Chapter 3

Oliver was an actor, classically trained, and it showed in the way he talked and in the way he moved. Sophie worked as a set designer and had invited Terri to a theatre party where she’d seen him across the room, telling a story to an attentive audience, gesticulating with an eloquent hand and putting on voices to embellish his tale. She had been drawn immediately by his lively, even features, the intensity of his delivery, the flash of his smile. He must have felt her watching him because he’d looked her way and levelly met her gaze, raising one amused eyebrow. In response to Terri’s questioning, Sophie admitted that she hardly knew him though she had heard about him. He was very popular, she said, and probably a rising star; he was handsome; he was single. What are you waiting for? But it was Oliver who’d taken the initiative and had crossed the room to speak to Terri and before long they’d been inseparable. He’d been everything Terri was not: out-going, demonstrative and an easy conversationalist; he’d made friends without apparent effort. In introspective moments, Terri had come to the conclusion that his ‘otherness’ had probably been a big part of his attraction. It had happened before.

Now, sitting at her new desk, Terri checked the mail in her inbox. For someone so keen on his mobile phone and texting, Oliver was surprisingly disinterested in computers and emails. Even so, she was resigned to getting messages from him. Before leaving London she had acquired a new phone with a new number but changing her email address would have caused her far more trouble. She knew Oliver would quickly switch to email however when he realised his favourite avenue had been closed off. There were several new messages and, as she had expected, there were already two from Oliver Dent. The first had been sent on the Friday:

Is there something wrong with your phone Terri? Have you disconnected it? C’mon baby. You know you love me. I’m sorry. How many more times do I have to say it? It won’t happen again. You need me. You’re not as independent as you think. And I really need you. It’s tearing me up. Call me.

Where are you? I haven’t seen you all weekend and there’ve been no lights on. Where are you? Who the hell are you with? I can’t go on like this. Don’t make me cross Terri. You know what’ll happen and you won’t like it.

It had been like this for ages now: one minute vulnerable and pleading, the next volatile and threatening. Terri quickly deleted them, feeling the familiar fast beat of her heart and the shaking of her hands.

It was Monday morning. Peter was already at his easel, engrossed in his work, and hadn’t acknowledged her arrival. In the room next to his office she had arrived to find a trestle table and a wooden chair; the boxes, canvases, portfolios and assorted discarded frames and clutter which the room housed had been tidied back to one end. An old angle-poise lamp had been placed on the table, plugged into an extension lead and a revised list of the paintings Peter wanted included in the retrospective had been left nearby. It had grown by three and this time he’d added the potential locations of some of them scrawled alongside. Here also were a number of exhibition catalogues and a tumbling pile of Peter’s sacred notebooks. She’d been relieved, having half expected nothing to have changed. Picking up a succession of the notebooks, she flicked through them to see what sort of information they held.

Each loosely covered one year and was dated on the front. Inside they contained sketches, sometimes filling whole pages, sometimes tiny thumbnails squeezed into a corner or sideways along a margin. Writing had been forced in around the drawings, often with cramped notes apparently added later. Which of them had gone on to be completed paintings and what had happened to them afterwards was not always clear. Some made a direct reference to a later work, others did not. The notebooks were out of sequence and she immediately put them in order. Unsurprisingly there was one missing: 1973. Given the state of the studio she thought it could be anywhere.

At the computer, she started to plan her work: a list of tasks that would need doing and goals to be achieved by approximate dates. She lived by lists – the only way she could keep her plans in order. Then she picked up the paper with Peter’s choice of paintings. Any which were mentioned in the exhibition catalogues might be traced through the relevant gallery. After meticulous searching through every one, she found six of them. That left eight with no obvious history unless she found them in the notebooks. She would track them down though; it was the sort of challenge she liked.

Nicole had arrived promptly and installed herself in Peter’s office. She was a forty-something French woman with impeccable English, long dark hair coiled up high on her head and sophisticated clothes. Terri introduced herself and took the opportunity to acquire the contact details of the De Villaney gallery in Nice. She was in the middle of a telephone call to them when Peter opened the door of her office and walked straight in.

