For a split second he contemplated telling her about the new company, and instantly changed his mind. She wouldn’t be interested, and in any case, business bored her. It always had. But he didn’t mind that it did. She had so many other remarkable attributes, and he loved her so very much.
‘Stassy…’
‘Yes, darling, what is it?’ She glanced at him, and put down the newspaper.
‘On my last trip to London two weeks ago, I stopped in to see them at Camper & Nicholsons in Berkeley Street.’
‘You did! Oh darling!’ She sat up straighter on the chaise, then swung her legs over the side and stared at him. ‘Are you going to charter a yacht from them next summer? As you’ve been promising?’
Maxim did not answer. He also straightened up, swung his legs to the floor, and sat facing her. A wide smile slowly spread across his face.
‘Tell me!’ she cried excitedly, grasping his arm. ‘Tell me!’
‘I’ve commissioned them to build a yacht. A beautiful yacht for my beautiful wife.’
‘Oh Maxim!’
‘They have the best naval architects, engineers, yacht stylists, and electrical designers in the world, in my opinion. They’ve been in business since 1782, so they must be doing something right. In any case, the designs will be done first, for our approval, then they will start building her, once they have the go-ahead from me.’
‘When will she be ready?’
‘Not for several years. Two and a half, three maybe. And once she’s finished, I want you to do the interior design, with your mother’s help, if you wish.’
‘Oh she’ll be so thrilled, Maxim.’
‘More importantly, are you, Peachy?’
‘Very.’
He leaned forward, took her face between his hands, kissed her on the lips. Then he leapt to his feet, pulled her up onto hers, walked her over to the outside bar at the far end of the pool area.
‘I’m going to crack open a bottle of my best Roederer Cristal to toast the yacht.’
‘I’ll toast her with you!’
He let go of Anastasia to walk around the bar.
She sat down on a stool as he brought the bottle of champagne out of the refrigerator underneath the bar, carefully began to unwind the metal wire.
‘Incidentally, who’s coming to lunch today?’ he asked.
‘Just a bunch of locals,’ she laughed.
‘Teddy and Mark, I’ll bet, and your parents.’
‘Correct. And Yvette and Philippe Arnaud. And Stubby, of course, with his latest lady love in tow. He just phoned to tell me.’
‘I wish that old reprobate would settle down and get married.’
Anastasia laughed again. ‘So does his mother.’
Maxim poured the Cristal into two flutes, pushed one towards Anastasia, and lifted his glass. ‘Here’s to your yacht, Peachy.’
‘To our yacht, my darling,’ she said, giving him the most dazzling smile.
FORTY-EIGHT
He called her Beautiful Dreamer.
She was one of the most magnificent ocean-going yachts ever designed by the best naval architects there were, custom-built to Maxim’s precise specifications by Camper & Nicholsons, the great British yacht-builders.
Sleek of line, elegant, and equipped to sail anywhere in the world, her overall length was 213.9 feet and her cruising speed was fifteen knots. Originally, Maxim had intended to have a smaller, shorter yacht designed, at first opting for maximum speed and greater manoeuvrability above size and spaciousness. Rather quickly, he had come to realise that much of the pleasure and fun of owning a yacht was to invite guests aboard to cruise with them part of the time.
With the extended family he and Anastasia had, a large number of staterooms and cabins were an absolute necessity. Aside from Anastasia and himself, and their children, he required comfortable accommodation for those he loved and cared about: Anastasia’s parents, Teddy and Mark, and their children to whom he was close, and who were his siblings, in a sense. Kay, now twenty-four, worked for him at West International in London, and her brother David, who was twenty-two, had recently come down from Oxford and was about to enter the family diamond and jewellery business with Mark. David and Kay had always looked up to him, and he was like an older brother to both of Teddy’s children. Then there were two other very important people in his life to consider and include—his beloved Irina Troubetzkoy, and his dearest friend, the faithful, ever-devoted Stubby.
When she was completed, after an expenditure of several million pounds, Beautiful Dreamer could accommodate twenty people, plus twenty in crew.
