Grand Affair

by Charlotte Bingham

  ‘Long time no see you.’

  Ottilie murmured agreement even though she hated the phrase, always wondering what people expected in return when they said it.

  ‘How is everything?’

  ‘Everything’s fine.’

  She wished that he would get to the point so that she could ring off and then Pierre could telephone, every second delayed the moment. Nowadays Ottilie thought she knew what it meant to be ‘sent’ by a voice. Pierre’s voice literally ‘sent’ her. Briefly she wondered if she was at last becoming ‘young’ and thought she could hear Pierre laughing at the idea.

  ‘I have a friend who would like to try to interest you in a new cold drinks machine for the hotel. Would it be all right if I give him your office number?’ Phelps asked.

  ‘I don’t know that we really want a cold drinks machine, except perhaps if we build a games annexe, might be all right there.’ She was talking out loud to herself and not him. ‘OK, give him my number, fine.’

  ‘I will warn you however, he’s a bit like your brother Joseph.’

  Ottilie suddenly knew that Phelps was dragging Joseph’s name into the conversation in some effort to embarrass her, that he actually wanted to remind her of that awful night.

  ‘He’s not my brother. Joseph is not my brother.’

  ‘But he was so proud of “Ottie”.’

  ‘No, he’s not my brother. He’s no relation. His mother adopted me for a few years, until I was six, and then I was re-adopted, and that’s how I came here. And by the way, no-one calls me “Ottie” any more.’

  Ottilie suddenly felt strong because she could talk about Joseph, say his name and not mind.

  ‘But that night we had drinks he stated categorically that he was your brother. Although I must admit, Miss Cartaret, he is so – well, so American, my dear, I admit I did have a problem with that.’ Nick Phelps’ voice on the other end of the telephone had changed into a remarkably good imitation of Jack Kennedy, slight lisp and all.

  Ottilie was silent for a second, and then she said quietly, ‘That’s a very good American accent that you do.’

  ‘I am afraid, Miss Cartaret, I have a horrible ability to mimic.’

  ‘Obviously.’

  ‘At Cambridge I used to be known as the second Peter Sellers. Want my Peter Lorre?’

  ‘No time for that I’m afraid.’

  ‘OK, Miss Cartaret.’ He did his Peter Lorre anyway. ‘Good, don’t you think? But not as good as my Kennedy. Mrs Kennedy is responsible for the White House decor.’

  The American voice continued but Ottilie quietly replaced the telephone receiver and when she looked down at the hand that had done so she saw that it was shaking and she sat watching it as if it belonged to someone else.

  Veronica must have noticed that she had not said goodbye because she looked up from her work and frowned.

  ‘Don’t tell me, not a dirty phone call?’

  Ottilie nodded. ‘In a way, mm, ’fraid so.’ After a minute she sprang up from her chair and bolted towards the door, snatching at her coat. ‘Going to see Father O’Flaherty,’ she called back to Veronica.

  Ottilie had not seen Lorcan since that awful night when he had tried to force her to confess that it had been in some way her fault that she had been molested. Of course, in a way, he had been right, and Ottilie knew it now. It had been her fault, but not because of the way she dressed – if that was the case then a nurse in a uniform, or a nanny pushing a pram, could be considered provocative. No, she had been stupid to drink and because of that a man had taken advantage of her, and that had been her fault, nothing to do with her blue silk dress.

  Because she had considered Lorcan to have been totally wrong to even suggest such a thing Ottilie had not been able to face him. Also, knowing that he knew such a thing about her, that all St Elcombe seemed somehow to know, that too had meant that she could not face him and appear normal.

  She left her office in such a hurry that Veronica called after her to take her umbrella because it was raining, but Ottilie could not wait for that, she had to run through the rain because yet again in her life she had to reach Lorcan. But this time she was not running towards Ma, she was not a child running back to find the only real mother she had known, she was a grown-up woman running through the downpour of a wet afternoon and the cold and the wet of the rain was a blessing and a relief because it was real and not something from the past.

