Playing the Game

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  “Mais oui, I understand. But when he is here with you, at the farm, you can make it . . . work. Can you not?” Claudine’s brow furrowed as she stared at Lucy.

  “Sometimes. However, there are two problems, and they’re not mine, Claudine. They’re Jack’s problems,” Lucy announced, suddenly sounding irritated, a troubled look in her eyes.

  Claudine raised a brow questioningly, but decided to say nothing, hoping Lucy would confide.

  After a moment or two Lucy volunteered, “Basically Jack has trouble committing himself. To a woman. He has been engaged twice in the past, has broken it off each time just before the wedding. We’ve talked about it, but he can’t really explain his behavior to me. It puzzles him, and it sure puzzles me.”

  “Perhaps he is afraid of marriage?”

  “It could be that. But there’s something else, and this worries me even more. . . .” Lucy shrugged. “There’s no real point talking about it, because you and I won’t have the answers.”

  “Ah, a mystery. What is it?”

  “Not really a mystery. You don’t know this, Claudine, but Peter Chalmers was not Jack’s biological father. He was his stepfather, although, from what I understand, he loved Jack as much as his own son, Kyle, and was a devoted father to both boys. Despite this, Jack is haunted by thoughts of his biological father. From what I gather, he was a cheat, an inveterate womanizer, and a no-good kind of guy who was hardly ever around. Jack’s mother left him when Jack was six. She married Peter, who was a widower, when Jack was—” Lucy lifted her hands in Gallic fashion. “Eight? Nine? Something like that.”

  “That often occurs. A curiosity about a biological parent a child has not properly known.”

  “I suppose that’s what it is, actually. You’re right. Once Jack told me he worried about his inability to make a commitment to a woman, and muttered something about him probably being like his biological father, a no-good guy who flitted from woman to woman and couldn’t be true.”

  “Is he like that, cherie?” Claudine’s brow lifted again.

  “I don’t think he is. But how do I know? I mean, he comes and goes, flies around, from here to London to New York and recently to Beverly Hills. And now he’s back in Beaulieu. Obviously I don’t know what he does, and with whom, when I’m sitting here at the farm.”

  “I doubt he has much time for liaisons,” Claudine murmured, meaning this. “He works hard. So I would put such disturbing thoughts out of your head. Take Jack at . . . how do you say? Face value. Yes, that is what I would do. Trust him, Lucy. Men are quickly aware of lack of trust in a woman. And it annoys them.”

  “I do trust him, actually, it’s just that he can be so irritable at times, and snotty, and often this makes me . . . nervous.”

  “Don’t be. Be tranquil, be yourself. Stay calm. And I will not join you for an aperitif this evening. You must be alone.”

  “No, no, Claudine,” Lucy protested. “I need you to be here for a drink. You can leave after that, but please, I want you to be here. To give me an opinion about Jack. I want you to observe him, surreptitiously, of course, and then tell me how you find him.”

  Claudine nodded. “All right, but then I will leave you alone for dinner à deux.” Claudine suddenly sniffed, her nose wrinkling, and exclaimed, “Ah, Lucy, parfait! Tu prépare boeuf bourguignon. It smells delicious. The red wine I chose is ideal.”

  “Won’t you stay for dinner?” Lucy said, carefully eyeing her aunt. “Jack wouldn’t mind. He likes you a lot. And I wouldn’t mind either.”

  “But I would mind. I would feel like the third shoe, as they say.”

  “I’ve never heard that expression. What does it mean?”

  “Redundant.”

  Lucy couldn’t help grinning. “I think you just invented that.”

  “No, I did not,” Claudine answered, and asked, “Where are Chloé and Clémence?”

  “Marie took them with her to Nice. She went to see her mother, to deliver a birthday present for her sister. They should be back soon.” Lucy glanced at her watch. “It’s just four o’clock, so they shouldn’t be long. Don’t go rushing off to the house; wait for a bit and you can give them a hug at least.”

  “I will.”

  “How’s the decorating coming along?” Lucy asked, closing her notebook.

  “Slowly. But that is because I must get the exact color for certain rooms. The painter, well, he has much repainting. He does not have a good eye for the colors.”

