Jack would have remained there much longer, fascinated and horrified, but a waiter came out of the restaurant, heading in his direction. It wasn’t a waiter he knew but he turned around and swiftly left the bar; he hurried up the steps and entered the lobby.
The concierge seemed surprised to see him so soon, and Jack felt the need to explain. He said, “I’ll be back shortly. I forgot to get my newspapers.”
“I can send a boy, Monsieur Chalmers,” the concierge said. “If you tell me which newspapers you want. It’s no trouble.”
“I’m not sure, so I’ll go and get them myself, but thanks anyway, Marcel.” With a nod and a wide smile, Jack walked across the lobby to the front door.
He stood on the step for a moment, and when the young doorman suddenly appeared, pushing a luggage cart, Jack strolled over to him and said, “I think I just caught sight of an old friend of mine, Magda Rollins, a very well-known English actress.”
The doorman shook his head. “There’s no one in the hotel of that name, Monsieur.”
“But I just saw her,” Jack protested. “She is with a tall silver-haired Englishman. They’re sitting in the garden outside the bar.”
“Oh, that’s Madame Elizabeth Lang. She’s not an actress, Monsieur Chalmers. She is an artist.”
“Do you mean a painter?”
“Oui, oui,” the young doorman answered, and smirked, raised a brow, and threw Jack a knowing look.
Jack laughed, then said, “Well, she certainly has someone who looks just like her living in London.”
At this moment a sleek burgundy car came rolling down the short driveway and stopped just short of the front door of the hotel. The driver got out and walked over to the doorman.
Jack stepped to one side, but did not leave, and discreetly listened to their conversation. The driver of the car was explaining that he had come to collect Monsieur Remmington, but that he was too early. Could he park where he was?
Giving the doorman a salute, Jack walked up the short drive heading for the gate. As he passed the car he noticed that it was a collector’s item, a costly Bentley Continental Drophead Coupe, probably twenty years old but in beautiful condition. He also noticed that the license plate on the back was from Geneva.
Jack was still flabbergasted by what he had just seen, and he couldn’t get it out of his mind. The woman was so flamboyant in her looks she was almost vulgar, and yet she was quite beautiful. Everything about her was big. Her height, her hair, and her bust. She was definitely a big girl, and yet she wasn’t overweight. She was also well dressed in white trousers, a white shirt, and a white sweater thrown around her shoulders. She wore a lot of gold jewelry and had a large yellow diamond ring on her engagement finger. What a striking couple they made, tall, good-looking, and well dressed. And he’s a bastard, Jack added under his breath.
Walking through the open gate of the hotel, Jack headed along the boulevard, making for the flight of steps leading down into the little port of Beaulieu, where yachts, sailboats, and motorboats were docked. Within minutes he was entering one of his favorite cafés. After sitting down he ordered café au lait and a croissant, and then sat back, still feeling utterly gobsmacked, reeling, in fact, not yet capable of absorbing that scene.
Never in a million years would he have expected to see Marius Remmington with another woman. Or behaving in that intimate manner in a public place. On the other hand, it was early in the morning and there was no one in the garden. But still, they had been really at each other, apparently oblivious to their surroundings.
Jack closed his eyes.
He didn’t know what to think or what to do. He needed to talk to somebody, but there was no one he dared talk to. Kyle? Forget that. His brother was very preoccupied with his new movie, and he had a feeling that a relationship was developing between Kyle and his assistant, Carole. And besides, Kyle didn’t know the players, couldn’t make a judgment.
He couldn’t talk to Laurie. Or Malcolm Stevens. And certainly he was not going to reveal what he had seen to Annette. He didn’t want to hurt or upset her, and at this moment there was no need for her to know. “A still tongue and a wise head,” his mother used to say to him, and never had this old saying been more appropriate than now. He reminded himself that knowledge was power.
