The Hollow Heart (The Heartfelt Series)

by Adrienne Vaughan

  “I remember.” Daniel raised a brow, teasing him.

  “Wish I didn’t.” Paul laughed and so did he.

  He clocked Marianne’s death stare.

  “Just taking Monty for a spin in the garden, leave you to it.” He left with the little dog trotting beside him, perfectly happy with the arrangement.

  Marianne poured her ex-boss a glass of wine. Daniel took a sip, standing at the fireplace, taking in the room.

  “You have such lovely taste, Marianne. Artistic. Where did that come from?”

  “A lot of it was George, once you cleared away the clutter, he had some lovely pieces.” She joined Daniel in a drink, and waited.

  “It’s Claude.”

  Marianne stifled a sigh.

  “He’s very ill. I saw him just a few hours ago, he was asking for you. He’s been trying to get in touch with all of us, to say goodbye.”

  Just out of range, Marianne thought she saw the edge of a blade, looked like a scythe. Oh, hi death, you still here? Always comes in threes, she heard in her head.

  Marianne polished off her drink.

  “Oh Daniel, Claude’s nothing to do with me, hasn’t been for a hundred years.”

  Daniel took a deep breath and put his glass down. The past divided them, yet united them at the same time. In another life, while working in Paris, Marianne had fallen for Daniel’s best friend, Claude. The match, Marianne, a hungry young journalist, and he a well-known photographer, had been the talk of the town.

  For Marianne it had been a terrible mistake, although fun at first, Claude had quickly reverted to his old ways, spending money like water and conducting a series of affairs with a string of models. Claude had given Marianne more than just heartache.

  Nevertheless, Marianne had adored him and, believing his promise of marriage, stood by him, until the evidence of his unfaithfulness was irrefutable in the form of a very pregnant, young assistant. Distraught and desperate to distance herself from the shame of a failed relationship, despite the many warnings and the inevitable pity of friends and colleagues, she left the sprawling Left Bank apartment they shared, abruptly. As a celebrity photographer, she had hoped Claude’s PR would quash any leaks to the press but on hearing the news, one of his ex-conquests decided her career needed a boost and went to the media with sordid tales of drug-fuelled, sex romps. To witness at first hand the rancour of the media and see your private life sordidly splashed across the centre pages, had deeply affected Marianne. She vowed there and then to use her skills as a journalist only for good, to campaign for justice and expose wrongdoing wherever and whenever she could.

  Marianne returned to England, taking the first job offered, convincing herself that sometimes it was just as easy to let go; see which way the wind blew and where fate would take you if you just let it. She had found it quite easy to reinvent herself as an ambitious, unattached, workaholic. A new career, in a new town, where no-one knew she had been the girlfriend of a glamorous celebrity.

  She had blotted out Claude and the memories, because when she did think of him and their brief happiness, she could not help but relive the pain of packing her possessions into boxes, remembering how she had felt, as the boxes filled and she had emptied. Now he was dying. Marianne remained untouched. The girl he had betrayed gone forever. She had moved on, developed a shell, the legacy of their relationship a half-forgotten nightmare, an echo of another time.

  “I really don’t think…” she said quietly. Besides it was ancient history, Claude had married his assistant and they had children now, he had another life too.

  “I understand,” Daniel was abrupt, moving out into the hallway. “You’ve been through too much lately, losing George and everything. But Claude’s one of my closest friends Marianne and he specifically asked to speak to you, so I said I’d try.”

  The Grandfather clock chimed.

  “Does he want to speak to me now?”

  “There’s very little time, I’ve come straight from the airport.”

  Marianne caught his pain. She called to Paul in the garden.

  “I’m going into the study with Daniel, we have some important business to discuss. We’ll be a while.” Dusk was falling. Monty was in Paul’s arms as he sat on the swing tied to the chestnut, growing precariously close to the house. He nodded and waved.

  “I’ll walk Monty and make a bit of supper for later, no worries, will Daniel stay and eat?”

  “Not tonight.” Marianne replied.

  “Seems nice,” Daniel said, as they made their way to the study, “young, but nice.”

