by Lucy Gordon
‘No!’ he repeated, then gave a sudden bitter laugh. ‘Oh, mon dieu!’ He laughed again, but there was no humour in it, only a grating edge.
‘Look at me. How easily I…well done, Cassie. You won the first battle. I’ll win the others but it’s the first one that counts, isn’t it? Did you hear me on the dance floor tonight, saying I waited for no woman? That has to be the biggest and stupidest piece of self deception of all time. All those years ago I waited for you—waited and waited, certain that you would come in the end because my Cassie loved me. Waited…waited…’ He broke off with a shudder.
So the past couldn’t be dealt with so easily, she thought. She must tell him everything, help him to understand that she’d had no choice but to save him from harm. But surely it would be easier now?
‘Marcel, listen to me. I must tell you—’
But he couldn’t hear her. He’d leapt up and was pacing about, talking frantically, lost in another world. Or perhaps trapped in a cage.
‘Once I wouldn’t have believed it possible to despise anyone as I’ve despised you. In those days I loved you more than my life, more than—’ He stopped and a violent tremor went through him. ‘Never mind that,’ he said harshly.
‘I guess you don’t want to remember that we loved each other.’
‘I said never mind,’ he shouted. ‘And don’t talk about “each other”. There was no love on your side, or you could never have done what you did.’
‘You don’t know what I did,’ she cried.
‘I know that I lay for days in the hospital, longing to see you. I was delirious, dreaming of you, certain that the next time I opened my eyes you’d be there. But you never were.
‘I called your mobile phone but it was always switched off. The phone in your apartment was never answered. Tell me, Cassie, didn’t you ever wonder why I vanished so suddenly? You never wanted to ask a single question?’
She stared. ‘But I knew what had happened, that you’d had an accident and were in hospital. I told you that in my letter.’
‘What letter?’
‘I wrote, telling you everything, begging you to understand that it wasn’t my fault. I put it through your door—I was sure you’d find it when you came home. Oh heavens! Do you mean—?’
‘I never read any letter from you,’ he said, and she was too distracted to notice how carefully he chose his words.
‘Then you never knew that I was forced to leave you—I had no choice.’
He made a sound of impatience. ‘Don’t tell me things that a child couldn’t believe. Of course there was a choice.’
‘Not if I wanted you to live,’ she cried. ‘He said he’d kill you.’
‘He? Who?’
‘Jake Simpson.’
‘Who the hell—?’
‘I’d never heard of him either. He was a crook who knew how to keep his head down. People did what he wanted because they were scared of him. I wasn’t scared at first. When he said he wanted me I told him to clear off. You were away at the time. I was going to tell you when you got home, but you had the accident. Only it wasn’t an accident. Jake arranged it to warn me. He showed me a picture of you in hospital and said you’d die if I didn’t drop you and turn to him. I couldn’t even tell you what had happened because if I tried to visit you he’d know, and you’d have another “accident”.
‘I went with him because I had to. I didn’t dare approach you, but I couldn’t endure thinking of you believing that I’d played you false. In the end I wrote a letter and slipped it through your letter box. Obviously you never got it. Perhaps you’d already left by then. Oh, if only you could have read it. We’d still have been apart, but you’d have known that I didn’t betray you, that I was forced to do what I did, and perhaps you wouldn’t have hated me.’
She looked at him, standing quite still in the shadows.
‘Or maybe you’d have hated me anyway. All these years—’
‘Stop,’ he said harshly. ‘Don’t say any more.’
‘No, well, I guess there’s no more to say. If I could turn back the clock I’d put that letter into your hands and make you read it and then perhaps I wouldn’t have been such a monster in your heart—’
‘I said stop!’ he shouted.
She came to a sudden resolution. Reaching up from where she was sitting on the bed, she took his hand and urged him down until he was sitting beside her.
‘You don’t know whether to believe me or not, do you? Everything about us is different—except for one thing. Very well. If that’s the only way I can make you listen to me, then that’s the way I’ll take.’
‘Meaning?’
‘You’ve implied that I’m a bad woman who’ll use her physical charms to get her way with you. Well, maybe you’re right. After all, I know now that I can do it, don’t I?’
‘What are you saying?’
‘That I’ll do what I have to. Maybe you know me better than I know myself. Perhaps I really am that unscrupulous. Maybe I’ll enjoy it. Maybe we both will.’
As she spoke she was touching his face. She knew she was taking a huge risk, but there was no other way. At all costs she would soften him, drive the hostility from his eyes.
To her relief she could feel him softening, feel the hostile tension drain from him, replaced by a different kind of tension.
‘Hold me,’ she whispered.
He did so, reaching for her, drawing her down to stretch out on the bed, or letting her draw him down. Neither of them really knew.
Their first encounter had been entirely sexual. This one was on a different plane. No words were spoken, but none were needed. In each other’s arms they seemed to find again the things that had been missing the first time—sweetness, warmth, the joy of the heart.
Afterwards they held each other with gentle hands.
‘We’ll get there,’ she promised. ‘We’ll find a way, my darling, I promise we will.’
