Voice of the Heart

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  ‘What do I care about lawyers, yours or anyone else’s, Nicholas,’ she hissed, drawing herself up with imperious disdain. ‘My father can buy and sell your lawyers.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, stop waving your father’s goddamn money in front of my face.’ Nick leapt to his feet, poured himself a vodka. ‘No ice, as usual. Oh well, I suppose that’s too much to expect with all the help we’ve got in this house. I’ll drink it straight.’

  ‘You drink too much these days.’

  ‘I’ll paddle my canoe. You paddle yours, Carlotta.’

  ‘You sit up here drinking half the day. Instead of writing. The new novel won’t be finished on the day you die.’

  Nick laughed sardonically, swung to face her. ‘You’re a real bitch at times, honey, know that?’

  Her shrug was one of indifference. ‘Obviously you bring out that trait in me,’ she snapped.

  Exhaling wearily, Nick shook his head, continuing to regard her through frosty eyes, which had narrowed perceptibly. ‘What happened to the demure and gentle young woman I first met? The girl Vic handpicked for me, because he thought she was the sweetest, prettiest thing he’d set eyes on.’

  ‘I’ve been living with you for five years. Something rotten is bound to rub off.’

  Nick decided to let the snotty remark slide past him and, adopting a more conciliatory manner, he said slowly, ‘I can’t imagine why you suddenly want to take a trip to Caracas. We’ve just returned from there. Wasn’t the Christmas vacation enough?’

  ‘It’s too cold in New York,’ she hedged carefully and in a quieter tone.

  ‘Don’t give me that, Carlotta. It’s hardly a reason. You practically grew up on the East Coast, and have spent most of your life here. Now, all of a sudden, it’s too cold. Come on!’

  ‘You misunderstood,’ Carlotta began, also wanting to be placatory, to get her own way. ‘I didn’t mean I want to go back permanently, only for a few months, until the spring. I was also thinking of you. It would give you a chance to concentrate on your work, you’d have peace and quiet.’

  Nick was adamant. ‘No way. Victor does not leave these United States without me. Ever, Carlotta, and that’s final.’ He smirked coldly. ‘Of course, you can go if you wish. Victor stays here with me.’

  ‘Leave my baby here with you! Never!’ she shrieked. ‘At the mercy of you and your women—’ She stopped and looked at him nervously, regretting the last remark.

  ‘Women. Jesus, that’s a laugh. You know damn well there aren’t any other women in my life,’ Nick exploded in irritation, glaring hard at her.

  ‘So you say. I don’t believe you. You’re always disappearing for hours on end. And you must be sleeping with somebody. You’re certainly not sleeping with me.’ She crossed her legs, leaning back. ‘Very few women would put up with the things I have to contend with,’ she finished coldly, adopting the air of a martyr.

  Nick winced at this reference to their arid sex life, a bone of contention between them, and sighed heavily. ‘I am not sleeping with anyone else, Carlotta. Nor am I having any kind of relationship with another woman. I’m simply preoccupied with my novel. Haven’t you learned yet that when I’m writing I’m not interested in most things, not only sex. My energy goes into my work.’

  Deep down she recognized he probably spoke the truth, yet there was always a faint element of doubt about him in her mind. He had become so distant these last few months she could only attribute it to a romance. She could not resist needling him. ‘That’s just it… you’re not working hard. So where are all your energies being directed?’

  Into quarrels with you, Nick thought sourly. He said, ‘I’ve hit a bad patch. This novel is highly complex, needs enormous thought. That’s what I do when I’m absent half the day. I walk and I think. I go to the Frick or the Metropolitan, and I sit and think. All I do when I go out of this house is visit museums or pound the pavements. I also have to think about plot, structure, dialogue, atmosphere, a sense of time and place. Oh hell, what’s the use. You’ll never understand, and perhaps I shouldn’t expect you to.’

  Carlotta gave him an odd look. ‘When we first met you were in the middle of a book, and our sexual relationship wasn’t affected. Anyway, you’ve always been writing a book, or a screenplay, as long as we’ve been together. It’s only recently that you’ve changed towards me,’ she whined petulantly, peering at him from under her silky lashes.

