Voice of the Heart (115 page)

‘Last summer, when Harry and I were staying there.’

‘How is she, Frankie?’ he asked softly. ‘Did she ever marry?’ He placed the picture on the chest, lowered himself into a chair.

‘She’s pretty good really. And no, Dibs never did get married.’

Before he could stop himself, he exclaimed, ‘What a goddamned waste! The waste of a life.’

‘Diana doesn’t think so, although I’m inclined to agree with you. In her own way, she’s happy, Nick.’

He pursed his lips, eased himself back in the chair, stared into the distance for a moment. Then he said slowly, ‘It’s Raoul Wallenberg in Lubyanka, not her father, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, I think so. So does Harry, and Diana and Christian are convinced of it too. But Dieter Mueller has his own ideas, insists that if Wallenberg has been there since the end of the Second World War, then there could easily be other prisoners within Lubyanka’s walls, including Prince Kurt von Wittingen. He just won’t give up, that man.’ She shook her head.

‘I almost wrote to her when the stories about Wallenberg started to break in the newspapers, but I felt it might be an intrusion, so I never did. How did she take it?’

Francesca pondered for a moment. ‘Stoically, and perhaps relieved as well. But she wept for Wallenberg and his family, knowing what they had suffered, and were suffering. Of course, finding out about that poor man, realizing he was the mysterious prisoner in the Moscow jail, didn’t solve the enigma of Uncle Kurt’s fate. We still don’t know what actually happened to him. But, as you know, Diana had always harboured the belief that her father was killed in the fighting, when Berlin fell to the Allies in 1945. And she’s more than ever convinced of that now. So is Christian. Mind you, I think they desperately
want
to think their father
is
dead, buried in some unmarked grave somewhere, and not in Lubyanka with that poor Swedish martyr. They’ve both lived with the thought that their father might be alive all these years, and it’s been sheer bloody torture for them. And it’s wrecked their lives, particularly Diana’s, who sacrificed her own personal happiness to look after Christian and their mother.’

‘You’re damned right on that score, kid! What about their mother?’

‘Aunt Arabella is a very old lady, in her late seventies, and a bit senile. I don’t dunk she’s aware of what’s going on any more, lives in her memories, I suppose. A few years ago, when she started to deteriorate, Diana took charge, insisted she came to live with them at Wittingenhof.’

‘Diana ought to have married me—married someone!’
Nick saw Diana in his mind’s eye, and as always the terrible sadness enveloped him. After a moment, he turned to Francesca. ‘She really is all right, isn’t she, Frankie? I cared deeply for her once, and I can’t bear to think she might be unhappy.’

‘Oh, she’s not unhappy, Nicky darling.’ Francesca hesitated, then continued, ‘Years ago, at Langley, Diana told me she believes there is a grand design to life, and incomprehensible as that design might be, its meaning
would
be made clear to us all one day.’ Her gaze intensified, and she held Nick’s eyes. ‘Didn’t she ever mention this to you, darling?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Several times, and I felt she was talking about a kind of predestination. At least, that’s the way I see it.’

‘Yes… Diana truly believes that everything that happens is God’s will. Her religion is an enormous comfort to her. More than ever these days, from what I’ve observed. Last summer, when we were in Bavaria, she told me she has a faith so monumental it leaves no room for doubt. Obviously it is her inner conviction which sustains her, gives her the strength to continue.’

Nick did not speak, and Francesca saw the hint of sorrow on his face. She reached out and touched his hand lovingly. ‘Don’t be sad, not for Diana. In some ways she’s luckier than most people, having her religion to fall back on. And she
is
content, leads a full life. Please believe that, Nicky.’

‘I do, and I’m glad she has peace. That’s rare.’

‘Yes… let me refill your glass.’ Francesca took it from him, went to the ice bucket. Glancing over her shoulder, she said, ‘I’ve read every one of your books in the last few years, and loved them all. I’m still your greatest and most devoted fan, my darling. I assume you’re working on a new one?’

‘Naturally. It’s almost finished.’

‘What else is happening in your life, Nicky?’

‘Not much. But I do have a son,’ he said proudly, taking
the wine goblet from her. ‘He’s four years old, and a beautiful little boy. Enchanting.’

‘Then he obviously takes after his Daddy,’ she teased. ‘What’s his name?’

‘Victor.’

She blinked, then said softly, ‘Oh yes, of course, that would be his name. I’d love to see him, Nicky. Perhaps you would bring him to lunch or tea one day.’

‘Hey, that’s a terrific idea, kid! By the way, I’m not married. I just live with Carlotta, his mother.’

