“My nephew is coming today,” Freda announced as Joely joined her for breakfast the following morning. The kitchen was bright with sunlight, the meadow outside a carpet of wildly glittering frost.
Immediately interested, Joely said, “Is that a surprise, or were you expecting him?”
“Here we are,” Brenda announced, passing Freda a plate of scrambled eggs sprinkled with freshly cut chives and grilled tomatoes.
Thanking her, Freda reached for the salt and pepper mills and said, “He rang last night.” Her voice took on a droll lilt as she said, “He didn’t say as much, but he’s coming to find out how we’re getting along with the memoir.”
He rang last night. Joely hadn’t got past that yet. “Does your mobile work in the house?” she asked. “I can’t ever get reception . . .”
“He called on the landline,” Freda informed her. “There’s a telephone there,” she pointed to an antiquated piece that Joely had assumed was a nostalgic ornament, not something that actually worked. “The other is next to my bed,” Freda added.
So there was contact with the outside world, although she’d never heard a phone ring.
“Are you going to have some eggs, dear?” Brenda offered, holding up the pan ready to load more onto an empty plate.
“Lovely, thank you,” Joely replied. “Your apple and caramel pudding last night was delicious by the way.”
“She had a second helping,” Freda informed the housekeeper.
Joely’s eyes rounded, since it was Freda who’d gone back for more.
Freda gave her a wink, startling her even more with this rare display of playfulness—apparently the prospect of her nephew’s visit was lifting her spirits. “When was the last time you saw him?” she asked.
Freda helped herself to a mouthful of eggs as she thought.
“It was the week before Joely arrived,” Brenda reminded her. “He came and stayed the night to make sure you were serious about going through with the memoir.”
Intrigued by that, Joely regarded Freda as she said, “Of course. And we went to Bistro 7 in Lynmouth for dinner so you could have a night off.”
“Or you could have a night out,” Brenda countered. “You’ll like Edward,” she informed Joely, “he’s one of those easygoing types who never seem to be in a rush even when they are.”
“What a curious observation,” Freda commented, although she didn’t correct it. “He’s Christopher’s son,” she told Joely, and a shadow passed briefly over her eyes. “Losing his father was a terrible blow for him. They were very close. As a family we always have been. Would you say your family are close?”
Joely took her plate from Brenda as she said, “Yes, I would, and I can sympathize with your nephew’s loss. It hit us very hard when my father died unexpectedly.”
“Mm, yes, I think you’ve already mentioned that. Was he a good man?”
Wondering what on earth she expected to hear, Joely said, “Yes, he was. Everyone who knew him had a lot of affection for him.”
Freda continued to eat. “What did he do?” she asked after a while.
“He was a doctor. A surgeon.”
Freda picked up her coffee, drank, and turned to Brenda. “Is there a room made up for Edward? With Joely in the blue room we’ll have to put him somewhere else if he decides to stay.”
Brenda said, “I’ve already taken fresh laundry to the bedroom next door ready to make up the bed. I’ll do it before I leave. What time are you expecting him?”
“Not until sometime this afternoon.”
“And is he coming alone?”
“I imagine so. He didn’t mention bringing anyone with him. Oh, and don’t go to the trouble of cooking something especially for him, if he stays he knows he’ll have to do without meat for tonight. Or perhaps he can take you to the Bistro?” she said to Joely.
Joely started to protest, certain he wouldn’t want a stranger foisted on him any more than she wanted to be foisted.
“He’ll probably have to rush back to London,” Freda went on, “so you don’t have to make a decision now.”
“Wouldn’t you like to come with us, if we do go?” Joely asked.
Freda sighed. “All this talk of the past is wearying me more than I’d expected it to, but yes, I probably should. It’ll stop you trying to wheedle information out of each other.”
Finding that interesting, Joely said, “So Edward doesn’t know what the memoir is about?”
“He probably thinks he does, but he’s wrong. No one knows, apart from you, and obviously you’re only aware of a part of it so far.”
Joely was still searching for an appropriate response when Freda suddenly said, “He’s not married, and he’s not gay.”
Feeling as though she’d hit turbulence, Joely said, “Well, that was subtle.”
Freda’s laugh was girlish and lit up her features in a way that let the young beauty she’d once been shine through.
“OK, ladies, I’m off upstairs to sort out that bedroom. If you want anything else you know where to find it, or me. Oh, and my Bill’s down at the beach collecting up laver so we’ll be able to have some with our dinners once I get round to cooking it.”
“Laver?” Joely asked after Brenda had gone.
“Seaweed,” Freda explained. “It’s delicious the way Brenda prepares it. Now, I saw that you were a little surprised to discover that Edward doesn’t know what we’re writing about.”
