Remember

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  TEN

  ‘What Guillaume told you is true, Mademoiselle Nicky,’ Amelia said, nodding her head several times for emphasis. ‘Soon it will be scorching hot. Unbearable. This is not the day to go to Arles.’ As she finished speaking, Amelia threw back her head and squinted up at the sky, then repeated, ‘Scorching, oui.’

  Nicky tilted her head, following Amelia’s gaze.

  The sky was so vividly blue it almost hurt her eyes and she blinked, took her sun glasses out of her pocket and put them on.

  ‘If you think I shouldn’t go, then I won’t,’ she murmured, deeming it best to trust the couple’s judgement. Amelia and Guillaume were wise to the ways of the Provencal land and the weather, and in the week she had been staying here they had not been wrong in anything they had told her about the area.

  ‘Too hot to go tramping the streets of the city,’ Amelia went on, waving her hand in a dismissive manner. ‘Better to be here. Sit under the trees in the shade. Swim in the pool. Stay cool. That is the best thing on a day like this, Mademoiselle Nicky.’

  ‘Then that’s what I’ll do, Amelia.’ Nicky smiled at her and added, ‘Thanks for your good advice. I appreciate it.’

  ‘De rien, Mademoiselle.’

  It was eight o’clock on Friday morning. The two women were standing in the middle of the lawn that stretched from the edge of the outdoor dining terrace on one side of the house to the pool area at the bottom of the garden. The sun was shining brilliantly in that azurine sky of dazzling clarity, and the air was already vibrating with intense heat. Nothing moved, not a blade of grass nor a single leaf stirred, and even the birds were curiously silent this morning, as if they were taking refuge in the dark green branches of the trees.

  Amelia straightened her crisp white apron, peered at Nicky and asked, ‘What would you like for lunch?’

  Nicky burst out laughing. ‘Amelia! I’ve only just had breakfast! You’re going to have to stop feeding me in this way. I’m beginning to feel like a duck being force fed… fattened up for foie gras.’

  Shaking her head, Amelia exclaimed, ‘But Mademoiselle Nicky, you are too thin!’ Opening her arms wide, Amelia threw them around her solid Provençal body and hugged herself. Then she winked and announced, ‘A man likes something to hold onto, n’est-ce pas? That is my opinion.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right,’ Nicky said, the laughter echoing in her voice. ‘But please don’t make anything too heavy for lunch. It’s much too hot to eat.’

  ‘I will prepare the perfect lunch for the weather,’ Amelia reassured her. ‘Yesterday Guillaume bought wonderful melons in the village, from Cavaillon. They are the best in the whole of France, Mademoiselle. So sweet, like honey. Mmmm.’ Amelia kissed her fingertips eloquently, and went on, ‘So you will commence with the chilled melon. Then you will have a simple salad Niçoise, and for dessert, vanilla ice cream.’

  ‘Thank you, it sounds delicious. But no ice cream, Amelia, iced tea instead.’

  ‘As you say, Mademoiselle Nicky.’ Amelia flashed her a warm smile. ‘Excuse me, I must go to my kitchen. So much to do. And I must also think about your dinner for tonight. Nothing fattening, no.’ And so saying she hurried up the steps leading to the terrace, bustled through into the farmhouse, intent on her purpose.

  Nicky looked after her, shaking her head in bemusement. Amelia was determined to put some flesh on her bones whatever it took, at least so it seemed to her. Turning, she strolled over to the narrow flagged path cutting through the long stretch of sloping green lawn, and headed down to the pool area located at the very tip of the garden.

  This had been skilfully designed to flow into the landscape and it had a lovely natural look to it. The pool was set in a rectangle of lawn, its edges surrounded by local white flagstones. Only a few yards away, a cluster of trees formed a small copse where flowers had been randomly planted here and there to give the effect of growing wild.

  Under these trees Guillaume had arranged several chaises, old-fashioned deck chairs and low occasional tables, as he did every morning. Nicky had discovered that this was the coolest spot in the garden; frequently, a light breeze rustled through the trees, and it was her favourite place for reading.

