Connections Read online

  Fleur studied her half-brother. He was not very like her, or his father. As she looked she noticed her father pushing back the lick of hair which fell over his son’s face and saw how he did not respond to this gesture in any way. So this was the boy whose photograph she had seen at school. He’d been about ten then, smiling, seeming happy and confident. But he didn’t look like that now, she thought. He was trying, for the photographer, but he was not at ease. Still, she thought, who would be in the circumstances?

  The session went on and she lost interest and went over to sit with Henry and Fiona Jones.

  “How exciting,” she said.

  “Pretty different from London, eh?” Henry Jones said.

  Fleur had to agree, thinking of Dominic and Joe, and her job at the Findhorn Star. Henry Jones was regarding her steadily and she realised it was quite likely he knew a lot about her, perhaps more than she wanted. “Still, I suppose you’ve got plenty of friends in London.”

  “A few. Though, as you say, it’s—” She had a sudden vision of standing with Joe while Vanessa’s coffin was lowered into the ground. “Different,” she weakly ended.

  “So much of London is dangerous these days, isn’t it?” Fiona Jones said in her flat voice. “Poverty-crime-homelessness. Do you see much of that where you are?”

  Fleur, looking at the bright flowers on the terrace and all the well-dressed guests, said, “Some. It’s unavoidable, I suppose.”

  “Your father’s involved in a new housing initiative,” Henry said. “He’s looking into financing the rescue of sink estates in certain areas. There’s an emphasis on units for the homeless. The Prime Minister’s very interested in getting business support for social projects.”

  “Sounds good,” said Fleur. “Once people have got housing everything else follows, like a job and staying out of trouble. My neighbours are like that. They were on the streets until they got a flat. Then everything changed for them.” Two have lives and one’s in the ground, she thought.

  Henry Jones approved. “That’s what the working party keeps hearing,” he said. “Are they friends of yours, these neighbours?”

  “Sort of,” she said weakly.

  The tall man, Joe Cunningham-Roe, was at her side. “Sorry to interrupt, Miss Jethro,” he said. “They want you for a photograph. Last-minute decision.”

  “Me?” she said in astonishment.

  “Will we ever get any lunch?” Fiona Jones said in a low voice.

  Joe shot her a sympathetic look. He said to Fleur, “Apparently Dickie was saying how he’d just caught up with you after many years and suddenly they thought what a nice picture it would make. Come on, sing for your supper,” he encouraged.

  “Oh—” said Fleur.

  Sophia came up, “Do come, Fleur.”

  “I don’t think so,” she said.

  “It’ll be fun. People fight to get into these photographs, you know.”

  Fleur was hesitant. She had the instinctive prejudice of people involved in the media against being at the other end of the camera. She was also getting tired of being this alien character “Fleur Jethro”, even though she’d decided it would be petty to make a fuss about it. She thought it would be equally petty to refuse to co-operate and that the sooner she agreed the sooner it would be over and everyone would get some lunch. Although snacks were being carried about on trays it was quite obvious the guests were becoming disconsolate about the delayed meal.

  Therefore, a few minutes later she was in her stepmother’s bedroom being given a rapid makeover by Sophia and Marie. Sophia buttoned her into a loose cotton frock which had cost an average person’s weekly wages while Marie worked energetically on her hair with mousse and a drier.

  Fifteen minutes later Fleur, in the white dress, skilfully made up by Sophia and with her hair prettily rearranged by Marie, was on the terrace being photographed against blue sky, smiling and talking to her father, who was on one side, and then doing the same with the brother she had never met. She felt uncomfortable throughout. Afterwards she asked Marie to tell Zoe she had a headache and was going to rest in her room and sneaked out and across to the wing. She dozed, seeing the fields of cane they had come through on the bus, the flowing green hills, the lush forest around the old, abandoned house.

  It was almost three hours later when Marie came in with a tea tray, woke her gently and said, “Mrs Andriades says she hopes you’re feeling better. The early guests for the party are having drinks on the terrace before the party begins.”