Eventually Jack calmed down and relaxed slightly, sat drinking his coffee and eating the croissant, wondering what to do. But there was nothing he could do, was there? He thought about Remmington and the redhead. . . . Had they been staying at the hotel for the weekend? Or dropped in for breakfast, as he had? Was that Remmington’s Bentley? Or the woman’s? Were they staying on at La Réserve or were they leaving today?
It didn’t really matter, although he would have to stay away from the hotel until he knew for sure. He didn’t want to run into Remmington and the woman.
Much later, walking back to the villa, Jack couldn’t help thinking what a stinker Marius Remmington was, controlling Annette’s life, manipulating her, making all the rules in their marriage, whilst two-timing her.
There was nothing new about a successful man having a mistress; many of them did. Even unsuccessful men had mistresses. It was the way men were. And women, too. It was not possible to tango alone.
What should I do about what I now know? Jack asked himself later, as he sat in his office, pondering the situation. He had no answers for himself. Because there weren’t any. He had no one to use as a sounding board. And he could not tell Annette. Not yet. But he might have to eventually.
Jack left early for dinner with Claudine at the farm. He drove into Beaulieu, went to the best flower shop and bought a beautiful white orchid for her, wrote a card, and paid. Outside in the car he took out his mobile, dialed the hotel, adopted an American accent, and asked if Mr. Marius Remmington was available. The hotel operator told him immediately that Mr. Marius Remmington had checked out that morning. This was good to know. At least he could now come and go to the hotel whenever he wished, but couldn’t help wondering where those two lovebirds had gone off in the beautiful Bentley.
It took Jack about forty minutes to drive up into the hills to La Ferme des Iris, the old farm high above Monte Carlo. He drove slowly, thinking about the new situation in Annette’s life. Maybe it wasn’t new. How long had Marius had a mistress? All manner of possibilities swirled around in his head. The woman he loved, and who loved him in return, was stuck in a marriage she was certain she could never leave, insisting her husband would not divorce her.
And the husband was a shit. He was having an affair with another woman, and touting that woman around on his arm, or in his arms, in public. Didn’t her husband’s adultery give her grounds for divorce? Or since she was doing the same thing, the husband could divorce her, couldn’t he? Except that the husband didn’t want a divorce . . . he wanted his cake and he wanted to eat it.
But the knowledge I have is a bargaining chip, Jack suddenly thought. He tucked this thought away at the back of his mind for use later, when he needed it. And as he drove on toward the farm he cheered up. Somehow, he felt better about everything. He chuckled to himself. If the truth be known, he had Marius Remmington by the short hairs.
Claudine Villiers was waiting for him on the doorstep of her charming new villa when he pulled into the large square yard which separated the two houses facing each other.
After Jack had climbed out of the car and hugged her, he reached inside, brought out the orchid, and gave it to her.
“Ah, Jack, my lovely Jack. Always so gallant,” Claudine murmured, accepting the orchid from him. “Merci beaucoup,” she added, and tucked her arm through his, explaining, “We are going to have the dinner in my new house. I thought it better. . . . I didn’t want the twins to get excited, seeing you again. You know how they are. . . . So they are in bed, with Marie watching over them. I will sleep at the farm tonight, as I do when Lucy is away.”
“I understand. Anyway, I want to see your new villa, now that it’s finally finished. You worked so hard on i
t, I know that, and I’m sure it’s perfection.”
“I think it’s very cozy and charming. I will show you around later. First we must go to my kitchen, and have an aperitif. We must catch up, n’est pas?”
Claudine led him proudly into the kitchen, which he had seen before when it was still being finished, and immediately he exclaimed about it. It was obviously well planned and colorful, with blue-and-white tiles everywhere, shining copper pots, stone planters filled with flowers, a big stone fireplace, and ceiling beams from which hung many different bunches of dried herbs and lavender, dried sausages, and more copper pots and pans.
“I think you’ve done a wonderful job,” Jack said, meaning this, walking around, taking everything in. “And I love the wine storage behind the glass door. Very clever. Chic, if I can use that word about a kitchen.”
