Bittersweet (25 page)

The driver they had promised her was waiting just outside Customs, and he drove into town as quickly as he could, while she changed her clothes in the backseat and combed her hair as neatly as possible under the circumstances. She felt a little more disorganized than she wanted to, but when she looked in the mirror, she decided she would pass inspection. And she wasn't here to look beautiful, she was here to take photographs. No one was going to care what she looked like.

As they approached the Royal Naval Academy, she saw that there were cadets outside in formal uniforms, holding antique muskets and rifles, and they stood at attention as guests came in and out, and the surroundings were very impressive. The buildings framed an enormous square of lawn, and the domed chapel was built in 1779.

She took a couple of quick shots of the outside, and hurried inside to the party. And as she came up the steps, she looked up and saw the extraordinary paintings all around and on the ceiling. It was a cross between
Versailles and the Sistine Chapel. And there were at least four hundred people dancing, and almost the moment she walked in, she began shooting. It was easy to spot her subjects. Prince Charles, the queens of the Netherlands, Denmark, and Norway. She recognized all of them, as well as the President of France, several Crown Princes, and then she saw Queen Elizabeth in the distance, surrounded by guards, and chatting easily with the Prime Minister, and the President and the First Lady. She had had to show her pass when she entered, but she slipped it into her pocket after that, and spent the next four hours gliding discreetly from one group to the other. And at two A.M., when the party broke up, she knew she had gotten what she'd come for. It was the same warm feeling she'd had years before when she knew she got her story, although this time her subjects couldn't have been more different.

The Queen had left hours before, and the rest of the illustrious guests filed out decorously, saying what an extraordinary party it had been, and some of them went to see the chapel. India took the last of her roll of film there, and then climbed into her car, and headed back to the city.

They had gotten her a small room at Claridge's, which had been one of the promised perks of the job, and as she walked into the lobby with her camera, and her bag, she suddenly realized she was exhausted. It was two-thirty in the morning there, which was only eight-thirty in the evening for her, but she had been working for hours, traveling and covering her story. It felt just like the old days, although her work clothes then hadn't included velvet skirts and evening shoes. She had worn
combat boots and camouflage, but she knew that she would remember the sights she had seen that night forever. The Painted Hall was surely one of the grandest sights in England, and the people who had been there that night were forming the course of history in Europe.

She could hardly wait to get undressed and into bed, and she was asleep almost the minute her head hit the pillow. She didn't stir until she heard the phone ringing, and she couldn't imagine why anyone would call her at that hour. But when she opened her eyes, she saw there was daylight streaming into the room. It was ten o'clock on a cold November morning in London, and she had to be somewhere at noon. She had slept right through her alarm clock.

“Hello?” she said sleepily, stretching and looking around the room. It was small, but pretty, done in pale blue flowered chintzes.

“I thought you were supposed to be working.”

“I am. Who is this?” For a minute, she thought it was Raoul, but it didn't sound anything like him. And then suddenly she knew. It was Paul, calling from the boat in Turkey. “I didn't recognize you for a minute. I was dead to the world. Thank God you woke me.”

“How's it going?” He sounded happy to hear her.

“It's really fun. Last night was terrific. Everyone in the world was there, as long as they had
queen, prince
, or
king
in front of their name. And the Painted Hall is amazing.”

“It is, isn't it? Serena and I went to a party there once, for a very nice man, a maritime author named
Patrick O'Brian. He's one of my passions. The Painted Hall is quite something.” He had been everywhere, it seemed to her. But even Paul was impressed by the people who had been there, when she told him about it.

“I think I got some really great pictures.”

“How does it feel to be working again?” He smiled at the thought of her, tucked into her little room at Claridge's. He could almost see her. And knowing what it had taken to get there, he knew what a victory it was for her, and how much it meant to her. He was glad she had done it.