  “It’s not like that with Paul,” Marianne sniped, and was immediately sorry for her sharpness. “Not like that with anyone now,” she ended softly.

  Daniel went to pick up the landline.

  “Where is he?” Marianne asked.

  “In a hospice, outside Paris,” Daniel replied.

  “What’s it like, so I can imagine it when I speak to him, I won’t know what to talk about.”

  “It’s very pleasant, his room is filled with flowers and soft music, not in the way of funeral parlours, but more like a home from home.”

  “A home to die from,” she said.

  Daniel continued.

  “It looks directly onto the garden, there’s a fountain in a courtyard. His bed is large, and piled with cushions; drawings by the children are stuck on the walls and there’s a cluster of some of his best photographs, in frames, on a table where he can see them. There’s a beautiful picture of you.”

  That hurt, for some reason.

  “Is there a pretty young nurse?” she asked.

  “Of course,” Daniel replied.

  “Good, okay dial the number.” She stood by the desk, fiddling with a strand of hair.

  She closed her eyes trying to remember the Claude she had fallen in love with; his dark green eyes, flecked with gold; eyes that always reminded her of a majestic cat; eyes that lit up whenever he saw her. She tried not to imagine this dying stranger, this poor man she did not know or care about. It took ages to finally get through.

  “You rang, thank goodness you rang,” he whispered dryly, although the voice racked with illness, was not his, “how are you?” he hissed.

  “Good,” she whispered back.

  “I bet you still look good, you always did.”

  She left the air blank.

  “Thank you for ringing, I’m so happy to hear your voice, you have no idea what this means to me.” His words were rasping; his breathing laboured.

  “Take your time, Claude. I’m not going anywhere. Are you okay? Are you comfortable?”

  “I’m fine, absolutely fine and happy now that we have this chance to talk. I have meant to speak to you so many times, and now there’s not much time.” He stopped, breathless, she heard him take a drink. She sat on the edge of the desk, Daniel had moved away, discreetly reading a book in a corner. Her hands were trembling; she had forgotten his beautiful accent; the perfect English with the hint of France.

  “Claude, I’m so sorry,” she said.

  “No, no Marianne. I’m sorry. So sorry, you’ll never know. That’s why I asked Daniel to make sure I could speak to you. Please believe me. I’m really sorry, for everything,” he gasped, and then silence. He took another drink.

  “It was a long time ago, Claude.” It was all she could think of to say.

  “Marianne, I need you to forgive me,” he said, louder this time, with a cry in his voice, “Say you forgive me.”

  She did not answer.

  “Forgive me, please, I need you to forgive and then I can pass in peace,” he was pleading.

  She held the telephone away from her ear and looked at the handset, hardly believing what he had just asked of her. She glanced quickly at Daniel and then replaced the receiver slowly; finally, making sure Claude heard her do it.

  Daniel closed the book and came to join her at the desk.

  “Thank you, he’ll pass more peacefully now,” Daniel whispered, touching her shoulder
, imagining Marianne too filled with emotion to speak.

  Marianne closed the front door softly after saying goodbye to Daniel. Paul had left candles burning everywhere and the newly fitted French doors to the garden were open to the cold night air. Marianne poured herself a drink. A yellow post-it on the microwave door bore the message, ‘Ping if you’re hungry’ in Paul’s handwriting. She kicked off her shoes and wandered into the sitting room.

  Paul and Monty lay curled up together, fast asleep on the sofa. Monty lifted an eyebrow and waddled off the couch to greet her. Paul stirred. A yellow post-it on his mouth, ‘Please remove to kiss’, another on the fly of his jeans, ‘Please remove and ravage me’. He had clearly had far too much wine.

  She left the notes where they were, tousled his sandy head in a brief goodnight and made her weary way upstairs. Monty followed, leaving Paul on the sofa. Her feelings had altered, the grief had shifted. She had not felt so brittle or bitter in years. She cleaned her teeth, yet her mouth still tasted metallic, it was as if she had spent the entire evening chewing tinfoil.

  Daniel left a message giving details of Claude’s funeral a few days later. If she were ever asked, Marianne would pretend she had never received it. Claude had been dead to her for years. She erased the message and turned to Monty, who was spinning in an excited circle, anticipating his walk.