  It was already nearly dark and a wonderful sunset was streaking the sky with red. She bumped into Hugh standing by the parapet near the wing away from the groups of people who were clustered in the centre, talking and laughing.

  “Hi there,” said Hugh. “Can it be the Fleur of the caption ‘A smiling reunion with a long-lost daughter makes the Jethro family complete’?”

  “Shut up,” said Fleur.

  “I thought you looked very pretty.”

  “Don’t say any more, Hugh. Remember – I know about Chris.”

  “She’s got it. I think she’s got it,” he said. “Well done, Fleur. I see you’re not a Jethro for nothing. Blood will out, that’s what I always say. Well, now you’ve got the hang of B for blackmail we mustn’t stand gossiping here.” He held out his arm. “Let me be your escort for the evening. Come on Cinders, you shall go to the ball.”

  Her half-brother was leaning on the terrace near a group of people, the men in dinner jackets, the women in bright, formal dresses.

  “Hullo, Bobby,” said Fleur. “Nice to meet you at last.”

  He didn’t seem to take her in at first. “Fleur – sorry,” he said. “How are you doing?” His eyes looked muddled and his face was very pale. Fleur thought he must have been drinking heavily all afternoon.

  “Fine,” she said. “A lovely place. How are you?”

  “I’m fine,” he said and then broke off and added, “Sorry to be rude, but I must go and find Annie. She’s not feeling too good.” And he went off, not sure-footed, across the terrace in the direction of the house.

  “Come on, Fleur,” Hugh said. “Let’s join the merry throng.” He took a step, then stopped, looking towards the drawing-room windows. “Oh – there’s Princess Snobby. Do you know how to curtsy?”

  “I couldn’t do it easily,” said Fleur in alarm. She noticed a figure very familiar to her from newspaper pictures coming on to the terrace. The crowd parted, ladies curtsying, then a small group assembled around her.

  Sophia joined them, saying in a low voice, with a grimace, “I’ve had to retreat. Her Royal Highness doesn’t like me. She’s only looked in – she’s having dinner on a ship somewhere. Did you have a nice chat with Bobby?”

  “Briefly,” was Fleur’s answer.

  “Yes,” Sophia said, adding brightly, “Never mind, there’s plenty of time for that later. Now,” she said, “come over here and meet some other people.”

  She took Fleur up to a group which included a heavily bronzed, tight-skinned man she recognised as a film star, on whose thick arm leaned a frail blonde with loosely flowing hair and a thin young man in a black shirt and trousers wearing dark glasses. “Must dash,” said Sophia. “The King’s due at any moment.”

  Henry Jones came up as the young man said in a South London accent, “Who’s the King?”

  “He’s not yet the King,” Henry Jones said. “But some believe he will be.”

  “Like Prince what’s-his-name? Harry?” offered the young man.

  “No – that’s William,” said the frail blonde, whose accent was much like the young man’s. “This one’s going to be the King of Czechoslovakia or somewhere. No – what is it? Bohemia,” she decided.

  “Where’s that?” he asked.

  “Don’t come to me for geography lessons,” she told him. “You should have paid more attention at school.” She leaned back into the film star with a tired sigh.

  “Who are you, then?” he asked Fleur.

  “If only I kne
w,” Fleur said despairingly.

  “Here’s a young lady doesn’t know who she is, George,” he said to someone else. The other man, moustached and bulging out of his dinner jacket, said cheerfully, “Which of us does?” Then he leaned forward and said something to the young man who said, “Bobby – oh – so soon.”

  Both braced themselves politely as Fleur’s father came up and said, “Fleur – can I have a word?”

  The princess seemed to have gone already, Fleur noted, as her father led her into the house. The terrace was becoming more and more crowded and a steel band was assembling itself outside the drawing-room while in the drawing-room three girls with long, flowing hair, a violinist, cellist and double bass player, were playing Vivaldi. Dickie politely shook off people who wanted to speak to him and led Fleur across the hall to the library, a large, cool, tile-floored room with a ceiling painting depicting classical figures in battle.

