Three Weeks in Paris

Memories of a man who had loved and cherished her, a man who had been an adoring lover and husband, a man she was still married to but who no longer seemed quite the same. He had changed, and even though the change in him was minuscule, she had spotted it from the moment it had happened.

He denied her charge that he was different in his behaviour towards her, insisting she was imagining things. But she knew she was not. There had been a cooling off in him; it was as if he no longer loved her quite as much as before.

Always attentive and solicitous, he now appeared to be distracted, was even occasionally careless, forgetting to tell her if he planned to work late or attend a business dinner, or some other such thing. He would phone her at the very last minute, giving no thought to her or any plans she might have, leaving her high and dry for the evening. Although she seethed inside she said nothing; she was always patient, understanding and devoted.

Kay had never believed it possible that a man like Ian Andrews would marry her. But he had. Their courtship had been idyllic, and so had the first two and a half years of their marriage, which had been, for her, like a dream come true.

And these were the memories which assailed her now, held her in their thrall as she moved around the room, swaying, floating, circling, as if in another kind of dream. And as she danced with him, he so alive in her head and her heart, she recalled his boyishness, his enthusiasm for life, his gallantry and charm. He had swept her off her feet and into marriage within a month of their first meeting. Startled though she was, she had not objected; she had been as madly in love with him as he was with her. Besides, it also suited her purpose to marry him quickly. She had so much to hide.

A discreet cough intruded, brought her out of her reverie and to a standstill. She glanced at the door, feeling embarrassed to be caught dancing alone, and gave Hazel, the cook at Lochcraigie, a nervous half smile.

‘Sorry to intrude, Lady Andrews, but I was wondering about dinner…’ The cook hesitated, looking at her steadily, and then finished in a low voice, ‘Will his lordship be here tonight?’

‘Yes, Hazel, he will,’ Kay answered, her tone firm and confident. ‘Thanks, Hazel. Oh, by the way, did you see the dinner menu I left?’

‘Yes, I did, Lady Andrews.’ The cook inclined her head and disappeared.

But will he be here? Kay asked herself, walking to the window where she stood looking out across the lawns and trees towards the hills that edged along the pale blue skyline. After breakfast he had announced he was going into Edinburgh to buy a birthday gift for his sister Fiona, and it was true that it was their birthday tomorrow and they were seeing her for Sunday lunch, a birthday lunch. But she couldn’t help wondering why he hadn’t asked her to pick something out earlier in the week, since she went to her studio in the city three days a week. On the other hand, he and Fiona were twins and unusually close, and perhaps he felt the need to do his own selecting.

Turning away from the long expanse of window, Kay walked across the terra-cotta tiled floor, heading for the huge stone hearth. She stood with her back to the fire, thinking, as always, what a strange room this was, and yet it succeeded despite its strangeness. Or perhaps because of it.

It was a conservatory which had been added on to one end of the house, built by Ian’s great-great-grandmother in Victorian times. It was airy and light because of its many windows, yet it had a cosiness due to the stone fireplace, an unusual addition in a conservatory, but necessary because of the cold Scottish weather in winter. Yet in summer it was equally pleasant to be in, with its many windows, French windows and cool stone floor. Potted plants and wicker furniture painted dark brown helped to give it the mandatory garden mood for a conservatory, yet a few choice antiques added charm and a sense of permanence. A curious but whimsical touch was the Venetian blown-glass chandelier which hung down from the beamed ceiling, and yet this, too, somehow worked in the room despite its oddness.

Kay bit her lip, thinking about Ian, worrying about their relationship, as she had for some time now. She knew why there had been this slight shift, this moving away…it was because she had not conceived. He was desperate for a child, longed for an heir to his lands and this house, where the Andrews family had lived for four hundred years. And so far she had not been able to give him one.

My fault, she whispered to herself, thinking of her early years in Glasgow and what had happened to her when she was a teenager. A shudder passed through her slender frame, and she turned bodily to the fire, reached out to warm her hands, shivering unexpectedly as she filled with that old familiar coldness.

Lowering herself on to the leather-topped club fender, she sat staring into the flames, her face suddenly drawn, her eyes pensive. Yet despite the sadness there was no denying her exceptional beauty: with her ivory complexion, eyes as blue as speedwells and red-gold hair that shimmered in the firelight, she was a true Celt. But at this moment Kay Lenox Andrews was not thinking about her beauty, or her immense talent, which had brought her so far in her young life, but of the ugliness and degradation of her past.

When she looked back, growing up in the Gorbals, the slums of Glasgow, had been something of an education in itself. There were times when Kay wondered if she might have been a different person if her early environment had not been quite so difficult and harsh.

She knew there were those who said environment helped to create personality and character, while others believed you were born with your character intact, that character was destiny, that it determined the roads you took, the life you ultimately led. She herself tended to accept this particular premise.

The road she took was the road to success. At least, that is what she repeatedly told herself when she set out to change her life. And her positive attitude, plus her determination, had helped her to accomplish wonders.