  ‘Holy Christ, Carlotta! I’m older now. I’m fifty-one, not a young stud with a permanent erection.’

  She threw him a look of condemnation. ‘Excuses. That’s all you ever give me—I happen to know you’re seeing a woman, Nicholas. So you can stop denying it. She’s been calling here today. All day. The nerve of her, intruding on my home!’

  Nick gaped at Carlotta in honest astonishment. ‘Calling here. Who’s been calling? What woman? What the hell are you babbling about?’

  ‘I’m not babbling… I’m simply telling you, and with a calmness that positively astounds me, that your lady friend has been pestering me the entire day. Calling up, asking for you. Naturally she didn’t leave a name.’ She held his attention completely, added, with a small sarcastic laugh, ‘She’ll probably call again—any minute now.’

  Nick was mystified. He shook his head, said with vehemence, ‘I have absolutely no idea who she is, honestly, I don’t.’ He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘I am telling you the truth, Carlotta.’

  His bewilderment was so pronounced and genuine, Carlotta had no option but to believe him. Her anger began to subside. She said, with a new hint of softness, ‘You can’t blame me for being annoyed and upset. How would you feel if some strange man kept calling, asking for me, refusing to give his name?’

  ‘I’d be bloody furious. And suspicious,’ Nick admitted with a grin, understanding everything now. Her impossible jealousy, always unfounded, had flared yet again, had prompted the threats about leaving. His shoulders lifted in a shrug. ‘Yes, she will call back, if it’s anything important. Then the mystery will be neatly solved, won’t it? In the meantime, let’s pack this in. You know I hate fighting.’ He rose, crossed the room, kissed the top of her head. ‘Truce, darling?’

  ‘For the moment, Nicholas,’ she said sternly, but her velvety eyes were warmer, he noticed. Much warmer.

  ‘And no more talk about flying off to Venezuela with little Victor. Okay?’

  ‘Yes. Surely you knew I didn’t mean for ever. And I would like to take a trip soon.’ She felt him stiffen next to her, and hurried on, ‘Even if I don’t take the baby with me, I do think I’ll have to go. My father’s not been well. Mother is worried about him again.’

  ‘He seemed fine at Christmas,’ Nick answered, his brows drawing together. He squeezed her shoulder affectionately. ‘He’ll be all right. Don’t worry so much about him. He’s missing you, just as I’d miss you if you were gone.’

  ‘Would you, Nicholas?’

  Her face was upturned to his and he saw the doubt on it. ‘Yes, of course,’ he reassured, wondering if he really would. ‘Incidentally, why are you all dressed up? I was about to ask you, when I first came in, but you launched your broadside before I had the chance.’

  ‘Oh Nicholas!’ She frowned at him in dismay. ‘You haven’t forgotten Dolores Orlando’s party, have you?’

  ‘Hell, I had.’ He made a face. ‘Do I have to go? You know I can’t stand that jet-setty crowd she swings with. They’re all such… twerps. I have nothing in common with them. Dolores is okay,’ he added immediately, aware of her disapproving glance. ‘Look, she’ll understand. I’ll call and apologize. Now. So she has time to juggle her seating.’

  Carlotta was about to present a variety of arguments, and then instantly decided against this. If she forced him to go, by throwing one of her scenes, he would be difficult and acerbic, and ruin their evening. ‘Well, all right,’ she agreed with just the right amount of hesitancy and reluctance. ‘Would you mind very much if I went?’

  ‘Of course not. I’d p
lanned to do a little work tonight anyway, so I won’t feel so guilty if you’re out having a good time.’ He loped over to his desk, flipped through his address book, made the call to Dolores. After apologizing profusely, he hung up, grinning jubilantly. ‘It’s a buffet supper. No problem about her seating. She was disappointed, so she said, but understanding. Now, how about a drink before you leave?’

  Carlotta accepted a glass of Sauternes with soda, and they spent the next twenty minutes chatting in a more amiable vein, touching on their child, Nick’s mother and her health, his niece Nicoletta’s forthcoming engagement party. Putting down her half-finished drink, Carlotta stood up. ‘Pearl thought we would be out tonight, so she hasn’t made anything special. But she has prepared a pot roast for herself and Miss Jessica. You could have that. Or a steak perhaps?’

