by Gill Paul
“What exactly am I being punished for, Telis? I’ve done nothing wrong.”
She couldn’t get him to listen. He ranted for ten minutes without pause, then hung up. She stared in disbelief. He had never raised his voice to her before they were married. She hadn’t realized he had a temper, and it came as an unwelcome surprise.
She had always been allergic to conflict. It reminded her of listening to her parents arguing when she was a child and feeling scared that the security of her young life might crumble. She and Jack had disagreed sometimes, like any couple, but they never yelled at each other. She hated being yelled at. It had the effect of making her retreat and pull up the drawbridge.
She decided she wouldn’t be the first to call after he’d behaved like that. Ari should call her and, if he were a gentleman, he should call with an apology.
Meanwhile, she decided to go behind his back and make inquiries about the type of professional she should talk to about her feelings of panic. Perhaps the Secret Service agent could point her in the right direction.
Chapter 67
Paris
Spring 1970
I’m going to divorce her,” Ari told Maria, over dinner at Maxim’s.
She’d been surprised when he suggested they eat out in his favorite restaurant, and even more astonished when he asked for the corner table by a front window, where they could be spotted by any passing paparazzo, as if he didn’t care who saw them together now.
“All I am to her is a bank that never shuts,” he continued. “She lives in New York with her children, spends my money like water, and refuses to visit me in the winter months. In summer, she invites her friends for no-expense-spared holidays, but if the weather is too cold for the beach, I might as well not be married. I never thought any woman would make such a fool out of me.”
Maria decided not to comment. All she had ever wanted was to be Ari’s wife, to look after him, to cherish him. She would have done anything for him—but he had married a woman who did not want to be a traditional wife.
As if reading her mind, Ari said, “I just need to find a way to stop her taking too much of my money. And then, at last, I can marry the woman I should always have been with. The one I should have married as soon as I met her.” He lifted Maria’s hand to his lips.
“Is that a proposal?” she asked, arching one eyebrow, trying to still the fluttering sensation his words provoked. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t believe it until you come to me waving a decree nisi in one hand and an engagement ring in the other.”
“I will prove it to you. I have learned my lesson. One should only marry for love.”
She sighed. “Goodness, Ari, you are a slow learner.”
“I know. But I get there in the end. You wait and see.”
THE FOLLOWING EVENING, Ari wanted to dine at Maxim’s again, and asked for the same corner table.
“You’re becoming a creature of habit, like a lion returning to its favorite watering hole,” she teased.
“Yes, and dragging my lioness along so I can mount her when the urge takes me,” he rejoined.
“Not over the steak tartare, please.”
Several photographers took their picture that night, and Maria wondered if Mrs. Kennedy would see it in the press.
Ari shrugged. “She might.”
“Won’t she mind?”
“I don’t care,” he said. “I briefed my New York lawyers today and they are searching for a solution that will free me from the marriage without diluting Alexander’s inheritance.”
Maria felt a stirring of hope. Ari seemed resolute. Could it be that she might yet be his wife one day?
That afternoon, he’d had his chauffeur drop off some clothes at her house, along with his hair oil and toothbrush. Seeing his possessions in the bathroom alongside her own gave her a warm glow. Simple pleasures, such as eating breakfast in bed with him, filled her with joy.
Over lunch, Maggie van Zuylen urged caution: “You and I know that the most sensitive part of Ari’s anatomy is his wallet. He may retreat when he finds out how much a divorce will cost. I can’t imagine the Black Widow accepting any diminution in her lifestyle after the marriage comes to an end.”
Maria knew she was right, but once she had allowed herself to hope it was hard to scale back. “I could even accept a situation in which he remains married, so long as we are together. I love him, and I want everyone to know we are a couple again.”
“Your friends know that,” Maggie said. “Who cares what anyone else thinks?”
But Maria had been publicly humiliated by him and she yearned to be publicly vindicated, so she was delighted when photographs of them dining at Maxim’s appeared in the international press, along with cynical comments about the state of his long-distance marriage only a year and a half after the wedding.
“Did Mrs. Kennedy mention the pictures?” Maria asked him over dinner that night.
He gave her a wicked grin. “I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to her today.”
“You’re punishing her for something, aren’t you?” She scrutinized his gold-flecked eyes, and a suspicion popped into her head. “I hope you are not using me to make her jealous. I’m not a plaything to be dangled, then dropped.”
“My God, you think I could do that? You don’t know me at all.” He put his arms around her. “Oh, Maria, why is life so fucking complicated?”
“Life is pretty simple; it’s people who are complicated,” she told him.
The next day they went shopping together on the Rue Saint-Honoré, and she helped him choose some new clothes. “For all the money my wife spends on fashion, she rarely buys anything for me,” he complained. “I’m down to my last decent suit.”
Maria picked a slate-gray flannel for him and sat waiting while the tailor took his measurements, humming to herself. They were dining at home that evening and she’d asked the cook to make lamb kleftiko. It was a Greek dish cooked for hours in a low oven; the fragrance of oregano and meat juices would already have filled her apartment.
