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Secrets from the Past
Barbara Taylor Bradford


Multi-million copy bestseller Barbara Taylor Bradford’s glittering new novel of deeply-buried secrets, passionate love, obsession and redemption.Thirty-year old Serena Stone is a talented war photographer who has followed in her famous father’s footsteps. But when he dies unexpectedly, she steps away from the war zone to reassess her life. At the same time, her former lover, Zachary North, comes out of Afghanistan a broken man in desperate need of a real friend.Serena and Zac inevitably rekindle their passion. But when Serena stumbles across one of her father’s old photographs, her whole world is turned upside down…In search of the truth about her father, her family and her own life, Serena begins a desperate quest to uncover a story from decades earlier.




















Copyright (#ulink_37fd3562-2e3b-5cbe-9128-827ac356539c)


Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2013

Copyright © Barbara Taylor Bradford 2013

Barbara Taylor Bradford asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Source ISBN: 9780007304165

Ebook Edition ISBN: 9780007304288

Version: 2017-10-25

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.


For Bob, with all my love


Table of Contents

Title Page (#u47b01acb-e804-5297-ac32-66fdb01360cf)

Copyright (#u1abb4d06-aa6b-5780-959b-e93f113690d5)

Dedication (#u98446f02-9715-5d79-8e7c-6be2e7cb0901)

Part One: Snapshot Memories: Manhattan, March 2011 (#u34ba7ad7-ce01-52b0-a45a-3a48dcfa2032)

Chapter One (#u4c68978a-dec2-56ca-93c9-8f7569288dcf)

Chapter Two (#uf1ec837b-434f-59c9-acd1-1fbc4756410a)

Chapter Three (#u50fc4973-ea84-5f4a-8cf6-1073246efc88)

Chapter Four (#u69d90a35-de09-52a3-a153-67076d5c582a)

Chapter Five (#u2edbe824-133d-5549-9158-45a69f6c36a6)

Chapter Six (#u820bd4c4-5aa7-55dc-902b-162a976be172)

Chapter Seven (#ud76cb2d5-6a4f-5985-a61d-5b2b51b64f76)

Part Two: Personal Close-Ups: Venice, April (#u2ba866e7-3679-505e-b978-83e33c353ba9)

Chapter Eight (#ud4f1d7dd-621c-5547-aca9-97da21d96aff)

Chapter Nine (#u58c1012b-6195-53ac-b451-61e299c7de99)

Chapter Ten (#u88af7e76-e466-5716-8352-fb3987efe26e)

Chapter Eleven (#u19eb567e-dec8-567c-8d15-5d5cd24d3745)

Chapter Twelve (#ua7b1cda6-11a4-5fdc-81bb-b3b18918af5c)

Chapter Thirteen (#u14b2e966-1380-5e88-8171-fceecd1d4f7d)

Chapter Fourteen (#u66e2f61f-eff7-5540-9558-bc91e8df369d)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Part Three: Revealing Angles: Nice, April (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Part Four: A Single Frame Tells It All: Nice/New York, May/June (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Part Five: Candid Images: Libya, July/August (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirty-Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Forty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Forty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Forty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Part Six: Out of Film: Venice, August 2011 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Forty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Forty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Forty-Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Forty-Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue: Nice, October 2011 (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)

Author’s Note (#litres_trial_promo)

Keep Reading (#litres_trial_promo)

Books by Barbara Taylor Bradford (#litres_trial_promo)

About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




PART ONE (#ulink_5fbfc865-f5d1-597c-8b5a-b0172e6286b1)

Snapshot Memories: Manhattan, March 2011 (#ulink_5fbfc865-f5d1-597c-8b5a-b0172e6286b1)


In my own very self, I am part of my family.

D. H. Lawrence, Apocalypse

Memories of love abound,

In my heart and in my mind.

They give me comfort, keep me sane,

And lift my spirits up again.

Anonymous




ONE (#ulink_d7ca3619-94eb-5e59-8d0c-f9b3f4a83c76)


It was a beautiful day. The sky was a huge arc of delphinium blue, cloudless, and shimmering with bright sunlight above the soaring skyline of Manhattan. The city where I had lived, off and on, for most of my life, was looking its best on this cold Saturday morning.

As I walked up Sutton Place, returning to my apartment, I began to shiver. Gusts of strong wind were blowing off the East River, and I was glad I was wearing jeans instead of a skirt, and warm clothes. Still shivering, I turned up the collar of my navy-blue pea jacket and wrapped my cashmere scarf tighter around my neck.

It was unusually chilly for March. On the other hand, I was enjoying my walk after being holed up for four days endeavouring to finish a difficult chapter.

Although I was a photojournalist and photographer by profession, I’d recently decided to write a book, my first. Having hit a difficult part earlier this week, I’d been worrying it to death for days, like a dog with a bone. Finally I’d got it right last night. It felt good to get out, to stretch my legs, to look around me and to remind myself that there was a big wide world out here.

I increased my pace. Despite the sun, the wind was bitter. The weather seemed to be growing icier by the minute, and I hurried faster, almost running, needing to get home to the warmth.

My apartment was on the corner of Sutton and East Fifty-Seventh, and I was relieved when it came into view. Once the traffic light changed, I dashed across the street and into my building, exclaiming to the doorman, as I sped past him, ‘It’s Arctic weather, Sam.’

‘It is, Miss Stone. You’re better off staying inside today.’

I nodded, smiled, headed for the elevator. Once inside my apartment I hung up my scarf and pea jacket in the hall cupboard, went into the kitchen, put the kettle on for tea and headed for my office.

I glanced at the answering machine on my desk and saw that I had two messages. I sat down, pressed play and listened.

The first was from my older sister Cara, who was calling from Nice. ‘Hi, Serena, it’s me. I’ve found another box of photographs, mostly of Mom. Looking fab. You might want to use a few in the book. Shall I send by FedEx? Or what? I’m heading out now, so leave a message. Or call me tomorrow. Big kiss.’

The second message was from my godfather. ‘It’s Harry. Just confirming Monday night, Serena honey. Seven thirty. Usual place. Don’t bother to call back. See ya.’

The whistling kettle brought me to my feet. As I made the tea I felt a frisson of apprehension, then an odd sense of foreboding … something bad was going to happen, I felt it in my bones.

I pushed this dark feeling away, carried the mug of tea back to my office, telling myself that I usually experienced premonitions only when I was at the front, when I sensed imminent danger, knew I had to run for my life before I was blown to smithereens by a bomb, or took a bullet. To have such feelings now was irrational. I shook my head, chiding myself for being overly imaginative. But in fact I was to remember this moment later and wonder if I’d had some sort of sixth sense.




TWO (#ulink_b1a5ab16-f433-5b8b-bf18-963604caeaf2)


The room I used as an office was once my mother’s den, years ago. It was light, airy, with large plate-glass windows at one end. She had decorated it in cream and deep peach with a touch of raspberry; I had kept those colours because they emphasized its spaciousness and I found them restful.

In fact I had pretty much left the room as it was, except for buying a modern desk chair. I loved her antique Georgian desk, the long wall of bookshelves that held her various decorative objects and family photographs as well as books.

At the windowed end of the room my mother had created a charming seating area with a big comfortable sofa, several armchairs and a coffee table. I headed there now, carrying my mug. I sat down on the sofa, sipped the tea, and, as always, marvelled at the panoramic view spread out before me: the East River, the suspension bridges and the amazing skyscrapers that helped to make this city so unique.

The windows faced downtown, and just to my right was the elegant Art Deco spire of the Chrysler Building and next to it the equally impressive Empire State. The city had never looked better, had made an unusually spectacular comeback after the bombing of the World Trade Center in 2001.

I realized, with a small jolt of surprise, that it was ten years ago already. The anniversary of that horrific attack would be this coming September, since we were now in the year 2011.

What mattered, though, was that One World, the new tower, was already on its way up, would keep on going up and up and up, until it reached 1,776 feet, that well-known number not only commemorating Independence Day, but also making it the highest building in the Western hemisphere.

That particular September remained vivid in my mind, not only because of the heinous crime that had been committed, but because we had all been here together as a family. In this very apartment, which my mother had bought thirty years ago now, in around 1980, just before I was born.

My mother, who had an amazing eye for art and architecture, had a predilection for buying apartments and houses, which is why my sisters and I had grown up all over the world: New York, London, Paris, Nice and Bel Air. My grandmother used to say we were like gypsies with money.

My father, who loved to tease my mother about anything and everything, would point out how proud he was of himself, because he had never felt the need to indulge himself in this way, had never invested money in bricks and mortar, and never would.

My mother’s pithy answer was always the same. She would point out that despite this, he managed somehow to commandeer most of the closets in their different homes, in which he would then hang his extensive collection of beautiful, very expensive clothes. This was true, and they would laugh about it, as always enjoying being together, loving each other, the best of friends.

Suddenly, I saw them in my mind’s eye. They were true blue, those two. True to each other and to us, to me and my twin sisters Cara and Jessica, who were eight years older than me and who used to boss me around, albeit in a genial way. My father called us his all-girl team, and he was so proud of us. We were such a happy family.

That September of 2001 my father was in New York, not off somewhere covering a war, and so was his best friend and partner, Harry Redford. They had been pals since childhood; both of them had been born and brought up in Manhattan, had gone to the same school, become photographers together, then partnered up and roamed the world, plying their trade.

My father and Harry had founded Global Images in 1971, a photographic agency that was managed by Harry’s sister, Florence, since the two men were not always in New York. My father and Harry were joined at the hip, and he was very much part of the family, loved by all of us. Dad’s compadre, my mother’s protector and champion. And an avuncular presence in our lives, always there for us, no matter what. And these days he was my best friend as well as my godfather. He had always treated me as a pal, was never condescending, and I’d been his confidante since I was eighteen … he told me first when he was getting a divorce from Melanie, his first wife, who was too temperamental, and then again when he got his second divorce from Holly Grey, who was jealous of any woman who looked at him. And many did. He usually brought a girlfriend when he came to Nice.

The weather that autumn had been glorious. Indian summer weather. Balmy, soft, with light blue skies, sunshine and no hint of autumn.

Even though we were all angry, shocked and sorrowing because of the brutal terrorist attacks on New York and Washington, we were able to draw enjoyment from each other’s company, and also comfort from being together at this frightening time.

Cara and Jessica had flown in from Nice, where they lived at the old house up in the hills, in order to celebrate their twenty-eighth birthdays in October.

Before 9/11 we had been to see Broadway plays and movies, eaten at my father’s favourite restaurants, most especially Rao’s. There was a great deal of family bonding during that period, and now, when I looked back, I was glad we had this special time together.

My mother’s mother, Alice Vasson, and her sister, Dora Clifford, had come in from California to celebrate the twins’ birthdays with us. The two of them were staying at the Carlyle Hotel, but they were mostly at the apartment during the day.

My mother, an only child, nonetheless had a great sense of family, and revelled in such occasions. This made us happy, especially my father, and particularly since my mother wasn’t in the best of health during this period. Being surrounded by those who loved her helped to make her feel better, and she was more radiant and happier than I had seen her for a long time.

My grandmother and great aunt had been instrumental in developing my mother’s career, and, not unnaturally, they couldn’t help boasting a bit, taking bows. They had made her into a megastar, one of the greatest movie stars in the world.

Their tall tales and antics amused my father no end, and made him laugh hilariously; my mother merely smiled, said not a word, her expression benign. And we girls, well, we just listened, once again awestruck, even though we’d heard these yarns before.

I sighed under my breath, remembering my grandmother and great aunt, the roles they had played in our lives, and I thought of their deaths, and the other losses over the last few years …

When someone you love has died, everything changes. Instantly. Nothing can ever be the same again. The world becomes an entirely different place … alien, cold, empty without the presence of that person you love.

When one quarrels with a loved one, there is often a reconciliation, maybe a compromise, or we go our separate ways. If a friend or relative decides to live somewhere else, in another place, it is easy to reach out to them, speak on the phone, send emails or text. In other words, to remain part of their lives is not difficult at all.

Death does not offer that consolation.

Death is the final exit.

Memories. Those are what I had in my heart, abundant memories that would be with me until the day I died. They were founded on reality, on things that actually happened, and so they were true. And because of this, they offered real solace.

My father died eleven months ago. I was in total shock, filled with sorrow, grief and guilt. A terrible guilt that still haunted me at times, guilt because I did not get there in time to tell him how much I loved him, to say goodbye.

I was late because of a missed plane in Afghanistan. Only a paltry few hours too late, but it might as well have been a month or even a year. Too late is exactly that.

When death came, that sly pale rider on his pale horse, he relentlessly snatched his prize and was gone. Suddenly there was nothing. A void. Emptiness. A shattering silence. But inevitably the memories did come back. Very slowly at first, they were nonetheless sure-footed, and they brought a measure of comfort.

The book I had been writing for the last few months was about my father. As I delved into his past, to tell his amazing story, he came alive again. He was quite a guy. That’s what everyone said about him. Quite a guy, they told me, admiration echoing in their voices.

My father, John Thomas Stone, known to everyone everywhere simply as Tommy, was one of the world’s greatest war photographers. Of the same ilk as the famous Robert Capa, who died covering the war in Vietnam when he stepped on a land mine.

Until my father appeared on the scene many years later, there had never been many comparisons to the great Capa. At least, not of the kind my father inspired.

For years Tommy cheated death on the front line, and then, unexpectedly, he died. At home in his own bed, of natural causes – a second heart attack, this one massive. He was gone, just like that, in the flick of an eyelash, without warning. No prior notice given here.

It was the suddenness, the unexpectedness of it that did the worst damage to me. Aftershock. My father, who was given to using military lingo, would have called it blowback, and that’s what it was. Blowback. It felled me.

My mother, Elizabeth Vasson Stone, died four years ago, and I was devastated. I still grieved for her at times, and I would always miss her. Yet my father’s death affected me in a wholly different way. It crippled me for a while.

It could be that my reaction was not the same because my mother had always suffered from poor health, whereas my father was strong and fit. Invincible, to me. That perhaps was the difference. I suppose I thought he would live forever.

My sisters still believed I was our father’s favourite child. Naturally, I’d continued to deny this over the years, reminded them that I was the youngest, and because of this perhaps I was spoilt, even pampered a bit when I was growing up.

Traditionally, there is always a lot of focus on the baby of the family. But despite my comments, I was well aware they were right. I was his favourite.

Not that he ever actually came out and said this, to me or anyone else. He was far too nice to hurt anyone’s feelings. Still, he made it clear in other ways that he favoured me, implied I was his special girl.