  “Do you know what?” she asked him, clipping on his lead. “Just lately, I feel as if I’ve had enough death to last me a lifetime!” She threw open the door, striding down the pathway, leaving the gate ajar, so all the negative vibes could swirl out into the street and dissipate before her return.

  Chapter Four –

  A World Of Difference

  Marianne read the publicity blurb with mounting excitement. It was to be the grandest of occasions, combining the very best that London and Los Angeles had to offer; an awards ceremony, entertainment extravaganza and charity fundraiser to beat any that had ever taken place on the planet. It was the event of the decade, the one on everyone’s lips, ‘The Power 2 The People Awards’, and it was to be sponsored by Global Communications Inc., the new parent company of the Chesterford Chronicle.

  The event was being hosted by the Baroness of Minesbourg, a minor royal with major pull. Marianne’s campaign to reunite families following her ‘Stolen Baby Scam’ exposé had been nominated for a major ‘Power 2 The People’ Award. She could not quite believe it herself, this was fantastic news. If she won, imagine the publicity it would give her campaign. It would send her career into orbit. This was beyond exciting; this was earth shattering.

  As usual, Marianne had the inside take, having interviewed the Baroness on numerous occasions, because the Baroness was, after all, one of Chesterford’s favourite daughters. Not quite a tale of rags to riches, hers was a great story nonetheless, episodes of which, Marianne had reported at regular intervals during her time at the newspaper.

  Indeed, Baroness Bailey Caulfield, the former international fashion model, was at the zenith of her popularity. The thrice-wed commoner certainly made the most of the title her first husband, an adorable old-fashioned aristocrat, had bestowed upon her. When Bailey’s Baron suffered a heart attack not long after they married, the glamorous widow wed an up-and-coming rock star who, unbeknown to her, maintained a coke habit and a couple of mistresses on the side. After divorcing him, Bailey went on to marry a young American politician, who rapidly climbed the ladder to become Senator of one of the USA’s most southerly states.

  Sadly, this marriage too, was doomed to fail, and not twelve months after the wedding, Bailey was left with little choice but to divorce the Senator, following salacious revelations involving a junior researcher attached to his office. Seemingly undaunted, Bailey’s inheritance and two divorce settlements, gave her the wherewithal to fly around the globe devoting her life to all manner of good causes. Never considered a beauty in the conventional sense, the extremely attractive Baroness, still one of the most photographed females of her generation, could certainly add credibility to any event she chose to attend, let alone host.

  With the Baroness’s name intrinsically linked to what promised to be a show-stopping spectacular, Marianne knew that royals, movie stars, politicians, world leaders and all manner of celebrity would be beating a path to the capital; this would be a fundraiser of monumental proportions; the party to beat all parties, and anyone who was anyone wanted to be there. She read and re-read the email aloud.

  “Wow, this could be it Monty, our big break, catapulted from the sleepy backwater of journalism which is the Chesterford Chronicle, to superstardom. I could become an international roving reporter; a world commentator; a global campaigner.” Monty ran around the kitchen table in delight, tail wagging. “Of course, I can’t go anywhere without you, that would have to be written into the contract. Oh Monty, this could be it, this could really be it!” She picked him up and twirled him round in her arms.

  With the Chronicle’s parent company, the media conglomerate Global Communications Inc. one of the event’s main sponsors, whispers that a handful of employees from the newspaper were going to receive invitations to the ‘Power 2 The People Awards’ fluttered through the city centre office block like ticker tape. By the time Marianne reached the building, she was feeling pretty smug, with her campaign nominated for an award, she was definitely on the guest list.

  The gilt-edged, Royal Crest embossed invitation requesting Marianne Coltrane and Partner to attend the event, was propped against her computer screen. She immediately phoned Paul; he would be thrilled to come as her guest and was always good company, whatever the occasion.

  Marianne knew exactly what she was going to wear; she chose an exquisite full-length, swirling red silk gown. One of the most expensive items she had ever bought, a classic halter neck with plunging back that skimmed the base of her spine, highlighting her neat waist and bottom. The last time she had worn it was to the National Media Awards. The night George had stepped in and presented the prizes and she had apologised for downgrading his article to a rather insignificant ‘Lifestyle’ write-up. The night George told her that it could not have mattered less, and the night she won the accolade ‘Journalist of the Year’, drank litres of champagne and kissed him far too over-enthusiastically for so short an acquaintance.

