Secrets from the Past. Barbara Taylor Bradford

closed the window. I pulled open a drawer in the chest, found two hot-water bottles, as I knew I would, and a pair of thick wool bed socks. Our mother believed in them, made all of us wear them when we were growing up, and there was a drawer-full here, bought by her years ago.

      After untucking the sheets at the bottom of Zac’s bed, I managed somehow to pull the socks onto his feet, which were icy. Picking up the hot-water bottles I went to the kitchen, put on a kettle of water to boil, ran back to the bedroom. ‘Are you feeling warmer?’ I asked, bending over him in concern.

      ‘No,’ he mumbled, and I noticed that he was still shaking.

      I was alarmed and a little frightened. Was he coming down with an illness? Or was this a manifestation of his exhaustion and lack of food? He was also stressed out and filled with anxiety, not in good shape at all. I hovered over him, uncertain about what to do to help him, other than get his body temperature back to normal.

      The whistling kettle pulled me into the kitchen, and after filling the hot-water bottles I returned to the bedroom. I placed one close to his chest, the other against his back. ‘These’ll help; you’ll soon be warmer,’ I murmured.

      He grunted something unintelligible.

      I remained at the bedside, wondering what else would help him. Then I remembered there was nothing like another person’s body heat to warm someone who was freezing cold. I went to the other side of the bed, got in, lay close to his back, and put my arms around him. With a little manoeuvring, I managed to put my body partially on top of his, hoping my body heat would do the trick.

      He continued to shiver for a while, but then very gradually the shivering became less and less. I remained on top of him, my arms holding him until he finally dozed off.

      Not much time elapsed before he was breathing deeply and evenly. Finally I got out of his bed, went and turned off the lamp, praying that he would sleep through the night.

      To my relief he did. When I woke up just before seven the next morning, Zac was still sleeping soundly. Slipping into my robe, I let myself out of the bedroom quietly, and went to the kitchen, where I made a pot of coffee, scrambled eggs and toast.

      Carrying the tray back to the living room, I took it over to the table at the far end of the room, and began to eat.

      My mind was focused on Zac and his life. I realized that he had met Harry and my father in 1999 … there was that year again. They had all been in Kosovo in September and naturally he knew who they were; was in awe of them, he told me later. Harry and Tommy took a shine to the young photographer, and he became, over time, Harry’s protégé. He was given a job at Global in 2000 and had become the star photographer over the years.

      He was not a novice when it came to war, I thought now, sipping my coffee. He’d already done a lot, seen a lot of bloodshed and devastation on battle fronts all over the world by the time he’d met Dad and Harry. He was a young veteran meeting old veterans … two men who had had more than their fair share of luck when it came to survival.

      Tommy and Harry had become war photographers in the early 1960s, and neither of them had ever taken a hit, nor been wounded. What luck, I thought, and I was unexpectedly rather pleased that my father had died in his own bed, and not covering a war.

      If he’d had to die, at that moment in time, he had done so in the best place of all, with two of his daughters with him.

      I was finishing my scrambled eggs when Zac suddenly appeared, bundled up in the terrycloth robe, looking rumpled. ‘Hi, Serena,’ he said in a slightly hoarse voice, and paused near the kitchen door. ‘I’ll get a mug of coffee.’

      ‘Hi,’ I answered. ‘Do you want me to make you some eggs?’

      ‘Not sure,’ he mumbled, and disappeared into the kitchen.

      A moment later he sat down at the table opposite me with his coffee. ‘Thank you,’ he said, staring across at me, ‘for last night.’ He cleared his throat several times, then went on, ‘I don’t know what was wrong with me, but I was icy cold. I’ve never experienced anything like it before.’

      ‘You were freezing. I must admit I was worried. But I managed to get you warmed up.’ I studied him for a moment, noting that he did look more rested, and his face was less taut. ‘In my opinion, what you had was some kind of reaction to exhaustion and lack of nourishment. That’s why you should try and eat a little of something, Zac.’

      He nodded. ‘Maybe scrambled eggs then?’ he asked hesitatingly. ‘If it’s not too much trouble.’

      ‘Not at all,’ I answered, rising, taking my plate and heading for the kitchen. ‘Back in a minute,’ I murmured over my shoulder.

      I couldn’t help smiling wryly to myself, as I set about beating four eggs in a bowl. If it’s not too much trouble, he’d said, after asking me to come all the way from New York to take care of him.

      As I returned to the living room, with his eggs and toast on a plate, I noticed that he had not turned on the television set. Silence is golden, I thought, well pleased that the room was quiet and peaceful.

      He ate half the eggs and a little bread, and drank the coffee, but he didn’t say much. He still appeared somewhat remote, cut off from me. At least his body was relaxed, and he was totally calm, if uncommunicative.

      I made a little conversation. I told him about Jessica’s new client, her trip to New York to see me, and mentioned that I was making progress on the book. He listened, nodded, and even smiled several times, made a few noncommittal comments.

      He was not the Zac of old – the intense, passionate, talkative photojournalist with an opinion about everything and a great sense of humour. He was toned down, a little out of it, listless, I decided, preoccupied even. On the other hand, he was in control of himself, and that was the most important thing of all.

      Give it time, I told myself. You’ve only been with him for a day and a night, for God’s sake. Every day he’ll improve, and he’ll soon be his old self.

      How wrong I was. I had no way of knowing that morning that trouble was on its way.

       TWELVE

      ‘Do you mean you’re not going back to Pakistan this week, or never ever going back?’ I asked Geoff, frowning as I stared at him, puzzled by his statement of a moment ago.

      ‘Never going back, honey. Yep, I’m outta there, and I told Harry I wanna stay out. No two ways about it, Serena, I’ve had it.’

      ‘I understand,’ I said, genuinely meaning this. ‘There comes a moment when enough’s enough. I felt like that last year, I knew I had to quit the front lines. I lost my nerve. I’m sure of that. And when that happens you’ve no alternative.’

      Geoff nodded, was silent for a moment, sipping his iced tea, his eyes reflective as he glanced around.

      We were sitting on the terrace of the Bauer Palazzo Hotel, overlooking the private dock and the Grand Canal. It was Tuesday morning and I had been in Venice for five days.

      Earlier, I had taken Zac to the barber’s shop, the one that Tommy and Harry had used whenever they were in Venice, because he had decided he needed his hair cut this morning. A good sign, I thought, and I had called Geoff, suggesting we all have lunch once Zac was finished.

      Geoff had been agreeable, and suggested we meet here at the old Bauer Palazzo, which was next door to the more modern Bauer Hotel, where he was staying.

      As we sat here together, enjoying being outside on the sunny morning, I was feeling relaxed. Zac had been relatively normal – not his old self yet, but not manic, nor agitated in any way. Also, much to my relief, he was eating something every day. Not a lot, but he was putting some food inside himself. He slept constantly, often slipping out of the living room some afternoons and going to bed.

      I