He would often remark that I was the most like him in character, had inherited his temperament, many of his quirky ways, and certainly it pleased him that I was the one daughter who had followed in his footsteps, and become a photographer.

I had a camera in my hand when I was old enough to hold one. He taught me everything I knew about photography and, very importantly, how to take care of myself when I was out there working in the dangerous world we live in today.

My father impressed on me that I should look straight ahead, be on the alert and ready for the unexpected. He pointed out that I must keep my eyes peeled in order to spot danger, which could spring up anywhere, especially in a war.

It was from him that I learned how to dodge bullets when we were in the middle of a battle, how to make rapid exits from disaster zones, and seek the best possible shelter when bombs were dropping.

My father was a man the whole world seemed to love. People were immediately drawn to him, smitten, men as well as women, and he was fiercely intelligent and charismatic. My mother said that he gave something of himself to everyone, and that they felt better for having met him.

That he had good looks was immaterial. It was his charm and outsized personality that captivated everyone. Those who worked with him knew how dedicated he was to his job. He feared nothing and no one, plunged into danger whenever it was necessary to get the most powerful images on film. He was also helpful to his colleagues and those who worked with him in the field, a friend to all.

Over the past few months, as I’d done research for my biography of him, I’d talked to a great many people who knew him. Almost all of them told me that there was something truly heroic about Tommy, and I believed they were right.

I idolized my father, but during the course of the week, I had come to understand that I idealized him as well. And yet he was a man, not a god, with plenty of the faults, flaws and frailties all mortals have. In fact, being a larger-than-life character, I was quite certain he had more than most people.

But when I was growing up he was the miracle man to me, the maker of magic who forever took us captive with his charm; brought laughter, fun and excitement to our lives.

I leaned back on the sofa, closed my eyes, listened to the quiet in this tranquil room. And in the inner recesses of my head I heard my own voice, and words I had spoken to my sisters twenty-one years ago. I could hear myself telling them that our father was Superman, a magician, a miracle maker all rolled into one.

I saw Jessica and Cara in my mind’s eye, as they were then, staring back at me as if I was a creature who had just landed from some far-distant planet. Disbelief flickered in two pairs of dark eyes, focused on me so intently.

At the time I was only nine, but I recalled how I suddenly understood that they viewed Tommy differently than I did. That’s why they were puzzled by my words. They couldn’t see inside our father the way I could; they didn’t know the man I knew.

Our mother had been with us that afternoon. She had been seated under the huge umbrella on the terrace of the house in the hills above Nice. She had laughed and nodded, ‘You’re right, Serena. What a clever girl you are, spotting your father’s unique talents.’

The twins had jumped up, laughing, had leapt away in the direction of the swimming pool. They were boisterous, athletic, sports addicted. I was the artistic one; quiet, studious, a bookworm, paying strict attention to every detail of my photographs, like my father.

It was Jessica and Cara who physically resembled Tommy, something that had always irked me. They had inherited his height, his dark hair and warm brown eyes; I didn’t look like him or anyone else in the family. Certainly not my mother, who was very beautiful.

Once my sisters had disappeared and we were alone on the terrace, my mother beckoned me to come and join her. I had flopped down in the chair next to her, and she had poured a glass of lemonade for me. We had talked for a while about my father, the magician, as I called him, and then unexpectedly she had confided a secret … she told me that he had enchanted her, captivated her the moment they met.

‘I couldn’t take my eyes off him, and I’ve only ever had eyes for him since. You see, I fell under his spell. And I’m still under it.’ Then she had abruptly turned, stared down the length of the terrace.

My father had suddenly arrived with Harry, and, as usual, there was a flurry of excitement. They had hurried towards us carrying lots of shopping bags from posh boutiques, and when they came to a standstill my father had announced, ‘Presents for our girls.’

He had rushed to hug my mother and then me, and so had Harry. And later Harry had taken pictures of me with my parents. One of them was deemed so special by my mother she had had it framed.

I opened my eyes, came out of my reverie and stood up. I found that remarkable photograph on the bookshelves at once. There we were, the three of us. My father stood behind my mother’s chair. He was bending forward, his arms around her shoulders, his face next to hers. I was crouched near my mother’s knee and she had her arms around me, holding me close to her.

We were all smiling, looked so carefree. My handsome father, my lovely mother and me. ‘My little mouse,’ she used to call me sometimes, and with great affection. It was her pet name for me. Often I’ve thought that I am a bit mousey in appearance, with my light brown hair and grey eyes. But in this picture, taken so long ago, I realized that I looked rather pretty that day, and certainly very happy.

Picking up the silver frame, I stared at the image of us for the longest moment, marvelling yet again at my mother. The camera loved her. That’s what my father used to say, and everyone else, for that matter. She was truly photogenic, and it was one of the secrets of her success. As usual, she looked incandescent.

My mother, a movie star in the same league as Elizabeth Taylor, had been beautiful, glamorous, beloved by millions, a box-office draw, fodder for the gossip press. One of a kind, actually, and, like the other Elizabeth, larger than life. My mother had remained a huge star until her death.




THREE (#ulink_befd4f01-9cc0-54e8-8748-4684ea8119f9)


In the kitchen I was attempting to do three things at once: heat a can of Campbell’s tomato soup, toast a slice of bread and phone my sister in Nice, when the other line began to shrill. I swiftly ended my message to Cara and took the incoming call.

Much to my surprise, it was my sister Jessica.

‘Hi, Pidge,’ she said, using the nickname she had bestowed upon me when I was a child, a nickname no one understood except me. ‘What’s up? How are you?’

‘Hey, Jess! Hello!’ I exclaimed enthusiastically. ‘I’m pretty good, and where are you? You sound as if you’re just round the corner. Are you in New York?’ I was hoping that she was; Jessica and I had a very special relationship and I hadn’t seen her for some months. When she was with me, I was immensely cheered up.

‘Not exactly, but kind of … I’m in Boston on business. Meetings yesterday and this morning. Now I’m done I thought I’d jump on a shuttle, spend the weekend with you, if you’re not caught up with a lot of other stuff. I can’t be this close and not see my darling Pidge.’

‘I’m not doing anything special, and I’ll be mad at you if you don’t come. What time will you get here?’ I asked.

‘I don’t know. I’ll head out to the airport now, get the first flight available. I’ll probably be there in a few hours, but I’ve got my door key, so don’t worry if you have to go out.’

‘I’m not going anywhere. Hightail it to the airport and get here as fast as you can,’ I ordered, bossing her for a change.

‘I’ll be there in three shakes of a lamb’s tail,’ she shot back, using a familiar expression we’d grown up with. Our English grandmother, Alice, had been unusually fond of it, had used it constantly – much to our irritation most of the time.

There was a small silence and then we both burst out laughing before we hung up.

The toast had gone cold, the soup looked congealed, so I threw everything away and started again. I made some peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches, a childhood standby, and a mug of tea, and took everything to my office where I ate at my desk, as I usually did at lunch time, a bad habit picked up from my father and Harry.

Later, I went to Jessica’s room and looked around, wanting to make sure everything was in good order. It was, thanks to Mrs Watledge, who came in twice a week to clean and do odd jobs for me. She always dusted every room in the apartment, whether it had been used or not. Much to my pleasure, she was fastidious.

Jessica had left in a rush the last time she’d been here. I had hung up the clothes she had strewn around on pieces of furniture and put away all the scattered shoes once she was gone, and Mrs Watledge had vacuumed, polished the furniture and changed the bed linen.

I saw there was not a thing out of place, and that would please Jessica, who was normally the neatest of the three of us. A crisis in the auction house she owned in Nice had necessitated her unexpected and swift return to France last November, hence the messy room she had so blithely abandoned without a backward glance, as usual focused on the problems in Nice.

I was thrilled my sister was coming for the weekend. Although she and Cara had once teased me unmercifully, as the much younger child of the family, things had eventually levelled off as I grew older.

We became the best of friends, the three of us, very bonded, and we were still extremely close. We shared this apartment and the house in Nice, which our mother left to us equally. The two places were our parents’ main homes for many years. Their special favourites and ours; the ownership only passed to us after our father’s death last year, which was the stipulation in her will.

Closing the door of Jessica’s room, I went to the kitchen and checked the refrigerator. Mrs Watledge filled it up with basic items and bought a fresh roasting chicken from the butcher every Friday.

There was plenty of food, and if my sister felt like eating out we could go to Jimmy Neary’s pub on Fifty-Seventh, or the French restaurant, Le Périgord, at Fifty-Second and First. Two old favourites of ours, where we’d been going for years, starting when we were teenagers.

I wandered down to the office, sat at the desk and opened the top drawer, staring at the two cell phones and the BlackBerry.

I knew there would be no messages. I never used the BlackBerry these days; only ever took a cell phone with me if I intended to be gone for several hours.

Grimacing at them, I reached for my Moleskine notebook and closed the drawer firmly. Those devices reminded me too much of the front line.

I had given up covering wars eleven months ago, and had no intention of ever walking onto a battleground again. The mere thought of this sent an ice-cold chill running through me, and I shivered involuntarily.

For eight years I had been lucky. But I had come to believe my luck wouldn’t last much longer. And I’d grown afraid … afraid to put on my flak jacket and helmet and head out to some no-man’s-land on a far-flung distant shore, my camera poised to get the most dramatic shot ever. Fear had taken hold of me bit by bit by bit.

When you’re afraid you don’t function with the same precision and skill, and that’s when you’re truly putting yourself at risk. I understood all this. The game was over for me.

Flipping through the pages of the Moleskine, I came across some jottings I had made during the week, regarding the year 1999. I needed to talk to my sisters about that particular year, and what we’d all been doing then. I had a photographic memory, but several months of that year were somehow missing in my head. Jessica would no doubt remember.

I pulled the manuscript towards me and glanced at the one section that continued to trouble me. As I pored over the pages I realized that only my father appeared in this long chapter. Obviously it was the reason I was worried.

His family and friends needed to occupy those pages as well, didn’t they? Yes, I answered myself.

A thought struck me. I jumped up, went to one of the cupboards built in below the bookshelves, and looked inside. Stored there in stacks were many photograph albums which had been carefully put together by my mother.

I pulled out a few and glanced at the dates. Albums for the years 1998 and 2001 were there, but not 1999 and 2000. So those must be in Nice. The albums ran up to 2004, and some were much earlier, dated in the early Nineties. All would come in useful at some point, but these were not the ones I needed at this particular moment.




FOUR (#ulink_726f386a-e7dd-51a5-9c6d-0da398114f7f)


I took the two albums I wanted to review and carried them over to the sofa. Balancing the one marked 1998 on my knee, I opened it, and a smile immediately flashed across my face.

In the middle of the first page my mother had written: MY THREE DAUGHTERS GROWN UP.

When I turned the page my smile widened. There were a number of snapshots of Jessica, which had been taken by my father. She had been twenty-five years old at that moment in time, tall and arresting.

I gazed at the images of her, thinking how beautiful she was, with her glossy black hair framing her heart-shaped face. Her large dark eyes were full of sparkle and she was smiling broadly, showing perfect white teeth. Our grandmother had called it ‘the smile that lights up a room’.

What a knockout she had been. The snaps were taken in the summer of that year; Jessica had a golden tan, was wearing a white cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled up and white jeans. She looked even taller because she was in a pair of high, wedged espadrilles.

On the following pages were shots of her taken outside Laurent’s, the well-known auction house in Nice, which the ancient owners had, somewhat ridiculously, allowed to become rundown and decrepit. Jessica had bought it with my parents’ help. I saw how cleverly my father had told the story of Jessica’s first business venture. He had documented almost every step, showed her supervising the restoration and remodelling of the Belle Epoque building, working on the outside and in the interiors. His picture story showed me how diligent she had been in bringing it back to its former architectural glory.

Stone’s, as she had named it, became, under her direction, one of the most technically modern and digitally up-to-date auction houses in Europe. And a most glamorous venue. And it had happened because of her vision, talent, hard work and determination.

The pièce de résistance of my father’s brilliant picture story was the next section devoted to Jessica’s opening night. My sister had inaugurated Stone’s with a grand auction – the contents of our mother’s Bel Air house, which our mother had recently put on the market, plus selections from her haute-couture clothes by famous designers. Also in the auction were pieces from our mother’s collection of jewels, from the world’s greatest jewellers.

The auction had been a sensation, had broken all records, and the publicity for Stone’s had continued to roll ever since. It was now considered to be one of the most important auction houses in the world.

Now there we were, me and Cara, our images captured on the next few pages of the album. I stared at them eagerly, had forgotten how special we looked on that gala evening. We were in attendance to boost Jessica’s confidence, and cheer her on, wanting to make her opening night a big smash. Naturally, it was a family affair.

I peered at the pictures; we were glamorous, beautiful – or perhaps we only looked that way because of Dad’s superb photography, plus the skilful professional help from our mother’s makeup artist and hairdresser. I wondered who we were trying to impress? Or which men to attract?

Cara, as dramatic in appearance as her twin, was wearing a clinging, royal blue silk gown, with a plunging neckline. The dress showed off her hourglass figure to perfection, and she had never looked so sexy before.

Jessica had chosen her favourite colour, daffodil yellow. She appeared sleek and elegant in the chiffon dress, which fell in narrow pleats to the floor and was somewhat Grecian in style. Her black hair was swept up on top of her head, and she was wearing diamond chandelier earrings, which our mother had loaned her for the event.

I gaped when I saw the pictures of myself. I was in scarlet, and now I remember how brave I had felt, choosing the red silk strapless sheath. I certainly pulled that one off, I thought, continuing to study myself, filled with surprise. Seventeen. I had been seventeen that year, so young, so innocent … it seemed so long ago.

Of course, we were overshadowed by our mother, as was every other woman who attended the auction, blotted out by her staggering beauty. She was, quite simply, incandescent. With her shimmering blonde hair, exquisite features and turquoise-blue eyes, she was incomparable in those photographs.

That night she wore a sea-foam bluish-green chiffon gown, and aquamarine-and-diamond jewellery. As I looked at her image now I heard again the many compliments she had received, remembered how delighted she was. After all, she had been fifty-nine at the time, although she appeared years younger.

When I came to the last section of the album I found myself staring at pictures of my father, which had been taken by Harry.

Tommy Stone. As dashing as ever, and glamorous in his own masculine way. He was in an elegant tuxedo, the white dress shirt accentuating his tan. He had cut quite a swathe, as I recalled, with women swirling around him as they usually did. In the pictures he stood next to Mom, his arm around her waist, surrounded by his daughters.

