Secrets From the Past

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  ‘Too dangerous, especially for the press. Dangerous for anyone, except Gaddafi’s soldiers, family, hangers-on, his cronies. That place is rife with loyalists; they’d shoot us as easily as looking at us. We’re the foreign press, remember, they don’t trust us.’

  I knew Yusuf well, and I understood at once that there was no point in arguing with him. And it would get back to Harry, who would, no doubt, be immediately suspicious of my motives.

  So I let the idea go. Much to Zac’s relief, I think.

  A few days later I started to feel ill. It was mostly a nauseous feeling that really hit me one afternoon. I told Yusuf and Zac I needed to go back to the hotel to rest, that I was overtired.

  They both agreed immediately, and we left the area on the outskirts of Tripoli, a desert village, where we were taking pictures, and returned to the Rixos Hotel. They were both concerned about me, and wanted to help me in any way they could.

  The strange thing was, I still didn’t suffer from morning sickness. However, some afternoons and evenings I experienced a queasiness … it was like being seasick. But on this particular afternoon I became violently ill when I got back to the hotel, and vomited for some time. This was unusual for me. On the other hand, I was pregnant, and thought this was probably the reason for the nausea.

  To explain my upset stomach, I told Zac I might have eaten something that disagreed with me, and he accepted that. He also said he wasn’t feeling well himself. And then Yusuf had a similar upset stomach that evening. I relaxed, decided we had all eaten food that had been contaminated, and were suffering from food poisoning.

  Late one afternoon Zac, Yusuf and I were sitting downstairs at the Rixos, having cold drinks. It was an extremely hot day, scorching, and we had decided to take a break from filming. The air conditioning in the hotel and the tall glasses of iced tea helped us to cool off, feel refreshed. It was good to take it easy for once.

  We were talking about Gaddafi, who we knew was still in Tripoli. At least, we believed all the reports that said he was. But he was on the run, in hiding, as were his family. And also his grown sons.

  There was a great deal of speculation amongst the three of us. Yusuf threw out the idea that the dictator might attempt to get his wife and younger children out to another country, more than likely Algeria. Zac agreed; I did, too.

  Unexpectedly, I saw Henri Brillet, the French war correspondent, approaching our table. I looked at Zac, and touched his arm. ‘Henri looks very serious,’ I murmured. ‘He’s coming over here.’

  A moment later Henri arrived at our table, and I asked him if he would like to join us.

  He smiled, shook his head, declined politely, and focused his attention on Zac. ‘I heard that Val Clifford and Ariel Salle, and two male journalists from the UK, were killed today. Very bad news, tragic.’

  I sat very still, listened without saying a word. I was shocked, speechless.

  Zac exclaimed, ‘Henri, this is terrible! Are you sure?’

  ‘I am. It came from a good source. One of the cameramen I know. From the BBC. The two men who also died were British, as I said.’

  ‘How awful, how very sad,’ I said in a low voice. ‘I hate it when journalists die in battle. We’re only here to report, not to fight. We’re just seeking the truth.’

  Yusuf nodded. ‘C’est la vie.’ He looked grim as he spoke.

  Henri inclined his head. ‘I wanted you to know, Zac.’ He added something in French that I didn’t quite catch, and left, heading towards French colleagues who were at another table.

  The three of us were silent for a moment or two, and I was about to make a comment about Val Clifford’s death, when my BlackBerry buzzed. I saw from the screen that it was Harry calling from New York.

  ‘Hi, Harry,’ I said.

  ‘Hi, honey. Are you all okay?’

  ‘We are yes. I wanted—’

  He cut in. ‘Val Clifford was killed today. Along with some other journalists, Serena. Outside Sirte. On a desert road. It’s already on all the wires.’

  ‘We just heard about it,’ I answered. ‘It’s very sad when a colleague goes like that. Tragic.’

  ‘It is indeed, Serena. But she died doing what she loved.’ There was a slight pause before he added, ‘We all take a chance when we go to the front. So just take care of yourself, Serena, don’t do anything risky. What’s happening there?’

  I filled him in swiftly, and then passed the phone to Zac, who needed to ask him about a certain photograph. And then Zac handed my BlackBerry to Yusuf, who spoke to Harry at length, standing up, walking away from us, heading into the lobby.

