Playing the Game

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  Laurie shook her head. “We’re not going out. Mrs. Groome is making lunch for us today, and so we’re going to have it here. I hope that’s all right?”

  “It’s fine, whatever you want.” Annette reached out, touched her arm, and said, “Listen, before we get lost in our usual chitchat, I’ve something to tell you.”

  Laurie stared at her, frowned. “You sound very serious all of a sudden. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong, not in the sense you mean. But I’m afraid we won’t be sailing off to New York on the Queen Elizabeth. I hate to disappoint you, but Marius thinks we should have the auction in London, not New York.”

  Laurie’s face dropped, but in an instant a smile spread across her face. “Oh, don’t worry. Malcolm had wanted to come with us on the trip, so perhaps the three of us could still go, after the auction in London, I mean.”

  “Malcolm wanted to come with us!” Annette sounded startled. “I didn’t know you were . . . so friendly.”

  “Oh, yes, we are. Very, very good friends. He often comes over for dinner, and he takes me out quite a lot.”

  For a moment Annette didn’t quite know what to say, so surprised was she, but she finally found her voice. “Well, he’s always been one of my favorites, and I know he’ll look after you properly when you’re out together.”

  Laurie burst out laughing. “I can look after myself, you know that. And we’re good friends,” she added again. “We enjoy each other’s company, we’ve a great deal in common.”

  “I know you do.” Annette sat very still for a moment, staring into the fire, watching the flames shoot up the chimney. She wondered if Marius would approve of this growing friendship, and then pushed the thought away. One thing was certain. She would never permit him to interfere in Laurie’s life.

  As if Laurie were seeing into her head, she said, “I know you’re angry with Marius. Inside, Annette. You’re not showing it, but I can feel it. You’re angry because he always manages to manipulate you, control you. And listen, why does he think London’s better for the auction?”

  “Because I had my first big auction here with the Rembrandt. My first big success. He wants me to repeat it . . . wants it to be bigger and better.”

  “But you could have done that in New York, couldn’t you? Made it bigger and better?”

  “I think so. But perhaps he knows something I don’t.”

  “I suppose it doesn’t matter really,” Laurie murmured, giving her sister a hard stare. “When there’s a newly discovered Degas sculpture, and especially when it’s The Little Fourteen-Year-Old Dancer, you know the auction is going to be a smash hit wherever it is held.”

  Annette stared back. “How right you are,” she responded, thinking how smart her sister was. She also realized that Marius had known exactly the same thing. They could easily have had the auction in New York; it would have worked just as well there as here, because of the fame and quality of the artworks. But for a reason she had no inkling of, he had been determined to make her have the auction in London.

  Laurie swung her chair slightly, faced Annette, and smiled at her sister. “Listen, I know it annoys you, this controlling of his, the manipulation that’s gone on for years. But you do get your own way in so many other things. Because you’re very clever, and he has always looked after us, hasn’t he?”

  “Yes, and I’ve always played the game, been loyal to him.”

  There was a pause before Laurie said, “Whatever would we have done without him?”

  “I don’t know,” Annette answered, thinking that she might have gone to jail and Laurie would have been dependent on the kindness of their aunt. Not very great prospects, to say the least. Taking a deep breath, she remarked in a very positive voice, “The main thing is to make the auction a big success. So I guess where it’s held doesn’t really matter. Now, on to something else. You’re an avid newspaper reader. . . . Have you ever heard of a journalist called Jack Chalmers?”

  “He’s fantastic. I think he writes like a dream, beautifully, and he’s incisive. I read every profile of his in The Sunday Times. Oh, my goodness, is he going to interview you?”

  “He is . . . that’s who Marius has chosen.”

  Laurie exclaimed, “I think he’ll do well by you.” She grinned. “Marius made a good choice.”

  Part Two

  THE HOTSHOT

  JOURNALIST

  There is no god higher than truth.

  Mahatma Gandhi (1939)

  Eleven

  Jack Chalmers liked all things familiar, be it a particular home, city, country locale, ski resort, beach, bar, restaurant, or pub. His desire for the familiar also included people.