There were several different shots, and then a series of new images, starring Harry, as debonair as his pal Tommy, wearing an impeccably tailored tux. Those two had always known how to dress well when not rushing off to war zones in fatigues.

Harry was standing next to my mother, and we were on either side of him. I peered at Harry, a sudden rush of affection swamping me. He was smiling hugely, as proud of Jessica as we were. Whatever would I do without him? He had been my mainstay since my father’s death, the person who was there for me anytime, night or day, constant, caring and full of wisdom.

I sat up straighter on the sofa, asking myself where Jessica’s husband Roger was? There were no pictures of him in this album.

Then everything came back to me. He hadn’t been there that night because he’d been in London. His absence had infuriated everyone.

Poor Roger. My memories of him were pleasant. He was a nice man, kindly. I filled with pity for him as I realized he hadn’t stood a chance in that family of ours, now that I thought about the situation in hindsight.

Roger Galloway, an Irishman of considerable charm and good looks, somehow ‘got lost in the shuffle’, as Cara had once put it.

He was an artist, but worked as a set designer at theatres in Dublin and London, and was frequently away. I know Dad had liked Roger, yet he had genuinely believed the marriage was ill-fated.

‘They’re poles apart,’ Dad had once muttered to me, looking decidedly glum, even troubled. My mother had overheard this comment, had frowned, glanced at me worriedly. But she had not said a word. However, at the time I believed that she felt the same way as Dad. They thought alike.

Whatever the reason for the split, Jessica had kept it to herself. She had said very little to me, and Cara was also kept in the dark. I was positive our mother knew the full story, although she never revealed anything to either of us. My mother was very good at keeping other people’s secrets; loyal, discreet. ‘I keep my mouth shut,’ she once told me. ‘I’ve no desire to cause trouble or play God.’

One day Roger disappeared forever. Just like that he was gone, and Jessica moved back into the house in Nice to live with us, having left their rented apartment for good. Eventually, they were divorced. Amicably. At least, that was what I heard through the family grapevine.

The whole family loved the old manor up in the hills above the city, with its white, ivy-clad walls and dark green shutters, terraces, orange groves and beautiful gardens, hence its name: Jardin des Fleurs.

My mother had bought the house in 1972, when she was thirty-three, just a few months after she had married my father. It became her favourite place to live over the years, and I had long accepted that it was the one place she was truly happy and at ease. It was also near the international airport in Nice, convenient when she had to fly off to work.

Finally closing the album, I placed it on the coffee table and stretched out on the sofa, closing my eyes.

I remember once asking my mother, when I was about seven or eight, if she liked being a movie star. I’ll never forget the intense, perplexed look she gave me. ‘I’ve been a movie star all my life,’ she had murmured, frowning. ‘What else would I do?’ I had no answer for her; I was only a kid.

By the same token, a few years later, I was foolish enough to wonder out loud if she minded being so very famous. Once again she threw me a puzzled stare. ‘I’ve been famous for as long as I can remember. Fame doesn’t bother me,’ she had answered.

What she had said on both occasions was true. She had first become famous when she was fourteen months old. Born in London in May of 1939, she was a beautiful baby with a marvellous gurgling smile, silky blonde curls and those unique turquoise-blue eyes.

Her photograph was on the label of a new baby food being introduced, and very soon my mother was the most famous baby in England. Every pregnant woman hoped her child would be a girl, and as beautiful as Elizabeth. Very soon the new brand of baby food was as famous as the child herself. And it still was.

By the time she was five, she was a successful model for children’s clothes; in 1948, after the end of the Second World War, Elizabeth was in her first movie. When it was released in 1949, it was a big hit. Everybody had gone to see it because of her. She was ten years old, and the new child star.

Several films followed, once again big hits, and then Kenneth and Alice Vasson packed their bags, and took their talented and beautiful child to Hollywood, where they believed she should be, and where they were certain she belonged.

The Vassons went to stay with my grandmother’s twin sister, Dora, who had married her GI Joe boyfriend, Jim Clifford, after the war. Dora and Jim lived in Los Angeles, which was Jim’s hometown, and where he was connected. He was a young lawyer working in a well-established show-business law firm. Jim, intelligent, street smart and savvy, had a keen eye and saw endless possibilities and opportunities for his wife’s niece, whom he fully intended to represent.

The Vassons had jumped at the chance to go to America. They had agreed to stay for three years at least, but in fact they never left.

At fifteen, my mother appeared in her first Hollywood movie. A star was born overnight, and that star never looked back. Not for a single second.

The sound of the front door banging made me sit up with a start. Pushing myself to my feet, I rushed down the corridor to greet my favourite sister.




FIVE (#ulink_ffc01b99-06f9-521e-b5dc-c97a48969e4e)


My sister Jessica had always been very special to me since my childhood. Even when she was teasing me or being bossy, I never felt angry, nor did I ever bear a grudge, because I knew there was no malice in her.

I once asked my mother why everyone seemed to love Jessica so much, and my mother answered that Jessica was a good person, that people instantly perceived this, knowing she had a heart of gold.

Since I was quite little at the time, I immediately had an image of a gold heart, similar to my mother’s locket, and for ages I was certain my sister had one just like it embedded in her chest.

Later, when I was grown up and earning a living, the first present I bought Jessica was a gold locket, which she still treasured. If I was with her, and if she happened to be wearing it, we exchanged a knowing smile.

Although Jessica looked like my father, had his dark hair and eyes, it was from our mother that she inherited certain qualities: her grace, her loving manner and optimistic nature. Jessica had an aura of happiness surrounding her; I didn’t know anyone as upbeat as Jess. She always seemed to be in a good mood, holding the belief that tomorrow would be far better than today.

When I hurried into the hallway, Jessica was hanging up her long camel overcoat and a red wool scarf in the closet, and she swung around when she heard my footsteps.

Immediately, she took hold of me and hugged me close. ‘Hi, darling, it’s good to be here. I’ve missed you.’

My spirits lifted as usual. ‘And I’ve missed you too, Jess. Why didn’t you tell me you were coming to Boston?’

‘Only because I didn’t want you to be disappointed if I couldn’t make it to New York,’ she answered, and beamed her dazzling smile at me. ‘As it turned out, things went quickly, and here I am for the weekend.’ Grabbing the handle of her suitcase, she rolled it behind her, walking towards her room.

The moment she entered she began to chuckle. ‘I see you cleaned up after me – thanks for that, Pidge. What a mess I left behind in November. So sorry about that.’

I laughed with her. ‘I understood. Your mind was focused on your problems in Nice.’

I sat down on a chair and watched my sister as she unpacked her carry-on bag, hanging up a black trouser suit, two white silk shirts and a black sweater. As usual, she travelled light, the way our father had trained us. Although it worked with us, he was never able to make the slightest impression on our mother, who considered six suitcases to be the minimum for a weekend.

‘I missed a call from Cara earlier today. Apparently she found some of Dad’s pictures, and some of Mom she was really taken with, that I might want to use in my book,’ I confided.

‘Yes, they are great,’ Jessica said without turning around, placing underwear and small items in a chest of drawers. ‘We’ve been looking at Dad’s collections in his studio, and there’s a treasure trove there. We’ve left everything the way it is, since you’re the best judge, Serena. We want you to review everything.’

‘I will when I come to Nice.’

Straightening, Jessica turned around. ‘For Dad’s memorial dinner on April twenty-second, I know that. But can’t you come before then?’

I detected something in her voice, a flicker of concern behind her eyes, and wondered if everything was all right. Had Cara become depressed again? She had been very low since her fiancé had died. I was about to voice this thought, and changed my mind. I said, ‘I’ll get there as soon as I can, Jess, I promise.’

‘How’s the book coming along?’ she asked, closing the drawer.

‘I’m pleased with most of it. There’s just one chapter that needs work,’ I answered, and rose. ‘I’m going to make coffee. Do you want something to eat? Are you hungry?’

‘Not really, but I’d love some coffee, Pidge.’ She threw me a smile before going back to the carry-on and the last of her unpacking. ‘I’ll meet you in Mom’s den in a few minutes.’

‘Okay.’ I didn’t bother to correct her. She still referred to it as our mother’s den, sometimes even called it Mom’s sitting room, and it had been both. It was now my office, but even I associated it totally with our mother. It was the room in the apartment where I spent the most time.

‘I’d forgotten all about this album!’ my sister exclaimed ten minutes later, when I walked into my office carrying the tray holding coffee and cups and saucers.

‘Leaf through it, Jessica, it’s great! I can’t believe the way we all look,’ I answered, and placed the tray on the coffee table. Glancing at her, I added, ‘Even Dad was impressed with us that night of your gala. He took great pictures.’

Jessica was already turning the pages, staring at all the photographs and laughing out loud at times, exclaiming about some of the images of herself and Cara and me.

I poured coffee for us both and sat down in a chair opposite her. ‘That’s a lovely picture story Dad did, the way he took shots of you at every stage of the remodelling of the auction house. And you look great. We all do. Especially Mom.’

‘That’s true. Why were you interested in this particular album?’ she asked, finally closing the album, putting it back on the coffee table.

‘I was actually searching for the 1999 one,’ I explained. ‘Because I want to know what we were all doing then. You see, I need more information for that one chapter that needs rewriting. Do you remember anything much about that year?’

Jessica took the cup of coffee I was offering, and sat back on the sofa. ‘I certainly do. Aside from it being my first year in business, I got a divorce from Roger. Cara finished building her second large greenhouse. Dad was off in Kosovo – somewhere in the Balkans, anyway, covering a war. And you and Mom were not too happy with each other.’

Her last statement startled me and I sat up straighter, stared at her. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ I shook my head. ‘Mom and I weren’t quarrelling.’

‘That’s true, you weren’t, but she wasn’t too happy with you, Serena. Have you forgotten how angry she was with you?’

I was speechless for a moment, but my mind raced. After a long moment, I said, ‘Mom was never angry with me, ever, Jess. You must be mixing me up with Cara.’

‘No, I’m not. Mom was definitely angry with you in 1999. I know because I witnessed it. Do you want me to tell you about it?’

I could only nod.




SIX (#ulink_93e272c1-c88a-5afc-a887-fb9abe696db3)


Jessica’s announcement had taken me aback. I was certain she was mistaken, filled with disbelief as I sat waiting for her to explain her statement more fully.

After quietly scrutinizing me for a few seconds, she said softly, ‘I didn’t mean to upset you, Pidge.’

‘I know that, Jess. I’m not upset.’

‘But, darling, you look … stricken.’

‘Do I?’ I frowned. ‘Well, I’m not, I’m floored, because I have no recollection of this incident. I don’t remember Mom being angry with me, nor was I with her. Not ever. It was Cara she had disagreements with, or have you forgotten that?’

‘No, I haven’t, and you’re absolutely right. Mom and Cara often did have little upsets from time to time. But I honestly think you’ve simply forgotten the incident because—’

‘I’ve a very good memory. And you know that,’ I cut in. ‘A photographic memory, Dad called it.’

‘Perhaps you haven’t forgotten. Maybe you’ve blocked it out instead. Because you didn’t – don’t – want to remember something as distressing as a quarrel with our mother.’

She held me with her eyes, and I knew she wasn’t being difficult or arbitrary, only wished to help me. She had always been kind, loving – in a way much more than Cara had; Cara was extremely self-involved. Unless there was a crisis. Then Cara was the best at coping.

After a moment, somewhat reluctantly, I murmured, ‘Maybe you’re right. I must have blocked it out. And we’re going back a long time. To 1999.’

Jessica now said in that same kind, warm voice, ‘You know, you were very special to Mom and Dad, Serena, and being born eight years after us, you were a much-wanted baby. And therefore you were Mom’s little princess, a bit pampered and cosseted by her. And as you grew older, Dad treated you like the son he’d never had … that was a unique relationship.’

This was said without any rancour or jealousy. I knew she was just being truthful, matter of fact.

‘More like a pal,’ I remarked, ‘and I was a bit of a tomboy. But Mom cosseted all of us, Jess, not only me. That was her nature, she was devoted to Dad, you and Cara. And to Granny and Aunt Dora. That was the way she was, she was like …’ My voice trailed off, and I shook my head, at a loss.

Finally I explained, ‘I know this might sound odd, because Mom was so beautiful, but she was like an earth mother. That was the wonderful quality she had, the way she gave her love. She was the most giving person I’ve ever known.’

‘I agree with you,’ Jessica answered, and leaned forward. ‘We’ve been lucky, having had such great parents, Pidge. I’m very aware you had a tranquil relationship with our mother. But I also do know a situation developed between you and Mom that day.’

I remained silent, angry with myself for not being able to remember this incident. I felt like a fool. Maybe my sister was right, I’d blocked it out, obviously because I couldn’t bear to have anything mar my memories of my relationship with Mom. We had been so close. ‘Two peas in a pod,’ Dad used to call us.

As if reading my mind, Jessica said, ‘I’d like to tell you about that particular day, so that you understand. I don’t want your happy memories of Mom to be overshadowed. So can I?’

‘Yes,’ I answered. ‘Go ahead.’

Jessica did not speak, sat staring at me. It struck me that there was a flicker of apprehension in her eyes.

‘Go on, tell me, Jess. If you recall an incident between Mom and me, then obviously it happened. I know you wouldn’t make something up, you silly thing!’

‘Of course I wouldn’t!’ she exclaimed, horrified at the thought. ‘I’ve always told you the truth, and Cara too. Although sometimes, in the past, she hasn’t been honest with us, has she?’

‘She’s never lied, but she has omitted to tell us things. But she doesn’t do that now. Or does she?’

‘No, she doesn’t. Quite the opposite,’ Jessica responded and laughed. She took a deep breath, and began. ‘The incident took place at the end of September in 1999, the year you’re so curious about. We’d spent most of the year in Nice, with Dad and Harry coming and going from battle zones. Do you remember that?’

‘Yes, I do. Granny and Aunt Dora were travelling in Europe, and came for a visit. Dad and Harry went to Kosovo. The war had finally ended in June. They went back at the beginning of September to photograph the aftermath of the war. You were in the middle of your divorce. Cara was building her orchid business, finishing the second large greenhouse. And I was photographing her activities for Dad, doing a picture story. Like the one he’d shot of you the year before.’

‘You know a lot,’ my sister exclaimed, sounding pleased. ‘Anything else?’

‘I did speak to Dad on the phone, and it was a Saturday, I just remembered. I told him the shoot with Cara was going well. And that’s about it. Oh, wait, there was one other thing. I did say that I wanted to come with him and Harry the next time they covered a war.’