She was the ultimate in luxury. Apart from three grand staterooms, there were seven other bedrooms, each one with its own private bathroom en suite, an elegant main salon and a large dining room, both for more formal entertaining, a library, Maxim’s study, plus a completely equipped communications centre next to an office for his secretarial staff. A swimming pool and the fore and aft decks provided for swimming, outdoor activities and sunbathing, while the boat deck lounge served as a games room and a place for casual dining. To Maxim a helicopter pad was imperative; this had been included in the ship’s overall design so that he could come and go as he wished.
Beautiful Dreamer was almost three years in the building, and it took Anastasia and her mother another year to furnish and decorate her appropriately. When they finally finished their work the yacht was exquisite, stylish and opulent without being pretentious or intimidating. Pale colours, French and English antiques, impressive objects of art and fine paintings abounded. To Maxim’s immense satisfaction the interior of the yacht had comfort, great charm and distinction, and was in perfect taste.
He took delivery of her in July of 1974, and when he saw her moored in one of the best berths in Monte Carlo harbour he was overcome by her intrinsic beauty.
Awed, he stood admiring her from the dock, along with Anastasia, Alix and Michael, marvelling at her lovely rakish lines, her high streamlined prow, her overall gracefulness. She gleamed brilliantly white against the glittering deep blue sea in the intense morning sunlight, and as far as he was concerned she was the best-looking yacht in the port of Monte Carlo—the Atlantis, owned by Greek shipping magnate Stavros Niarchos, notwithstanding.
‘She was worth waiting for, eh, Stassy?’ he said as they walked up the gangplank.
‘Indeed she was. A great deal of time, talent and love has gone into her creation,’ Anastasia replied quietly. ‘I’m only sorry she wasn’t ready for your fortieth birthday.’
‘I think we ought to forget that,’ Maxim laughed as he stepped onto the deck, swung around to give his hand to Anastasia, and helped her on board. Together they walked forward to greet the captain, who was waiting for them with other members of the crew.
That weekend Beautiful Dreamer sailed up the Mediterranean coast, heading for Saint Tropez. Maxim had invited Margot and Alexander Derevenko, Teddy and Mark to join Anastasia, the children and himself on this short maiden cruise. After four glorious days at sea, the yacht turned around and sailed back to Monte Carlo, in readiness for the first party they were going to give on board. It was to be a supper dance for seventy guests on Saturday night.
***
Anastasia filled the yacht with flowers, decorated it with glittering fairy lights, hired the best trio on the Cote d’Azur, ordered cases and cases of Roederer Cristal champagne, and planned a menu of delicious food with her two French chefs. She then proceeded to throw the party of the 1974 season.
Halfway through the evening everyone was already congratulating her, telling her she had two grand successes on her hands: the beautiful yacht and the spectacular supper dance.
Anastasia thanked them graciously, smiled, and went on smiling for the rest of the evening, even though her heart ached and she was filled with pain and hurt inside. Things were not at all right between her and Maxim; they had not been right for several years. And tonight, of all nights, she felt as if she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown, at worst some sort of physic
al collapse.
Now she stood at the far side of the dance floor watching him closely. He was dancing with Chedlya El Bahi, the young Moroccan woman who had been brought by David Maines, a friend of Stubby’s who had become part of their crowd. Maxim looked impossibly handsome tonight, his sun-bronzed face, dark hair and brilliant dark eyes emphasised by his cream raw-silk dinner jacket. He was gazing down at Chedlya, chatting and laughing, listening attentively to every word she had to say.
He has time for everyone but me, Anastasia thought bitterly. Charming and dazzling the world at large, with his charisma, his power, his immense wealth. He even paid more attention to my father when we were cruising up to Saint Tropez. He certainly had little to say to me, except to issue orders in his imperious way. Duke Maximilian indeed.
She bit her lip, blinking rapidly as she saw him lean closer to Chedlya, whisper something in her ear. The young woman laughed vibrantly, looked up at him, smiling into his face. There has always been something hypnotic about him, Anastasia thought miserably, a seductiveness. Most people do fall under his spell. To her dismay she noticed that Maxim and Chedlya suddenly appeared to be dancing much closer, were glued to each other. She felt as if a sharp knife was being twisted in her stomach, experienced a swift rush of the most blinding jealousy. It was an emotion that had become only too familiar.
