Desperate Measures (33 page)

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Authors: Sara Craven

BOOK: Desperate Measures
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  • And the fact that he hadn't deceived her about his way of life, and she'd gone into the arrangement with her eyes wide open, made no difference at all— provided not the slightest consolation.
  • Her only real concern at the time had been Gavin, and the precious lifeline that Alain seemed to offer. She'd given little thought to her own needs and emotions, living in close proximity to someone of Alain's attraction. She should have considered the implications, her own sexual naivete and vulnerability included, before agreeing to his terms.
  • Yes, she had been desperate, as he'd pointed out, but if she could have foreseen the desolation that awaited her as his non-wife, then she knew she would have reneged on the deal—told him to find someone else.
  • But it was too late now, and at least she had the consolation of knowing that Gavin's condition had
  • taken a decided upswing. The clinic had managed to isolate and identify the mysterious virus which had attacked him, and there had been no further deterioration or wastage. In fact, her father had even regained a certain amount of mobility in his right hand and side. It was restricted, but it was there, and for that she was deeply, tearfully thankful.
  • It didn't make her marriage to Alain the right thing to have done, necessarily, but it helped her justify the desperate measures that she had undertaken, and tell herself that if Gavin's health and vigour were going to be restored, then this present pain was worth suffering.
  • 'Philippa?' Fabrice's voice reproached her, drawing her back from her reverie. 'Where have you been? You haven't been listening to a word I've said!'
  • 'I'm sorry,' she apologised. 'I was thinking about my father.'
  • 'Your father?' His face was crestfallen.
  • She realised she had dented his ego a little and hastened to make amends. 'I'll consider going to the concert, Fabrice, I promise.'
  • He beamed at her. 'That's wonderful! And you'll tell me your decision tomorrow, hein?
  • 'Don't rush me.' She forced a smile in return.
  • 'I would never do that.' He shook his head. 'It is just that I cannot bear to see you so unhappy and trying to be brave. Don't you deserve some happiness—to be the centre of a man's life—to be loved?'
  • The emotionalism in his voice disturbed her. He'd never spoken this frankly before, she thought. These were deep waters they were getting into.
  • She glanced at her watch. 'I really have to go. Marcel will be waiting, and it's getting difficult to find excuses why I'm not always waiting for him outside the studio.'
  • 'And you are afraid he will tell your husband?' As she pushed her chair back, Fabrice rose too, his expression challenging. 'Why should he care? When he meets with his beautiful Baronne, Philippa, it is not just to drink coffee, I promise you.'
  • She bent her head. 'I—suppose not,' she agreed stiltedly. 'But all the same, I have to go. Au revoir, Fabrice. A demain.'
  • She slung her bag over her shoulder and walked down the street quickly towards the studio. She was stricken to find that the identity of Alain's mistress was apparently common knowledge outside the circle in which they moved. This was exactly what we were trying to avoid, she thought, dismayed. What on earth could Alain be thinking of? Or was he now so obsessed with the beautiful Marie-Laure that he'd ceased to think altogether? That he'd decided his mistress was worth the possible loss of his company after all? Because he'd provided his uncle with the perfect weapon to use against him.
  • She glanced at her watch again, and slowed her footsteps. For once she was much too early for Marcel, but not far away there was a square with a small parade of galleries and boutiques which she'd always meant to visit. She could kill some time there.
  • She was standing looking critically at an abstract canvas which occupied one gallery window in glorious isolation, when a voice behind her said without particular pleasure, 'So it is you. I thought so.'
  • Philippa started slightly and turned to meet the unfriendly gaze of Sidonie de Courcy.
  • 'Hello,' she returned politely, concealing her dismay. 'I didn't realise you were interested in abstract painting.'
  • 'I'm not,' Sidonie said, shrugging. 'But there is a shop near here where I buy some of my clothes. Is that what you are doing—shopping?'
  • The question seemed so pointed that Philippa wondered if by some mischance Sidonie had seen her with Fabrice.
  • 'Why, no,' she said coolly. 'I've been at the studio, painting. The session finished early today.'