Jessica nodded. ‘That was it. Your comment to Dad. You hung up, and Mom asked you what you’d meant about covering a war. You told her that you had definitely made your mind up to become a war photographer, and wanted to work with Dad and Harry. To be on the front lines with them. She sort of went crazy, and she was really angry. She said she wouldn’t permit it. That she had worried about Dad’s safety all of their married life; that she wasn’t going to go through hell again, worrying about her youngest daughter getting killed.’

I had paid attention to every word Jessica had just uttered, and I really did not recall this outburst. Finally, I said, ‘I just don’t remember that conversation.’

Jessica picked up her cup, didn’t say anything for a while.

I poured myself more coffee, and glanced out of the window. The sky was beginning to darken over the East River. It looked as if it would be a beautiful night … a cold clear sky which undoubtedly would be filled with stars.

At last Jessica broke the silence. She said, ‘What did you do for the rest of that Saturday, Serena?’ She stared at me intently.

I shrugged. ‘I don’t know, probably went on taking pictures of Cara doing her stuff with the orchids.’

‘I can fill you in,’ Jess offered. ‘I was with you and Mom that morning, on the terrace. Dad rang from Kosovo. I spoke to him, passed the phone to Mom, and she gave it to you, after she’d finished speaking with him. I was working on my notes, for a catalogue I was preparing, when all of a sudden holy hell broke loose. Mom was becoming rather agitated for her. You burst into tears and fled.’ Jessica paused. ‘Don’t you have any recollection of this?’

‘No, I don’t. What happened then?’

‘You didn’t come back for lunch. Later it began to rain hard and there was a thunderstorm. Mom was getting anxious about you, because Cara said she’d seen you on the drive when she was returning from the greenhouses.’

‘I don’t think I left the grounds,’ I muttered.

‘Mom decided to go and look for you. She found you in your room, and spent the afternoon with you.’

‘I see. When was everything all right between us?’ I asked quietly.

‘That same evening. Mom took the three of us out to dinner, and all was tranquil. It was as if nothing had happened.’

‘I see. I must admit, it really bothers me that I can’t remember any of this.’ I got up, went to sit next to Jessica on the sofa. ‘You must be right. I guess I did block it out.’

‘I think so, Pidge.’ She squeezed my hand. ‘Well, Mom did eventually relent, didn’t she? She let you go off with Dad and Harry to cover a war. You were twenty-one by then.’

‘We went to Afghanistan. And one day, some years later, again in Kabul, I missed a plane and didn’t get back to Nice in time to see Dad before he died.’ Unexpectedly, tears came into my eyes. I blinked them away, took control of my emotions. Naturally Jessica noticed. She had never missed a trick in her life.

She put her arms around me, consoled me, stroked my hair. But after a few minutes she jumped up, pulled me to my feet, and said briskly, ‘I bet there’s a fresh chicken in the fridge for the weekend, following Stone family tradition.’

I laughed. ‘Of course, there is.’

‘Then let’s go and make poulet grand-père, the way Lulu taught us. If you’ve got all the ingredients.’

‘I do. Except some of them will have to come out of cans.’

Lulu, the housekeeper at Jardin des Fleurs, had taught Jessica to cook, and when I was old enough I was allowed to go into the kitchen with her, also to be taught the art of French cooking.

Cara never joined us. She was busy in the gardens, which she loved. In fact she was addicted to flowers, plants and nature. Eventually she became a brilliant horticulturist, and when she was older she specialized in growing orchids.

For the last ten years she had supplied her fantastic, exotic orchids to hotels, restaurants and private clients on the Côte d’Azur, and was renowned.

And so when I was growing up it was just Jessica and I who stood next to Lulu in the big old-fashioned kitchen. Over the years, the jovial Frenchwoman taught us the basics of French cooking and helped us to hone our skills.

And we learned to prepare many of her specialities, poulet grand-père being one of them. It was a simple dish composed of a chicken roasted in a pan in the oven, reclining on a bed of sliced potatoes and chopped carrots, along with mushrooms and tomatoes.

Picking up the tray I followed Jessica out of my office. Once we were in the kitchen, I opened cupboard doors and looked inside. ‘Canned tomatoes and mushrooms,’ I announced. ‘And I know Mrs Watledge bought potatoes and chicken broth the other day.’

‘Then we’ll be fine.’ Jessica glanced at her watch. ‘It’s already five, so let’s have a glass of wine, shall we?’

‘Why not? There’s a bottle of Sancerre in the fridge.’ As I spoke I went to get it, and also took out the chicken, carrying both over to the island in the middle of the kitchen.

Jessica opened the wine, and I prepared the chicken, smearing butter all over it and placing half a lemon in the cavity. At one moment I said, ‘We’ve been so busy talking about the past, you never told me about your trip to Boston. Do you have a new client?’

‘Yes, I do,’ she replied, and filled two glasses with white wine, handed one to me. ‘He’s a lawyer, you wouldn’t know him. His widowed mother just died and left him her fabulous villa in Cap d’Ail, plus a collection of valuable furniture and art. She’d been married to a Frenchman for years. Anyway, my new client is the sole heir, and he just signed with me. Stone’s will be holding the auction later this year. It’s going to be very special, because of the Art Deco furniture and postimpressionist paintings.’

‘Congratulations!’ I said.

We clinked glasses.

Jessica leaned forward and kissed my cheek. ‘You’re the best sister in the world.’




SEVEN (#ulink_6495473b-4aef-5318-a5de-8b305d420fd7)


At last I was in a yellow cab and on my way to meet Harry Redford for dinner. I’d had a difficult day, trying to do my rewrite, and I had given up at the end of the afternoon. Frustrated, I’d put the chapter away until tomorrow; I needed time to think about it some more.

I was glad to leave the apartment. It had been so sad and empty without the joyful, buoyant presence of my sister. Jessica had left that morning, very early, to catch the eight thirty British Airways flight to London. She had some meetings there before returning to Nice to prepare for her upcoming auctions.

Fortunately, First was not clogged with traffic, which was a big relief, and the cab moved at a good pace up the avenue. I was running late, and the restaurant was way uptown in East Harlem. Harry and I were having dinner at Rao’s, which stood on the corner of East 114th Street and Pleasant Avenue.

It had always been my father’s and Harry’s favourite restaurant in Manhattan. They had started going there in the 1970s, had had the same table every Monday night since then, a table which they ‘owned’.

When they were away covering wars, or out of town on other assignments, their families and friends got the chance to use the table, and were thrilled to do so. Over the years, Rao’s had acquired a special kind of mystique and glamour, some of this due to the celebrities who often went there, and it was virtually impossible to get a reservation because of the regulars.

Tommy and Harry had become good friends of Vincent Rao and his wife Anna Pellegrino Rao over the years, and they were shocked and saddened when Vincent and Anna both died in 1994.

Since then Rao’s, owned by the same family for over a hundred years, had been run by Frankie Pellegrino, Anna’s nephew, and his cousin, Ron Staci, who owned it together. It was exactly the same as it had always been: warm, welcoming and fun. Dark wood-panelled walls, permanent Christmas decorations around the bar, pristine white linen cloths and a jukebox playing softly in the background combined to create a cosy atmosphere.

It was Frankie who greeted me affectionately as I pushed open the door twenty minutes later to be enveloped in a warm blast of fragrant air, the mingled smells of traditional Italian cooking. It was exactly seven thirty, and I wasn’t late after all.

Frankie had known me since I was ten, and he gave me a big bear hug. ‘Welcome, Serena, we’ve missed you.’

After I’d hugged him in return, I said, ‘I know what you mean, but it’s only been two weeks.’

‘It seems longer,’ he shot back with a grin, leading me past the open door of the bustling kitchen, situated near the front door. We chatted as we walked through the room to the booth that was ours every Monday night.

Harry was already standing, beaming, as I hurried towards him. ‘You’re a sight for sore eyes!’ he exclaimed, kissing me on the cheek, holding me close for a moment. He was always exactly the same.

We sat down opposite each other in the booth. ‘Sorry about not joining you for the last couple of weeks,’ I apologized. ‘But I really had to isolate myself, to move ahead on the book.’

‘I know that, Serena, and you don’t have to explain or feel badly about it. I’ve always told you, it’s not possible to be a committed writer and a social butterfly. One or the other occupation usually has to go.’

He glanced at the package I’d placed on the seat next to my bag. ‘Is that for me? Are those the first chapters you promised to give me? That you want me to read?’

I noticed his eyes were bright with anticipation. He was the one person who had encouraged me to write a biography about my father, and actually believed I could do it. He was my biggest booster and always had been. But then I was like the daughter he had never had.

I said, ‘I’ve brought you the first seven chapters that I think are okay. Those are enough to give you a taste, aren’t they?’

‘More than enough. I can’t wait to get into them.’

‘I want you to be honest with me, Harry. It’s important that you tell me the truth.’

‘Of course I will,’ he promised, and ordered two glasses of white wine from one of the genial waiters. Turning back to me, he went on, ‘It would be unfair if I lied to you, just to please you. Now wouldn’t it?’

‘Yes,’ I agreed.

He leaned back against the banquette and nodded approvingly. ‘You look good, Serena. Very good in fact. Never better.’

‘Work helps. I’ve been keeping myself busy with the book, and Jessica cheered me up. It was a lovely surprise when she showed up out of the blue.’

‘I’m sorry she couldn’t come tonight,’ he murmured. Harry loved Jessica and Cara as well as me.

‘She was disappointed not to see you, but she couldn’t cancel her meetings in London, and changing her ticket would have been difficult.’

‘I understood. And I told her this when we spoke on the phone.’

The wine arrived and we said cheers in unison as we touched glasses.

As I relaxed and sipped the cold wine, I studied Harry for a few seconds, thinking that he looked fit. He would be sixty-nine this year, yet appeared so much younger. There were not many lines on his face and he was tanned. He had a lean look about him, bright blue eyes and salt-and-pepper brown hair. Harry interrupted my thoughts when he said, ‘I ordered the mixed salad, the roasted peppers you’ve always loved, pasta pomodoro and lemon chicken. How does that sound?’

I laughed. ‘You’re just like Tommy; he always ordered far too much.’

‘Just taste a bit of everything. You can take the rest home if you want, to eat another day; it’ll sustain you while you’re writing,’ he suggested in his charming way.

‘Thank you, Harry, but no thanks. I have to be careful these days. I’m sitting at a desk a lot.’

‘Ah yes, the curse of all writers, Serena,’ he responded with a laugh.

Leaning across the table, I now said, ‘I’m trying to remember as much as possible about 1999, Harry. Jessica has given me some of her recollections. What about you? I know you and Dad were in Kosovo, weren’t you?’

He was holding his glass of wine, and he stared down into it for a moment or two. When he lifted his head and looked across at me, I saw the bright blue eyes had darkened, were suddenly filled with a hint of sorrow.

At last, he said quietly, ‘I remember the hell of that particular war. Tommy and I were there from March to June. It was tough, a lousy war. But then all wars are lousy. We were about to get out in May, but changed our minds. We stayed on. The ceasefire came in June, after the NATO and UN intervention, and we finally left. Your father went back to Nice. I came to New York. I’d wrenched my back, helping some desperate women push a broken-down truck, filled with wounded and dying children, to safety. I knew I had to get the best medical treatment, which is why I came back to Manhattan.’

‘Then you went again to Kosovo in September, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, we did. Your father thought we should cover the aftermath of the war, and I agreed. We went to Sarajevo as well. Later we flew to Nice for Thanksgiving, as I’m sure you remember.’

‘I do. During that period, did you hear anything about Mom being angry with me? Upset with me?’

‘Elizabeth was disturbed because you wanted to be a war photographer like us. So Tommy told me, anyway.’

‘That’s right, she was. Jessica reminded me on Saturday. And here’s the weird thing, Harry. I don’t recall this incident. That troubles me a lot.’

‘You more than likely wiped it out, because you didn’t want to remember. It was obviously painful … you were so close to your mother, and she adored you, Serena. She was obviously a bit panicked when she thought you were going to go off to the frontlines. Because of the danger to you. But Tommy reassured her, and she calmed down eventually.’

‘And let me go in the end.’

He gave me a faint smile. ‘You’d come of age. You could do what you wanted, and she knew that. Better to acquiesce than throw a fit. And we promised her we’d look after you. Make sure you were safe at all times. And I had to call her every day, as well as Tommy.’

Before I got a chance to respond, plates of delicious-looking food started to arrive, along with a bottle of white wine.

‘Come on, take some of the red peppers,’ Harry said, smiling encouragingly as he helped himself to the salad. I did as he suggested, and as we ate we chatted about other things, and in particular Global Images.

‘There’s something I need to talk to you about,’ Harry suddenly said. ‘Something important.’

His voice was normal but his expression had turned very serious and there was that worried look in his eyes – a look I knew. ‘What is it? Is there something wrong?’

‘Sort of …’ His voice trailed off, he took a sip of coffee, and stared into the distance for a moment.

‘Harry, please tell me. Tell me what’s wrong.’

He took hold of my hand, which was resting on the table, clasped it and gave me a penetrating look. ‘When you told me you wanted to write a biography about Tommy, do you remember what else you said?’

‘I said I wanted to write it because I needed to honour my father. Is that what you mean?’

‘Yeah I do. Now I want you to do something else to honour your father.’

‘What?’

‘Let me explain something first. Years ago your father came and got me out of Bosnia. He’d left before me, because Elizabeth was sick and she needed him. I’d stayed on, and then I just wouldn’t leave, even though I should have. He came and took me out … forced me to come out before—’

‘You want me to get somebody out of a war zone, a danger zone,’ I interrupted, my voice rising slightly. I stared at him intently, felt a chill running right through me as it suddenly hit me where this was leading. ‘You want me to go and get Zac. This is about Zac North, isn’t it, Harry?’ Before he even responded I knew it was.

He took a deep breath, squeezed my hand tighter. ‘It is. But I don’t need you to get him out of Afghanistan. He’s out—’

‘If he’s out, then he’s safe,’ I cut in again.

Harry nodded in agreement. ‘But he’s in very bad shape, Serena. On his last legs, strained, exhausted, anxiety-ridden. I sent Geoff Barnes in from Pakistan to get him out, and he did manage it. But Geoff says Zac’s in a deep depression; not well, in need of care. He thinks Zac is at an emotional low. As he put it, Zac’s a dead man walking.’

‘Where is Zac now?’ As the words left my mouth, I knew exactly where he was. I exclaimed, ‘He’s in the bolthole, isn’t he?’

Harry nodded, his eyes still clouded with worry.