“Yes, I was. Didn’t he help Sully, your publisher, to find you a ghostwriter?”
Instead of answering right away Freda tilted her head back as though studying the ceiling, or considering the question, or perhaps she was trying to recall exactly what she’d told her agent and nephew. Finally, she said, “I believe both men have assumed I’m writing about the boating accident that robbed us of Christopher and Doddoe.” She stopped as though shocked at having said it so matter-of-factly. “Sir is my secret,” she continued in a softer tone, “but now I’m starting to share. Does your family have secrets?”
Startled by yet another unexpected question, Joely was immediately consumed by her own secret, buried deep, needing to stay there . . .
“Every family has them,” Freda informed her.
Joely supposed that was probably true, but some were a lot worse than others.
“Would you agree with me,” Freda continued, “if I said it’s not always good to know the truth?”
Joely put down her fork and reached for her coffee. She wasn’t entirely sure what she was going to say, if indeed she was going to say anything at all until the words started to come of their own accord. “For most of my childhood,” she said, “I knew that there was a rift in my grandmother’s family, between her and her brother. I had no idea what it was about and I kept pestering my mother to tell me. Her answer was always the same: your grandmother says that if we knew what was behind it we’d wish we didn’t. Of course it made me more curious than ever. I knew instinctively that asking my grandmother was out of the question, and in the end it went to the grave with her. I’ve come to realize since that sometimes that’s the best place for secrets.”
With arched eyebrows Freda said, “So you don’t feel inclined to go looking for them anymore?”
Joely shook her head.
“Hah,” Freda laughed. “A very good ruse of your mother’s to stop you asking her what she might be hiding. Do you think she’s got something squirrelled away in the past too?”
Though Joely doubted it, she said, “If she does and she wants to keep it there, then I’m OK with that.”
“Do you think your father was always faithful to her?”
Bristling, Joely wanted to say, Not every husband was like yours. Instead she said, “I’m sure he was, but we both know that marriages can go through difficult times. If either of them was ever unfaithful they obviously made it up, but frankly I don’t think they were.”
Freda nodded, as though having no dispute with this possibility. “Were you never tempted to ask your grandmother’s brother, your great-uncle, what the rift was about?”
“We didn’t see him and he died not long after Granny did.”
Joely could see how intrigued Freda was by this, mulling it over, trying out various scenarios that might cause such a rift until she said, “Your grandparents must have been about the same age as my parents. Were they hippies, do you know?”
Wondering if there was some bizarre kind of one-upmanship going on here, Joely said, “If they were, she never said, but I believe they were people of their time, smoking dope and going to concerts . . .”
“You’re making them sound rather dull. A secret has the potential to make them much more interesting. A secret that has gone to the grave makes them fascinating. Surely you agree?”
“Clearly you think so.”
“And you don’t?”
“I’ve let it go, because I understand that not everything needs to be revealed.”
“So you think I’m wasting my time with this memoir?”
“Not at all. If you want to tell a story, it’s your prerogative, and I’m sure no one would argue with that.”
Freda nodded, seeming pleased with this approval. “Some awful things happened back in the sixties,” she declared suddenly, seeming to have several incidents in mind. “People suffered a lot for the mistakes that were made.”
Joely didn’t comment because she was sure it was true. After a while she said, “Is your memoir going to cause anyone in your family to suffer?”
Freda’s smile became thin and sad as she said, “Those who might have suffered, who did suffer, are no longer with us.”
“What about Edward and your other nephew?”
“Yes, they’re still here, and yes, perhaps it will . . . What will it do to them?” She didn’t answer her own question, merely sat contemplating it as though it might not have occurred to her before.
“What about Sir—David Michaels,” Joely prompted, “and his family? Will they survive it?”
Freda’s eyes flashed with a sudden sharpness, but then it was gone and her voice was even, almost toneless as she said, “They were completely crushed by it.”
Joely’s heart gave an unsteady beat of pity for people she didn’t know, but who she couldn’t help but feel for.
“And now we will end this discussion,” Freda stated, pushing away her plate. “Paris is next on our agenda for the memoir. Perhaps we can do that this morning, in the den. We should be finished before Edward arrives.”
“Of course,” Joely agreed, “but now I know there’s a phone here, I’d like to make a quick call to my mother to make sure everything’s all right at home.”
Freda stared at her hard, and for one strange moment Joely thought she was going to refuse. “Your mother,” she repeated, as if taking the time to recall that Joely actually had a family. “Yes, certainly, but wasn’t it your husband who asked you to call?”
“He did, but I don’t want to speak to him yet.”
Freda grunted and got to her feet. “Help yourself,” she said, waving a hand toward the vintage contraption with rotary dial.