  Lucy nodded, suppressing her laughter. Her aunt was a perfectionist, and Lucy knew she was currently driving the workmen crazy with her constant changes and demands. Claudine had spent two years building a smaller house across the courtyard, and now that it was finished she was in the midst of the interior decoration.

  Rising, Lucy went over to the oven, put on insulated oven gloves, and took out the casserole. She placed it on top of the stove, lifted the lid, and looked inside. As she did so delicious aromas of beef, vegetables, and wine wafted into the air.

  “C’est bon, Lucy!” Claudine beamed at her niece, whom she had encouraged to follow her dream to become a chef.

  “I hope Jack thinks so,” she answered, and put the lid back on the casserole, which she returned to the oven. “I have to admit, I did use the Julia Child recipe today, because that’s the one Jack prefers.”

  “It’s the one I use, Lucy.” Claudine glanced at her. “I do believe you’ve always used it, too.” She frowned.

  “I have. But he doesn’t need to know that, does he?” There was a hint of mischief in Lucy’s sparkling brown eyes as she returned to the table and sat down on the stool. “I’m supposed to spoil him, aren’t I?”

  Claudine merely smiled.

  Claudine Villiers loved children, and most especially her two great-nieces, Lucy’s beautiful four-year-old twins. Because they were identical, Claudine had trouble knowing which one was which, but then so did their mother. Lucy had long ago confessed that sometimes even she couldn’t quite tell them apart from each other.

  They were the spitting image of Lucy, and Villiers through and through. There wasn’t an ounce of Alexandre Rosset in them, at least not an ounce that was visible.

  Claudine had never understood why Lucy and Alexandre had divorced; nor had she ever understood why her niece had married him in the first place. Alexandre had gone back to Paris, where he lived with someone these days; Claudine, for all of her understanding of the vagaries of life, found it hard to believe that he could give up those two little girls so easily and rarely ever came to see them. It all seemed so cold-blooded to her, not normal.

  Lucy, when she questioned her, just shrugged in that very French way she had, and called him a bad name, before adding, in an extremely cold voice, “There’s no love lost there, Tante. I’m glad he doesn’t come to see them. They don’t miss him either. They hardly know him.” That was the truth, Claudine was well aware.

  Now, as she stood watching the two little girls clutching at their mother affectionately, chattering to her rapidly, excitedly, Claudine wished she had a camera close at hand to capture this idyllic little scene.

  The girls were dark-haired like their mother, and also had the huge black eyes of the Villiers family. Lucy had taken them to her hairdresser in Monte Carlo recently and had her own stylist cut their hair in bangs; today they looked adorable in their neat navy blazers, pleated gray skirts, and white T-shirts. They were big for four, and had long legs. Claudine smiled to herself. They would grow up to be as tall as Lucy’s mother, her sister Camille, who had been five foot eleven. Darling Camille, her beloved sister, who had died so suddenly of breast cancer eight years ago and had never seen her grandchildren.

  Claudine swallowed, blinked, turned away, then suddenly began to laugh as four hands were clutching at her skirt and two high-pitched voices were shouting, “Tante Claudine! Tante Claudine! Chocolat! Chocolat pour tout!”

  “Don’t give them any of that chocolate of yours,” Lucy warned in a sharp tone, and shooed
them to the fireplace at the far end of the kitchen, where a sofa and chairs were grouped in front of the hearth.

  “Aunt Claudine is making mint tea. But the two of you can have a glass of milk and some of my warm raisin cookies.” Lucy glanced at Marie, who had been hovering in the doorway, and asked, “Would you like mint tea, Marie? Or something else?”

  “Mint tea would be fine, thank you.”

  Lucy, settling the twins on the sofa, said to them, “Now if you’re very good you can stay up a bit later tonight. To say hello to Jack.”

  “Oh, Jack is coming!” Chloé squealed, obviously pleased at this news, and Clémence, the quieter of the two, murmured, “I hope he has brought me my cat.”

  “A cat? What’s all this about a cat?” Lucy demanded, her face changing.

  “He promised me a cat,” Clémence explained.

  “He said he hoped he’d find one,” Chloé corrected. “He didn’t promise.”