I blew out air, shook my head. ‘I can’t go. I don’t want to go. Besides which, he’ll bang the door in my face the moment he sees me. We haven’t spoken for eleven months.’

‘He won’t do that, Serena. I promise you. It was Zac who asked for you. He said there was no one else who could do it, who could help him.’

‘He’s got a family on Long Island, Harry. And you know that. Parents, a sister, a brother.’

‘They can’t help him … he needs someone who’s been there, who knows about war, who’s suffered through it, lived through the sheer hell of it, seen the death, the blood, the devastation …’ His voice trailed off, and he sighed.

‘I can’t go. I just can’t,’ I said, my voice tearful, wobbling. ‘That row we had in Nice after Dad’s funeral was horrendous. He was so very violent, verbally. Angry. I’m sorry, Harry, but I still blame him. It was Zac’s fault we missed the plane from Kabul. And all because he wanted to get a few last pictures.’

‘I’m sorry, too, honey, I shouldn’t have even asked you to do it. That was very stupid on my part. You don’t need this right now.’ He took hold of my hand again. ‘I’ll think of something, talk it through with Geoff Barnes, come up with a solution.’

I nodded, bit my lip. ‘Let me think about it,’ I murmured against my better judgement. ‘Let me sleep on it.’

Harry was silent for a moment, staring at me. Then he said in a low voice, ‘No, honey, I don’t want you to go. It was wrong of me to suggest it, to load this responsibility on you. It’s my problem, and I’ll solve it.’

Much later that evening, back at the apartment, I discovered I couldn’t sleep. Nor could I think straight. I was far too agitated and distressed about Zac, and about myself and my reaction to Harry’s request.

Zachary North needed me and I’d said I wouldn’t go and help him. And yet he was the only man I’d ever been in love with. Even though he had broken my heart.

I was aware, deep within myself, that Harry really did want me to go to Zac’s aid, otherwise he wouldn’t have asked in the first place. He had changed his mind when he had seen my reaction and my reluctance.

My father would certainly want me to go, I knew that without a doubt … because of the camaraderie, the dependency and the loyalty that war photographers shared. They were always there for each other. But I couldn’t go because I was afraid of Zac, the effect he had on me.

I was afraid of my own emotions. But I should go. I would go.




PART TWO (#ulink_59e3bdde-c866-5059-8f8c-e035eb17cb00)

Personal Close-Ups: Venice, April (#ulink_59e3bdde-c866-5059-8f8c-e035eb17cb00)


There is nothing new except for what is forgotten.

Attributed to Mademoiselle Bertin, milliner

to Marie Antoinette

Only I discern

Infinite passion, and the pain

Of finite hearts that yearn.

Robert Browning, ‘Two in the Campagna’




EIGHT (#ulink_d294bd58-ea07-5005-a7cd-f66dbf34c7aa)


I had been wrong to refuse Harry, who had actually spoken the truth when he had said I was the only person who could help Zac, because I was accustomed to wars, knew what it did to those who lived in the middle of them on a regular basis.

Zac’s family couldn’t help; no one could except another veteran of wars … another photojournalist.

And that was me.

And so I went.

I put aside my qualms and fears, packed my carry-on bag and took a night flight to Italy on Wednesday afternoon. Alitalia at 5.30 p.m. out of JFK, with a stopover in Rome the following morning. I would be arriving in Venice at 11.25 a.m. European time.

I glanced at my watch, which I had changed to local time before dozing off during the night. It was exactly five minutes to eleven. Another thirty minutes of flying and I would be there.

My plane would touch down at Marco Polo Airport, where Geoff Barnes would be waiting for me. He would tell me as much as he could, as much as he knew, and then I would be on my own.

Harry had reassured me that Geoff would stay on for a few days if needs be, and if I thought it was absolutely necessary. Once I knew I could manage alone, Geoff would hightail it back to Pakistan.

I was relieved he did not have to go to the badlands of Helmand Province in Afghanistan in Zac’s stead. No one should have to be there any more; it was an intolerable place. The Taliban was everywhere, intent on slaughter.

I had told Harry that if Geoff did stay in Venice for longer than a couple of days, he would have to move out of the bolthole and into the Bauer Hotel. The bolthole was too small, especially since I would be dealing with Zac … a Zac in great distress. Harry had agreed with me that this was the only way to go.

The bolthole. I knew it well, had stayed there a number of times with my father and Harry, and with my parents. And also with Zac on numerous occasions. It was a medium-sized apartment that Tommy and Harry had found in 1982.

They had rented it for several years from Louisa Pignatelli, the woman who owned the small building located just behind the Piazza San Marco, and who lived on the floor below.

Global had bought the apartment from her in 1987, because it was such a useful ‘stop-off’ place for photographers constantly on the move.

Venice was the perfect city, the key city, because it was so strategically placed, right in the middle of a cluster of European countries and a stone’s throw away from the Balkans just across the Adriatic Sea. It was in a direct flight path to Istanbul, countries of the Middle East, and Africa. Venice was considered to be the best link between East and West by those who circulated in and around this area of the world.

The bolthole served as a welcome resting place for all of the Global guys, who often wanted to touch down after gruelling months in a war. They needed to recuperate, did not always have time to get to home base before taking off on another assignment.

Although it was not large, the apartment was comfortable. There were three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a galley kitchen and a large living room. After they had bought the apartment, my father and Harry had been smart, had furnished it simply, but with comfortable sofas and chairs, a table and chairs for meals, and, of course, television sets, which were always on for continuing world news.

When there was no one from Global staying at the apartment, Claudia, Louisa’s daughter, had it thoroughly cleaned and made sure all the bed linen went to the laundry. She diligently watched over the place with an eagle eye, and took care of it in general.

I had spoken to Geoff the day before my flight, and he had assured me he would be outside customs waiting for me. I knew Geoff well and he was reliable. I’d had to depend on him in the past and he’d never let me down yet. I trusted him to tell me the truth, and I knew he would level with me about Zac.

The night before, as I had settled down in my plane seat after dinner, I’d tried to fall asleep without success. My mind had kept zeroing in on Zac.

I had first met him when he had come to work for my father and Harry at Global. I was nineteen and he was twenty-six, and I didn’t like him at all.

He was bumptious, conceited and full of himself, or so I thought. Certainly that day he had been strutting around the New York office, showing off because he’d just won some award. This was in the spring of 2000. We didn’t meet again until later that summer, when he came to stay at the house in Nice, much to my dismay.

However, I had been pleasantly surprised. He’d been a different person altogether: warm, disarming, very friendly, and extremely funny. He had a great sense of humour, and poked fun at himself in a most self-deprecating way that kept me laughing.

He stayed with us for several days and in that time I fell head over heels in love with him and he with me. It was a mutual meeting of the minds; we were on the same wavelength, although we did not link up with each other for some time.

It became serious in 2004. I was twenty-three, Zac was thirty, seven years older than me and much more experienced in every way.

It was a passionate affair, and romantic. It was also a bumpy ride at times. But we made it together for almost six years. Our break-up had been at the edge of violence – verbal violence, at least. Zac had a temper. A nasty temper. It had alarmed me, frightened me. I knew he was the love of my life and yet I was certain it would never work. I hadn’t spoken to him for almost a year.

Now I was on my way to help make him well again, if I could. I sensed I had quite a task ahead of me. And I wasn’t sure I would succeed.




NINE (#ulink_af857578-b1fb-5b40-856c-8fc08f4b3291)


I passed through passport control and customs very quickly, and as I went out of the restricted area I spotted Geoff immediately. He was a Californian, tall and lanky, with a tan and streaky blond hair. Because of his height he was easily visible amongst the small group of people who were waiting for other passengers in the arrivals hall.

Waving to him, I moved forward, dragging my carry-on bag, and within a few seconds we were greeting each other with a warm hug.

‘Hi, Serena, I’m glad you’re here,’ he said as he took my case, rolling it along next to him, guiding me towards the exit. ‘Did you have a good flight? Get some sleep?’

‘I only dozed,’ I murmured, and looked up at him worriedly. ‘How is he, Geoff? How is Zac really?’

‘Not good, honey, but maybe not as bad as you’re probably imagining. No wounds, but he’s done in, exhausted, fucked out, to be truthful. Not suicidal though, and I told Harry that. But listen, kid, he is very depressed – so silent. He hardly says a word.’

Geoff paused, threw me an odd look before continuing in a worried tone, ‘I don’t think he has the strength to speak. That might sound weird, but he won’t eat, he doesn’t sleep. He’s badly in need of your care, I know that. And he did ask Harry to get you to come here.’

Geoff’s words troubled me. I swallowed. My mouth was dry. Finally, I managed to say, ‘Do you think he should be in a hospital?’

‘I sure as hell do, but you won’t get him to agree. I couldn’t. Neither could Harry when he spoke to him on the phone. I guess you’ll just have to get him on his feet and back to health in the bolthole. Because he won’t move from there. I gotta tell you, that’s a given.’

‘I understand,’ I answered, but I was filled with dismay. I cleared my throat. ‘He can be very stubborn. How do you get somebody to eat? To drink—’ I cut myself off as a thought struck me, and I looked up at Geoff, asked swiftly, ‘He’s not dehydrated, is he?’

‘I don’t think so, he has been sipping from the bottles of water I’ve given him.’ Geoff shrugged. ‘You can only make a proper judgement when you see him.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed, more alarmed than ever and telling myself not to panic. Yet I did feel a sense of anxiety, even a hint of fear.

Geoff and I walked out of the arrivals building, and he led me towards the private water-taxi stands. ‘That’s ours,’ he said, and indicated one of the motorboats. ‘I came over on it, had the guy wait. He’ll take us to the Piazza San Marco.’

I simply nodded, glanced around.

It was a grey day, the sky murky, laden with bloated clouds, and there was a hint of rain in the air. But then March and April were the rainy months in Venice.

I was glad to be off the plane and breathing fresh air, and it was fresh, much cooler than I had expected. I loved Venice, had come here often with my parents and sisters, and we had always had the best times.

Still, I didn’t have that sense of excitement I usually had when I arrived in this ancient, beautiful city of light and water. And I knew at once this was because of my mission, the task ahead of me.

For a moment, I wished I hadn’t come, and then immediately chided myself for being so apprehensive and cowardly. I could handle this, I could get Zac better; there was no doubt in my mind about that.

Well, there was just a little bit of doubt, but I was now going to stamp on it, grind it under my foot. I was going to be positive and determined, just like Jessica was when she had a challenge to meet.

The owner of the water taxi held out his hand, guided me onto the boat. I forced a smile, thanked him as he helped me down the steps and into the large cabin. A moment later Geoff was ducking his head, coming inside after me, taking the seat opposite.

The driver began to back out, edging his way into open water, manoeuvring the boat skilfully, as all of these Venetians seemed able to do. Staring at Geoff, I asked, ‘What about the food situation at the bolthole? Did you manage to go out and buy anything?’

He gave me a look that verged on the scornful, and exclaimed, ‘This ain’t my first rodeo, lady. What do you take me for, a greenhorn?’

Geoff laughed as he said this with a mock cowboy twang, and I laughed with him.

‘No, it ain’t your first rodeo, I know that, pal, but I figured you’d been a tad busy since you got here,’ I retorted.

‘I have stocked up. Claudia stayed with Zac, had coffee with him the day after we arrived, and I went out to the market, picked up lots of items, per Harry’s instructions.’

‘What did you buy?’ I asked.

‘Pastas, canned stuff, lots of fresh fruits and vegetables, the kind of things you like to make soup with, again per Harry’s advice. And Claudia did the rounds for me early this morning, bought fresh bread, cheese, butter, milk, oh and two chickens and chicken bouillon for your soup.’

‘My famous chicken in the pot,’ I muttered almost to myself, and then remembered how much Zac liked it. I focused on Geoff again, and added, ‘Thanks for doing the shopping, I’m grateful.’

‘My pleasure. I also want you to know that I’ve booked myself into the Bauer Hotel, moved my junk over there already. You must be alone with Zac. You’ll succeed much better without me hovering over the two of you. And if there’s any sort of emergency, I can be there real quick, and there’s also Claudia downstairs.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Oh, okay, that’s fine.’ But was it, I wondered?

‘Don’t sound so concerned, Serena, you’ll see, he’ll respond to you better than he has to me.’ He leaned forward, turned his intelligent grey eyes on me. ‘It’s you he wants with him, you he depends on, you he needs.’

I made no response, just gazed at him.

Geoff exclaimed, ‘Hey, I’m not copping out, don’t think that! I really believe it’s better that I’m out of the way. He’s still in love with you, take my word for it, and once you’re there, he’ll become calm.’

‘Isn’t he calm?’ I asked anxiously, envisioning a rampant Zac, angry and upset, the way he’d been when we’d broken up eleven months ago. ‘Is he agitated? Excited? What state is he in?’

‘None of those you’ve mentioned. He’s … well, sort of nervous, moves around a lot, doesn’t seem able to sit still for long. Goes from one room to the next. But he’s not yelling and shouting, nothing like that. I told you, he doesn’t speak much. He’s very closed in. Remote, very distant, as if he’s in another world.’

Oh God, I thought, perhaps he’s in catatonic shock. Some kind of shock, anyway. Why wasn’t he talking to Geoff? They’d been through a lot together, they were war buddies, veterans of battle on the front line. Which is why Harry sent him to get Zac out. What was I going to do for him? How could I bring him back? Get him to be more normal? And how would I get him to eat and sleep?

Geoff must have read something in my expression, and he reached out, put his hand on my knee, and said in a low, reassuring voice, ‘You’ll be fine, honey, stop chewing it over. Zac needs you, and you’ll succeed where nobody else could.’

‘I hope so,’ I sighed, shaking my head. ‘I’ll give it a try.’

‘Your very best bloody try,’ Geoff asserted and squeezed my hand.

The water taxi dropped us off at the jetty near the Piazza San Marco, and we walked across the piazza slowly and in silence.

We were both lost in our own thoughts. I was recalling the times I had come here in the past, such happy times with my family, or with Zac, the two of us alone. Often I had been here in the height of the summer when the piazza was jammed with tourists from all over the world. But this was not the tourist season and it was less crowded on this chilly morning.

There were some people moving ahead of us, heading for the shops on the Frezzeria or Florian and Quadri cafés. Other tourists were sitting at the small tables in the square, watching the passers-by and the pigeons fluttering around or gazing at the magnificent Basilica di San Marco, marvelling at its beauty and whiling away the morning until lunchtime.

Geoff and I headed for a far corner of the piazza and the narrow cobbled street where the bolthole was located. Unexpectedly, Geoff came to a standstill and turned to me, taking hold of my arm. ‘Listen,’ he exclaimed, ‘I forgot to tell you one thing. I must warn—’

‘About what?’ I asked, cutting across him.

