Rare Objects (31 page)

“Recently? No. Not recently.”

“Perhaps next year we will all go together, what do you say?”

It was all so beyond me, I couldn't help but laugh. “And how am I to manage that? Flap my wings and fly?”

He seemed surprised that I might find it difficult to nip over to France.

“Well, what if someone took you?”

“And why would anyone do that?”

“Because you're an extraordinary girl. Do you honestly think I would spend time with you if you weren't exceptional?”

“Perhaps you're doing a public service, like with the champagne. Ensuring I don't fall into the wrong hands.”

He leaned in closer. “The average person is little more than cattle, waiting to be told what to do, what to think. But you have intelligence, beauty, and something else, something they haven't got and can never hope to have. You're made of superior stock. Anyone can see that. Look at your coloring, the symmetry of your face—at how tall you are!” I winced, and he laughed. “Forgive me, but you have the body of a championship racehorse. Not just anyone is fit to ride you.”

I flushed bright red. “I'm changing the subject now, Mr. Van der Laar.”

“Change it all you want, Miss Fanning. But I'm warning you: I won't allow you to underestimate yourself again.”

It was a heady combination—the champagne, the flattery, the utter conviction of one's uniqueness in the world. I didn't mind being lauded as beautiful, bright, and a creature of uncommon destiny.

“Now”—he refilled my glass—“I want to know everything about you. Your favorite color, the name of your first pet, where you've traveled . . .”

“What was the name of your first pet?” I batted the question back at him.

“A gelding called Mercury. Mad as a box of frogs and fast as wind. Go on”—he nodded—“your turn.”

“It was a parrot,” I fibbed, “named Charlie. Had a mouth like a sailor and used to fly around the house chasing the dog. God, we all loved him!”

“Was it a big house?”

“A rather ramshackle Victorian affair. Nothing compared to yours.”

“And what about your family? Tell me about them.”

“My family . . .” I took out a cigarette, buying myself time. “My family are quite eccentric, I suppose. Lately my mother has become convinced that turbans are all the rage—isn't that hysterical? She's even threatening to knit me one!”

“What I wouldn't give to see you in a knitted turban!” He chuckled. “How ghastly! Do you miss her?”

“Pardon me?”

“It must be hard, being away from her.”

“Oh, yes!” I'd forgotten about my Albany upbringing. “Yes, of course!” I exhaled, nodding a little too emphatically. “She's an odd bird—sweet, but odd.”

“What about your father?” He really did want to know everything. “What was he like?”

“Ah, let me see.” I paused. “Well, he was a writer . . .” (That wasn't quite grand enough.) “And a professor, actually. A very refined, intelligent man. The parrot was his. He died a long time ago, when he was still quite young.”

“That must have been difficult.”

“It was. It means, well, that I haven't got quite the financial security that some people have.” I was taking a risk, hinting at our circumstances.

“There's no shame in that.”

I looked at him sideways, trying to read his expression. “My mother and I, we live quite modestly. It's one of the reasons I work.”

“You're resourceful. It speaks to your character. I admire that.”

It was a gracious response, one that put me at ease. “So, you haven't told me anything of where you've been or what you've been doing.”

“Too dull. I spend most of my time either in New York or abroad.”

“In Africa?”

He looked up. “How do you know about that?”

“Diana said you had a family estate there.”

“Yes, that's right. But I've been in Germany a great deal recently. I'm exploring some prospects of my own.”

“Like what?”

“Research mostly. The Germans have been hit badly by this depression too. But they're not nearly so complacent.” He leaned forward. “I loathe how America has become a nanny state, holding people's hands and spoon-feeding them subsidy.” He waved his fork at the other diners as if they were personally responsible. “But the Germans, I'm telling you, they're far more progressive than we are.”

“So you're a politician?”

“Not exactly.” He took another bite. “But I'm thinking about the future. I'm part of a brain trust, a group of men looking to the future of Africa. The Broederbond.”

I thought I'd misheard him. “I'm sorry?”

“The Broederbond. It means ‘brotherhood' in Afrikaans. It's actually a private organization. We work on behalf of Afrikaner interests.”

I was confused. “You mean for the natives?”

“Good God, no!” He laughed. “Best to leave that to the missionaries! No,
Afrikaner
. The true African people.”

“Oh. I see.” I had no conception of what he meant.

He wasn't fooled.

“The Afrikaners have been in South Africa for centuries. Our ancestors came from Holland, France, Norway. We settled this land, made it civilized. Left to their own devices, all the native tribes do is slaughter one another.”

I'd always imagined Africa as safari tents, dramatic sunsets, and vast windswept plains teeming with wildlife. “Still, it must be quite exciting, with lots of lions and elephants . . .”

“Well, there's plenty of good hunting, but don't believe any of that nonsense you read about the noble savage. Mind you,” he said darkly, “they're nothing compared to the English. They're completely without a conscience. You see, we understand Africa. It's our destiny and duty to guide and shape it. That's why the Broederbond was formed, to take this country back. We have a responsibility to our homeland—” He stopped himself, smiling apologetically. “I'm on my soapbox again, aren't I? I'm boring you.”

He wasn't, actually. It was another world, one I knew nothing about. But that didn't stop me from teasing him. “On the contrary. Naturally I find you utterly fascinating.”

He shook his head. “Why are you so cruel to me when I'm buying you lunch?”

“Why are you buying me lunch?”

“Naturally I find you fascinating. You know”—his eyes narrowed—“you're the only girl I know who treats me as though I were the bellboy at a cheap hotel.”

“Perhaps you should look into it. I hear the tips are quite generous.”

