“Yes, and she had to admit it was the perfect solution.”
This did nothing to allay my suspicions of Lydia’s motives, but I didn’t comment.
Jeremy added teasingly, “I thought I’d get heaps of praise for the way I handled this thing. Feel free to shower me with adulation anytime now.” He peered at me. “You’re upset,” he noted. (Genius. ) “Darling,” he said softly, “I can’t go around acting like I don’t know Lydia, or am afraid to be near her.”
“Why not?” I said in a small voice. “I have forsaken all my previous beaux.” I hesitated. “Jeremy,” I said, “It is really—over between you two, isn’t it?”
He said, very honestly, “Yes, of course. But somehow, you have to work at divorce almost as much as you worked on the marriage. To make a real break of those emotional bonds, not just a fake one.”
“Bonds?” I asked faintly. “Do you still have them?”
By now I’d begun to recklessly break all my rules about dealing with men. For instance, Rule Number One: Never ask a question that you think you don’t want to know the answer to.
“It’s just that, you know the other person’s vulnerabilities, so while they’re driving everyone else crazy, you know that they’re suffering,” he explained. “At first, everybody, including me, thought Lydia was so sure of herself when we were all still in school—she seemed to have it all—beauty, breeding, charm. She always said I was her ‘rock,’ so everyone told us that we were perfect together.”
Aw, nuts, I had to ask, I thought to myself. Jolly school memories. What fun.
“But out in the real world, she was more fragile than most people realized,” Jeremy was saying a bit guiltily. “We all took our time getting married—everybody was just having fun, starting up with our careers—and I had been living in Paris, working with a firm there for years. When I came back to London, I was weary of the single life, and Lydia was especially unhappy with it. I thought if she had another ‘safe haven,’ as school was, then everything would be all right. But it never was. It turned out that we were not really compatible at all. But even now, when it’s clearly over, it’s hard not to care when that person seems to be in trouble. I can’t just treat her as if she’s dead. It kills something inside you when you do that. Something you want to keep alive for, well, a certain redheaded person, for instance.”
Oh. That would be me, I guess. I’m quite susceptible to this sort of talk, but I wanted to be sure that I wasn’t being a gullible little dummy. Jeremy had never been this forthcoming about his past before. I gazed searchingly at his face, looking for any telltale signs of duplicity, deceit, or general dastardliness, but found none. I supposed I could, after all, trust this man I loved so much. Maybe. The trouble with loving a good guy is that he wants to be straight with everyone, so you feel like a rat when you wish he’d be a tad hostile to his “ex.”
“So. Let that be an end to it. And, I could do with a kiss now, as a reward for being a good, faithful dog,” Jeremy said.
“Hold on, dog,” I said. “I just want to know one thing. You didn’t give her any information at all about where we’re going to be . . . did you?”
Rule Number Two: Don’t interrogate. But I’m only human. This was no longer about whether Lydia still loved, or wanted to possess, Jeremy. I only cared if he still cared for her in some old-times’-sake way that she could exploit. And somehow it would have felt like a violation if he had told her of our Splurge.
“Look,” Jeremy said. “I’m weary of talking about Lydia. But the answer is: No, I did not tell her where we’re going. I said I’d be out of the country on a private sojourn. Well, I didn’t say it quite like that. But she got the picture.” Then his expression changed, as if he felt he’d just been enlightened.
“So that’s the whole reason you want the yacht and our summer off? You just want us as far away from Lydia as possible, don’t you?” he said with a knowing smirk.
“May I remind you,” I loftily told him, “that, originally, it was your idea that we take a sabbatical from work? Remember, when you chased me down at the museum and told me that you loved and adored me?”
“And I do,” he said, “despite your occasional skullduggery.”
“My skullduggery!” I said. “How about Lydia’s? Sneaking into your building, and then breaking into your apartment, lying in wait for you while drinking your whisky! You must admit, her timing is mighty suspicious.”
“No, no, really, it’s not about us,” Jeremy insisted. “It’s about her breakup with that guy, and she got homesick for London.”
“Pshaw!” I cried. “And I can prove it to you. I’ll wager five cents that the minute you leave London, she will, too. If, however, she is sincere, she’ll stay put even if you’re not around. But she won’t.”
