‘I’m not going to accept that offer,’ he said softly.
She nodded, but before she could speak he added significantly, ‘And you know I’m not.’
It could have been no more than courtesy but there was a new note in his voice, an odd note, that made her tense. She was at a crossroads. If she admitted that she did actually know what he meant, the road ahead was a wilderness of confusion.
Ignore the challenge, said the warning voice in her head. Escape while you can.
‘How could I know that?’ she murmured. ‘I don’t know you.’
‘I think we both know—all that we need to know. The decision has been taken.’
She wanted to cry out. He seemed to be saying that he really had recognised her, that the two of them still lived in a world that excluded the rest of the universe and only they understood the language they spoke.
But no! She wouldn’t let herself believe it. She must not believe it, lest she go crazy.
Crazier than she’d been for the last ten years? Or was she already beyond hope? She drew a deep breath.
But then, while she was still spinning, he returned to earth with devastating suddenness.
‘Now that we’ve settled that, tell me how you got here last night,’ he said.
His voice sounded normal again. They were back to practical matters.
‘In a taxi,’ she said.
‘I’m glad. It’s better if you don’t drive for a while after what happened.’
‘My head’s fine. It was only a tiny bump. But I’ll take a taxi to the office.’
‘Good. I’ll call you later. Now I must go. I have an appointment with the bank. We’ll meet tomorrow.’
He was gone.
At the office Mr Smith greeted her news with pleasure. When she’d cleared her desk he took her for a final lunch. Over the wine he became expansive.
‘It can be a good job as long as you know to be careful. Men like him resemble lions hovering for the kill. Just be sure you’re not the prey. Remember that however well he seems to treat you now, all he cares about is making the best use of you. When your usefulness is over you’ll be out on your ear. So get what you can out of him before he dumps you.’
‘Perhaps he won’t,’ she said, trying to speak lightly.
‘He always does. People serve their purpose, then they’re out in the cold. He’s known for it.’
‘Perhaps there’s a reason,’ she said quietly. ‘Maybe someone deserted him.’
‘Don’t make me laugh! Dump him? Nobody would dare.’
‘Not now perhaps, but in the past, maybe when he was vulnerable—’
Mr Smith’s response was a guffaw. ‘Him? Vulnerable?
Never. Amos Falcon’s son was born fully formed and the image of his father. Hard. Armoured. Unfeeling. Oh, it’s not how he comes across at first. He’s good with the French fantasy lover stuff. Or so I’ve heard from some lady friends who were taken in when they should have known better. But don’t believe it. It’s all on the outside. Inside—nothing!’
‘Thanks for the lunch,’ she said hurriedly. ‘I must be going.’
‘Yes, you belong to him now, don’t you?’
‘My time belongs to him,’ she corrected. ‘Only my time.’
She fled, desperate to get away from the picture he showed her of Marcel—a man damaged beyond hope. Hearing him condemned so glibly made her want to scream.
You don’t know him, don’t know what he suffered. I knew him when he was generous and loving, with a heart that overflowed, to me at least. He was young and defenceless then, whatever you think.
Only a few hours ago her anger had been directed at Marcel, but now she knew a surge of protective fury that made her want to stand between him and the world. What did any of them understand when nobody knew him as she did?
She checked that her cellphone was switched on and waited for his call. It didn’t come. She tried not to feel disappointed, guessing that the bank would occupy him for a long time. And she had something else in mind, for which she would need time to herself.
When she reached home she locked the front door behind her. For the next few hours nothing and nobody must disturb her.
Switching on her computer, she went online and settled down to an evening of research.
She forced herself to be patient, first studying Amos Falcon, which was easy because there were a dozen sites devoted to him. An online encyclopaedia described his life and career—the rise from poverty, the enormous gains in power and money. There was less detail about his private life beyond the fact that he’d had three wives and five sons.
As well as Darius and Marcel there was Jackson Falcon, a minor celebrity in nature broadcasting. Finding his picture, she realised that she’d seen him in several television programmes. Even better known was Travis Falcon, a television actor in America, star of a series just beginning to be shown in England. The last son was Leonid, born and raised in Russia and still living there. About him the encyclopaedia had little information, not even a picture.
There were various business sites analysing Amos’s importance in the financial world, and a few ill-natured ones written in a spirit of ‘set the record straight’. He was too successful to be popular, and his enemies vented their feelings while being careful to stay just the right side of libel.
The information about Marcel told her little that she hadn’t already learned from Freya, but there was much about La Couronne, his hotel in Paris. From here she went to the hotel’s own site, then several sites that gave customers’ opinions. Mrs Henshaw studied these closely, making detailed notes.
Then Cassie took over, calling up photographs of Marcel that went back several years. Few of them were close-ups. Most had been taken at a distance, as though he was a reluctant subject who could only be caught by chance.
But then she came across a picture that made her grow tense. The date showed that it had been taken nine years ago, yet the change in him was already there. Shocked, she realised that the sternness in his face, the heaviness in his attitude, had settled over him within a year of their separation. This was what misery had done to him.
She reached out and touched the screen as though trying to reach him, turn time back and restore him to the vibrant, loving boy he’d once been. But that could never happen. She snatched her hand back, reminding herself how much of the tragedy was his own fault for concealing the truth. She must cling to that thought or go mad.
She came offline. But, as if driven by some will of their own, her fingers lingered over the keys, bringing up another picture, kept in a secret file. There they were, Cassie and Marcel, locked in each other’s embrace. She had many such shots, taken on a delayed release camera borrowed from a photographer friend.
‘I want lots of pictures,’ she’d told Marcel, ‘then we’ll always have them to remember this time when we were so happy.’
‘I won’t need help to remember you,’ he’d told her fervently. ‘You’ll always live in my heart and my memory as you are now, my beautiful Cassie. When I’m old and grey you’ll still be there with me, always—always—’
Gently he’d removed her clothes.
‘This is my one chance to have a picture of you naked, because I couldn’t bear to have any other photographer take them. Nobody else must ever see you like this—only me. Promise me.’
‘I promise.’