  The presbytery door was never locked, but Ottilie was afraid to go there in case she bumped into Father Peter and he would detain her. With his gentle kindness he would probably lead her to a fire and ask after her and the hotel, and worse he would feel sorry for her, and so she would start to feel sorry for herself, and it would make her cry, and this was not a moment for that. So she made her way through a different door and rang the bell for confession, praying that it would be Lorcan’s day to be hearing them.

  ‘Lorcan, I had to see you.’

  ‘Ottie!’

  Lorcan always seemed taller in his priestly clothes, but he was pale too and the lines around his eyes were marked as they had used to be all the time when Ma was alive and he was having to carry the burden of them all.

  ‘You want me to hear your confession?’ he asked in a lowered tone because they were in church.

  ‘Oh no, Lorcan, no,’ Ottilie whispered. ‘At least yes, but not the way you mean. I hate confession, Lorcan! I think we all feel so guilty about everything most of the time it should be changed to “Feel Better” and people should go in and try and find a few good things to say about themselves instead of feeling it’s their fault about everything like the bomb and starving babies—’

  ‘Shsh, Ottie, calm yourself.’

  At that Ottilie stopped whispering so fast. Drawing breath for a second, she demanded in a normal voice, ‘Lorcan. In all the time that you have known me when have I ever been calm?’

  They both laughed, and Lorcan said, ‘You’re such a rebel, Ottie. Come into the presbytery and we can talk better, not disturb those at prayer.’ As they walked down the corridor to the end room he said, ‘It’s extraordinary, you know, Ottie, you always did have a sort of intuitive thing with you, didn’t you? Because as it happens I was just about to come and see you. Now.’ He went to an old dusty cupboard and taking out two strangely unmatched glasses he said, ‘Let’s warm ourselves with some of Father Peter’s lethal sherry.’

  ‘I could do with something lethal.’

  He lifted out a dusty bottle. ‘Some parishioner gave it him last Christmas but he thinks sherry’s for nuns!’

  Ottilie laughed but watching Lorcan polishing the bottle with his handkerchief she thought how cold the presbytery was after the hotel, and how bleak Lorcan’s life was in comparison to hers, but then it seemed to her that if your life was so bleak, perhaps it made the real things stand out better, the things that mattered?

  ‘Now. Let us drink to the future, Ottie.’

  They raised their glasses and Ottilie drank the rather too sweet sherry gratefully, because it was at least warming, whereas Lorcan pulled a face and said, ‘I think Father Peter’s right, this is strictly for nuns!’

  A second of silence and then Ottilie started.

  ‘The thing is, Lorcan, I had to come to tell you at once. Because you know that awful thing that happened to me?’ Lorcan nodded, his gaze unswerving, suddenly very much the priest and Ottilie was grateful for that, for his detachment, because it made it easier for her, and for him. ‘I told you that it was Joseph, because it was an American voice. But I don’t think it was at all, I don’t think Joseph would do such a thing, I think it was someone else. And you were right, and I was wrong. Not that it matters, now, because it doesn’t. It’s like Jackie Kennedy said – what does it matter who killed her husband, he’s dead. What happened to me is over, for ever. I was ill for a long time afterwards but now I am quite better. I should never have accused Joseph to you. I think I did because – well, because of the awfulness of his running away and our thin
king he was dead all that time. I think I wanted to prove to myself that he was really more wicked than he is.’

  All the time she was talking Ottilie did not once drop her eyes.

  ‘I shall not even go into who I think did what he did, but I know that sometimes when men do these awful things they don’t get – well, they don’t get the thrill out of it that they are searching for unless they let you know that it was them. And I think. I say I think I know who the person is, because I think he just phoned me, and that is precisely what he was doing. Letting me know that it was him. Apparently it is sort of compulsive with men like that.’

  Lorcan nodded and quickly poured them both another tot of the perfectly revolting sherry.

