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Where You Belong
Barbara Taylor Bradford
A contemporary novel from the author of A Woman of Substance about a young woman finding herself and her place in life, in love and in the world.Valentine Denning is a courageous photojournalist on the frontline in Kosovo. Her colleagues – Tony Hampton and American Jake Newberg – are her comrades-in-arms, men whom she loves and trusts. One is her best friend; one her lover. In a nightmarish ambush, all three are shot, Tony fatally, and for Val an even worse nightmare begins.For there are memories and lies – lies which force Val to find herself again by leaving her past life of heart-breaking war-danger for what seems like the gentler world of celebrity-shoots: but this too brings danger – a famous artist whose reputation as a playboy does not steel against a powerful attraction. Valentine’s sense of searching for something leads her to retrace paths which she thought she had left behind.



Where You Belong
Barbara Taylor Bradford




Copyright (#ulink_783ce35b-42bf-59c8-8a54-d48a4e507783)
Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
Special overseas edition 2000

First published in Great Britain
by HarperCollinsPublishers 2000
This edition published in 2010.

Copyright © Barbara Taylor Bradford 2000

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

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, downloaded, 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 e-books.

Ebook Edition © MARCH 2010 ISBN: 9780007371990
Version: 2017-11-16

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

TO BOB, AS ALWAYS, WITH ALL MY LOVE

Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u947fe8d9-bfaa-5be9-ad04-24b92fec1f6c)
Title Page (#ud4fd0949-4821-5b36-8eb0-3537d9f5d543)
Copyright (#u6f3a7854-6bc6-515f-a033-1f4ebcec526a)
Dedication (#ua77bfcb4-a83a-5e88-9e9f-a17a0a9fa98b)
PART ONE A Matter of Integrity (#u40da29f6-75ac-5b0b-836b-d02278e8e0cd)
CHAPTER ONE (#u41a8bf68-343e-5717-9bd0-537a09798678)
CHAPTER TWO (#u9208f70b-8f2c-5d60-8997-25a788dece83)
CHAPTER THREE (#uc7ea557d-603d-511d-bbb7-3c168f5fd57a)
CHAPTER FOUR (#ufdae90c9-49a2-5617-9f06-169cbb28b6d0)
CHAPTER FIVE (#ubd081898-6ed1-5a53-91dd-045057771ba5)
CHAPTER SIX (#u31503f11-425c-52c6-a62b-ded6cb7c4997)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#ud6b0375c-19d9-5e32-8303-c6c172038a95)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
PART TWO The Value of Truth (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#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)
PART THREE A Question of Trust (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT (#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)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
By the same author (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)

PART ONE A Matter of Integrity (#ulink_0afbfe1a-7e50-51ae-938c-6f0acf0095da)

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_d86b40bd-702c-5772-b977-dec06a77ed17)
I
KOSOVO, AUGUST 1998
The three of us sat in a small copse at the far end of the village, taking shelter from the blistering heat in the leafy bower, bosky, cool, on this scorching summer’s day.
The jeep was parked out on the road nearby, and I peered towards it, frowning slightly, wondering what had happened to Ajet, our adviser, guide, and driver. He had gone on foot to the village, having several days ago arranged to meet an old school friend there, who in turn would take us to see the leaders of the K.L.A. According to Ajet, the Kosovo Liberation Army had their main training camp near the village, and Ajet had assured us in Péc and then again on the drive here, that the leaders would be in the camp, and that they would be more than willing to have their photographs taken for transmission to newspapers and magazines around the world. ‘Everyone should know the truth, should know about our cause, our just and rightful cause,’ Ajet had said to us time and again.
When he had left the copse a short while ago he had been smiling cheerfully, happy at the idea of meeting his old friend, and I had watched him step out jauntily as he had walked down the dusty road in a determined and purposeful manner. But that had been over two hours ago, and he had still not returned, and this disturbed me. I could not help wondering if something unforeseen, something bad, had happened to the friendly young Kosovar who had been so helpful to us.
Rising, I walked through the copse and, shading my eyes with my hand, I stood looking down the dirt road. There was no sign of Ajet; in fact, there was very little activity at all. But I waited for a short while, hoping he would appear at any moment.
My name is Valentine Denning, and I’m a New Yorker born and bred, but now I base myself in Paris, where I work as a photojournalist for Gemstar, a well-known international news-photo agency. With the exception of my grandfather, no one in my family ever thought I would become a photojournalist. Grandfather had spotted my desire to record everything I saw when I was a child, and bought me my first camera. My parents never paid much attention to me, and what I would do when I grew up never seemed to cross their minds. My brother Donald, to whom I was much closer in those days and tended to bully since he was younger, was forever after me to become a model; but I’m not pretty enough. Donald kept pointing out that I was tall, slim, with long legs and an athletic build, as if I didn’t know my own body. At least I don’t look bad in the pictures Jake and Tony have taken of me. But I’m not much into clothes; I like T-shirts, khaki pants, white cotton shirts and bush jackets, workmanlike clothes that are perfect for the life I lead.
I’m thirty-one years old, constantly travelling, living out of a suitcase, and then there are the crazy hours, the lack of comfort, even the most basic of amenities, when I’m on the front lines, covering wars and other disasters, not to mention the danger I often find myself facing. But I prefer this life to walking down a catwalk showing off Paris couture.
Turning away from the road at last, I went back to rejoin Jake Newberg and Tony Hampton, comradesin-arms, as Tony calls us. I think of these two men as my family; we’ve worked together for several years now and we’re inseparable. Jake is my best friend, and Tony has graduated from best friend to lover in the past year. The three of us go everywhere together, and we always make sure we are on the same assignments for our news-photo agencies.
I gazed at Tony surreptitiously for a moment, thinking how fit and healthy he looked as he sat on part of a felled tree trunk, loading two of his cameras with rolls of new film. Tony, who is Irish, is ten years older than me. Stocky and muscular, he has inherited his mother’s Black Irish good looks, and is a handsome and charismatic man. But it’s his masculinity, his potent sexuality that women found most appealing, even overwhelming, and certainly irresistible, as I have discovered.
Consideredtobeoneofthe world’s great war photographers, of the same ilk as the late Robert Capa, he is something of a risk taker when it comes to getting his pictures. This does not unduly worry me, although I know it gives Jake Newberg cause for concern; he has discussed it with me frequently of late.
I eyed Jake, sitting on the grass with his back to a tree, looking nonchalant as he made notes in the small blue leather notebook he always carried with him. Jake is also an American, ‘a Jew from Georgia’, is the way he likes to describe himself. At thirty-eight, he is also one of the top war photographers, a prize-winner like Tony. I’ve won many awards myself but I’ve never attempted to put myself in their league, although Tony and Jake say I belong there, that I’m just as good as they are.
Jake is tall, lean, with a physical toughness about him that makes him seem indestructible – anyway, that is the way I view him. He’s an attractive man, with an expressive face, blondish curly hair and the most vivid blue eyes I’ve ever seen. Yet despite his puckishness and the mischievous twinkle that often glints in those eyes, I long ago discovered that Jake is the most compassionate of men. And I’ve come to appreciate his understanding of the complexities of the human heart and the human frailties we are all afflicted with.
Tony glanced up as he became aware of me hovering over him. ‘What is it?’ he asked, frowning slightly. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘I hope Ajet’s all right, Tony, he’s been gone –’
‘I’m sure he is,’ Tony cut in quickly, with a certain firmness, and then he gave me a reassuring smile. ‘It’s very quiet, peaceful out there, isn’t it?’
I nodded. ‘There’s hardly any sign of life.’
‘Doesn’t surprise me. I think the village is probably half-deserted by now. It’s more than likely that a lot of locals have already left, are moving south ahead of the Serbian army, crossing the border into Albania as fast as they can.’
‘You’re probably right.’ I sat down on the grass and fell silent, ruminating.
Jake glanced at me and then looked thoughtfully at Tony. He said in a brisk tone, ‘Let’s abandon this shoot, get the hell out of here, Tony. I’ve got a bad feeling.’
‘But we won’t get this chance again,’ I felt bound to point out, sitting up straighter, staring at Jake.
Ajet suddenly reappeared. He came wandering in from the road looking as if he had no cares in the world. Not only did he seem unperturbed, he actually looked pleased with himself, almost smug.
‘Everything’s set up,’ he announced in his perfect English, learned during the eight years he had lived and worked in Brooklyn, where his uncle and cousin still lived. ‘I saw my guy,’ he continued, ‘I talked to him at length. We drank coffee. He has just closed his shop, gone out to the farmhouse in the fields at the other side of the village. The farmhouse is the K.L.A.’s headquarters now. He is going to bring the top leaders here –’ Ajet broke off, looked at his Rolex watch, a cheap copy of the real thing bought on the streets of Manhattan. He nodded to himself and finished, ‘One more hour. Yes, in one hour approximately they will come to the village. We will meet them at the shop. Now we relax, we wait here.’
‘Good man!’ Tony exclaimed, beaming at the young Kosovar. ‘And since we’ve got an hour to kill we should eat. Let’s get the bottled water and the sandwiches from the jeep.’ Jumping up, Tony started to walk towards the road.
Ajet exclaimed, ‘No, no, Tony, please sit down! Please. Do not trouble yourself. I will go for the box of sandwiches and the water.’
I murmured, ‘I’m not hungry, but I would love some water.’
‘No food for me either,’ Jake said. ‘Just water, like Val.’
The young man hurried off, and I looked at Tony and then at Jake. ‘I might go down the road to the village, mosey around a bit. What do you think?’
Jake nodded but made no comment.
Tony walked over to me, took hold of my hand and pulled me up from the grass. ‘I don’t like you being out of my sight on a shoot like this, Val, especially since we don’t really know the lay of the land around here. But I think it’s okay, certainly Ajet doesn’t appear to be worried. So go for a walk if you want.’
Slipping his arm around my waist, he brought me closer to him, held me in a loving embrace. Against my hair he murmured, ‘I’d like to get back to Belgrade tonight, Vee. There’s something about your room at the hotel that I find most appealing.’
‘It’s because I’m in it,’ I answered, laughing, and I kissed his cheek. ‘At least, that better be the reason.’
‘You know it is.’ Holding me away from him, he smiled, his black eyes dancing, and then almost immediately his expression turned serious. ‘When you get down there keep your eyes peeled and stay on the perimeters of the village. That way you can get back here quickly, should it be necessary.’
I leaned into him. ‘Don’t worry so much, I’ll be fine. By the way, I haven’t told you today that I love you, have I? But I do.’
‘I love you too, Val.’
Ajet came back carrying the cardboard box. After placing it on the rocks, he opened it with a bit of a flourish, and began to hand out the bottles of water, offered us the wrapped sandwiches from the hotel in Peć He went on fussing around us and behaving as though he were serving us at a grand banquet, and Tony and Jake exchanged amused, knowing looks and laughed.
I had been loading my camera, and I looked from one to the other and asked, ‘Am I missing something? What’s the joke?’
‘No joke,’ Tony said, and blew me a kiss.

