The world believed he had everything. In reality he had nothing. Oh yes he had immense success, immense power, fame of a kind, money to burn and houses galore and a luxury yacht and a slick private jet and the other grand accoutrements of privilege and great wealth. And he hobnobbed with those who were as rich and renowned as he was. There was his knighthood, a great honour bestowed on him by the highest in the land, an honour he had never sought, nor tried to buy, but which had come to him through his own merit. And whilst he would never belittle its importance to him, was proud of it, in fact it did not fill the terrible void in his life.
He was alone. And lonely.
He was estranged from the women he was involved with, who no longer brought him the remotest bit of joy. His children were lost to him: perhaps only temporarily, but nevertheless they were lost at this moment. And now he was facing the possibility that his work, the most enduring of all his passions, and his greatest pleasure, was beginning to pall on him. The idea was insupportable. He balked at the mere thought of it. In all truth, it frightened the hell out of him.
And when he added up all of these points, the bottom line was very telling indeed. Dismal. He was in the red on every personal level … emotionally bankrupt.
He was an unhappy man, flailing around in an over-abundance of misery. That was the crux of it. But then had not happiness been an elusive stranger for the best part of his life, transient at best?
A cynical laugh rose in Maxim’s throat and he choked it back, thought: What an overworked word it is, happiness. And who the hell is happy? At least for very long, anyway? Some fortunate people did know contentment, others gained a certain peace. But that was about it. Unluckily he was not blessed with either state of mind.
Rising, he began to pace the floor restlessly, his mind careening around in dizzying circles.
Eventually he was able to calm himself sufficiently in order to look at things as clearly as he possibly could. He regrouped his thoughts and redirected his focus, concentrated on the women in his life.
Two women to be exact.
Adriana. His wife. Blair. His mistress.
Blair was pushing for marriage. Adriana would not acknowledge that such a word as divorce even existed. And he was caught between the two of them, like a fly trapped in amber.
He was not so sure he wanted to continue living with Adriana. On the other hand, did he really want to divorce her? What were his true feelings about Blair? And would marrying her solve his problems? He remembered something, and it made him laugh out loud. A famous wit had once said that when a man married his mistress he created a job vacancy. If he married Blair would he then be tempted to fill the vacancy? Find himself a new mistress to replace the one who had become his wife?
What a cynical thought that was. He laughed again, but still without a trace of mirth. Was he the kind of man who would always need a mistress whatever the circumstances in the marriage? Perish the thought, he added under his breath.
In his mind’s eye, Maxim pictured the people who occupied his life, who were important to him. How did they view him? He did not have to ponder that for more than a split second.
To Adriana I am the faithless husband wanting to escape the marital bonds.
To Blair I am the lover grown ambivalent, distracted, less caring, in my preoccupation with my business.
To Anastasia I am her best friend, but only a friend, nothing else.
To my children I am the busy tycoon who has no time for them. I have been cast in the role of the heavy. I am important because I pay their bills, but in their eyes I am no longer the loving father they once adored.
To my mother I am the son she is the most proud of, her favourite perhaps, and yet half the time she is disapproving of me because she cannot condone my private life, my personal behaviour.
But I am not the person they think I am, he said to himself. None of their perceptions of me is accurate. They don’t really know me. On the other hand, I don’t know myself. Not anymore. I have no sense of my own identity. I don’t know who I am, why I’m here, what my purpose is on this planet, or what it’s all about in the last analysis. I’m confused, lost, adrift, floundering.
These admissions were so staggering, so unacceptable to Maxim that they made him catch his breath in surprise, and he paused in his pacing, endeavouring to squash them. He had no wish to validate them by giving them any kind of credence whatsoever.
Ultimately, though, he was unable to banish these unprecedented and shattering self-revelations. All were inescapable truths. And no matter which way he twisted and turned everything around in his head he finally had to admit to himself that he would have to face up to them, tackle them head-on sooner or later.
It was three o’clock by the time Maxim went to bed.
He did not really sleep, merely dozed fitfully on and off for several hours. Finally, around six, he got up, went into the bathroom to shower and shave. Once he was dressed, Marco brought him a pot of coffee and toast, and whilst he had his light breakfast he wrote a detailed memo to Graeme, explained what he wanted done in London, and outlined strategy for the meeting she was to have with Montague Reston.
At exactly eight-thirty he left the house carrying his black trenchcoat and a briefcase, his only piece of luggage, and was driven off to Heathrow in one of West International’s limousines. At the airport he was swiftly checked in, and went immediately to the Concorde departure lounge, where he sat reading the morning newspapers until he and the other passengers were boarded at ten o’clock.
Fastening his seat belt and settling down, Maxim glanced around and was relieved to see the plane was not as jam-packed as it had been on the last few occasions he had flown it. He had chosen to go on to New York by Concorde rather than travel on his personal Grumman Gulfstream jet because it was much faster, only three hours and forty-five minutes, even less time if there were no strong headwinds.
Maxim opened his briefcase, took out a sheaf of papers and buried his head in them for the first hour of the flight. He accepted a cup of tea, refused all other drinks and snacks, and gave his entire attention to his business papers, hardly glancing up, so intense was his concentration. When he had done as much work as he could, he locked the folders in his briefcase, pushed this under the seat, made himself comfortable and closed his eyes. He found it impossible to sleep, but did manage to relax sufficiently enough to rest his tired body. Half an hour later Maxim roused himself, sat up, looked out of the window.
They were floating through a vast stretch of cumulus clouds, soaring higher and higher above the Atlantic. He stared into the infinite space, contemplated Alix, his daughter. She was the reason he had decided to return to New York a few days earlier than he had originally planned. He wanted to see her, to talk to her, to spend the weekend with her. He desperately needed to put things right with his first-born child. They were both at fault, she more than he in so many ways. Nevertheless, he was quite prepared to take full blame for the rift that had developed between them. He would apologise, ask her forgiveness, if necessary. In fact, he would do just about anything to win her trust again, to have her back in his life.
A female voice he did not recognise answered the telephone. ‘Alix West’s office. Can I help you?’
‘I’d like
