by Gill Paul
‘They’d have had a lot to talk about,’ Alex mused. ‘Diana wanted to bring down a future king – she allegedly told Charles during the divorce that she would “destroy” him – and Wallis actually caused Edward VIII to abdicate. Besides, like you, they were both fashionistas.’
‘I love Wallis’s style,’ Rachel drooled. ‘She was top of the best-dressed list for about ten years in a row after World War Two. Having pots of money helped, of course, but her outfits were elegant and imaginative.’
‘When Diana died she was wearing Versace shoes, an Armani jacket and a black crocodile-skin Ralph Lauren belt,’ Alex recited. ‘This is the kind of information I now have at my fingertips.’
‘Impressive,’ Rachel chuckled. He had no interest at all in fashion. ‘Did I tell you I spoke to a friend of Diana’s this week?’
‘You did?’ Instantly Alex was all ears. ‘Who was it?’
‘Someone I’ve bought stock from. She couldn’t stop crying on the phone and I got the impression that she and Diana were quite close.’ She described the conversation to Alex.
‘Do you think you could introduce me?’ he asked. ‘I need a friend of Di’s in my documentary and I hear none of the London set are talking.’
Rachel hated the idea. Susie was primarily a business contact and it would be unprofessional of her to use the connection. ‘I’d rather not,’ she began. ‘She’s distraught. It wouldn’t feel right.’
‘You would really be helping me,’ he said, ignoring her objections. ‘It’s proving difficult to get people to talk on camera.’
He picked up the coffeepot to pour himself a refill but it was empty. ‘My turn,’ he said and got out of bed to head for the kitchen. Rachel heard the sound of the kettle, then the fridge door opening and closing.
When Alex came back he was grinning, his eyes full of mischief. He put the coffeepot on the bedside table, then suddenly swept the newspapers to the floor and straddled her, pushing her back on the pillows. Rachel smiled lazily as he bent to kiss her, while stroking her nipples with his thumbs.
‘What a good idea,’ she murmured.
He pinned her arms above her head with one hand and pushed her legs apart. She lifted her hips to meet him, breathing hard, entirely lost in the moment.
The phone rang just after Rachel got out of the shower, and she was delighted to hear the voice of her old friend Richard Graham, who specialised in running international auctions.
‘I’ve just heard about your break-in,’ he said. ‘You poor thing. It’s horrible to think of someone trashing your beautiful collection.’
‘I’m feeling pretty sick about it,’ she admitted.
‘I heard you’re looking for new stock and wanted to let you know I’m organising a sale in New York on Wednesday that it would be really worth your while coming over for,’ he told her. ‘Have you heard of the Van der Heydens? Diamond merchants from Amsterdam, crème de la crème of New York society in the 1920s. You should come and have a look.’
‘Is it reasonably priced?’ Rachel asked. ‘Worth the cost of the air fare? I’d love to see you but I’ve got to watch the pennies.’
He listed some of the items for sale: sequinned flapper dresses, loose chiffon printed tunics, fur-trimmed jackets and embroidered silk capes. The exchange rate meant they would be relatively cheap for her.
‘Tell you what,’ he suggested. ‘If you come on Tuesday, I’ll give you a personal preview.’
Rachel was tempted. ‘What about import duty? Won’t that make it prohibitive?’
Richard chuckled. ‘We have ways and means of minimising it. And you’re welcome to stay with me. I’ve got a place in the Village, near Washington Square.’
When she came off the phone, Alex called, ‘What was that about, darling?’
She explained, but when she said she was planning to fly to New York on Tuesday, he frowned. ‘It’s the TV industry awards ceremony on Tuesday, remember? You’re coming to the dinner with me. I’ve got your ticket.’
‘Oh, rats!’ Rachel had clean forgotten. ‘Can’t you go without me? This sale sounds too good to miss.’
Alex pleaded. ‘There will be other sales; you’re always going to sales. The awards ceremony is only once a year.’
‘But you’re much better than me at all the social chit-chat. I just stand there with a smile pasted on my face. Please, darling. This trip is important to me.’
