A Sudden Change of Heart (6 page)

Jacqueline said, “Let us go back to the
salon vert,
where we can sit and discuss everything in comfort.”

L
ater that afternoon, when Hercule dropped Laura off at the hotel, she thanked him profusely, then said, “I will phone my client in Toronto, and hopefully I will be able to give the countess an answer by Monday, perhaps even sooner.”

Hercule nodded. “That will be perfectly all right, Laura.” After helping her out of the Mercedes and walking her to the door of the hotel, he said, “I shall come in with you for a moment, if I may. I want to talk to you about two things. About paintings. And about Claire.”

Taken aback, Laura stared at him. “What about Claire? Is there something wrong? You sound odd.”

“I think perhaps I sound worried, Laura, but let us not stand here. Please, let us go into the hotel and have a cup of tea, or something else if you wish.”

“Yes,” she said swiftly, “yes, of course, Hercule.” She was unable to keep the sudden concern out of her voice as she spoke.

They went into the lobby together, and Laura said, “I don’t think I want tea. I’d prefer a drink. Can we go to the bar, please, Hercule?”

“Mais oui,
let us do that.” They walked on quietly without saying another word, and went downstairs to the bar. It was only when they were finally settled at one of the small tables in the dimly lit, rather clubby-looking Bar Anglais that Laura spoke.

“Why are you worried about Claire? Please tell me, Hercule.”

“I will, in due course. First, let us order. What would you like?”

“A glass of white wine, please.”

Hercule beckoned to the waiter, ordered for Laura, and asked for a scotch and soda for himself. Then he sat back in the black leather chair and said, “I’ll get to Claire in a moment. First I want to talk to you about paintings.” He paused and added, “Something serious about paintings.”

Looking at him alertly, she nodded. “Please tell me, Hercule.”

“It is about Gauguin’s paintings. It is very important that you let me know whenever one comes onto the market in the States. Providing you know this, of course, and
if you are interested in it for a client. I am asking you to do this for your own protection.”

“Of course I’ll tell you. What’s this all about?”

“There are several Gauguin paintings that are, well …
questionable.
I know your great interest in him as an artist, and how much you love his work, and I do not want you to make any mistakes. I do not want you to make a commitment without talking to me.”

“You mean there are some fakes around?”

“I am going to tell you a story about a Gauguin, and you will find it interesting, I believe.” He paused, stared at her intently. “Laura, this is confidential. What I am about to tell you is for your ears only; it must remain between us. At least for the moment.”

“I would never discuss it with anyone,” she reassured him. Her eyes were eager, the expression on her face expectant.

“Many years ago, there was a collector,” he began. And slowly, carefully, he recounted a story to her.

She was rapt, and hung on to his every word.

When he had finished his tale, he added, “Now to Claire. I don’t think she is well. In fact, I would go so far as to say that she is ill.”

Laura gaped at him, then said, “She told me you’d given her a lecture about her weight.”

He nodded. “She has lost much weight. She says she has been on a
régime.
However, it is not so much the weight loss that troubles me. It is … the
look
of her, Laura.”

Frowning, shaking her head, Laura murmured, “I don’t understand what you mean.”

“Yesterday, at the studio, there was a moment when
she was talking to me from the set, and she had—” He stopped, looked off into space, as if trying to remember something, and then he said, “She looked very peaked, no, that is not it. What is the word I am looking for … she looked pinched … drawn … as if the skin of her face were stretched very tightly over her bones.” He took a deep breath, and added very quietly, “Her face was like a death mask, and it frightened me, Laura.”

“Hercule! That’s awful! An awful thing to say,” she exclaimed, and shuddered.

The waiter brought their drinks, and they were silent until he disappeared behind the bar again. Then Hercule continued. “I have the most terrible apprehension for her. I cannot explain it. You see, I love her—” He cut himself off and stared at Laura, suddenly at a loss.

She said swiftly, “I know you love her, Hercule, and I’ve known it for a long time. You don’t have to be embarrassed or feel shy with me. I do understand. And I’m glad you love her, glad you care so much about Claire.”

