by Jilly Cooper
Hype-along tracked down Rupert, on a window-seat, talking to Taggie. ‘I love you,’ he was saying.
‘Sorry to interrupt,’ murmured Hype-along, ‘but you’re the only person Tristan might listen to.’
As Rupert fought his way round the edge of the room, he heard Alpheus saying, ‘Now where in hell did I leave my dinner jacket?’
At the bottom of the stairs, he passed Wolfie in deep conversation with Helen. ‘As you’re going to be my mother-in-law for the rest of your life,’ Wolfie was saying icily, ‘it would be nice just occasionally if you could tell Tabitha how brilliantly she’d done.’
‘That’s my boy,’ said Rupert, patting him on the back.
Rupert found Tristan in a small office gazing out on the passers-by and the plane trees of Leicester Square. His face was orange from the street lights, his shoulders hunched, his desolation palpable.
‘You must be over la lune,’ said Rupert cheerfully. ‘You’ve made a bloody marvellous flick, and the press are all downstairs waiting to tell you so.’
‘What is life to me without her?’ said Tristan idly.
Next moment he had grabbed the lapels of Rupert’s dinner jacket and thrust him against a filing cabinet with the strength of a madman.
‘I’ve made you a fucking fortune, you bastard. I’m not speaking to anyone until you tell me where Lucy is.’
For a moment, Rupert gazed at him, seeing the depths of his loneliness and despair.
‘OK. I’ll lean on Gablecross. If he tells me, I’ll fax it up to the Caledonian tomorrow.’
Melanie, one of the Academia Awards publicity team, very young, pretty and silly, met Tristan at the airport and made him feel that by catching the right flight he had successfully landed on the moon.
‘It’s so good of you to come all this way – may I call you Tristan? We all love Lily in the Valley so much – we’re going to give away little bottles of Diorissimo by the way. It’s fast becoming a cult movie with my generation. Madame Lauzerte’, she added reverently, ‘has already arrived. She asked me to give you this letter.’
She was obviously so dying to know what was in it that Tristan had to sit with his back to the taxi window to stop her reading over his shoulder.
My darling [Claudine had written],
I am so longing to see you. It has been such a difficult seven months. Jean-Louis is still adamant he doesn’t want a divorce, but he has agreed to turn a blind eye to you and me as long as we are incredibly discreet. I am staying at One Devonshire Gardens in Glasgow tonight. You can join me there this evening, without even having to go through Reception. Call me at the Caledonian as soon as you get in. Your loving Claudine
‘Which of us is happy in this world?’ quoted Tristan bitterly. ‘Which of us has his desire, or having it, is satisfied?’
Seven months ago that letter would have orbited him into the seven hundred and seventy-seventh heaven. Now he felt like a small boy being shunted into care.
Melanie had already seen the ecstatic review Alexander Walker had given Don Carlos in the Evening Standard. Now she was going on and on, reeling off the celebs and incredibly distinguished academics who’d jetted in from all over the world.
‘We feel the Academia is more prestigious than BAFTA or the Césars or even the Oscars. Oh, look at those queues for Don Carlos already going round and round and round the cinema.’
They had reached the outskirts of Edinburgh, passing square charcoal-grey houses and sooty gardens where the first daffodils were being blown horizontal by the east wind. There was the cardboard cut-out of the castle against an angry sky of racing clouds.
Tristan gasped at the cold as he jumped out of the taxi, but as he scuttled towards the warmth of the Caledonian, he noticed a beggar slouched on the pavement. An empty whisky bottle lay beside him. In an upside-down tweed cap on the pavement gleamed a few coins. But what caught Tristan’s already watering eyes was the total despair of the beggar’s dog, a very old, lanky lurcher, whose opaque rheumy eyes gazed into space and who, despite his matted russet coat, was shivering uncontrollably. Thinking how uncomfortable the unrelenting pavement must be for his bony hocks and elbows, Tristan handed the beggar a tenner.
‘And bloody well spend it on dog food,’ he snapped.
At the sound of Tristan’s voice, however, the old dog suddenly pricked up his brown velvet ears and staggered to his feet, making little whining noises in his throat. Next moment his long tail was frantically hitting his sticking-out ribs as he lumbered unsteadily forward.
