wanted to find Marie-Laure and... She drew a
shuddering breath. It was better to stop right there.
The power, the enormity of everything she was feeling almost
overwhelmed her. As did the implications of it all.
Jealousy, she thought. That's what I'm feeling. I'm jealous. But I
can't be, because that would mean that I wanted Alain for myself.
Maybe, even, that I'd fallen in love with him. And that's impossible. It can't be true.
Because if it is true, what can I do? How can I bear it?
She squared her shoulders. She thought forcefully, I won't let it
be true.
'Pardon, madame ?' The look of smiling incomprehension from
someone standing near her told her that she had inadvertently made
that last avowal aloud.
Like an automaton, Philippa laughed, apologised, let herself be
drawn into the conversation, absorbed into the group.
And all the time, pounding in her head like a steam hammer,
came the silent despairing plea, Dear God, don't let it be true. Don't let me love Alain. Please don't let me love him.
She could only hope, forlornly, that her prayer would be
answered.
'What the hell's the matter with you today?' Zak demanded in
exasperation. He pointed at Philippa's drawing board. 'The assignment was meant to be a
simple one. I wanted you to draw the lady on the dais—just a
representation of the nude human form. Since when have you decided
to go in for Cubism?'
Philippa flushed. 'I haven't. It's just—well, life-drawing has never
been my strong point.'
'You can say that again!' Zak stared at her drawing and groaned.
'According to this, Jeannine looks as if she has about ten major bone deformities. It's probably actionable.' He turned to the model who was stretching cramped muscles and reaching for her wrap. 'You don't want to see this, cherie . It will only upset you.'
Jeannine smiled placidly, and went away to change with a wave
of her hand.
Zak gave Philippa a measuring look. 'So what's the problem?
Yesterday's wallet hijack? They say lightning never strikes twice in the same place.'
Philippa smiled stiltedly. 'I hope not. No, I just have things on my
mind.'
'Gavin, I suppose. Honey, what can I say? You've just got to trust
the doctors. You won't improve his condition in New York by fretting
over it in Paris.'
'I know.' Philippa was guiltily, miserably aware that she hadn't
given her father a thought in twenty-four hours. 'I'm sorry, Zak.
Today's been rather a waste of time, hasn't it?'
'You've had better.' Zak took the drawing board and put it down
somewhere else. 'Go home, Philippa. Try and relax. Get that good-
looking husband of yours to take you out to dinner.' He leered at her.
'Just for starters, that is.'
Philippa flushed. 'He's probably—busy.'
'Then tell him to relax as well,' Zak said largely. 'I want you here
tomorrow ready to do some real work.'
Easier said than done, Philippa thought gloomily as she walked
downstairs. The previous evening she had driven home with Alain in a
frozen silence. He had wished her a curt goodnight and gone to his
room, leaving her to tell herself over and over again that was exactly—
precisely what she'd wanted.
She went on saying it at intervals during a long and restless
night. At some time before dawn, she had conceded defeat, got up,
and crept barefoot to Alain's room. It was empty, the bed unruffled
and unslept in. She'd stared at it for a long time, then returned
soundlessly to her own room, and wept.
The locksmith had arrived to attend to her bedroom door almost
before she had finished breakfast that morning. Madame Giscard had
worn an expression of outrage as she supervised his endeavours.
Philippa was not sure she blamed her.
The housekeeper had also informed her glacially that Marcel
would be available to drive her to and from her art class. The orders were from Monsieur Alain.
She came out into the street and looked for the car, but it wasn't
waiting for her. Small wonder, she thought, glancing at her watch.
shuddering breath. It was better to stop right there.
The power, the enormity of everything she was feeling almost
overwhelmed her. As did the implications of it all.
Jealousy, she thought. That's what I'm feeling. I'm jealous. But I
can't be, because that would mean that I wanted Alain for myself.
Maybe, even, that I'd fallen in love with him. And that's impossible. It can't be true.
Because if it is true, what can I do? How can I bear it?
She squared her shoulders. She thought forcefully, I won't let it
be true.
'Pardon, madame ?' The look of smiling incomprehension from
someone standing near her told her that she had inadvertently made
that last avowal aloud.
Like an automaton, Philippa laughed, apologised, let herself be
drawn into the conversation, absorbed into the group.
And all the time, pounding in her head like a steam hammer,
came the silent despairing plea, Dear God, don't let it be true. Don't let me love Alain. Please don't let me love him.
She could only hope, forlornly, that her prayer would be
answered.
'What the hell's the matter with you today?' Zak demanded in
exasperation. He pointed at Philippa's drawing board. 'The assignment was meant to be a
simple one. I wanted you to draw the lady on the dais—just a
representation of the nude human form. Since when have you decided
to go in for Cubism?'
Philippa flushed. 'I haven't. It's just—well, life-drawing has never
been my strong point.'
'You can say that again!' Zak stared at her drawing and groaned.
'According to this, Jeannine looks as if she has about ten major bone deformities. It's probably actionable.' He turned to the model who was stretching cramped muscles and reaching for her wrap. 'You don't want to see this, cherie . It will only upset you.'
Jeannine smiled placidly, and went away to change with a wave
of her hand.
Zak gave Philippa a measuring look. 'So what's the problem?
Yesterday's wallet hijack? They say lightning never strikes twice in the same place.'
Philippa smiled stiltedly. 'I hope not. No, I just have things on my
mind.'
'Gavin, I suppose. Honey, what can I say? You've just got to trust
the doctors. You won't improve his condition in New York by fretting
over it in Paris.'
'I know.' Philippa was guiltily, miserably aware that she hadn't
given her father a thought in twenty-four hours. 'I'm sorry, Zak.
Today's been rather a waste of time, hasn't it?'
'You've had better.' Zak took the drawing board and put it down
somewhere else. 'Go home, Philippa. Try and relax. Get that good-
looking husband of yours to take you out to dinner.' He leered at her.
'Just for starters, that is.'
Philippa flushed. 'He's probably—busy.'
'Then tell him to relax as well,' Zak said largely. 'I want you here
tomorrow ready to do some real work.'
Easier said than done, Philippa thought gloomily as she walked
downstairs. The previous evening she had driven home with Alain in a
frozen silence. He had wished her a curt goodnight and gone to his
room, leaving her to tell herself over and over again that was exactly—
precisely what she'd wanted.
She went on saying it at intervals during a long and restless
night. At some time before dawn, she had conceded defeat, got up,
and crept barefoot to Alain's room. It was empty, the bed unruffled
and unslept in. She'd stared at it for a long time, then returned
soundlessly to her own room, and wept.
The locksmith had arrived to attend to her bedroom door almost
before she had finished breakfast that morning. Madame Giscard had
worn an expression of outrage as she supervised his endeavours.
Philippa was not sure she blamed her.
The housekeeper had also informed her glacially that Marcel
would be available to drive her to and from her art class. The orders were from Monsieur Alain.
She came out into the street and looked for the car, but it wasn't
waiting for her. Small wonder, she thought, glancing at her watch.
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