‘Zac and television. He has all the sets on at the same time on different networks. And he’s watching them constantly.’ He grimaced. ‘He’s watching one or the other, night and day, and he gets furious if you try to turn one off. So don’t do it. Humour him, okay?’

I nodded. ‘What’s he watching?’ I asked, and knew the answer before Geoff spoke.

‘War coverage, of course. General news. But mostly war coverage. He’s addicted to war, Serena.’

‘I know that,’ I said. My voice was a whisper.

We reached the building and went up to the third floor in the small, rather narrow elevator. When we got to the door of the bolthole I stood staring at it. Geoff was staring at me. Waiting.

Finally I said, ‘Okay.’ I took a deep breath. ‘I’m okay. Let’s go in.’




TEN (#ulink_0584cc97-2ab4-592d-be3b-ebb6e0a41ee2)


Noise from the various television sets bounced off the walls of the apartment, but when Zac saw me standing in the doorway he immediately turned off the one in the living room and got up out of the chair. The other TVs in the bedrooms continued to drone on, but they were at least muted to a certain degree, creating only background noise.

I put my handbag on the table, shrugged out of my pea jacket, draped it around a chair back, walked towards Zac. He had remained standing near the TV, had not moved, and his eyes were riveted on me.

To say I was shocked by his appearance was an understatement. I was appalled. He had lost a great deal of weight, which somehow made him look taller, and his face was gaunt. I could see that quite clearly even though he had a lot of stubble, had obviously not shaved for days on end. His brown hair had lost its lustre, looked grey and strangely dusty, and there was an air of exhaustion about him. He appeared diminished; even his green eyes were dulled, had lost their sparkle, and his mouth was pinched.

As I walked forward he came towards me, and a moment later my arms went around him. I held him close. He was so thin I could feel his bones through his shirt, and my heart ached for him, for his suffering. A split second later I experienced such a rush of love and tenderness I was startled at myself.

War had taken its horrendous toll on him, and I knew I must make him better, bring him back to life, to what he had been before. Whether there would be a future for us I did not know, nor did it matter at this moment. What I wanted was to get him well, no matter what. That was my aim, and my reason for being here.

Releasing him, I took a step away, turning my head. His clothes were dirty and they smelled. And so did he. Taking several deep breaths, I said, ‘Harry sent me.’

‘I asked him to,’ Zac replied. ‘Thank God you came.’

A few seconds earlier, out of the corner of my eye, I had noticed Geoff rolling my suitcase into one of the bedrooms, and now he reappeared, came to join us in the middle of the room.

‘How about coffee?’ he asked genially, looking from me to Zac. ‘I could use it.’

We both nodded, and I said, ‘With milk and sweetener, please, Geoff.’

‘Coming right up,’ he answered, and walked off into the kitchen.

Taking hold of Zac’s hand, I led him to the big overstuffed sofa, and we sat down. I couldn’t quite make out the expression on his face … I didn’t know if it was one of longing, weariness or pain, and then almost immediately his face crumpled. He started to cry. He brought his hands to his face as he wept.

After a moment he took control of himself again, and wiped the tears away with his fingertips, shook his head, looking regretful.

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to break down, Pidge,’ he muttered, using Jessica’s nickname for me, the only other person allowed to do so.

‘It’s all right, it’s all right.’ Moving closer, I put my arms around him, wanting to console him, but instantly drew back, again almost gagging. One thing was certain: I had to get him out of these filthy clothes and into a shower as soon as possible.

Now my eyes roamed around the room. His cameras were on the table, his flak jacket laid on a chair, his holdall on the floor nearby. He was all set and ready to roll, to hightail it back to another war, wherever the hell it was, I thought dismally. He’d even go back to Afghanistan, the most hellish place on earth. The smell of cordite, blood and sweat, exploding roadside bombs, Marines being killed relentlessly. A foul battleground.

He was addicted to war, the adrenaline rush, as so many of us were. I had been, but had managed to extract myself from the front line before it was too late, as my father had before me, and Harry as well.

If you didn’t get out you were burned to a shred, like Zac was now. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, I thought, and shivered involuntarily.

Geoff brought out mugs of coffee and handed them to Zac and me, returning to get his own. When he came back he brought a plate of cookies, which he put down on the coffee table.

We drank in silence. Finally, I said quietly, ‘As soon as you’re up to it, Zac, I want you to have a bath, or a shower, whichever you prefer.’

He threw me a swift glance, and all of a sudden there was a stubborn set to his mouth. He said, ‘Tomorrow’s fine.’

‘No, it isn’t,’ I answered in the most businesslike tone I could muster. ‘Your clothes stink, and so do you. No clean-up, no Serena. I’ll check into the Bauer … where nobody smells.’

‘That bad, is it?’ he muttered, and glared at me.

‘I’ll say! And now that I’m here, and only at Harry’s behest, remember – you’ll have to live by my rules.’

‘I see.’

‘I hope you do.’ I rose. ‘Shall I run a bath, or will you take a shower?’

He slumped down into the cushions on the sofa, a morose expression settling on his face. He was unresponsive. Leaning his head against the pillows, he closed his eyes, ignoring me.

I decided, in that instant, that the only way to deal with Zac and get him back on his feet and healthy was for me to get tough and stay tough. If I showed any weakness he would endeavour to manipulate me. And he was good at manipulation, as I knew only too well.

Being tough was necessary, but I also had to use the threat of leaving. That would frighten him into submission, persuade him to do what I wanted. I knew he truly needed me at this particular time, otherwise he wouldn’t have buried his pride and asked Harry to ask me to come here.

Geoff looked at Zac, then across at me, and raised a brow.

Making a decision, I said, ‘I’m glad I didn’t unpack, Geoff. Come on, let’s get my bag and go to the Bauer. I’m hungry, so I’ll check in there, and then we can have lunch on the terrace.’

‘A shower,’ Zac announced from the depths of the huge sofa. ‘A shower’s easier right now.’ As he was speaking he pushed himself to his feet. I thought he looked slightly groggy.

I watched him walk across the room, and I realized he was limping. That old shrapnel wound from years ago was more than likely acting up. ‘Do you need help?’ I called after him.

‘No,’ he grunted and went into the bathroom he was using, banging the door behind him.

I turned around, and said to Geoff, ‘That’s a relief. His clothes stink. Why didn’t you warn me?’

Geoff looked at me askance. ‘And frighten you off? No way, kid. Anyway, I can only say that he improved the moment he saw you. I think he’s trying to behave as normally as possible. Obviously he doesn’t want you to leave. Sometimes at night—’ Geoff cut himself off, and sat down again in one of the armchairs.

‘What is it he does at night?’ I asked, taking the chair opposite, staring at him, wondering if Zac was suffering from nightmares or flashbacks. More than likely he was.

‘He has bad dreams, Serena, so be prepared. He shouts and screams and calls your name quite a lot … sometimes he’s yelling for Serena, sometimes he uses the nickname Jessica gave you: Pidge.’ Geoff now gave me a thoughtful look, then frowned. ‘What does that mean, Serena? Pidge is an unusual name.’

I sighed, staring back at Geoff without speaking. I had always been secretive about Jessica’s nickname for me – why, I’d never really understood.

‘Go on, tell me,’ Geoff encouraged, obviously riddled with curiosity.

Suddenly I made my mind up to tell him. He was intrigued, and I was grateful to him for risking his life by going to Helmand Province to get Zac out of that highly dangerous situation.

‘I’ve never told anybody; not even Zac knows,’ I explained. ‘I’m going to tell you, though, but you must keep it a secret.’

‘I will. Go on then, I’m all ears. I really wanna know.’

‘When I was little, Jessica started to call me Smidge. That comes from the word smidgen, which means a small portion, a little bit … I was alittle bit to her. She used it affectionately, but I hated that name and objected most vociferously. So at my request she dropped it, started to call me Pidge, which is short for pigeon. She told me she chose it because a pigeon is a small chirping bird, just like me. But keep it quiet, okay?’

‘I will,’ Geoff answered. ‘I’m flattered you told me, although I don’t know why it’s such a big secret. It’s not such a bad nickname.’

I smiled at him warmly. I liked Geoff, and he had been a good friend to me over the years. ‘Little girls like to have secrets, you know … and I’ve maintained the secret over the years.’

He smiled back, winked. ‘I get it, and your secret is safe with moi. But about Zac, he’s been better since you arrived. I think he might have relaxed because he feels safe with you here. I’m beginning to feel more optimistic about his recovery.’

I sat back in the chair, brought my hand to my mouth, reflecting on what he had just said. I knew Geoff was correct in one thing – Zac had relaxed as soon as he’d seen me, and he was talking, if only in short takes. But he wasn’t the same Zac. He was diminished and there was a fragility about him; immense sorrow was reflected in his eyes. He’d seen so much, far too much over the years, and he was drowning in pain. His behaviour was calm on the surface, but I recognized he was extremely stressed inside. Hence the bad dreams Geoff had referred to, and which hadn’t surprised me.

‘What’s worrying you, Serena?’ Geoff asked, breaking into my troubled thoughts.

I wanted to be honest with Geoff, so I told him the truth. ‘I’m pleased you’re optimistic, and that you see a change in him because I’m here. Still, I do think he’s very stressed out, on the edge, filled with anxiety.’

‘He is, but I feel easier about leaving you here alone with him.’

‘I’m comfortable being around Zac, Geoff. I’m not very big, but I can defend myself if he suddenly goes nuts.’ I realized how droll I sounded and, despite the seriousness of the matter, I couldn’t help laughing.

Geoff grinned, and shot back, ‘You could blow him over with a few puffs, he’s so weak.’

‘Not quite. But he does seem docile. I know he’s a bit grumpy, doesn’t want to bestir himself, but that’s exhaustion, isn’t it?’

‘It is, yes. As I told you, he hasn’t slept since I brought him out. Once he’s cleaned up, you might be able to get some food into him, some of your chicken-in-the-pot. And a bit of food in his belly will help him to sleep. Food and sleep, that’s what he needs right now.’

‘I’m going to start preparing my chicken-in-the-pot,’ I announced and stood up.

Geoff followed me out to the kitchen. ‘Let me show you where I dumped all the food.’




ELEVEN (#ulink_5100a4bc-9683-550b-8470-4f20cf31bd6e)


When I’d brought Zac to the bolthole for the first time, we had used this bedroom; it was the one my parents had used, and my favourite. He had glanced around with interest, and made a remark about how much my parents were in love and yet slept in twin beds. He obviously thought this was strange.

There was a Stone rule: we didn’t discuss private family matters with outsiders. But I remembered now that I had been oddly embarrassed that day, had felt obliged to explain the reason to Zac. And so I confided that my mother had had a rare form of osteoporosis, which necessitated that she sleep in a single bed for her comfort.

He had been sensitive enough not to ask any further questions, and I had not volunteered any more information. I did not wish to go into personal details about my mother’s health. I felt that simple explanation was enough.

Ever since that first visit together, we had continued to use my late parents’ bedroom. In any case, the two others were also furnished with twin beds. Essentially, the bolthole was maintained for Global photographers and photojournalists, so that they could get a bit of much-needed R&R – it was not for romantic interludes.

Tonight the room was still, quiet, and nothing stirred except the flimsy white curtains flapping against the glass. I’d opened the window earlier to let in fresh air, and a breeze had blown up.

I was wide awake and listening attentively. I sensed Zac was awake as well. I was hoping he would eventually fall asleep, knowing I was here with him. Earlier this evening, I’d managed to get him to sip some of the soup and eat a bit of the chicken, although not enough to satisfy me. At least his stomach was not entirely empty.

What did please me was his cleanliness. He had showered, shampooed his hair, and thankfully it was now his natural glossy brown again, and not that strange dusty-grey colour. It was long, but that was of no concern. He had even shaved, had nicked himself with the razor, but he had made the effort. After his shower, he’d put on a pair of Harry’s pyjamas and a terrycloth robe, which Geoff had found for him.

After Geoff had gone off to the Bauer Hotel, I pottered around in the kitchen, watched my chicken bubbling, called Harry to report in, then spoke to Claudia downstairs, to say hello and thank her. After that, I unpacked my bag. For the remainder of the day, and the evening, Zac was glued to the TV, but he kept the sound low, and he seemed calm, and much less uptight.

Instinctively, I knew it was best to keep everything as normal as possible, low key, with no pressure of any kind. By allowing Zac to be himself, to do whatever he wanted, he would feel more natural and at ease.

And it worked. He had begun to speak a little, although he did not say very much, and I chatted back casually, avoided asking any questions. Harry had warned me not to probe, just to accept that he had come out of Helmand Province because he was tired, weary of being on the front line in Afghanistan.

Eventually my eyelids began to droop, but I wanted to stay awake for as long as possible, to be there for Zac. And so I began to make a mental list of things to do tomorrow.

I must call Harry twice, morning and evening; that was mandatory. He insisted on knowing what was happening with Zac, and, just as importantly, how I was coping.

I had to let Jessica know where I was, and what I was doing. That was also mandatory, another Stone rule. We must know each other’s whereabouts. Dad had drilled that into us. And I must speak to my other sister, Cara. Not only about Dad’s pictures of Mom, but the dummy of the photographic book she had recently found, one which my father had started but not finished.

Cara. My mind focused on her. She called herself the middle sister, because Jessica had been born first; she had been the second twin to pop out ten minutes later.

It had been Cara who had explained our mother’s bone condition to me, when I was old enough to understand. What Mom actually had was osteoporosis, usually considered an old woman’s disease. Our mother had a rare form of it, and this had been triggered by her pregnancy, which is when a woman’s bone density drops, and especially if she breastfeeds.

Mom was thirty-four when the twins were born, and she had breastfed them. Also, she had low peak bone mass to begin with, her doctors had told her at the time, and this hadn’t helped.

Cara had gone on to explain that when I was born, eight years later, Mom’s condition was under control, thanks to medication, although she was not permitted to breastfeed me.

I was grateful that Cara always enlightened me about tricky or complicated family matters. She usually ploughed ahead, even if she thought it was something I might not want to hear, telling me the truth. She always said it the way it was.

She was very matter of fact, pragmatic by nature, and slightly more reserved than Jess.

I loved Cara, just as I did Jess. She made me laugh a lot, and this was because of her pithy observations, often about people we knew, and her frequently caustic comments about life in general.

As a child, Cara had spent a lot of time with our grandmother, my mother’s mother, Alice Vasson. She was the only grandmother we had. Our father’s parents, David and Greta Stone, had died long before we girls were born.