  ‘I’d prefer the pot roast. But I’ll tell Pearl, you don’t have to bother.’ He glanced at his watch; it was eight o’clock. ‘I guess I’ve missed my bedtime story hour with Victor. I’ll look in on him after you’ve left.’

  ‘He’s already asleep. Don’t wake him up, otherwise he’ll want to spend the evening with Daddy, who spoils him.’ Her smile was friendly despite this mild chastisement, and she turned and swung out of the study with a swish of taffeta. Nick followed her downstairs, helped her into her mink coat, kissed her on the cheek.

  After paying a visit to the kitchen and chatting with Pearl, their cook-housekeeper, Nick climbed the stairs to the third floor where his son’s room was located. He opened the door carefully, crept inside on silent feet. In the dim glow from the rosy night-light he could see the child’s fair head on the pillow, and a disreputable looking Snoopy lying alongside. Leaning over, he straightened the covers, touched the soft downy hair tenderly, bent lower to kiss the smooth round cheek. ‘Sweet dreams, my darling,’ he whispered. ‘I love you.’

  For the next forty minutes or so, Nicholas Latimer sat at his desk in his study on the second floor, scrupulously editing the pages he had written several days before. When he had finished, he stretched, took off his horn-rimmed glasses, rubbed his eyes wearily. The pages were good, and yet the chapter as a whole was not quite right. He was damned if he knew why. Running his hand through his blond hair, tinged with grey now, he began to ruminate on those last pages. He had always had the ability to spot flaws in his writing. It was more important to be able to detect faults, and zero in on the reasons for them, than to recognize excellence. Lately he seemed to have lost that self-critical faculty, and this disturbed him. The book had started out fine, had rolled like a dream for a while. Over the last few months, quite unexpectedly, he had hit difficulties. He was not moving it well at all.

  ‘Why?’ he demanded of himself out loud, and jumped up, irritated and filled with growing impatience.

  After refreshing his drink, he flopped down on the sofa, lit a cigarette and stared into space. His eyes rested on the bookshelves facing him, and the long line of novels he had written. All had been international best sellers. All of them had been excruciating to write, had caused him much heartache and grief. He frowned. Perhaps that was it. Perhaps he was expecting it to be easier now. It was never easy. The day it was, and when he stopped worrying, he would hang up his pencil. Sighing, he stretched out on the sofa, thinking about his life.

  Why was the book not going smoothly? Why was he so restless? Impatient? Irascible? And bored? He was one of the world’s most successful novelists. He had more money than he knew what to do with. He had terrific health, touch wood. He looked pretty good for his age: not too many grey hairs or tired lines or flab. And most importantly, he had a small son whom he truly adored. A healthy, beautiful, intelligent little boy with an iridescent smile and a sweet and loving disposition. Certain critics did not love him any more, as they once had. But then, who cared about those particular critics? They were an elitist bunch of creeps who condemned him because they thought he had sold out, said he had gone commercial. He wasn’t quite sure why they were angry with him because his novels sold. Wasn’t that what it was all about? No writer worked his guts out for endless, back-breaking years, hoping his, or her, books would not sell. In any event, those critical critics were wrong. He had not copped out, tarnished his talent, as they suggested. He wrote what he wanted to write, the only way he knew how to write it. He gave of his best. More than his best. He gave every ounce of himself. His readers loved his words. Fortunately. They were the only ones who counted. His readers, God bless ’em. They plonked down their hard-earned cash for his books, wrote him generous, warming letters, encouraged him always with their touching words, made the frequently lonely life of a writer seem somehow less lonely. Those literary snobs who said he worshipped at the Altar of the Big Buck could take their literary prizes and shove ’em up their tochises. He smiled broadly, wondering about the plural of tochis. He would have to ask his father about that. Might it not be tochi? He laughed out loud.