Anastasia had no peace of mind these days. The empty ache inside her was eternally present; she was lonely and depressed, these feelings engendered by Maxim’s lifestyle and behaviour, she was fully aware of that. He was absent constantly, more than ever before in fact, always on the run, on the wing, in and out of London and Paris, rushing to New York or Los Angeles or God knows where else. Because of his long absences from her, she found it increasingly difficult to believe that he did not have his flings, become embroiled with some woman somewhere. Casual sexual encounters were probably a part of his life now, the norm, she suspected, while she sat and waited. Waited for him to come home when it suited him.
It struck her that she had been doing a great deal of waiting over the past few years. Waiting for Maxim. Waiting for the yacht to be built. Waiting for the furnishings to be delivered… the antiques, the art, the fabrics, the carpets, all the trappings required to create the floating palace he wanted. Waiting, waiting, waiting. And worrying. Worrying herself to death.
She thought back to the summer of 1970, when she had had the heart-to-heart talk with her mother in Paris, and had then spent a lovely holiday with Maxim and the children at the villa in Beaulieu. It had been idyllic. At the end of the summer, following her mother’s advice, she had begun to travel with him. At first it had worked; eventually it had become far too difficult for her to sustain. His schedule, the very nature of his wheeling and dealing in the world of big business, had a certain unpredictability. Sometimes they would arrive in New York only to spend a couple of days there, even though their stay had been planned for much longer. Unexpectedly they would have to fly straight back to London. For business reasons. Or they might have to leave for another city in the States. Or Hong Kong. Or Australia. Or some far-flung corner of the globe where he had a deal. She did not have Maxim’s penchant for planes, nor his immense unflagging stamina. The strenuous routine soon wearied and debilitated her, took its eventual toll on her health, brought her to a standstill.
Then there were the other demands on her, which necessitated her presence in England and France. A large house in Mayfair and the villa in Beaulieu to run; a variety of staff problems in these homes constantly needing to be ironed out; the children to tend to during half-term and holidays.
After a year she had had to stop being his travelling companion. It had become too much for her. Then before she even had a chance to take a breath there was the yacht to deal with. Countless details needed their attention; she had had to cope with them herself, since Maxim was forever away, in board meetings somewhere in the world.
Inevitably, their separations became longer, and weeks went by without them seeing each other. Frequently the weeks turned into months. If she saw him half of the year now she was lucky.
He’s drifting away from me, Anastasia thought, and she was suddenly terribly frightened.
Focusing her gaze on her husband, the man she loved beyond all reason, she saw that he still held the Moroccan girl in his arms. Her stomach turned as she continued to observe him intently. She felt herself beginning to tremble with anger and jealousy, and she had to exercise enormous control to get a grip on her emotions. In jealousy there is more self-love than love, she reminded herself, thinking of the line by La Rochefoucauld.
With a flash of clarity and true objectiveness, she thought: Maxim’s got the kind of mesmerising charm and devastating looks women find utterly irresistible, fatal. Without him doing anything to encourage them, they fling themselves at him. And what man could resist that kind of temptation?
And I bet he doesn’t, she added under her breath, still quite unable to tear her eyes away from him and from the Moroccan girl, whom she had now begun to detest.
Maxim caught sight of her and smiled, but Anastasia swiftly averted her face, pretended not to have noticed his acknowledgement of her.
She swung around and began to walk away from the dance floor, seething inside, her jealousy rampant, her anger spiralling into genuine rage.
David Maines was making a beeline for her and there was no way she could veer to her right or her left, at least not without giving offence to this very nice man. A screenwriter, and now a best-selling novelist, he had been an acquaintance of her father’s for ages, having always been around the film clique in Paris and London. Stubby had taken up with him some time ago, and David had been drifting in and out of their lives for about five years. He always seemed to be in the south of France when they were there, and frequently dined, partied, or played tennis with them. Two years ago they had been his guests at his beautiful villa on the top of a hill in Tangier, where they had spent a long weekend with him. Before the advent of Chedlya.
