Lace

  Once inside the hospital, all romance was wiped from Judy’s mind. Angelina was not allowed to be present. She would have to wait in the waiting room. Judy undressed, had a bath, was given an enema by an unfriendly nurse and then found herself lying in a small cubicle on an anonymous, iron-hard hospital bed, rather like her old one at the Hotel Imperial.

  Nobody sat with her. Every half hour the nurse brisked in and bent to examine Judy. “Hmm, not time yet,” she always said.

  At eleven o’clock, the nurse said “Hmmm, six centimeters dilated.” By then Judy’s contractions were between two and five minutes apart. It was agonizing. “Stop making a fuss,” warned the nurse. “There’s worse to come.”

  Judy felt oddly irritable and sick. She felt cold, shaky, and was getting cramps in her left leg. The pain in her lower back was now severe and she felt increasing apprehension and fright. She wanted to stop this whole business. At eleven-forty-five p.m. Doctor Geneste was alerted, and at fifteen minutes past midnight Judy was wheeled into the labour ward. She was propped up in a semiseated position, against a mound of pillows and under a blanket, with the soles of her feet together and her knees lolling apart. Already she felt tired and shocked. It was so much more painful than she’d expected.

  Again her body stiffened and arched, but this time with a different motion—it started to writhe in a compulsive manner, similar to that involuntary, expulsive feeling that meant you were undoubtedly about to throw up. Judy felt that something inside her had to be violently, immediately expelled from her body. She began to feel slightly—then with increasing urgency—the need to push downward. The muscles of her abdomen were jerking to expel something, like machinery that hadn’t been oiled or used for a long time.

  Another spasm racked her body, arched it. Now her body was no longer controlled by her mind. Her gasps grew louder, then turned into screams. A second nurse appeared, held her hand encouragingly and wiped her streaming forehead. Judy started to whimper as her body went out of control again. Why hadn’t anybody told her what would happen? Why hadn’t anybody explained? Why hadn’t they warned her?

  Another great pain tore at her body.

  “Don’t push,” commanded the first nurse, “don’t push.”

  “But I want to push, I can’t not push, my body is pushing, it’s irresistible, I can’t stop it, I can’t control it, I’m frightened.”

  “Your cervix isn’t completely dilated, the aperture isn’t yet ten centimeters, you mustn’t push or you might hurt your baby’s head, stop pushing.”

  “Give her gas,” said the second nurse laconically, bending down to examine Judy. The first nurse wheeled over a trolley with six gas cylinders clipped on it and placed a rubber mouthpiece over Judy’s nose. “When the pain gets too bad, take a deep breath, but use it as little as possible.”

  Judy took a great greedy gulp.

  Eventually, she heard the nurse’s voice again. “Try to go along with the contraction, but don’t force it.” It sounded as if the woman were speaking from the end of a cotton-lined tunnel. “Right, now you’re ten centimeters. You can push, but only during contractions; try to relax between them. No! Take your hands off your stomach, no use pushing there. You must let the perineum stretch naturally, otherwise your flesh will tear.”

  By now she was very tired, and the area around her vagina felt as if someone was cauterizing it with a white-hot poker. She couldn’t stand much more of this burning pain that seared her body. One nurse muttered to the other. “It’s about time the doctor arrived, I think this baby’s going to be born any minute.”

  Suddenly Judy saw Doctor Geneste’s head above hers; over the surgical mask, his eyes were lined and looked exhausted. He had just come from his fourth birth of the day and hadn’t had a proper meal since breakfast. Another scream was torn from Judy’s mouth, but she felt a sort of weak relief. Her friend had arrived.

  “Now you must be brave, because your baby’s soon going to be here,” he soothed, “and you’re soon going to be a little mother. We’re all here to help you,” he added, as another agonizing contraction shook her body.

  She took another gulping breath of the gas and felt the room swim slightly, mercifully. Her eyes were shut tight, her face was running with sweat, her hair was wet with sweat and behind her eyes all she could see was a red veined pain. She could hear the murmur of the doctor and the nurse at the opposite end of her body, which was being torn apart. Dear God, she had never, never thought it was going to be as awful as this.

