Celebration. Rosie ThomasЧитать онлайн книгу.
you,’ she said. ‘It’s helped, sitting here remembering all the good things. It seems less of a … waste. And it’s made the bad bits easier to contemplate.’ Edward stood up and pulled Bell to her feet. The wine bottle was empty, and she knew that it was time to go and meet their friends. He raised his eyebrows and she nodded, half smiling.
‘I’ll go and get my things.’
Edward watched her go. In an automatic gesture she stretched out her fingers as she passed to feel the dampness of the earth in the potted palm. Instantly the memory came back to him. He smelt the dust and her perfume, saw himself lying in her arms and felt the drooping palm fronds brushing his skin. Suddenly he longed to take hold of her again, to feel the softness of her against him one more time. She was standing in the doorway again, turning up the collar of her jacket.
‘Let’s go and eat,’ he said, in a voice made rough with desire. She heard it at once, and her eyes jumped to the palm. How well we know each other, he thought.
‘Yes,’ she said softly. ‘I think we should.’ She took his arm and the door closed behind them with a neat click.
Every table in Les Amoureuses was taken, and the bar and dance floor were packed. Edward and Bell peered through the smoky atmosphere, trying to see some faces in the crowd.
‘Table in the corner,’ Edward mouthed at her and they squirmed past the crammed tables. Three people looked up as they arrived, large blonde Mary and little dark Elspeth with half-moon glasses, and Marcus who was Edward’s best friend. He had straw-coloured hair and a rubbery, mobile face.
‘Oh good, the fun people. Bell, darling, how chic you look. Now, press yourselves in where you can and I’ll see if I can conjure up some glasses.’
Edward kissed the two girls and they sat down. It was, thought Bell, going to be an evening exactly like hundreds of others.
Odd that life was such a combination of the frightening and the absolutely, routinely predictable.
‘… going well in the world of high finance?’ asked Mary.
‘Oh, just the same as always,’ Edward answered, evasively. He worked, very successfully, in a City merchant bank, but considered it something to be hushed up as far as possible.
‘Bell’s the only one who ever does anything interesting. You should see her diary. Bordeaux tomorrow, next week California.’
‘California?’ Mary and Elspeth looked at her with such open envy that Bell felt herself blushing.
‘All thanks to Marcus,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m going to stay with a friend of his, researching a series for the paper on West Coast life. Wine, food, people. I suggested it ages ago to Stobbs and he liked the idea, then came up with a budget that would have kept me alive in San Francisco for about twenty-five minutes. So Marcus suggested his rich friend who lives in the Napa Valley. He responded with true Californian hospitality, and I can afford to go after all. I’ve never been to the West Coast, and I’m longing to see it. It’ll be hard work, too,’ she finished defensively.
‘Work?’ Mary was derisive. ‘Who is this friend, Marcus? Got any others to spare?’
Marcus finished his mouthful deliberately and then flattened his features to produce a wide, toothy American smile.
‘He’s always glad to offer a bed to an English chick. Specially one with an ass like yours, Mare.’
Bell said, ‘Marcus, you didn’t tell me that.’
Marcus winked at her. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll like him. He’s larger than life in every respect. Maverick, almost certainly a con-man. You could fill all your articles with him alone.’
‘Anyway, Bell,’ Mary put in, ‘who could be better equipped to deal with someone like that than you? Just give him your ice-maiden act.’
Into the little silence that fell around the table, Edward said, ‘Shall we have a dance, Bell? I think there’s a spare foot of space on the floor.’
‘And pardon me, too,’ said Marcus. ‘I’m going to the boys’ room.’
The two women were left alone at the table. Mary lit one of Marcus’s cigarettes and blew the smoke out on a long breath. She was watching Edward and Bell dancing, forced close together by the press of other dancers.
‘I think she’ll regret it in the end,’ she said.
‘What?’ Elspeth sounded resigned.
‘Edward, of course. He’s still in love with her, poor sap. And Bell Farrer is going the right way to end up with nobody. One of those lonely, successful women with nothing to talk about but her work. Why does she bother? Edward’s going to be very rich one of these days.’
‘Mary,’ Elspeth protested, ‘Bell wouldn’t have cared about the money. She’s just not like that. Don’t you think it’s possible that she just couldn’t love him as much as he needed? Whereas you could, of course.’
Mary chose to ignore the stab.
‘Entirely possible. I don’t think Bell is capable of loving anyone except herself. She couldn’t possibly be so cool and efficient and successful if she didn’t devote all her attention to number one.’
Elspeth laughed. ‘I know what you mean, but I think you’re being a bit hard on her. Everyone likes her, after all, except perhaps you.’
‘Oh, I like her too. I just don’t believe in her. She’s too good to be true, that’s all.’
‘You’re jealous.’
The other girl stubbed out her cigarette and turned to stare at her friend. ‘Of course I’m jealous. That’s just the point. However likeable she may be, if everyone she knows is jealous of her she’ll end up alone and unhappy. You have to be vulnerable to get human sympathy, and do you think Bell is vulnerable?’ There was no answer, and they both looked across at the knot of dancers. Neither of them had ever seen Bell crying, or ill, or apparently unsure of herself. No one had, for years, except Edward.
And now she didn’t have Edward any more.
Bell would have laughed, unbelieving, if she could have heard their conversation. She let herself lean against Edward, feeling the familiar contours of their bodies fitting together. It felt very secure. Temptingly secure.
Yet tomorrow she had to go to France and face up to the intimidating French baron, alone. Not only face up to him, but impress him enough to make him talk about his Château as he’d never talked to any other journalist. She didn’t want to go, but she couldn’t stay where she was either.
Bell knew that she was in a mess. It would have amused her if she could have known that anyone envied her at that moment.
The evening came to an end at last. They all stood outside the door of the club, hugging each other affectionately. The two women and Marcus wished her bon voyage.
‘If we don’t see you before, send us a postcard from San Francisco,’ said Elspeth. ‘Have a wonderful time.’
‘Give my love to Valentine,’ Marcus called. ‘’Byeeee.’
Edward slammed the door of his battered car and reversed recklessly down the street before glancing at Bell.
‘Cheer up,’ he advised her. ‘You are quite lucky, you know.’ She bit her lip. Guilty of self-pity, as well.
He left her at the door of her flat and drove away with a cheerful wave and his habitual three toots on the horn.
Bell let herself in and wandered into her bedroom. Her packing was done, and she wasn’t sleepy yet. A nightcap, perhaps. She sloshed a measure of brandy into Edward’s empty wine glass that was still standing on the coffee table, then went over to her dressing-table to look at the open diary.
The square for the next day read ‘10 a.m. Wigmore & Welch. Plane 12.30’. That