  He had his preferred bartenders, maître d’s, waiters, and, most important, publishers and editors who understood him and who he believed could turn dross into pure gold. All of the above made him feel comfortable, relaxed, and at ease, whilst giving him a great deal of pleasure; he thought of them as the simple things in life, which not all of them were, of course.

  This particular week, the last in March, was extra special for Jack. . . . He was in Beaulieu-sur-Mer, his favorite town in the south of France, where he had a beautiful villa overlooking the Mediterranean.

  The Villa Saint-Honoré was his permanent home, filled with yet another collection of old familiar things which made up his life, and which, to him, made sense: his IBM Personal Wheelwriter 2 by Lexmark, a wonderful typewriter on which he wrote his books; his computer for research and writing his newspaper and magazine pieces; thousands of books; a plethora of framed photographs from his childhood and his older years, plus pictures of his mother, his father, his brother, and the rest of the family.

  Other polished wood surfaces were covered with unique mementos collected on his world travels, as well as stacks of prestigious awards for his work, somewhat carelessly displayed, and, in a corner near the window, there was a huge antique world globe on a stand which he had loved to spin and gaze at when he was a child.

  There were also chests, cupboards, and closets full of extremely expensive but understated casual clothes, the kind he favored, and a collection of worn trenchcoats that he loved and couldn’t bring himself to throw away.

  Now he stood in front of one of these closets in his huge upstairs office on this Tuesday morning, looking through his jackets. Finally selecting a lightweight beige linen, he slipped it on over his navy V-necked sweater and jeans and left his office.

  Here in his charming house on the sea he was in seventh heaven. . . . The familiar piled up on top of the familiar . . . what could be better? He smiled inwardly, his spirits lifting as he ran down the stairs, crossed the terra-cotta-tiled hall, and went along a corridor to the kitchen.

  Opening the door, he stuck his head around it. “Bonjour, Hortense!”

  His housekeeper swung her head and gave him a huge smile. “Bonjour, Monsieur Jacques.”

  “I’m going out for a while, but I’ll be back for lunch around one. Where’s Amaury?”

  “He went to Nice. For magazines, newspapers you want. They didn’t have here. Do you need him, monsieur?” she asked in her almost perfect English.

  “No, no, Hortense, it’s nothing important. See you later.” He flashed her a smile and was gone.

  Jack went out of the front door and down the path, glanced around, sniffing the air, catching the scent of mimosa and, underlying this, the fresh smell of the leaves on the trees, the newly mown lawns on each side of the path.

  He loved this time of year in the south of France, relished being back after a month working in Beverly Hills and New York, doing three important interviews and drafting them.

  He had flown directly here from the States four days ago, and already he felt refreshed, ready to tackle the last chapter of his third book, which his publishers were expecting in a week. It would go in on time. He had never missed a deadline in his life, and he prided himself on that achievement.

  Walking up the Boulevard Maréchal Leclerc, he lifted
his eyes at one moment and looked up. It was a periwinkle-blue sky this morning, filled with pale sunlight filtering through a few wispy white clouds; it was a sparkling day, not cold at all, and although there was a light breeze blowing in from the sea, it carried a hint of warmth.

  Jack was heading in the direction of La Réserve, one of the loveliest hotels in the world, in his opinion, and one which he had been going to since he was five. That was when his mother had first taken him there. The summer of 1982. My God, twenty-five years ago, he suddenly thought, I’ve been living in this town on and off for most of my life. No wonder it feels like home turf in so many different ways.

  After waiting several minutes for the traffic on this main road to slow, he made a quick dash across the boulevard when there was a gap and went through the open gates of the hotel. He paused for a moment, taking everything in, before strolling through the front gardens and down the short driveway leading to the entrance.

  A moment later he was entering the lobby, warmly greeting the concierge, then striding toward the long bar. Traversing this, he went through the empty dining room and out onto the terrace overlooking the Mediterranean, where breakfast was usually served.