‘Yes, so I’d vaguely heard. She’s Venezuelan, isn’t she?’

‘Yep. She’s down there at the moment. In Caracas. Her father hasn’t been well, so she flew off last week for a short stay. It’s giving me a chance to move the novel along. I hope to be finished by the end of February or early March. Why haven’t you continued writing? I was hoping to see another of your marvellous historical biographies published—’ He broke off, smiled engagingly. ‘So come on, I want an explanation. I’m your mentor, remember.’

Francesca shifted on the sofa, smoothed the skirt of her amber-coloured wool dress, and said, ‘To tell you the truth, I haven’t found a subject. I must be running out of historical figures, at least ones who appeal to me. I’ve been toying with the idea of one of the Tudors.’ She laughed. ‘But my books take so long, involve so much research. Oh dear, that does sound like a lame excuse, doesn’t it?’

‘No, not really.’ He decided not to probe any further about the work and instead exclaimed, ‘Say, how’s that brother of yours? What’s
he
up to?’

‘To be precise, a divorce at the moment. His wife left him. For another man.’

‘You mean Pandora Tremaine turned out to be a dud? I’ll be damned. And I always thought she was something special. So did Hilly Street—that summer on the Côte d’Azur. He sure as hell was proud to be escorting an Hon. Don’t you remember?’

‘I certainly do. And I always found Pandora sweet and loving as well. But apparently she was miserable with Kim. Although she had me fooled for a number of years. And Kim, it seems. He was terribly distressed when Pandora did a bolt. Much more than he was when Katharine dumped him. As a matter of fact, a couple of years ago he finally confessed to me that he was genuinely relieved when Katharine decided to stay in Hollywood in 1956. As you and I always suspected, her career troubled him. He knew it would disturb their life. Doris had pointed that out. She also knew Pandora was unhappy, saw characteristics we didn’t, considered her to be flighty.’

‘And how is the delectable Doris? And your father?’

‘Oh Nicky dear, you don’t know. How could you? Daddy died two years ago. He had a stroke. Died almost immediately. Thank God. He would have hated to live out the rest of his life as a vegetable.’

Nick’s eyes clouded and he went and sat next to her, took her hand. ‘I’m so terribly sorry, Frankie. I know you were close to him. How old was he?’

‘Sixty-eight. I’m just thankful he found Doris and married her, that they had twenty years together. Twenty years of sheer bliss. They were happy, Nicky, truly happy, those two.’

‘How did Doris take it? She must have been heartbroken. She did adore him so.’

‘Yes, she did. And she took it rather badly. But their daughter, Marigold, was a source of great comfort to her, as was Kim. And Doris is almost like her old self.’ Francesca stood up, moved to the chest, reached out for a framed photograph. She handed it to Nick. ‘This is Marigold, with Doris and Daddy at the villa in Monte Carlo, taken about four years ago.’

‘What a lovely girl! Her name suits her… all that lovely auburn hah, like her mother. She must be twenty, or thereabouts.’

Francesca took the photograph from him, put it back on the chest. ‘Yes, as a matter of fact she’ll be twenty-one this summer. God, Nick, doesn’t that make you feel old? I can hardly recollect what I was like at twenty-one.’

‘Oh but I can, kid. You were gorgeous.’ Nick looked her over appraisingly, and winked. ‘And you still are. You don’t look your age, not one bit, Beauty.’

‘Neither do you! Now, what about lunch? I’m starving.’

It was like old times for Francesca and Nicholas. They laughed a lot during lunch at the Carlyle and talked about their lives, and it was as if they had seen each other only yesterday. They were relaxed, and the old camaraderie was fully intact. The years had been bridged without one hint of awkwardness.

Frequently sentences began with, ‘Do you remember when…’ But for the most part they concentrated on the present, avoided deep discussions about the past, were careful not to evoke remembrances of old disappointments, of all the things which might have been.

Nonetheless, at one moment Francesca did become introspective and she turned to Nicky and said, ‘It’s funny, but I always thought I’d have a very different life from the one I’ve had. I imagined I would marry young, have babies, live in a nice country house, perhaps have a pied-à-terre in London, and grow old comfortably with the same man. You know, lead a staid life, become a matronly lady and eventually a grandmother. As it is, everything turned out quite the opposite.’

He had caught a certain wistfulness in her tone, and examined her face closely. ‘Any regrets, Frankie?’

‘Regrets are a waste of time, Nicky.’ She laughed, and the laughter came easily, then added, ‘Oh a few, I suppose. But then again, too few to mention, to quote that popular Sinatra song.’