Rule Number Three: Avoid saying anything bad about another woman, even when she appears to be exploiting everyone’s better nature for her own wretched purposes.
“You really don’t think she’s got a sincere bone in her body, do you?” Jeremy asked.
“It’s not about bones,” I said stubbornly. “It’s about tactics.”
“Well, not to worry,” Jeremy said reasonably. “In a couple of days she’ll set her sights on bigger fish than me. London is full of rich billionaires.”
I suddenly realized that we had just spent all this time talking of nothing but Lydia. If I wanted to dispel her influence, then I would have to stop worrying about her.
“All right, then,” I said in a more playful tone, “I am bound to conclude that you actually did, in difficult circumstances, acquit yourself admirably and loyally, and I do, indeed, wish to kiss you.”
Jeremy brightened immediately, and he leaned toward me expectantly for a reward of a kiss. And, I just can’t help it. It’s really quite alarming, the effect that man has on me. The moment I felt him coming closer, and caught a whiff of that nice Jeremy-smell, well . . .
And, thankfully, after that, the conversation went in a much better direction. He asked for news of progress on the townhouse, and, feeling much more cheerful, I said, “Wait here. I want to show you something.” I jumped up and ran off and then returned with a folder containing some sketches on tissue paper, sandwiched in cardboard.
“Take a look at these font samples and tell me which one you like best.” I held out a sheet of paper.
“But what’s it for?” he asked, mystified.
“An engraved brass plaque for the townhouse, to go right next to the front door,” I said eagerly, “you know, like they use for landmark buildings.” I showed him a sketch. It said:NICHOLS AND LAIDLEY, LTD.
DISCRETION GUARANTEED.
INQUIRE WITHIN.
“Good Lord,” Jeremy said, astonished. “You really do think that life is just like a 1930s movie, don’t you? What’s that supposed to mean, ‘Discretion guaranteed’? What sort of dodgy business do you think we’re going to end up in?”
“Oh, relax,” I said airily. “I had to write something down, for the engraver, just to see what the fonts will look like. Plenty of time to finalize the details, my good man.”
Jeremy paused, then gazed at the paper again. “Who says your name goes first?” he demanded with a mock challenge. “It’s perfectly obvious that ‘Laidley and Nichols’ has a much better ring to it.”
“Beauty before age, chum,” I said wickedly.
Later, when my bags were all packed and we were ready to head out to France, we went downstairs, and looked in on the first-floor apartment, where renovations were just beginning. Jeremy’s secretary would supervise for us while we were gone. A room in the back of the house which overlooked the garden, already came with built-in bookcases and a working fireplace. This was where the wall would be knocked down to merge it with a smaller room next to it. When we pulled up the ragged old carpeting, we found beautiful hardwood floors. I planned to furnish this room with the kind of leather chairs and ottomans and lamps and all that stuff men like. And there would be a sideboard and a window-s
eat.
Jeremy said enthusiastically, “You were right. This place has great possibilities.”
“At the end of the day, we can have a glass of wine and compare notes about how our workday went,” I suggested.
“Fine. Your mythological Great Dane can snooze on a carpet in here, instead of my office,” Jeremy said, carefully stepping around the carpenters’ tools and electricians’ wires with a pleased look.
We locked up carefully; Jeremy’s secretary had another key. Then we stepped outside, and headed for his spiffy modern forest-green Dragonetta. As he held the passenger door open for me, I exhaled a loud, involuntary sigh of relief, which he didn’t miss.
“Not to worry,” he said reassuringly. “We are, as my mum advised, a moving target, ‘Footloose and fancy-free.’ And, just to show I’m a good sport, you can put your name first. Nichols and Laidley it is.” He went around to the other side of the car and slid into his seat, and, looking a bit relieved himself, started the car, and off we went.
The trunk was full of our suitcases; and on the back seat was a cooler with food and wine. I told myself that I could finally relax now. We were heading out for the ferry to take us across the English Channel to France. Then we’d drive down to the gorgeous Mediterranean, and Great-Aunt Penelope’s beloved villa in Antibes. With the wind in my hair, I started to feel better already, visualizing the pleasures that lay ahead. We’d settle into the villa, fill the swimming pool, eat fresh fish every day, build Jeremy’s wine cellar, and scoot around the winding roads of the Riviera . . .
