The Diamond Ring

by Primula Bond

  I lower my camera as a terrible thought strikes me. Through those windows I could just as easily see two parents drunkenly slumbering in bed. A teenage Gustav, tiptoeing down the stairs or scaling the balcony to go out on the town although expressly forbidden. A toddler Pierre, wandering through the apartment in his dressing gown. The flare of a match, and the gathering flames.

  Gustav sits up rigidly beside me, as if he can read my mind. I lean against his shoulder and wait for a moment. ‘So, is it the jeweller you’re going to show me? The wedding rings? It’s a long walk over to St Germain, but I’m game if you are.’ I point across the city, past Notre Dame, over the Pont Neuf to the Quartier Latin. Maybe now he’ll tell me where he’s been. But he’s silent. ‘You look very serious, G. What are you thinking?’

  He looks back at me, and kisses me on the nose. ‘Getting married is a serious business, Serena! The rings are still being sized. I can’t wait to put yours on your finger! But no. That’s not where we’re going this evening.’

  Again a tiny shiver of anxiety runs through me. Why won’t he tell me? Why won’t I ask him? I press myself close to him so that I can feel the flex of his muscles as we walk together.

  We stroll round the north side of the Sacré Coeur and into residential streets that become quieter the further we go. Then as we start to descend, we leave the private mansions corralled behind iron railings and return to areas lined with those seven-storey apartment buildings. Beneath the apartments are boutiques, cafés and little shops displaying lingerie or delicious cakes or brightly coloured bottles in the window.

  Finally we come down another flight of steps with a central handrail commanding yet another stunning view of the city. At the bottom, Gustav suddenly turns right through an arched gateway, down a cobbled alleyway, and leads me into a secluded courtyard surrounded on all sides by newly scrubbed façades with long double windows and balconies hugging their privacy.

  One of the buildings in the corner is still being cleaned. It’s blanketed in dirty blue tarpaulin which is sprayed in places with graffiti tags, but as we pause in the middle of the peaceful courtyard the top corner of the shroud, right up by the roof, starts to come away. We dodge back in case it falls on us, but as it drops towards the ground it’s caught and folded by a builder waiting on the next level of scaffolding. A guy is moving along the roof, systematically releasing more plastic, crackling panels of blue until the shroud is removed and the metal skeleton of scaffolding is revealed.

  ‘It’s the anniversary of the fire that killed my parents,’ Gustav remarks hoarsely as we crunch on to what looks like the remains of a pile of rubble. ‘Every time I’m in Paris I come to look. Pay my respects, I suppose. And I say a prayer. Sometimes I hope it will remain charred and scarred like a relic. Other times I wish it was all restored. And now it is. It’s a home again for someone.’

  ‘I’m sorry, darling. I had no idea.’ I put my arms round him, but he keeps glancing around the courtyard then back down the tunnelled alleyway where we came in. ‘Is it just a coincidence they are disrobing the building, or did you know this would be happening today?’

  He rubs his chin across the top of my head and folds me close to him. I can feel the tension in his body. The memories of that night still haunt him. When he came home to find the apartment filled with smoke, his parents dead, and his little brother wearing a cloak of fire.

  ‘Actually, the construction company have kept me informed about the restoration. I wanted you by my side when they unveiled it. Is that silly?’

  I rest my face against his chest and feel his heart thumping beneath my cheek. A little faster than usual, but still so loud and vital.

  ‘Of course not. I’m honoured to be here with you. But I’m not the right person. At least I shouldn’t be the only person, G. This isn’t my story. It’s yours and Pierre’s. Shouldn’t he be here, too?’

  Gustav sucks in his breath. I look up and see that he is smiling.

  ‘My signorina. If you weren’t so cute and lovely, I’d think you were a bit of a witch yourself. Because, well, because what you just said is absolutely right. He didn’t mention it when I asked him to meet you at the château, did he? The real reason he’s in Paris?’

  ‘He never got round to it, no. He was more intent on mending fences between us. I wasn’t particularly happy to see him, but we made progress, G. Ultimately your brother cares about you more than anything else in the world.’

