by Lewis Orde
Roland had learned about the store’s difficulties through a habit which he’d picked up in the past couple of years – looking through not only the London Stock Exchange but the European ones to see if there was anything he could use. At one time Britain had seemed to him as vast and limitless as the solar system itself; now, having tasted success and power in his own backyard, he yearned for an international arena. First Europe and then, if it weren’t beyond his scope, the United States. The trip Roland had taken to America following Catarina’s death had remained an indelible memory. Almost untouched by the wars that had ravaged Europe, it was a country of consumers – real consumers with money to spend. Soon, he knew, European retailers with imagination to match his own would be heading west in droves to invest in America. But before he joined them he wanted as secure a base as possible in Europe.
Roland’s attention to the European stock markets had also allowed him to follow the fortunes of Kassler Industries. The German group was expanding at a rate Roland would have been happy to follow, acquiring stores in Belgium and Holland. Roland had little doubt that Kassler would be one of the first retailers to take the plunge across the Atlantic – just as he had little doubt their paths would cross again.
Late the next day Roland finished putting the final touches on the Girard deal. The papers were signed, and he was in the mood to celebrate. Not knowing much about Paris and knowing even less about the language, he decided to find a knowledgeable taxi driver to help him out.
‘Take me to the finest restaurant in Paris,’ he instructed a taxi driver. ‘Not the Tour d’Argent, though.’ He had lunched there that very day with the bankers who’d helped close the deal.
The Frenchman gave Roland a long stare, taking in the well-cut suit, the silk tie, the arrogance in the clear blue eyes. ‘Does monsieur wish to go to Le Grand Vefour?’
‘Where’s that?’ Roland felt ridiculous having to ask.
‘Rue Beaujolais in the first arrondissement. The best.’
‘We’ll go there.’
‘Perhaps a reservation would be advisable, monsieur.’
Roland instructed the driver to stop at a telephone and make the reservation for him. There were no tables for at least two hours, so Roland told the driver to take him on a sightseeing tour of the city. Halfway through he had him stop at a souvenir shop where he bought models of the Eiffel tower for Richard and Carol, and for Katherine a pennant from Longchamps; any gift for his older daughter had to be somehow associated with horses.
Roland eventually arrived at Le Grand Vefour at ten-fifteen, car-weary and ravenously hungry, ready to throttle the taxi driver if the restaurant failed to live up to his recommendation. Entering the eighteenth-century ambience set his mind at rest immediately. A restaurant owner himself – even if only for sentimental reasons – Roland could always appreciate well-prepared food, and the atmosphere of Le Grand Vefour assured him he was in for a treat. As he was shown to his table for one he took in the room, identifying familiar faces. He thought he spotted Charles Aznavour and Alain Delon; later he would ask the waiter to get their autographs for Katherine.
But he barely had time to sit down, appreciate the menu and extensive wine list, before he felt a hand drop gently onto his shoulder. ‘Roland? It is Roland, isn’t it? What on earth are you doing here?’
He turned around in his chair and looked up into a pair of deep brown eyes, dark hair that fell softly onto delicate shoulders. ‘God almighty! Sharon! What are you—’
‘I asked first.’
Roland was speechless, so overcome by the coincidence of seeing Sharon. She looked so wonderful, vibrant, alive. Paris must have worked wonders, cleansed her spirit of the ordeal she’d been through. ‘I just bought some stores. Now I’m trying to celebrate the acquisition, but I’ve got no one to celebrate with.’
‘Why not join us?’ She indicated a table on the far side of the restaurant, and Roland saw Miriam sitting with her French husband, a slim, dark man.
‘What’s your brother-in-law’s name?’ As he asked the question he noticed the familiar gold pendant Sharon wore around her neck.
‘Claude . . . Claude Lazarus. Will you eat with us? We’re just starting.’
‘I’d be delighted. What a wonderful surprise.’ He got up from the table, followed Sharon over to her sister and brother-in-law. He barely remembered Claude from the last time he’d seen him at Sharon’s wedding.