  “Steady, steady. Please try not to bear down. The baby mustn’t be born too quickly.”

  Judy tried to control herself.

  “This might be the last contraction.” Somebody swabbed her forehead, someone was holding her hand. “Pant again, now slow breathing please, now pant again.”

  The red mist behind her eyelids turned black and she felt another searing pain. The doctor quickly bent to rotate and ease out the baby’s head. The doctor and the nurse leaned over, absorbed in their task, as the little dark wet crown of the head grew larger, then the wrinkled little scarlet face slithered out. There was a pause, then Judy was told to give another gentle push as each shoulder was eased out into the rubber-gloved hands of the doctor. A perfectly formed baby slipped out of her body and, with a whimper, little Elizabeth was born.

  63

  IN THE LUXURIOUSLY hushed hotel suite overlooking Central Park, Lili looked with less resentment at the four women. As she listened to Pagan’s explanation of the events surrounding her birth, Lili had started to thaw. She began to understand what had happened almost thirty years ago to those four girls, and her resentment started to melt.

  In front of her, Pagan, in pink wool, sprawled elegantly across an apricot couch. Judy sat on the edge of it, an anxious little figure in brown velvet. On the other apricot couch, Kate, in her mulberry suit, sat upright and alert at Lili’s side. Opposite them, in the square beige armchair, Maxine fingered her blue silk collar.

  Lili had just launched her second bombshell—the other question that she’d waited a lifetime to ask.

  “In that case, who is my father?”

  Immediately three heads turned to look at Judy, and Lili thought, It’s true, she really is vraie maman. She is my mother, this is the one!

  Judy had never thought so fast in her life. She had not yet recovered from the shock of finding that her long-mourned daughter was still alive, and that the little girl had metamorphosed into the spectacular Tiger-Lili. It left her almost speechless and uncertain of her feelings. She, too, had seen all the photographs of Lili and Abdullah’s closely documented love affair. Without meaning or wanting to, Judy couldn’t help noticing what the papers said about Abdullah, couldn’t help being interested in anything she read about Sydon or about Arabs. She couldn’t simply forget someone who had so drastically altered the course of her life, who had caused her such physical and mental pain.

  But it was incest!

  The word flashed so loudly in her head that Judy was almost surprised the others couldn’t hear it. She couldn’t avoid Lili’s question. But how could she possibly tell Lili who her father was?

  In the last few minutes Judy had suddenly realised the secret of Lili’s personality. That hot-headed, hasty, volatile temper, that proud rebelliousness, was obviously inherited from her father.

  And so were her guts. In spite of her past, Lili had been an amazing success in the eyes of the world. She was undoubtedly a gutsy lady. Her natural gift for acting had reluctantly been acknowledged by the critics, and in the previous three years, Lili had steadily improved her performance. She had worked hard, she had turned down lucrative, showy parts and had accepted only those roles that would build up her reputation as a serious actress.

  What effect, Judy wondered, would the truth have on Lili and her career if Lili were told that she was the illegitimate daughter of a king who had raped her mother? And would Lili not be equally horrified when she thought what her past relationship had been with her father? W
hat psychological damage might such knowledge inflict on her? Certainly Lili was unlikely to shrug her shoulders and accept these unpleasant revelations as another of Fate’s little quirks.

  As these thoughts flashed through Judy’s mind, she slowly twisted the coral rosebud ring on her left hand. Nick had said that she could always count on him, that he would always help her.

  Swiftly, Judy reached a decision. Her story should sound plausible—and loving.

  She sat up, flicked a glance at her friends and then said slowly and carefully, “Your father’s name was Nicholas Cliffe and we loved each other very much. In fact, on one occasion—too much. It was on St. Valentine’s night. He wanted to get married before he did his National Service, but we couldn’t because I was only fifteen and it would have been illegal, so we were going to wait. By the time I found out I was pregnant, he was with the army in Malaya, and then, just after you were born, he was killed.” She paused and gave a sigh, as she remembered Nick. “But I shall never forget him,” she said firmly.

  Lili suddenly looked happy enough to cry. Yes, she’d swallowed it. Her voice was catching as she leaned eagerly toward Judy and said, “I have waited for this moment all my life. I have often imagined it, but now it comes to me as a complete surprise.”