  Noticing that the unsmoked cigarette had smouldered down to the filter, he sat up and stubbed it out, hating the smell. He reached for another cigarette, withdrew his hand from the silver box. I am going to stop, he muttered. Soon. He took a sip of vodka, savouring it. Carlotta thought he was drinking a lot. Now his eyes strayed to the photograph of her on the antique table adjacent to the sofa. She was sitting astride a horse, on her father’s four-thousand-acre ranch in Venezuela, looking proud, imperious and exotically beautiful. Carlotta Maria Caldicott Méndez Enright. The Caldicott came from her mother, the elegant and dignified Gillian, who was straight out of Philadelphia Main Line society; the Méndez was from her father, Don Alejandro, scion of one of the richest and most powerful families in his country; the Enright was left over from that pipsqueak of a playboy husband, Jimmy. One of the California Enrights, as if anybody cared where they came from. She had married and divorced poor old sozzled dim-witted James by the time she was twenty-three. He had met her a year later, and they had been living together ever since.

  Nick picked up the photograph, stared at the angelic face, the smouldering brown eyes, the cascading mane of blonde hair. Yes, she was a beauty, and yes, she could be sweet. She was also one helluva spitfire most of the time. A strange mixture, he mused, cool Yankee independence plus Puritan toughness and rigidity mingling with hot Latin blood and passionate emotions. A young woman of volatile mood swings. Then he thought: Admit it, Nicholas Latimer, you’re unhappy with her. So goddamned rock-bottom unhappy everything is being tainted.

  Replacing the picture, he pushed himself to his feet, went to the window, looked down into the backyard, his face dismal. The snow was days old and dirty, streaked with the city’s grime, and the single tree, skeletal against the grey, illuminated Manhattan sky, seemed bereft. That makes two of us, Tree, he said inwardly. His shoulders drooped, indicating his dejection and spiralling misery. He tried to guide his thoughts in another direction, but they persisted in dwelling on Carlotta. He had wanted to marry her and she had wanted to marry him. Unfortunately, they had never been able to make their desire for wedded bliss coincide. They were always out of sync. And still unmarried. Because of Victor, lots of pressure was being exerted on them both these days. Two sets of doting, and enormously rich, grandparents were appalled at the way their grandson was being raised.

  ‘It’s your loose—to put it succinctly—life style, Nick, my boy,’ his father had told him last week. ‘Please, for the child’s sake, your mother’s sake, marry Carlotta. You must, Nicky, to protect yourself and the boy. Venezuela is a long way off. Who knows about their laws? A little child could disappear for ever behind walls constructed of that immense Méndez wealth and power. Don Alejandro would be a potent enemy. I’d never rest in my grave if this were still unresolved when I die.’ He had told his father not to talk about dying, but his father was eighty-five, and although it was unspoken between them, they knew time was creeping up.

  Nick grimaced. He had promised to give marriage serious thought; ask Carlotta to do the same. Yet he was not sure he could make the
ir union legal. Her incessant social life, which she tried to foist on him, her constant demands on his time, her temperamental outbursts, and her irrational jealousy were terrible stumbling blocks in their relationship. And all invested the house with disharmony, a disharmony that was assuredly detrimental to the child, not to mention his own teetering peace of mind.

  He supposed he could not blame her entirely. Living with a writer like himself, who tended to be hermetic and dedicated to his craft and distracted half the time, could hardly be an exciting existence for a beautiful, fun-loving, vivacious young woman who was twenty-nine. With her natural attributes, plus the asset of being the only daughter of a multi-millionaire who worshipped her, there was no question in his mind that she would easily, and speedily, find another man. Possibly a husband.

  If he had any balls at all he would exit smartly, without a backward glance. How could he? There was his beloved child. His son. Maybe he should take his father’s advice and marry Carlotta without further procrastination. To protect himself and his son’s future. He groaned. He had been skirting the issue for months, and with an unexpected glimmer of insight he now understood why. He was facing the truth finally. It was Carlotta who was affecting his writing. He was letting her do so. This sudden and unpalatable knowledge shook him. He ran his hand through his hair. How in God’s name was he going to unravel this mess and ensure everyone involved came out of it unscathed?

  The intercom buzzed, harsh and strident in the dim and silent room. He lifted the receiver. ‘Sure, Pearl, I’ll be right down.’

  Chapter Forty-One

  Sudden perceptions, whilst illuminating the mind, can also cause depression when the intrinsic truths they reveal are troubling or unacceptable. And Nicholas Latimer was suffering from such a malaise of the spirits, when, after dinner, he sat in the living room drinking a second cup of coffee.