After she’d gone Joely spent a ludicrous few minutes trying to master the old-fashioned technique of dialing a number on a circular pad, until eventually she connected with her mother’s mobile.
“Hello, darling,” came the sotto voce reply. “I’m in a meeting. Is everything OK?”
“Yes, fine. I was a bit worried about you, that’s all.”
“No need to be. Do you know when you’re coming back yet?”
Joely was about to respond when she felt sure someone had picked up an extension.
“Are you still there?” her mother asked.
“Yes, yes, I am. Is Holly all right?”
“She is, but have you spoken to her, or Callum?”
Joely was immediately anxious. “Why?”
“Callum is putting pressure on us to find out where you are. I wish you’d tell him, or at least call him. Listen, I’m sorry, I have to go now. Call later if you can. Or call him.”
Ringing off, Joely waited a moment to see if the phone in front of her pinged with the sound of an extension going down. It didn’t, but she remained convinced that someone had listened in to her call. And who else was there but Freda?
Deciding she probably ought to give Callum a try regardless of eavesdroppers, she had better luck with the rotary dial this time, but ended up going straight to his voicemail. As she waited for his short greeting to play out she became certain someone was listening again. “I don’t know why you’re so keen to speak to me,” she told him, “but please stop pressuring Mum and Holly. Neither of them knows where I am, and I really don’t see that it has anything to do with you.” There was more she wanted to say, a whole lot more, but she’d already decided it wouldn’t be on the phone, and certainly not while Freda Donahoe was listening.
“I’m not sure,” Freda stated, cranking open the shutters in the den as Joely settled onto a sofa with her notebook and recorder, “how necessary the trip to Paris is to the overall story. I’ve been going through it in my mind and I wonder, were I an editor, if I’d be saying ‘Where is this actually taking us?’ ‘What more are we learning about the relationship that’s serving the memoir?’ But Paris is Paris, would probably be my reply. Everyone wants to read about Paris.”
She stood staring out of the window taking in the day as she quietly assembled her thoughts. “Memories,” she said softly, “are like this meadow, don’t you think, filled with as many nettles and stones as precious flowers and sweet-smelling grass. It’s all there but we prefer only to look at what pleases us.” Going to the mantelpiece she picked up the photograph of her nephew and regarded it pensively before holding it out for Joely to see. “He’s a good-looking man,” she said. “Would you agree?”
“I would,” Joely confirmed.
“He’s the image of his father, Christopher. I sometimes find it hard to look at him without seeing my brother at that age and remembering . . .” She broke off and went to replace the photograph on the mantelpiece. “We won’t talk about him today,” she said, “there’s no reason to,” and going to an upright armchair she pulled a blanket over her knees and folded her hands in her lap.
“We drove to Paris,” she said launching straight into her story. “We put the car on a ferry, and when we got there . . .” A hint of irony twitched at her smile. “The riots were more or less over, which he was very disappointed about. He’d wanted to take part, to show solidarity with the students, because he was like that, young and revolutionary, or antiestablishment in spite of his family . . . Anyway, it didn’t stop us from having a good time. He never let anything get in the way of that. He’d rung ahead to book us into a small pensione on the Left Bank . . . It was on quite a famous street called Rue Mouffetard. Do you know it?”
Joely shook her head.
“I believe that even now it’s still full of cafés, food shops, bistros . . . Typical bustling Parisian life. There was a wonderful market, I recall, with every type of fruit and vegetable you can imagine, and the colors . . . They were so bright they hardly seemed real, and the smells coming from the many food stalls made you permanently hungry. Naturally there was the obligatory Frenchman in striped shirt and beret playing the accordion on the street corner, and onion sellers. They seem like clichés now, but back then they were everywhere. We looked down on it all from our pensione window, waving out to people if they glanced up, while doing things to each other out of sight below the sill that excited us tremendously. I expect you can imagine the kind of things and if we do decide to keep this in I hope you’ll leave the reader in no doubt as to what they were.”
Certain she’d be leaving that task for the second draft, Joely simply pretended to note it.
“We were Monsieur et Madame Bardot,” Freda continued joyfully. “We were there for the weekend before traveling south to continue our honeymoon on the Riviera. I don’t recall anyone regarding us suspiciously, I was mature for my age and we were in Paris, the city of love. We were welcomed by all and treated to copious amounts of cheap red wine in smoke-filled cafés where old men played bezique or dominoes, and l’Anglais, as they called him, struck up tunes on dusty pianos. He sang in French, all the classics by Edith Piaf of course and everyone joined in. ‘La vie en rose.’ ‘Je ne regrette rien.’ ‘La Foule.’ One night in our room he taught me the words to ‘I Love Paris in the Springtime’ and the next day we went back to our favorite café and sang it together. In English, obviously—the French would have been too difficult for me—but everyone seemed to know it anyway, and even if they didn’t they hummed and swayed and asked us for encore after encore.
