by Lesley Lokko
‘I suppose we could,’ Yves said after a moment. ‘I’ve got that conference in Toulouse in the last week of April. I could put in for a couple weeks’ leave after that.’
‘Will you? Will you really?’ Annick’s excitement was like that of a child’s. Yves laughed at her suddenly and the sound in the small kitchen was unfamiliar to them both.
‘Yes, I will. Really. And you’re right . . . we haven’t had a family holiday. It’ll do us good.’
Annick was filled with something that wasn’t quite – or just – happiness. Relief flowed through her, thick and sweet. It was only now, with the possibility of things being all right again, of a return to where they’d once been, she and Yves, that the full weight of the past couple of years began to lift. She’d been unable to see or think clearly and the distortion had spread, like poison, into every aspect of their lives together. She lifted her glass to her lips and drank, the dry, cool wine flooding through her the way relief and happiness just had.
Then Yves leaned across the counter and kissed her, as if in recognition of the new and unexpected lightness that had come between them. The place where his lips had touched her cheek glowed for a long time afterwards.
News of the holiday plans came to Rebecca via Julian, before Tash or Annick had a chance to tell her themselves. He came home early, parked his car across the street as though he were just popping in for a second and came running lightly up the front steps. Rebecca wasn’t expecting him. She was in the middle of preparing dinner. The housekeeper was usually the one to do the cooking but, in a moment of enthusiasm, Rebecca had given her the evening off.
It was just after six thirty when she heard the familiar sound of his car engine. She peered outside the window, watching him run up the front steps. Moments later, he burst into the kitchen.
‘Did you know about this?’ he asked, flinging a folded open magazine down on the counter before her.
‘Know about what?’ She popped a thin slice of cucumber in her mouth. ‘Weren’t you supposed to be eating out tonight?’
‘I cancelled. Take a look.’
‘What is it?’ she asked, glancing briefly at the magazine that now lay open-jawed on the counter.
‘Your friend has just spent 7 million dollars on a holiday home in the US. Martha’s Vineyard, if you really want to know.’
‘Which friend?’ Rebecca frowned. She had only one friend capable of doing anything like that but surely Tash would have told her?
‘Tash, who else?’
‘Tash? She hasn’t said a thing to me. Why would she do that?’
‘She didn’t even tell Adam, apparently.’
‘That doesn’t sound like Tash. Are you sure?’
‘Course I’m bloody sure.’
‘Why are you so upset about it?’ Rebecca looked at him, puzzled. ‘It’s her money. If she wants to spend it on a house . . . well, let her.’
‘What about Adam?’
‘What about Adam? What’s he got to do with it?’
‘He’s her husband, for crying out loud. Doesn’t he get some say in it?’
‘Why? It’s Tash’s money.’
‘It’s not about whose money it is, Rebecca,’ Julian said, his voice suddenly quiet.
Rebecca was genuinely baffled. ‘Why are you picking an argument with me? I just said—’
‘I know what you just said. Doesn’t matter if you’re married. What you’re saying is, what’s yours is yours, what’s mine is mine.’
‘That’s not what I said!’ Rebecca put down the paring knife. She was angry now. It was typical Julian – he’d come home in a bad mood, for reasons she didn’t understand, and now he was attempting to take it out on her. It wasn’t fair. ‘I just said—’
‘Forget it. Just forget it. I’ve changed my mind. I am going out after all.’ He grabbed the jacket he’d just thrown over the back of one of the chairs and left the kitchen. Rebecca stood there, her mouth hanging open in shock. What the hell had she said? In the playroom next door she could hear the twins arguing over the remote control. Maryam was being bathed upstairs. Suddenly, her eyes filled with hot, easy tears. She looked down at her hands. They were shaking. Any minute now the twins would rush in and Brigitte would bring Maryam downstairs, freshly bathed, ready to be kissed and cuddled by her brothers. She had to get a grip on herself. She felt the blood rush to her cheeks and the faint smear of shame that lurked in her always, broke through to the fore. She tried to concentrate on the task in front of her – cut, slice, arrange – but the magic of the early evening was gone and in its place was a desperate longing to make amends . . . but what for?
