Island in the Sea (25 page)

“I'll take it.”

chapter twenty-four

L
IONEL SPRINKLED BASIL INTO THE
pot and added garlic and oregano. He inhaled the scent of tomato and onion and was glad he took the cooking class in Verona. He glanced at the bottle of Chianti and platter of duck pâté and wondered how he was going to explain to Juliet why he prepared an elegant dinner.

After Juliet left, he swam thirty laps in the swimming pool. He did twenty push-ups on the terrace and took a long shower. He pictured Juliet's blue eyes and slender cheekbones and thought he was being ridiculous. She was young and beautiful and he couldn't possibly tell her he was in love with her.

He remembered saying he couldn't write love songs because he didn't believe in love and frowned. Could he really try again after years of eating lobster with women who were only interested in whether he had flown in Bono's private jet?

He suddenly pictured climbing the steps of Georgina's white Georgian manor clutching a punch of purple daisies. He remembered seeing Samantha's blue eyes and alabaster skin. He remembered her leaning forward to smell the flowers and her hair escaping its bun and Lionel wanting desperately to tuck it behind her ears.

What if Juliet was the one and he would never know? What if he missed out on nights discussing the Beatles and F. Scott Fitzgerald? What if he never again felt like he could write an opera or conduct a symphony?

He heard the doorbell ring and untied his apron. He walked to the entry and opened the door.

“Are you expecting company?” Juliet entered the living room. She saw the table set with a white linen tablecloth and gleaming silverware. There was a crystal vase filled with tulips and bottles of vinegar and olive oil.

“I discovered a 2004 Castelli del Grevepesa in the cellar,” Lionel replied. “One can't drink it without a bowl of spaghetti and a loaf of garlic bread. Then I tried a marinara recipe I learned in Tuscany. I couldn't eat it by myself so I thought you might join me.”

“I haven't eaten since a green salad and fruit at lunch.” Juliet smiled. “A plate of pasta sounds heavenly.”

They sat at the table and ate butter lettuce and heirloom tomatoes and red onions. Lionel filled two bowls with spaghetti and added fresh Parmesan cheese and ground pepper.

“I took cooking courses in Provence and Italy,” Lionel said. “It's easy to become a gourmet chef when you are only cooking for yourself. No one can tell you that you're using too much butter or the salt will kill you.

“I also took up racecar driving,” Lionel continued. “But I hated being squeezed into a cockpit and there are better ways to die than explode in a fireball.”

“Like drinking a bottle of scotch and smoking two packs of cigarettes a day?” Juliet asked.

“Sometimes you look ahead and see empty days filled with glaring sunshine. You try doing the things you love: sitting at the piano or reading Dickens or writing a new song. But you can't find the right key and you've already read
Oliver Twist
and you can't even think of a first line.” He fiddled with his wineglass.

“The first few months after Samantha left I threw myself into music. I spent days in the recording studio and stayed up all night writing songs. Amber and I toured Asia and appeared on Jay Leno and David Letterman.

“We even recorded a third album using another singer, but it didn't sell as well and Amber got an offer to join a girl band.

“For the next fifteen years I wrote songs for other artists and crisscrossed the globe. I thought if I kept changing time zones, my loneliness couldn't catch up with me. But the thing about traveling is you always wake up somewhere. A beach in Fiji doesn't look that different than the sand in Tahiti and when it rains in Amsterdam you still get wet.

“Eventually I thought I should settle down, so I bought an apartment in the first arrondissement in Paris. I even married a French girl named Dominique, but she was quite bossy and deep down all French hate the British.

“She couldn't stand it when I left wet newspapers on the parquet floors and she hated fish and chips.” He paused and sipped his wine. “I was almost relieved when she wanted a divorce except she took an original Monet when she walked out the door.

“About nine months ago I was in Los Angeles.” Lionel's eyes were suddenly dark. “I hadn't seen Gideon for months but I sent him songs and he replenished my bank account. He had been married for fifteen years to a beautiful brunette named Rachel and they had a little girl named Sylvie.

“They lived in an even bigger house in Beverly Hills with English gardens and a ten-car garage.” He paused and ran his fingers over the rim of his glass. “I remember approaching the double front doors and thinking with all the gardeners and mechanics he hired, he was good for the local economy.”