  ‘Mission accomplished, then. I’m sorry if it upset you, but it was the ideal opportunity. I didn’t want any more awkwardness between you. Now we have something else to put to rest. Pierre should be here by now. I asked him to meet me.’

  He glances over my head, and right on cue there is the reflection of his brother, growing behind me from a dot in the distance to a shadowy outline against the dark shine of Gustav’s eyes.

  ‘I thought this was just going to be you and me today. I’ve missed you while you’ve been on your mystery mission.’

  ‘But as you said, he needs to be here, too. Forgive me for surprising you with all this, cara.’ Gustav is distracted now. ‘But this place represents another part of my life. This was our home. And look! They’ve rebuilt it at last. It’s fresh, and new, and ready to start again, just as Pierre and I have rebuilt our relationship. That why I needed him here today.’

  I can see I’m about to lose Gustav, temporarily. His mouth parts in a half-smile, and I turn to follow his gaze. Pierre pushes out from the now exposed main entrance to the building. He’s wearing a bright yellow hard hat and another blazer, this time an old striped one like they wear at Henley Regatta. His transformation from rock star to English gent is complete.

  He turns to shake hands with one of the builders, and then hesitates in the makeshift shadow of the scaffolding.

  ‘Fine. I’ll play nicely,’ I say quietly. ‘Thanks to you forcing him on me the other day, we’ve made friends again. Tentatively.’

  ‘There are no more rifts between us, are there, Serena?’

  Pierre’s low, gruff voice is right behind me.

  His voice echoes around the quiet, enclosed courtyard. Some of the builders stop working to watch the three of us. The brothers stand side by side, close but not touching, Gustav taller than Pierre. Their hair is such different textures, one man bearded, the other not, but the black eyes are so similar, sparking with argument behind the fierce eyelashes, the fire gradually subsiding to a smoulder. They look at each other briefly, then both turn to study me for an intense, silent moment.

  A flurry of birds tumbles out of a small tree in the centre of the courtyard, scattering some bright green leaves, and swoops out through the entrance gate, and as if the passage of their tiny wings has dislodged it, a scaffolding pole, and then another, rolls off the growing pile with a discordant clang.

  We are all quiet for a while, and as the upper storeys of the old building are now revealed, we turn away from each other to stare upwards. There are four windows set into the eaves of the retiled grey roof, and four longer, grander ones lined up below.

  ‘This is where I carried you out of the fire and laid you down, P, still rolled up in that rug.’ Gustav points at the paving at his feet. ‘I had to leave you with the neighbours, you were screaming in agony, while I tried to get back inside.’

  Gustav swallows and covers his eyes with his hands for a moment. I walk a little way from them, and sit on a pile of wooden pallets.

  Pierre takes Gustav’s hand away from his eyes and pulls up the sleeve. On Gustav’s wrist, on either side of his watch, is a fine web of white scarring.

  ‘Look. Even your scars are a work of art! The only part of you that was burned. That’s why you developed a taste for big, expensive watches. Whereas I have had to develop a taste for costumes, masks, deception. Shoes.’ He winks at me.

  Gustav’s phone starts. He is about to press his thumb on the keypad to cut it off when he checks the caller ID. ‘It’s the agents in London. They must be calling about the sale o
f Baker Street. I think I should take this. Come, I’ll walk. You two talk. I’ll see you in the little bar round the corner. Le Coin des Amis.’

  Gustav starts to walk out of the courtyard. Pierre eyes me warily, then steps over to offer a hand to pull me up.

  Gustav has walked out into the street, talking quietly on the phone. He glances back at us, points the way towards the café and disappears from view.

  I let my hand rest for a moment in Pierre’s. See the strong fingers around mine. And suddenly I feel desperately sorry for him. I stare once more up at the restored building.

  ‘Maybe you’ll learn from everything that happened here. Your LA therapists would tell you to make it work positively not negatively. Like I’m still trying to learn from things that happened when I was little. For good or ill, the truth catches up in the end. So no more mischief, Pierre. I mean it. I’m here in Gustav’s life to stay.’

  I turn to look at him. He’s staring not at me but up at the windows of his childhood home.

  ‘We had a laugh the other night, didn’t we?’