  In the reunion scene that Lili had imagined all her life, she had always flung herself into the arms of vraie maman. Now slowly she stood up and took a tentative step toward Judy. Her mother wasn’t what she had expected, but nevertheless, Lili had found her. And to Lili’s surprise she had already warmed to Judy. Judy had carried Lili in her body for nine months, had given birth to her and had then supported her. In fact, for seven years all four of these women—those schoolgirls—had supported Lili, and it couldn’t always have been easy for them. She felt their supportive warmth, their closeness to each other, and the invisible bond that certainly existed between them. They even seemed to communicate without speaking, just by a look or a glance.

  Lili didn’t realise how fast and fierce were the invisible messages flashing around the room as she took another hesitant step toward Judy and said, “You know, I can’t believe it’s true.”

  The other three women looking at Judy had immediately known she was lying. Lili couldn’t see the incredulity, astonishment and disbelief in their eyes because she was looking at Judy. But Judy could. She held her breath, willing the others to keep silent. Did Pagan and Kate know? Or guess? Would any of them say anything? Why the hell had she said St. Valentine’s night? To make her story sound more romantic, more charming and acceptable to Lili than the ugly, brutal truth. Lili had to be protected, Judy thought, as she glared at Maxine, Pagan and Kate, whose mouth was open and whose green eyes were big with disbelief.

  Kate was remembering the night of the St. Valentine Ball, that night when she had stayed with Nick, when they had clung to each other on his creaky iron bedstead. Kate had told herself there was no need to feel guilty; she reminded herself that Judy didn’t want Nick. Nevertheless, Kate wouldn’t have wanted Judy to know that she and Nick were—well, as a matter of fact they weren’t. . . . Because try as she might, even with the most delicate strokes and kisses, with encouragement and affection, Nick was unable to make it. Embarrassed, neither of them referred to this, but there it was, limp, impossible.

  Neither was it possible for Judy to have spent that night with Nick because Kate had been in his bed. So why was Judy lying? Why had she mentioned that particular date? Could Judy have slept with Nick on some other subsequent night?

  Kate didn’t think so. Although he never so much as kissed her again, although Kate guessed that Nick also felt guilty and faithless, although they neither of them ever again mentioned that night together, from then on Kate had become Nick’s confidante. He poured out to her the hopes and yearnings that Judy, more sensible, refused to take seriously.

  Kate had no idea who Judy’s lover had been, but she was sure it wasn’t Nick.

  Maxine’s eyes had also widened in astonishment at Judy’s news. She knew Judy had just lied and couldn’t understand why she should do so on a matter of such importance. Maxine was remembering that summer afternoon in the yellow nursery at the Château de Chazalle, when Nick’s mother had clearly said that after contracting mumps complicated by orchitis, Nick could never have children.

  Oh, no, it certainly couldn’t have been Nick, thought Maxine. However, Maxine wouldn’t let Judy see that she had disbelieved her story. After all, Judy had been Maxine’s friend for over a quarter of a century. It had been Judy’s idea to open the château, and it was she who had organised Maxine’s American lecture tours. It would be indiscreet and foolish, Maxine decided, to let Judy see she knew her story was a lie.

  Maxine also knew that, try as she might, she could never be fond of Lili. She would never be able to forget that horrible scene in the orangery with her adored son. But for Judy’s sake she was determined that nobody should ever know her true feelings, so, lying in her teeth, Maxine turned to smile at Lili. Gently she said, “Ma chère, you have not only found a mother, you have found a whole family. We are, of course, surprised. But we are also very, very happy to have found you again.”

  Lili was also surprised. Suddenly she felt the warmth of total happiness. Amazingly, something had happened in twenty minutes that she would not have imagined could happen in twenty years. Suddenly Lili realised the deep truth of what Maxine was saying and she felt a part of this warm, tightly knit group of women. Whereas twenty minutes ago, Lili didn’t have a mother, she felt now that for the first time in her life she had four firm friends.

