Where You Belong by Barbara Taylor Bradford Page B

angry with him. But before I’d had a chance to chastise him for his heartlessness, Anne Curtis herself came over to join us.
    She was English, but so dark of complexion and coloring I’d always thought she must have Mediterranean or Middle Eastern ancestry. She was with the BBC World Service, and was a brilliant radio journalist. On various occasions she’d tried to be friendly, but I’d never warmed to her. There was something about her that struck me as being untrustworthy, although I had nothing specific to go on. It was just an instinctive feeling on my part.
    But it was quite obvious she had warmed to Tony.
    She had squeezed in between the two of us when Frank had very gallantly pulled up a chair for her, and although Tony had remained cool and detached, the look in her eyes had told me plenty.
    I had guessed at once that they were embroiled in a hot affair; this suspicion was confirmed later that evening, when we did finally go out to dinner, dragging Frank Petersen along with us. Anne had left little to anyone’s imagination. The manner in which she had drooled over Tony, in the most disgusting and juvenile way, had telegraphed everything to me. And to Frank, who had appeared to be somewhat embarrassed by her performance. Yet I’d had to hand it to Tony that night. He hadn’t batted an eyelash; what’s more, he had appeared so completely indifferent to her, it was quite amazing. He deserves an Academy Award, I thought at the time.
    The following day I’d run into Anne in the lobby of the Commodore Hotel, and she had attacked me verbally, berating me in the worst way and accusing me of being a spoilsport. “You don’t have to tell me you didn’t enjoy the evening,” she had announced, glaring at me. “It was written all over your face. You made us all suffer, constantly going on about Bill Fitzgerald. Poor Frank didn’t know how to cope. He is Bill’s best friend, you know.”
    â€œOf course Frank knew how to handle it,” I’d exclaimed, glaring back at her. “Mostly I think he was cringing at your behavior.”
    â€œYou can’t have him, my dear,” she had cried heatedly, leaning into me almost threateningly. “Tony belongs to me. He’s mine and I intend to keep him. Permanently. So just keep your jealous little paws off him, Valentine. Understand me, kiddo?”
    I remember I had stared at her aghast, told her she’d gotten it all wrong, and then hurried off mortified. I was furious not only with her, but with Tony as well, for putting me in such an untenable position.
    And I had continued to seethe about that evening for quite a while. Anne’s accusations didn’t particularly bother me in the long run, since they were patently ridiculous, but what did upset me was Tony’s callousness, his lack of concern for Bill Fitzgerald.
    I began to despise myself for going to that dinner, for being a party to it under the circumstances. I also continued to be disturbed by Tony’s behavior, his thoughtlessness that night. But eventually I let it go, and soon I found myself making excuses for him . . . as war photographers we lived with constant danger, took terrible chances when we hurled ourselves into the fray on the front lines or in disaster areas. And so, in a certain way, we did become inured to tragedy, perhaps because there was so much of it around us. Tragedy was commonplace for journalists like us, human suffering the norm.
    IV
    Reaching for Tony’s photograph once more, I gave it a quick glance, then opened a drawer in the desk and placed it inside. Sometimes it seemed to me that his brilliant dark eyes followed me as I moved around my bedroom. It was most disconcerting.
    Perhaps I ought to take it out of the frame and tear it up. Yes, I would do that, I decided. I would tear up every one of his photographs and destroy those little notes and letters and cards he’d sent me this past year.