  She smiled inwardly as she walked towards the copse. Amelia had been fussing and mothering her all week long, and nothing was too much trouble for her or Guillaume. In consequence, she felt rested and spoiled, but she was also beginning to grow just a little bored after a week here alone.

  Nicky had said this to her mother last night, when she had called her in New York. Her mother had exclaimed, ‘Good Lord, darling, how can you be bored in Provence! There’s so much to see and do. Besides, it’s about time you stayed put for a moment or two. If only to catch your breath. You’re never still… forever rushing around the world in search of stories.’

  Flabbergasted, Nicky had retorted, ‘Mother, how can you of all people say such a thing! You were doing exactly the same as me when you were my age. Not only that, you had me in tow.’

  Her mother had had the good grace to laugh. ‘Touché,’ she had responded. ‘But to tell you the truth, darling, your father and I do wish you would slow down a bit. For the past ten years you’ve been covering wars and uprisings and revolutions, been in the thick of all kinds of catastrophic events, in every corner of the globe. And when I look back, I can’t help but shudder to think what you’ve been through, the risks you’ve taken…’ Her mother had stopped at this juncture in the conversation, and there had been a little pause before Nicky had asked softly, ‘Mom, are you trying to say that you and Dad want me to stop being a war correspondent?’

  Her mother had been quick to deny this. ‘Of course not, your father and I would never interfere in your life, or your career, but I know it must get wearying for you. And it is dangerous.’

  Nicky had laughed dismissively. ‘Don’t forget, Mother, I have a guardian angel.’

  Elise Wells had chosen to ignore this remark, and she had gone on to suggest that Nicky return home to New York for the remainder of her vacation if she was tired of France. ‘You can always join us in Connecticut, if you wish. Your father and I are going to stay at the house for the rest of the summer, and you know how much we adore to have you with us, Nick.’

  They had chatted about this idea for several minutes, and Nicky had agreed to spend a few days in the country with her parents when she got back to the States.

  They were closely knit, the three of them, and they had been for as long as Nicky could remember. She was an only child, and as such she sometimes felt the responsibility of this. Only children were expected to excel, to bring home the bacon, so to speak, since parents generally centred their hopes and dreams in that one child.

  Her parents were no different from any others with a single offspring. And yet they were eminently fair, had never made unreasonable demands on her. She loved them as much as they loved her; they were her champions, her chief supporters in everything she did, had been wonderful to her all of her life. And spectacular through the entire Charles Devereaux debacle.

  Immediately, she pushed the thought of him away. She had no wish to remember someone who had caused her pain, however long ago that was.

  Reaching the pool area, Nicky put her book down on one of the tables, took off the loose cotton shirt she was wearing over her black bikini and settled on a chaise.

  Diffused sunlight trickled through the cool green canopy of leafy branches above her head, and she stretched out her long legs, closed her eyes and drifted with her thoughts for a while, which were still focused on her parents. She knew her mother and father wondered why she had not had a serious involvement with a man since Devereaux, and that at one moment they had even believed her to be hung up on him. But she had explained that she was not. She had spoken the truth. The reason why there was no special man in her life was very simple really. She hadn’t met anyone who had genuinely interested her in the past two and a half years, at least not for a long-term relationship.

  O
ne day, she thought. One day my prince will come. When I’m least expecting it. And no doubt he’ll knock me for a loop. That was the way it was supposed to be, wasn’t it? Wobbly knees, palpitating heart, and all that stuff. She laughed to herself.

  In the meantime, she wasn’t unhappy with her life. She had a successful career and she loved her work; whenever she wanted it, there was a family life with her parents, and she had several close girl friends with whom she shared a great deal. And then there was her best buddy, Cleeland Donovan. He was caring and loving and protective, and she treasured his friendship.

  Suddenly Nicky realized how disappointed she was that he had not been able to come down for the weekend. It would have been nice to see him, enjoy his company in these peaceful surroundings.

  She sighed. Usually when they were together they were in a combat zone, or some other trouble spot in the world. At these times they were under immense pressure, intensely involved in what they were doing, scrambling to do their work properly, to get the story, and, more often than not, under the most adverse circumstances. They were also fighting the horror of what they were witnessing, plus the fear, which never failed to surface at some point, generally at night for her, when she was trying to fall asleep.

