Destiny

by Sally Beauman

  He said good-bye to the two women quickly; Anne Kneale handed him the portrait he had asked her to paint.

  He did not open the parcel until later that day, when he was sure he could be alone, and he looked at it, in silence, for a long time.

  Later the same day, he had dinner with Christian, who managed to refrain from questions for the duration of the meal, but who, afterward, found it impossible.

  “So—what will you do?” he said at last, having fortified himself with a large whisky before he risked the question. Edouard, whose manner throughout the meal had been perfectly normal, looked genuinely surprised at the question.

  “Do? I shall wait, of course.”

  “Wait? But how long?” Christian burst out. Christian loathed waiting.

  “For as long as it takes,” Edouard replied. Christian sighed. He wanted to plot, to plan, to coerce Edouard into some immediate and dramatic course of action. He knew it was useless. Edouard was well schooled in waiting; his patience always brought results. A thousand wonderfully melodramatic plans surged through Christian’s fertile mind in the space of a few seconds. But before he could speak, Edouard—as he had anticipated—discreetly but firmly changed the subject.

  Edouard

  Paris–St. Tropez, 1962

  “CANCER,” PHILIPPE DE BELFORT SAID. He paused, accepted the glass of whisky Edouard held out to him, and composed his features solemnly. He shook his head.

  “A terrible thing. Six months ago—in the best of health. Looking forward to retirement—he’d made some very clever investments, or so I hear. We had luncheon together—he had oysters, I remember it well. Couldn’t have looked fitter. On top of the world. I said to him—Brichot, you’re a lucky man. Out of the rat race. What are you going to do with all this leisure of yours? And you know what he said? He said—Philippe, I’m going to spend money. All these years I’ve been accumulating it, and now I’m going to spend it. I’m going to live like there’s no tomorrow.”

  The faintest gleam of malice appeared in de Belfort’s even features. It was quickly repressed.

  “And of course, he had no tomorrow. Well, none to speak of, anyway. Six months later—gone. Terrible. Absolutely terrible. Poor Brichot. Not that I was ever that close to him, you understand—but still, it makes one think, doesn’t it? What a very unpredictable world we live in. Oh, yes. Sunt lacrimae rerum—I thought of that when I heard the news. The tears of life—oh, yes. Not that poor Brichot was particularly interested in poetry.”

  “The tears of things,” Edouard murmured.

  De Belfort looked up. “What?”

  “Rerum. Things rather than life. Virgil uses a loose term deliberately perhaps…”

  An expression of irritation passed across de Belfort’s face. He repressed that too.

  “Of course. I was forgetting…the classics were never my strong point…” There was a short silence. De Belfort gave a weighty sigh.

  “It’s his wife I feel sorry for. Having to carry on alone. They were very close, I believe. Still, still…You went to the funeral, of course?”

  “Yes. I was there.”

  “I would have gone, naturally.” De Belfort shifted slightly in his seat. “Unfortunately, circumstances prevented—well, as you know, I was very tied up. The negotiations in London were at a very delicate stage. Very delicate. I didn’t like to risk jeopardizing them…”

  “But of course,” Edouard said politely.

  He waited. It was late afternoon, approaching six; they were seated at the far end of Edouard’s office, where he held informal meetings, and where a group of austere black leather chairs were grouped around an equally austere glass and chrome table. Beyond them hung the Jackson Pollock; de Belfort looked at it occasionally, his eyes narrowed. He looked as if he might be calculating how much it was worth per square inch.

  Edouard, who had a further two hours’ work ahead of him, a dinner with Christian, and—after that—a reception at his mother’s house to celebrate her birthday, felt impatient. De Belfort had requested this meeting, and he had not come here to lament the loss of Brichot, Edouard was sure of that. There would be another reason, but de Belfort was never direct. He always scuttled toward his main objective sideways, like a crab.