  Zac stared at me, and raised a brow without saying anything.

  I reached out, took hold of his hand. ‘I’m okay, Zac. Just very, very sad a war photographer got killed in battle. I never knew her, you know. Even though she was Mom’s first cousin, I have no recollection of Val, but it is another member of the family gone, isn’t it?’

  He nodded, squeezed my hand, remained silent.

  I sat back in the chair, thinking about Valentina Clifford. I had wanted to meet her, ask her questions about the strange, disturbing photographs. Now that was no longer possible. And perhaps it was just as well. As Harry had said to me in New York, I knew everything I needed to know about myself. Why had I thought I didn’t know enough? Perhaps because I was a photojournalist, and always wanted to get to the bottom of a story, finding the meaning behind it? The knowledge that I would now never know what they were all about frustrated me. Also, I’d liked the idea of meeting Mom’s cousin, who had known her all of her life. I sighed, and wished for a moment that I’d met Val years ago.

  FORTY-ONE

  ‘I just know I can’t make it,’ I said to Zac, leaning against the doorjamb of the bathroom.

  He was shaving and turned a soap-covered face to me, the razor in his hand, and asked, ‘But why not, Serena? You’ve been looking forward to this evening, this little party. It’ll do you good.’

  I shook my head. ‘I can’t. Really.’

  ‘Oh come on, Pidge, all you have to do is slap on some makeup, get dressed and take the elevator downstairs. It’s not such a long trek, you know. There have been times when you’ve gone much farther for a party. I know that only too well.’ He began to laugh, and started to run the razor over his cheek.

  I laughed with him, and said, ‘Oh, yes, I’m guilty of that. But I won’t be able to make it tonight. I can barely make it back to bed.’

  Again he turned to look at me, a scowl appearing. ‘But why not? What’s wrong with you? Are you sick again?’

  ‘If you mean nauseous, yes, I am. But I feel totally drained as well. Also, I’ve got pains in my stomach.’

  ‘Oh God, don’t tell me you’ve been poisoned a second time. What have we eaten? I got sick too the last time, and so did Yusuf.’

  I shook my head. ‘I haven’t eaten very much at all, either yesterday or today. Listen, I know my own body, just as you know yours, and I feel lousy. So I can’t go to the party that the guys from CNN are giving. I’m sorry, Zac, but that’s the way it is.’

  I walked away from the bathroom doorway, and got into bed, pulling the sheets over me, lying propped up against the pillows. I was mostly worried about the stomach pains. I was wondering if I had eaten some bad food. I hoped not. Vomiting always did me in.

  A few minutes later, Zac came and sat down on the bed next to me. He was shaved and his hair was combed. Leaning closer, he touched my face gently. ‘I’m sorry you’re not well, and God knows why I’m arguing with you. If you don’t feel good you’ve got to be right where you are. Who cares about a party? There’s always another. Look, do you need a doctor?’

  ‘No thanks, Zac. And I’m glad you understand. Give Tim Gordon my apologies, won’t you?’

  ‘I sure will. I’d better get dressed.’ He put on a fresh white T-shirt, clean blue jeans and slipped his feet into his brown penny loafers. Unlike me, he always brought a pair of shoes with him, as Dad had and Harry still did
. It always amused me that they thought they needed shoes on the front line. I’d always settled for trainers or combat boots.

  He came back to the bed and kissed my cheek, just as Yusuf tapped on the bedroom door. Striding over to open it, Zac said, ‘Come in, Yusuf. Serena’s not feeling good, so she’s not coming to the CNN party after all.’

  Instantly looking concerned, Yusuf asked, ‘Are you going to be sick? I hope you’ve not eaten the wrong thing.’

  ‘I don’t think so, and I’ll be fine. Frankly, I feel bone tired tonight, and I just want to relax in bed, watch the TV, drink my Coke. Sorry to miss the party, but as Zac just said, there’s always going to be another.’

  ‘He’s right, and it’s best that you stay here resting. Is there anything I can get you? What about a doctor?’

  ‘No, I’m fine, thanks anyway. Oh, put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door, will you, please?’

  ‘I will, Serena.’ He grinned at me. ‘And I won’t tell Harry I took my eyes off you for a few hours, if you won’t.’