... and bid on Liesl’s Dream. With a bit of luck, it would become our dreamboat.
Part Three
Chapter Eight
The Riviera was still there, waiting for us. I’d begun to wonder if I’d simply dreamed it up. But as we drove along the winding corniche road, I found it even more lovely than I remembered, and I was astonished all over again at the sheer breathtaking swoop of those staggeringly high cliffs, with clustered hotels and villas impossibly built right into them. I kept admiring the view of the sea and the sky, which was like a watercolor painting done in three distinct shades of blue: near-turquoise for the endless sea; deeper azure for the broad horizon; and a soft pale baby-blanket blue for the wide-open sky.
I breathed it all in, watching the way the gently bright sunlight kisses everything in sight, illuminating the glowing colors within the puffy white clouds, the terracotta roof tiles, the pink stone-work, the lush greenery and the riotous color of each flower. The sea sparkled as if it were flecked with diamonds, and the salty air made me want to swim with the little golden fishes that dart around in small coves all along the coastline.
In order to be on time for our appointment to view the yacht, we actually drove straight to the harbor in Nice, even before going to reopen Great-Aunt Penelope’s villa. Jeremy was already pre-registered as a bidder, and the organizers of the auction were smart enough to make sure that they spaced the appointments well apart, so that we never saw anybody else who was interested in bidding on it.
We pulled into the parking area that lined the harbor, which was shaped like a horseshoe. Ringing the harbor from across the road were picturesque three-story pastel-colored buildings with cafés and bistros at street level. At the far end of the quay was a yacht club. The boats were all either berthed at the pier or, as with the bigger ones, anchored farther out in the harbor.
When I opened the car door and inhaled the scent of the sea, I felt the immediate urge to jump aboard a boat and be a part of the nautical fun and frolic. All along the quay, the atmosphere was festively clubby, as if everyone here was in on a great secret about belonging to the world of the sea. Just the sound of the waves splashing against the hulls, and the seagulls cawing, and the shouts of men who were hosing down their decks, filled me with anticipation of great voyages and adventures.
A tall, very elegant Frenchman who represented the auction house was waiting at the yacht clubhouse to show us around. He was dressed in a simple, well-cut sleek blue suit, and he greeted us with an impeccable French politeness that had an easy, human undertone which could elevate any task into an important achievement. He told us that his name was Laurent.
“This way, please,” he said in a well-modulated voice. As he led us past the other boats, I noted all the different fanciful names, and the flags from countries far and wide: from Norway, England, the Netherlands, the Caribbean, Argentina and of course, France. And then, there she was, tucked snugly into her slip between two larger boats—Liesl’s Dream.
In a way, I kind of wished I hadn’t seen her before the auction. Because, right at first sight I could tell that Liesl’s Dream was the perfect boat for two romantics like us. Even from a distance, its old-fashioned design gave it an instant, cozy charm, and, though sleek and seaworthy, she had an air of being not just a boat, but a home. The sun glowed warmly on the elegant burnished-wood exterior and gleaming brass rails, making the yacht stand in quiet contrast to all the large modern silver-and-white aluminum and plastic that surrounded it. The decks on both the main and the upper levels had chairs and tables stacked and arranged as if politely awaiting the order to cast off; the pilot house—a cute, boxlike structure sitting on the top-level deck—had spanking-clean windows from which to view your path to the wider world; and the French flag fluttered in the breeze.
As we walked up the gangway or passerelle, I had that brief delicious feeling of being suspended between land and sea, wobbling a little until I hopped onto the boat, which felt substantial and welcoming. Laurent led us around, explaining that this beauty had been built in Italy, and he paused to point out the many excellent features. Jeremy would look to me for affirmation, and I nodded to confirm that everything was authentic, including the precious teak and mahogany that gave the yacht such an old-fashioned elegance. I could see that it had been lovingly furnished and carefully tended to meet high standards of excellence. As I assessed each piece I knew that the praise for Liesl’s Dream certainly was not exaggerated, and it might even be a bit under-valued.