*   *   *

“Inga.” Lionel beamed. “It's wonderful to see you. How do you keep such a small waist? If I ate your strawberry crepes every morning I'd have to do a hundred sit-ups.”

He walked into the marble entry and admired the gold plaster walls and mosaic ceiling. There was a framed Rembrandt on the wall and a marble statue of Aphrodite.

He whistled. “If Gideon is hanging Rembrandts in the entry, I can't wait to see the rest of the house. I just came back from George Clooney's villa in Lake Como. If all women were like Amal, no man would get married before fifty. She is fluent in four languages and makes a delicious pesto ravioli.”

“Gideon isn't home,” Inga said. “Sylvie is in bed with the chicken pox.”

“I remember when my roommate had it at boarding school, they stuck him in the bathtub and filled it with porridge.” Lionel shuddered. “I can't imagine ever wanting to take a bath again.”

“I'm baking peanut butter cookies.” She smoothed her apron. “Sylvie and her dolls are having a tea party.”

“Poor Sylvie,” he continued. “I'd read her a story but I never had chicken pox and I've heard it's terrible if you get it as an adult.”

“She's covered in spots and keeps demanding ice cream and lemonade.” Inga smiled. “I remember when Samantha had chicken pox, all she wanted was warm milk and digestive biscuits.”

“I don't remember Samantha having chicken pox.” Lionel frowned.

“She didn't want you to get it so Gideon suggested she stay at his house,” Inga replied. “The poor thing was in bed for days.”

Lionel felt a chill run down his spine. He looked at Inga and his face was pale.

“When was that?” he asked.

“About eighteen years ago.” Inga shrugged. “Samantha was a lovely patient, she taught me how to play checkers.”

“I brought a bottle of amontillado and a packet of fresh linguini.” Lionel pressed the bag in Inga's hands. “You take them, I have to go.”

*   *   *

Lionel raced past Rosemary's sleek walnut desk and flung open Gideon's office door.

“How was Italy?” Gideon stood at the sideboard. He wore a pale blue Marc Jacobs blazer and gray slacks. His salt-and-pepper hair was brushed over his forehead and he wore soft Prada loafers. “Rachel and I want to take Sylvie on an Italian tour next summer. Rachel thinks she's not old enough, but I think you're never too young to appreciate Renaissance art and Italian shoes.”

“I stopped by your house.” Lionel poured a shot of Grey Goose. “Inga said Sylvie has the chicken pox.”

Gideon nodded. “Poor thing. Rachel bought all the pink nighties at Bloomingdale's and I spent the morning coloring spots on Sylvie's American Girl doll.”

“She said Samantha stayed at your house when she had it years ago.” Lionel's voice shook. “You told me you didn't know why Samantha's car was in your driveway.”

Gideon selected a ripe peach and took a small bite.

“Samantha didn't come home for two days because she was confined to bed,” Lionel continued. “I left on tour believing my two best friends were having an affair. By the time I returned she was gone.”

“I knew you better than you knew yourself. You could as easily have gone on tour without Samantha as a fish could survive without water.” Gideon threw the peach pit in the garbage.

“If you didn't go, you'd be a one-hit wonder like
CrissCross
or The Divinyls. Then Samantha called and said she had chicken pox and she was worried that you'd get it.” Gideon looked at Lionel. “It was so simple to suggest she stay at my place. I was leaving for China but I said Inga would take care of her, and I would call and let you know.

“I thought if I put a little doubt in your mind you'd be angry enough to leave. It could all be patched up later after you performed sold-out shows in Miami and Philadelphia. I didn't know Donovan was going to leak those photos to the press.” He sighed. “But you should thank me. ‘Going to Catalina' is the third-most recorded love song of all time, behind ‘Yesterday' by John Lennon. You're a legend and it's all because of me. I remember the scrawny kid with hair touching his collar who said he'd do anything to be a successful songwriter.”

“What about the message on the answering machine?” Lionel demanded. “You said it was safe to come over and Lionel would never know.”

“She was afraid if you knew, you'd come see her and get the chicken pox,” Gideon replied. “I was trying to reassure her.”

