Where You Belong. Barbara Taylor Bradford

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      I instantly closed my mind to those memories. With a rush of irritation I knew he had put them up there as souvenirs of our vacation in France last summer. All of them had been taken near St Tropez, where we had spent a week sailing. Seascapes. Empty beaches. Sunsets. Shots of the endless sky. Close-ups of flowers, trees, birds, nature in all its forms. Beautiful shots which were a relief for me to take after the horrors of war. They were unidentified, but they were mine all right.

      Then my gaze fell on the camera I had given him. A Leica.

      Automatically, I reached for it, held it in my hand, thinking of Tony, suddenly angry with him again. I felt betrayed and used by him.

      Fiona must have seen me pick it up, because she exclaimed, ‘If you want the camera, please take it, Val dear. Rory and Moira have chosen the ones they prefer. I’m so pleased she’s taking after Tony, following in his footsteps. I’m sure she’s told you all about her plans, Jake, hasn’t she?’

      I turned around to face the two of them.

      Fiona stood near the big partner’s desk in the middle of the room, and she was looking up at Jake.

      He said, ‘Yes, she has been filling me in. She’s very excited that she’s going to join Tony’s agency next year.’

      As I continued to look at them it struck me suddenly that Jake looked very tired, as if the day had affected him as deeply as it had me. Also, I couldn’t help wondering what Moira and Rory had been talking to him about. Their father, no doubt.

      Picking up the camera, I went to join them both. Jake put his arm around me, drew me closer to him, almost protectively, I thought.

      ‘Thanks, Fiona, I’d like the camera,’ I murmured, although I didn’t want it at all. But I thought it would look churlish, perhaps even odd, if I didn’t take something of his, since we had worked together.

      Looking pleased, Fiona now picked up a small leather box which was on the desk, and opened it. She showed the contents to us; it held a pair of cufflinks. Glancing at Jake, she said, ‘I thought you might like to have these, as a memento of Tony. They’re good ones, you know. They’re made of eighteen-carat gold, and lapis, as you can see.’

      For a split second Jake looked as though he was about to refuse the blue cufflinks but apparently changed his mind. ‘Thanks,’ he said, taking them from her. He studied them for a moment, closed the box and put it in his jacket pocket without another word.

      ‘Would you like to select one or two of Tony’s cameras?’ she asked him.

      Jake shook his head. ‘I’ve got so many of my own, honey, but thanks for offering.’

      Sitting down at the desk, Fiona opened the centre drawer, took out a large, office-sized cheque book and turned the pages. ‘Tony must’ve owed you money, Jake. Five hundred pounds, to be exact.’ Her expression was questioning, and then she went on, ‘He made out this cheque to you, dated and signed it, then forgot to tear it out before he left for Paris at the end of July. I found it the other day, when I’d finally screwed up the courage to go through his desk.’

      Jake was obviously not surprised by her words. Nodding, he explained, ‘Tony told me he’d left the cheque behind by mistake. I said he should forget it, that it didn’t matter.’ Jake cleared his throat, and added, ‘I’d loaned him some money to buy film when we were in Jordan in March. Look, it’s not important, Fiona.’

      ‘No, no, I insist you take it,’ she exclaimed, tore out the cheque and handed it to Jake. Since I was standing next to him, I couldn’t help noticing that the cheque came from a joint account. An account bearing Fiona’s name as well as his.

      Well, so much for that, I thought. She had a joint account with him. She has his children. His house. His garden. A whole life with him to remember.

      As for me, what did I have?

       CHAPTER SIX

      I

      Jake did not have much to say on the way to the airport. In fact, he was not only silent but rather glum. In contrast, I was brimming with thoughts, theories and comments, and desperately wanted to talk to him. But in the end I remained silent, deeming it wiser to hold my tongue for the moment.

      It was obvious to me that he didn’t want to talk about Tony and Fiona, or Rory and Moira either, with whom he had spent a lot of time at the lunch. Nor did he want to discuss that lunch, which we had just left, or the memorial service of earlier. I didn’t blame him. Everything had become as painful for Jake as it had for me, or so I believed.

      Heathrow was as busy as it always was, crowded with people, and as we pushed our way through the bustling throng heading for all corners of the world, I got the distinct feeling Jake couldn’t wait to get back to Paris. I hurried along next to him, hauling my one piece of luggage, a fold-over bag which had travelled the world with me.

      ‘Hey, honey, let me help you with your stuff,’ he suddenly said, becoming aware of the difficulties I was having with the large hold-all slung over one shoulder.

      ‘I can manage, Jake. Please don’t worry, you’ve enough to carry of your own,’ I replied, but I was still struggling, and before I could protest further he grabbed the fold-over bag out of my hands.

      ‘I’m sorry, Val, I should have carried this for you all along. No excuse for me, except that I’ve been preoccupied.’ He gave me a faint smile, and finished, ‘I’ve been very neglectful.’

      ‘Please, it’s okay!’ I exclaimed. ‘I’m a strong, tough girl who can carry her own luggage and take care of herself in any situation.’

      Staring down at me, he gave me an odd look, and muttered, ‘I’m not so sure about that, Kid.’

      I didn’t answer. I simply trotted along next to him, trying to keep up with his long strides. After a second or two I remarked, ‘Anyway, I know what you mean about being preoccupied. I’m on overload myself at the moment.’

      He nodded, gave me a swift glance and said, ‘Yes, you are. Emotional overload. The point is, we’re both top-heavy with a lot of crap, a lot of disturbing and conflicting feelings. I just need to clear my head, Val, so that I can look at…things as clearly as possible.’

      ‘I understand,’ I answered, ‘and I realize now is not the right time to talk, since we’re rushing through an airport like maniacs, trying to make a plane. But we should sit down and chat, Jake. We need to understand about Tony and Fiona. Whenever you want, but we really must do it,’ I insisted.

      When he made no response whatsoever, I eyed him worriedly, and pressed, ‘At the lunch you said we’d talk later, remember? We have to make sense out of Tony’s behaviour, you know.’

      ‘I guess we do,’ he muttered, and his face became closed, his mouth grimly set. He plunged ahead, making for the gate, deftly handling our luggage.

      I sighed under my breath. So much for that illuminating conversation, I muttered to myself, and ran after him to board the plane to Paris.

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