“We saw the sights, lay on the grass in the Jardin du Luxembourg, and ate oysters at Le Train Bleu. Once we had sex in an alley close to Montmartre. I made it happen. I loved to take those risks, to feel the warm night air on my skin and know that I was driving him so wild with desire that he’d do anything to please me.” She tilted her head as though considering that for a moment, and added, “Yes, he really was willing to do anything, and of course it was the same for me. Our love was becoming deeper and bigger and more consuming by the day. As Madame Bardot I was his wife and I knew that as soon as we could make it a reality we would, except I would be Mrs. Michaels.” She smiled. “It doesn’t have quite the same ring, does it, but it meant everything to me. It was all I wanted, all I ever thought about.
“One morning he took me to an antique market. I forget where it was exactly, it could have been Les Puces de Saint-Ouen, but I can’t be sure. He bought me a small, art deco–style moonstone ring and said that every time we looked at it we’d remember our wonderful first trip to Paris.”
Realizing she was more inside the memory than the present, Joely let several minutes pass before she said softly, “Do you still have it?”
Coming out of her reverie, Freda took a breath and shook her head. “I’m afraid not. It . . . I can’t remember what happened to it.” She got up and paced over to the window, where she stood staring out at the chill sunny day. Her arms were folded in front of her, and her shoulders seemed stiff with tiredness.
“So what do you think?” she asked without turning around. “Should Paris make the final cut, or do we drop it?”
Although virtually nothing had happened to make it worthy of inclusion Joely could sense how precious those days were to her client, so she said, “It’s a very romantic interlude, and everyone loves romance, especially one set in Paris.”
Freda nodded and when she turned around she was smiling. “I’ve probably made it sound as much of a cliché as the accordion players and onion sellers,” she said, “but that’s what we do with memories that hold a special place in our hearts, isn’t it? We want to present them in a way that will make everyone love them as much as we do, or envy them, perhaps, or even doubt them for their perfection. It doesn’t matter. There was a trip to Paris, a lot of wine was drunk, many songs were sung in cafés, and dances danced on the banks of the Seine—and our love-struck fifteen-year-old who’d drawn everything into her passionate embrace with all the naïvety of her age never spared a single thought for what could go wrong.”
“But it did go wrong?”
“Not there, in Paris. Paris was perfection, provided we discount the petty jealousy that made me try to stop him from phoning his mother to wish her a happy birthday. He made it, of course—he had no time for jealousy—and the abominable child sulked until he persuaded her to make up the way they always did.”
Joely said, “Had you felt jealous of his family, or anyone else before that?”
Freda shook her head. “Oh, the girls at school,” she admitted dismissively, “all that ridiculous flirting . . . I don’t think they realized how foolish they made themselves, but they’re not important. We’ve moved on to the summer and Paris—and all that followed . . .” She stopped, as if unsure how to continue. Her memories were obviously going to a darker place for the frown between her eyes deepened even as they filled with tears. “When we got back,” she said softly, “it was two weeks later, he . . . he told me something . . . I didn’t want to believe him, but I could see it was true, and so I . . .” she swallowed hard, “I did something so terrible . . .”
Joely waited, knowing better than to interrupt now.
Freda shook her head. “When you think back to yourself at the age of fifteen,” she said, “does that girl feel like someone you know? Or does she feel like a stranger?”
Joely gave it some thought and realized that perhaps she didn’t identify with her younger self quite as closely as she might have expected. She’d grown, changed, her ideas and ambitions were different, she was less opinionated, she hoped, and less naïve. She simply wasn’t that person anymore.
“When I think of what happened,” Freda said quietly, “when I view it from a distance of these many years it almost feels like a fictional story, that she is a character I’ve made up . . . I don’t want her to be me; it’s easier to imagine her as someone separate, to talk about her that way . . .” She continued to gaze out of the window, not moving, not even raising a hand to wipe away a tear that fell onto her cheek. In the end she said, “When I tell you what she did you will judge her, you will judge him too because what he did was also terrible. You will listen and then you will understand why I can never forgive her for what happened, why all these years later I still hate her and I will never stop.”
She turned around and Joely was unsettled by the disturbing mix of bitterness and sadness in her eyes. “I want you to hate her too,” she said, making it an instruction. “As my ghostwriter I will rely on you to make sure it’s the same for every reader. We will publish the truth and the real punishment for the terrible crime committed against an innocent person will begin.
“Now Edward is here, so I must go to greet him.”