  ‘I’m very safe here, behind a locked door, so please don’t suggest sending up the lads to watch over me,’ I replied with a smile.

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ he murmured, planted a kiss on my forehead, and left the room.

  Zac bent over and kissed my cheek. ‘Call me if you need me. On my cell phone. That’s the easiest.’

  ‘Good idea, and please give me my BlackBerry. I’ll keep it next to me on the bed.’

  It was true that I felt tired and I fell asleep almost immediately. I must have slept for several hours, because when I woke it was already half past nine. I pushed myself up in bed, and reached for the Coca-Cola. I’d only taken a few sips of it when I quickly put it back on the bedside table. A sharp pain had ripped through me. I bent over, holding my stomach, and then instantly I got out of bed and rushed to the bathroom.

  I just made it to the toilet in time. Blood was gushing out of me, and clots of blood as well. I was in great pain, spasming at times, and I knew I was having a miscarriage. I sat there groaning to myself for the longest time, feeling as if all of my innards were leaving me. And I think they were … some of them anyway. The pains were acute, the clots thick.

  I began to cry, and eventually I got up, went to find some tissues. I noticed that blood had dripped onto the floor, and I quickly bent over, cleaning it up with the tissues.

  It struck me that I had to stay in the bathroom for as long as it took. Once I was certain the bleeding had properly stopped, I would clean up. The bathroom as well as myself.

  I was still wearing my stained nightgown, and was on my knees on the bathroom floor, wiping the marble as best I could with a wet towel. I already had one soaking in the tub, hoping it would soon be clean.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Zac asked from the doorway.

  I was startled, swung my head, and exclaimed, ‘I’m just tidying up!’ Then I stood, grabbed a large bath towel and wrapped it around myself like a sarong.

  ‘What’s happened?’ he asked, sounding baffled and also disturbed. He was gaping at me.

  I didn’t answer the question. ‘Is the party over already?’ I asked, staring back at him, pushing my wet hair away from my face. I knew I looked a mess, sweaty and damp, and probably there was blood on me somewhere.

  ‘No, it isn’t over. I was worried about you, Pidge. I came up to check on you. There’s a lot of drinking going on; we haven’t even had dinner yet. I wanted to tell you I’d be late.’

  ‘Then go back, go back, enjoy it,’ I said in a warm voice, just wanting him to leave so I could make myself look halfway decent. Forgetting that I was holding the towel around me, I waved my hand, shooing him out, and the towel fell to the floor. As I swiftly bent down and grabbed it I heard him gasp.

  ‘Jesus, what’s happened?’ he cried, coming into the bathroom, grabbing my arm. ‘You’ve got blood all over your legs.’

  I knew there was only one thing to do. I had to tell him the truth. I took a deep breath, and said, ‘I think I just had a miscarriage.’

  ‘Think you had a miscarriage. Don’t you know?’ he shouted, sounding shocked.

  ‘Well, yes, I do. I did have a miscarriage.’

  ‘Was the baby mine?’ he asked, his voice unexpectedly hard, tight in his throat.

  ‘Of course it was yours,’ I said coldly, angry that he would think otherwise.

  ‘And obviously you were pregnant when we left New York?’ he shot back at me, the anger still echoing.

  ‘Yes, I was.’

  ‘And you decided to come here, to the front line, when you were pregnant? Are you crazy? What were you thinking?’

  I was so startled by his loud voice, the hardness in it, the look of fury on his face, that I was stupefied for a few seconds. Then I exclaimed, ‘I was thinking of you, Zac, knowing how much you wanted me to come with you. I decided to stay with our plans. I was only two months pregnant.’

  ‘You took a chance, put yourself at risk!’ he answered in an icy tone, then turned, went out of the bathroom without another word.

  I followed him, saying, in a slightly calmer voice, ‘I’m strong and healthy, and I didn’t think it was a risk.’

  ‘You were wrong, weren’t you?’ he snapped, glaring at me.

  I was silent for a moment. Then I said, ‘Seemingly so.’

  ‘How could you do that? Take such a chance?’ He was so furious now he could hardly speak and his face was contorted. ‘You risked our child. And by coming to Libya it died. All your fault.’