  Judy felt drained. In only twenty-four hours her life had changed dramatically. She was still finding it hard to realise that her long-mourned child was not dead, that she really had a daughter. For years, Judy had been lucky enough to have success, fame, money and love, but until today, she lacked what most women hope for, and indeed expect—a husband and a child. And now she suddenly knew that she could have it all. Griffin was free to marry her, and he wanted to marry her—that was what mattered to Judy. To her surprise, however, a small voice at the back of her head kept insistently whispering, “What have you to gain by marrying Griffin? Griffin consistently cheated on his wife: ignore the reasons and remember the fact; for years Griffin has followed a pattern of cheating on his wife. No matter whether he felt trapped, bored or resentful, or whether he felt he was missing something, Griffin has developed the habit of cheating on his wife. So why risk turning into Griffin’s wife? Why not continue your present relationship, which has been rock-steady for so long?”

  Yesterday Judy would perhaps have grabbed at the chance of a loving and supportive relationship that was underlined by the traditional laws of society. But today . . . and so unexpectedly . . . Judy had suddenly discovered that a firmer bond existed in her life: her child had been restored to her.

  Judy stood up and moved toward her daughter, her face still tense but smiling.

  “But . . . but,” Pagan blurted out. “It was impossible, impossible . . .”

  She stopped short in midsentence, as Lili looked astonished and Judy turned furious blue eyes on her. Pagan, remembering Nick’s aquamarine eyes, turned her head and looked up—straight into Lili’s big, slanting, velvet-brown eyes.

  As she stared, Pagan was remembering what her husband had said, years ago, when she had first discovered she was pregnant. She had told Christopher she wanted a little girl with big brown eyes and her husband had said, “Well, you’re not going to get one, my darling.”

  He had then explained that the colour of a child’s eyes depends on the gene-grouping of its parents. Two blue-eyed individuals could not produce a brown-eyed baby. He had been definite about it.

  Pagan turned her head again and looked at Judy’s navy-blue eyes and then at Lili. Why on earth was Judy lying? What possible reason could there be?

  Pagan only paused for two seconds as these thoughts flashed through her brain, but in that time Maxine had jerked upright and said sharply, “
Sick and sin, remember, Pagan.”

  “But, but . . .” Pagan stuttered, realising that she had just been reminded to support Judy now and always.

  What the hell had she been saying? Oh yes. Pagan beamed at Lili and carefully continued, “. . . It was impossible for anybody to forget your father, Lili.”

  And that at least was the truth.

  EPILOGUE

  LACE: a delicate, decorative fabric woven in an open web of different patterns and figures: a cord or string drawn through holes: to lace: to fasten: to add a dash of spirit: to interlace: to join together (fingers, patterns): to intertwine: to mingle or blend in an intricate way: to intersperse, to diversify, to change the patterns.

  LACE: THE TRUE STORY

  When I was fifteen, in 1948, I left dreary, bomb-torn post-war Britain to spend a year in a Swiss finishing school, which turned out to be useful research for my first novel, Lace. Lace is based on my own life, my own experiences and my own friends. Most of the characters in Lace exist in real life; only the plot is complete invention. Not only did the school really exist, in its beautiful setting of snow-capped mountains, but the sinister headmaster was also real and so was his chauffeur and so was a lot of the action: in fact, I watered it down a bit.

  My heroine, Lili, was based on a real twelve-year-old Hungarian refugee who escaped on a train with her family and lived an exemplary life as she studied in Paris. She eventually married an aristocrat and lived in a beautiful country home. But thousands of other Hungarian refugees had terrifying experiences – and many were killed.

  Of the four schoolgirl friends, my favourite is Maxine, based on a beguiling blonde with an infectious grin whom I met at finishing school; she looked like the young French film star Simone Signoret, and she lived in a real chateau in Belgium. Maxine’s resuscitation of her husband’s family chateau was based on Woburn Abbey, where the Duke of Bedford explained to me how hard he and his family had worked before opening their ancestral home to the public. When first I spent a weekend at Woburn it was hard to leave my beautiful bedroom, which was furnished like a sitting room with a dark green velvet-draped bed at one end. Outside, deer grazed in the park; inside, logs flamed in the fireplace and chandeliers glowed above antique furniture, a TV, the latest magazines and books, plus a tray of drinks.