“I lost the woman I loved.” Lionel slammed his shot glass on the desk. “I would rather shine shoes or wash dishes than be without Samantha. For eighteen years I've traipsed around the world when I could be living in a country house with two tow-headed children and a golden retriever. I would gaze at my wife with her fine blond hair and small pink mouth and think how did I get so lucky.

“We would drive into London to go to the ballet or opera and marvel that we still have something to talk about. And when we got home and she unzipped her black velvet gown I would gasp that her thighs were still smooth and her skin was creamy and all I ever wanted to do was to bury my head in her breasts.”

Gideon looked at Lionel and there were new creases on his forehead.

“She's divorced, you know,” he said quietly. “I ran into Brian Phillips at Per Se in New York a few months ago. He's a big shot now, head of some economic committee at the United Nations. He was with a brunette in a red dress and four-inch stilettos.”

“Why didn't you tell me?” Lionel gasped.

“You were water skiing on Lake Como,” Gideon replied. “And I didn't want—”

“You didn't want me to know that you betrayed me like Brutus and Julius Caesar.” Lionel's eyes flickered.

“Samantha is living in London; she owns a bookshop on Portobello Road.”

“That's a few blocks from my flat.” Lionel jumped up. “I have to see her; I'll take the first flight to Heathrow.”

“Lionel, wait,” Gideon said. “They have a daughter, Brian showed me a photo. She's eight and her name is Annabel.”

Lionel pictured a little girl with Samantha's blond hair and blue eyes and thought his heart would break. He raced out the door and pressed the button on the elevator.

*   *   *

Lionel gazed in the bookshop window and caught his breath. Samantha wore a navy dress and beige pumps. Her hair was a little paler and there were lines on her forehead but her eyes were bright blue and her skin was like alabaster. She wore small diamond earrings and pink lipstick.

He opened the door and heard the bell chime.

“Lionel!” Samantha gasped. “What are you doing here?”

“Gideon told me you owned a bookshop in Notting Hill,” Lionel said. “I was surprised. I thought you'd be in Cambridge, swanning around St. John's College in a long black robe.”

“I never made it to university, I was too busy being Mrs. Brian Phillips.” Samantha arranged a pile of paperback books. “It's a shame because Brian quite liked students, he went to bed with at least six of them.”

“I'm not good at choosing men,” she continued. “But I do like owning a bookshop. I have a whole shelf devoted to Virginia Woolf and Vita Sackville-West.”

“A few nights before I left on tour I realized I made a terrible mistake and couldn't be without you,” Lionel began. “I drove to Gideon's to tell him and saw your car in the driveway. I knocked on the door and no one answered so I drove back to the Beverly Hills Hotel. There was a message on the answering machine from Gideon saying it was safe to come over. You didn't come home for two days and Gideon's secretary wouldn't tell me where he was. I was sure you were having an affair.”

“I had the chicken pox and knew how stubborn you are,” Samantha mused. “You would have insisted on taking care of me and got it yourself. I couldn't bear to see you itching and covered in spots.”

“Donovan leaked those publicity photos to the press and by the time I returned to Los Angeles you were gone. I was going to fly to London and explain, but Gideon showed me the article in
The Observer
about your wedding.”

“I tried not to believe the photos, but they were at the supermarket and the pharmacy and the hairdresser. I called you almost every night but the concierge said you checked out. I was sure you were avoiding me.” Samantha sighed. “I had to leave, it hurt too much to stay.”

“You didn't even wait. You went and married that capitalist wanker while the ink on your passport stamp was still wet,” Lionel muttered. “If I saw him, I'd punch him in his very long nose.”

“I was staying at Georgina's and he was so persuasive. We had champagne dinners and bright conversation. I can't say I'm sorry, I've got the most beautiful little girl. She's on holiday with her father in Crete but you have to meet her.” Samantha smiled. “She's a wonderful artist and she's read all the Harry Potter books.”

“We can start over, I have a flat in Chelsea with an extra bedroom. We'll furnish it with a pink bed and Hello Kitty sheets.” Lionel ran his hands through his hair. “Annabel can take horseback riding lessons and we'll have afternoon tea at Harrods. I'll take her on the London Eye and to Buckingham Palace.”