The study at the top of the stairs reminded her of Lionel’s study at home in the house where she’d grown up. The thick, cream carpet was soft underfoot; she felt her bare toes sinking into it like sand. It was nearly ten o’clock. On the floors below, her whole family lay sleeping; only Julian still hadn’t come home. She’d resisted the temptation to call him that evening. She needed time to think. The mad, impulsive thought that had come to her as soon as the front door slammed behind him required more than just the impulse; she had to think about it carefully.
She switched on the little green desk lamp and sat down. She pulled open one of the drawers and removed a file secured with a cream ribbon. She opened it and took one of the embossed sheets of paper. Rebecca Sara Harburg. Her name, nothing else, at the top of the page. She picked up the heavy, black Mont Blanc fountain pen she’d used all her life, quickly and expertly blotted the nib, and began to write.
It was an instruction to her accountant, the sort of old-fashioned instruction Lionel would have sent and of which he would approve.
Dear Gideon,
Kindly transfer the following sum: £25million (twenty-five million pounds sterling) from my trust account, R.S. Harburg, held at Banque Privée Edmund de Rothschild, Zurich, to my husband’s personal account, held at Coutts & Co., London. If you have any queries, don’t hesitate to contact me.
Thanks, as ever, yours, Rebecca.
She looked at it for a moment, then folded it neatly in three. She placed it in the envelope, sealed it, and addressed it to Gideon Levy at his offices on the Strand. It would take a week or so for the transfer to be effected but Gideon would have no queries. It was the sort of transaction he and his firm had been doing for the Harburg family for decades. In the seven years she and Julian had been married, he’d done several such transactions, though none approaching anything like 25 million pounds. But she wanted Julian to have the money. They seldom spoke about it; at the age of thirty, Rebecca had come into a 50-million-pound trust of her own. She’d given half of it to her husband, unbidden, unasked for. The rest would go into equal trusts for the children. She had more than enough. Surely he would be pleased?
111
TASH
Martha’s Vineyard
She was alone in the vast, leather-upholstered back seat of the Cadillac, staring out the window as the car smoothly glided over pebbles and small potholes, neither registering so much as a bump in the armchair suspension. After a seven-hour flight from Heathrow to Boston, she ought to have been tired, particularly as the week before her departure had been filled with tension – mostly from Adam – but she wasn’t. She was alert and ready, helped along no doubt by the excellent champagne on board British Airways and partially helped by the excitement of what lay ahead. Nothing and no one, not even Adam, could dampen her spirits. A fortnight’s holiday in her new, outstandingly beautiful home with her two best friends, their husbands and children – her godchildren – and half a dozen helpers, nannies, au pairs, cooks and housekeepers. Everything, in other words, to ensure the holiday would be perfect, and one they would never forget. The spectacular row she and Adam had had before she left was the worst in their year-long marriage and it had brought out ugliness in them both that Tash had done her best to forget. She gave as good as he did: for the first time in her life, she’d been able to talk back, answer back, stamp her foot and throw
something – an orange Le Creuset lid. Too heavy to sail far, it had fallen well short of its target, Adam’s head. And when it was over, they’d stood there in the kitchen, both breathing deeply, both startled by the fury they’d unleashed in each other. They’d fought about money, of course, or rather, Tash’s control over it. How could she have gone and spent 7 million dollars without asking him?
She looked out of the window at the clapboard houses flashing past. The chauffeur turned off the 195 Freeway and onto the Blue Star Memorial Highway, heading towards Falmouth and the ferry that would take her across. Down Sandwich Road, past the golf courses and parks with the open blue sweep of the sea on her right, down Palmer Street, Locust Street and then finally, along Woods Hole Road that led directly onto the jetty. There was a ferry waiting; she could see it from the window as they swept down the road towards the sea. She could have flown into Martha’s Vineyard directly from Boston, but there was something about the slow but steady shift from the rough and ready density of the city to the calm and majesty of the wide-open sea that moved her beyond words, and she chose to drive it instead. Yes, she was rich. She could afford all this and more. But whoever said money didn’t buy happiness was correct. Her determination not to wind up like Lyudmila had blinded her to a host of other unpalatable truths about money. Alongside the freedom it bestowed, it also brought jealousy and envy and a whole host of other unpleasant aspects that no one ever spoke about, much less admitted to.