Granny Alice had a repertoire of old sayings to suit almost every situation; Cara had picked them up when she was little, had kept using them ever since, and they were now part of her vocabulary. Her three favourites were: That’s going to put the cat among the pigeons; I’ll be there before you can say Jack Robinson; Waste not, want not. That last saying I often threw back at Cara, because she was no more thrifty than Jessica and I were.

It struck me that perhaps I had failed Cara, in a certain sense. I hadn’t been around enough for her after Dad died; she and Jessica had suffered as I had, had been grief-stricken as well, and I’d been nursing my wounds and my guilt in New York when I should have been with them.

Cara, in particular, was vulnerable these days because of her fiancé’s death two years ago. Jules Nollet, her French childhood sweetheart, had been killed in a skiing accident when they were on vacation in the French Alps. And that was the reason I believed Cara was frequently depressed. Jessica agreed with me. All Cara did these days was work in her orchid business. I worried about her …

I must have fallen asleep. Suddenly, I awakened with a start.

Zac was calling, ‘Serena, Serena!’

I struggled up, threw the bedclothes back and jumped out of bed, rushing over to him. ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’

‘I’m cold. Freezing,’ he muttered.

Turning on the bedside lamp, I looked down at him. His face was chalk white, his eyes red-rimmed, and he was shaking uncontrollably, huddled under the duvet.

Immediately, I pulled the duvet off my bed and laid it on top of him, then ran and closed the window. I pulled open a drawer in the chest, found two hot-water bottles, as I knew I would, and a pair of thick wool bed socks. Our mother believed in them, made all of us wear them when we were growing up, and there was a drawer-full here, bought by her years ago.

After untucking the sheets at the bottom of Zac’s bed, I managed somehow to pull the socks onto his feet, which were icy. Picking up the hot-water bottles I went to the kitchen, put on a kettle of water to boil, ran back to the bedroom. ‘Are you feeling warmer?’ I asked, bending over him in concern.

‘No,’ he mumbled, and I noticed that he was still shaking.

I was alarmed and a little frightened. Was he coming down with an illness? Or was this a manifestation of his exhaustion and lack of food? He was also stressed out and filled with anxiety, not in good shape at all. I hovered over him, uncertain about what to do to help him, other than get his body temperature back to normal.

The whistling kettle pulled me into the kitchen, and after filling the hot-water bottles I returned to the bedroom. I placed one close to his chest, the other against his back. ‘These’ll help; you’ll soon be warmer,’ I murmured.

He grunted something unintelligible.

I remained at the bedside, wondering what else would help him. Then I remembered there was nothing like another person’s body heat to warm someone who was freezing cold. I went to the other side of the bed, got in, lay close to his back, and put my arms around him. With a little manoeuvring, I managed to put my body partially on top of his, hoping my body heat would do the trick.

He continued to shiver for a while, but then very gradually the shivering became less and less. I remained on top of him, my arms holding him until he finally dozed off.

Not much time elapsed before he was breathing deeply and evenly. Finally I got out of his bed, went and turned off the lamp, praying that he would sleep through the night.

To my relief he did. When I woke up just before seven the next morning, Zac was still sleeping soundly. Slipping into my robe, I let myself out of the bedroom quietly, and went to the kitchen, where I made a pot of coffee, scrambled eggs and toast.

Carrying the tray back to the living room, I took it over to the table at the far end of the room, and began to eat.

My mind was focused on Zac and his life. I realized that he had met Harry and my father in 1999 … there was that year again. They had all been in Kosovo in September and naturally he knew who they were; was in awe of them, he told me later. Harry and Tommy took a shine to the young photographer, and he became, over time, Harry’s protégé. He was given a job at Global in 2000 and had become the star photographer over the years.

He was not a novice when it came to war, I thought now, sipping my coffee. He’d already done a lot, seen a lot of bloodshed and devastation on battle fronts all over the world by the time he’d met Dad and Harry. He was a young veteran meeting old veterans … two men who had had more than their fair share of luck when it came to survival.

Tommy and Harry had become war photographers in the early 1960s, and neither of them had ever taken a hit, nor been wounded. What luck, I thought, and I was unexpectedly rather pleased that my father had died in his own bed, and not covering a war.

If he’d had to die, at that moment in time, he had done so in the best place of all, with two of his daughters with him.

I was finishing my scrambled eggs when Zac suddenly appeared, bundled up in the terrycloth robe, looking rumpled. ‘Hi, Serena,’ he said in a slightly hoarse voice, and paused near the kitchen door. ‘I’ll get a mug of coffee.’

‘Hi,’ I answered. ‘Do you want me to make you some eggs?’

‘Not sure,’ he mumbled, and disappeared into the kitchen.

A moment later he sat down at the table opposite me with his coffee. ‘Thank you,’ he said, staring across at me, ‘for last night.’ He cleared his throat several times, then went on, ‘I don’t know what was wrong with me, but I was icy cold. I’ve never experienced anything like it before.’

‘You were freezing. I must admit I was worried. But I managed to get you warmed up.’ I studied him for a moment, noting that he did look more rested, and his face was less taut. ‘In my opinion, what you had was some kind of reaction to exhaustion and lack of nourishment. That’s why you should try and eat a little of something, Zac.’

He nodded. ‘Maybe scrambled eggs then?’ he asked hesitatingly. ‘If it’s not too much trouble.’

‘Not at all,’ I answered, rising, taking my plate and heading for the kitchen. ‘Back in a minute,’ I murmured over my shoulder.

I couldn’t help smiling wryly to myself, as I set about beating four eggs in a bowl. If it’s not too much trouble, he’d said, after asking me to come all the way from New York to take care of him.

As I returned to the living room, with his eggs and toast on a plate, I noticed that he had not turned on the television set. Silence is golden, I thought, well pleased that the room was quiet and peaceful.

He ate half the eggs and a little bread, and drank the coffee, but he didn’t say much. He still appeared somewhat remote, cut off from me. At least his body was relaxed, and he was totally calm, if uncommunicative.

I made a little conversation. I told him about Jessica’s new client, her trip to New York to see me, and mentioned that I was making progress on the book. He listened, nodded, and even smiled several times, made a few noncommittal comments.

He was not the Zac of old – the intense, passionate, talkative photojournalist with an opinion about everything and a great sense of humour. He was toned down, a little out of it, listless, I decided, preoccupied even. On the other hand, he was in control of himself, and that was the most important thing of all.

Give it time, I told myself. You’ve only been with him for a day and a night, for God’s sake. Every day he’ll improve, and he’ll soon be his old self.

How wrong I was. I had no way of knowing that morning that trouble was on its way.




TWELVE (#ulink_fb5afc0f-bfda-569e-9d7c-6a25a973fa1f)


‘Do you mean you’re not going back to Pakistan this week, or never ever going back?’ I asked Geoff, frowning as I stared at him, puzzled by his statement of a moment ago.

‘Never going back, honey. Yep, I’m outta there, and I told Harry I wanna stay out. No two ways about it, Serena, I’ve had it.’

‘I understand,’ I said, genuinely meaning this. ‘There comes a moment when enough’s enough. I felt like that last year, I knew I had to quit the front lines. I lost my nerve. I’m sure of that. And when that happens you’ve no alternative.’

Geoff nodded, was silent for a moment, sipping his iced tea, his eyes reflective as he glanced around.

We were sitting on the terrace of the Bauer Palazzo Hotel, overlooking the private dock and the Grand Canal. It was Tuesday morning and I had been in Venice for five days.

Earlier, I had taken Zac to the barber’s shop, the one that Tommy and Harry had used whenever they were in Venice, because he had decided he needed his hair cut this morning. A good sign, I thought, and I had called Geoff, suggesting we all have lunch once Zac was finished.

Geoff had been agreeable, and suggested we meet here at the old Bauer Palazzo, which was next door to the more modern Bauer Hotel, where he was staying.

As we sat here together, enjoying being outside on the sunny morning, I was feeling relaxed. Zac had been relatively normal – not his old self yet, but not manic, nor agitated in any way. Also, much to my relief, he was eating something every day. Not a lot, but he was putting some food inside himself. He slept constantly, often slipping out of the living room some afternoons and going to bed.

I remember that Dad sometimes slept like that when he came back from covering a war. Total exhaustion took over. He usually had to crash. And so did I, when I returned from a battleground.

I was thankful that Zac had not had any more disturbed nights so far. Several times he had woken up shouting, and calling my name, but these few incidents did not alarm me. I knew my presence was helping him, and I was gratified that I had come. It seemed to be paying off. I prayed it was.

Geoff turned to me, put his hand on his arm. ‘Listen, kid, I know Zac’s been relatively quiet since you got here last Thursday.’ He nodded to himself, then said slowly, ‘I wonder if that strange attack, when he was so icy cold, frightened him? Perhaps it made him focus on his health, kinda brought him up short.’

‘Maybe you’re right,’ I answered. ‘He’s never really talked about it with me. I explained that I thought it was a reaction to fatigue, lack of sleep and food, and he agreed. He’s doing okay, Geoff. I know that.’

‘I trust your judgement, Serena, and I’m glad he’s not drinking or glued to the TV set. Booze, and war reportage seen second-hand, tend to agitate him no end.’ Geoff gave me a penetrating look. ‘Do you think he’s got post-traumatic stress disorder?’

This comment took me aback. ‘I haven’t seen any real signs of it yet,’ I replied.

Geoff nodded, and took a sip of his iced tea. ‘I witnessed a few strange things when I brought him out of Afghanistan … the pacing around, the sleepless nights, the agitation, the awful fucking nightmares, and the boozing. There were times when he really did attempt to drown his sorrows. And by the way, Harry has wondered about his condition.’

‘I know, I’ve discussed it with Harry, and he said I should humour Zac, that I must allow him to rant and rave, to weep, and to get his rage out. As you and I well know, when we come out we all have pent-up emotions: anxiety, anger, frustration, despair. Being witness to too much killing, too much death, doesn’t help.’

There was a silence, and Geoff looked off into the distance again, and then he drew closer, leaned forward. ‘Listen, I am developing really bad feelings, and I’m very aware, after a few days living a normal life here, that I do have to jump ship. Pronto. My time is up on the battlefield.’

‘Then it’s the right moment to go,’ I said in a firm voice. ‘That’s when you lose your edge, when you start to dither, or question what you’re doing. That can be dangerous, Geoff: one mistake and you’re dead.’

‘I know. Zac mentioned that he’d been covering wars since he was twenty-one. That’s sixteen years, a helluva long time. I’ve only been at it for seven and lately I’ve felt pretty rotten most of the time. I don’t want to end up like Zac – burnt out, just a shell of what I was.’

‘I understand, and I must say I’ve certainly been one of the lucky ones,’ I responded. ‘Eight years on the front. But my father and Harry sent me out a lot. Dad made me go back to Nice for breaks; they both deemed it necessary. And anyway, my mother insisted on it.’

Geoff volunteered, ‘You’re not very damaged, Serena, in my opinion anyway. In fact, I’d say you’re pretty damned good. I’ve often wondered if your father or Harry ever suffered from PTSD. Do you know?’

‘They both did, at different times, so they’ve told me. But they coped, they got out, cooled off. My father went back to Nice very often because of Mom’s fragile health. And Dad once brought Harry out of the Balkans. So Harry told me the other day. From Bosnia. He was in a bad way. Dad and Harry took a very long break after that.’

‘They needed it, I bet.’

‘You know, Geoff, Dad and Harry had Global Images to fall back on, a business to run, when they weren’t covering wars. They both did other photography for a time. What are you going to do? I hope you’re not leaving Global, Geoff.’

‘No, I’m not. Harry said I should take a month off, longer if I needed it, to think about my future. And he definitely wants me to remain with the agency. I’m staying here in Venice for a few more days, I want to get myself really rested. Then I’m going back to California to see my daughter. As you know, Chloe lives with my ex-wife. It’s all very amicable. And I do need to touch base with them, have a big dose of normality. I want to put this monstrous world out of my mind.’ Geoff looked at his watch. ‘I wonder where Zac is?’ he murmured, turning to glance at me.

‘Oh, he’ll be here any minute,’ I answered, attempting a nonchalance I did not feel. I hoped I was right.




THIRTEEN (#ulink_665c5d7a-6036-569c-b4ec-88a5aaf7721f)


As Zac walked across the terrace towards our table, my throat constricted and a wave of emotion washed over me unexpectedly. He looked so young from a distance, appeared to be just like he was when we first met, long ago – eleven years now. And for a moment I was thrown back in time.

A decade dropped away, and I recalled how I had fallen in love with him during a very special summer in Nice. What an extraordinary summer it had been. Idyllic, romantic, filled with laughter and happiness.

He had been endearing, loving and thoughtful. Although he was handsome, it was his charm and intelligence that had captivated me. I enjoyed being with him, and we had a lot in common. In particular, we shared a love of photojournalism, especially war coverage.

Of course I had not been on the front line then, but he had, and he shared so much about his experiences with me; we very quickly bonded. He’s my soul mate, I had thought, and he had felt the same way about me. When we became serious about each other, four years later, we had both believed it was going to last forever. But that was not meant to be … we had finally parted bitterly last year.

As he drew closer, I noticed that Dad’s favourite barber, Benito, had given Zac the best haircut. It was short, stylish and youthful, and Benito, being an excellent barber, had obviously applied his skills to Zac’s face, had shaved him; Zac’s cheeks were smooth, free of stubble, and he appeared less tense.

I smiled inwardly. Zac was wearing my father’s ancient black-leather bomber jacket, which had definitely seen better days. It was years old, had become communal property, was borrowed by everyone who stayed at the bolthole. I’d even used it myself at times.

With the worn, cracked leather jacket, Zac had on an open-necked white shirt and dark trousers; the casual outfit added to his air of youthfulness.

When he finally reached our table, squeezed my shoulder, half smiled, I noticed the tightness around his eyes, the wrinkles; now that he was close up I was aware of his overall weariness. Yet he was calm, obviously wanting to behave as normally as possible. He had control of himself, that I knew.

Before I could say anything, Geoff was on his feet and hugging Zac, who returned his embrace. I noted the affection between them, the respect they had for each other. They had always been good buddies, and it was genuine loyalty and concern that had compelled Geoff to get him out of Helmand Province when he was in trouble, despite the danger and risk Geoff was exposed to in that terrible place.

Zac sat down between Geoff and me, glanced at the iced tea and said, ‘I’d like a glass of white wine, I think.’