II
I focused my Leica 35-mm on the ragtag collection of children ahead of me, a short way down the road. There were about five of them in all, sitting together against a ruined wall. As I peered through the lens, I took in their pallor, their haunted expressions, and the fear clouding their innocent young eyes.
A heartbreaking little band, I thought, so forlorn on this bright sunny day. A day for playing. Not a day for war. I repressed a sigh and began taking pictures.
And then the sound of gunfire was breaking the quietness of the afternoon, and I instantly abandoned the shots of the children.
A flurry of unexpected activity had begun to erupt all around me…exploding bombs, mortar fire, the rumble of tanks in the distance. Closer by, I heard terrified screams, the sound of running feet, people scattering, seeking safety. And then more screams filled the air, along with the staccato rat-a-tat of machine guns, and guns not so far away at that.
All of my senses were alerted to danger, and my chest tightened, and I sucked in my breath sharply when I saw Tony rushing out of the copse just behind me. I had left him there only a few minutes ago, sitting on the rocks with Jake, eating a sandwich.
Now he was sprinting towards the line of fire.
I raced after him in his wake. And dimly, in the distance, I heard Jake behind us, shouting, ‘Val! Val! Don’t follow him, for God’s sake. It’s too dangerous.’
I paid no attention.
Tony was our leader, and as always he was hell-bent on getting the best pictures, whatever war we were covering and no matter what the cost. Taking risks meant nothing to him. He seemed to thrive on danger, as well I knew. Tony was consistently in harm’s way, and so were we because of him, although, as he frequently reminded us, we did have a choice of whether or not to follow him into the fray.
Once again, Jake’s voice carried to me above the noise of exploding shells and deafening artillery. ‘VAL! STOP! Don’t follow Tony.’
I did not stop. Nor did I look back. I was hard on Tony’s heels, my camera held tightly in my hands, my mind, my entire being, concentrated on one thing: doing my job as professionally as possible and getting the best pictures for the photo agency I worked for.
Leaping forward, Jake now streaked after me and Tony. I realized his warnings of a moment ago had been pushed to one side, indeed probably forgotten altogether. What he always wanted was to reach me, grab hold of me, and pull me out of danger.
Kalashnikovs were spraying bullets from all sides and the shelling was rapidly growing heavier; the summer air was thick with smoke and dust, the smell of cordite mingling with that of blood. And the stench of death was suddenly all pervasive, numbing, and I wished we had never come here.
We had arrived late that morning to take a few simple photographs of the Kosovo Liberation Army’s leaders; now, unexpectedly, we found ourselves in the midst of this violent battle between the K.L.A. and Serbian troops. I couldn’t help wondering if this was a deadly ambush, a trap we had walked into with our eyes wide open. And where was Ajet? I hoped the young Kosovar had been smart enough to stay in the copse, and that hopefully he had driven the jeep into the trees for safety.
I knew that Serbian troops had been moving south for days, keeping up the deadliest fighting along the way, brutally driving the Kosovars out of their villages and towns. Thousands of terrified civilians were already on the move, a steady stream of humanity being cruelly driven from their homes and homeland, seeking safety across the borders in Albania and Macedonia.
Unexpectedly, a small boy appeared as if from nowhere, and began to totter forward on his thin little legs, heading directly into the line of fire, oblivious to the fighting and the mêlée spinning around him. I saw him out of the corner of my eye, and reacted instantly. Veering to my right, I sped over to the child and threw myself on top of him, all of my instincts compelling me to protect him no matter what.
Bombs continued to explode, and pieces of shrapnel were swirling like deadly snowflakes, although they were much more lethal. I covered the child with my body, put my arms around him, and held him tightly. He was shaking, and this did not surprise me one bit. I detested the sound of the guns and bombs myself; they were discordant and frightening, and most especially to a small child.
After a moment, I lifted my head and glanced up.
The sky was a perfect cerulean blue, without cloud, and the sun was shining brilliantly. Summer, I thought; I ought to be on vacation with Tony, not spreadeagled on the ground with my face pressed into the dirt in some obscure village in the Balkans.
Small, rubbery legs and arms began to wriggle, eel-like, under me, and I finally rolled off the child, jumped up and pulled him to his feet.
He gazed up at me soulfully with a faint, perplexed smile; I smiled back and gave him a little push towards a young woman who was rushing towards us, calling out something I did not understand. With a nod to me and the words, ‘Thank you,’ spoken in carefully pronounced but accented English, the young woman grabbed the boy’s arm and dragged him away. It was obvious that she was scolding him as the two of them moved away from the shelling and went behind one of the houses on the side of the road.
I was glad to see the child taken to safety; at least I hoped he was safe. Many of the nearby houses and shops had been bombed, had crumbled into heaps of stones and bricks and there were fires flaring everywhere.
Wondering where Tony and Jake were, I glanced around, suddenly saw their backs disappearing down a narrow side street. Immediately I jogged after them, trying to catch up, not wanting to be left behind.
The shelling had now reached a climax and I knew Tony and Jake were heading right into the maelstrom, their cameras poised. I followed them into the fray, but for once, much to my surprise and consternation, I realized I did so against my better judgement. I had to admit to myself that for the first time in my association with Tony and Jake I had certain misgivings about following Tony’s lead. A curious sense of foreboding swept over me and this feeling was so unfamiliar, so unprecedented I was startled, and I stopped in my tracks, discovered that for a splitsecond I was unable to move forward. I was rooted to the spot.
Then the moment I’d had nightmares about, had forever dreaded, was suddenly and frighteningly upon me. Tony was going down, his camera flying out of his hands as he was struck by a stream of bullets. He was thrown backwards by the impact, lay sprawled on the cobbled street, still and unmoving.
‘Tony! Tony!’ I screamed and began to run to him.
Jake, who was closer, also shouted his name, and went on, ‘I’m coming to you, Tony, hang in there!’ But the words had hardly left Jake’s mouth when he toppled forward, and fell to the ground, hit by a sniper’s bullets.
Without giving any thought to my own safety, I pressed on through the curtain of gunfire and shrapnel, heading towards my friends, knowing I must do something to help them, although I was not certain what I could do under these horrific circumstances.
Out of breath and panting, I paused momentarily next to Jake, bent over him and gasped, ‘How bad are you?’
‘I’ve been hit in my leg and hip but I’m okay, don’t worry about me. It’s Tony I’m concerned about.’
‘Me too,’ I muttered and sprinted away. When I reached Tony I dropped to my knees next to him. ‘Darling, it’s me.’ As I spoke I moved a strand of black hair away from his damp forehead and stared down into his face.
Finally he opened his eyes. ‘Go, Val. Find cover. Dangerous here,’ he told me in a low, strangled voice.
‘I’m not going to leave you,’ I answered, looking him over swiftly. I was appalled at his gunshot wounds, and I felt myself filling with dread. He had been hit in his chest, his shoulder and his legs, and other parts of his bodyas well, as far as Icould make out. I was frightened and alarmed by all the blood; he was covered in it, as if he had been riddled with bullets. Oh God, oh God, he might not make it. I swallowed the cry that rose in my throat. It took all my self-control not to break down; I leaned over him, brought my face close to his. ‘I’m not leaving you, Tony,’Irepeated, endeavouringtokeep my voice as steady as possible.
‘Go,’ he whispered. Summoning all of his strength, he managed to say, ‘Get out. For me.’ His voice was very shaky.
RealizingthatTony was becoming undulyagitated by my continuing presence, and knowing that I must try to find help for both men, I finally acquiesced. ‘All right, I’ll go,’Imurmured against Tony’s face. Istroked his cheek. ‘Just stay calm, lie still. I won’t be long. I’ll be back with help very soon.’
I kissed him lightly and began to crawl away on my hands and knees, keeping low and close to the ground in an effort to dodge the flying bullets. I was making for a small building nearby, one of the few which remained standing, and I had almost reached it when I felt the impact of a bullet slamming into my thigh. I slumped down in a heap, wincing in pain and clutching my Leica to my chest. Then I glanced down at my thigh; blood was already oozing through my khaki pants, and it occurred to me that I wasn’t going to be much use to either Tony or Jake.
Turning my head, I glanced over at Jake. ‘How’re you doing?’
‘Okay. Are you hurt very badly, Val?’
‘Idon’tthinkso,’Irepliedandhopedthiswasreallythe case. Although deep down I was fairly certainitwasn’t, I nevertheless had a need to reassure Jake.
He asked over the battery of noise, ‘What about Tony?’
‘He’s not good,’ I said, and my voice wobbled. ‘He’s terribly shot up and in need of medical attention, urgent need of it, and much more than we are. I saw a Red Cross ambulance up on the ridge over there; let’s hope the medics get here quickly. Tony’s losing masses of blood…’ I swallowed. ‘It’s…it’s touch and go with him…I think…’
Foramoment Jake couldnotspeak. Hewas obviously distressed by my words. At last he said, ‘Tony’s going to beallright, Val. He’stough, and don’t forget he’salways said he has the luck of the Irish.’
‘He also says he’s blessed by the saints,’ I replied tensely. ‘I hope he’s right.’
Jake called back, ‘Just keep cool, hang in there, honey.’
I could hardly hear him. His words were almost but notquitedrownedoutbytheexplosions andthe thunder of mortar fire, which seemed to be closer than ever. In a few minutes troops were swarming everywhere, both the K.L.A. and the Serbians; they were filling the village, running through the streets, fighting. I wasn’t sure who was who. I looked for distinguishing emblems on their uniforms but without success, then remembered that those who wore the black paratrooper berets were the Kosovars. They seemed to be outnumbered. I closed my eyes, hoping I would betaken for dead, and overlooked. I knew there was no longer any possibility of dragging myself over to Tony. My spirit was more than willing, but I was just too weak physically, and the troops were converging now.
So I resigned myself to wait for the Red Cross ambulance I had seen not long ago. Surely it would drive down into the village soon. Putting my hand under my T-shirt I found the gold chain on which I’d hung Tony’s ring. He had given it to me only a couple of weeks ago, when we had been in Paris together. Suddenly tears were dangerously close to the surface as memories of those happy days rushed back to flood my mind.
Myfingers closed around the ring. I began to pray: Oh God, please let Tony be all right. Please don’t let him die. Please, please, let him live. I went on praying silently and the fighting raged on around me unabated.

III
White light, very bright white light, was invading my entire being, or so it seemed to me. I was suffused in the bright white light until I became part of it; I was no longer myself, but the light…
I opened my eyes and blinked rapidly. The light was bright, harsh, startling, and I felt disoriented. And for a moment I thought I had not really woken up, but was still in my dream, living the dream. As I blinked again, came slowly awake, I wondered where I was; still somewhat disoriented, I glanced around in puzzlement. The white walls and ceiling and the white tile floor, in combination with the brilliant sunlight flooding through the windows, created a dazzling effect…echoing the bright white light that had dominated my strange and haunting dream.
Shifting slightly in the bed, I winced as a sharp pain shot up my thigh, and immediately I remembered everything. Of course, I was in a hospital room. In Belgrade. After the three of us had been shot, we had subsequently been rescued by the Red Cross and patched up by the doctors on a temporary basis, so that we could travel. We had then been taken to Péc in the ambulance I had seen in the village when the fighting had first started.
Jake and I had not been as seriously injured as Tony, who had been badly shot up and was in critical condition, having lost a lot of blood. Fortunately, the medics in Péc had been able to give him a blood tranfusion before the three of us had been flown out.
Details of the flight came back to me as my mind finally began to clear. Tony had been on a stretcher in the transport plane, and I had sat next to him all the way, holding his hand, talking to him, begging him to keep fighting. The medics were hopeful he would pull through; they had told me and Jake that Tony had a better than average chance of making it. He had slept through most of the flight while Jake and I had kept a vigil by his side; our hopes had soared as we had headed towards Belgrade because he was holding his own so well.
But when was the flight? Yesterday? The day before? Or even earlier than that?
Glancing at my wrist, expecting to see the time, I discovered I was not wearing my watch. My eyes strayed to the utilitarian metal nightstand, but it was not there either. The top of the stand was entirely empty.
I pushed aside the bedclothes, and, moving gingerly, inched myself into an upright position, and then manoeuvred my body onto the edge of the bed. My bandaged thigh was still quite sore from the gunshot wound but I managed, nevertheless, to stand up, and I was surprised and relieved to discover that I was relatively steady on my feet, and had only the smallest amount of discomfort when I walked.
In the cramped bathroom attached to the hospital room, I ran cold water into the sink and splashed my face with it, patted myself dry with a paper towel and peered into the mirror. My reflection didn’t please me. I looked lousy, done in. But then what else could I expect? My pallor was unusual – normally I have such good colour – and there were violet smudges under my eyes.
Moving slowly, I made it back to the bed, where I sat on the edge, fretting about Tony and Jake, and wondering what to do next. My main concern was Tony. Where the hell was he in this hospital? And where was Jake? My clothes had apparently been taken away, and since I was wearing only a skimpy cotton hospital gown, tied at the back, I couldn’t very well go wandering around the hospital in search of them. My eyes scanned the room for a phone. There wasn’t one.
A sudden loud knocking on the door startled me and I glanced towards it just as it was pushed open, and Jake, heavily bandaged and supporting himself on a pair of crutches, hobbled in. He was unshaven and looked crumpled in hospital-issue pyjamas and an equally creased cotton robe.
‘Hi,’ he said, and propping the crutches against the wall near the nightstand, he half-hopped, half-limped to the bed, where he sat down next to me. ‘How’re you doing, Val?’
‘Well I’m obviously not going dancing ce soir,’ I said, glancing down at my bandaged thigh which bulged under the cotton gown and then at him. ‘I’ll give you a raincheck tomorrow. And you seem to be doing okay with your balancing act on those crutches.’
He nodded.
‘How’s Tony? Have you seen him yet? Where is he? When can I go and see him?’ I asked, my questions urgent, tumbling out of my mouth anxiously.
Jake did not answer me.
I stared at him.
He gazed back at me, still not saying a word.
I saw how pale he was, and haggard-looking, and noticed that his bright blue eyes were clouded, bloodshot, as if he’d been crying. Inside I began to shrivel, scorched by an innate knowledge I dare not admit existed. But it did. Oh yes.
Jake cleared his throat and looked at me intently.
My heart dropped. I knew instinctively what he was going to say; an awful sense of dread took me in its stranglehold, and I felt my throat closing. Clasping my hands tightly together, I braced myself for bad news.
‘I’m afraid Tony didn’t make it, Val darling,’ Jake said at last, his tone low, almost inaudible. And final. ‘He’d become far too weakened before we arrived here, and he’d lost such a great deal of blood initially –’ Jake paused when his voice broke, but eventually he went on, ‘It’s devastating…I never thought it could happen, I –’ Very abruptly, he stopped again and, unable to continue, he said nothing more, simply sat there helplessly, gazing at me, shaking his head. His sorrow was reflected in his face, which was grey, bereft.
I was speechless. Finally I opened my mouth to speak but no words came out. There was a long, silent scream echoing through my brain and I snapped my eyes shut, wishing I could block it out, wishing I could steady myself. Instead I fell apart, began to shake uncontrollably as shock engulfed me.
I felt Jake’s strong arms encircling me, and I clung to him, sobbed against his shoulder. Jake wept also, and we held onto each other for a long time. And together we mourned the tragic loss of a man we both loved who had died before his time.

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_bf127a2c-51fc-5351-8b9b-4431296aef84)
I
PARIS, SEPTEMBER
I have always loved my apartment on the Left Bank where I’ve lived for the last seven years. It is spacious, light and airy, with six large windows in its three main rooms, all of which are of good proportions. These rooms open onto each other, and this enfilade gives it a lovely, flowing feeling which appeals to my sense of order and symmetry, traits inherited from my grandfather, who was an architect.
But ever since my return from Belgrade in August, I’ve been experiencing an overwhelming feeling of claustrophobia, one which I am still finding hard to dispel. Although I can’t quite understand why I should feel this way, every day I have the constant need to flee my apartment as soon as I awaken.
It’s not that it holds any heart-wrenching memories of Tony, because it doesn’t. Friends for a long time though we were, we did not become emotionally involved with each other until twelve months ago; besides which, he hardly ever spent any time at my place, being constantly on the move for work, or in London where he lived.
I was aware that my urge to get out had more to do with my own innermost feelings of despair than anything else; I’ve been unnaturally agitated inside and filled with a weird restlessness which propels me into the street, as early as dawn sometimes.
The streets of Paris are my solace, and part of my healing process physically in a very real sense. Firstly, the constant walking every day is therapeutic because it strengthens my damaged leg; secondly, being outside in the open air, amongst crowds of people bustling about their business, somehow soothes my troubled soul, lifts my spirits and helps to diminish my depression.
Today, as usual, I got up early. After coffee and a croissant at my local café on the corner, I set off at a steady pace, taking my long daily walk. It’s become a ritual for me, I suppose, something I find so very necessary. At least for the time being. Soon I hope my leg will be completely healed so that I can return to work.
It was a Friday morning in the middle of September, a lovely, mild day. The ancient buildings were already acquiring a burnished sheen in the bright sunlight, and the sky was an iridescent blue above their gleaming rooftops. It was a golden day, filled with crystalline light, and a soft breeze blew across the river Seine. My heart lifted with a little rush of pleasure, and for a moment grief was held at bay.
Paris is the only place I’ve ever wanted to live, for as long as I can remember; I fell in love with it as a child when I first came on a trip with my grandparents, Cecelia and Andrew Denning. I used to tell Tony that it was absolutely essential to my well being, and if Jake happened to be present he would nod, agreeing, and pointing out that he lived here for the same reason as I did.
I always thought it odd that Tony would merely frown, looking baffled, as if he didn’t understand what I meant. Tony was born in London and it was there that he lived all his life. And whenever the three of us would have this discussion about the merits of the two cities, he would laugh and shake his head. ‘London is essential to me because it’s a man’s city,’ he would remark, and wink at Jake.
I had supposed he was alluding to those very British private clubs for men filled with old codgers reading The Times, the male-dominated pubs, cricket at Lord’s, football at Wembley, and Savile Row tailors who appealed to his desire for sartorial elegance when not on the battlefront covering wars. He had never really discussed it in depth, but then he had been like that about a lot of things, an expert at brushing certain matters aside if he didn’t want to talk about them.
Thoughts of Tony intruded, swamped me, instantly washing away the mood of a few moments ago, when I had felt almost happy again. I came to a stop abruptly, leaned against the wall of a building, taking deep breaths, willing the sudden surge of anguish to go away. Eventually it became less acute, and taking control of my swimming senses I walked on purposefully.
It struck me as being rather odd, the way I vacillated between bouts of mind-boggling pain at his loss and the most savage attacks of anger.
There were those tear-filled days when I believed I would never recover from his death, which had been so sudden, so tragic, when grief was like an iron mantle weighing me down, bringing me to my knees. At these times it seemed that my sorrow was unendurable.
Miraculously, though, my heartbreak would inexplicably wash away quite unexpectedly, and I would feel easier within myself, in much better spirits altogether, and I was glad of this respite from pain, this return to normality. I was almost like my old self.
It was then that the anger usually kicked in with a vengeance, shaking me with its intensity. I was angry because Tony was dead when he should have been alive, and I blamed him for his terrible recklessness, the risks he had taken in Kosovo, risks which had ultimately cost him his life. Unnecessary risks, in my opinion.
Destiny, I thought, and came to a halt. As I stood there in the middle of the street frowning to myself, I suddenly understood with the most stunning rush of clarity that if character is destiny then it had been Tony’s fate to die in the way he had. Because of his character…and who and what he was as a man.