Beaming, her eyes warm as she opened a bottle of red wine, Claudine murmured, with a little smile, “I copied the wine cupboard from a restaurant in New York. I fell in love with it when I saw it.” She looked very gleeful when she added, “And now my friends are copying this one.”
Jack laughed with her, accepting the large glass of red wine, and cautioning himself to sip it very slowly. He had to drive down that mountain later.
Claudine touched her glass to his, and said, “Santé,” and Jack did the same. Taking his arm, she led him over to the huge window at the far end of the kitchen, where the view of Monte Carlo far below was spectacular. “Let’s sit here, Jack,” Claudine murmured, and indicated one of the big armchairs facing the window.
Once they were both settled comfortably, Claudine said, “I am only going to say this once, Jack, and I want you to know I do mean it. Most sincerely . . .” She paused and stared at him, her dark eyes warm.
He looked back at her, nodded. “It’s about Lucy, isn’t it?”
“It is. I want you to know how much I . . . well, approved of your relationship. I did have great hopes . . . that it would flower into marriage. It was not to be. I am so sorry, Jack. I admit I have . . . warm feelings for you. I wish you well. . . . You’re a special man.”
“Oh, Claudine, what a lovely thing to say, and I’m regretful, too. I do care about Lucy. A lot, and you know I adore the girls. But . . .” He shrugged and gave her a direct look. “I loved her, still love her, she’s a wonderful woman. But, you see, Claudine, I wasn’t in love with Lucy. And I don’t think she was in love with me either.”
“Perhaps not . . . Ah, well, c’est la vie.” She smiled; it was soft, but knowing.
“She is all right, isn’t she?”
Claudine nodded. “She is involved with her work, the cooking school. She is ambitious, and wants to make a mark in life. And I trust her. . . . She will succeed. And you, Jack, what about you? Something unusual, even world-shaking, must have happened to you. Lucy did tell me you called her to bring your love affair to an end.” A dark brow lifted and Claudine gave him a smile that was loving, very tender.
“I did meet somebody, you are correct. It was a coup de foudre. We experienced that strange and frightening thing. . . . I call it the shock of recognition, Claudine. I’m sure you know what I mean with your experience of life.”
The Frenchwoman nodded and sipped her wine. After a moment she said, “But you sound so sad, Jack. Is it not going the way it should? Are there . . . problems?”
Later Jack would never know why he said it, but now he blurted out, “She’s married.” He could have bitten his tongue off.
“Mon Dieu!” She shook her head. “That is the most terrible trap in life. I know only too well. I have been there, Jack.” She sighed, reached out, touched his arm. “Cannot she get a divorce?”
Jack shook his head. He took a long swallow of the wine. “I don’t think her husband will give her a divorce. . . . It’s tricky, complex.”
“Ah yes, it always is.”
Looking across at Claudine Villiers, remembering her kindness to him over the past few years, and recalling her intrinsic wisdom, Jack made a sudden decision. He was going to tell her what he had seen today without mentioning names.
Taking a deep breath, he plunged in. “Claudine, what I’m going to tell is confidential, and—”
“Jack. Oh Jack, do not say any more. I am not a woman who wishes to play God. I do not repeat anything. Please, unburden yourself to me. It might help. And what is an old lady for, except to listen to the love tribulations of the young.”
“You’re not old. And thank you for your reassurances. I do trust you, Claudine.” He told her a little about the marriage of the woman he loved, and her manipulating, controlling husband. And then he confided what had happened at La Réserve that morning. What he had seen occurring in the garden.
For a moment or two Claudine sat thinking. “And what are you going to do about this, Jack?” she asked at last. “You now have some genuine ammunition . . . a loaded gun, perhaps? To point at his head?”
“I don’t know what to do. I’m certainly not going to tell her. The woman I’m in love with.”