  Even more importantly, it was the night George had asked her out and she had said yes, and that was it, the red dress, the Awards, the champagne, the kiss. He had fallen, hook, line and sinker. She hugged the dress, smiling.

  It was not long before Marianne found herself smiling again, this time wryly. No such thing as a free lunch, she told herself when she read the email from Jack, commissioning her to write a series of articles about the build-up to the ‘Power 2 The People’ event. With her usual attention to detail she began her research, making copious notes and interviewing as many of those involved as she could.

  At first sight, she could not believe the area chosen to build the main auditorium would ever be ready in time or be large enough to hold the thousands of guests planned to make up the audience. As she watched the plan come together, she was fascinated by every aspect of this fantastic event. Impressed by how hard the team worked, and in awe, because everyone, from the humblest junior to the biggest star, was giving their time free to support charities and good causes across the globe.

  The white, stretch limousine slid along Oakwood Avenue to sit purring outside the gate. Paul Osborne ran along the path and then leapt the steps to the front door, launching himself into the hallway, brandishing a corsage of dark yellow lilies.

  “Are you rea-dy?” he sing-songed up the stairwell.

  Monty appeared first, woofing softly and wagging his tail so hard his whole body wriggled. He tumbled off the first two steps, regained his balance, then charged downwards leaping into Paul’s arms from a safe height. Flowers aloft, Paul nuzzled Monty’s ears; a polite cough sent both pairs of eyes upwards.

  “Wow!” Paul put Monty down. “You look ravenous!”


  “You look rather delirious yourself,” laughed Marianne, the misnomers, a tribute to Sharon’s calamitous deciphering of messages. Marianne descended slowly, the crimson fish-tail of her gown swishing behind her. Paul presented the corsage. Their lips touched briefly and, thanking him, she attached the flowers to her dress.

  To complete the ensemble, she wore George’s engagement ring and his mother’s art deco diamond droplet earrings. These perfectly complemented her hair, which was swept upwards into a professionally acquired French pleat. Paul, in a borrowed midnight blue velvet dinner jacket, had managed to smooth his wayward locks, although his navy blue bow tie flopped to one side and the frill of his dress shirt had been singed, due to overzealous ironing. His eyes sparkled and, placing Marianne’s golden pashmina around her shoulders, he stood back from the doorway to reveal the waiting car.

  She checked Paul’s expression to ensure this was a joke.

  “Great isn’t it? On the company, of course.”

  They said goodnight to Monty and, pulling the door closed, tangoed, giggling, along the pathway. Marianne laughed even louder when Ted Cassidy, one of the Chronicle’s long-serving photographers, jumped from the car to open the door. Ted apologised for being inappropriately attired for his role as chauffeur but explained he had been commissioned to take some shots to accompany the article, Marianne would no doubt be writing.

  “No such thing as a free Awards dinner either then?” She smiled as they posed, glasses in hand, for Ted and the neighbours, who had gathered to see who was responsible for the white monstrosity filling half the cul-de-sac.

  ‘The Power 2 The People Awards’ extravaganza was highly organised; it had to be. Marianne’s invitation had come with an allotted time for her party to arrive; ensuring all guests and celebrities could be photographed and interviewed at manageable intervals along the stretch of traditional red carpet.

  Paul had another surprise for Marianne. His sister Zara and her husband Mike were also on the guest list; as was Mike’s father, the American TV star who had failed to make it to the National Media Awards; his actress girlfriend, and their New York agents, Leeson & Leeson. But just hours before the event, Zara called to say the New York team had to bow out and the American TV Star, a great friend of the Baroness, had arranged for Marianne and her guest to join their table. This meant Marianne and Paul would be seated in the centre of the arena, flanking the huge stage and catwalk that had been designed to bring the live action right into the heart of the auditorium. If Marianne’s campaign was to win an award, she would be perfectly placed to be called to the stage to receive it.