  What a lovely change it would have been if they could have relaxed together, and had some fun this weekend. But seemingly he could not get away, or did not want to, or was otherwise engaged, and that was that.

  Now that she thought about it, spending a few days with her mother and father in New Milford was a rather appealing idea. If she left the farm on Monday morning, went to Marseille and then directly on to Paris, she could easily take the Concorde to New York on Tuesday morning, and drive up to Connecticut on Wednesday afternoon. She would speak to Guillaume later about ordering a car and have the driver Etienne come and get her.

  Having made this decision, Nicky pulled her reading glasses out of the pocket of her shirt and picked up her book. It was Richard Whelan’s biography of Robert Capa, which she had found in the library upstairs, and it made fascinating reading. From the moment she had started it, she had understood why Clee had always been so intrigued and fascinated by Capa. He had been a cool guy.

  Opening the book, Nicky found her page, began to read, and was soon completely absorbed in Capa’s life story. An hour slipped by, and then another.

  In the middle of the morning, Amelia appeared, and came sailing down the garden path carrying a tray.

  ‘Eh voilà!’ she cried, drawing to a standstill next to Nicky’s chaise. ‘I have made fresh lemonade for you, I know how much you enjoy it, Mademoiselle.’ She poured a glass from the jug.

  ‘Thank you, Amelia,’ Nicky said, taking it from her. ‘This is just what I need. It’s getting hotter by the minute out here.’

  ‘Oui. The sun can be dangerous, faites attention,’ the housekeeper cautioned, smiled, and hurried back to the farmhouse.

  ***

  Nicky looked up from the biography of Capa at the exact moment Clee reached the middle of the garden path leading down to the pool.

  He stood perfectly still, waiting for her reaction, grinning at her.

  Nicky’s face broke into delighted smiles. She threw her book down and leaped to her feet.

  ‘Clee! How did you suddenly get here?’ she cried.

  ‘On a plane.’

  Nicky ran across the grass and threw her arms around him, hugged him to her.

  He hugged her back, then swiftly let go of her, and the two of them walked back to the pool area together.

  ‘And how did you manage to get away?’ she asked, looking up at him, her smile radiant, her eyes filled with sudden merriment.

  ‘Jean-Claude reshuffled the assignments, gave my jobs to the other guys,’ Clee lied. ‘He thought I looked tired, decided I needed a rest. So I took the last flight from Paris to Marseille yesterday. When I arrived it was far too late to start driving here, and anyway I didn’t want to disturb the household at that late hour, so I stayed at a hotel in Marseille. Etienne drove me up this morning.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re here! It’s wonderful to see you!’ Nicky said, her enthusiasm bubbling up as she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. Then she confided, ‘I was getting a bit lonely.’

  He looked at her, nodded, but did not say a word.

  Nicky continued, ‘I almost drove to Arles today, but Amelia persuaded me to stay here because of the heat—.’ Abruptly she broke off and shook her head as the truth suddenly dawned on her. ‘She knew you were coming. That’s the reason why she went on and on ad infinitum about the weather… said it was far too hot to go into the city.’

  ‘As a matter of fact, she was right about the weather, it is murderous in the cities at this time of year, much worse than out here,’ Clee said. ‘But yes, she did know I was coming. I told her not to tell you, when I spoke to her yesterday, Nicky. I wanted to surprise you.’

  ‘You succeeded!’ She laughed as she flopped down on the chaise and stared up at Clee, eyeing his cream linen pants and cotton shirt. ‘Why don’t you take your clothes off?’

  Startled, he gaped at her. ‘What?’

  ‘You look so hot, Clee. Don’t you think you’d be more comfortable in swimming trunks?’

  ‘Oh. Yes. Yes, of course, you’re right, I’ll go and change. What I need after that long drive is a dip in the pool and a glass of ice-cold champagne. I’ll be back in a minute, suitably attired and bearing a bottle of Dom Pérignon.’