He didn’t reply, and she suddenly became aware that his breathing was deep and steady. She turned her head, the better to see his face, and gave a tender smile as she saw him sunk in sleep.
It had always been this way, she remembered. He would love her with all the power and vigour of a great man, then fall asleep like a child.
‘That’s right, you sleep,’ she murmured. ‘Sleep and I’ll take care of everything.’
Slowly her smile changed. Now it was one of triumph.
In the twilight world that came just before awakening she relived a dream. So many times she’d fallen asleep in his arms, knowing that he would still be there in the morning. Sometimes she’d opened her eyes to find him looking down at her adoringly. At other times he would be sunk in sleep, but always reaching for her, even if only with his fingertips. It was as though he could only relax with the assurance of her presence.
And me, she thought hazily, knowing he would be there meant that life was good.
She opened her eyes.
She was alone.
He was gone.
She sat up, looking around frantically, certain that there was some mistake. The room was empty. Hurrying out of bed, she searched all the rooms but there was no sign of him. Marcel had stolen away while she slept.
But he’d vowed to keep her a prisoner. The outer door would be locked.
It wasn’t. It yielded at once and she found herself looking out into an empty corridor. Something about the silence was frightening.
She slammed the door and leaned back against it, refusing to believe that this could have happened. Last night they’d found each other again, not totally but enough for hope. They should have spent today talking, repairing the past. Instead he’d walked out.
But he might have fled through caution, she thought. Don’t judge him until you’ve spoken to him.
She dressed carefully. Cassie or Mrs Henshaw today? Finally she settled on a mixture, restrained clothing as befitted her job, but with her hair flowing freely. He would understand. A quick breakfast and she was ready to face
whatever the challenge was.
The door to Marcel’s apartment was opened by a middle-aged woman with a friendly face.
‘Bonjour. I am Vera, Marcel’s secretary. He has left me instructions to be of service to you.’
‘Left you—? Isn’t he here?’
‘He had to leave suddenly. For what reason he did not say. I’m a little surprised because he has so much to do, and he didn’t even tell me where he was going.’
So that was that. He was snubbing her, escaping to some place where she couldn’t follow. Perhaps she should simply take the hint and leave, but that seemed too much like giving in without a fight. How he would triumph if he returned to find her gone. Grimly she settled down to work.
CHAPTER EIGHT
LAURA Degrande had settled contentedly in a small house in the suburbs of Paris. It wasn’t a wealthy district, but she always said life was better without wealth. Her marriage to Amos Falcon had not been happy, and the only good thing to come from it was her son, Marcel. He would have kept her in luxury, but she refused, accepting an allowance that was comfortable, but no more, despite his indignant protests. It was the only blot on their otherwise affectionate relationship.
Her face lit up when he appeared at her door.
‘My darling, how lovely to see you. I was thrilled to get your call this morning. What is it that’s so urgent?’
Hugging her, Marcel said, ‘I need to look through some old stuff that you stored for me.’
‘Have you lost something?’
‘You might say that. Are the bags where I left them?’
‘Still in the attic.’
‘See you later.’
He hurried up the stairs before she could answer, and shut himself away in the little room, where he began to pull open bags and boxes, tossing them aside when they didn’t contain what he wanted. When Laura looked in he turned a haggard face towards her.
‘There’s something missing—a big grey envelope—I left it here—it’s gone—’
‘Oh, that. Yes, I found it but there was only rubbish inside, shreds of paper that you’d obviously torn up. I thought they should be thrown out.’
‘What?’ The sound that broke from him was a roar of anguish. His face was haggard, desperate. ‘You threw it out?’
‘No, calm down. I thought about it but then I remembered what you’re like about not throwing things away. So I stored them safely—up here on this shelf. Yes, here’s the envelope.’
He almost snatched it from her with a choking, ‘Thank you!’
Laura left the room quickly, knowing that something desperately important had happened, and he needed to be alone to cope with it.
Marcel wrenched open the envelope and a load of small bits of paper cascaded onto the floor. Frantically he gathered them up, found a small table and began to piece them together. It was hard because his hands were shaking, and the paper had been torn into tiny shreds.
As he worked he could see himself again, on that night long ago, tearing, tearing, desperate with hate and misery.
He’d left the hospital as soon as he was strong enough, and gone straight to Cassie’s home. The lights were out and he knew the worst as soon as he arrived, but he still banged on the door, crying her name, banging more desperately.
‘You’re wasting your time,’ said a voice behind him. ‘She’s gone.’
Behind him stood a middle-aged man who Marcel knew vaguely. He was usually grumpy, but today he seemed pleased at the bad news he was imparting.
‘Gone where?’ Marcel demanded.
A shrug. ‘How do I know? She packed up and left days ago. I saw her get into a posh car. Bloke who owned it must be a millionaire, so I reckon that’s finished you. She saw sense at last.’
Seeing Marcel’s face, he retreated hastily.
At first he refused to believe it, banging on the door again and screaming her name, until at last even he had to accept the truth. She’d gone without a backward glance.
He didn’t remember the journey home, except that he sat drinking in the back of the taxi until he tumbled out onto the pavement and staggered into the building.