Looking relieved, he answered with a slight nod, “I am pleased I have told you this, and I thank you, my dear, for your understanding.” He lifted his glass and took a sip of his scotch.

Laura, also sipping her drink, asked a moment later, “What do you mean when you say you feel apprehensive?”

“As I told you, I do not think she is well, but I cannot explain why I feel this, not in a rational way. I reviewed the time I had spent with her at the studio, and certainly she had been energetic, as she always is. But—” He cut himself off again, sat back drinking his scotch and soda; his eyes were troubled, his shoulders taut with anxiety.

Laura could see how upset he was, and she waited until he had collected himself before she said slowly, “What do you think is wrong with Claire? You say you think she’s ill, but with what?”

He lifted his hands in that typical gesture of his and shook his head. “Alas, I do not know, Laura.” He sighed and continued. “I push the worry away, as I did when we were at Jacqueline’s earlier. Yet it creeps back into my mind. Has she … has she confided anything in you?”

Laura shook her head and answered softly. “She’s still very angry. About her bad marriage, about men, or perhaps one man. It seems to eat her up at times, consume her. Perhaps it’s just that, the anger, the disappointment. Plus working hard, being tired occasionally.” Leaning forward, Laura put one hand on his arm. “Try not to worry so much. I don’t think she’s sick, Hercule, I really don’t.”

Her words seemed to help him to relax, and the tight lines around his eyes eased slightly. “I hope you are correct. When you love a woman as I love her, it
is
worrying if she seems … well, not herself.”

Taking the plunge, Laura said, “Why don’t you tell her how you feel, Hercule? Tell her you love her?”

“Oh, but I could not do that, Laura. Never, never. Claire does not feel the same way about me as I feel about her.
I am afraid.
Yes, I admit that to you, Laura, I am afraid to tell her. I do not want to lose her, you see, and I might, if she … knew how I truly felt. Being her friend and part of her life is so important to me.”

“You ought to tell her. You might be surprised how she reacts.”

“Laura, how can you of all people in the world say that to me?
Mon Dieu!
You have just told me that she is angry
about her failed marriage, about
him.
No, there is no room for me in her life, as much as I want there to be.”

His gently spoken words seemed to strike at Laura, and she flinched inside. She sat back in her chair, thinking how sad it was that Claire was being so cruel to herself, and was, in a way, punishing herself without reason.
No room for me in her life.
She replayed his words of a moment before in her mind, and she knew it was true, and that this was indeed a tragedy. Hercule was much older, but he was a good-looking man, well built, tall, and strong as an ox, and he was a kind and loving human being. He would have looked after Claire, protected her, given her so much.

He said, “Maybe I worry about nothing. Is that what you are thinking?”

She shook her head. “No, I was thinking how sad it is that Claire has this attitude about … life.”

“You do not think she is ill?”

“No, I do not. In fact, I’m positive she isn’t, at least not in the way you mean. Not physically.”

“Mentally?” he asked, his voice growing slightly sharper; he stared at her intently.

“No. I don’t mean that either. She’s very sane, our Claire. But she is a
tormented
woman, Hercule, and I don’t know how to help her. I have tried for years.”

“Do you think … she still loves her ex-husband?”

“No. I think she is filled with hatred for him.”

Hercule was silent for a moment, sat nursing his drink. Eventually he lifted his head and looked into Laura’s eyes, and his own were moist with tears. “What a terrible waste. How tragic that is … to cut yourself off … to deny yourself the possibility of love in that way.”

“Yes,” Laura said, her voice a whisper.

L
ater that evening, after a light supper in her room, Laura worked on her papers for a while. But for once in her life her concentration was fleeting. Finally, she put down her pen and sat back in her chair.

She was troubled about Claire.

Not in the way Hercule was, not about her physical health, but about her mental state. Claire had harbored a dislike of Philippe ever since their breakup, perhaps even before that. But now it had turned to hatred and Laura couldn’t understand why.

Claire had changed in the last six months. In the summer, when she and Doug had been in Paris, Claire had been much more relaxed, more at ease with herself. Now Laura realized that Claire was taut, full of tension, and at times she could be quite volatile.