  The terrace was empty, and there were no waiters in sight; he sat down at a small table with an umbrella positioned close to the balustrade. Taking off his dark glasses, he shaded his light-gray eyes with his hand and looked out across the sea. How calm it was this morning, not a ripple, almost like a pond. Slipping his glasses back on, he pulled out his cell phone as it rang, put it to his ear, and said, “It’s Jack.”

  “Morning. It’s Kyle. How’re you doing?”

  “Great. Just got back a few days ago. Guess where I’m sitting right now?”

  “You’re back in Beaulieu, aren’t you?” his stepbrother asserted, always knowing where Jack was.

  “I am. But guess where I’m about to have breakfast?”

  Kyle’s amused chuckle came down the line. “La Réserve, I’ve no doubt, you spoiled bugger. It’s always the best places for you, Jacko. So where else would you be? Especially since you just got back. You can’t resist the old haunts when you’ve been away, my lad.”

  “Full of memories, Kyle. And you know that only too well. You’re the same about certain places. Anyway, what’s up?”

  “I’ll cut to the chase. I was at Dad’s solicitors yesterday. We can now put the house on the market, everything’s sorted. Or if you don’t want to do that, you still have the right to buy my share of it and own it yourself.”

  “I don’t want a big house in Hampstead, Kyle! And neither do you. The two of us are always on the move, and you indicated you’ll be directing a film in Hollywood in a few months. Let’s do what we’ve always said we’d do. Let’s sell the house. Okay?”

  “Okay, it’s a done deal! And I did get the movie. I’ll be going to Jordan to direct it, though, not Hollywood.”

  “Jordan. Jesus, Kyle, that’s too close to Iraq and Afghanistan, too close to the battlefronts for my liking.”

  “It’s safe, though, isn’t it?” Kyle asked swiftly.

  “Yep, it is, and they’re pro-West, but don’t go straying off. Don’t go anywhere I wouldn’t go. Okay, buddy-boy?”

  “You got it. Are you going to be there for long?”

  “A couple of weeks. I have to edit my interviews, which I drafted after I’d done them, to save time. And I’ve one chapter to go on the new book, Dunkerque. The manuscript has to be in next week.”

  “You’ve got your hands full, but you like that, Jack. By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you something. When you sent me a copy of the jacket, I noticed the French spelling of Dunkerque, and not Dunkirk. Why?”

  “I don’t know, to be honest, except that I’ve always liked the French spelling. Also, everyone understands what it means, even non-French-speaking people. The publishers like it as well. They think it has a certain flair.”

  “It does, actually, now that you mention it. So listen, when will I see you, buddy-boy?” Kyle asked.

  “I’m thinking of bringing the manuscript to London. I need to check up on a few things in the flat, and also see my agent. I’ll let you know. In the meantime, I’ve got my work cut out for me in the next week.”

  “You love to be overloaded with writing assignments and to have piles of work surrounding you. It gives you a thrill.”

  Jack began to laugh. “It sure as hell gets my adrenaline flowing, that I do know.”

  “How’s Lucy?”

  “I guess she’s fine, Kyle. To tell you the truth, I haven’t been up to see her yet. We’ve spoken on the phone and she sounds great. I’ll be seeing her tomorrow, to catch up.”

  “That’s an odd way of putting it,” Kyle said, and quickly added, “Sorry. None of my business. See ya, Jacko.”

  “See ya, Kyle.”

  Jack clicked off the phone, put it in his pocket, and instantly noticed the jug of orange juice which had miraculously appeared on the table, along with a tall glass. Glancing around, he spotted one of the waiters he knew, and beckoned for him to come over. After they greeted each other in a friendly manner, Jack said, “The usual, please.”

  The waiter nodded and hurried off.

  Before he had even finished the glass of orange juice, the café au lait and basket of croissants arrived, along with butter and a dish of apricot jam.