‘It’s just that I love to show you off. I’m proud to have you by my side.’ His face was beseeching.
‘I promise I’ll come with you next time.’
Alex went to shower without another word but Rachel could sense that the intimate, loving atmosphere of their morning had dissipated. Should she back down? But she didn’t want to; the thought of the sale was far too tantalising.
Chapter 17
Brighton, 7 September 1997
WHEN RACHEL HAD TOLD HER MUM ON THE PHONE that she and Alex had been in the Alma Tunnel just after the crash, she was eager for details, keen to hear some small fact no one else knew. Rachel had noticed this reaction all week: people felt possessive about the story, competing over who knew most about the paparazzi who’d been arrested, the airbags and seat belts in the car, the exact sequence of events. After describing what she had seen, it didn’t feel like the right moment to announce her engagement, then the shop break-in preoccupied her. But once Nicola knew, word would spread quickly, so on Sunday afternoon she rang to tell her mum, who reacted by inviting both families for an impromptu celebration.
Rachel’s parents lived in Hove and she and Alex walked there along the promenade. Neither mentioned the New York trip, but it was there, a source of tension between them. The sea was metallic grey and choppy, with intermittent sunbursts warming the dilapidated wooden pavilions of the old West Pier. Seagulls still swooped around, although it was structurally unsound and there were no tourists left to feed them, no stray chips dropped from newspaper cones. The architecture spoke of genteel times when Victorian ladies strolled beneath parasols, linking arms with gentlemen in top hats and waistcoats. Rachel loved the sense of history in Brighton, the feeling that you had stepped through a portal into the nineteenth century.
Her parents’ front room was already crowded when they arrived and, looking around, Rachel mused that her family and Alex’s could not have been more different. Her parents, along with her brother, sister and their partners, were glugging Veuve Clicquot and immediately began teasing Alex and Rachel.
‘You can’t possibly be engaged,’ her dad joked, ‘because Alex hasn’t come to ask my permission.’
‘Permission?’ Alex retorted. ‘I was hoping to speak to you about the level of the dowry.’
Rachel’s sister asked: ‘Is there going to be a pre-nup, Rachel? If you break up, you can’t risk him getting your Chanel dress.’
‘He’s tried it,’ Rachel replied. ‘It’s far too tight.’
There weren’t enough chairs, so the younger generation sprawled on the cream and green-flecked shagpile carpet – how I loathe that carpet! Rachel thought every time she visited – with a huge platter of smoked salmon on brown bread resting on the glass coffee table between them.
Alex’s dad and stepmum Wendy sat side by side on the sofa, thighs parallel and postures very straight. Both had dark hair streaked with grey, both wore drab, shapeless garments. Neither of them was drinking and more than once Rachel caught them surreptitiously checking their watches, as if deciding how early they could slip off.
They were a funny pair, who gave little away. Although she had met them dozens of times, Rachel still couldn’t imagine what they talked about when they were alone. They conversed in generalities and never divulged anything personal.
Rachel felt sorry for Alex that he had grown up without the easy camaraderie she took for granted in her own family. It was astonishing that he had such highly developed social skills as an adult, given the coldness of his background.
‘You have to work harder at friendships when you don
’t have siblings,’ he explained once. ‘I thought I had to study people and learn how to make them like me.’
It had worked, because he had a vast universe of friends that kept expanding outwards. Everywhere they went Alex made new contacts, and he had the energy to follow them up and invite newcomers to gatherings, drawing them easily into his network. It was a skill that had proved useful in his TV career. He liked people, enjoyed learning about them. Rachel’s circle was much smaller, more exclusive.
‘When are you thinking of having the wedding?’ Rachel’s mum asked them.
Alex and Rachel looked at each other, and he answered. ‘We haven’t discussed it yet. I don’t know about you, darling’ – he slung an arm round her – ‘but I’ve always fancied a Christmas wedding: snow on the ground, twinkling lights, you swathed in furs arriving on a sled like the Snow Queen . . .’
‘What, this Christmas?’ Rachel was horrified. She had far too much on her plate with her struggle to keep the shop afloat.