  ‘You had no need to come here, Ottie, but I am glad that you did. I knew that Joseph was not capable of what you had thought, but it was up to time, and circumstances, perhaps even God’s will, which let us face it we shall never understand, to find the truth for you. Your truth, perhaps the real truth, who knows? Let me tell you, now, if you can spare a minute, about what happened when I left you that night. Remember? I obtained Father Peter’s permission for leave of absence and I drove after Joseph. I knew that he had been due to catch the afternoon plane next day and that he was stopping over at another of Vision’s hotels near Exeter and then on to one near Salisbury, which is where I caught up with him, and God forgive me – I gave him such a belting.’

  ‘My God, how awful, and all the time he was innocent!’

  ‘Joseph wasn’t innocent, Ottie! He was guilty. I belted him not for you, but for us. All those years, not knowing, thinking he was dead. But I said nothing to him about what had happened to you because he might be an egomaniac and many things but I knew, absolutely, that Joseph was not capable of what you thought, not even remotely and if he knew what had happened to you after he left that night I dare say, knowing his temper, he would have murdered the man by now, so it was as well I said nothing I think. Anyway, thank God you yourself have come here and the matter is now put to rest before I leave. God be praised for that.’

  Ottilie stared at Lorcan. ‘You’re not leaving?’

  ‘I am, Ottie, I am going to Africa, which is such an honour for me, to be chosen to go. It’s something for which I have prayed.’

  ‘Oh, Lorcan.’

  ‘I know, I know, our little family, we’re all flung far and wide now, but it won’t stop us thinking of each other, will it? Thank heavens I’m leaving knowing that you are quite healed, that is such a relief to me, Ottie. More than I can tell you.’

  ‘You will be awfully good with all those black babies, Lorcan. You’re so good with children. And just think, they’ll be a cinch after looking after all of us, wouldn’t you say?’

  Lorcan smiled, and Ottilie could see he was grateful that she was trying to make it easier for both of them.

  As for Ottilie, it seemed to her that even as he stood in front of her Lorcan was fading away, and she was fading from him too, and that lying between them was the uneasy past and their devotion to Ma, and out of all of them that had driven down in Sullivan’s hearse and Mrs Burgess’s car that day, only she was left in Cornwall.

  The next day Pierre was back. Springing through the hotel doors at breakneck speed, followed by his assistant, Alanna, a young girl about whom he was inclined to joke but who, it was immediately apparent to Ottilie, was utterly devoted not just to Justin and Gordon, the company recently started by Nancy Gordon and Pierre, but to Mr Pierre Justin himself. Pierre referred to her as ‘Orange Crush’ because she had a crush not just on him but on orange with which it seemed she wanted to decorate the world.

  The arrangements for the decorators to move into the top suite having been finally confirmed for the time when, by long tradition now, Mrs Ballantyne left it and retired to Devon for two weeks, Ottilie and Pierre were able to leave Alanna in charge of it, and move down to concentrate on Ottilie’s own rooms.

  She preceded Pierre up to them, jumping up the stairs and pushing open the door to the large, spacious rooms. He followed her as quickly, and then stood quite still, looking round at the childish decor, before pushing his gold-rimmed spectacles up his nose a little and saying, ‘Well, yes. This is all rather charming but a little juvenile for toi, I should have thought, Miss C.’

  To begin with Pierre paced up and down a little, as he always seemed to do when he was thinking, and then he picked up his drawing pad and pencils and started to make notes, and then to sketch, during which time Ottilie fell to silence, for she was filled with reverence for anyone who could draw. While he paced and sketched she pushed her way out on to the balcony to see the sea, and to be out of his way.

  ‘I’m sorry, it’s no good.’ Twenty minutes later he pushed the balcony doors open and looked moodily at Ottilie and then out to the sea and the horizon. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well.’ He frowned down at her. ‘Well. Let’s face it. If these are to be your personal rooms, Miss C, what do I know about you? Rien. We have only ever discussed the public rooms. These are “Ottilie’s rooms”, or will be.’ He looked at her with sudden sadness. ‘For you and you alone, n’est-ce pas?’

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘Exactly, so whom am I designing for? I mean am I designing for a single professional lady? Or – what?’