When she was a teenager, the thing that had driven her was the need to get out of the Gorbals, where she had been born. Fortunately, her mother Alice Smith felt the same way, and it was Alice who had helped her to move ahead, who had pushed her out into the bigger world. ‘And a much better world than it is here, Kay,’ her mother had repeatedly told her, always adding: ‘And I want you to have a better life than I ever had. You’ve got it all. Looks, brains, and that amazing talent. There’s nothing to stop you…but yourself. So I’m hoping to make certain you bloody well succeed, lassie, I promise you that, even if it kills me trying.’

Her mother had plotted and planned, scrimped and saved, and there had even been one moment when she had actually resorted to blackmail in order to rescue Kay and fulfil her own special plans for her daughter. Alice had enormous ambitions for Kay, ambitions some thought were ludicrous, beyond reach. But not Alice Smith. Nothing and no one was going to stop her grabbing the best for Kay; eventually, all that shoving and pushing and striving, and sacrifice had paid off. Her cherished daughter was launched with a new identity…a young woman of background, breeding and education, who happened to be stunningly beautiful, unusually talented, and all set to become a fashion designer of taste and flair.

I wouldn’t have made it to where I am today without Mam, Kay now thought, still gazing into the flames of the roaring fire, ruminating on her past life. But a moment later she was brought back into the present by the sound of loud knocking on a glass windowpane. She sat up swiftly and glanced across the room.

Kay was startled to see John Lanark, the estate manager, on the terrace, bundled up in a Barbour jacket and scarf, hovering on the other side of the French windows. Jumping off the fender, she ran to let him in, surprised he was paying a call on Saturday.

Unlocking the door, she exclaimed, ‘John, come in! Come in at once. It’s freezing out there.’

He flashed her a breezy smile, stepping into the conservatory quickly, pulling off his tweed cap as he did. ‘Morning, Kay. I know I ought to have phoned instead of barging in, but it just so happened I was passing in the Land Rover on my way to the village, and I remembered I’d promised Ian I’d let him know about the progress on the septic tanks at the Home Farm. Would he be about?’

‘No, he’s not, John. He drove into Edinburgh this morning, but he’ll be back this afternoon. Do you want to leave a message, a note perhaps?’

‘No, no, I’ll phone him later. Basically, everything’s now in proper order, but I’d like to fill him in with the details.’

‘I’ll tell him. And how’s Margo?’

‘Oh she’s just wonderful. Busy with the church festival for spring. It’s a little way off, as you know, but she likes to get started early.’

Kay nodded, then smiled at him. She had always liked this loyal and genial man.

He said, ‘Look, I’d better get off. I don’t want to take up your time. And I’ve a lot of paperwork waiting for me.’

‘That’s all right, John. But like you, I have work to do and the morning seems to be escaping.’

‘Tempus fugit,’ he murmured, said goodbye and let himself out.

Kay left the conservatory and walked towards the front hall set in the centre of the house. It was a vast open space, with a high-flung cathedral ceiling and a double staircase, with carved balustrades, which ran up to the wide upper hall. The main feature of the latter was a soaring stained-glass window which bathed the front hall below in multi-coloured light, almost like a perpetual rainbow.

She took the left-hand side of the staircase, running up to the second floor, where her design studio was located in what had once been the day nursery at Lochcraigie.

As she opened the door and went in on this bitter February morning she was glad to see that Maude, the housekeeper, already had a fire burning brightly in the grate. It was a large, high-ceilinged room with six tall windows, and it was flooded with the cool northern light she loved, and which was so perfect for her work. In this crystalline light all colours were true, and that made her designing so much easier.

Stepping towards the old Jacobean refectory table that served as her desk, she reached over and picked up the phone as it began to ring. ‘Lochcraigie House,’ she said, walking around to her high-backed chair and sitting down.

‘It’s me, Kay,’ her assistant said.

‘Hello, Sophie. Is something wrong?’

‘No, nothing. Why? Oh, you mean because I’m calling on Saturday. No, all’s well in the world, as far as I know. At least it is in mine, anyway.’

Kay smiled. Sophie was a darling, full of energy and life, and a joy to work with. At twenty-three she was bursting with talent, enthusiasm and ideas. ‘Then you are the lucky one,’ Kay said at last, wishing that all was well in her little world. She went on, ‘I just came up to the studio, and as I’m sitting here talking to you I can see that vermilion piece which came from the mill the other day…I like it, Sophie, I really do. It’s such a change from the colours I’ve been using this past year.’

‘I agree. It’s really vibrant, but also sort of…smoochy.’

‘What do you mean by smoochy?’

‘You know, smoochy, as in kiss-kiss-kiss.’

Kay burst out laughing.

Dropping her voice, Sophie now said confidingly, ‘I called because I finally got that information for you.’

‘What information?’

‘About the man my sister recently heard of…you know we discussed it two weeks ago.’

‘Oh, yes, of course. Sorry, Sophie, I guess I’m being a little bit stupid today.’ She clutched the receiver more tightly, filled with sudden expectancy.

‘His name is François Boujon, and he lives in France once again.’

‘Where exactly?’