Nick’s smile reflected hers. ‘You certainly did it your way, kid. Just as I did. And that particular film’s been shot. It’s in the can. There’s no way we can shoot it again, is there?’

‘Not really, darling. Unless you believe in reincarnation.’
She played with the stem of her wine glass, said in a sudden rush, ‘You were once very angry with me, Nicky, and I would like to—’

‘I angry with you? Never!’ he exclaimed, his surprise apparent. ‘You’ve imagined it, Beauty.’

‘No, I haven’t. It was in the early sixties, when I refused to go with you to see
The Sabres of Passion
, when I vowed I would
never
see it. I’d like to confess something. I saw it twice.’

‘
Twice.
’ He flashed her a mildly reproving look which hinted at amusement, and laughed, ‘And you never let on, you secretive little minx.’

‘I suppose I was a bit shame-faced, embarrassed to admit it. Anyway, the first time I cried all the way through, hardly saw one scene clearly. So I went back.’ She gave him a sidelong glance, her eyes filling with merriment. ‘You could say I’m a glutton for punishment. Anyway, I thought it was—’ She paused, finished with a sly grin, ‘I thought it was the whole enchilada.’

Nick chuckled. ‘Oh Frankie, you’re too much. Why ever didn’t you tell me?’

She shrugged, asked in the softest of voices, ‘How is he, Nicky?’

Her question so startled him, Nick’s jaw almost dropped. She had never mentioned Victor in previous years. But, he supposed, her wounds had healed by now. As his own wounds had healed. It would be strange if they had not, he thought, then said, ‘Vic’s the same. He hasn’t changed much. In fact, hardly at all. He’s been a widower a number of years, you know.’

‘Yes, I’d heard. I’m sorry,’ Francesca murmured. ‘And he’s never remarried, has he?’

‘Nope.’

‘Does he still live at the ranch?’

‘Sure he does. He loves that place. He spends most of his time at Che Sarà Sarà. Jake Watson’s with him a great deal.
Jake runs Bellissima for Vic, which has become a big successful company. They’re producing pictures for theatrical release, and for television as well. Vic doesn’t make too many movies himself any more, as I guess you know. Although he did finish one last year.’ Nick’s face lit up. ‘My screenplay. It’s damned good, even if I do say so myself. It should be out soon. You ought to go and see it, kid.’

Her pretty mouth lifted in a smile. ‘Maybe I will, and give you a critique,’ she teased. ‘And what about the boys?’

‘Both married,’ Nick answered and grinned. ‘Vic’s a grandfather, if you can believe that! And he relishes the role. Jamie has two daughters, Steve a son. Vic’s very proud of his family, is devoted to them, gets tremendous pleasure from the grandchildren. And—’ Nick stopped, took the menus the waiter was proffering, handed one to Francesca, and said, ‘How about a nice fattening dessert, Beauty?’

‘I don’t think so! Oh well, I’ll look anyway.’ After a moment she placed the
carte
on the table, glanced around. The restaurant in the Carlyle had been jammed when they arrived, but it was much less crowded now. As she turned to the right, her eyes widened and she swung her head, picked up the menu and held it in front of her face. Squeezing Nick’s knee, she whispered, ‘We should have gone to La Grenouille after all. Estelle Morgan’s sitting at the other side of the room.
With Katharine.
’

‘Oh Christ!’ Nick’s mouth tightened in aggravation. ‘So she’s finally arrived in New York, and wouldn’t you know we’d be the first to run into her. What goddamned luck we have. The worst.’ He cursed under his breath, then said, ‘Hell, kid, we can’t very well sit here hiding behind these.’ He took the menu away from Francesca, laid it down with his, and asked, ‘Where are they sitting?’

‘To my right. Diagonally across from you.’

Focusing on Francesca, he said, ‘How does she look?’

‘Nicky! You’re impossible. Here we are, trapped, and you want to know how she
looks
. My priority is to get out
of here, before Estelle sees us. You know what she’s like. She’ll be over in a flash. I’m surprised she hasn’t landed on us already. Unless they haven’t seen us yet. This place was awfully crowded until a few minutes ago.’

‘We’re going to finish lunch,’ Nick pronounced decisively. His tone was even firmer as he continued, ‘We are not going to run away. She’s not going to drive us into the street. We’ll just brazen it out. Besides, what the hell can
she
do to
us
? She’s hardly going to sit down at our table. The worst that can happen is that she’ll say hello. We’re civilized people, we’ll say hello in return, and she’ll be on her merry way.’