II
After crossing the Place Saint-Michel, I made my way towards the Rue de la Huchette, and walked down that narrow street, which long ago had been immortalized in a book by the American writer Elliot Paul, very aptly entitled A Narrow Street. After reading the book, I had been drawn to this particular area of Paris, and for the three years I was a student at the Sorbonne I had lived right here in a quaint little hotel called the Mont Blanc.
The hotel came into my line of vision almost immediately, and as I strolled past I glanced up at the room which had been mine, and remembered those days in a swirl of unexpected nostalgia.
Thirteen years ago now. Not so long really. But in certain ways they seemed far, far away, light years away, those youthful days when things had been infinitely simpler in my life.
So much had happened to me in the intervening years; I had lived a lifetime in them, and I had become a woman. A grown-up woman, mature and experienced.
Glancing across the street, I eyed the El Djazier, the North African restaurant which had once been my local hangout…what an habitueé I had been o that strange little nightspot full of colourful characters.
Sandy Lonsdale, an English writer who had lived in the hotel at the same time as me, had constantly predicted I would disappear one night, never to be seen again, whipped off to some disreputable brothel in Casablanca or Tangier by one of the seedy blokes who lurked in the restaurant most nights.
But of course that had never happened, the seedy blokes being perfectly innocuous in reality, and I had taken enormous pleasure in teasing Sandy about his vivid imagination and its tendency to work overtime. ‘You’ll make a great novelist,’ I used to tell him, and he had merely grinned at me and retorted, ‘You’d better be right about that.’
On numerous occasions I had taken Tony and Jake there, and they had enjoyed it as much as me, their taste buds tantalized by the couscous and other piquant Moroccan dishes, not to mention the erotic belly dancers in their flimsy costumes and tinkling ankle bracelets.
On these evenings, when we were back in Paris for a bit of relaxation and rest from covering wars, Jake would usually invite us to one of the jazz joints after dinner at the El Djazier. There were several spots on the Rue de la Huchette, where many of the greats of American jazz came to play or listen to others play.
Jake was a jazz aficionado and could happily spend long hours in these smoke-filled places, sipping a cognac and tapping his foot, lost in the music, lost to the world for a short while.
I ambled up the street, and glanced around as I walked. I never tired of wandering around this particular part of Paris, which I knew so well from my student days. It was full of picturesque cobblestone streets, ancient buildings, Greek and North African restaurants, art galleries and small shops selling colourful wares from some of the most exotic places in the world. Aside from anything else, it brought back memories of the time I had attended the Sorbonne, such a happy time for me, perhaps the happiest of my life.

III
My grandfather Andrew Denning had been alive when I decided I wanted to study in Paris. Later, he had often come here to visit me, defying my mother, who had forbidden any contact between us once I had made the decision. My mother was angry with me because I had chosen to study in France, although I never understood her attitude, since she had been indifferent to me from the day I was born. So why did it matter where I studied?
Grandfather Denning didn’t have much time for his daughter-in-law; in fact he privately thought she was a cold, unfeeling woman, and he had never paid any attention to what she said. He had reminded her that I was the only daughter of his only son, and his only female grandchild, and he was damned if he would let anyone stand in the way of his visiting me whenever he wished to do so. As an afterthought, he had added in no uncertain terms, that no one told him what to do or how to spend his money, least of all his son’s wife. And that had been that apparently. Grandfather had told me all about it later; we kept no secrets from each other. I thought of him as being more like a pal than a grandfather, perhaps because he was so young in appearance and had the most youthful of spirits.
To my mother’s great consternation and frustration, she had not been able to influence him one iota, let alone control him, and she had apparently ranted and raved about her father-in-law for months after their original confrontation. This I had heard from my brother, the family gossip, who only reinforced my opinion of him when he became the sidekick to a gossip columnist. According to Donald, my mother had screamed blue murder, but my father had, as was customary, remained totally mute. For years I suspected that this state of being had afflicted Father since the day he entered into so-called wedded bliss with Margot Scott. Until the day he died he hardly ever said a word, perhaps because he couldn’t get one in edgewise.
It was my grandfather who supported me financially and morally, once I had decided to study in Paris, and in those days he had been my best friend, my only friend.
My mother had never forgiven him, or me for that matter. But then I believe my mother has never forgiven me for being born, although I don’t know why this should be so. From that day to this she has never shown me any love or given me much thought. It is not that Margot Scott Denning doesn’t like children; everyone knows she dotes on my sibling, Donald the Great, as I used to call him when we were children. It is I she has an aversion to, whom she tends to avoid whenever she possibly can.
Grandfather and I were always aware of that, and he had often expressed concern about the situation. I had taught myself not to care. I still don’t. He has been dead for five years now, and I still miss him. He gave me the only sense of family I ever had; certainly my parents never managed to induce that sentiment in me. Quite the opposite. I wished Grandfather were here with me now, walking these streets; I always found such comfort in his loving words, his understanding, his kindness and his wisdom. He was the only person, other than Grandma and Tony, who had loved me. Now all three of them were gone.
Was that the reason I had chosen to walk around this particular area today? Because he had been so partial to it, and because it made my happy memories of him and of our time spent together here so vivid in my mind’s eye? Perhaps…
‘Teaching you Paris,’ Grandfather used to say as he took me around the different arrondissements of the city. Gradually, I had come to learn about many of the great buildings, the architects who had brought them into being, the historical significance of each one, not to mention the many different architectural highlights.
When I reached the top of the Rue de la Huchette, I crossed into the Rue de la Bûcherie, which was more like an open square than a street. It had flower-filled little gardens fronting onto cafés lined up along one side of the square, and overshadowing them was the Cathedral of Notre Dame. This magnificent edifice outlined against the azure September sky stood on the Île de la Cité, one of the islands in the Seine, and on the spur of the moment I decided to go over to the cathedral. I had not visited it in years. In fact, the last time I had been there had been with my grandfather.
Andrew Denning had enjoyed an extremely successful career as an architect in New York, and he had had an extraordinary eye for beautiful buildings, whether modern or ancient. In particular, he had been an admirer of the cathedrals of Europe, forever marvelling at their majesty and grandeur, the soaring power inherent in them and in their design and structure.
And so whenever he came to visit me in Paris he made a point of taking me on excursions to see some of his favourites…Rouen and Chartres in France, and, across the English Channel, St Paul’s and Winchester; and, up in Yorkshire, Ripon Cathedral and York Minster, the latter being my own favourite. It is from my grandfather that I have inherited my eye which serves me so well as a photographer; that’s what I think anyway, and as it happens I’ve also grown to love cathedrals as much as he did.
Within minutes I was across the bridge and standing in front of the three huge portals that lead into Notre Dame. I chose to enter through the one on the right because the door stood ajar, beckoning to me, I thought.
Once inside I caught my breath and stood perfectly still…I was utterly mesmerized. I had forgotten how awe-inspiring this place was, with its beauty and size; and its absolute stillness overwhelmed me.
There were hardly any tourists this morning, the cathedral was practically empty, and as I began to slowly walk down the centre aisle my footsteps echoed hollowly against the stone floor.
Glancing up, I gaped at the apse, that enormous, intricate, domed ceiling, flung so high it seemed to disappear into infinity. ‘Soaring up to heaven’, Grandfather used to say of it.
He and I had visited many of the smaller churches in Paris and the surrounding countryside, and we had taken part in the services as best we were able. We both spoke enough French to follow the Catholic service; being Protestant, we were not exactly familiar with the rituals, but somehow we managed. We also made trips to other European countries, as well as North Africa and Israel, where we visited mosques and synagogues. Grandfather was fascinated by places of worship whatever the religion being practised in them.
I heard his voice reverberating in my head: ‘It doesn’t matter whose house you sit in, Val, as long as you love God,’ he had once remarked to me. ‘In my Father’s house there are many mansions: if it were not so I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you.’ With those words of St John’s Gospel ringing in my ears, I continued down the aisle and took a chair, sat staring up at the high altar in front of me.
Sunlight was filtering in through the many windows above the altar. It was a light that subtly changed colour as it seeped in through the stained-glass panes in those breathtaking windows, changing from blue to green to pearl, and then to a soft yellow and a lovely lambent rose.
It was the most tranquil light which seemed to tremble visibly on the air, and dust motes rose up into the shafts of sunlight. The peacefulness was a balm, and how cool it was within these thick and ancient stone walls. Cool, restful, restorative, a welcome refuge, far away from the turbulence and violence of the world I lived in when I was working.
I closed my eyes, let myself fall down into myself, and eventually, as was inevitable in this quiet place of worship, I began to think of Tony, of his death, and of the future. And I asked myself yet again, for the umpteenth time, how I was going to go on without him, how I would manage without him by my side. I had no answers.
It seemed to me that all of my energy ebbed away, leaving me deflated, and I just sat there collapsed in the chair, with my eyes closed, for the longest time. I had no appointments, nowhere to go, no one waiting for me or worrying where I was. Time passed. And after a long while, just sitting there in the silence of the cathedral, I heard my grandfather speaking to me as if from a great distance. His voice was so very clear when he said, ‘Always remember this, Val, God never gives us a burden that is too heavy to carry.’

IV
The phone was ringing loudly as I let myself into my apartment an hour later. I snatched it up and exclaimed, ‘Hullo?’ only to hear the receiver clattering down at the other end.
Too late, I got it on the last ring, and sticking out my good leg I slammed the front door shut with my foot. Swinging around, I went into my tall, narrow kitchen, a place I’d always enjoyed but which I had not occupied very much of late. I like cooking, in fact it’s a sort of hobby of mine, a way to be creative, to relax when I’m back from covering wars and the like. But because of my grief and misery I had abandoned the kitchen, having no desire to be in it to cook only for myself.
I had hardly eaten a thing these last few weeks, and I had lost weight. But suddenly, today, I felt really hungry and I opened the refrigerator, frowned at the contents, or rather the lack of them, and swiftly closed the door in frustration. Of course there was nothing worthwhile to eat in there: I hadn’t been shopping. I would have to make do with a mug of green tea and a couple of cookies, and later I would go to the corner store and pick up a few things for dinner.
A moment or two after I’d put the kettle on, the phone began to shrill once again, and I lurched towards it, grabbed hold of it before the caller had a chance to hang up. As I spoke I heard Jake’s voice at the other end.
‘Where’ve you been all day?’ He sounded both put out and worried at the same time.
‘Walking. I’ve been out walking, Jake.’
‘Again. I can’t believe it. I bet if someone locked you up in an empty room and told you to draw a detailed map of Paris and its environs, you could do so without batting an eyelid. And all from memory.’
‘Yes, I guess I could. But you do a lot of walking, too, so why are you picking on me?’
‘I’m not. I called to invite you to dinner tonight. I haven’t seen you for a week. Too long, Val.’
‘True, and I’d love to have dinner. I’ll cook for you,’ I said. Hearing his voice had instantly cheered me up. I’d missed him whilst he had been in the south; anyway, he was my biggest fan when it came to my culinary skills.
‘That’s a great offer, but I’d prefer to take you out…it’s much more relaxing for you.’
‘Okay, it’s a deal.’
Jake cleared his throat several times and his voice was a bit more subdued when he added, ‘I had a call from London today. From Tony’s photo agency. About a memorial service for him. They’ve planned one and they want us to come.’
This news so startled me, so threw me off balance, I was rendered silent, and when I finally did speak all I could manage was a weak, ‘Oh.’
‘We have to go, Val.’
‘I’m not sure…I don’t think I’m up to it,’ I began, and faltered, unable to continue.
‘We were his closest friends,’ Jake countered. ‘His intimates. His comrades-in-arms, he called us.’
‘We were, I know, but it’s hard for me.’
Jake fell silent, then after a moment or two, he said softly, ‘The whole world is aware that we were with him in Kosovo when he was killed…that we came out alive. How will it look to the world if we don’t show?’
I stood there gripping the receiver, utterly mute, as if I’d been struck dumb, shaking like the proverbial leaf as I weighed the odds. Should I risk Jake’s disapproval, everyone’s disapproval, by not going? Or should I go and expose myself to a large amount of pain and heartache? And could I handle that? I just didn’t know. For weeks I had tried very hard to get my turbulent feelings under control, and I was not so sure I could face a memorial service. Not now. It would open up so much and it would just…do me in emotionally.
‘Are you still there, Val?’ Jake asked, cutting into my swirling thoughts.
‘Yes.’
‘You seem reluctant to go.’
‘I’m not…I’m just…thinking it through.’
He said nothing. I could hear him waiting at the other end of the line, could practically hear him breathing.
Finally, realizing he was waiting for me to say something, I muttered, ‘I couldn’t bear to hear the world eulogizing him…It would be so painful for me, I’d be in floods of tears through the entire service. I’m trying to come to grips with my grief.’
‘I understand what you’re saying. If you want to know the truth, I’m not so keen to live through it myself. But we don’t have a choice. And Tony would want us to be present.’
‘I guess he would…’ My voice trailed off.
‘We’ll talk about it tonight.’
‘All right,’ I agreed, my heart sinking.
‘Good girl. I’ll be there about eight to pick you up. See ya, Kid.’
He had hung up before I could say another word, and for a second or two I stood there clutching the receiver, chastizing myself under my breath. I was so dumb. Absolutely stupid. I ought to have realized that Tony’s agency would hold a memorial service for their fallen colleague. One who had been their biggest star. And their hero. If only I’d thought it through properly, and earlier, I would have been far better prepared. But as it was I’d spent the last six weeks grieving for him, feeling sorry for myself, and getting angry at him and the world in general.
I banged the receiver into the cradle and stared at the kettle absently, thinking it was taking a long time to boil. I turned up the gas automatically, and let out a heavy sigh. I’d been caught off guard. And now there was no way out. I would have to go to the memorial service for appearance’s sake. And I could easily come face to face with her.
That was it, of course. That was at the root of my discomfort and reluctance to go to the memorial. I didn’t want to run into Fiona Hampton. Tony’s ex-wife. It struck me then that it was unlikely she would be there, in view of their recent divorce and the searing bitterness which had existed between them. Of course she wouldn’t go to hear him lovingly eulogized by his friends and colleagues. That would be out of character. She was a hard woman whose contentiousness had driven him away from her and the marriage, and sympathy and compassion did not exist in her makeup.
Remembering how unpleasant things had been between them convinced me I was right, and eased my anxiety about going myself. I made a mug of green tea, took out a packet of cookies and stood at the counter munching on a couple and sipping the tea, suddenly feeling more relaxed.
Of course I had no way of knowing that indeed Fiona would attend the memorial, and that meeting her would change my life irrevocably, and so profoundly it would never be the same again.