  I smile.

  ‘Honestly? Yes. It’s a start. You’re not the monster I thought you were. But I’m still getting my head round the new Pierre. I still want to believe wholeheartedly in him. So in an ideal world the best thing you could do is stay away for a while. At least from me. I don’t mean to be unfriendly, and I know you can’t do that for ever. Gustav wouldn’t want it. He loves you, and wants you in his life. So for his sake, and ours, we’ll make this work. And let’s bury any bullshit that you couldn’t help yourself because you were in love with me.’

  Pierre doesn’t reply. The palms of his hands are pressed together in front of his face as he turns finally from the building and starts to back away towards the street.

  ‘It’s true, Serena. I am in love with you. Or I was. Oh, God. I know I denied it. I know I said I was getting over it, but the truth is I’m not quite there yet. There are still spots left on the leopard. Because I was being economical with the truth. Isn’t that what politicians say? All that stuff about being incapable of love? About nothing being in here?’ He bashes at his chest. ‘I lied. In all the mayhem, Margot drove me straight at you, and you knocked me sideways. Not just because you’re so beautiful and spirited and talented and naughty and wise. Because you were unattainable. Gustav is so totally under your spell. I wanted a piece of it, too, but—’

  I put my hand up as if to separate us. It’s a feeble attempt to hide the blush scorching my face, but I have to do something. ‘You can’t ever say it, Pierre. You can’t ever mean it.’

  ‘I can. And I do. But see? The love word? It’s gone. Poof.’ He blows an imaginary dandelion clock in an unexpectedly fey gesture. Reminding me of his theatrical bent. ‘My infatuation will never rear its ugly head again.’

  The final pole of scaffolding crashes away from the façade of the building, and we both jump at the sound. The builders leap down off the lower platform. Pierre doesn’t wait for any further reaction from me, but calls out goodbye to the builders, who raise their arms in farewell.

  Then he turns and gestures for me to lead the way out of the courtyard.

  ‘Give me a moment on my own,’ I tell him, taking my mobile out of my pocket. ‘You go to Gustav. We’ll talk again. Soon.’

  He hesitates. Runs his fingers through his thick hair. I watch it curl round his fingers as if to keep them there. ‘You’re not even a tiny bit flattered?’

  ‘You are bloody unbelievable! You put a toenail out of line, and you’re toast,’ I hiss, keeping my eyes fixed on my phone as I bring up Polly’s text. ‘What you can do, Pierre, if you love me, or did love me, is never, ever speak of your feelings again. Never mention Margot, or your vile plotting, or your games. If we can draw a line under all that, and really banish it, and really strive to get on, then I reckon we’ve a good chance of making this work. And one more thing. One day I want you to find a way of apologising properly to Polly. It’s up to her what she does with your apology. And then maybe, just maybe, we can forget everything that happened.’

  Pierre walks away to the entrance of the courtyard, and I start to relax. Then he stops, calls something over his shoulder. I glance up and find his eyes on me. A smile so wide and charming that it’s tempting to think that something in that black heart of his might just be melting.

  He says it again. ‘So then maybe, just maybe, you’ll let me call you sis?’

  I flick my hands at him, then press Polly’s number to call. The blush is creeping back. ‘On your way, Pierre.’

  ‘Rena?’ squeaks Polly’s little voice from the phone. ‘That you?’

  I close my eyes and sit down on a stone window ledge. I want to shut everything, even Paris, out of my mind for a moment.

  ‘Just wanted to hear your voice, Polly,’ I say, trying to keep my voice steady. I can never tell her what so nearly passed between me and Pierre. I can’t even tell her what he has just said to me. She warned me to be careful, and she was right. But this is something I have to keep from her, at least until enough time has elapsed so that she won’t care any more. ‘But you sound as if you’re in a Turkish bath!’

  She laughs her filthy ex-smoker’s laugh that is like music now that it’s come back. Maybe her heart is already mended.

  ‘I am! I’ve only just got your text. We’re at a hammam in the next village and I’ve got a signal! Right in the middle of nowhere. Imagine that, hon. Our own private massage parlour!’

  There’s some kind of warbling music in the background and nearer by some riotous female singing.