After they finished shopping, Ari’s chauffeur dropped her at Avenues Georges Mandel. Ari wanted to go home to pick up some papers, but said he’d return for a cocktail at seven-thirty.
Maria changed into a fitted black dress with a scoop back and fixed her hair and eye makeup, spraying on some scent. Ari did not arrive at seven-thirty, so she asked Bruna to pour her a glass of champagne while she waited. When he had not arrived by eight-thirty, she began to worry. She called Avenue Foch, where Eleni seemed strangely reluctant to put her through.
“Tell him it’s Maria,” she insisted.
Ari’s voice came on the line, soft and low. “Costa, I’m sorry but I won’t be able to make it for dinner tonight.”
Maria felt a plunging sensation, as if she were in an elevator. “Is Mrs. Kennedy there?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“How long is she staying?”
“That hasn’t been discussed yet. I’ll get back to you.”
“When will you get back to me?”
“Just as soon as I can. Have a good evening, Costa,” he said, then hung up.
Maria felt a sharp pain in her chest, as if a splinter of glass had lodged there. She poured another glass of champagne and sat, trying to imagine the conversation between them. Would this be the night that he asked for a divorce? How would Mrs. Kennedy react?
All the following day, Maria stayed home, nerves frayed, waiting to hear from Ari. If another friend phoned, she shooed them off the line so she didn’t miss his call. She pictured him and Jackie arguing, negotiating. With any luck, she would accept that their marriage hadn’t worked. Maybe she wanted out as well.
She picked up a newspaper to distract herself and was shocked to see a picture of Ari and Mrs. Kennedy, taken the previous evening. They were at exactly the same corner table at Maxim’s that he had occupied with her, and they were talking. Not kissing, not touching, just talking. Still, it was a shock.
Suddenly she was
unable to bear the suspense any longer. She called his apartment and asked Eleni to tell him that Costa Gratsos was on the line.
“It’s me,” she breathed when she heard his voice. “What’s happening?”
“I was about to call you. Jacqueline and I are flying to New York this evening so I won’t be able to meet you as planned.” From his formal tone, she knew he could be overheard.
“Why are you going to New York? Did you tell her you want a divorce?”
“That will have to be done step-by-step,” he said carefully.
Maria swallowed hard. “Why did you dine at our table in Maxim’s last night? Was that Mrs. Kennedy’s idea?”
“Yes, it was.”
Maria had guessed as much. She was staking her territory, sending a message. Ari hadn’t told her that he wanted a divorce. They wouldn’t be flying to New York together if he had.
“You are playing with my feelings, like a cat with a half-dead mouse,” she said. “I didn’t think you could be so cruel.”
There was a long pause, during which she could hear him breathing on the line. He couldn’t think of an answer that would not make his wife suspicious.
Tears started rolling down her cheeks. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’ve made your choice and I am to be abandoned yet again.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, with feeling. “I’m so very sorry.” And then he hung up.
Maria rushed to her bathroom and swallowed a couple of Mandrax, a sedative she had recently been prescribed. She turned on the bath taps, and while the water was running she ran to the kitchen to grab a bottle of champagne and a glass. Back in her sanctuary, she locked the door, then opened the champagne and drank some, before undressing and lowering herself into the steaming water.
Only then did she start to cry properly, with great shuddering sobs. What a fool she had been! She was back in the exact position as before, when Ari had made every excuse under the sun not to marry her. He had her right where he had wanted her all along: as his mistress. He would never divorce Jackie, because it would prove too expensive. She’d fallen neatly into a trap.
Maria couldn’t stop crying now. The pain was hideous. She took two more Mandrax and washed them down with champagne. How many more would it take to achieve oblivion? Could anything ever do that again?
Chapter 68
New York City
Spring 1970
When Jackie and Ari arrived at her Fifth Avenue apartment, he rang the Pierre Hotel to see if there were any messages for him. The receptionist told him Maggie van Zuylen had left one, insisting that he call her in Paris straightaway. He dialed her number and Jackie stood nearby to listen. She could hear that Maggie’s voice was raised; she was upset about something.
“How is she?” Ari asked; then, “Can I speak to her?” He leaned forward, head in his hand, eyes closed, and Jackie guessed immediately that something had happened to Maria.
After hanging up, he turned to her, ashen. “Maria took an overdose last night. Her maid found her and rushed her to the hospital, but one of the nurses leaked the story and it’s going to be all over the papers tomorrow.”
Jackie was horrified. “Why would she do that?”
“They won’t let me speak to her,” Ari said, ignoring the question. “And Maggie says that if I return to Paris her friends won’t let me anywhere near her.”
“Why not? Do they hold you responsible?” Her chest felt tight and she tried to slow her breathing, as her new psychiatrist had advised, to stop the panic from taking hold.
Ari turned on her. “Why did you make me take you to Maxim’s? This is all your fault. You wanted to score points against a vulnerable woman.”
“That’s not fair!” she objected. “I was humiliated when the papers said our marriage was in trouble. Any wife would have done the same.”
He carried on as if he hadn’t heard her: “Then you dragged me back to New York because you were jealous and insecure. Yet you have given me far more reason to feel jealous than I have ever given you.” His volume was increasing. “I’m not the one who wrote fucking love letters on my honeymoon!”