  Now he was bending forward over the tabletop, turning his glass back and forth in a ruminative fashion. He was possibly thinking about his erstwhile ally, Brichot; possibly examining his own well-groomed reflection, Edouard was not sure. All he knew was that de Belfort now contrived these informal meetings on every possible occasion. Their pretext was always professional, though de Belfort also clearly hoped to establish a relationship of some kind, and to disarm. But Edouard suspected sometimes that de Belfort sought them for another reason. Not just because he wished advancement, that was too obvious, but because, in some strange way, de Belfort needed them. He needed to be near that which he loathed…

  “Our bid for the Rolfson Hotels Group,” de Belfort said at last, having let the silence run on longer than he usually dared. “Just one or two points I wanted to bring up. If you can spare me the time…”

  “Of course.”

  It was all plausible enough: minor queries and suggestions concerning the forthcoming and long-planned de Chavigny takeover bid for one of the largest and most prestigious of British hotel groups. De Belfort was now the head of the de Chavigny hotel division; it was a powerful position, in which he had proved effective and able, and a position into which Edouard had carefully steered him. Edouard intended him to remain there, prince of that one domain: de Belfort had other ideas.

  But he was discreet about his ambitions now. He had come a long way from the days when he was so incautious as to ally himself with a weakling like Brichot. He was now very careful to tread that thin line between suitable executive independence and outright opposition. No more mulish stands over trifling issues. De Belfort was waiting, Edouard knew that, waiting for the day when there might be some major showdown, some epic trial of strength. It would have been prudent—Edouard sometimes thought—to have eased de Belfort out of the company altogether, simply to have gotten rid of him. Yet he had never done it. Now, as he listened carefully while de Belfort fabricated various matters on which, apparently, Edouard’s advice was indispensable, he wondered why not.

  Because de Belfort amused him, he decided finally, as the man drained the last of his drink. He was the company’s Cassius, the one serious threat from within the ranks. Am I so bored, Edouard thought suddenly, so bored with it all, that I need the rivalry of a man like de Belfort to give my work an edge?

  “So you think definitely Montague Smythe?” Edouard said as he rose, and de Belfort, taking his cue, also stood up.

  “Well, I know we’ve always dealt through them very successfully in the past. It was just on this occasion, given the particular delicacy of the bid, fears of a counterbid, and so on, whether we might not have thought of one of the younger merchant banks. A more aggressive approach, shall we say—but no. I’m sure you’re right. Stick with Montague Smythe…absolutely, yes.”

  He moved to the door, was almost there, and then at the very last minute turned back. It was almost perfectly casual, but it was not very well-timed. Edouard could see de Belfort himself was aware of it, before he spoke.

  “Oh, by the way. I almost forgot. Poor Brichot. His seat on the board. You’ll be making a replacement, I suppose?”

  It was too overt, too naked. De Belfort was fighting hard to appear indifferent, but the tension in his body was visible. The planes of his face were tight with the effort of maintaining that casual smile; his eyes were glittering with panic and ambition suppressed.

  For a moment Edouard almost pitied him: poor de Belfort, to want something so much that he made a mistake like that. To put so much energy into hitching himself up the ladder step by step, and all without any clear idea of what he would do when he reached the top.

  Their eyes met: de Belfort could not hide the challenge he felt. It was there in his face, naked�
��all his dislike, all his envy, all his determination to prove himself, one day, the better man. He was not a fool, and he clearly sensed his mistake. He was already starting to turn away with some embarrassed disclaimer, when Edouard spoke.

  “Philippe.”

  “Yes?”

  “Pull off this takeover bid, and the seat on the board is yours.”

  There was a silence. De Belfort flushed crimson. Edouard could see the astonishment, and the suspicion in his eyes, and then—way back—the dawning, slightly contemptuous, triumph. De Belfort recovered quickly; the little speech of thanks, the references to his indebtedness—it was well done, urbanely done, and he had the wit to keep it brief.

  As the door closed on him, Edouard turned away. He had been incautious, and he knew it. He paused, considering, then dismissed his doubts impatiently. De Belfort deserved to be on the board; if he went too far it would still be easy to rein him in…Still, his own action puzzled him slightly. It remained with him, perplexing him, that night.