  Standing at the far end of the room, looking out of the window, Fleur saw a tall, very familiar figure. He was wearing a loose shirt and cream trousers, his feet were pushed into sandals, his brown hair touched his collar – and even the sight of his back took Fleur’s breath away. He turned, held out his arms to her and said in the deep voice she had once loved so much, “Fleur – oh Fleur. I’m so glad to be back.”

  He was tanned and smiling. She ran to him. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’ll leave you two alone,” announced Fleur’s father, and withdrew.

  Ben Campbell said into her hair, “God, Fleur. I’m so sorry. Kiss me – please.”

  Sixteen

  “I didn’t dare come back,” Ben said, holding her closely. “I love you so much, Fleur. And I know I’ve let you down. I couldn’t get in touch – couldn’t face you.”

  The library was cool. Self-adjusting air-conditioning kept the books at a constant temperature. Fleur, in Ben’s arms, felt a chill on her back.

  He kissed her. “Darling, darling Fleur. Forgive me. I’ll make it right, starting now. I promise you.” She felt his need and his love reaching her and could not resist, did not want to. She thought – why suffer any longer? Why make it hard on both of them? The bad times were over. They could start again and everything would be the way it once was. “I wanted to come back. I used to ring you but didn’t dare speak. What could I say?”

  “It’s all right,” she said. “It’s all right.”

  “Oh God, Fleur. I’ve been so unhappy.”

  “Me too. I didn’t know where you were …”

  “It’s all right now, darling. It’s all right. I want you and I need you—” Then he pulled away, laughing. “We have to go to this party.”

  Arm in arm they walked out to the terrace and then he pulled her towards the wing where she was staying. “I’m upstairs,” he said and drew her up the steps to his large room. His bag lay in the middle of the floor. As they fell on to the bed he said, “We must go to this party.”

  An hour later Ben ducked into the shower while Fleur lay happily in bed.

  “How did you get here?” she called.

  He put his head out. “A man, apparently an associate of your stepmother’s father, tracked me down in Miami. He invited me here – voilà – I came.” Fleur was impressed, but not surprised, since she knew by now what her father and men like him could manage. Money melted all obstacles.

  It had been seven months, she thought. What had Ben been doing all that time? Had there been another woman? He was handsome and charming and gifted – there probably had been a woman. Was there still?

  She thought of Dominic and felt herself blushing internally. It was embarrassing, unmentionable. Adelaide House, the debts, the struggle to get through each day were far off, she thought, best forgotten. And yet she felt edgy and suddenly realised that sleeping with Ben always made her feel a little uneasy. It wasn’t a physical effect. It was mental. She’d been so accustomed to it that she never questioned that steady, low-level anxiety she’d felt over the years with Ben. And now she did. Because of Dominic, who didn’t make her feel as if there was always something lacking in her, always more to do and achieve, but only with an effort. She suddenly felt confused and ashamed of thinking about Dominic, just as Ben, handsome devil, came out of the shower and climbed into his clothes.

  She tidied herself up and they set off for the party. Suddenly her mood changed and she felt as if the burden she had been carrying all these months had dropped from her shoulders. Ben was back. He and she would sort out the problems and return, together, to their old life. They would make more films. And yet there was still that niggling feeling, like a small, persistent pain, which was – had been – she realised, a continuing part of her relationship with Ben. Her fault, she supposed. She’d have to sort herself out.

  “Happy, you two?” Sophia called. The steel band was playing, couples danced as waiters moved about. A buffet had been set up near the entrance to the drawing-room. The warm air was full of music and voices and, high above the lights burning round the terrace, huge stars shone in a black sky.

  Ben swung her into a dance. The older guests were beginning to leave. The women on stringed instruments packed up to leave. The band played louder and Ben and Fleur danced with the others on the terrace, in and out of the drawing-room. Fleur was ecstatically happy. When they went back to her suite at three, a little drunk, she thought she had never been so joyful in her life.