  ‘Spa, more like? I thought you were in a retreat, spending your days drying raisins and sewing and washing other people’s feet?’

  ‘Who thought being holy could be such fun? And not a single hairy man in sight!’ Polly laughs again. ‘Why not come to Morocco and see for yourself? This place is like a convent, but in a good way! It’s paradise, Rena! Listen, we’ve been into the souq in Marrakesh and we’ve got some stunning fabric here for your wedding dress. You set a date yet?’

  ‘In pencil, yes. Gustav’s got to sell this horrible house in London first, and then there’s my new exhibition back in New York—’

  She doesn’t appear to hear me, because she comes back in the middle of a sentence ‘—duchesse satin slip with some gorgeous Chantilly lace netting on top. Yeah, so get your ass over to Morocco! We ought to measure you up before you go and get pregnant or something!’

  I run my hand over my flat stomach and laugh. ‘Is it OK if I bring my fiancé?’

  ‘Sure. He’s going to be my new cousin, after all. But men aren’t allowed in here. He’d have to stay in the male visitors’ quarters outside the ashram. And he can’t see the dress.’

  The builders nudge each other and wink at me as I settle down to a gossip with my faraway cousin, and by the time they have packed up the pallets and poles and tools and I’ve walked down to the bar, Gustav is settled, alone, at a small table outside, nursing a stubby tumbler of cloudy pastis.

  ‘Pierre says goodbye. He had to go.’

  Gustav stands up as I approach and hands me a glass of red wine. I nod and take a long sip. I can feel every muscle unfurling, my shoulders easing as we sit for a moment staring down the hill at the lights blinking over the city of Paris.

  Then we turn to each other, lean our foreheads together, and start speaking at once.

  ‘Let’s go to Morocco!’ I say.

  ‘I’ve got to go to London,’ says Gustav.

  We sit back, laughing. ‘You go first,’ I say.

  ‘Something’s cropped up. Well, two things, actually. The Baker Street buyer insists on meeting me at the house before we exchange contracts. The agents say that means before the end of the week.’ He eyes me from under his straight black brows. ‘And when I mentioned it to Pierre he asked if he could meet me there in Baker Street. He wants to see the contracts for the sale signed so he knows the house is gone for good. Also, it’s his birthday this same week, and w
hile we’re with the lawyers there are other family documents he’s entitled to see once he turns twenty-five.’

  I put my hand over his. ‘That’s fine. If you can wait for a couple more days, I can finish the commission, get the contacts of the château shoot over to Alain the director, then I’ll come to London with you.’

  ‘You never cease to amaze me. The way you were with Pierre, after everything he’s done. He told me how well you got on the other night when he collected you from the château. How gracefully you took his apology when you were alone in the courtyard just now.’ He lifts my hand and runs his mouth over it, flicking his tongue over the tender skin. ‘I’m more grateful than you will ever know that you didn’t make me choose between you and him. It’s what plenty of women would have done. And then I’d have lost him again.’

  ‘I’m not the angel you think I am, honey, but I’m not that diabolical, either.’ I run my hand over his face. ‘I never had a proper family. How can I sit here and take yours away from you? I’m not going to pretend it’ll be easy being around him. But we’re getting there. If he behaves himself, and if I grow up a bit. So long as you and I are together, everything will be all right.’

  He smiles and signals for the bill. ‘How about you see it this way. You’ve got a new brother. Troublesome, admittedly – sometimes a real pain – who has to be kept on the straight and narrow. And I’ve got a new cousin. Talking of whom, seeing as P and I have dull legal matters to deal with in London, why don’t you take the chance to visit Polly while I’m there? But if I’m going to be parted from my beautiful girl for a few days, I need to get you back to the hotel and into bed. Now.’

  Paris is coated in night as we linger on our roof terrace a few hours later, looking out over the humming city.

  ‘That was the most expensive chanterelle risotto I’ll ever eat,’ I say, pushing my plate away and holding out my empty wineglass for more.

  ‘Well, I’ll finish your almond tart then, shall I, while you have another glass of this obscenely expensive Pouilly Fumé and show me what you’ve been doing at the château.’