‘I assume this is acceptable,’ he enquired in his booming voice, gesturing at the room without waiting for her to finish the call.

Terri said, ‘excuse me a second,’ into the mouthpiece and covered it. It seemed the ‘not disturbing’ rule only applied to Peter. ‘Yes.’ She offered a polite smile. ‘Thank you.’

‘Don’t take the notebooks out of this room,’ he said sharply. ‘You understand? Under no circumstances. I don’t want you losing them. And I’m more than ready for my coffee by the way. No milk, remember, one sugar. The kitchen is at the other end of the studio.’ He pointed a finger and walked out of the door, leaving it open.

She glanced at her watch; it was ten thirty-five. She finished the call and made her way across to the kitchen, a galley space with a run of wall and base units containing all that was necessary to make a range of drinks and light snacks. Next to it was a shower room and toilet. The studio was like a self-contained flat. She made coffee for Nicole as well as for Peter, getting a surprised thank you from Nicole and no reaction at all from her employer as she silently placed the drink on his work table.

She worked till one, planning and prioritising, creating documents on the computer, making notes of things to ask Peter, then went up to her room for her lunch break. Back in the studio at two thirty, she found herself alone and took the opportunity to glance through a stack of paintings stored against the wall. There were gallery stickers on occasional works – clearly exhibited but not sold - and Peter had written a year on a few others. Most were bare. When he returned, just after four o’clock, Terri was holding an exquisite small painting of a child’s head and shoulders.

‘This is lovely,’ she remarked as he walked to his work station not far from where she stood.

He came closer and reached wordlessly for the painting. Like many of the other canvases propped up around the walls, it was unframed. He raised his glasses to his nose and studied it with a critical eye.

‘Certainly. It’s Nicole’s youngest daughter.’ He turned the canvas over. It was dated 2002.

‘I thought I could put ‘possibles’ for the retrospective on one side for us to choose from later. I think this would be perfect.’

She put out her hand to take the painting back but he held on to it and stared at her over the top of his glasses.

‘You’ve been here five minutes,’ he said in a mild, sarcastic voice, ‘and you’ve already chosen another painting.’ He glanced around the assembly of stored canvases. ‘This could prove to be a very big exhibition. I think we should restrict ourselves to the more important works...’ He held out the portrait for her to take. ‘...not these sketches.’

‘But surely it’s these ‘sketches’, as you put it, which bring an exhibition alive?’ She gave an expansive gesture with her hand, taking in the canvas she now held and any as yet unseen ones stacked against the wall nearby. ‘If you want the retrospective to capture your audience’s imagination, it has to be surprising, it has to teach them something they don’t already know about your work. Sometimes the sketches...’

‘Miss Challoner,’ said Peter, cutting across her. ‘Are you familiar with the expression: teaching your grandmother to suck eggs?’

‘Then please bear that in mind next time before you try to tell me how my own retrospective should be.’

‘I’ve spoken to the gallery,’ Terri said to his retreating back. ‘I’m going there next Monday to have a look round.’

‘Then we’ll be granted some much needed peace,’ he replied without turning.

‘Just get me a new jar of medium, will you?’ Peter eased himself onto the tall stool in front of his easel. He pointed vaguely up the studio without looking at her. ‘It’ll be on the shelves beyond Luc’s work station. Labelled Medium 3.’

Terri walked up the studio, past the assistant’s easel and work table, and scanned the shelves for the jar. She found it and walked slowly back, glancing back at the painting on Luc’s easel as she passed. It was a portrait of a young man and was remarkably good.

She put the jar on Peter’s table and retreated into her office, keeping her lips firmly clamped together. The man was odious but she had to stick it out. She couldn’t face going back to London. Not yet.

The estate the house sat in was extensive. ‘Do make the most of the grounds,’ Angela had told Terri. ‘The woods are very large and our land extends into them – you can see a line of stakes in places, marking the boundary. They’re rather dark but there are lots of footpaths; the main one goes through to the village.’ She’d raised one amused eyebrow. ‘Don’t get lost though will you? We might never find you again.’

