of Arizona.
As a thank you for their warmth and kindness, Liz left them a copy of her book, inside she wrote: For my dear new friends Nancy and John Loftis, with thanks for two of the happiest days of my life. Liz O’Malley. It may have been a bit over the top but she couldn’t remember being so happy for a long time.
From Wickenburg, Vivien drove them the hour or so to Phoenix, where Liz was due to appear on television that evening on the Larry King Show. His reputation as a searching questioner was well known and Vivien advised that if he needled her in any way she should stick to the subject of the book and the tour. It was sound advice. He had picked up the Alex story, but she refused to be drawn. He presented her with a copy of her own book for her to sign and she made him laugh when she said he was taking advantage of her, that he should stand in line like everybody else.
The Portuguese House Page 18