I was silent; I felt a spurt of panic. Wine was dangerous. If he had one glass he could easily end up drinking a whole bottle. I glanced at Geoff, signalling my alarm with my eyes.

Geoff took charge at once, in that swift and efficient way he had of dealing with things. ‘Let’s have a glass of champagne instead of white wine. That’s gonna be great on this sunny morning in Venice, Italy, on a very peaceful day away from bloody bombs and bullets.’ He glanced at me. ‘Don’t you think so, Serena?’

I agreed at once. ‘What a grand idea! We can toast your liberation, and champagne’s great for a celebration. Let’s make it pink champagne.’

‘Fine by me,’ Zac said, then asked, ‘What liberation? What celebration?’ He looked at Geoff quizzically.

‘I’m outta Pakistan for good, Zac. I’m not going back,’ Geoff explained in a determined voice as he beckoned to the waiter. After ordering three glasses of pink champagne, and asking for the menu, he continued, ‘I told Harry I’m retiring from the front line, Zac. He agreed I should, if I felt strongly about it. And naturally he understands that an unenthusiastic war photographer is a liability to Global, not to mention to himself. He puts himself at risk.’

‘Why now, suddenly?’ Zac asked, frowning.

‘Because I realized when I brought you out of Afghanistan that I was gonna end up like you in the not too distant future. I’m quitting before I become a basket case. Or get myself killed.’

Zac was silent, just nodded.

I said, ‘Once you feel that way you’ve got to leave. As I did.’

I had the feeling Zac was a little startled by Geoff’s words, and mine, but he did not show it. After a moment he turned to Geoff. ‘But what will you cover, if you’re not a war photographer? That’s what you’ve done all your life.’

‘I don’t know, to be honest,’ Geoff answered. ‘Right now, I’m planning to go to California to see my daughter, get a bit of R and R. I’m not making any special plans, it’s too soon. I wanna take it easy for a while.’

Zac’s expression was thoughtful.

I said, ‘You might want to create some sort of photographic series, Geoff. Harry suggested I should do that, since I do want to continue being a photographer. World famine was a subject I was considering.’

Zac glanced at me swiftly, and said very pointedly, ‘I thought you were writing a book about Tommy’s life.’

‘I am. Harry was just thinking ahead, looking for something I could do when I’ve finished the book.’

‘Don’t you want to run Global Images with Harry? After all, you own half of it now,’ Zac remarked.

‘I’ve no interest in doing that. Florence has been in charge since the beginning, and personally I think she should remain in charge. I’d only be a spare wheel. Besides, I don’t want that kind of job. Can you see me stuck in an office?’

‘No, I can’t,’ Zac exclaimed, and then laughed for the first time since I’d arrived in Venice.

Geoff and I began to laugh with him, and we toasted each other with the pink champagne, which the waiter had just brought to the table. And then a moment later, Zac startled us when he announced he was hungry.

‘It’s the fresh air,’ Geoff said. ‘Getting out, going to the barber’s shop, and the walk over here. It’s done you good, Zac – we’ll have to do this more often.’

‘How long are you staying?’ I asked curiously.

‘Another few days.’ Geoff gave me a knowing look, and picked up the menu. ‘I’m gonna have a bowl of spaghetti bolognese, but hey, Zac, the fish is good. Mind you, so is everything on the menu. What tempts you?’

‘Not sure. Maybe gnocchi, or lasagne. Mom makes the best lasagne … I grew up with Italian food, you know.’

‘Yeah, you told me before. So, look at the menu, and let’s order.’

Zac and I both followed Geoff’s lead and chose spaghetti bolognese as our main course, with tomatoes and mozzarella to start.

Much to my annoyance, Geoff ordered three more glasses of pink champagne when he asked for a bottle of sparkling water. But I kept my mouth shut, just sat back in my chair, picked up my half-empty flute and sipped it.

Geoff and Zac began a conversation about Italian food and their favourite dishes. Whilst this took me by surprise, I was pleased Zac was opening up in this way, talking again. His dissertation about Italian food was not new; he had had many with Frankie, when we had been at Rao’s for dinner.

Zac was half Italian. His mother, Lucia, had been born in Italy and brought to America as a baby, when her parents had emigrated. His father, Patrick, was of Irish descent. But to me it was his Italian side that appeared more dominant in him: he spoke the language fluently, and his dark good looks were Latin. His eyes were Irish, though; at least that’s what I thought. They were a luminous light green when he wasn’t exhausted.

For once Zac ate his lunch, and obviously enjoyed the food. Geoff and I did too. We skipped dessert, but had two coffees each, and Zac insisted on paying the bill when it was time to leave.

Before we left the restaurant, I phoned Harry in New York, checking in with him around three o’clock European time, as I usually did. It was nine in the morning in Manhattan. Harry was delighted to speak to Zac and Geoff, to hear both of them sounding well, and he was a happy man when he

hung up.

Geoff wandered off to the Bauer Hotel next door to the old palazzo, and Zac and I walked through the streets, heading for the Piazza San Marco. We didn’t say much as we strolled along, but at one moment Zac took hold of my hand, and squeezed it. I squeezed his, and looked at him. He stared back at me, and a soft smile played around his mouth, then he leaned in, kissed my cheek. ‘Thanks, Serena, thanks for coming to Venice, thanks for everything.’

‘I was glad to come, if a little concerned. I didn’t know what I was going to find.’

‘I haven’t been so bad, have I?’

‘No, you haven’t. Not too many nightmares. I was worried about you when you had that strange attack, when you were so icy cold last week.’

‘I’ll never know what that was,’ he answered, shaking his head, looking baffled. ‘Exhaustion, being very stressed out after leaving the front line, as you suggested.’

‘Perhaps,’ I agreed. ‘Today you’re the best you’ve been since I got here. And I know now it was rest and food you needed, among other things.’

‘I enjoyed my lunch,’ he told me, and squeezed my hand again.

We had reached the piazza, and Zac said, ‘Let’s stop off at Florian’s and have a drink.’

‘All right. But not a drink, Zac,’ I replied. I instantly knew I sounded uptight, and I was annoyed with myself.

‘That was just a turn of phrase,’ he responded, his voice even. ‘So an ice cream, a Coke, a lemonade, a coffee, a glass of water. Anything. It’s just too nice to go back to the bolthole yet, and this square is full of memories for me. Isn’t it for you too, Serena?’

I did not speak for a moment, and then I said softly, in a low voice, ‘Very many memories, Zac,’ and I felt my heart lurch. I was suddenly a little afraid. Not of him but of myself and my reaction to him, and what might happen between us.




FOURTEEN (#ulink_229954ba-1b16-5dbc-9dc3-6cad3d998f12)


In the past, when we had been in love and together, Caffè Florian had been a favourite place. We had come here every day and now here we were again. Florian’s was still the same but we were not. We had changed.

Despite the sun it was a cool afternoon, and a wind had blown up, and so we sat inside at a cosy table near the bar. Zac ordered coffee, but I fancied a vanilla ice cream. As I ate it slowly, Zac couldn’t keep his spoon out of the dish, kept dipping it in and spooning dollops of ice cream into his mouth.

At one moment, he glanced at me, and asked, ‘Have you ever let another man eat food from your plate? Or, as in this instance, a dish?’

I shook my head, endeavouring not to smile, detecting a hint of normality surfacing – his jealousy about unknown men. Actually, nonexistent other men. ‘No,’ I said at last.

He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye, and murmured, ‘Good. It’s very intimate.’

‘I know.’

‘Do you mind? That I’ve always done it?’

‘No, I don’t … and listen, it’s a privilege only you enjoy.’

He gave me a funny little smile, sat back comfortably in the chair. ‘I don’t know exactly why, but I’ve always loved this place. Perhaps because it smacks of another era, from a time gone by.’

‘I’m sure you’re right. I feel the same way,’ I said, thrilled that we were actually having a proper conversation, one that wasn’t stilted or awkward. ‘My mother told me that the original eighteenth-century décor had been carefully preserved; that Florian’s was one of the first places in Europe to serve coffee, when it was considered an exotic drink.’ I looked around. ‘It does have a special warmth. It’s very welcoming, sort of quaint.’

‘I loved your mother’s bits and pieces, as she called all that information she had tucked away at the back of her beautiful head,’ Zac remarked. ‘She was such a lot of fun.’

I nodded, smiled at the memory of her. ‘She used to say she was a fountain of information nobody needed or cared about.’ I picked up my glass of water, took a swallow, gazed at him for a moment.

I saw him clearly, as he was now, and there was something of the old Zac about him this afternoon. His colour was better, his eyes unexpectedly brighter, and the sharp angles of his face had softened. He was obviously relaxed, and it was visible in the way he held his body, as well as in his face.

Suddenly, he said, ‘You’re staring at me, Pidge. Is something wrong?’

‘No, something is good,’ I responded quickly. ‘I think you’re much less uptight, and it shows. Ever since I arrived in Venice you’ve had strict control of yourself, as if you were afraid to be you, to be who you really are.’

‘I know, and I’m still in control.’

‘But you’re not so rigid this afternoon.’ I eyed him carefully, and a smile broke through when I added, ‘It’s as if you have loosened the tight rein you’ve had on yourself, and decided to trust me.’

‘If I didn’t trust you, I wouldn’t have asked Harry to persuade you to come!’ he exclaimed, giving me an odd look.

‘He didn’t have to do much persuading.’

‘I would’ve been in a mess if you hadn’t agreed,’ he said after a moment, now gazing at me intently. ‘I’d have been lost. Your presence is very soothing to me, Pidge, even healing. I really believe I need you to help me get through this difficult period.’

‘I think so too,’ I agreed, and went on carefully. ‘How did you know you had to get out? Did something happen? Go wrong? Or did Harry decide to pull you out? He’s not discussed it with me, nor has Geoff. They sort of left me in the dark, actually. Are you able to talk about it? Or would you prefer not to? Is it too hard?’ I asked, the questions tumbling out of me. Questions I’d wanted to ask for days.

‘I can talk. I want to talk about it, and about other troubling things. That’s what I told Harry – that you’re the only person who would have a clue, would be able to properly discuss the front line and war reporting. Because you’d been there, seen it all, been as heartsick and as numb as me at different times.’

He paused, shifted slightly in his chair, and continued speaking in such a low voice I could hardly hear him. I leaned closer, not wanting to miss a word.

‘I feel so rotten at times, Serena, so devastated I can hardly stand myself. There’s a remorselessness about war that is chilling. And it kills the soul. Yet I’ve gone back time after time, and I don’t know why.’

‘Because you had to, Zac,’ I answered. ‘Because of your honesty and humanity, and the need you have to tell the world the truth about brutal regimes oppressing people, and to expose the terrible suffering in war zones. You’re a photojournalist, as I am, and that’s what we do.’

I reached out, took hold of his hand. ‘Except that there comes a time when we can’t do it any more, because we’re too battered, exhausted and disillusioned. Those are the reasons I stopped, and they’re yours.’

He nodded, squeezed my hand tightly. ‘Something happened one day, and I just couldn’t stand it any more …’ Unexpectedly, tears filled his eyes, and he blinked, cleared his throat. ‘I can’t discuss it, go into details, not at this moment, mostly because we’re here at Florian’s. I know I’ll cry …’

I continued to hold his hand. ‘I understand. You don’t want to weep in public. So we’ll save it for later. Whenever you want. Anyway, from what I gather, you told Harry you wanted out. Am I correct?’

‘Yes. I had to leave the front; I knew it was the time I had to go. I didn’t feel well, physically or mentally, and I realized I needed help. Harry said he’d come in and get me, and I told him not to. He suggested Geoff, and I agreed at once. And fortunately for me, so did Geoff. He came in within twenty-four hours, and he never flinched.’

‘He’s a good guy. You seemed startled earlier, when he said he wasn’t going back to Pakistan.’

‘I was for a split second, and then I knew he felt like I did, burnt out. And also mentally bludgeoned by what he’d witnessed.’

‘You asked him what he was going to do, once he’d left war photography, and he didn’t really have an answer for you. But it troubles you, doesn’t it? You’re facing the same dilemma,’ I suggested.

A small sigh escaped. Zac nodded. ‘Yep. I am. We’re in the same boat, he and I. Totally at a loss, I guess.’

‘I think you can only deal with that when you are feeling better, Zac, when you’re back on your feet. I know you have a lot of troubling stuff to deal with, to get out of the way first. When the time comes, you’ll understand what you want to photograph, what kind of life you want to lead.’

‘I guess so. But sometimes I wish I had a hobby, something I could throw myself into …’ He let his voice trail off, his eyes sad.

‘You need a release from war coverage, something that takes your mind off the conflict, the blood and bullets, dead troops, maimed civilians caught in the crossfire. We all do, actually. All that destruction is mind boggling.’

‘Do you have a hobby these days, Serena?’ he asked, sounding interested.

‘There’s the biography I’m writing about Dad; that’s not exactly a hobby, but I am enjoying it.’ I laughed a little hollowly, ‘Well, most of the time. The thing is, I really do want to continue writing. But to be honest, I wish I could find another occupation, or a hobby, something to throw myself into. Jessica loves sailing, mucking around on boats, and she always has.’

‘That’s what Marie Colvin does; that’s her passion when she’s not covering wars,’ Zac told me, referring to the famous war correspondent we both knew. ‘I love being on boats myself – maybe that’s something I could try eventually … as a pastime.’

‘You once told me that you used to go sailing with your father, in Upstate New York, and—’

‘That’s right!’ he exclaimed, cutting across me. ‘We had a log cabin near the Finger Lakes. In fact, Dad still has it. Anyway, we all used to go up there for weekends, but I was the only one who went fishing with Dad.’

I smiled, pleased to see that fleeting glimpse of pleasure crossing his face as he said this. It was obvious he had good memories about those days of his youth.

We lingered at Florian’s, enjoying the friendly and familiar surroundings; escaping, in a sense, into the past, when we had been happy together. We both ordered tea, and went on talking about all kinds of things. This was the first time in the five days that I had been here that he had been as normal as this, and it pleased me. It was a good sign.

All I wanted was for Zac to get better. In my own way, I loved him. We had once been so close it was hard not to have feelings for him. But at the same time I realized I could never become romantically involved with him again. I had grown wary, cautious and self-protective over this past year.

There was no viable future for us together, despite our attraction for each other. That was still there, I was very well aware of this, and it wasn’t just me. Zac felt it too, I was sure, and he had swiftly moved out of my parents’ bedroom in the bolthole, which we had shared for the first couple of nights. He had not said a word, and neither had I. And I understood why he had gone back to one of the other bedrooms. Close proximity was unnerving.




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