‘There’s no point in a long engagement, is there?’ her mum said. ‘You’re both old enough to know your own minds.’
‘I can’t possibly organise anything over the next three months,’ Rachel said. ‘And Alex, I thought you were going to be spending most of your time in Paris?’
‘I’ll arrange it!’ Her mum clapped her hands in glee. ‘Just tell me what you want. I’m not sure I can guarantee snow, mind.’ She had too much free time since retiring earlier in the year and seemed excited at the thought of a new project.
Rachel opened her mouth to say she thought this was too precipitous, but Alex spoke first. ‘That would be wonderful. What do you think, darling?’
‘I can’t afford much just now,’ she said. ‘If we leave it till next year, I should be in a stronger position . . .’
‘Your father and I will pay,’ her mum butted in. ‘Father of the bride always pays for his daughter’s wedding.’
‘And we’ll help,’ Wendy volunteered.
Rachel felt her arm being twisted. If only she and Alex had discussed it on their own first. She had a vision in her head of exactly how she wanted her wedding to be and wasn’t sure her mum would be able to achieve it, but it seemed churlish to say so. ‘It’s very kind of you all. Let us think about it,’ she conceded.
When wedding talk had been exhausted, conversation turned to Diana, and Rachel’s mum asked Alex if he believed that Henri Paul, the driver, had caused the crash.
‘It remains to be seen,’ he replied. ‘There are some strange stories coming from the first witnesses. One claims to have seen a motorbike swerving in front of the Mercedes and flashing a bright light at the driver a split second before the crash.’
‘Do you mean a camera flash?’ her mum asked, eyes widening.
‘The witness thinks it was much brighter than that. And what’s interesting is that British secret services once had a plan to assassinate Yugoslav president Slobodan Milosevic by shining a powerful light into his driver’s eyes at a dangerous spot on the road.’ Alex spoke passionately and everyone stopped to listen. ‘Anyway, I’m not saying secret services were involved, but the more I dig into the Princess’s death, the more peculiarities I find – and I’ve only just started. I genuinely think there’s at least a possibility she was murdered.’
‘Nonsense!’ his father snapped. ‘You’ve been reading too many spy thrillers. I read that they ran three separate blood tests on the driver and all of them showed him to have excessive alcohol in his blood. Case closed.’
‘Yes, Dad, but several witnesses saw the motorbike overtake the Mercedes inside the tunnel yet no one has come forward to say who it was. There also appears to have been a car just in front of the Mercedes that forced Diana and Dodi’s driver to swerve into the left lane as he entered the tunnel. There’s a story about it in the Journal du Dimanche today.’
His father snorted. ‘Oh well, if it’s in the press, it must be true.’ He glanced at Wendy, but she focused on the smoked salmon she was eating.
Suddenly the atmosphere was charged. Rachel had heard Alex and his dad argue before and knew both were too pig-headed to back down. In an effort to deflect them, she picked up a bottle of champagne and asked, ‘Anyone for a top-up?’
‘Yes, me!’ Her sister thrust out her glass, and took the bottle to fill up the others on her side of the room.
‘It’s strange no one saw Henri Paul drinking,’ Alex continued, his tone clipped, and Rachel could tell he was annoyed. ‘In the footage from the Ritz he is completely steady on his feet. And the two bodyguards would never have let him drive the Princess if they had smelled so much as a hint of alcohol on him. But you think you know better . . .’
Rachel’s mum broke in to try and defuse the argument. ‘It’s such a tragedy, we are all having trouble comprehending it. I’m sure it’s even harder for Alex and Rachel, since they were there. Still, at least we have a joyous occasion to look forward to.’
Alex’s father hadn’t finished having his say, though. ‘I think you’re making a mistake rushing to find conspiracies in a simple drink-drive accident. You’ll only make a fool of yourself and damage your reputation.’
‘I’m the one with an open mind here!’ Alex growled. ‘I’m going to explore all the possibilities, sift the evidence and see what I find. You’re the one who—’
‘Alex,’ Rachel cautioned, putting a hand on his thigh.