We examined the yacht from front to back—no, wait, that’s “fore-and-aft.” Since the boat was parked with its back-end (er, “aft”, also known as the “stern”) to the shore, we began with the “aft deck” which was a casual outdoor lounging area with teak steamer chairs covered with striped cushions, and matching little teak tables. A sliding mahogany door led us inside to the dining room—oops, dining “salon”—which was dominated by a large oval table whose surface was a painted, glazed “celestial map”, with all the stars and planets to guide you. A sideboard worked as a storage cupboard for the boat’s patterned silverware, and for the china dinnerware which was cream-colored, trimmed with maroon and gold, all securely nestled and strapped down in green felt padded pockets.
From there, charming French doors opened onto the living room or “main salon” where we admired the wine-colored carpeting, mahogany cabinetry and panelling, and luxurious upholstered and leather chairs in shades of pale butterscotch and deeper caramel. This was the most elegant yet eccentric area of the boat, with 1920s light fixtures, including hurricane lamps mounted on the walls. Jeremy, fascinated, nudged my arm when he saw two matching wood-and-glass cupboards that were filled with an eclectic mix of seafaring items.
"They’re called ‘cabinets of curiosities,’ ” I said. “They were all the rage in the 1700s among learned gentlemen who wanted to display their knowledge of botany and science and art, and show off what they found on their worldly travels.”
The curio cupboards were illuminated with special lighting, and held a collection of maritime collectibles: a white and silver-plated cocktail shaker, shaped like a lighthouse, circa 1928; a model ship that was a replica of a Napoleonic prisoner-of-war vessel; a mid-eighteenth century pocket world globe “with fish skin case”; a compass in a leather pouch; a turn-of-the-century hourglass; vintage binoculars; an antique chess set carved out of wood; a Chinese figurine of a sailor’s head with a small clock in his cap; and
a document box, with old seafaring maps.
The main salon also had a low oval coffee table, its surface painted and glazed like the one in the dining salon, only instead of a “celestial” map, this one was a “terrestrial” map with an old-fashioned depiction of the earth’s seas and continents. And over in the corner was a wonderful antique gramophone mounted on a cupboard containing old records, mostly classical. This fascinated Jeremy, who loves music. “Is it a working Victrola?” he asked.
Laurent nodded. He had been smiling indulgently at me and I realized that I had tarried among the little collection of antiques. He explained that the main salon was really the heart of the boat, with exits on all four sides. From here, you could go out sideways through either of two smaller “wing” doors that led to narrow decks called “side galleys” which ran along the boat, one on the “port” side (left) and the other on the “starboard” side (right). These narrow galleys made it possible to walk all around the perimeter of the boat from outdoors, circling along all its decks without ever coming inside.
Or, you could, as we now did, proceed farther forward, through a door leading to the cocktail bar, which was fully outfitted with glasses, a small sink, a nicely polished bar and six high bar stools padded with faux zebra skin—the one funny touch to an otherwise subtle design. And from the bar, you could go out to the “fore deck” at the very front of the boat (a.k.a. the “bow” or “prow”).
“Would you now like to go below and see the kitchen and cabins? ” Laurent asked politely. He showed us the two staircases in the bar area: a very beautiful, dramatic curving one with mahogany banister; and a much narrower, functional one for the crew. I pictured the crew nimbly scurrying up and down their own staircase, and I imagined that the two separate staircases were as much to keep the owners and guests out of the way of the busy crew, as it was to provide privacy for revellers.
The master “cabin” (bedroom) was truly luxurious, having a great bed with matching walnut tables and 1920s lamps, a bookcase, an armoire with drawers beneath it, and a chest of drawers with an adjoining vanity table and mirror. There was even a private bathroom with a triangular-shaped shower in the corner. Laurent showed us that all the doors down here slid open and closed along tracks that took them into the walls, rather than swinging open into a room and taking up valuable space. It made for a neat, compact “ship-shape” sleeping level. The guest rooms had a shared bath, and smaller beds, but plenty of drawers and cupboards.
A Rather Curious Engagement Page 6
