Breaking the Rules - Barbara Taylor Bradford

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you been living in New York?’

      ‘A few months. I’ve tried to find modelling work, but without much luck. It was Geo who arranged for me to meet the fashion photographer, Frank Farantino. That worked out rather well. We did a shoot. He’s the one who decided I looked like Audrey Hepburn, and said it should be played up. His stylists did a make-over on me.’

      ‘You hardly needed that! Surely not? Anyway, did he help you?’

      ‘Frankie has gone to Morocco on a magazine fashion shoot, but once he’s back he’s going to launch my career,’ M explained, then told him how talented Frankie was, and that he was reliable and trustworthy.

      Larry leaned back in the chair, let her continue talking. He was listening to her attentively, found her voice pleasant, soothing. And he was genuinely enjoying being with her. This young woman was having quite an effect on him, and in innumerable ways. As the evening progressed he began to realize that being with her lifted his spirits, gave him a sense of genuine happiness, a feeling that had long been absent in his life. He wondered how to keep her with him … permanently.

      Laurence Vaughan stood staring out of a window in the library of his father’s apartment on Beekman Place. He loved this view of the East River and Long Island City beyond, especially after dark, and tonight was no exception.

      It was two o’clock in the morning but some of the colourful lights in the city were still brightly reflected on the rippling surface of the river. It flowed on towards the Atlantic under a high-flung sky unimpeded by the usual forest of Manhattan skyscrapers. An ink-black sky, cloudless, was littered with tiny pinpoints of light. A beautiful, romantic, starry night …

      Larry sighed under his breath, thinking of the unique and provocative young woman he had met earlier. It sometimes happened like that – meeting a special person when one least expected it, and being taken totally by surprise. She was lovely, captivating in her dark beauty, and she was beautiful. There was certainly no need for her to emphasize her resemblance to a dead actress, he thought.

      He couldn’t help wondering why the photographer had considered this so important. M was a knockout as herself; she had no need to be an imitation of someone else.

      Larry ran the evening through his head, reliving it, thinking of the fun it had been, so light-hearted in mood at times. But it had also been extremely emotional for him. There was no question in his mind that he had been swept away by her. And as never before. Not ever in his entire and somewhat adventurous life had he been so knocked for a loop by a woman.

      Over the years, many different women had occupied his time and his life, but none of them had captured him quite like she had. Even now, at this very moment, he still felt stunned, taken aback at himself and his extraordinary reaction to her.

      Engulfed, he thought, that’s what it is. I’ve been engulfed by her. And excited by her … by the way she makes me feel.

      Larry had wanted to bring M home with him to this apartment after dinner, reluctant to let her out of his sight. Then, unexpectedly, outside Le Refuge, he had changed his mind. Once they were standing in the street, facing each other, he had finally given in to the urgent need he had to grab her, hold her in his arms. As he had reached for her, she had reached for him, and they had drawn together willingly, kissing passionately, clinging to each other. M had responded to him ardently, as aroused as he was, and seemingly willing to follow his lead.

      When they had finally drawn apart, a little stunned and reeling, he had been taken by surprise when he noticed the awful look in her eyes. It was one of undisguised apprehension. He had recoiled slightly, not only baffled but also worried, wondering what was wrong. It struck him then that she was not very experienced when it came to men, even though she had appeared to be a genuine sophisticate. And so, because he had serious intentions, he had taken her home instead of into his bed, dropping her off at the brownstone on West Twenty-Second Street where she rented a room from Geo.

      Detecting a hint of disappointment in her as they had ridden downtown in the cab, he had put his arms around her and pulled her close to him. ‘Will you spend tomorrow with me?’ he had asked, and she had nodded, giving him the benefit of a very big smile. ‘It’s already tomorrow,’ she had murmured. ‘If you’re referring to Sunday, that is. It’s nearly one o’clock.’ They had both laughed, and intuitively he had known that whatever it was that had troubled her outside the restaurant, it had now vanished.

      And so she would come here later. At noon he had told her. They would have brunch and perhaps go to a movie, and he would let things take their natural course. He did not want to rush her, or spoil anything, and he had all the time in the world to court her properly.

      Turning away from the window, Larry moved across the library. As he did, his eye fell on the photograph of his mother in a silver frame; it sat on a walnut chest amongst other family photographs. He stood staring at it, thinking what a beautiful woman she was, with her mass of blonde hair and light eyes.

      Pandora Gallen. One of England’s greatest actresses, but still his mother, nonetheless, and mother to his many siblings, and wife to his father. As he often did, he heard her light, musical voice echoing in his head, explaining something of importance to her. ‘You can know a person for forty years and never know them. Yet you can also meet someone and know them in an instant, in the space of an hour, even less. It’s all about recognition, you see, Larry. Recognizing that you’re the same blood type. Or, if you prefer, from the same tribe.’ She had smiled at him that afternoon and given him a very knowing look. And he had instantly understood that perhaps at some time in her life his mother had met someone whom she had recognized immediately and wanted to be with.

      As he had just done. He had told M she seemed so familiar to him that he was positive they had met before. She had insisted they hadn’t, and yet he had recognized her. She and I are very alike, he suddenly thought. We’re the same breed. There was no need for her to tell him anything about herself: he already knew everything there was to know just by spending an evening with her. She was from an upper class family, well spoken, highly educated and cultivated. Probably one of a brood, he decided, more than likely the youngest, both picked on and adored. It struck him that she had more than likely crossed the Pond to make it under her own steam without the help of family.

      He smiled to himself, liking this idea. Plucky, he thought, she’s plucky and courageous … and just possibly a carbon copy of me.

      Larry found it hard to sleep. He tossed and turned for two hours and, finally, in desperation, he got up. He went to the kitchen, poured himself a glass of milk, and then sauntered into the library. This was a comfortable, charming room, and the one he used the most.

      Turning on a lamp, settling in one of the big armchairs, he took a few swallows of the milk and put the glass down on the table next to the chair. His father’s chair. No, it wasn’t his father’s chair any longer. It was his. He had bought this apartment and its contents several months ago, and it was his home now, his only home, and the first he had ever owned.

      ‘We really wanted to give you the apartment,’ his mother had told him a few weeks ago when she was in New York to pack up her belongings, clothes and other favourite possessions, as well as his father’s clothes and objects of importance. ‘But we couldn’t, because of the others. They would have kicked up a fuss. That’s why we decided to offer it to all of you at a good price. A bargain price.’

      All of us, he thought, grimacing.

      He was one of six; he had three older brothers and two older sisters. All of them were contentious, competitive, contradictory and complex. They had fought like hell when they were growing up in the big old house in Hampstead, and sometimes they still did, but they loved each other nonetheless. Or at least some of them did – others paid lip service to that idea. He did love his brother Horatio and his sister Portia, but Miranda was too aloof and remote for him, and by far the most snobbish woman he had ever met. His brother Edward had made his life miserable

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