“It feels terrific. I love it.” She had also told him about the second story, and he was concerned about her, but figured she knew what she was doing, and the police would protect her. “How are you, Paul?” He was sounding a little better these days, though she knew Thanksgiving probably hadn't been easy for him, but he had avoided the issue by staying in Turkey. “Any interest in coming to London while I'm here?” She threw it out as a possibility, but she didn't really expect him to take her up on it, and knew instinctively that he wouldn't. He was still hiding from real life on the
Sea Star.

“I don't think so,” he said honestly. “Though I'd really like to see you, India,” he said with a smile. “You're probably too busy anyway to hang around with old friends.” In the past five months, they had actually become that. She had shared all her terrors with him, and her disappointments with Doug, and he had cried on her shoulder more than once since he lost Serena. In a short time, and from great distances at times, they had
been through a lot together. “I think I'm afraid to come back to civilization.” It was still too painful for him, and she knew it.

“You don't have to yet.” She knew he was handling most of his business by fax and phone, and his partners were managing the rest in his absence. It was better for him to stay on the
Sea Star.
The boat seemed like a healing place for him.

“How were the kids when you left?” He had thought a lot about her the previous morning.

“Fine. Better than Doug. We celebrated Thanksgiving the night before, and he hardly spoke to me. I don't think this is going to go down too smoothly. There are bound to be repercussions.”

“Just steel yourself for them. What can he do, after all?”

“Throw me out, for starters, figuratively speaking. He could leave me,” she said in a serious tone. It was obvious that she was worried about it.

“He'd be a fool if he did that.” But they both knew he was, although Paul saw it more clearly than she did. “I think he's just making noise to scare you.”

“Maybe.” But she had come anyway. And she was here now. “I guess I'd better get dressed, before I miss the next party.”

“What is it today?” he asked with interest.

“I have to check my itinerary. I think it's the lunch given by Prince Charles at Saint James's Palace.”

“That should be entertaining. Call me tonight and tell me all about it.”

“I'll probably be home pretty late. I have to go to another dinner tonight, before the wedding.”

“This sounds like a really tough story.” He was teasing her, but he felt like her guardian angel. He had seen her come through all the agony it had taken her to get there. And now he wanted to share the victory with her. “I'll be up late. You can call me, now that we're almost in the same time zone. I think we're going to head for Sicily tomorrow. I want to hang around Italy for a while, and Corsica. Eventually, I want to wind up in Venice.”

“You lead a tough life, Mr. Ward, with your little houseboat you can take everywhere with you. I really feel sorry for you.”

“You should,” he said, with more seriousness than he intended. But she knew how lonely he was from their previous conversations. He still missed Serena unbearably, and she suspected that he either drank or cried himself to sleep more often than he admitted. But it had only been three months since he lost her.

“I'll call you later,” she said cheerily, and after they hung up, she went to stand at the window, and looked down on Brook Street below. Everything looked very tidy and very familiar and very English. She was so happy to be here. And she reminded herself that she had to buy lots of postcards for the children. She had promised to do that, and she wanted to go to Hamley's, if she had time, and buy some toys or games for Sam, Aimee, and Jason. She had to find something more grown up for Jessica than for the others. If she had time between stories, India was thinking of going to Harvey Nichols. But first she had to get to work. And she was still thinking of Paul when she sank into the enormous bathtub. She loved talking to him, and she hoped that one of
these days she would see him. He was a terrific friend to her, even long distance.

And for the rest of the afternoon, she was busy taking photographs of royals again. She had a great time, and she found that she knew one of the other photographers. They had done a story together once in Kenya. It had been nearly twenty years since she'd last seen him. He was Irish and very funny. His name was John O'Malley, and he invited her for a drink in a local pub after the party.

“Where the hell have you been? I figured someone finally shot you on one of those crazy stories,” he said, laughing, and obviously pleased to see her.

“No, I got married and had four kids, and I've been retired for the last fourteen years.”

“So what made you come back now?” he asked with a broad grin. He had taken all the pictures he needed and was sipping Irish whiskey.

“I missed it.”