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_cff6218d-4383-5d96-a16b-45266865de7d)
I
After my long morning walks through the streets I always felt tired in the afternoons, and invariably had to rest. Today was no exception; in fact, I felt more fatigued than usual. I went through into my bedroom, took off my cotton trousers and shirt, slipped into a dressing gown and lay down on the bed.
My head had barely touched the pillow when the phone next to my ear shrilled loudly. I reached for it, and pushed myself up on the pillows as I said, ‘Hullo?’
‘It’s me, Val,’ Mike Carter announced in his warm, affectionate midwest voice. He was the head of the Paris bureau of Gemstar, one of the founders actually, and a very old, very dear friend. ‘How’re you feeling, honey?’
‘I’m fine, Mike, thanks. A lot better. Well, coping at least. What’s happening?’
‘Oh just the usual stuff…you know, wars, terrorist attacks, hijackings, serial murders, famine, earthquakes, floods. Disasters by the cartload, in other words.’ He laughed, but it was a hollow laugh. ‘I guess one day the world will blow itself up, but in the meantime, what’s happening is what I call the small stuff.’ He chuckled again, in that macabre way of his, and asked, ‘Know what I mean?’
‘I do,’ I answered, laughing with him. Mike’s black sense of humour appealed to me, as did his penchant for practical jokes. But these things aside, he had always been my strongest ally, a great supporter of mine ever since I’d joined the agency seven years ago. Over the years a close friendship had developed between us. My grandfather had been very taken with him, and Mike had been smitten in much the same way, and the two had remained good friends until the day Grandfather died.
Mike went on, ‘I’m not calling to lure you back into the fray, Val. Whenever you want, come on in. But take as much time as you need. It’s your call. We all understand how you feel, me most especially.’
‘I know that. Maybe in a couple of weeks,’ I murmured, and surprised myself with this answer. Two weeks was not so far away; I’d actually planned on taking three months off, and here I was shortening it. I was amazed at my unexpected response to him.
‘Well, that’s great!’ Mike was exclaiming down the wire. ‘You’re sorely missed around here. But listen, sweetie, the reason I called is because Qemal, the brother of Ajet, got in touch with the agency today. He asked for you, so he was put through to me. He wanted you to know that Ajet’s safe. In Macedonia.’
‘I’m so glad to hear that!’ I cried, genuinely relieved and pleased to have news of the young Kosovar at last. What had happened to him, what his fate had been, had troubled me and Jake for weeks. When we’d attempted to reach his brother there was never any reply at his Paris apartment. ‘Jake and I thought Ajet had been killed, Mike,’ I explained. ‘Where has he been all these weeks? Did his brother say?’
‘Yes, he told me Ajet had been wounded the day he was with you outside Péc? Apparently he left the wood where he was waiting for you with the jeep, once the fighting started. He actually went looking for the three of you, but he was shot before he could make contact. He was left for dead in the streets, but later he was rescued by some of the locals. They went out into the countryside a couple of days later and found soldiers from the K.L.A., who were able to get medical help for Ajet. The Kosovar soldiers then took him to Albania, God help him; I’ve heard the hospital conditions there are primitive. Eventually Ajet got to Macedonia, although his brother didn’t say how. You’d written the agency number on a bit of paper and given it to him, and the kid kept it. He asked Qemal to let us know he was safe. He especially wanted you to know that, Val.’
‘I’m glad he’s safe, and recovered. It was a fluke he made it.’
‘I know, I know. Everything’s in the lap of the gods in the long run. That’s my belief, at any rate. As Bogie once said, it’s a cockeyed world we live in.’ Mike half sighed, half coughed, and hurried on, ‘I gotta go, honey. Let’s talk next week, or when you feel like it. I’m here if you need me, whenever you need me, day or night. Just give me a shout and I’ll be there.’
‘Thanks, Mike, for everything, and especially for caring about me, and for your friendship…’ I found myself choking up and left the sentence unfinished.
‘Feel better soon,’ he murmured into the phone.
We hung up and I lay back against the pillows. Mike Carter was one of the good guys, one of the best, and he’d seen it all. After knocking around the world as a photojournalist, he and several of his colleagues had founded Gemstar, an agency very similar to Magnum which had been started years before, in the late 1940s, by Robert Capa.
When Mike’s beloved wife Sarah had been killed in a freak automobile accident outside Paris, he had given himself a desk job at Gemstar in order to stay put so that he could bring up his two young children himself, with the help of a nanny. He was no stranger to sudden death, to unspeakable loss. And grief and sorrow were old companions of his, as I well knew. But he somehow managed to hide his pain behind the gruff heartiness and a genuine warmth. Still, I knew how much he had suffered after Sarah’s unexpected and untimely death ten years ago.
Now my thoughts turned to Ajet and that fateful day near Péc the memory of it still terribly vivid in my mind. Almost immediately, I pushed the violent images away, smothered them. I closed my eyes, needing desperately to sleep. That was the ultimate refuge from heartache, and now I craved it. Very simply I wanted to blot out everything, everyone, the whole damn world.

II
I must have dozed off and slept for a very long time, because when I awakened with a start the room was no longer filled with the bright sunlight of early afternoon.
Grey shadows lurked everywhere, curled around the bookshelves and the big Provençal armoire, slid across the ceiling and spilled down onto the walls.
The overwhelming greyness gave my normally cheerful bedroom a gloomy look, and involuntarily I shivered. Someone walked over my grave, I thought, as gooseflesh speckled my arms, and then I couldn’t help wondering why I’d thought of that particular and rather morbid analogy.
Glancing at the bedside clock, I saw that it was almost six. I couldn’t believe I’d been asleep for over four hours. Slipping off the bed I went and looked out of the big bay window.
The beautiful Paris sky of earlier was cloud-filled now and darkening rapidly, the sunny blue entirely obscured. Rain threatened. Perhaps there would be a storm. I turned on the lamp which stood on the bureau plat, and sudden bright light flooded across the photograph of Tony in its silver frame. It had been taken by Jake last year when we had been on vacation together in southern France. I stared down at it for a long moment, and then I turned away, filled with sadness.
Sometimes I couldn’t bear to look at it. He was so full of life in this particular shot, his hair blowing in the wind, his teeth very white and gleaming in his tanned face, those merry black eyes narrowed against the sunlight as he squinted back at the camera.
Tony stood on the deck of the sloop on which we were sailing that vacation, the white sails above him billowing out in the breeze. How carefree he looked, bare-chested in his white tennis shorts. A man in his prime, obviously loving that he was so virile. You could see this just by looking at the expression on his face, the wide, confident smile on his mouth.
I sighed under my breath and reached out to steady myself against the desk, and then I moved slowly across the floor, retreating from the window area.
His son Rory had taken possession of Tony’s body once it had arrived in England, and the boy had taken it on to Ireland. To County Wicklow. There Tony had been buried next to his parents.
Rory would be at the memorial service, wouldn’t he?
That question hovered around in my head for a moment. Of course he would. And so perhaps I would finally get to meet the son Tony had had such pride in and loved so much.
I lay down on the bed again, and curled up in a ball, thoughts of Tony uppermost once more. Absently I twisted his ring on my finger, then glanced down at it. A wide gold band, Grecian in design, set with aquamarines.
‘The colour of your eyes,’ he’d said the day he’d chosen it, not so long ago. ‘They’re not blue, not grey, not green, but pale, pale turquoise. You have sea eyes, Val, eyes the colour of the sea.’
Pushing my face in the pillow, I forced back the tears which were welling suddenly.
‘Mavourneen mine,’ I heard him whisper against my cheek, and I sighed again as I felt his hand touching my face, my neck, and then smoothing down over my breast…
Snapping my eyes wide open, I sat up with a jolt, got off the bed and hurried into the bathroom. Pressing my face against the glass wall of the shower stall, I told myself I must pull myself together, must stop thinking about him in that way…stop thinking about him sexually. I’ve got to get over him, he’s not coming back. He’s dead. And buried. Gone from this life. But I knew I couldn’t help myself. I knew that his memory would be always loitering in my mind, lingering in my heart. Haunting me.

III
I took off my dressing gown and the rest of my clothes and stepped into the shower, let the hot water sluice down over my body, and then I dumped loads of shampoo on top of my head and thoroughly washed my hair.
After stepping out of the shower and towelling myself dry, I wrapped a smaller towel in a turban around my head. And then I examined my wound. I did this every day. There was a funny puckering around it, but that would go away eventually; that’s what my doctor here in Paris had told me.
I’d been very fortunate, he’d explained when I’d first gone to see him, in that the bullet had missed muscle and bone, and gone right through flesh. Where it had exited, it had left a gaping hole originally, and the main problem for the doctors in Belgrade had been picking out the bits of cloth from my clothes which had been blown into the open wound. They had apparently done an excellent job, according to Dr Bitoun, and I had healed well.
There was no question about it in my mind, luck had been running with me that day. Just as it had with Jake. The two of us had somehow been protected.

IV
The storm broke as I finished dressing.
Thunder and lightning rampaged across the sky, and I turned on additional lights in my bedroom before going through into the living room.
A master switch controlled all of the lamps in there, and a second after I’d hit it with my finger the room was bathed in a lambent glow. I glanced around, my eyes taking in everything.
Although I knew this room so well, it always gave me pleasure whenever I looked at it. My grandfather had put it together, had created the decorative scheme, and his choices in furniture, all gifts from him to me, had been superb. Even the lamps and paintings had been his selections, and the room had a cohesion and a quiet beauty that was very special.
Janine, the wonderfully efficient and motherly Frenchwoman who looked after the apartment, and me when I was in it, had been very visible all day yesterday. She had cleaned and polished and fussed around in general, and had even arrived bearing a lovely gift…the masses of pink roses which she had arranged in various bowls around the living room.
And tonight the room literally shone from her efforts. The antique wood pieces were warm and mellow in the lamplight, gleamed like dark ripe fruit; how beautifully they stood out against the rose-coloured walls, while the silk-shaded porcelain lamps threw pools of soft light onto their glistening surfaces.
Like the rest of the apartment, the floor in the living room was of a dark, highly polished wood, and left bare as the floors in the other rooms were. The latter were decorated more simply, since I’d done them myself; it was Grandfather’s room, as I called it, which looked the best.
After admiring it from the doorway for a moment longer I then stepped inside, went over and straightened a few cushions on the deep rose linen-covered sofa near the fireplace, before bending over to sniff Janine’s roses. For once they had a perfume, actually smelled of roses, which was unusual these days. Most bought flowers had no scent at all.
I went into the kitchen, checked that there were bottles of white wine in the refrigerator, and returned to my bedroom. For a minute or two I studied myself in the long mirror on a side wall, thinking that I looked much better than I had for days. Healthy, in fact. But that was merely an illusion, one very cleverly created by my artifice with cosmetics; a golden-tinted foundation camouflaged my deathly pallor, hid the dark smudges under my eyes. The latter I’d enhanced with a touch of eye shadow and mascara; while a hint of pink blush and pink lipstick helped to bring a little additional life to my wan face.
The real truth was that I’d looked quite ill for the past week, haggard, white-faced, and red-eyed from crying, and I hadn’t wanted Jake to see me looking that way tonight. He worried enough about me as it was.
I wasn’t sure where we were going to dinner, so I’d chosen one of my basic outfits – black gabardine trousers, a white silk shirt and a black blazer. My blonde-streaked hair was pulled back in a pony tail, and, as I regarded myself objectively, I thought: Plain Jane and then some.
Turning around, I went to the desk, opened the drawer and took out a pair of small pearl earrings. I was putting them on when the doorbell rang.
I hurried through into the hall, anxious to see Jake who had been gone for the past week.
‘Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes,’ he drawled when I flung open the door to let him in.
‘Likewise,’ I answered, and we stood there staring at each other.
Then he reached out eagerly and pulled me into his arms, enveloping me in a tight bear hug. And he held me so close to him I was momentarily startled.