Laura could not help asking herself why there had been this change. She’s alone and lonely, Laura thought, rising, walking across the room to the window. Parting the curtains, she looked down into the courtyard below. In spring and summer it was a garden restaurant; now it was devoid of flowers and furniture, a simple paved yard flooded with light from the windows of the rooms that looked down onto it. Empty, cold, uninviting. Like Claire’s life. If only she could meet someone. A nice man of the right age with whom she could fall in love, perhaps settle down with. But Laura knew instinctively that this would not happen because Claire would not permit it to happen. She’s her own worst enemy, Laura muttered under her breath, loving her friend but at the same time feeling suddenly somewhat disturbed and critical about her behavior. I want to help
her and I don’t know how to do that, Laura said to herself, remembering how difficult that had always been, even when they were children. Claire had tried to be so independent and brave, but Laura had always sensed, even then, that she was afraid. Claire had been … timid. That was a good word to use to describe her. Her grandmother had once said that: “Claire’s a scared little thing, isn’t she? So
timid
and reluctant.” She had often wondered what Claire was frightened of when they were little, and once or twice she had asked her, but Claire denied her fear. There was one thing, and it came rushing back to Laura. Her grandmother had never really liked Claire’s parents. She had said her mother was ineffectual and her father a womanizer. But those were not reasons for Claire to
be frightened,
were they?

Sighing under her breath, Laura turned away from the window, got undressed, and went to bed. Feeling wide awake, she zapped on CNN and lay watching it for an hour. She had just turned it and the light off when the phone rang; reaching for it, she said, “Hello?”

“Hi, darling,” Doug answered.

“I wish you were here,” Laura grumbled.

“I can be there if you want.”

“But not fast enough for me.”

“How’s three seconds?”

“Three seconds? What are you talking about?”

“I’ll be right up,” he replied, and laughed. “I’m in the lobby.”

5
     

“W
hat are you doing in Paris?” Laura asked, smiling at Doug as he came through the door. “You’re supposed to be in Los Angeles.”

“I was never going there. I lied. I wanted to surprise you, darling.”

“You succeeded,” she said, and came into his arms.

Pushing the door closed with his foot, Doug held her close to him for a moment then bent down and kissed her on the mouth. Finally pulling away, he said, “I thought a weekend in Paris would be great for both of us. So here I am.”

“I’m thrilled, it’s just wonderful, that’s all I have to say.”

He walked across the room, his arm around her shoulders, and said, “So whatever you have planned, I think you should cancel it. I want you all to myself.”

“I’m glad you do, and I feel the same way. There’s no problem about canceling things. All I have are two appointments with galleries, but they don’t matter all that much. Oh, but, Doug, I told Claire I’d have dinner at the apartment tomorrow night. I can’t really cancel that.”

“I don’t want you to, and you know I love Claire. It’ll be good to see her and the shrimp.”

Laura laughed. “I’d forgotten you call Natasha that. She’s not much of a shrimp anymore though. More like a … golden salamander.”

“Mmmm. So she’s growing up gorgeous, is she?”

“Absolutely.”

“There’s the bell. It’s my bag,” Doug said, and went to open the door. The porter placed his suitcase, briefcase, and overcoat in the room, thanked him for the tip, and left.

Laura said, “Are you hungry? I’m sure the Relais Plaza is still open. I’ll get dressed and we can go down for a bite.”

“No, don’t bother, darling. I ate dinner on the plane. But I would like a drink. White wine would be great.” Leaning into her, he kissed her on the cheek, then took off his jacket and tie. “I’m going to have a shower and then I’ll be right with you. Order a bottle of Pouilly-Fumé, sweetheart.” He continued to undress and Laura went to call room service.

S
he was propped up against the pillows on the bed, sipping a glass of carbonated water, when Doug came out of the bathroom swathed in a bath towel that he had wrapped around him toga style.

“The wine’s over there on the chest,” she said. “I had the waiter open it.”

“Thanks.” He looked across at her and a brow lifted as he asked, “Do you want a glass with me?”