“Please stop shouting,” she said quietly. “You’re not being rational.”
“Why on earth did I marry you?” He had worked himself into a rage now. “It’s clear what you got out of the deal: Gucci, Dior, Chanel, Cassini . . .” He swept an Indian elephant sculpture to the floor, causing the trunk to snap off. “But I haven’t had much return on my investment. You’re not a wife—you’re a professional shopper.”
Jackie had never seen him lose his temper so badly. She shrank into an armchair, tucking her feet beneath her, wrapping her arms around her shoulders. His fists were clenched and she was scared he might hit her. He seemed out of control. Should she call her bodyguard?
It was natural he was upset about Maria taking an overdose. He clearly had a guilty conscience. And it was true her shopping habit was getting out of hand. She had a roomful of purchases that hadn’t even been taken out of their packaging. But there was no point in saying anything. She would let him have his rant and hope the outburst would soon blow over.
Her silence seemed to infuriate him more. She flinched as he stood over her, shouting in her face. “Maria never took a cent from me! She loved me for myself—but I don’t expect you to understand that. She was the best wife I ever had, even though we never married.”
It was on the tip of Jackie’s tongue to retort that he should go back to her, in that case, but she knew whatever she said would inflame the situation, so she sat quietly, avoiding eye contact.
“Maria knows how to argue!” he yelled. “She fights back, tells me when I am in the wrong, and after the explosion passes we make up—passionately.” He emphasized the word. “All you do is sulk. Silence and sulks: that’s what I married.”
He stepped back to look out the window toward Central Park, and Jackie took the opportunity to rise from her chair and hurry to the door.
He turned. “I’m not finished yet. Where do you think you are going?”
“I have a headache. I’m going to lie down.”
She closed the door behind her, and heard the sound of something else smashing in the living room. Thank heaven the children were at school. She was embarrassed for her staff to hear the ruckus; God only knew what the bodyguards must be thinking.
Lying on her bed, with a cool cloth draped over her brow, Jackie began to tremble. What if Ari divorced her? What would she do then? She would be alone in the world. Who would protect her? The children had a Secret Service man assigned to them until they turned sixteen, but she had lost her right to one when she remarried.
And then she thought of poor Maria, so distressed that she had taken an overdose. Had Ari given her hope and then dashed it? If so, that was despicable. Was that what he had done with Lee? Poor Lee.
She curled into the fetal position, hugging her knees, trying to make her feelings of panic subside. Don’t think about anything else for now; just breathe.
ARI STAYED IN his suite at the Pierre Hotel that night, but he returned the following morning, while Jackie was reading in the sitting room. She put her book aside and looked up, feeling wary. Was he going to apologize? Or did he want to continue the fight?
“There’s some paperwork I need you to sign,” he said, pulling a few typed sheets from his briefcase and flicking through them. He produced a fountain pen.
Jackie took them and looked at the first page. The type was small, but she noticed the word waiver and her name and Fifth Avenue address near the top.
“What’s it for?” she asked. She had always signed any papers that he asked her to without question, but she felt suspicious all of a sudden.
“It’s a standard requirement under Greek law. I’m a bit late submitting it, so I’ll drop it off at my lawyer’s this morning.” He sounded brisk, and definitely unrepentant.
“Should I get my own lawyer to look through it first?” she asked.
“There’s no time. I’ll h
ave a copy sent for his file, but it’s strictly routine. Nothing to worry about.”
Still she hesitated, reading the document, trying to make sense of the legal wording. “Is it something to do with your inheritance?”
“That’s right; it’s making sure the businesses go to Alexander after my death, as we discussed.” He glanced at his watch, obviously impatient.
Jackie did not have the strength for another argument. She felt drained by the emotion of the previous evening, and sick at the thought of poor Maria, lying in a hospital bed. She took the pen, signed where he indicated, and handed it back.
“Thank you,” he said, putting the papers in his case and preparing to leave.
“Will you be here for dinner tonight?” she asked.
“Of course,” he said. “Why not?”
But his eyes were cold, and he left without kissing her.
Chapter 69
Paris
Summer 1970
Maria’s apartment was like a botanic garden, full of lavish bouquets and exotic plants. Every surface had a vase perched on it, and the air was filled with fragrance.
Her friends rallied around her so that in the weeks following her release from the hospital she was never alone. They alternately comforted and chivvied her, urging her to get back to singing, to make more movies, to fill her life with fresh challenges, and to never, ever, see Ari again. He sent flowers and cards, but her entourage wouldn’t let her take his calls. She didn’t fight them; she knew she couldn’t have coped with hearing his voice.
In the newspapers, she read that he and Mrs. Kennedy had spent the summer on Skorpios, and that Lee had joined them. Didn’t Jackie mind that her sister had slept with Ari first? Wasn’t that awkward? Lee had been trying to launch herself as an actress, but the drama critics who attended her theatrical debut in Chicago were scathing. Maria smiled when she read the dire reviews: “A star is not born,” one said.
One afternoon in late September the telephone rang. She picked it up without thinking and was startled to hear Ari’s voice.