He caught her eye and managed to control his temper. Taking a breath, he looked round the assembled company and raised his glass. ‘Sorry about that. And thank you for welcoming me into the Wainwright family. Let’s have a toast: to happy families!’
His father and Wendy raised their glasses of fruit juice, ignoring the irony in Alex’s tone. Shortly afterwards they announced they would have to be on their way.
‘Early start in the morning,’ Wendy apologised. ‘Thank you for including us tonight. And Rachel, let me know how I can help with the wedding.’
As they walked home later that evening, slightly tipsy, Rachel was mulling over the argument. Alex usually avoided arguing with his father, whose views were dyed-in-the-wool establishment; there was no point in confronting him. Was he still upset about her going to New York? Had that put him in a belligerent mood?
She felt sorry that his dad did not seem more pleased about their engagement. Wendy had said all the right things and her heart was in the right place, but she and Alex weren’t close. He was fond of her, enjoyed teasing her about her coasters and carefully swagged curtains, but they had little in common.
‘Do you think your dad likes me?’ Rachel asked, linking her arm through his. ‘He’s never given the slightest hint one way or another. I reckon he’s indifferent.’
‘I don’t think he likes women full stop,’ Alex replied. ‘Not even Wendy; he tolerates her rather than liking her.’
‘You shouldn’t let him get to you.’ She squeezed his arm and quoted in a nursery voice something her mum used to say to her and her siblings: ‘Grizzly bears don’t get the honey.’
In a sudden movement, Alex whirled her around and bent her backwards over his arm in a tango move. ‘Christ, you can be infuriating sometimes,’ he muttered before kissing her long and hard.
Chapter 18
New York, spring 1926
WALLIS ARRIVED AT NUMBER 9 WASHINGTON SQUARE looking pale beneath her rouge and face powder. She winced as she slipped off her coat and handed it to the maid, and walked slowly into the drawing room, seeming frail.
Mary was alarmed. ‘What’s up? Have you been overdoing the parties?’
Wallis lowered herself into a chair. ‘It’s such a bore. I had to have emergency abdominal surgery in Seattle, as soon as I got off the boat from China, and things haven’t been right since. I plan to consult a specialist while I am in New York. But let’s not talk of that.’ She waved a dismissive hand. ‘How is Jackie? And how are you, my dear, dear Mary?’
Mary lied, saying that everything was fine and dandy. She didn’t feel li
ke talking about her miscarriages, not yet anyway. Jacques’ business was going well, and they often went to the theatre, or to jazz clubs such as the legendary Cotton Club or the recently opened Savoy dance hall in Harlem. ‘Perhaps we should go dancing,’ she suggested. ‘It’s very gay.’
‘I don’t think I am able to dance just yet,’ Wallis said, laying a protective arm across her belly, ‘but I yearn for some decent conversation. I swear, my companions in Warrenton tell the same stories every week, expecting me to laugh raucously each time. I need someone smart and funny, someone to make me think again, and that’s why I have come to throw myself on your sweet mercy.’
‘I will be as entertaining as is in my power. But first I want to ask about you. How was China? And is there a lucky man waiting to walk you down the aisle once the divorce goes through?’
Wallis shook her head. ‘Nix. No one. I am thirty years old and entirely alone in the world. China was an interesting experience, but the Americans and Europeans there all have Win’s problem with their elbows.’ She mimed bending the forearm to pour alcohol down the throat from an imaginary glass.
‘You must be holding out on me,’ Mary teased. ‘You’re the world’s greatest romantic. Surely you would not have stayed away so long if you were not in love?’
Wallis smiled, with a faraway look in her eyes. ‘I was in love before I went. He let me down very badly. But I have found that the ideal cure for heartache is to put an ocean between yourself and the cause of the affliction.’
Mary guessed she was talking about the Argentinian diplomat Felipe Espil. She had heard on the grapevine that he had refused to marry Wallis, and instead took up with a younger woman from a wealthy, aristocratic family. It must have been the first time Wallis had failed to win the object of her affections, and it was bound to rankle.
‘I’m sorry,’ Mary said. ‘But I’m glad you found the cure. Perhaps you should register it at the Patent Office.’