‘Are you still playing backgammon with our father?’ Miriam asked.
‘I regret to say that I rarely see your father these days. Not since we split up.’ Roland’s meetings with Simon had grown fewer and fewer, as if the business they had shared had been their only true link. Roland knew the lapse was his own fault and he regretted it, but it seemed he had been so busy these past years . . . All of his relationships had suffered, except those with people whose lives were as uncluttered as his was, like Michael, Sally and Mellish. ‘Our paths only seem to cross when I need unofficial legal advice.’
‘Oh, that’s a shame. You two were so close at one time.’
‘I see you’ve been busy over here,’ Claude said. Roland remembered he was a banker, just like his father-in-law; Simon must have approved wholeheartedly of his marriage to Miriam. ‘The English invasion, the press calls it.’
‘I feel flattered.’
All through dinner, Sharon and Miriam peppered Roland with questions about London. He did his best to answer, and at the same time respond to Claude’s business queries. When the check came, Roland reached for it before Claude could make a move. ‘I told you, I’m celebrating. Before I was by myself – luckily I met you three and we made it into a party.’ He stood up and helped Sharon from her chair. ‘Where do you live?’
‘Off Rue La Fayette. I have a small apartment close to Miriam and Claude.’
‘May I see you home?’
‘I’d like that very much. It would seem a shame to bump into you so unexpectedly after all this time and then have to say goodbye so soon.’
They said goodnight to Miriam and Claude, then Roland helped Sharon into a taxi. ‘That pendant around your neck—’
‘You gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday. Remember?’
‘Of course I remember. How often do you wear it?’
‘All the time. Does it bother you?’ she asked, toying with the pendant, running her fingers along the slim chain as she recalled the day which had turned into such a tragedy for Roland.
‘No. It just reminds me of when you were sixteen,’ he lied.
‘That was a long time ago. Remember what I asked you that day?’
‘No.’ Another lie. He remembered everything that had happened that day, but he wanted to hear it from Sharon.
She clutched his arm. ‘I asked you whether you couldn’t have waited a couple of years if you were so keen on marrying an eighteen-year-old girl.’
‘And what answer did I give?’ He still couldn’t get over the way she looked, so fresh and young.
‘You said my father wouldn’t have approved of you, and I asked what difference that would have made. Catarina’s father hated you. My God, Roland! It’s been a lifetime . . . an absolute lifetime.’
They reached Sharon’s building and she led the way up to an apartment on the second floor. A long hallway, with doors running from it to the bedroom and bathroom, led into a spacious living room. Roland sat down on a couch, content to watch as Sharon got cups and saucers, made coffee. ‘Do you ever hear from Graham?’ he asked.
‘Graham who?’ She made a face. ‘No, thank God. Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say.’
‘That wasn’t what you were saying at the time.’
‘I know. When you convince yourself you’re in love, your powers of reasoning really get messed up, don’t they?’
‘I suppose so.’
She sat down next to him. ‘It was your idea, wasn’t it? Getting Daddy to cut Graham off.’
Roland debated how to answer. Finally he decided on the truth. ‘Yes
. I didn’t see any other way of getting rid of him. Did you know at the time?’
‘I guessed. I knew Daddy was going to ask you. You know, because of the way I felt about you before . . .’
‘Before you met Graham. Your father wanted me to step in, but I knew it wasn’t my place.’
‘To whisper words of advice in my ear?’ She laughed and drew even closer to Roland. He felt a familiar warmth steal over him. Sharon still had that effect, just like the day he had taken her for a ride in the Jaguar, whipping along Wilton Crescent to see what the Menendez family was up to. That day – it was Christmas – her closeness had embarrassed him. How old had she been? Fifteen? Now, it was a totally different situation. He was alone in a strange city. Even more lonely after seeing Janet and his children in a house with another man. ‘Why didn’t you?’ Sharon asked. ‘I’d have listened to you.’
‘I was worried that you might rebound onto me.’
‘I still might.’ She gave him a conspiratorial smile, a slow half-wink. ‘How are your children?’