V
When Jake finally let go of me he gave me an odd little smile that seemed a bit self-conscious to me. Then he abruptly swung around and closed the front door.
For a moment I believed that he too was startled by the fervour and length of his embrace, and then I changed my mind. He was my best friend and we had been close for years, so why wouldn’t he hug me when he’d just returned from a trip? And especially under the circumstances.
‘It’s not raining,’ I murmured.
‘No, it’s not,’ he answered, turning to look at me. ‘The storm seems to have blown away before it got started.’
I nodded and headed for the kitchen to open a bottle of his favourite Pouilly-Fuissé.
Jake followed me.
‘I’ll do that,’ he said when I took the bottle of white wine from the refrigerator. He opened a drawer where he knew I kept the bar utensils and found a corkscrew. While he deftly pulled the cork, I took two wine glasses out of the cupboard and set them on the counter next to him, and a second later he was pouring wine for us.
He handed me a glass, and I said, ‘I’ve got good news, Jake. Mike heard from Ajet’s brother. Qemal told him Ajet is safe and well in Macedonia.’
‘Hey, that’s great!’ he exclaimed, and clinked his glass to mine. ‘Here’s to Ajet. Thank God he made it okay.’
I nodded. ‘To Ajet.’
We took our drinks into the living room, where Jake lowered himself into a chair near the fireplace and I sat down in the corner of the sofa, as I always did.
‘What’s the full story?’ Jake asked, peering across at me over the rim of his glass.
‘Apparently Ajet went searching for us that day, when the shelling started, but before he found us he was shot,’ I explained. ‘He was badly wounded, but fortunately he was found by some local people.’
I went on to tell Jake how Ajet had been passed on to Kosovar soldiers, taken to a hospital in Albania and then moved to Macedonia. I finally finished, ‘If you remember, I wrote down my agency number for him. And once he was well enough he asked Qemal to call Gemstar.’
‘It’s a relief to know he’s all right. Ajet was straight with us, and wanted to help any way he could. He’s a good kid.’
I settled back, studying Jake, thinking how well he looked after a week’s rest in the south. He’d asked me to go with him to St-Jean-Cap Ferrat, but I’d declined, and I suddenly wondered if that might have been a mistake on my part. A vacation would have obviously done me good. His few days in the sun had given him a golden tan, turned his streaky hair more blond than ever, and he was in glowing health. Tonight he was wearing a blue cotton shirt with his grey sports jacket and slacks, and his eyes looked more vividly blue than ever.
‘You’re staring at me,’ he said. ‘What’s wrong?’ That was Jake, who was always questioning me about everything in my life. It had been that way since we’d first met in Beirut.
‘Nothing’s wrong,’ I replied at last. ‘It’s just that you look in such great shape, I think I ought to have accepted your invitation.’
‘Yes, you should have,’ he quickly replied. He spoke softly enough, but I detected a certain undertone of vehemence in his voice. He took a long swallow of white wine and then sat nursing his drink, staring down into the glass, his face thoughtful.
When he looked up at me, he said, ‘You needed a holiday, and even though you think you look great, you don’t really. The make up doesn’t deceive me. And you’ve lost weight.’
So much for my efforts with the cosmetic pots, I thought, and said, ‘Black makes me look thin.’
‘It’s me you’re talking to,’ he answered. ‘I know you better than everyone, even better than you know yourself.’ He put the glass down on the coffee table and seemed about to get up, but suddenly leaned back against the linen cushions and closed his eyes.
After a couple of minutes, I ventured, ‘Are you feeling all right, Jake?’
Opening his eyes, he said, ‘Yep. But I’m worried about you, Val.’
‘Oh please don’t,’ I cried. ‘I’m fine. I haven’t lost a pound,’ I lied. ‘Nothing. Nada. Zilch.’
He shook his head. ‘Has Mike said anything about your going back to work?’
‘He said I was welcome back any time I felt like coming in, but to take my time, that it was my call.’
‘The sooner you get back to the agency the better, in my opinion. You need to be busy, occupied, Val, not walking around the streets of Paris every day, and sitting here alone in the apartment afterwards. I know you’re suffering. I am too. Tony was my best buddy, but life is for the living. We’ve got to go on, that’s what he would want.’
‘I’m trying hard, I really am, Jake. And the walking helps. I’m not sure why, but it does.’
‘You’re less alone when you’re out there in the streets. They make you feel more alive because they’re full of life, people, traffic, noise, activity. The streets are the world. Did I ever tell you about John Steinbeck and what he did when he heard that Robert Capa had been killed in Indochina?’
I frowned. I wasn’t certain whether he’d told me or not, and yet at the back of my mind I thought that perhaps he had. Or was it Tony who had told me? Certainly we all revered Capa, the greatest war photographer who had ever lived. I said, ‘I’m not sure, you might have. But tell me again.’
‘Capa was killed in 1954, on May 25th actually, as I’m sure you recall. And of course within hours news of his death spread around the world. Steinbeck, who was a good friend of Capa’s, was in Paris when he heard. He was so shaken up he went out and walked the streets for fourteen hours straight. I guess he just couldn’t believe it. And he couldn’t sit still. He had to be on the move. And you’re doing something very similar, but you’re doing it every day, Val.’
‘No, I’m not, I don’t walk the streets for fourteen hours!’
Jake sighed and said nothing, just gave me one of those penetrating looks of his that always made me re-examine everything I said to him. I shrugged, and finally admitted, ‘Okay, you’re right, I guess I am doing the same thing. And you did tell me the story. It was on one of those days when you were cross with Tony because you thought he was too reckless. You were comparing him to Capa.’
‘No, I wasn’t.’ Jake sat up straighter and gave me a hard stare. ‘Capa wasn’t reckless in the way that Tony was. Those who knew Capa always said he was very cautious. Don’t forget, he was an expert when it came to taking calculated risks. When he went to Indochina, it was his fifth war, and only a photojournalist of his great experience would know how to properly calculate when something was truly dangerous or not. From what I know about him, he measured the risks, especially when he had to walk across exposed areas, and he was always cautious, did not take risks unnecessarily. But if he saw the possibility of a great photograph and there was a calculated risk, then he took the risk. Tony just rushed in without –’ He cut himself off, and took a swallow of his wine, obviously feeling disloyal.
‘Without thinking,’ I finished for him, stood up and headed towards the kitchen.
‘Where are you going?’
‘To get the bottle of wine,’ I answered. When I came back, I filled his goblet, and then mine, and put the bottle down on the glass coffee table. ‘What about the memorial service?’ I said, getting right to the heart of the matter. ‘Do you know when it is?’
‘Next week. On Tuesday.’
‘I see. Where’s it being held?’
‘At the Brompton Oratory at eleven o’clock.’
I was silent, looked down at the drink in my hands.
Jake said, ‘I’ve booked us in at the Milestone in Kensington. I know you like that hotel.’
I nodded. He had surprised me with the information about the memorial. Events seemed to be moving more quickly than I’d anticipated, and I wasn’t prepared at all. Only four days away. And then I’d be sitting there amongst all of his friends and colleagues, many of them my colleagues, in fact, and listening to the world talk about the man I was still mourning. I was suddenly appalled at the idea and I sat back jerkily.
Jake was telling me something else, and I blinked and tried to concentrate on his words. He was saying, ‘I’ve spoken to Clee Donovan, and he’s definitely going to be there, and I’ve left messages for the Turnley brothers. I know they’ll come too, if they’re able.’
I gazed at him blankly. I was feeling overwhelmed and the prospect of going to London frightened me, filled me with tension and anxiety.
‘What’s wrong?’ Jake asked.
I swallowed. ‘I’m…dreading it. There’ll be such a lot of people there,’ I muttered almost to myself.
Jake made no response for a split second, and then he said, ‘I know what you mean, but let’s be glad and proud that so many people want to celebrate Tony’s life. Because that’s what a memorial is, Val, a celebration that the person was ever alive. We are showing our gratitude that Tony was born and was among us for as long as he was.’
‘Yes.’
He got up and came and sat next to me on the sofa, took hold of my hand in the most loving way. ‘I know it’s tough…but he’s dead, Val, and you’ve got to accept that because –’
‘I do,’ I cut in, my voice rising slightly.
‘You’ve got to get yourself busy, start working. You can’t just…drift like this.’
I stared at him. There he was, being bossy again in that particular very macho way of his, and before I could stop myself I exclaimed, ‘You’ve not done very much yourself since we came back from Belgrade.’ And I could have bitten my tongue off as soon as these dreadful words left my mouth; I felt the flush of embarrassment rising from my neck to flood my face.
‘I wish I had been able to work, but my leg’s been pretty bad, and it’s taken longer to heal than I expected.’
I was furious with myself. ‘I’m sorry, Jake, I shouldn’t have said that. I know your injuries were more severe than mine. I’m so stupid, thoughtless.’
‘No, you’re not, and listen: let’s make a pact right now. To help each other go forward from where we are tonight, to get ourselves moving. Let’s get started again, Val, let’s pick up our cameras and get on with the job.’
‘I don’t think I could go back to Kosovo.’
‘God, I wasn’t meaning that! I don’t want to go there either, but there are other things we can cover as well as wars.’
‘But we’re best known for doing that,’ I reminded him.
‘We can pick and choose our assignments, Val darling.’
‘I suppose so,’ I muttered, glancing at him.
Jake’s eyes changed, turned darker blue, became reflective, and after a moment he adroitly changed the subject, remarked, ‘I’ve booked us on a plane to London on Monday night, okay?’
The whole idea of the memorial was a nightmare to me, and not trusting myself to say anything, I simply nodded. Reaching for my glass, I took a sip of wine, then put the glass down and exclaimed with forced cheerfulness, ‘Tell me about your trip to the south of France.’
‘It was really great, Val, I wish you’d been with me –’ Jake stopped and glanced at the phone as it started to ring.
I extracted my hand from his, got up and went to the small desk on which it stood. ‘Hullo?’

VI
To my utter amazement it was my brother Donald calling from New York, and I sat down heavily on the small chair next to the little desk. I was flummoxed on hearing his voice, although after we’d exchanged greetings I quickly pulled myself together and listened alertly to what he had to say. Donald had always been tricky, extremely devious, and dissimulation was second nature to him.
Once he had finished his long speech, I said, ‘I just can’t get away right now. I have to go to London next week, to a memorial service for a fallen colleague, and I’ve also got loads of assignments stacking up.’
I listened again as patiently as possible, and once more I said, ‘I’m sorry, I cannot make the trip at this time. And listen, I really can’t stay on the phone, I have guests and I’ve got to go. Thanks for calling.’ In his typical selfish fashion, determined to get all of his points across, Donald went on blabbering at me, and short of banging the receiver down rudely, I had no option but to hear him out. When he finally paused for breath, I saw my opportunity and jumped in, repeated that I could not leave Europe under any circumstances for the time being. After saying a quick goodbye, I hung up.
Returning to the sofa, I sat down and said, ‘What a nerve! I can’t believe he called me!’
‘Who? And what did he call you about to get you so het up?’
I turned towards Jake and explained, ‘It was my brother Donald calling from New York. To tell me my mother’s not well, I should say his mother, because she’s never been a mother to me. He wanted me to fly to New York. What cheek!’
‘What’s wrong with her? Is she very sick?’
I saw the frown, the baffled almost confused look in his eyes, and I instantly realized that he’d never truly understood the relationship I’d had with my mother. But then how could he understand, when I couldn’t either. From what Jake had told me about himself during the years we’d known each other, he came from a marvellously warm, loving, close-knit Jewish family, and he had been raised with a lot of love, understanding and tremendous support from his parents, grandparents and sisters. Whereas I’d been an orphan within the bosom of the Denning family. If it hadn’t been for my father’s parents, Grandfather in particular, I would have withered away and died a young death from emotional deprivation. I asked myself then why I even thought in terms of having a relationship with Mother, because there had never been a relationship between us.
Iceberg Aggie, my grandfather had called her, and he had often wondered out loud to me what his son, my father, had ever seen in her. She had been very beautiful, of course. Still was, in all probability, although I hadn’t seen her for years, not since my Beirut days.
Cutting into my thoughts, Jake asked me again, ‘Is your mother very ill, Val?’
‘Donald didn’t really explain. All he said was that she wasn’t well and that she had told him she wanted to see me. He was relaying the message for her. But it can’t be anything serious, or he would have told me. Donald’s her pet, Jake, and very much under her thumb. Still, he never fools around with the truth when it comes to her well being, or anything to do with her. He’d definitely have told me if there were real problems, I’ve no doubts about that.’
‘Maybe she wants to make amends,’ Jake suggested, and raised a brow as he added, ‘A rapprochement perhaps?’
I shook my head vehemently. ‘No way. She hasn’t given a damn about me for thirty-one years. And I’m not going to New York.’
‘You could phone her.’
‘There’s nothing to say, Jake. I told you about her years ago.’ I bit my lip and shook my head slowly. ‘I can’t feel anything for a woman who has never felt anything for me.’
Jake did not respond and a long silence fell between us. But at last he broke it, when he said quietly, and with some compassion, ‘Jesus, Val, I’ve never been able to understand that, come to grips with her attitude towards you. It seems so unnatural for a mother not to love her child. I mean, what could she possibly have had against a new-born baby?’
‘Beats me,’ I answered, and lifted my shoulders in a light shrug. ‘My Denning grandparents could never fathom it out either, and as far as my mother’s mother was concerned, I really didn’t know her very well. My grandmother Violet Scott was an enigma to me, and she avoided me.’ I laughed harshly. ‘I used to think I was illegitimate when I was younger, and that my mother had become pregnant by another man before she married my father. But the dates were all wrong, they didn’t gel, because she’d been married to my father for over a year when I was born.’
‘Maybe she slept with somebody else after she married your father,’ Jake suggested.
‘I’ve thought of that as well, but I look too much like my grandmother Cecelia Denning, when she was my age. Grandfather always remarked about it, until the day he died.’
I jumped up and went to the secretaire, pulled open the bottom drawer and took out a cardboard box. Carrying it over to the sofa, I handed it to Jake. ‘Take a look at these,’ I said as I sat down next to him again.
He did so, staring for a few minutes at the old photographs of my grandmother which he had removed from the box. ‘Yes, you’re a Denning all right, and a dead ringer for Cecelia. If it weren’t for her old-fashioned clothes she could be you as you are today.’ He shuffled through the other photographs in the box and chuckled. ‘I took this one!’ he cried, waving a picture at me.
‘Hey, let me see that!’
Still laughing, he handed it to me. I couldn’t help smiling myself, as I stared back at my own image captured on celluloid. There I was in all my glory, standing outside the Commodore Hotel in Beirut, which is where I’d first set eyes on Jake. I was wearing my safari jacket and pants, and a collection of assorted cameras were slung haphazardly around my neck. It was obvious from my solemn expression that I took myself very seriously indeed. I was looking too self-important for words, and I gave a mock shudder. ‘I must have really fancied myself, but God, how awful I looked in those days.’
‘No, you were the most gorgeous thing on two legs I’d ever seen!’ he exclaimed, and then stopped with suddenness; a startled expression crossed his face, as if he had surprised himself with his words. Clearing his throat, Jake returned to the conversation about my mother, when he said, ‘It is very odd, Val, the way your mother has always treated you. With all of your accomplishments, she should be proud of you.’
I sighed, and made a small moue with my mouth. ‘It’s a mystery. And one I have no intention of solving. I just can’t be bothered. Now, how about taking me to dinner?’

CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_a78f71db-683a-5643-b354-c74261fc7e8a)
I
LONDON, SEPTEMBER
With a great deal of effort, I had managed to put the memorial service out of my mind for the last few days, but now that Jake and I were about to depart for it I was experiencing sudden panic. The service loomed large in my mind, and, very simply, I just didn’t want to go. In fact, my reluctance had become so acute it startled me. Later I was to ask myself if I’d had some sixth sense about it, a foreboding of trouble, but I wasn’t sure; I can never be certain about that.
In any event, there I stood waiting for Jake in the handsome panelled lobby of the Milestone, wondering how to gracefully wriggle out of going. Naturally I couldn’t. It was far too late to pull such a trick as that, and besides, I would never let Jake down.
Turning away from the front door, I spotted Jake coming towards me looking tanned and healthy and very smart in his dark suit, and wearing a shirt and tie for a change. But his expression was as sombre as his dark clothes, and he was limping as badly as he had yesterday when we’d arrived at Heathrow in a thunderstorm.
I didn’t dare mention the limp or ask him how he felt, since he’d practically bitten my head off last night when I’d worried out loud about his wounds. Instead I took hold of his arm, leaned into him and kissed his cheek.
He gave me a faint smile and said, ‘Sorry I kept you waiting. Now we’re running late, so we’d better get going, Val.’
I nodded and walked to the front door with him in silence, thinking how morose he was. He had sounded much more cheerful when we’d spoken earlier on the phone. But then he didn’t relish the next few hours any more than I did, I knew that.
The heavens opened up the moment Jake and I started to walk down the front steps of the hotel. The uniformed doorman hurried after us, wielding a large umbrella, and the two of us huddled under it as he led us to the waiting chauffeur-driven car which Jake had ordered last night.
Once we were seated in the car Jake said quietly, ‘It’ll be all right, Val, try not to worry so much. It’ll soon be over.’ Reaching out, he took hold of my hand and squeezed it reassuringly.
I glanced at him and gave him what must have been a rather sickly smile, and noticed the tight set of his lips, his drawn face. ‘You’re dreading the service just as much as I am. We’ve come to London against our better judgement. It’s a terrible mistake.’
‘We had no choice, we had to be here, so let’s just help each other through this as calmly as possible.’
‘Yes,’ I answered and turned my head, stared out of the car window, thinking what an awful, dreary day it was, especially for a memorial. Somehow the relentless rain, penetrating damp, and dark English skies emphasized the mournfulness of the occasion.
Being a very private person, especially when it came to my feelings, I’d never worn my emotions on my sleeve. And so I preferred to grieve for Tony in my own way, in the quiet of my home, not in a public place like the Brompton Oratory, although it was apparently a very beautiful Roman Catholic church; the Vatican of London, was the way someone had once described it to me years ago.
After a few minutes of staring out at the rain-sodden streets, as the car ploughed its way through the heavy London traffic, I turned away from the window. Taking a cue from Jake, who was huddled in the corner of the seat with his eyes closed, I did the same thing. And I did not open them until the car slid to a standstill outside the church.
I sat up, smoothed one hand over my hair, which I’d sleaked back into a neat chignon, and straightened the jacket of my black suit. Then I took a deep breath and made up my mind to get through the service with quiet dignity, and as much composure as I could muster.

II
There was such a crowd of people going into the Brompton Oratory it was hard to pick out friends and colleagues, or recognize anyone at a quick glance, for that matter. Everyone was dressed in black or other sombre colours, and faces were etched with solemnity or sorrow, or both.
I had wisely clamped on a pair of sunglasses before leaving the car, and these made me feel as if I were incognito, and also protected, if not actually invisible. Nevertheless, despite the concealing dark glasses, I clutched Jake’s arm as we mingled with the others filing into the church sedately and in a very orderly fashion.
We had just entered when I felt someone behind me tap me lightly on the shoulder. I glanced around to find myself staring into the lovely face of Nicky Wells, the Paris bureau chief of A.T.N., the most successful of all the American cable news networks.
She and I had been together in Tiananmen Square in Beijing, when the students had demonstrated against the Chinese government. That had been in 1989, and Nicky had been very helpful to me, since I was a beginner at the time. Fifteen years older than I, she had frequently taken me under her wing when I was such a novice.
We had remained friends ever since those early days, and would occasionally socialize in Paris. Standing next to Nicky was her husband Cleeland Donovan, another renowned war photographer, who had founded the agency Image some years ago. After the birth of their first child, Nicky had left the field as a war correspondent for her network, deeming it wiser and safer to remain in Paris covering local stories.
Jake and Clee had been good friends for many years, bonded as American expats, war photographers, and also as winners of the Robert Capa Award. This prize had been established in 1955, just after Capa’s death, by Life magazine and the Overseas Press Club of America, and was awarded for ‘the best photographic reporting from abroad requiring exceptional courage and enterprise’.
I knew that both men treasured this particular award as their proudest possession, Capa being a God to them, indeed to all of us in the business of being photojournalists covering wars.
The four of us hung back and spoke for a few moments about Tony and the sadness of the occasion, and then we arranged to make a date for dinner, once we were all in Paris at the same time for more than a couple of days.
As we began to move again it was Clee who said, ‘We can’t go to the wake afterwards, Jake. Nicky and I have to head back to Paris immediately after the service ends. Are you going?’ He looked from Jake to me.
I was so taken aback I couldn’t speak.
Jake cleared his throat, rather nervously I thought, and muttered something I didn’t quite catch. Then he added, ‘We’re in the same situation as you, Clee, we’ve got to get back too. Commitments to meet. But we might drop in for a few minutes, just to pay our respects.’
Nothing else was said, since the four of us were suddenly being edged forward by the throng pressing in behind us. I held onto Jake’s hand, but in the crush we became separated from Nicky and Clee. And a second or two later we found ourselves being ushered down one of the aisles and into a pew by a church official.
Once we were seated I grabbed Jake’s arm ferociously, pulled him closer to me and hissed, ‘You never told me anything about a wake.’
‘I thought it better not to, at least not until we got here,’ he admitted in a whisper.
‘Who’s giving the wake?’ I demanded, but kept my voice low, trying to curb my anger with him.
‘Rory and Moira.’ He glanced at me swiftly, and again nervously cleared his throat. ‘I have the distinct feeling we won’t be going, will we, Val?’
‘You bet we won’t,’ I snapped. I was livid.

III
It was just as well other people came into our pew at this precise moment, because it prevented a continuation of our conversation, which could have easily spiralled out of hand.
I was furious with Jake for not telling me about the wake before now, not to mention irritated with myself for not anticipating that there would be one.
Tony, after all, had been Irish; on the other hand, a wake was usually held after a funeral and not a memorial, wasn’t it? But the Irish were the Irish, with their own unique rules and rituals, and apparently a wake today was deemed in order, perhaps because the funeral had been held in Ireland. A wake was an opportunity for family and friends to get together, to comfort each other, to reminisce and remember, and to celebrate the one who had died. I was fully aware I wouldn’t be able to face the gathering. Coming on top of the memorial, it would be too much for me to handle. What I couldn’t understand was why Jake didn’t realize this.
The sound of organ music echoed through the church, and I glanced around surreptitiously. Here and there amongst the crowd I caught glimpses of familiar faces – of those we had worked with over the last couple of years. There were also any number of famous photographers and journalists, as well as a few celebrities, none of whom I knew, but instantly recognized because of their fame.
It was an enormous turnout, and Tony would have been gratified and pleased to know that so many friends and members of his profession had come here to remember him, to do him honour today.
I went on peering about me, hoping to see Rory. I felt quite positive that I would recognize him, since Tony had shown me so many photographs of his son, and of his daughter, Moira. They were nowhere to be seen, yet they had to be here. It struck me then that they would be sitting in the front pew, facing the altar, and that was out of my line of vision.
I sat back, bowed my head, and tuned myself in to the organ music. It was mournful but oddly soothing. I closed my eyes for a moment, and I was filled with relief that I was keeping my feelings in check. Well, for the moment at least.
When the organ music stopped I opened my eyes and saw a priest standing in front of the altar. He began to pray for Tony’s soul, and we all knelt to pray with the priest and then we rose automatically and sat in our seats again. The priest continued to speak, this time about Tony and his life and all that he had done with it, and what he had accomplished.
I took refuge by sinking down into myself, only half listening, absently drifting along with the proceedings, and endeavouring to remain uninvolved. Instinctively, I was scared to be a participant, for fear of making a fool of myself by displaying too much emotion, or weeping. Yet tears had risen to the surface, were rapidly gathering behind my eyes, and I struggled desperately to control myself.
Soon the priest drew to a close and glided over to one side of the altar, and as if from far, far away a lone choirboy’s voice rang out. It was an extraordinary voice, a high-pitched soprano which seemed to emanate from the very rafters of the church. The voice was so pure, so thrilling, it sent chills down my spine, and I sat up straighter and listened, enraptured.
‘The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you’ll find him.
His father’s sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him…’
Hearing the young choirboy singing so beautifully undid me. My mouth began to tremble uncontrollably, and as my face crumpled I covered it with my hand. I shrank into the corner of the pew and discovered that I wasn’t able to quell the tears. They rolled down my cheeks unchecked, slipping out from under my dark glasses and dropping down onto my hand which was clutching the lapel of my jacket.
Jake put his arm around me, drew me closer, wanting to comfort me. Leaning against him gratefully, I swallowed hard, compressed my lips, and finally managed to get my swimming senses under control. The old ballad came to an end at last, and that lilting soprano was finally silent. I hoped there would not be too much of this kind of thing, because I knew it would be unbearable. The emotional impact was already overwhelming.
But of course there was more. First Tony’s brother Niall eulogized him; he was followed by Tony’s oldest friend in the business, Eddie Marsden, the photo editor at Tony’s agency, who spoke at length. And, finally, it was Rory who was standing there in the pulpit, looking for all the world like a young Tony, strong and courageous in his grief. He had inherited his handsome father’s Black Irish looks, his mannerisms, and his voice was so similar it was like listening to Tony himself speaking.
Rory’s words came truly from the heart, were eloquent and moving. He reminded us of Tony’s great charm and his talent as a photographer, of his modesty and his lack of conceit, of his abhorrence of violence, his humanity and his condemnation of the wars he covered. Rory talked of his father’s Irish roots, his love of Ireland and of family. He spoke so lovingly about his father I felt the tears rising in my throat once more.
Rory went on, ‘He was too young a man to die…and yet he died doing what he loved the most, recording history in the making. And perhaps there’s no better way to die than doing that, doing what you love the most…’
But he could have lived a long life, I thought, as young Rory’s voice continued to wash over me. If he hadn’t taken such terrible risks none of us would be here today grieving over him. The instant these thoughts formed I hated myself for thinking them. But it was the truth.

IV
Rory spotted us as we came slowly up the central aisle. He was waiting to speak to friends of his father’s as they left the church, and his eyes lit up as soon as they settled on Jake. Moira was positioned next to him, and on his other side stood a slender, red-haired woman who even from this distance appeared to be quite beautiful. I knew at once it was Fiona, Tony’s former wife. I began to shake inside.
Jake had no way of knowing I had been seized by this internal shaking; nevertheless, he took hold of my elbow to steady me, as though he did know.
Fiona was smiling warmly at him, obviously glad to see him, and it was apparent they were old friends. Moving towards her, Jake only let go of me when we came to a standstill in front of her. He wrapped his arms around Fiona and gave her a big bear hug, then hugged Moira and Rory.
Bringing me forward into the group, he introduced me. ‘Fiona this is Val – Val Denning.’
‘Hello, Val,’ she said warmly in a soft voice, and she gave me a small half smile and thrust out her hand.
I took hold of it, and said, ‘Fiona’, and inclined my head, trying not to stare at her. She had a lovely face, with high cheekbones, a dimpled chin and smooth brow. Her skin was that pale milky white which Irish redheads seem to be blessed with, liberally peppered with freckles across the bridge of her nose and her cheekbones. Her hair, cut short and curly, was flame-coloured and her eyes were dark, black as coal. A true Celt, I thought.
‘I’m so glad you were able to come to London,’ Fiona was saying to Jake in her lilting brogue that bespoke her heritage. ‘To be honest, I’d worried that you might both be off on assignments, that you wouldn’t make the memorial service. Thanks for coming.’ She looked at me, and then back at Jake and said, ‘So you’ll be joining us at the house to take a bite with us?’
Jake hesitated uncertainly, gave me a quick glance and said to Fiona, ‘Val hasn’t been feeling well since we got here last night, have you, Val?’
He had adroitly thrown the ball into my court and I had no option but to go along with him. ‘Er, no, I haven’t, not really. I think I must be coming down with something.’
Fiona’s face dropped. ‘Oh, that’s such a disappointment, ’tis indeed, Val. And here I was wanting to give you both something of Tony’s. As a memento, you know. There’s so much at the house, all of his possessions collected over the years. I thought you could choose something, Val, and you Jake, something personal like a camera, or maybe a pair of cufflinks.’ She paused and shook her head, and a wry smile touched her mouth. ‘Well, as far as Tony’s concerned, there would be nothing more personal than a camera I’m thinking, since every camera he ever owned was part of him.’
‘We do want you to come, Jake, you worked alongside Dad for so long. And you should come, Miss Denning,’ Rory cut in, looking directly at me. ‘If you feel up to it. It’s not a real wake, you know. It’s a sort of…well, it’s just a gathering of friends remembering my father with his family, in his home –’
‘It won’t be the same without you,’ Fiona interjected. ‘Why, Jake, you were so close to him these last few years I thought at times that you were joined at the hip. Please come to the house. It means so much to me and the children.’
Jake said something but I wasn’t paying attention. Instead I was staring at Fiona. And I knew with absolute certainty that she was not Tony’s ex-wife. Fiona was still his wife. Or rather, his widow.

CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_30cb9ad0-45fa-57c2-a448-5dbb3ba55062)
I
‘Tony came to me at the end of July and said he was divorced. Why didn’t you tell me he wasn’t?’ I asked as evenly as possible, trying to keep my voice level and controlled.
‘Because I didn’t know he wasn’t,’ Jake answered, returning my stare with one equally penetrating.
‘But why didn’t you know? You were his best buddy, and you seem very pally with Fiona. You must have known something, known what was going on in their life together!’ I exclaimed, my voice rising slightly.
Jake did not answer.
We stood facing each other in my room at the Milestone, where we had returned after leaving the Brompton Oratory. When truth and reality had suddenly hit me in the face at the church, I had hurriedly excused myself to Fiona, hinting in a vague way that I really wasn’t well and had to leave. Under pressure from her, Jake had finally agreed to go to her house once he had dropped me off at the hotel. On the way here in the car, he had tried to talk to me, asking me why I had rushed out so abruptly. But I’d hushed him into silence, explaining that we must wait to have our discussion in private.
Now we were having it. He suddenly reached out, as if to take me in his arms. But as he moved towards me, I took a step backwards. ‘Don’t try to comfort me right now,’ I said swiftly. ‘I’m not in the mood, Jake, and anyway I want to talk this out with you.’ I shook my head. ‘I always thought you were my friend, my best friend, actually, but now…’ I let my sentence trail off.
Instantly I saw that I had annoyed him. His mouth tightened into a thin line and his bright blue eyes, usually so benign, had turned flinty and cold. ‘Don’t you dare question my friendship and loyalty!’ he cried, sounding angry. ‘And stop being so damned belligerent, Val. I haven’t done anything to hurt you, I’m only an innocent bystander. Now listen to me for a moment.’
‘I’m listening. So go ahead, shoot.’
‘Okay, okay, and just let’s settle down here a mite.’ He took a deep breath, and went on in a slightly milder tone, ‘Although Tony and I were close, he never confided in me about his private life, only ever hinted at things. I knew there were lots of women –’ He cut himself off, looked chagrined, and eyed me carefully before continuing.
I knew Jake would never wilfully hurt me, and I guessed that he was now worrying he had just caused me a degree of pain. But that wasn’t so. ‘It’s okay, Jake, keep going,’ I said in what I hoped was a reassuring voice.
He nodded. ‘Val, you have to face up to the fact that you weren’t the first, there were others before you. But he never left Fiona. She was always there in the background, his childhood sweetheart, his child bride as he called her, and the mother of his children. She was inviolate, in a sense. At least, that’s what I believed. As I told you, we never discussed his marriage or his love affairs, just as I didn’t talk about my personal life or my divorce from Sue Ellen. We only touched on those things in the most peripheral way. Very casually. Then he got involved with you last year, and eventually I began to think the unthinkable, that he was going to break up with Fiona. Not that he ever said so. Nor did he discuss you. However, when he came to Paris in July he announced, out of the blue, that he was divorced –’
‘And you were gobsmacked, as the English say,’ I interrupted with some acidity.
Ignoring my sarcasm, Jake continued: ‘You’re right, in one sense, yes. Because he was such a dyed-in-the-wool Catholic I’d always thought a divorce was out of the question. And then again, he’d done something I’d never expected him to do. Mind you, Val, I understood on another level why he would want to be free. It was for you. Yes, I understood that aspect of it very well.’
‘He lied to both of us. He wasn’t divorced.’
‘We don’t really know that,’ Jake answered in a reasonable tone.
‘Oh yes we do. At least I do.’
‘I’d like you to consider a couple of things. Firstly, think about Fiona and her demeanour today. She isn’t playing the grieving widow. She seems a bit sad, I’ll grant you that, but she’s not distraught. And secondly, she’s only having a small gathering at the house, just a few friends. In other words, she’s not making a big deal out of the memorial.’
‘I don’t think those are very good arguments.’
‘Are you making the assumption they were not divorced just because she talked about Tony’s possessions being at the house, and because Rory spoke about Tony as if he lived in the bosom of his family, and very happily so?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘But those things don’t add up to Tony still being married to Fiona when he was killed. Think about it, Val. Even if they were divorced, no one would bring it up today, least of all his son. It just wouldn’t have been appropriate or very nice, and anyway there was no reason to do so. It was a memorial service given by people who loved Tony, and the legal status of their marriage didn’t figure into it at all.’
‘I guess not,’ I admitted. ‘On the other hand, there’s Fiona’s attitude towards me. If there’d been a divorce, why was she so nice to me? So pleasant?’
‘Because she didn’t know you were involved with Tony, that’s why.’
‘I see.’
‘Please don’t make the mistake of using her attitude towards you as a yardstick, Val. That would be very flawed judgement on your part.’
I bit my lip, and thought for a moment, before saying, ‘Well, I guess the best way, perhaps the only way, to get to the truth is to ask Fiona if she and Tony were divorced.’
‘You wouldn’t do that!’ He looked at me askance.
‘No, I wouldn’t. But you could ask her, Jake.’
‘Oh no, not me. And certainly not today of all days.’
I sat down on a chair and dropped my head into my hands. After a minute or two, I looked up at him intently. ‘Jake, I’m going to ask you a question, and I want you to answer it as truthfully as you can. It’s this: Do you really believe Tony and Fiona were divorced?’
Jake lowered his long, lean frame into the other chair. ‘Yes, I do,’ he answered after giving it some thought. And then he slowly shook his head. A doubtful expression flickered in his eyes. He murmured, ‘You know, Val, if I’m absolutely honest, I just don’t know whether they were divorced or not. On the other hand, why would he announce it to me as well as to you?’ Jake lifted his hands in a helpless sort of gesture and shook his head again. ‘Why would he invent that? What was his purpose?’
‘I don’t know. But trust a woman’s instincts. The other woman’s instincts. They weren’t divorced.’

II
In the end I went with Jake to Fiona’s house in Hampstead.
He wasn’t too happy about me going with him, because he was nervous at first, worried that I would verbally accost Fiona. But I promised I wouldn’t do that, and he knew I never broke a promise. Also, he understood very well that I would never create an embarrassing scene either.
By the time Jake was leaving my room I knew I had to go with him, there were no two ways about it. Very simply, I had to get to the bottom of the situation, find out everything I could without actually asking any direct questions.
It had occurred to me on the drive up to Hampstead with Jake that their home, whether Tony had vacated it recently or not, would also tell me a great deal about their relationship. And then there were the children, eighteen-year-old Rory, and Moira, who was twenty. In my experience, children frequently said a lot about their parents, and without actually meaning to they invariably revealed a few secrets. I hoped this would be the case today.

III
Where was the monster? Where was the harridan? Where was the disturbed woman Tony had complained about so often?
Certainly not present today, as far as I could ascertain, not unless Fiona was a superb actress or suffering from a split personality. Could she be a Dr Jekyll and Mrs Hyde? I was rather doubtful of that. In fact, she appeared to be a pleasant sort of woman who seemed perfectly normal to me.
I knew she was forty, but she didn’t look her age at all. A pretty woman, it was her colouring that was the most striking thing about her; her natural flame-coloured hair and bright, dark eyes gave her a kind of vivid radiance. Of medium height and build, she had an innate gracefulness which was most apparent now as she moved around the room, tending to the needs of her guests. Including Fiona and her children, there were eleven of us altogether, since only Niall, his wife Kate, and several really close friends and colleagues had been invited to the intimate buffet lunch.
I sat on the sofa alone, facing the French windows which led to the garden. Jake was off in a corner, deep in conversation with Rory and Moira, and so I took this opportunity to catch my breath, to relax and review the past few hours. It had been a wild morning. Emotional. Disturbing. And in many ways more dismaying than I’d anticipated.
Outside the windows the scene was pastoral, and I was enjoying sitting here looking at it, enjoying this moment of quietness and solitude in the midst of the gathering. Everyone was engaged in conversation, but this did not bother me; I was part of them yet separate. I might easily have been in the depths of the country, and not in Hampstead, although parts of this area of London were bucolic, I knew that.
From my position on the sofa I could see a number of large trees, including an oak and a sycamore, and a verdant lawn which was held in check by herbaceous borders. There was an ancient fountain spraying arcs of shimmering water up into the air, and beyond this, a high, old stone wall into which had been set a wrought-iron gate with an elaborate scroll design.
This gate led to an apple orchard, so Fiona had told me a moment ago, and she had added, ‘Tony’s favourite spot. He did love his garden so.’
Nodding, smiling, I had not uttered a word on hearing this. It was something which seemed so unlikely; but I had taken a fast sip of the sherry Rory had poured for me earlier, to be followed by several more sips in quick succession. Her words had startled me. I had no idea how to respond, and then realized that no response was necessary.
When did he have time to sit in a garden? I asked myself wonderingly, frowning at her retreating figure, as she flitted away to serve more drinks, and questioning the veracity of her remark. Yet there was no reason for her to make this comment if it were not true. What did she have to gain? Nothing, of course. Anyway, it had been said almost off-handedly, as if no thought had been given to it. Nevertheless, I found it curious.
Almost instantly it struck me that he’d had plenty of time to spend here in the garden, because he had always hot-footed it to London at the end of an assignment, leaving me and Jake to make our way back to France together.
And Tony had usually had plenty of good reasons for rushing off, ready excuses on the tip of his tongue; he had to check in with his news-photo agency, spend time at the agency, see his kids, have lunch with his brother, get a doctor’s check-up, go to the dentist, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. No, he had never been at a loss when it came to explaining away his absence from my life when we were not working.
Tony had been in London through June and most of July, and certainly he could have easily done a lot of garden-sitting then. He had not joined us in Paris until the last few days of July, just before we set off for Kosovo in August to cover the war.
Do we ever really know another person? Until earlier today I had believed I knew everything there was to know about Tony Hampton. Not so, it seemed.
I’d had a bit of a shock in the Brompton Oratory, when it had suddenly hit me, with some force, that I was actually standing next to Tony’s widow and not his ex-wife, as I had believed her to be. But the shock had receded somewhat, and I had begun to regain some of my equilibrium.
When I’d rushed out of the church I’d been full of rage; but as the anger had subsided I had accepted the fact that I’d been duped. Not only that, I could also admit to myself that Tony had purposely set out to beguile me last year, and I had been foolishly sucked in, captivated by his Irish charm – if anyone had kissed the Blarney Stone he had. I had been bowled over by his sudden and rather intense interest in me; it had been so unexpected. After all, he had known me for several years and had always treated me as a pal. Suddenly I was the focus of his romantic and sexual interest, and for a while I was baffled. But he was charismatic, and of course I had not been able to resist his looks, his humour, his cleverness, his sexuality. I had been a sitting duck…
There was something else. I trusted my gut instinct absolutely, and earlier today it had told me Tony had died a married man. I was convinced I was right about that, even if Jake was wavering on this point.
I was baffled by Tony’s behaviour at the end of July. Why had he unexpectedly announced to Jake that he was divorced? And why had he told me exactly the same thing? I’d certainly not been bugging him about marriage. And who could fathom out a blatant lie like that? What was the motivation behind it? What was the reason for the lie? What had he hoped to gain?
All kinds of other questions jostled for prominence in my mind, as I sat there in his house in Hampstead with his widow playing hostess; I went on sipping her dry sherry and pondering my love affair with him.
Had Tony been playing for time? Had he been intending to marry me, as he had often said he would, and in doing so commit bigamy? Had he merely been stringing me along, hoping that Fiona would leave him? Or that I would tire of waiting? Had he found himself in so deep with me he didn’t know how to extricate himself, and therefore had invented the divorce and given me the Grecian ring as…pacifiers? Had he been hoping that something would happen to solve his problems?
Tony had had a favourite expression, one which he used frequently. ‘Life has a way of taking care of itself,’ he would say to me and others.
Well, life had indeed taken care of itself in the end. Had he always known he would die covering a war? Had he had a presentiment about this? An icy shiver shot through me at this appalling thought, and I immediately put it out of my head. Otherwise, I might start thinking that his recklessness had in some way been calculated.
A feeling of dismay mingled with frustration now lodged in the pit of my stomach, as I recognized that I would never know what had been in Tony’s mind. No one would. The only person who had all the answers was dead and buried.

IV
Not wishing to wrestle any further with the puzzle of Tony’s marital status and his terrible game-playing, if that was what he had been doing, I focused my eyes on the garden for a short while longer. It was so tranquil, filled with such a calm beauty, I took a measure of peace from it. And again I was thankful that nobody was disturbing me with their idle chatter.
The slashing rain had long since stopped and the day had turned sunny; airy white clouds floated across a soft periwinkle-blue sky, and it had become one of those lovely September afternoons which are so endemic to England.
Suddenly that bright sunlight was pouring into the room. Yellow was the predominant colour and the result was magical; the whole room acquired a shimmer to it, a warm, golden glow that appeared to make everything gleam. My eyes roamed around, taking everything in for the first time since I’d arrived.
There were some attractive modern paintings on the walls, and a number of handsome Georgian antiques were on display. But essentially it was a room which had been furnished rather than decorated, because there was no cohesive decorative theme to it. Beautiful things were dotted here and there, but they looked as if they had been gathered somewhat indiscriminately and then placed around haphazardly. The room did have comfort and there was more than a hint of refined taste at work, but very little of Tony was in evidence here. This setting had been created solely by Fiona, I was sure of that.
Jake moved away from the corner of the room at last, sauntered over to me and looked down. He said, ‘You seem a bit pensive. Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine. I’ve just been sitting here, thinking. Thinking things through.’
Jake nodded, gave me a small lopsided smile. ‘We’ll talk later. In the meantime, how about coming into the dining room, getting a little food? You should try and eat something, Val, before we go to the airport.’
I agreed.