  “And so I offered him what he wanted. A seat on the board,” he said to Christian over dinner at Vefour.

  “And?”

  “And nothing. I just wondered afterward why I did it, that’s all. I’m still wondering. Why give him what he wants?”

  “Why sharpen the knife and then offer him your back, you mean?”

  “Well, not exactly. The knife hardly needs sharpening. And I don’t intend to turn my back.”

  “Oh, God, I don’t know.” Christian shrugged. “Because you’re bloody perverse, probably. You like living dangerously. Look at the way you drive.”

  “I drive very well.” Edouard sounded wounded.

  “You drive too fast,” Christian replied smartly. Then he hesitated; he looked slightly wary for a second. “Also,” he went on, more slowly, “also, you have too much energy, so you deliberately foster an enemy, I suppose. If things were different, that wouldn’t be the case.”

  “If things were different?”

  Christian heard the coldness enter the voice. He looked away sulkily.

  “Oh, damn it, Edouard, you know what I mean.”

  There was a little silence. Christian cleared his throat. After a while, he said, “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. You’re right, of course.”

  Edouard looked down, and Christian, who knew exactly what he was thinking, sighed. He lit a cigarette, and inhaled deeply. Poor Edouard, he thought. Two and a half years. He hesitated once more, and then, deciding to risk it, said, “I saw her latest film by the way—did I tell you? It hasn’t opened here yet, has it? I saw it in London. I thought…” Edouard looked up, and the expression in his eyes made Christian waver.

  “I thought she was very good,” he ended lamely.

  “I’m glad you liked it,” Edouard answered, and gestured to the waiter to bring them the bill.

  Christian subsided. He knew that tone of voice, and he knew that expression.

  “Okay, Edouard,” he said lightly. “Subject closed.”

  He wished that it were closed, Edouard thought, shortly afterward, when he left Christian and climbed into the black Aston-Martin. He accelerated in the direction of his mother’s house.

  He wished it closed, finished, done with forever—sometimes he wished it passionately. He would tell himself then that all that was needed was some action on his part, an action that would somehow sever the tie.

  Another woman, perhaps. It was an obvious enough solution: the one Jean-Paul would have recommended. Love, little brother? Never believe in it. At the first sign of the symptoms, move on—another woman will quickly cure you of all that folly…

  Yes, he had actually considered that course, particularly this last year. He would leave for a party, a dinner, a reception like the one his mother was holding now, and he would tell himself: tonight. Any of the women there who happen to be available, it doesn’t matter which, any one of them will do.

  The intention would be there. It would still be in his mind when he first walked into the room. He would actually scan the faces one by one. The redhead. The blonde. The brunette—that was the extent of their identity to him. Sometimes he might even reach the point of selecting one, usually the nearest one, and then—whether they were interested or not, inclined or not—the same thing would always happen. The banality of it, the appalling and pointless predictability of it would intrude. He would arrive with a firm intent: he would always leave alone.

  His mother, sensing his distaste, and knowing it angered him, now made a great point of introducing him to eligible women. When she observed his annoyance, she redoubled her efforts. Louise now took a perverse and spiteful delight in playing Pandar: at little luncheon parties, at dinners, at receptions such as the one tonight—Monique, Sylvie, Gwen, Harriet—you haven’t met, have you? May I present my darling son, Edouard?

  Edouard watched her now, weaving her way through the crowd of guests to the side of the room where he stood. A word here, a kiss there; a rose-pink dress of drifting chiffon, ropes of pearls around her throat, her complexion still unimpaired, her figure still slender. It was her sixty-seventh birthday, and Edouard thought, looking at her, of the time he had opened the door of the schoolroom, and seen her in Hugo Glendinning’s arms. She had been wearing pink then; at a distance there was no sign that she had aged. Twenty years ago, and the memory was suddenly so acute that it might have been yesterday.

  “Darling Edouard. You’re so late.” She reached up to kiss the air beside his cheek. “The evening’s almost over.”