‘Fine. Katherine gets bigger and more beautiful each time I see her, and the others get more mischievous.’
‘Do you ever feel favoritism? You know – do you look on Katherine differently than you do Richard or Carol?’
Roland had often asked himself the same question. ‘I suppose I do.’
‘Because she’s Catarina’s daughter?’
‘That’s part of it. And I know her better than I know Richard and Carol. Katherine’s thirteen, the others are still infants. Besides, Katherine lived with me until Janet and I split up. Richard and Carol have never lived with me. They’re my children, but it’s almost as if they’re niece and nephew. Does that make any sense?’ Roland wasn’t certain it made much sense to him; all three were his, yet he always felt closer, more attached to Katherine.
‘I still remember when she was my bridesmaid,’ Sharon mused. ‘We’d spent a fortune on my dress and every eye in the synagogue was on her. I could have strangled her. The truth is’ – her voice turned cold and brittle – ‘I’d have been a lot better off if someone had strangled Graham that day.’
‘How much did he cost your father in the end?’
‘Who knows exactly? The shops, other money he’d given him. He cost me plenty as well. Emotionally. But I guess that was my fault as much as anyone else’s. It was a long time before I could look at myself in the mirror, remembering how I’d turned against my own parents. And all because I’d let myself get wound around that leech’s finger.’
‘He’s still riding high.’
‘I know. I read about him in the English newspapers I buy over here. Only the Mercury never mentions him. He could get a knighthood and marry into the Royal Family on the same day and the Mercury still wouldn’t mention it.’
‘That’s a publisher exerting editorial privilege.’ Roland finished the coffee and leaned back on the couch. ‘Graham did precisely what Ambassador Menendez feared I would do.’
Sharon looked shocked at the comparison. ‘Don’t you ever put yourself into the same category as Graham. He was a louse, an out-and-out money grabber. I was available, and I suppose I was susceptible to his charm. He had that, all right, could turn it on and off like a switch. You had money. Graham had nothing and wanted to be supported . . . while he played around.’
Roland glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. It showed twelve-thirty and he knew he should be getting back to his hotel. He was booked on a flight at nine the next morning and didn’t want to miss it. Next to the clock he noticed a backgammon game. He got up and set the board on a table. ‘Do you still play, or is this just for show?’
‘I still play sometimes. But you said—’
‘I said I rarely saw your father. I play, though. Championship level these days. For pocket money.’
‘You always were a gambler.’ As she picked up a set of dice, her hand touched Roland’s in the center of the board. ‘How often will you be coming over to Paris, now that you have business here?’
‘I hadn’t really thought about it.’ He let his hand rest on the board, unwilling to move it from Sharon’s. Unwilling now to even play . . . or return to the hotel.
‘I do hope you’ll make it a regular trip, Roland. You’re the only familiar sight I really miss from home. Other than my parents, of course.’
‘Why don’t you go back then?’
‘Too embarrassed to, I suppose.’
‘Because of Graham? Don’t be silly.’ He lifted her hand to his lips, kissed it gently. The hell with the hotel and the flight to London. He could always make up for missing it by working late. He had little to do in England anyway, except work.
*
Sharon shared a taxi with Roland the next morning, first to the Meurice Hotel to settle his bill and get his luggage, then to the airport to catch the London plane. He had missed the nine o’clock flight and had to make do with a ten-thirty, which would mean he wouldn’t get into the office on Regent Street before one o’clock.
‘When are you coming back?’ Sharon asked as she waited with Roland in the departure lounge; on the table in front of them were coffee and croissants.
‘How does next week sound?’ He hadn’t planned to, but he was certain he could rearrange his schedule. Paris was no longer such a strange city. He had business here. And now Sharon . . . ‘Ever hear of kismet?’
‘I was thinking the very same thing.’ She lifted Roland’s hand from the coffee cup and held it to her lips. ‘It was fated to happen, Roland . . . fated that you and I should bump into each other in Le Grand Vefour. Fated from the very first moment we met.’