‘There she is, ma’am.’ Her driver looked up and caught her eye briefly in the rear-view mirror. ‘Ferry’s waiting.’
‘Thanks,’ Tash murmured. It was Janine who’d organised the car service from Boston, in pretty much the same way she’d organised everything else – architects, interior designers, landscape architects, builders, plumbers . . . there was no end to her resourcefulness, or so it seemed. ‘She’s being paid to be resourceful,’ Annick laughed when she told her. ‘Handsomely, too, I’ll bet.’ Whatever the motivation, the results were impressive.
It was a windy, blustery day. The sea was a churning, frothy skin of dark blue. Little spits and licks of white foam crested every choppy wave and overhead, in a sky so blue it hurt the eyes, white cotton-puff clouds endlessly chased one another. She joined the other passengers on deck, wrapping her arms around herself in unconscious imitation of the others. It was a short, fifteen-minute journey from Falmouth to Vineyard Haven, and from there, a short drive across the island to Pohoganot Road. Janine would meet her at the house; together they’d go over the checklist of the final alterations and renovations before her guests arrived. Her stomach gave a little lurch. In just under a week’s time, everyone would be here. The bedrooms would all be ready, each a different colour and theme. Pinks, delicate shades of blue, the lightest sage, pale buttercup yellow – every room was designed with its occupant in mind. On the second floor, much as they had been at Brockhurst, were all the master bedrooms, culminating in the enormous suite at the end, overlooking the pool. A little thrill of excitement ran through her. The pool, in anthracite black tile, had been completely remodelled and re-laid. It came with its own pretty white shingle cabaña and paddling pool for the little ones and a wide-plank deck ran all the way around, providing plenty of shade and sunning areas. She thought back to the Harburgs’ holiday home in Cavezzana for a second – who would’ve thought that she, Tash Bryce-Brudenell, would be able to offer the same hospitality, and on her own turf? She smiled to herself at the secret pleasure of it all.
112
A tweak here, a stray leaf out of place there, a gentle correction to a picture frame above a fireplace. ‘I just can’t bear it when things are out of place, can you?’
Tash followed the interior designer around like a well-trained puppy, stopping dutifully behind every vase, nodding every time the woman threw her a quick glance. She gazed around her. The dining room looked out over a vast green blanket of grass that sloped away towards the sea. Through the tall French windows, she could see the line of wavering grasses that sat atop the dunes, slowly sweeping back and forth like shy eyelashes. The sheer, palest grey curtains billowed gently in the breeze; the walls were a pale duck-egg blue, the furniture a mixture of contemporary American and European classics. Artworks had been chosen to complement the colour scheme and the mood. Everything had been thought of, right down to the size and colour of the white pebbles that covered the driveway. The house was ten, perhaps even fifteen times the size of her London flat, but both homes felt uniquely hers. Hers and Adam’s, she corrected herself automatically. At the thought of Adam, her stomach gave another lurch. It was almost a full day since their argument and she hadn’t heard from him since she’d slammed the front door behind her and jumped into her waiting cab. She glanced down at her BlackBerry; there were half a dozen messages and a long list of emails, but none from Adam. She slipped it back in her pocket. She wasn’t about to let Adam ruin her day, especially not from thousands of miles away.
‘And these? Don’t you just love these?’ The interior designer was busy stroking the silk backing on one of the dining-room chairs. ‘Seventeenth century, Scottish. It took us an age to find them.’
And a small fortune, Tash thought to herself quickly. ‘They’re beautiful,’ she murmured. ‘Just beautiful.’ A wave of impatience swept through her. Now that it was finally done, she wanted to be alone. She turned to Janine and the interior designer whose name she’d already forgotten. ‘Look, if you don’t mind,’ she said briskly, ‘I’ve had an awfully long day. It’s nearly ten p.m. my time. I’ve got a couple of days before my guests arrive. I’m just going to settle in, get a feel for the place, that sort of thing. I’ll be in touch again in the morning.’
Both Janine and the interior designer were far too accustomed to the ways of the rich and famous to make even the slightest protest. With murmurs of ‘of course’ and ‘you must be exhausted’, they quickly gathered their possessions, made the few last-minute adjustments to picture frames and bouquets of flowers and exited in a stream of air kisses and tyres on gravel. Her own driver, having emptied the car of her possessions, also took his leave.