  • 'Ah, yes,' Sidonie said with faint derision, 'your art lessons. Well, if they amuse you, what harm is there? And you will need something to do with yourself, after all, when Alain divorces you.'
  • Philippa's fingers tightened painfully on the strap of her bag, but she kept her face impassive.
  • 'Is Alain planning to divorce me?' she asked lightly. 'He hasn't mentioned it to me.'
  • 'You mean you didn't know that the Baron de Somerville-Resnais has had a heart attack, and is seriously ill? In fact, he is not expected to live longer than this week.' Sidonie's eyes widened in well-simulated surprise. 'But perhaps Alain has kept the news from you—out of compassion. It cannot be very nice for you to have to live with the knowledge that you have just been used as a stopgap. Of course, when the poor Baron dies, and you are no longer required as a decoy, it will be a different matter. Everyone is asking how long Marie-Laure will pretend to be the grieving widow.'
  • She gave a little giggle. 'Poor Alain, how angry he must be! He has gone to all the trouble of marrying you, and now he must face the inconvenience of a divorce, when, if he had only waited a few little weeks, Marie-Laure would have been free anyway. Everyone finds the situation fort amusante, you understand.'
  • 'I can well believe it.' With a superhuman effort, Philippa crushed down the nausea which threatened to overwhelm her. 'It would obviously solve a lot of problems if I also had a heart attack—and just faded out of the picture.'
  • Sidonie giggled again. 'Oh, I do not think Alain would expect you to go to those lengths, I am sure if you simply agree to the divorce, and don't make trouble for him, you will find him more than generous.'
  • Philippa's heart was beating slowly and painfully, thudding against her ribcage.
  • 'In that case, I have nothing at all to worry about.' She made herself smile at Sidonie. 'I hope your shopping is successful.' She let her eyes travel over Sidonie's unbecoming outfit of a beige coat and skirt, teamed with a saffron-yellow camisole. 'But if you'll take my advice, you'll try a different boutique altogether,' she added, and walked away, leaving Sidonie gazing after her with an expression of baffled rage.
  • Philippa rounded the corner, then stopped, leaning against the wall for a moment. She was shaking all over, and her legs felt like jelly. Waves of anger, mingled with desolation, were buffeting her.
  • Was this really what Alain intended? To dismiss her with a generous pay-off so that he could marry Marie-Laure after the usual decent interval—whatever that
  • meant? Her nails dug sharply into the palms of her hands.
  • It was true he'd seemed even more abstracted lately, but in view of their rift Philippa had hesitated to ask if anything in particular was troubling him.
  • She closed her eyes. According to Sidonie, everyone seemed certain that the Baron would not survive his heart attack. True, he was much older than his wife, but that didn't mean the worst had to happen.
  • How awful to be simply written off like that, she thought, shuddering. But at least he didn't know. No one had actually stopped him in the street and told him he was no longer wanted, and that the whole of Paris was discussing his successor.
  • 'Madame?' Marcel was coming towards her, cap in hand, his face a picture of concern. 'Are you ill?'
  • It was useless to pretend that everything was fine and perfectly normal when you were leaning against a wall, trembling like a leaf, with your face every shade between white and green.
  • She said, 'I felt giddy for a moment, that's all.'
  • He was all solicitude, helping her to the car, and keeping a wary eye on her in the mirror as he drove home, ultra-carefully.
  • Probably doesn't want me being sick over his precious upholstery, Philippa thought, torn between laughter and tears.
  • He must have used the car telephone while she was on her way up to the apartment, because when she got there Madame Giscard was waiting in obvious agitation.
  • Before Philippa knew what was happening, she was lying on her bed, with her shoes removed, the curtains drawn, a cloth fragrant with cologne across her
  • forehead, and a tisane steaming gently on the table beside her. She had no idea what was in it, but the herbal infusion was refreshing and oddly relaxing, and in spite of her inner turmoil she found herself slipping into a light doze. But dreams pursued her even there, and she found herself running endlessly down the shadowy nave of some great cathedral, trying to reach the altar where Alain stood waiting, but not, as she realised, when he looked past her, his hand stretched out in welcome—not for her.