  Sipping the juice slowly, Jack’s mind focused on Kyle’s last comment, and he knew his brother was right. It was an odd thing to say . . . that he and Lucy would catch up tomorrow. Lucy Jameson. The woman in his life at this moment. But was she really? He wasn’t quite sure what to do about her. Or what he felt about her.

  Jack was suddenly surrounded by a bustle of activity, which sent all thoughts of Lucy flying right out of his head.

  The waiter who had served the juice was pouring the coffee and milk, deftly removing the empty glass and jug, while the headwaiter, Pierre, who managed the breakfast hours, was hurrying over to greet him. Following behind were several hotel guests obviously wondering where to sit. After showing them to different tables, Pierre continued down the terrace, finally stopped at his table, a smile on his face.

  “Bonjour. And welcome back, Mr. Chalmers. It’s nice to see you.”

  “And you, Pierre. How’re things? Is the hotel busy?”

  “It was at the weekend. It’s slackened off. We’ll be full at Easter. As usual. Can I bring you something else? Eggs? Fruit?”

  Jack shook his head. “No, thanks, this is perfect.”

  With another smile and a nod, the headwaiter went over to speak to the newly arrived guests, and Jack sat back, enjoying his café au lait, the croissant, the pleasant weather, and the spectacular view across the bay. Lucy had gone out of his head only momentarily. As he thought of her now, he realized he did not want to focus on the problem of her today. Problem? Was she a problem? More than likely, yes. Another day. I’ll think about her another day. He laughed to himself. Margaret Mitchell got it right. Tomorrow is another day. He laughed to himself again.

  Jack ran his brother’s phone call through his head, thinking of that rambling old house in Hampstead where they had grown up.

  It was big, no two ways about that, but it was a great home for a family. A growing family. He doubted they would have trouble selling it.

  A surge of unexpected memories filled his head with sudden nostalgia, thoughts of the past . . . the picnics under the big apple tree on hot summer afternoons, the swings which carried them high into the sky, the mock battles with wooden swords and rubber breastplates when they played soldiers, and those fabulous garden parties their parents had given, and which he and Kyle had attended when they were young . . . actors surrounding their father, who was a theatrical agent; producers; writers and directors; journalists and celebrities.

  Kyle was two years older than he was, and they had always been close, ever since his mother had married Kyle’s father; they were still close today. Bonded forever. His big brother. His protector.
But now sometimes he felt more like the protector of Kyle. Role reversals, he thought. It sometimes happens.

  He hated the idea of Kyle going to Jordan. It was a safe country, and the king was pro-Western and smart, but part of the Middle East was a war zone and Kyle was inquisitive, trusting, and fearless. Also, he was prone to taking side trips when he was working on a film abroad. I’ll have to talk to him before he flies off. I need him to get his ducks in a row, need him to understand exactly what’s going on, the inherent dangers he faces. I’ve got to make him promise he’ll stay put, not wander off into one of the nearby countries when he’s finished the movie.

  It struck him then that he hadn’t asked about the movie Kyle was about to direct, and he was annoyed with himself. Kyle was always interested in his work, his life, and concerned for him.

  He pulled out his phone, dialed his brother, and when he answered, Jack said, “Hey, Kyle, I didn’t ask what film you’re about to direct.”

  “It’s about a woman called Lesley Blanch, who was a writer—”

  “She wrote The Wilder Shores of Love, among other books,” Jack interrupted. “And she was married to a French author called Romain Gary.”

  “Correct. I might’ve guessed you’d know who she was. Anyway, it’s about their marriage. As I told you, I’m mostly shooting in Jordan, then later in your neck of the woods, as well as in Paris,” Kyle explained. “So I hope you’ll be around when I’m in Nice.”

  “I sure will,” Jack answered. “And you’ll stay here with me.” He wondered if he should now give his brother advice about taking care of himself on location, and instantly decided against it. Instead, he added, “Talk to you later,” and they both clicked off.

  The sprinklers were whirling and spraying the lawns as Jack walked through the big gate which led into the grounds of the villa. In the distance he could see Amaury bending over one of the large glazed-pottery flower tubs at the end of the terrace.