For the first time in weeks – perhaps even months – she was truly alone. She stood in the doorway, looking out over the empty driveway and suddenly realised she was crying. Idiot, she chastised herself softly under her breath. You’re supposed to laugh, not cry. Crack open a bottle. At the thought of champagne, she brightened. Janine would have left a bottle in the fridge. She slipped her hand in her pocket and took out her BlackBerry. More messages, of course, but none from Adam. She tightened her lips and put it away. Damn him. So bloody typical – here she was, more than three thousand miles away, standing in the doorway of their dream home and he was sulking and unreachable. The muffled roar of the sea came to her faintly, like a voice from another planet, another age. London seemed so terribly far away, and not just in the geographical sense. The gleaming water, glimpsed from over the top of the swaying grasses, was a blur of dazzling foamy surfaces. To her right, leading away from the white-pebbled driveway, was a small pathway that led directly to the beach. She roused herself. It was almost four in the afternoon; what better way to round off her first day on the island than at the water’s edge, a glass of champagne in hand?
She turned and walked through the house to the vast, white-tiled kitchen with its stainless steel appliances and refrigerators the size of whole cupboards. Janine had not only provided two giant magnums of champagne – Krug, she noticed approvingly – but a small platter of olives, tiny artichoke hearts swimming in olive oil and a thick slice of crumbling Parmesan cheese. Her mouth watered suddenly; she’d eaten nothing since breakfast. She picked up the bottle by the neck, collected a flute from the cupboard above the cooker and, balancing everything rather precariously, opened the back door and followed the narrow path that led to Ripley Cove.
The protected strip of white sand that fringed the cove was the perfect place to sit in absolute silence, nothing between her and the faint, muffled r
oar of the sea that was held at bay by the narrow finger of land that separated the two beaches. She squatted down rather awkwardly – no one to see her – and settled herself into the sand that still held the day’s warmth. She carefully put the plate of olives and cheese to one side, spreading her jacket out on the sand and kicking off her shoes. The sand was wonderfully warm and soft against her bare feet. She burrowed her toes in it, delighting in the simple, pleasurable sensation. She eased the champagne cork out of its constricting mouth and poured herself a glass, drinking greedily before the bubbles had subsided. The azure sea moved slowly, majestically, breaking in slow, drawn-out rolls against the sand, not fifty yards from where she sat. Beyond the fingerspit of sand, the tide was out, black rocks flattened and exposed by the retreating water. Behind her, providing shade and hiding the neighbouring property, was a small but thick clump of trees in the full throes of early summer. The air was quiet and still. Tash lay back against her jacket, now covered in fine blond sand. Warmth and light faintly penetrated the thin skin of her eyelids. She began to doze, lulled by the sound of the sea, the wind in the trees behind her, the snug warmth of an early summer afternoon.
When she woke and sat up to pour herself another glass, the suffused light created a distortion of distance so that the lone figure of a bird, picking its way delicately across the wet sand in front of her, seemed miles and miles off, far beyond her reach.
113
ANNICK
All the way from London, from the moment the chauffeur-driven car picked them up outside their South London flat and deposited them at the entrance to Terminal Five, to the moment they walked, dazedly, through the exit doors at Logan International Airport only to be met by another driver, in an almost identical car, Annick felt as though she were dreaming. That she’d wake up any second and find herself pressed, cheek-to-cheek, against a fellow commuter on her way into the office at 8.07 a.m. on a normal, routine Monday morning. That the sight and feel of Didier scrambling excitedly from her seat to Yves’, entranced by the way the seats slid forward until they were flat and by the small television screens and the smiling ladies in smart blue uniforms who behaved as though his every wish was simply their command, wasn’t real. They would be the first to arrive. Rebecca, Julian and the kids would land the following morning and the same service would be extended to them. Tash wouldn’t hear of anyone paying for anything. ‘Absolutely not. And that’s the end of it. Not another word.’ Annick and Yves smiled at each other. Whilst a first-class ticket to Boston and a ten-day holiday on Martha’s Vineyard might well be within Rebecca’s reach, it certainly wasn’t within theirs. But Tash was adamant. ‘It’s my own birthday present – hell, make that Christmas-and-birthday present – and that’s all there is to it.’