  “It doesn’t appear to be.” Edouard smiled. There were at least eighty people in the room, and no sign that anyone was leaving. Thank God he hadn’t come any earlier.

  He pressed a small package into her hand. It contained a brooch of diamonds and pearls commissioned from Vlacek by his father, in the twenties. It had been difficult to acquire it back, and he had thought, foolishly, that its association with Xavier might please her.

  “Edouard. How sweet. Thank you.”

  She put the package down on a side table, unopened, and slipped her arm through his, girlishly.

  “Now, Edouard, you’re to come with me. And you’re not to be disagreeable…”

  “I can’t stay long, Maman. I’m leaving for New York in the morning…” he began, but Louise was not listening. She was propelling him through the room, and it was starting again: the turnings of heads; the whisperings; the sudden alertness in the air; regroupings.

  Natalia. Geneviève. Sara. Monique. Consuelo, who was tiny and dark and exotic, like an orchid; Charlotte, another of the ubiquitous Cavendishes, who was tall, and fair and stately, an English Athena.

  Edouard adopted his usual role; it fell on his shoulders with the ease of much practice. Polite, considerate, apparently interested, actually withdrawn. Half an hour, he thought, while Charlotte Cavendish told him how much he had been missed in Gstaad that winter. Half an hour, and then, even at the risk of offending Louise, he was leaving.

  But Louise had carefully maneuvered him to the far end of the huge reception room, the end away from the doors.

  “Tell me, Edouard, is it true you’ve a Derby winner this year?”

  “Oh. Edouard. It’s been too long. You’re going to New York? When? Well, you must come to dinner…”

  “Edouard, I’m madly cross with you. We went to Figaro the other night, yes, that’s right, with Jacqueline de Varenges, and I was so certain of seeing you. I wanted to ask you—seriously now. This summer, you did promise…”

  “This weekend…”

  “Next month…”

  It was a long way back to those doors, and the progress was slow. Whenever there was a momentary gap, and Edouard thought he had escaped, there Louise would be at his elbow, simply materializing, with yet another beautiful, rich, and well-connected young woman at her side. Edouard looked at his mother, he looked at face after meaningless face, and again the past came back. He was sixteen years old, standing in the hallway of Pauline Simonescu’s
house, watching intoxicatedly while the floor rippled, and Pauline Simonescu smiled and listed her girls by name.

  He stared at the woman called Consuelo, who had inched her way back for the third time, and was now telling him precisely how long she was staying in Paris, and in which hotel. Edouard felt suffocated by the scent she wore; she seemed quite uncaring that her husband stood a few feet away.

  “I do hope you will both enjoy your visit. And now, I’m so sorry. If you will excuse me…”

  He had almost escaped. The doors were within reach; Louise was temporarily diverted, surrounded by a group of much younger men. Edouard turned, with a sense of relief; he found himself face to face with Ghislaine Belmont-Laon.

  “Edouard.” She was smiling. “You’re wickedly transparent, you know. I never saw a man so obviously eager to get away…Don’t worry. I’m not going to detain you. Escape while you can.” She made a wry face. “You couldn’t give me a light, though, could you, before you run away? I must have misplaced my lighter…”

  “Of course…” Edouard lit the cigarette for her, feeling almost relieved. He did not especially like Ghislaine, but at least he knew her. They had worked together; with Ghislaine there was only an easy neutrality.

  “How’s Jean-Jacques?”

  Ghislaine had bent forward to light her cigarette; now she straightened and inhaled deeply. She gave him a certain look, one that seemed to imply that the question was better not asked, but since they were old friends, they might as well both be amused by it.

  “Edouard. If you want to know the answer to that question, don’t ask me. He’s around, the way he always is.”

  “Oh, I see. I’m sorry. And how are you?”

  Ghislaine laughed. “Not terribly tactful of you, Edouard. I see your priorities. But I’m fine. Working very hard—you know. Louise wants me to do up that house in St. Tropez for her—did she mention it to you?”