  ELEVEN

  ‘Think of it, Nicky, I was only four years old when Capa bought it in Vietnam during the French-Indochina war in 1954,’ Clee said and paused, staring at her for a long moment. Then he added quietly, ‘He’s the only person I’ve ever really missed.’

  Nicky stared back at him, frowning slightly, but she made no comment.

  Clee went on in the same quiet voice, ‘I just wish I’d met him, been a friend of his. I miss not having known him. Do you understand what I mean?’

  She nodded.

  He laughed a bit self-consciously and muttered, ‘I bet you think I’m nuts.’

  ‘No, I don’t, you’ve explained it very well. It’s a kind of sadness inside, a feeling of regret that you were born too late to meet someone whom you consider very special, a person who is somehow extremely meaningful to you, even though your lives never crossed. Isn’t that it?’

  ‘Yes, it is, Nicky.’

  ‘Quite aside from being a remarkable photographer, Capa was obviously a fascinating man, by all accounts,’ Nicky continued. ‘In the biography I’ve been reading, the photographer Eve Arnold is quoted as saying he had charm and grace and a lightness, that when he came into a room it was as if a light had been turned on. She said you wanted to be near him, that you wanted to be part of that effervescence, part of that zest. He had enormous… charisma. I think that’s the word for it, Clee.’

  ‘I remember reading that myself, as well as a wonderful description of Capa by Irwin Shaw which was also quoted in Whelan’s biography.’

  ‘Yes, I read it, too.’ Nicky half smiled at him. ‘Capa must have seemed so glamorous to you when you were growing up, and his life must have seemed very adventurous and exciting.’

  ‘He did, it did,’ Clee admitted. ‘But actually, I’d wanted to get into combat to take war photographs even when I was a kid, long before I’d ever heard of Robert Capa. Still, he was my inspiration in so many different ways.’ Clee shifted in the chair, crossed his legs, and after a moment asked, ‘When did you decide you wanted to be a war correspondent, Nick?’

  ‘When I was little, like you. I was emulating my father, I suppose.’

  ‘Do you think that’s really why you do it? I mean now, today, after all these years?’

  ‘Oh no, not any more, definitely not. I do what I do because I want to report history in the making. I find that challenging, Clee. I want to watch, to witness events, to report on them as accurately, and as truthfully, as I can. I want to bring the news to the people… and with
as much integrity as possible.’

  ‘I think our reasons are much the same. I just hope my pictures have as much integrity as your newscasts.’

  ‘They do.’ The look Nicky now gave him was curious, probing as she asked, ‘Do you think you’ll ever give it up?’

  ‘I doubt it, babe.’ Clee shrugged, then grinned at her good-naturedly. ‘Well, maybe one day. When I’m too old to dodge the bullets. And what about you?’

  ‘I feel the same.’

  ‘Unless you get married and have babies!’

  ‘Fat chance of that!’ she retorted, and began to laugh.

  Clee chuckled with her, then lifted his glass, took a swallow of his vodka martini, sat back, amusement reflected in his dark eyes.

  Nicky suddenly said, ‘It’s funny about the fear, isn’t it? And how alike we are in that respect. You and I never seem to experience it until after the action is over. Do you think all journalists are the same as we are?’

  ‘No, I don’t. Some feel the fear at the time they’re working. Others are like us, get knocked out by it afterwards. Joe Glass of the London Sunday Times once told me when we were in Lebanon together that he suffers immense fatigue immediately after he’s had a very frightening experience in a war zone. You and I are lucky in a sense, Nick, because our emotions don’t close in on us until much, much later.’

  ‘You take too many risks on the battlefield, Clee.’

  ‘Calculated risks. Anyway, you’re exactly the same.’

  ‘No, not really. I’m much more cautious than you, despite what you and Arch think.’

  ‘I should hope you are.’

  A thoughtful expression settled on Nicky’s face, and after a moment, she said slowly, ‘We broke the golden rule in Beijing, didn’t we, Clee?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ His brows puckered; he seemed slightly mystified.

  ‘We became involved with Yoyo. That has such inherent dangers… and you know it, Clee. We should never let our emotions become engaged with a subject when we’re covering a story. We really have to remain a little aloof, a bit removed, to do our job. We have to have a proper perspective.’