“I doubt the uniform would suit me.” Refilling my glass, he tipped the champagne bottle upside down. “Well, darling, I think we're going to need another one.” He shoved the empty back into the cooler of ice.

“Really?” It had gone so quickly. In fact, an hour and a half had vanished. My worries about how we would manage to while away the time were unfounded. However, I really needed to get back to work.

But James was already waving to the waiter for more champagne. And calling me “darling.”

“By the way,” he asked as the next bottle was opened, “do you know the Beauvoirs?”

“I'm sorry, the whos?”

“The Beauvoirs?”

I shook my head. “And why would I know them?”

“No reason. Only I'm told they're quite a prominent family in Albany.”

“
Oh!
” I laughed as if I'd misunderstood him. “Yes, of course! But what I haven't confessed is that I'm a recluse—I never go out or do anything of interest. You're the well-traveled one.”

“Well, that may all change. I'll tell you, you're going to love the nightclubs in Berlin.”

“Really?” My pulse fluttered, though I knew he was only flirting. “But I thought we were going to Saint-Tropez! How are we going to fit it all in?”

“I can't be expected to conquer the world on my own, now can I? You don't speak German, do you? I'll need someone to charm all those Huns.”

“Hun charming is my specialty. Though I don't come cheap.”

We laughed, took another drink. I felt sophisticated and urbane, dining on French food, discussing politics, planning foreign holidays.

Suddenly he took my hand. “I'm sorry if I upset you when I spoke about Diana last time. You're a good friend to her.” His face was serious. “I'm glad she has you to talk to.”

I was taken aback by his sincerity. “I'm very fond of her,” I said truthfully.

“You may not know this, but she's been very unhappy in the past.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Actually, she's been unwell.”

“Really?” I acted surprised. “In what way?”

“All that's important is that if you feel she's doing something unwise, please let me know. I want to help, but I'm so far away most of the time, and things can change so suddenly with her. And if I'm honest, I'm frightened for her.”

His words disturbed me. “Why frightened?”

“She's unpredictable. We've had trouble before.” James reached in his inside breast pocket, took out his card. “I shouldn't bother you, but if ever something concerns you, if she seems to be in difficulty, will you ring me?”

I thought of the times I'd gone to the apartment only to find her withdrawn and silent. Her jokes about ovens and exhaust pipes echoed uncomfortably. What if she really was in danger and did something desperate?

He took my hesitation as rejection.

“I'm sorry. It's . . . well, it's just been so difficult . . . I shouldn't have asked. I just don't know what to do.”

As he picked the card up again, he seemed suddenly lost, out of his depth. For the first time, I could offer him something no one else could, something he really wanted that money couldn't buy.

“Here.” I took it from him, wrote the address of the apartment on the back.

“What's this?”

“It's a place. A friend owns it. If you're ever looking for Diana and can't find her . . . well, there's a chance she might be there.”

“What friend?”

I blinked at him, aware too late that I hadn't thought the whole thing through. “It doesn't matter. Just a girl I know.” Then I remembered the name on the apartment door. “Miss Julie Hanover.”

It was clear I was hiding something, but he didn't press the point. “I'm indebted to you, May.” His expression relaxed to one of relief and gratitude. “Really, you are my guardian angel. And Diana's, too—even though she may never know it.”

“I'm no angel!” I assured him. But inwardly I was glowing at the compliment. The invisible gap I'd been struggling to breach between us closed. I wasn't just his guest anymore; now I was his confidante and equal.

It was just past four when I made it back to the shop. Mr. Kessler had gone, and Mr. Winshaw's office door was closed. He'd been preparing for his lecture series and was due to leave at the weekend.

The champagne had taken its toll. I went into the bathroom and splashed my face with water, relishing the giddy elation of success. The luncheon had gone better than I could've imagined.

When I came out, Mr. Winshaw was waiting for me, leaning against the doorway, arms crossed. “You seem to have gotten lost on your way back from lunch,” he said.

“I'm sorry. I'm afraid the time got away from us. And well,” I smiled apologetically, “I didn't want to be rude. Mr. Van der Laar is a client, after all.”

This failed to impress him.

“It seems to me, Fanning, that his interest may be personal. Kindly restrict your client relations to more professional interactions.”

“It was all extremely professional!” I objected, taken aback.

“Fine. Then maybe you'd like to tuck that blouse in before you go home.”

“
Home?
” He couldn't be serious! “You're sending me home? Why?”

“You've been drinking. And in my experience, drunk women and fine china don't mix.”

“I'm hardly drunk!” I straightened, discreetly working my blouse back into my skirt.

He stared at me. “And yet you're a long way from sober. What you do outside this establishment is not my concern. But during office hours Kessler is depending on you, and, quite frankly, so am I. Especially while I'm away. If you can't separate your personal ambitions from your professional duties, then perhaps you should think about handing in your notice.”

“Personal ambitions?” His accusations stung. “What is it exactly that you think I'm after?”

He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I have no idea what you want. And I suspect neither do you. Which is a shame, really. Because behind all your false front, Fanning, you're really quite a clever girl.”

He went back into his office and shut the door.

I yanked my coat back off its hanger.

False front? He had the nerve to talk!

Of course he was perfectly within his rights to be angry: we both knew that. I should've never let James order that second bottle of champagne. But what Mr. Winshaw didn't know and could never really appreciate was that it had been worth it.

That's right, I thought, fumbling with my coat buttons and readjusting my hat.

I'd be a customer in this shop one day, picking out furniture of my own. Then he'd see that, actually, I'd known what I'd wanted all along.