  Later, as she lay dreamily in her bed beside a sleeping Ben, she fully realised how bleak the last half year had been. It’s over, she thought. Over. The nagging, insecure feeling she had experienced earlier had gone. Gone for good, she hoped and believed.

  She woke early for some reason and went out on to the terrace, where an army of servants was very quietly clearing minor debris and hosing down the paving. Most of the work must have been done overnight. Below, on the golf course, she spotted a figure in evening dress spreadeagled on the green.

  Someone brought her a cup of coffee and she sat quietly drinking it and watching the sun come up. The only sound was that of the gulls overhead and the swishing of the hose. She thought of Ben, lying there asleep. He’s back, she thought. It’s like a fairy story – all that hardship, then you’re allowed your happy ending.

  Sophia emerged from the house with Marie, stifling a yawn. Spotting Fleur she came over and said, “Couldn’t sleep?”

  “Too much champagne,” Fleur told her. “What about you?”

  “The duties of a hostess,” Sophia responded. “You won’t mind if I talk to Marie about the plans?” Fleur shook her head and sat in a slight daze as the two women wove a complex web of catering, rooms to be allocated and the availability of staff.

  Marie, who was looking tired, took her leave and Sophia, as breakfast came, yawned again and said in apology, “It’s like being the captain of a cruise liner.”

  “The party was a great success,” Fleur assured her.

  “Dickie liked it, which is slightly unusual. Though he went to bed early. But then, he usually does.” She paused. “I think you’ll find he wants to help you, Fleur. I expect he’ll want to talk to you and Ben soon.”

  “Oh, I see,” Fleur said. She couldn’t pretend this was unexpected. Jess had been clear enough about the chances of her father providing her with money. Her mother, she imagined, thought the same way. Internally she flinched a little. Her father had effectively returned Ben to her and now it looked as if he was preparing to fund them. Perhaps it was only that these things were happening too quickly. But, she supposed, men like her father always dealt with matters in this way.

  “You look so doubtful,” Sophia said and before Fleur could think what to reply Hugh Cotter came up with Joe Cunningham-Roe. Hugh looked hung over and Joe, unshaven, wearing evening trousers, a jacket and no shirt, looked like a recently released hostage.

  “Sophia,” he said, bowing to her, “thank you for a spiffing evening. But why didn’t you pack me off with the chauffeur?”

  “How could I, Joe?” said So
phia. “Now – do ask for some breakfast, or whatever you feel up to.”

  “Bloody Mary,” he called to a man watering the pots of flowers and plants. The man disappeared swiftly.

  The phalanx of Dickie, George Andriades and Henry Jones came out, all looking fit and fresh, George in golfing clothes and carrying his clubs. They sat down at another table. “Be with you soon,” Dickie called to his wife.

  “The famous merger,” Sophia said with a grimace. “They’ll spend the whole morning talking about it on the golf course. Then there are some American lawyers flying in. There’s no such thing as a holiday with Dickie. He says they bore him and really, they do …” She appealed to Fleur, “The New York contingent is coming to lunch. Do be there, Fleur, and be nice to them. I haven’t enough women and you’re one of the family now.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Fleur said with a grin. “What’s the merger?”

  “Dickie does business with a Wall Street firm of bankers,” said Sophia. “Now they’re formalising the arrangement. Don’t ask me any more – I’m very stupid about these things. Don’t ask about anything like that at lunch,” she warned. “Just be as charming as I know you can be.”

  Ben came up and she added, “I shall spend the morning getting ready for the bankers. “What will you two do?”

  Ben winked at her and she laughed. After breakfast when they went back to Fleur’s suite the sheets had already been changed, the rooms cleaned and the flowers replaced.

  They made love. Fleur fell asleep. When she awoke Ben was lying on his back, awake but with his eyes closed. They lay lazily discussing the party. “Don’t let me fall asleep again,” Fleur asked him. “Or not for long. Sophia asked me to be nice to some bankers at lunchtime, so I have to get ready and not be late. We can go sightseeing later on.”

  “Wonderful.” He leaned back, his arms above his head. “God – this is amazing.”

  “What were you doing in the States?” she asked.