  His words inflamed me, and I shouted, ‘How dare you say that to me! It’s a rotten thing to say, Zac.’

  He stepped forward, took hold of my shoulders and shook me. I noticed that his fury had not abated at all. I remembered that night when we had broken up, just over a year ago now, in Nice. He had been gripped by a similar anger. I had sensed a violence in him then and I did now.

  I pushed him away. ‘Zac, I love you, and I loved that I was pregnant with your child. I didn’t tell you because I believed everything would be all right. I’m young, healthy, strong. This was a fluke … my having a miscarriage.’

  When he remained totally silent, I said softly, ‘But maybe I should have told you.’

  ‘Yes, maybe you should have,’ he said in that hard, icy voice.

  I stood staring at him, gripping the towel around me.

  He turned on his heels and left the bedroom. For a split second I wanted to run after him, call for him to come back, but I didn’t. I knew him well enough to understand that I had to let him cool off.

  He would be better in a few hours, of that I was quite certain.

  I finished cleaning the bathroom, washed the towels and my nightgown, had a shower, washed my hair and dried it. Then I put on a clean nightgown and went to bed.

  After watching television for half an hour, I turned it off. But I lay awake for a long time, cursing myself under my breath for being so silly; stupid for not having told him I was pregnant when we were in New York.

  I woke up in the middle of the night, and reached out, feeling for Zac. But he wasn’t there. I sat up immediately, glanced around the room, and got out of bed. My legs felt weak, and I was a little woozy. And still slightly nauseous, which didn’t surprise me. I’d just been through an ordeal.

  Zac was not in the bathroom. Nor was he in the sitting room. For a moment I had expected to see him sleeping on the divan. When I glanced at my watch I saw that it was four in the morning.

  Where the hell was Zac?

  FORTY-TWO

  Yusuf Aronson got me off the front line and out of Libya. It was a swift, smooth and highly professional operation that impressed me.

  As usual, Yusuf was calm, efficient, discreet and kind, and I was very grateful to him. He had proved to be the good friend I had always believed he was, had asked no questions, just agreed to get me out immediately, once I’d told him I wanted to go. ASAP – as soon as possible – to quote Tommy Stone …

  Now, her
e I was, sitting on a private jet, a Cessna Mustang, and fastening my seatbelt. Moments later, as we soared up into the air, I breathed a sigh of relief. I was free. Free of Libya. Free of war. Free of Zac.

  Although I was sad, and filled with guilt, and also blamed myself for the miscarriage, I thought Zac’s behaviour had been reprehensible. He had shouted and screamed at me, losing control, letting his temper flare. He had also displayed the signs of violence that had so alarmed me in the past.

  The scene he made when he found me cleaning the bathroom was reminiscent of his angry performance after Dad’s funeral in Nice last year. I still found it hard to believe that he had taken hold of my shoulders and shaken me so hard last night, when he knew I had just been through a difficult physical and emotional ordeal.

  The plane levelled off. We floated through the clouds and I stared out of the window. The bright blue sky was filled with sunlight, and I hoped I would feel better soon, less tense.

  In exactly two hours from now I would be landing at Marco Polo Airport in Venice. I would head straight for the bolthole, where I would try to recoup my strength and collect myself.

  When I felt well enough, I would go to Nice. I wanted to be with Jessica and Cara at Jardin des Fleurs, needed to be with my caring sisters, surrounded by their love.

  I was aware that I loved Zac; I supposed I always would. And I cared about him, worried about him, as well. Strong feelings didn’t stop just like that. However, I was no longer sure that our relationship would work, or that we had a future together.

  I had told Harry in New York that I wasn’t sure that I could trust him again, after he had broken his promise not to go back to a war zone. And I wondered about that now. Hadn’t I been stupid, agreeing to go with him to Libya? But there had been another reason: Valentina Clifford. I had been stupid about her, too. There wasn’t anything I needed to hear from her … I knew exactly who I was.

  I had long been aware that Zac had a short fuse. However, I had forgotten how impatient and juvenile he could be when it came to a problem between the two of us. When he’d learned about my miscarriage last night he had flown into a rage, shown no concern for my wellbeing; nor had he even wanted to discuss the matter further. Instead he had turned on his heels and stalked out of the suite in an angry huff.