“No, no, you must not, Jack. You will look . . .” She lifted her hands in Gallic fashion, murmured softly, “Shoddy. Which is not what you are as a person.”
“It’s ironic, isn’t it? My lover believes her husband will never set her free, and I discover he is having an affair.”
Claudine shook her head and murmured gently, “They are both playing the same game, are they not?”
Jack was silent, merely inclined his head. After a moment’s silence he said, “I just don’t know what to do, Claudine.”
“There’s nothing you can do at this moment.”
“She’s trying to break off with me, because she believes her husband will ruin me if he finds out about us. I can’t give her up. It’s an . . . impasse, between us, I mean.”
“I think you should return to London. Can you leave?”
“I can, yes, thanks to you. I met with Antoine yesterday and he will start work tomorrow. Amaury met him as well and seems to like him. Hortense is bringing her niece Albane from Marseilles, and she can stay as long as she’s needed. I think the household will run well, will be fine.”
Claudine said, “When you return to London, talk to your friend, tell her to be brave, to have the courage. She must ask her husband for the divorce.”
“I hope she will do that,” Jack said, remembering the fear in Annette’s eyes when she spoke about Marius ruining him, and her as well.
“It might be that the husband wishes the divorce. He might welcome knowing that his wife wants to end the marriage.”
“You’re right!” Jack exclaimed. “I didn’t think of that.”
“If there is a lot of money involved, the husband might not merely welcome the idea of his wife leaving him. He might be overjoyed.”
“I do have some good ammunition, don’t I?”
Claudine laughed, suddenly stood up. “Let us go and eat, my dear friend.” She walked with him across the kitchen to a small dining corner near the window overlooking the yard. “I have made a fish stew. I remember how much you have enjoyed it in the past. I hope you’re hungry.”
“I am now. You’ve made me feel so much better. It’s always good to have a sounding board.”
“A what?” she asked.
“Someone to talk to who will give you the right advice. Someone who is wise.”
Thirty-nine
After dinner Claudine took Jack on a tour of her house. Leaving the kitchen, they crossed a small hallway with a polished terra-cotta floor and went into the living room.
The last time Jack had seen it, the room had been bare except for a large sofa and several chairs all upholstered in a soft bluish gray fabric. Whilst the room itself was architecturally beautiful, with a fireplace and an array of windows which offered a spectacular view of the towns below, the furnishings had seemed mediocre. Tonight the room looked superb.
It was the paintings which brought it totally to life, adding color and movement, whilst carefully chosen acces
sories and large table lamps added the finishing touches.
“I call this the Matisse room,” Claudine explained, as she glanced around. “And you can see why. Isn’t that extraordinary?” She directed Jack’s gaze to a large painting, a still life, over the fireplace. “I enjoy his use of color, don’t you?”
“Absolutely, and this is a fabulous painting,” Jack said, gazing up at it.
“Ah, yes, one of my favorites, too.” Claudine swung around and said, “That smaller Matisse over there is actually the one I like the best, and also the Braque landscape on the side wall. They sit well together in the same room, those two paintings. You may not know this, but they painted alongside each other when they were in their Fauvist period. Let us continue the little tour.”
Jack followed Claudine out into the hall and into the dining room opposite. Again it was simply furnished, with a round antique wood table, eight wood chairs with rush seats, and a small carved wood chest under the side window.
“A voilà!” Claudine exclaimed, and pointed to the Modigliani over the fireplace. “The woman is a classic Modigliani model. I have always admired his elongation of figures and use of bright color. He was a great figurative painter, and Vincent collected him, as well as Cézanne.”
Jack’s ears pricked up at the mention of Cézanne, and he said, “And do you have any of Cézanne’s paintings?”
“I do. In the library. Let us go and see them. I didn’t know you cared about art, Jack.”
“I like certain painters, mostly Impressionists, which I understand. Some painters are too obscure for me, especially the contemporary abstract artists.”
Playing the Game Page 34