  I hope to God he didn’t forget, Lucy thought, as she went over to the refrigerator and took out the bottle of milk. Just in case he had forgotten all about it, which wouldn’t be unusual, she would have to have a story ready.

  Her aunt, holding a tray of glasses filled with tea and fresh mint, gave her a knowing look and whispered, “If he’s not brought her a cat, you must say it’s something to do with shots from the vet. That she will perhaps understand. N’est pas?”

  Lucy simply nodded.

  Fourteen

  The two little girls, dressed in their nightgowns and robes, were in the kitchen and spotted him first. Chloé ran to him, exclaiming, “Jack! Jack!” followed a little more sedately by her twin, Clémence.

  Lucy and Claudine, who were at the other end of the kitchen, swung around on hearing Chloé’s voice. Claudine lifted her hand in greeting, and Lucy smiled, immediately came toward him, moving gracefully across the floor.

  He grinned at the two women and waved, then put the shopping bag and flowers on the floor, knelt down, and opened his arms to the twins. As usual, Chloé made it into them first, Clémence holding back a little shyly, her face turning bright pink.

  After hugging them tightly in his arms, he stood up and said, “That was the best welcome I’ve had in the longest time. Thank you, girls, and I’m so happy to see you both.”

  Chloé, as always blunt and impatient, said in a loud whisper, “Did you bring the cat? You didn’t forget, did you?” As she spoke she glanced around eagerly, then frowned. “No cat! I don’t see a cat.”

  “Now, now, Chloé,” Lucy said, her tone stern. “You’re being rude—”

  “No, I didn’t forget the cat,” Jack said, swiftly cutting across Lucy. “But I must say hello to your mother first, and Tante Claudine.” As he spoke, Jack reached for Lucy, grabbed her tightly, held her close to him, whispered against her ear, “You look fantastic.”

  Breaking away from him, she smiled into his face, thinking, So do you, but said softly, “Thank you, Jack, and listen, I must apologize for Chloé—”

  “Oh, don’t be daft,” he interjected, and picking up the bunch of flowers, he took them over to Claudine. “These are for you,” he murmured, and leaning toward her he kissed her on both cheeks. “I noticed when I crossed the yard that your house is finally finished,” he added.

  “It is indeed. And merci, Jack, the flowers are beautiful. Excuse me, I must find a vase.”

  “But about the cat,” Chloé began, running to him. “Clémence was expecting the cat.”

  “Really, Chloé, stop this!” Lucy was shaking her head in annoyance. “Otherwise I shall send you straight upstairs to bed. You mustn’t ask for gifts in this way. You are being very naughty.”

  “But—”

  “Stop right there!” Lucy cried. “Not another word about the cat.”

  Jack walked back to Clémence, who was still standing near the door, and when he reached her he said, in an apologetic voice, “I’m afraid I couldn’t bring you a real cat. Not without your mother’s permission. However, I have a substitute.” Reaching into the shopping bag, he pulled out a beautiful furry black cat with big eyes and a long tail. “This is for you, Clémence,” he said, putting the toy into her hands. “What are you going to call it?”

  Clémence had turned an even brighter pink and her eyes were huge in her face. She looked at the cat and then at Jack, said, “Oh! Oh! Is it really mine?”

  “Yes. I found her for you, Clémence. So come on, think of a name.”

  “Say thank you, darling,” Lucy whispered, touching her daughter’s shoulder gently.

  “Thank you, Jack,” Clémence said obediently, and gave him her biggest smile. “I love this cat.”

  “What are you going to call it?” Chloé cried, coming to join them. “Call it Spot.”

  “Spot is a dog’s name,” Jack pointed out. “Oh, and by the way, Chloé, I know you like dogs, and want one badly. So it occurred to me that I should get you a substitute, too. Here it is.” He took a fluffy white puppy out of the shopping bag, and handed it to her. “This is yours, Chloé.”

  “Oh! Oh! Oh! Jack, a puppy! Thank you. Is it to keep?”

  Jack couldn’t help laughing; Lucy laughed as well. Jack said, “Of course it’s to keep. And you should think of a name, too.”

  “I will,” Chloé answered, and frowned. “Is it a boy or a girl?”