‘James,’ croaked Tristan incredulously, ‘oh, James,’ and dropping to his knees, he hugged the dog until he had red hairs like larch needles all over his smart navy blue overcoat. ‘We thought you were dead. Where did you find this dog?’ he demanded furiously.
‘He’s not mine,’ said the beggar, in a surprisingly educated voice, hastily pocketing the tenner. ‘I think he came from some gypsies,’ he added defensively. ‘He lives in a squat, but we all borrow him. He looked so thin and pathetic all the passers-by used to fork out for him. Now, he’s lost heart and doesn’t sell himself, and people tend to walk by in embarrassment. We’re going to club together and invest in a cute little terrier. Much better returns.’
Tristan rose to his feet, somehow controlling the fury gathering force inside him. ‘Go and drink yourself into an early grave,’ he shoved a wad of notes into the beggar’s hand, ‘and give me that dog.’
‘Oh, there you are, Tristan.’ It was Melanie, braving the cold again in her twinset, short skirt and very high heels. ‘You’ll be late for pre-lunch drinks. So many people want to interview you,’ she went on, through the streaked blonde hair that blew across her mouth. ‘Madame Lauzerte rang again, and this’, she handed over a fax with an excited little giggle, ‘has just come in from Rupert Campbell-Black. He’s a cult figure for our generation too. Tristan. Tristan!’
But Tristan and James had vanished into very thin air.
Lucy’s safe-house was a rescue kennels outside Boston. She had begged Gablecross to find her a place where she could put her terrors and utter anguish in perspective by looking after those even worse off than herself. But nothing had prepared her for the sadness of falling in love with one terrified, often dreadfully maltreated dog after another, nursing it back to health only to find it had to be put down after a few weeks to make way for a newer, younger arrival. She was tormented that she had no idea what had really happened to James and, as her longing for him and Tristan grew more desperate, she felt as in need of rescuing as the dogs, and wished she could plunge the fatal needle into herself.
There were moments of happiness when a dog was rehomed, and the other kennelmaids, who seemed to love their work, sensed her misery and were incredibly kind. But she always refused their invitations to come out in the evenings in case she broke down.
She had had little contact with England since she left. Her family had been told nothing except that she was safe. Karen and Gablecross had been over and were now painstakingly piecing together the prosecution’s case, but Rozzy had become so mad it seemed doubtful she would ever be brought to trial.
‘But don’t feel sorry for her,’ warned Gablecross. ‘She’s an evil, cold-blooded psychopath, and clever enough to be faking.’
Constantly, Lucy woke screaming from nightmares of drowning in the torture chamber, of Tristan covered in blood being dragged away from her and, worst of all, of Rozzy’s crazy laughter as, like a tolling bell, she listed Lucy’s imperfections, ‘Too common, too dull, too ugly, too presumptuous.’
As a result, Lucy had steeled herself not to ask Gablecross about Tristan. By now he must have got it together with Claudine or Tabitha, and moved back to his own world.
She had no access to English or French newspapers, but occasionally came across snippets about Don Carlos. Flipping through yesterday’s Boston Globe during her lunch hour on 13 January, she stumbled on a photograph of Claudine and Tristan.
‘Scent of Victory Brings Lovers Together
Again,’ proclaimed the headline to a story that the French film The Lily in the Valley was tipped to sweep the boards at the prestigious Academia Awards that evening, which would be broadcast on PBS the following night.
Looking at Tristan’s young, happy face as he gazed so proudly down at Claudine, Lucy gave a wail of misery. She had been given a new name, Linda Gilham, a new passport and a new social-security number. Why couldn’t someone provide her with a new heart? As she stumbled out into the yard, dogs everywhere started barking their heads off, scrabbling against the wire fencing.
‘Oh, shut up,’ screamed Lucy, then, knowing she’d been horrible, ran forward to stick her fingers through the wire to be nuzzled and frantically licked.
Like a vicious cancer, her longing for Tristan had grown more unbearable every day. There was no morphine to ease the pain, but as some compensation she could record tonight’s awards and play the tape over and over again.