  Ottilie frowned and shook her head, but finally said, ‘Well, I suppose, yes, the owner of the Grand, yes, that is whom you are designing for, yes.’

  ‘Exactly, and I don’t know anything about her, except that she is divinely funny, loves to play games and have picnics, has the most beautiful eyes and hair and kisses like no-one I’ve ever kissed. That’s all I know, and that, quite frankly, is not enough.’

  Ottilie groaned. ‘I can’t tell you about myself, Pierre, really I can’t. Believe me I would have before if I could have but I couldn’t so I haven’t, that’s why you see—’

  She stopped as she started to break up and as she looked across at Pierre she realized that he had too and they caught each other up laughing.

  ‘Oh, Ottilie, that was so funny, what was that you said – “I would have if I could have but I couldn’t so I haven’t”?’

  Ottilie looked up at Pierre, silent for once, which she never really was with him, and then she reached up, took off his glasses, and this time she kissed him, and it was wonderful, and once again she realized that he had a taste just like his sweet nature and she put both her hands up round his face and kissed him a second time, much longer this time, and he kissed her right back and it was wonderful what there was in a kiss, and Ottilie realized that love could be even more intoxicating and ecstatic than she had imagined. Passion, commitment, love of life, it was all there in a single kiss.

  ‘I’m afraid I love you, Pierre.’

  ‘I love you too, but you know that, you’ve known that all along.’

  ‘I realized that I loved you two days ago, when you were in London.’

  ‘You can’t be serious? I fell in love with you much earlier than that. What kept you?’

  ‘OK, I’ll start again. When I went to say goodbye to Lorcan the other day – he’s one of my sort of brothers, except he’s not – well, it was very sad and so I started to run home to stop the sadness and as I ran home I realized two things. First that this was my home, and I mean my real home, and the second was that I was running faster and faster so that I could get back home to you ringing. To Pierre. And although I had started off feeling so sad I began to feel happier and happier and when I arrived outside the front here I realized why I had felt better and better as I ran towards this place was because all I could see was your face.’ There was a small pause. ‘Well look surprised, at least look a little surprised,’ she begged.

  ‘Yes, ma’am, I will look surprised for you, in my own time though.’ Pierre put his hand under her chin. ‘Two can play at being difficult.’

  ‘I’m not difficult, I’m impossible, that’s different.’

&n
bsp; ‘So what from here?’

  ‘I don’t know, I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘In that case how about Pierre Justin asks Miss Ottilie Cartaret to dinner at the completed top suite on a date to be arranged with the painters, the curtain makers, the upholsterers and not to mention Miss Cartaret’s secretary, Veronica of the same name?’

  ‘As long as there’s not twisting to that awful Chubby Checker—’

  ‘No twisting, just dancing to Johnny Matthis?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Now, Ottilie—’

  ‘I was only really going to say that I’m not sure who Johnny Matthis is,’ Ottilie confessed.

  ‘Not sure – not sure – not sure who Johnny Matthis is?’

  Pierre did a pretend stagger back clutching his head and shaking it, and then eventually he raised it once more and with a mock brave expression he said, ‘Well, it’s about time you were sure, mademoiselle from St Elcombe. Dear heavens, where have you been all your life? No, don’t tell me, as you said with your upbringing here I suppose all you ever heard was a quickstep or a waltz drifting upstairs from the dining room. If you haven’t danced cheek to cheek to Johnny Matthis you have never lived or loved. And by the way, while I’m in a masterful mood I am going to choose our celebration dinner in the completed Blue Suite. I want none of your vapid steamed English Dover Sole, thank you. I want strong tastes to go with my passionate Yankee nature.’

  At which they would have started to kiss again had Pierre’s secretary Alanna not burst in with what she called ‘the best news ever’. The curtains for the top suite had arrived.

  ‘Exaggeration is Alanna’s middle name,’ Pierre said affectionately, watching his secretary’s retreating dirndl skirt with one of his mildly puzzled looks. ‘I hardly think that “the curtains for the top suite have arrived” would rouse most people to excitement, but for Alanna this is “big news”, so who are we to argue?’