On the mat he found an envelope, with his name in Cassie’s handwriting. The sight had been enough to make him explode with drunken rage and misery, tearing it, tearing, tearing, tearing—until only shreds were left.
He’d left England next morning. At the airport he’d had a brief glimpse of Cassie, dressed up to the nines, in the company of a man who clearly had money coming out of his ears. That sight answered all his questions. He’d screamed abuse, and fled.
In Paris he’d taken refuge in his mother’s home, collapsing and letting her care for him. When he unpacked it was actually a surprise to discover that he’d brought Cassie’s letter, although in shreds. He had no memory of putting it into his bag.
Now was the time to destroy it finally, but he hesitated. Better to keep it, and read it one day, years ahead. When he was an old man, ruling a financial empire, with an expensive wife and a gang of children, then he would read the whore’s miserable excuses.
And laugh.
How he would laugh! He’d laugh as violently as he was weeping now.
When at last he could control his sobs he took the bits of paper to his room, stuffed them into an envelope and put it in a drawer by his bed. There it had stayed until he’d moved out. Then he’d hidden it away in the little attic, asking his mother to be sure never to touch his things.
As the years passed he’d sometimes thought of the day that would come when he could read her pathetic words and jeer at her memory. Now that day was here.
He worked feverishly, fixing the pieces together. But gradually his tension increased. Something was wrong. No, it was impossible. Be patient! It would come right.
But at last he could no longer delude himself. With every tiny wisp of paper scrutinised to no avail, with every last chance gone, he slammed his fist into the wall again and again.
When there was no word, and her calls went unanswered, Cassie came to a final reluctant decision. As she packed she chided herself for imagining that things could ever have been different. Her flesh was still warm from their encounters the night before, but she should never have fooled herself.
He was punishing her by abandoning her in the way he felt she’d abandoned him. The generous person he’d once been would never have taken such cruel, carefully thought out vengeance, but now he was a different man, one she didn’t know.
She called the airport and booked herself onto the evening flight to London. There! It was done.
‘You are leaving?’ asked Vera, who’d been listening.
‘Yes, I have to. Would you please give this to Marcel?’ She handed over a sealed envelope. Inside was a small piece of paper, on which she’d written: ‘It’s better this way. I’m sure you agree. Cassie.’
‘Can’t you wait just a little?’ Vera begged.
‘No, I’ve stayed too long already.’
Take-off was not for three hours but she felt an urgent need to get away at once. She took a taxi to the airport and sat, trying not to brood. She should never have come to this place, never dreamed that the terrible wrongs of the past could be put right. How triumphant he would feel, knowing his snub had driven her away! How glad he would be to be rid of her!
At last it was time to check in. She rose and joined the queue. She had almost reached the front when a yell rent the air.
‘Cassie!’
Everyone looked up to see the man standing at the top of a flight of stairs, but he saw none of them. His eyes were fixed only on her as he hurled himself down at breakneck speed and ran to her so fast that he had to seize her in order to steady himself.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’ he demanded frantically.
‘I’m going home.’
‘You’re staying here.’
‘Let go of me.’
‘No!’ He was holding her in an unbreakable grip. ‘You can either agree to come back with me, o
r we can fight it out right here and now. Which?’
‘You’re impossible!’
‘It took you ten years to discover that? I thought you were clever. Yes or no?’
‘All right—yes.’
‘Good. Is this yours?’ He lifted her suitcase with one hand while still holding her wrist with the other. Plainly he was taking no chances.
In this awkward fashion they made it out of the building to where the car from La Couronne was waiting for them. While the chauffeur loaded the suitcase Marcel guided her into the back and drew the glass partition across, isolating them. As the car sped through the Paris traffic he kept hold of her hand.
‘There’s no need to grip me so tightly,’ she said. ‘I’m hardly going to jump out here.’
‘I’m taking no chances. You could vanish at any time. You’ve done it twice, you won’t do it to me again. You can count on that.’
‘I went because you made it so obvious that you wanted to be rid of me.’
‘Are you mad?’ he demanded.
‘I’m not the one who vanished into thin air. When a woman awakes to find the man gone in the morning that’s a pretty clear message.’
‘Tell me about vanishing into thin air,’ he growled. ‘You’re the expert.’
‘I left a note with Vera—’
‘I didn’t mean today.’ The words came out as a cry of pain, and she cursed herself for stupidity.
‘No, I guess not. I’m sorry. So when you left this morning, that was your way of paying me back?’
‘I went because I had to, but…things happened. I never meant to stay away so long. When I got back and Vera told me you’d left for England I couldn’t believe it. I tried to call you but you’d turned your phone off—like last time.’
She drew a sharp breath. Something in his voice, his eyes, revealed all his suffering as no mere words could have done.
‘But why did you have to dash off?’ she asked.
‘To read the letter you wrote me ten years ago.’
‘But you said you never got it.’
‘No, I said I never read it. I was so blazing mad I tore it up without reading it.’
‘Then how could you read it now?’
‘Because I kept it,’ he said savagely. ‘Fool that I am, I kept it.’