It was her turn that evening to muck out the kennels. Afterwards she went straight into the shower, scrubbing herself clean and washing her hair, which as part of her disguise hung blonde and straight an inch below her collarbone. As she put on a nightie, which Tab had once given her, with a picture on the front of Peter Rabbit eating a carrot, she reflected that Tristan probably wouldn’t recognize her now. He met so many people, he might not remember her anyway. At least she had a lovely warm bedsitter, centrally heated against the East Coast winter and with views over the kennels and the park where she walked the dogs for their allotted twenty minutes a day.
She had bought a litre of white and poured herself a large drink to steady her nerves. The sweat was already coursing down her ribs. Over and over she checked the tape was working and that she’d got the right channel.
But in the end the awards passed in a blur. As the cameras roved around the tables, Lucy was conscious of the depressing number of ravishing women. Then she gave a cry of delight, as through a cloud of Gauloise smoke emerged Oscar, Valentin, Bernard, Sylvestre and Ogborne, all getting plastered. But as she searched in vain among the other flushed self-satisfied luncheon guests there was no sign of Tristan or Claudine.
Up and down, up and down, gush, gush, gush, went the winners, thanking everyone from Auntie Glad to the guinea-pig.
‘Oh, get on with it,’ implored Lucy.
But at last it was Best Actress. In the clips from The Lily in the Valley, Claudine looked so beautiful that Lucy groaned. It was impossible Tristan couldn’t still be in love with her and, sure enough, it was her name Stephen Fry drew out of the gold envelope.
From an aerial view, the round tables covered in white damask, all with their rings of green Perrier bottles at the centre, floated like water-lilies on the bluey-green carpet, as Claudine glided between them up onto the stage. She was wearing a beautiful suit, the colour of bramble fool, which brought out the violet in her wide-apart eyes. Lovingly stroking her award, which was gold and in the shape of an owl, she murmured a few platitudes only redeemed by the sexiness of her French accent. Although it wouldn’t seem so sexy to Tristan, thought Lucy, helping herself to another glass of wine, because he was French anyway. Claudine didn’t look a bundle of laughs, nor did she get tumultuous applause. She had lost too many Brownie points not coming forward to save Tristan in July.
Valentin won the award for Best Cameraman. The prize for Director of Photography went to Oscar, who caused huge laughter by being caught fast asleep on camera when his name was read out. But he woke up enough to tell the audience Tristan was the finest director he’d ever worked with.
‘Hear, hear,’ shouted Lucy. ‘But where is he?’
The Best Actor Award went to Anthony Hopkins, which was an excuse for another glass of wine, and at last it was Best Director. Tristan was competing with Woody Allen, Stanley Kubrick and Steven Spielberg. Lucy’s nightgown was drenched in sweat, she couldn’t stop shaking. ‘Please make him win,’ she prayed, ‘so that at least I see him.’
As more clips were shown of Claudine in The Lily in the Valley, Lucy hurled a cushion at the television set, narrowly missing her fast-emptying bottle. Julie Christie, just as beautiful as Claudine, was slowly opening the envelope, tantalizing, taking her time.
‘And the best director is Tristan de Montigny for The Lily in the Valley.’
Lucy’s scream of excitement was lost in the roar of applause as the whole audience rose to their feet to pay tribute to the courage with which Tristan had faced his terrible problems in the past year. But Lucy’s tears of joy turned into wails of despair as, after a roll of drums, the spotlight once more tracked bloody Claudine coming back through the tables up onto the stage.
And her make-up’s been redone, thought Lucy savagely.
Claudine wasn’t looking very sunny, however, particularly when there were groans of disappointment and a flurry of booing and shouts of ‘Where’s Tristan?’
‘I am afraid Treestan de Monteegny ees eendisposed,’ said Claudine defensively, ‘and cannot accept this award. But I know he would thank you all for this wonderful honour. I am so ’appy to accept it on his behalf because he is most wonderful director I ever worked with and the one with the most integrity.’
‘Which is more than can be said for you,’ shouted a drunken Ogborne.
Poleaxed with disappointment, Lucy switched off the television and threw herself on her bed. The pain was unendurable. Hearing his name, seeing the others in the crew had brought everything back. How could she exist for another second without him? She was crying so hysterically, at first she didn’t hear banging on the door.