  Lucy suppressed the sudden laughter rising in her throat. Only her precocious little Chloé would think of asking that kind of question. She said in the steadiest voice she could muster, “It’s a girl. And so is the cat. Right, Jack?”

  He was swallowing his laughter as well, and he could only nod.

  Chloé stood thinking hard, staring down at the toy dog.

  Her sister was stroking the cat, and she suddenly announced, “I shall call this cat Hector.”

  “But it’s a girl!” Chloé cried.

  “Perhaps Hectorine would be better,” Claudine suggested, coming to stand with them near the fireplace.

  “That’s a very nice name,” Jack said. “Do you like that, Clémence?”

  The child nodded and patted the cat. “You’re Hectorine.”

  “And what about your puppy, Chloé?” Lucy asked.

  “I don’t know. . . . I like Spot. . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  Lucy said, “But she’s such a pretty little puppy, and very white, so why not call her Snowy?”

  “I will!” Chloé nodded, and went and sat next to her sister on the sofa. The girls were both enchanted by their new toys.

  “Well, that’s all settled,” Jack murmured, and took a last package out of the shopping bag. “This is for you, Lucy.”

  “Why, Jack, how nice!” She ripped off the paper and exclaimed, “Oh my goodness, Chanel No. 5. Jack, you’re so extravagant. Thank you so much. It’s my favorite.”

  “I know.”

  Claudine said, “Shall we have an aperitif? What would you like, Jack?”

  “A glass of white wine would be nice, thanks.”

  “Lucy?”

  “The same, Claudine.”

  “Is there such a name as Hectorine?” Lucy asked, looking over the top of her glass at Jack, her dark eyes sparkling with laughter.

  He took a long swallow of the cold white wine, savoring it, and then said, “How would I know?”

  “But you’re the writer. . . . You should know.”

  He gave her an amused look and countered, “It sounds French, so you ought to know.”

  “I’m only half French. The other half is American, in case you’d forgotten.”

  “It was Claudine who came up with it. Let’s ask her when she comes back,” Jack suggested.

  “I am back,” Claudine announced from a few feet away, walking over to the huge fireplace where Lucy and Jack were perched on the wide hearth.

  Claudine was carrying a plate of small toast points on which there was caviar, paté, and smoked salmon. She offered the plate to them, and went on, “Hectorine might be a French name. Or it could have come fr
om my imagination. But Clémence accepted it—”

  “And so did Chloé,” Lucy interjected. “And she’s always the one who argues and questions things in the most interminable way.”

  “Possibly, no, most probably, she’ll want to be a lawyer when she grows up,” Jack pointed out, and gave them a knowing look.

  The two women laughed, and Lucy remarked, “The main thing is, you didn’t forget about the cat, and you were thoughtful and brought something for Chloé as well. She’s thrilled with the puppy.”

  “Yes, it was kind of you, Jack,” Claudine agreed, her voice approving. Placing the plate of canapés on the coffee table, she sat down on the sofa, sipping her wine. After a moment, she said, “If either of the twins asks me, I shall answer that it is indeed a French name from long ago . . . an ancient name.”

  “That’s a great answer.” Jack, smiling at her, now asked, “Any chance of a tour of the house? I’ve watched it slowly grow into the finished thing, and I’d love to see it.”

  “Mais oui.” Claudine immediately stood, picked up her glass, and walked toward the door, saying, as she did, “We can just go at once before the light fades.”

  “Don’t you have the electricity in yet?” Jack asked.

  “Oui, oui, but not every room has a lamp. I shall take the flashlight, however.”

  The house across the large courtyard was built in the same style as the farm, with pale-pink stucco walls and a red-tiled roof, but it was much smaller.

  Inside it was beautiful. It had been very well designed by Claudine herself, and Jack couldn’t stop admiring it as she led him through the main rooms downstairs, with Lucy trailing behind.

  Lucy knew it well by now, but every time her aunt brought her over to see something newly finished, she couldn’t help but exclaim about the quality of the work.

  “It is not a big house, Jack,” Claudine said as she showed him into the living room. “There is not one room that I do not need. I made sure I created only spaces I would use. And enough walls for my art.”