Comparisons flashed through Roland’s mind as he felt his hand caressed by Sharon’s lips. Janet’s no-nonsense approach to their relationship, almost cynical, he now decided, not wanting marriage because she wasn’t one hundred and ten percent certain it would last. Now here was Sharon, a throwback to an earlier, more romantic time, with an ardor that had made him lose his head, surrender his senses completely. That last night in her apartment . . . Roland’s brain reeled as he recaptured the slow, sensuous embraces, lifting her up, carrying her to the bedroom. Drifting off to sleep in each other’s arms, gentle breathing set against the hum of nighttime Paris. Paris – that was it. The entire city spread a blanket of romance – how could he not have been affected by its charms?
‘Did you ever do something and just know it was right, Roland? Just from a feeling, down here?’ She took his hand and pressed it against her stomach. ‘It’s what the Americans call a gut feeling – your own body telling you that something’s right.’
He could feel her stomach trembling as he touched it, and he marveled at how she had summed up his own feelings as well. Lying in bed that morning, awake while Sharon continued to slumber, he had studied her face, unable to believe what had come over him . . . And when she’d woken, her brown eyes like two wide, clear pools, he’d recognized something he’d once seen in Catarina – but somehow never in Janet – a warmth, a glow of adoration. A love that was all-powerful, totally irresistible. Sharon knew it was right, and because of that, Roland, also, knew it was right.
‘Will you see my father when you return to London?’
‘I hadn’t planned to. Why?’
‘About us.’
Roland considered the question carefully. He had no reason to see Simon, and he certainly didn’t intend to drop by his office just to say that he’d bumped into Sharon in Paris and had slept with her. Had made the sweetest love with her that he’d experienced since Catarina. ‘I’m not certain it would be a very good idea right now.’
‘Perhaps you’re right.’ Her eyes fastened on the gold watch that barely showed beneath the cuff of Roland’s shirt. ‘Is that the watch Catarina gave you? With the names of the three horses?’
‘Boring Dora, Fat Fanny and Jealous Nat.’ He took off the watch and showed Sharon the back. ‘The most unlikely trio of horses ever to win a tote treble.’
‘Why do you still wear i
t?’
He was about to say because it was a constant reminder of Catarina which he treasured, but something made him stop. ‘Because it keeps excellent time.’
‘So do a thousand other watches. I will buy you a Longines for your birthday. It’s soon, isn’t it?’
‘A couple of weeks.’
The announcement was made for the London flight. Roland gulped down what was left of his coffee, picked up his briefcase and, arm in arm with Sharon, walked toward the gate. ‘Call me when you get home,’ she said.
‘I will. The minute I get to the office. And tell Miriam and Claude that I’ll see them again next week.’
‘No,’ Sharon replied firmly. ‘I don’t want to share you. I want you for myself.’ She clung to him, pressed her lips against his own. Finally, and regretfully, he had to break free. He gave her a last kiss and walked toward passport control. As he passed through and looked back, Sharon was still watching and waving. He waved back and joined the line for the London flight.
*
Michael Adler returned to work after the customary week of mourning for his mother, just in time to be told by Roland that he was in charge of the Adler’s operation. Roland was returning to Paris for further meetings with the French bank which had financed the acquisition of Girard et Fils. When Michael asked Roland if he would be staying at the Meurice, Roland just smiled, then gave him the number for the apartment off the Rue La Fayette.
‘Someone you met?’ Michael asked.
‘Someone I met. How’s your father getting along?’
‘He’s a bit lost right now without my mother. Funny thing is, he’s almost like my grandfather.’
Roland pictured Monty Adler and Albert together in the office, one thin and reedy, the other white-haired, short and dynamic. He failed to see any similarity between the two men.
‘With my mother gone he’s just left to wander around the house by himself. He doesn’t seem to have any other interests.’
‘I see.’ Despite any dislike he may have held for Albert, Roland felt pity for the man. He could never take the bull by the horns and make his mark on the company again. ‘What’s he going to do?’