‘Linda, Linda, Linda,’ shouted Bella, the senior kennelmaid, ‘what in hell’s the matter? Please open the door.’
‘Go away,’ sobbed Lucy. ‘Leave me alone.’
‘Gee, I’m sorry to bother you, but you know about lurchers and some guy’s brought one in. I told him to come back tomorrow, but he seems desperate. I said you’d take the dog’s particulars and settle it in.’
‘We don’t want any more dogs,’ wept Lucy. ‘It’ll mean another one put down to make room for him.’
Wiping her face on the counterpane, seizing a handful of tissues to blow her nose, mumbling that she simply wasn’t up to it, Lucy stumbled downstairs into the freezing cold night to discover it had been snowing. The dog pens on either side of the rough track leading up to the check-in office were empty of dogs but blanketed in snow. Snow lay on the roofs of the kennels behind, where she hoped the dogs were sleeping and wouldn’t wake up when she installed the lurcher. Newcomers were often traumatized by the din.
Snow, already freezing on the wire fencing and the dogs’ nameplates on each pen, reminded her unaccountably of Valhalla. And then she saw him tiptoeing tentatively out of the office, a big grey shaggy dog, and her eyes were full of tears once more because in the moonlight he looked like the ghost of James. He was a little rickety on his legs, but as she drew nearer he suddenly noticed her, stiffened and his tail began sweeping back and forth, almost touching his ears as he broke into a lovely loping canter.
He must be a ghost, he must! But as she ran forward, and he bounded towards her, swifter than eagles, she could see his dark paw prints stretching out behind him in the snow. Then he sank down on his ancient legs, squeaking and pirouetting four times in the moonlight, and, sneezing in excitement, he collapsed at her feet.
Totally immobile for a few seconds, Lucy fell to her knees, hugging him, wailing as she felt the razor sharpness of his ribs and backbone, but all the time his tail beat frenziedly as his long tongue shot out to lick away the waterfall of tears.
‘Oh, James darling, how come you’re in America?’
Wiping her eyes on his fur, Lucy raced up the snowy path in her bare feet with James bounding beside her.
‘It’s a miracle,’ she screamed, ‘someone’s brought in my James. Tell me I’m not dreaming.’
Then she heard a voice, the most heartbreakingly husky voice in the world, saying indignantly, ‘No, I didn’t make myself clear. I want
to keep the dog. It is your kennelmaid that I want to rehome.’
‘Tristan,’ croaked Lucy. ‘Oh, Tristan.’
In the doorway to the waiting room her knees gave way, with James’s shaggy body the only thing propping her up. As Tristan came through the other door from the general office, she gave a gasp because snow was melting in his hair as it had been on the first day of filming, and because he was even thinner than James and, under the fluorescent lighting, looked greyer and more ghostly than James had in the moonlight.
It must be a dream. Her eyes were so wet and her throat so dry, she couldn’t cry out, and neither, it seemed, could he. They just gazed at each other. The only sound was the brisk drumbeat of James’s tail against a metal filing cabinet.
‘Where did you find him?’ At last she stammered out the words.
‘In Edinburgh, outside my hotel. Some bastard use him to beg for money. He was so thin I didn’t recognize him. He was the clever one who recognized me.’
As someone closed the door discreetly behind him, Lucy’s thanks came tumbling over each other. Wiping her eyes and nose on the sleeve of her nightie, she crouched down beside James, clinging to him, kissing him over and over, as he snaked against her in ecstasy.
‘I thought I’d never see him again.’ Her voice broke. ‘Oh, how did you find me?’
‘Gablecross finally admit you are here, or I would have arrived seven months earlier.’
Lucy gazed down, thinking how tearstained and soppy and Pollyanna-ish she must look in her Peter Rabbit nightie with her yellow hair in bunches. But Tristan was only aware of her sweet, trembling mouth and the way her cheekbones shone like mother-of-pearl as the tears slid over them. Then, suddenly roused from shock, he noticed her bare feet and how little she was wearing.
‘You mustn’t catch cold.’ Whipping off his coat, he wrapped it round her. Breathing in the tang of Eau Sauvage on the dark blue collar, fighting the temptation to fall into his arms, Lucy collapsed instead on to a leather sofa.