“But of course.”

Doug poured two glasses and carried them over to the bed. After giving one to Laura, he strolled around to the
other side, climbed onto the bed, and sat propped up next to her. Turning to look at her, he lifted his glass and touched it to hers. “Here’s to our weekend together, darling,” he said, and smiled.

Laura smiled back at him over the rim of the glass. “To the weekend. And to you, darling. You’re a crazy fool, flying all this way just for two days, but I love it.”

After a few swallows of the white wine, Doug placed his glass on the bedside table; drawing closer to Laura, he kissed her cheek, then her neck.

Immediately putting her wine on the nightstand next to her, Laura shifted her body around to face him, and a moment later he was pulling her into his arms. Doug renewed his kisses, showering them on her neck, her shoulders, her bare arms; reaching inside her nightgown, he began to caress one of her breasts sensually, drawing small sighs from her.

Moving closer to him, Laura loosened the towel wrapped around him, let her hand trail down over his flat stomach, making gentle circular movements; her fingers fluttered down, and she began to stroke him.

Doug lay very still, his eyes tightly closed; he luxuriated in her touch, drifted with his sensual thoughts. He felt a slight movement against his legs as Laura slithered down the bed and crouched over his thighs. She was still stroking him and then unexpectedly her moist lips encircled him and he let out a long sigh as she took him fully in her mouth. Suddenly he was aroused. After a second or two, she stopped, lifted her head, kissed his stomach, and then pushing herself up the bed, she brought her mouth to his.

Doug’s excitement was mounting. He returned her fervent kisses and with suddenness, almost abruptness, he
rolled them over so that he was on top of her. Their mouths stayed locked together. Her tongue grazed his and they shared a moment of intense intimacy before Doug pushed his hands under Laura’s buttocks and fitted her long, lean body into the curve of his. And at last he was hard enough to slip inside her, easily and expertly, and within moments they had a rhythm, were rising and falling together, their movements swifter, almost frenzied. Her legs went high around his back and he shafted deeper into her, sinking deeply into the warmth.

Soon Doug felt as though he were falling through dark blue water, falling down, falling farther and farther down into a bottomless dark blue sea. The waves washed over him, beat against him. He squeezed his eyes tighter shut. Images danced behind his lids. Oh, yes, he thought, oh, yes, and as he began the long slide down into total ecstasy, he saw that face, trapped as it was in his mind….

“Doug, oh, Doug!” Laura cried. “Now. Please. Oh, please don’t stop, darling.”

Her voice came to him from far away. And yet it was clear, sharp, the voice he knew so well. And it brought him down. Instantly he lost his erection. His fantasy shattered. Falling against her, Doug lay still, breathing heavily. He was flaccid, drained of energy all of a sudden. And he was mortified.

After a moment Laura whispered, “Why did you stop? What happened?”

“I don’t know,” he whispered back. “I’ll be all right in a minute.” But he wasn’t, and after a short while he slid off her and lay on his back, still breathing deeply.

“Are you all right, Doug?” she asked, concern giving her voice an edge.

“I’m fine,” he replied in a low voice. He felt vitiated, sapped of his strength.

Laura’s hand reached for him; she began to stroke him, endeavoring to arouse him once more. But a moment later, when her lips encircled him, he knew her efforts would be in vain. This happened a lot with her these days, this loss of strength and vitality at the crucial moment. Doug got off the bed and hurried into the bathroom.

Snapping on the light and locking the door, he went and looked at himself in the mirror. What in God’s name was wrong with him? Why couldn’t he bring the act of love to its true culmination for them both? He had always been proud of his prowess as a lover, his staying power.

It was odd how he fell apart though, somehow never reached fulfillment these days. Panic struck him. Was it always going to be like this? For the rest of his life? Was he always going to be an ineffectual lover, a man incapable of satisfying a woman, satisfying his wife? Suddenly, Doug was hit by a rush of embarrassment. He had flown all this way to make love to her and he had failed her, failed himself.

And then he thought: It’s all in the mind, of course. That’s where all this begins. And ends.