  • She cried out his name, in anguish, and heard him answer. Dazedly she opened her eyes, and found him bending over her.
  • 'What's the matter? Madame Giscard tells me Marcel found you ill in the street.'
  • 'Not really.' Hastily Philippa struggled into a sitting position. 'I just felt—odd for a moment. It's nothing.'
  • 'Isn't it?' He sat down on the edge of the bed, his brows drawing together in a frown. He was silent for a moment. 'Philippa, tell me—is it possible you could be—enceinte!'
  • Swift colour rose in her face. 'No—no, of course not.' For a moment she thought the concern in his face was for her, then she saw the unguarded relief that replaced it, and the hope shrivelled.
  • Of course, she thought, anger building inside her again, a pregnant wife would be that much more difficult to discard. And if there's to be a baby, he wants it to be born from the woman he loves—always supposing she's prepared to spoil her figure for nine months.
  • She said curtly, 'Fortunately, it's hardly likely.'
  • 'No?' He was still frowning, his mouth twisting cynically as he looked at her. 'Well, you know best
  • about that, of course.' He stared down at the floor, for a moment, then said slowly, 'I will leave you to rest now, ma femme, but soon—very soon, we must talk seriously, you and I.'
  • Her heart skipped a beat. She said with a little gasp, 'It really isn't necessary...'
  • 'Ah, but you are wrong,' Alain cut across her, his smile half wintry, half rueful. 'I assure you, ma chere, there is all the necessity in the world.' He lifted her hand, kissed it lightly, and left the room.
  • Left to herself again, Philippa cradled her hand against her cheek, fighting back her tears. She knew what he wished to discuss, and she wanted to tell him that there would be no problem. He could have his divorce, and except for a proviso that Gavin's treatment should continue as long as necessary she wouldn't ask for a thing.
  • Just my freedom, she thought, as quickly and easily as possible.
  • Only it wasn't possible, she acknowledged, as she lay staring sightlessly into the gathering darkness of the evening. Because leaving Alain would be like wrenching herself apart, and she knew, in her heart, that she would never be free again.
  • She was woken the next morning by Madame Giscard with a breakfast tray.
  • 'That's very kind of you,' she said awkwardly, sitting up.
  • 'It is nothing, madame.' She received a searching look. 'How are you this morning.'
  • 'Oh, fine. I must have had a slight migraine.'
  • Madame's usually vinegary face registered an expression of disappointment, fleeting but unmistakable as she left the room.
  • Good God, Philippa thought as she sipped her chilled apricot juice. They've all been thinking that I'm pregnant!
  • But, unlike Alain, she thought sadly, Madame Giscard had been hoping it was true. Perhaps that impassive, well-trained exterior concealed a much softer side to her nature.
  • As she reached for the croissants, Philippa realised that there was an envelope propped beside them, with a note attached in Alain's handwriting.
  • 'This arrived this morning,' it said. 'I think you will agree that it changes a great deal. I shall not return home until late this evening, so perhaps you will be ready to discuss it with me tomorrow.' It was signed simply with his initial.
  • Like an office memo, Philippa thought wryly, but the fact remained that it was one of the few written communications she had ever received from him, and that made it, in its own way, precious.
  • As she extracted the typewritten pages from the envelope, she realised with a shock that they formed a detailed report from Gavin's clinic.
  • A lot of the medical jargon used meant little to her, but the summary at the end was more explicit and comprehensible.
  • The course of treatment, although experimental, had been largely successful with no damaging side-effects, she read. The amount of drugs being used was now being severely reduced, and replaced with an intensive course of physiotherapy, to which the patient was responding extremely well. The physician in
  • charge of Mr Roscoe's case saw no reason why he should remain at the clinic for any longer than another few weeks, although the patient would continue to require a qualified course of medication, probably for the rest of his life, and it was also desirable that the physiotherapy regime should continue after his return home.
  • Philippa saw the words 'return home' through a blur of sudden tears. Gavin's well, she thought incredulously. They're sending him home. He can take up his life—paint again.

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