David drew to a stop in front of her, bowed gallantly and said, ‘My friend Chedlya seems to have commandeered your husband, so I think it’s only fair and just that I do the same with you. Please come and dance with me, Anastasia.’
‘Oh but I don’t—’ she began, then, realising that as hostess she could not be rude to one of her guests, she minded her manners. ‘I’d love to, David,’ she said.
He led her out onto the dance floor, complimenting her on the fabulous party as they fell into step. ‘As for the yacht, it’s the epitome of beauty and faultless taste,’ David remarked.
‘Thank you. The party was a bit easier to produce than the yacht though.’ She forced a smile and added, ‘My mother should get a lot of credit, you know, she’s enormously talented as an interior designer.’
‘So are you,’ David said, smiling down at her, his eyes full of admiration. Aside from her artistic attributes, she radiated beauty, and he could not help thinking how lucky Maximilian West was to have this superb woman as his wife.
And I hadn’t realised you were a painter,’ David remarked, as they glided around the floor. ‘I was very taken with the watercolours in the main salon earlier, and Stubby told me you painted them.’
‘Years ago. I just sort of putter around,’ she murmured dismissively, looking over his shoulder, her eyes scanning the area for Maxim. He seemed to have disappeared.
‘If that’s puttering, then you can putter any time for me,’ the writer said. ‘Look, Anastasia, if you ever have a show, or if any of your paintings are ever for sale, do let me know. I’d love to buy a few for the house in Tangier.’
‘How nice of you, David,’ she said distractedly, wondering where Maxim had gone with David’s girlfriend. ‘But I don’t paint very often, it’s not even a hobby.’ She longed to escape. Her heart had begun to race, and she was frantic, her face taut, her eyes panic-stricken. Had Maxim taken the girl somewhere to be alone with her? To make love to her?
She said a littl
e abruptly, ‘David, would you mind awfully if we stop dancing now? I’ve just remembered something I must tell the chef at once.’
‘Of course not, and thank you,’ he said, immediately leading her off the floor. ‘Ah, there’s Chedlya! Obviously looking for me, I’ve no doubt. See you later, darling.’
Anastasia gave him a small, faltering smile, excused herself and hurried away, wishing the pounding in her chest would cease. Through the corner of her eye she saw Maxim propping up the bar with her father and Stubby, laughing uproariously at some joke, and she felt a surge of relief. Nevertheless, having told David Maines that she had to speak to one of the chefs, there was no possible way she could linger here.
Avoiding the bar, and her mother and Irina, who were both waving to her, trying to catch her attention, she flew along the main deck to their stateroom, and went straight into the bathroom. She was shaking so much she could barely lock the door. After she had managed to do so, she stumbled over to the mirror and looked at herself.
Sadly, she did not see her great beauty, only the panic in her eyes, her grim mouth and strained expression, the beads of perspiration on her face and neck. But in all truth, at thirty-three Anastasia was at her loveliest. Tonight she wore a draped strapless gown of white chiffon, designed by Madame Gres, and a magnificent diamond necklace which Maxim had just given her. Both the dress and the necklace were shown off to great advantage against her golden-brown skin; her blonde hair was swept up in a mass of curls on top of her head, and she had an etherealness about her this evening that was breathtaking.
But blinded as she was by jealousy, possessiveness, anger and hurt she saw nothing as it truly was. All she could think about were Maxim’s neglect of her, his protracted absences, his preoccupation with his business, his detached attitude to her well-being, which she considered to be cavalier at best.
I love him too much, she thought. He is my whole existence, but I am only part of his, just a fraction of it really, and that’s the basic problem. Tears came into her smoky-blue eyes and she strove hard to push them back, peered at herself in the mirror again. Perhaps there’s something wrong with me. Not perhaps; there is. I’m sick. I am sick with love. For him. She recalled those other words from the Bible: My beloved is mine and I am his. Except that he’s not mine, not any more, she thought. Even though I am his and will always be his.