V
In the end it was the study that told the real story.
Jake and I had just finished eating when Fiona came over. Leaning closer to us, she said in a low confidential voice, ‘Let’s slip away. I want you to choose something of Tony’s as a memento.’
I jumped up at this invitation. Jake and I followed her out of the dining room, up the stairs, down the corridor and into the long spacious room which had been Tony’s private abode.
The moment I stepped inside I knew that no one else could possibly have occupied it; his own unique imprint was stamped on it everywhere.
The first thing I noticed was the baseball cap, and my stomach lurched.
How could I miss it? I had bought it for him last year, on our vacation in the south of France. There were a number of other hats hanging on the antique mahogany hat-stand near the door, but my baseball cap had been his favourite. The way it hung there now, a bit lopsidedly, made me catch my breath. He might have just flung it onto the peg a moment ago.
Feeling decidedly queasy, I glanced away and moved farther into the room.
Along one wall, a series of built-in cupboards ran down towards the window, and I guessed that this was his filing system; those cabinets more than likely housed hundreds of his photographs and all of his records. And God knows what else. I wished I could get into them, but no hope of that I knew.
Stacks of magazines, piles of books, and a selection of very expensive cameras were carefully arranged on top of the cabinets, and above the long countertop the wall was lined with cork. Onto this Tony had pinned a lot of photographs. Including some of mine, I noticed with a small jolt of surprise.
Walking closer, I looked at them, remembering. Remembering so much.
I instantly closed my mind to those memories. With a rush of irritation I knew he had put them up there as souvenirs of our vacation in France last summer. All of them had been taken near St Tropez, where we had spent a week sailing. Seascapes. Empty beaches. Sunsets. Shots of the endless sky. Close-ups of flowers, trees, birds, nature in all its forms. Beautiful shots which were a relief for me to take after the horrors of war. They were unidentified, but they were mine all right.
Then my gaze fell on the camera I had given him. A Leica.
Automatically, I reached for it, held it in my hand, thinking of Tony, suddenly angry with him again. I felt betrayed and used by him.
Fiona must have seen me pick it up, because she exclaimed, ‘If you want the camera, please take it, Val dear. Rory and Moira have chosen the ones they prefer. I’m so pleased she’s taking after Tony, following in his footsteps. I’m sure she’s told you all about her plans, Jake, hasn’t she?’
I turned around to face the two of them.
Fiona stood near the big partner’s desk in the middle of the room, and she was looking up at Jake.
He said, ‘Yes, she has been filling me in. She’s very excited that she’s going to join Tony’s agency next year.’
As I continued to look at them it struck me suddenly that Jake looked very tired, as if the day had affected him as deeply as it had me. Also, I couldn’t help wondering what Moira and Rory had been talking to him about. Their father, no doubt.
Picking up the camera, I went to join them both. Jake put his arm around me, drew me closer to him, almost protectively, I thought.
‘Thanks, Fiona, I’d like the camera,’ I murmured, although I didn’t want it at all. But I thought it would look churlish, perhaps even odd, if I didn’t take something of his, since we had worked together.
Looking pleased, Fiona now picked up a small leather box which was on the desk, and opened it. She showed the contents to us; it held a pair of cufflinks. Glancing at Jake, she said, ‘I thought you might like to have these, as a memento of Tony. They’re good ones, you know. They’re made of eighteen-carat gold, and lapis, as you can see.’
For a split second Jake looked as though he was about to refuse the blue cufflinks but apparently changed his mind. ‘Thanks,’ he said, taking them from her. He studied them for a moment, closed the box and put it in his jacket pocket without another word.
‘Would you like to select one or two of Tony’s cameras?’ she asked him.
Jake shook his head. ‘I’ve got so many of my own, honey, but thanks for offering.’
Sitting down at the desk, Fiona opened the centre drawer, took out a large, office-sized cheque book and turned the pages. ‘Tony must’ve owed you money, Jake. Five hundred pounds, to be exact.’ Her expression was questioning, and then she went on, ‘He made out this cheque to you, dated and signed it, then forgot to tear it out before he left for Paris at the end of July. I found it the other day, when I’d finally screwed up the courage to go through his desk.’
Jake was obviously not surprised by her words. Nodding, he explained, ‘Tony told me he’d left the cheque behind by mistake. I said he should forget it, that it didn’t matter.’ Jake cleared his throat, and added, ‘I’d loaned him some money to buy film when we were in Jordan in March. Look, it’s not important, Fiona.’
‘No, no, I insist you take it,’ she exclaimed, tore out the cheque and handed it to Jake. Since I was standing next to him, I couldn’t help noticing that the cheque came from a joint account. An account bearing Fiona’s name as well as his.
Well, so much for that, I thought. She had a joint account with him. She has his children. His house. His garden. A whole life with him to remember.
As for me, what did I have?

CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_cdf66481-0356-5226-97a5-ba978603f475)
I
Jake did not have much to say on the way to the airport. In fact, he was not only silent but rather glum. In contrast, I was brimming with thoughts, theories and comments, and desperately wanted to talk to him. But in the end I remained silent, deeming it wiser to hold my tongue for the moment.
It was obvious to me that he didn’t want to talk about Tony and Fiona, or Rory and Moira either, with whom he had spent a lot of time at the lunch. Nor did he want to discuss that lunch, which we had just left, or the memorial service of earlier. I didn’t blame him. Everything had become as painful for Jake as it had for me, or so I believed.
Heathrow was as busy as it always was, crowded with people, and as we pushed our way through the bustling throng heading for all corners of the world, I got the distinct feeling Jake couldn’t wait to get back to Paris. I hurried along next to him, hauling my one piece of luggage, a fold-over bag which had travelled the world with me.
‘Hey, honey, let me help you with your stuff,’ he suddenly said, becoming aware of the difficulties I was having with the large hold-all slung over one shoulder.
‘I can manage, Jake. Please don’t worry, you’ve enough to carry of your own,’ I replied, but I was still struggling, and before I could protest further he grabbed the fold-over bag out of my hands.
‘I’m sorry, Val, I should have carried this for you all along. No excuse for me, except that I’ve been preoccupied.’ He gave me a faint smile, and finished, ‘I’ve been very neglectful.’
‘Please, it’s okay!’ I exclaimed. ‘I’m a strong, tough girl who can carry her own luggage and take care of herself in any situation.’
Staring down at me, he gave me an odd look, and muttered, ‘I’m not so sure about that, Kid.’
I didn’t answer. I simply trotted along next to him, trying to keep up with his long strides. After a second or two I remarked, ‘Anyway, I know what you mean about being preoccupied. I’m on overload myself at the moment.’
He nodded, gave me a swift glance and said, ‘Yes, you are. Emotional overload. The point is, we’re both top-heavy with a lot of crap, a lot of disturbing and conflicting feelings. I just need to clear my head, Val, so that I can look at…things as clearly as possible.’
‘I understand,’ I answered, ‘and I realize now is not the right time to talk, since we’re rushing through an airport like maniacs, trying to make a plane. But we should sit down and chat, Jake. We need to understand about Tony and Fiona. Whenever you want, but we really must do it,’ I insisted.
When he made no response whatsoever, I eyed him worriedly, and pressed, ‘At the lunch you said we’d talk later, remember? We have to make sense out of Tony’s behaviour, you know.’
‘I guess we do,’ he muttered, and his face became closed, his mouth grimly set. He plunged ahead, making for the gate, deftly handling our luggage.
I sighed under my breath. So much for that illuminating conversation, I muttered to myself, and ran after him to board the plane to Paris.

II
The flight across the English Channel was short, just over an hour, and I spent most of that time wondering why Jake was still so silent, wrapped up in his own thoughts. I’d tried to make small talk with him to no avail. He barely responded, seemed reluctant to say anything at all. And when he did reply to the odd question or comment of mine, his answers were brief and to the point.
If I didn’t know better I would have said he was being sulky, but that wasn’t his nature. Jake was not a moody man, nor was he temperamental, and like me he was usually on an even keel. Quite aside from that, I always thought of him as being straightforward, honest and dependable. The salt of the earth: and my best friend, the one I relied on.
His quietness, his unexpected reserve, puzzled me a bit, and I wondered if something else was bothering him, other than Tony Hampton. But perhaps not.
Now I stole a look at him. His head was thrown back against the plane seat and his eyes were closed, but even in repose his expression was troubled. His mouth had relaxed, but there was a tautness in his face, a tenseness in his body, even though he dozed. Poor Jake, I thought, I’ve put him through hell these past few weeks since Tony’s death. I suddenly felt very guilty about that. We had both loved Tony in our different ways, and losing him had traumatized us. We had tried to help each other along, commiserating with each other, while continuing to miss him.
But as of today we had a different Tony Hampton to contemplate and contend with, a Tony much less noble, a man without honour, as far as I was concerned.
I asked myself why I had never realized that, never spotted this flaw in him? I prided myself on my integrity, and I found it hard to relate to those who lacked this quality. My grandfather had always held integrity very dear, and he had drilled its importance into me, reminding me about the value of honour, honesty, trustworthiness and decency. I have tried to live by Grandfather’s rules and standards and I believe I have succeeded.
Once, long ago, my little slug of a brother Donald had told me that my standards were too high, that I expected too much from people, that no one could live up to my highfalutin expectations, going on to inform me that the world was full of rotten people. ‘And most people are rotten, whatever you think Val Denning,’ he had exploded, his rage spilling over. ‘They stink. They cheat, they steal, they lie. They commit adultery, and murder, and they’re shit! Yes, the whole world is full of shitty people, and the sooner you realize that the better off you’ll be.’
I had gaped at him in astonishment at the time, wondering what rock he had crawled out from under, and then I had turned away in disgust. Over the years I had constantly endeavoured to avoid these confrontations with my brother as best I could, but I hadn’t always succeeded. Ever since childhood I had loathed getting embroiled with him because he was so opinionated, and he never ever listened. I can’t remember now what had set Donald off that particular day, but whenever he started to rant I usually did a disappearing act.
I suddenly remembered that Tony had also once said my standards were too high, and like Donald he had pointed out that very few people could live up to my expectations of them. I wondered now if he’d been thinking of himself that day. Of course I would never know; and the enigma of Tony would puzzle me for the rest of my life.

III
Jake suddenly awakened, stretched and turned to me. ‘Well, I’ve not been much company, have I, Val?’ He made a face. ‘Sorry about that, honey, but I felt bushed when we got on the plane. I just had to grab a bit of sleep.’
I nodded my understanding. ‘Do you feel better?’
Jake grimaced. ‘Not really. London’s been a tough trip, especially for you, and we will talk about Tony and Fiona, I promise. But later, okay? I’m just not up to it tonight.’
‘Whenever you can, Jake, because it’s important to me.’
‘I’m aware of that. It’s just as important to me, in more ways than you can imagine.’ He reached over, took hold of my hand and squeezed it. ‘I’ll drop you off at your apartment, and I’ll call you tomorrow, Val.’
‘All right,’ I murmured, feeling disappointed. I’d hoped to have dinner with him tonight, so that I could discuss Tony. But apparently that wasn’t to be. Never mind, I could bide my time until he was ready.

CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_8167a299-1572-5c10-beab-d2f5aa1d4516)
I
PARIS, SEPTEMBER
The persona Tony Hampton had presented to the world had been dazzling. Intrepid war photographer, one of the most brilliant photojournalists of this decade, courageous, charismatic, a handsome and divine ladies’ man, raconteur par excellence, bon vivant, and most generous host.
But there had been another side to him. He had been a liar and a cheat and he had undoubtedly led a double life. This is what I now truly believed even though I had only my own intuition to go on.
Maybe Jake wouldn’t entirely agree with me, but I felt quite certain there had been a much darker side to Tony. Being in the bosom of his family at the memorial service earlier today had convinced me of this. And I was now absolutely positive he had never been divorced from Fiona. From his family’s behaviour, and all that they had said, I placed him right in their midst until he left London in July. It was then he had come to Paris to pick us up, so that we could head out to Kosovo together. And he had been happily ensconced in their midst, from what I deduced.
I was sitting at the desk in my bedroom, and I reached out, picked up the photograph of Tony in its silver frame. I held it in both hands, staring at his face. He stood there on the deck of the sloop anchored off St Tropez last year, squinting in the summer sunshine. So dashing, so debonair…so enigmatic…
And I couldn’t help wondering about him, wondering about his complicated life, and what it had been all about in the end.
He would have been a psychiatrist’s dream, I thought. Put him on a couch for analysis and God knows what he would have spilled. Or would he? Psychotics didn’t always do that, did they?
Psychotic.
The word hung there. Silently, I repeated it in my head, considered it carefully, asking myself why it had popped into my mind. And yet it did seem appropriate, didn’t it? Tony was psychotic.
I put the photograph back in its given place on the desk, leaned back in my chair and stared off into space. In the far reaches of my mind, I’d had Tony Hampton under a mental microscope for a good part of the day, and I didn’t like what I’d seen; nor did my conclusions about him elate me.
He was not just a liar, telling small white lies – didn’t we all do that at times? – but a pathological liar telling real whoppers, lies that were dangerous because they could conceivably do damage to people, cause them great heartache, change their lives and not always for the best.
That deep-seated lying had probably become a way of life for him. He couldn’t stop because he couldn’t help himself. Then again, he had needed to lie for his own protection. He had spun a web of deceit he couldn’t crawl out of; he had entrapped himself with his complex machinations.
Then there was his adultery. It had been compulsive, excessive, a dominant force in his life, and it had obviously grown out of hand over the years. It became an addiction, I was sure.
I hadn’t needed Jake to inform me today about the many women Tony had been involved with before me. I was well aware of his countless affairs; after all, we’d worked together, travelled together on various assignments.
Naturally Tony had tried to keep these women under wraps, and a secret, because his private life was his private life. It was none of my business, in his opinion. Nor was it Jake’s business either, and so he had striven for privacy.
However, I could put two and two together, and come up with six, just like everyone else. Tony had always underestimated me and so had Jake. Just because I never discussed Tony’s international sexual dalliances didn’t mean that I didn’t know they existed. I did know, and I didn’t care. After all, I wasn’t in love with him then, not involved in that way. This knowledge hadn’t changed my opinion of him in those days. I thought he was a great guy, a good human being, and naturally I admired his talent as a photojournalist. It was more than that really; I considered it an honour to work alongside him.
But to think Jake believed I hadn’t known about Tony’s very busy love life…how ludicrous that was. I was much smarter than he imagined, than Tony imagined. I suddenly wanted to laugh out loud at the mere idea of it.
All those women…and one in particular whom I had known and disliked.

II
It was April 1996, and for once Tony and I were on assignment without Jake. He had gone to New York to deal with his divorce from Sue Ellen Jones, the famous model, and Tony and I had flown out to the Middle East for our respective news-photo agencies. We were in Lebanon to cover the new hostilities which had erupted between the Israelis and Hezbollah.
The long and fierce civil war was over by that time and things were beginning to mend, beginning to get back to normal, and then the skirmishing had unexpectedly started once more.
For the first time in fourteen years the Israelis had attacked Beirut directly, using laser-homing Hellfire missiles shot from four helicopter gunships off the coast.
The Israelis were not the aggressors, though. They were actually responding to Hezbollah’s recent bombing of their country. And that war of attrition had started up again because Hezbollah had then retaliated after the missile attack, sending forty rockets smack into the middle of Israel. And so it went…
One lovely spring day – late in the afternoon – Tony and I were sitting in the bar of the Marriott Hotel in the Hamra district of Beirut. I suppose I’ll never ever forget that day, because we had had such bad news about a colleague of ours, Bill Fitzgerald of C.N.S., one of the American cable television networks. He had disappeared several days earlier, and none of us knew what had happened to him. We were all a bit nervous and concerned, and afraid for Bill.
Two of his crew, who had been with him out on the streets, had seen him grabbed by three young men, who had hustled him into a waiting Mercedes and then driven off at breakneck speed. The two crew members had been alert, and at once they had jumped into their car and followed in furious pursuit. But the Mercedes had disappeared – into thin air. It was nowhere in sight and they hadn’t been able to find it.
Since then there had been no news about Bill, and none of the terrorist organizations had claimed his kidnapping. Who had snatched him, and for what purpose, we did not know.
But as we sat around in the bar that day, drinking with a group of international correspondents, all of us were offering theories and speculation was rampant…

III
‘Islamic Jihad,’ I had said all of a sudden, glancing around the table at my companions. ‘They’ve got him.’
‘But why would they have grabbed him?’ Tony had asked, ‘and if it is them, what have they got to gain

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