“You're daft,” he said with absolute conviction. “I always knew that about you. I'd like nothing better than to retire with a wife and four kids. Of course, this isn't exactly a dangerous story like our old ones, unless the royals attack us. And they could, you know. If they start a fight over the hors d'oeuvres, you could start a war here. And then, of course, there's the IRA, lovely people that they are. Sometimes I'm ashamed to admit that I'm Irish.” They talked about the terrorist bombing in September then, and India told him a friend's wife had been on the plane.

“Damn shame. I hate stories like that. I always think about the children. Kill an army. Bomb a missile plant.
But don't, for God's sake, kill the children. The bastards always do, though. Every damn country that gets pissed off, they kill the children.” He had spent time in Bosnia, and hated what he'd seen there. Croat children beheaded by the Serbs while their mothers held them. It had been the worst he'd seen since Rwanda. “Don't worry about me, my dear. Man's inhumanity to man is one of my favorite subjects on my second whiskey. On my third, I get romantic. Watch out then!” He hadn't changed in years and it was fun talking to him, and he introduced her to another journalist who joined them at their table. He was Australian, and not nearly as sympathetic as John O'Malley, although he had a dry sense of humor as he commented on the party. He said they'd worked together years before, in Beijing, but she no longer remembered, and he didn't look familiar. By the time they left the pub, O'Malley was pretty well oiled, and she had to get back to Claridge's to change again before she went on to the next party. She was grateful it was the last one before the wedding. It was held in someone's home, a spectacular affair on Saint James's Place, with liveried footmen, a ballroom, and chandeliers that blazed with candles. And when she got home at midnight, she called the children. They were just sitting down to dinner. She spoke to each of them, and they sounded fine. They said that they'd had fun in Greenwich the day before, and they missed her, and on Saturday their father was taking them skating. But when India asked to say hello to him, he told the children to say he was busy. He was cooking dinner. He could have come to the phone easily, she always did while she was cooking. And the phone had a long cord, which would
have reached. But she got the message; he had told her he had nothing more to say to her, and apparently he meant it.

She felt a little lonely when she hung up, after talking to them, and she decided to call Paul. She thought he might still be up, and he was, and she told him all about the party. It was nice being able to speak to him at any hour, and to tell him what she was doing.

They talked for a long time, and Paul knew the people who gave the party. He seemed to know everyone who was there, and he was amused at her descriptions. It had been an interesting evening, filled with aristocratic and distinguished people. She could see why they had decided not to just send a staffer, and was flattered that they had offered it to her instead.

“What time is the wedding tomorrow?” he asked finally with a yawn. He was getting sleepy, and the sea had been a little rough that night. But it never bothered him, in fact he liked it.

“Five o'clock.”

“What are you going to do before that?”

“Sleep.” She grinned. She hadn't stopped since she'd been there. It was just like the old days, but in high heels and long dresses. “Actually, I want to stop in and see the police. They left a message for me, and I'm going to start working on the other story on Sunday.”

“You don't waste much time, do you, India?” Serena had been like that too, but he didn't say it. She was always working on something. A new book, a new script, a revision, a set of galleys. He missed it. He missed everything about her. “Call me tomorrow and
tell me about the wedding.” He loved her life, and being able to talk to her at any time of day or night. He couldn't do that when she was in Westport.

“I'll call you when I get back to the hotel.”

“We'll be sailing tomorrow night.” He particularly loved the night sails and she knew that. “I'll be on watch after midnight.” But she knew he could talk to her from the wheelhouse. “It was nice talking to you tonight. You remind me of a world I keep telling myself I've forgotten.” He just didn't want to be there without Serena. But hearing about it from India was amusing.

“You'll come back to it one of these days, when you want to.”

“I suppose so. I can't imagine being there without her,” he said sadly. “We did so many fun things. I can't imagine doing any of it on my own now. I'm too old to start again.” He wasn't, but she knew he felt it. He somehow felt that losing Serena had aged him.