On the Monday, leaving the studio at the end of the afternoon, Terri detoured from the route leading directly back to the house and meandered on and up the hill, through a cherry orchard and past a pétanque pit, to the first line of whispering pine trees. When she stopped and turned to look down, the whole of Le Chant du Mistral was spread before her, a series of level terraces and sloping banks, basking in the spring sunshine. Below and to her right stood the huge U-shaped farmhouse with the old pigeon house – a tower-like building - behind to the west. In a dip on the other side lay a large rectangular swimming pool, still with its winter cover. To her left, separated from the pool by a line of shrubs was a large, incongruous area of lawn, bordered on two sides by flower beds, and in front, way below, was the unmistakeable red roof of Peter’s barn. Beyond was the valley: a couple of distant farmsteads and countless fields of olives and vines stretching into the blue distance. It was a spectacular view and she stood, trying to soak in the peace and beauty of it.

Insidiously, she found herself thinking about Oliver instead: how well their first few months together had gone, how quickly she had agreed to go and live in his flat, sure that this was a relationship which would last. He used to make her laugh; he told her wonderful stories about life on stage and on television sets. He was waiting for ‘that big break’ which would get him into movies. He loved art and encouraged her to take him round galleries, explaining about the pictures he could see. She was beautiful, he said, fascinating, endlessly surprising. She wanted to think he meant it. Then, at the last minute, he lost a good part he had been promised and struggled to find any work. That was when it had all started to go wrong.

A brisk, cold breeze came up, setting the trees behind her humming and tugging at her hair. She hugged herself for warmth and made her way back down to the house.

The front door was unlocked and Terri let herself in. On the Sunday morning, during Angela’s brisk tour of the ground floor of the mas, she had exhorted Terri to make herself comfortable – ‘use the sitting room if you like; no-one goes in there much’ - and to make use of the kitchen if she needed it. She had made it clear she expected Terri to fend for herself and to do it when she wouldn’t be disturbing anyone else, but she’d done it with a great deal of charm.

‘I must be in the way,’ Terri had taken the opportunity to say, reluctant, despite Angela’s courteous hospitality, to live the strange, skulking half-life she could see lay ahead. ‘I could look for accommodation nearby. Could you suggest some local agencies?’

Angela had hesitated for the blink of an eye. ‘Don’t think of it darling. Peter insists that you stay with us. You’d never find anything for the summer anyway and I’m sure we can all rub along together. We all come and go so much anyway.’ She’d produced one of her lovely smiles. ‘I confess I was a bit taken aback when Peter first told me you were staying but now that we’ve met I can see that we’re going to be great friends.’

Now, as Terri stepped into the cool, dark hall, the sound of piano music drifted through the half open kitchen door. Curious, she pushed it back and looked in. The door opposite led into a smart salon where she knew a grand piano stood at the top of the room. It was slightly ajar and she walked closer. She was no expert but whoever was playing was good. Then a woman began to laugh and the music came to a halting stop.

‘Useless,’ said a man’s voice with a discreet but distinct French accent. ‘So come on, you didn’t answer my question: why don’t you tell her?’

Frowning, Terri bent her head forward, listening more closely. That voice was familiar... She shook her head. It wasn’t possible.

‘You know what mama’s like. She’ll overreact.’ That was definitely Lindsey speaking.

‘Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t talk to him. Hey, I’ll get us some more wine.’

‘Certainly not,’ said Terri defensively. ‘I’ve just come in and I heard the music. It was very good. Was that you playing?’

‘Liar.’ A dark-haired man, dressed in black sweatshirt and jeans and with a day’s stubble on his chin, moved to stand in the doorway. His gaze settled on Terri and their eyes met for a long, silent moment.

‘I’m not a liar.’ Lindsey glared at him. She turned back to Terri. ‘We were both playing. It was a duet. This is Luc Daumier, my father’s assistant. He helps me with my piano playing,’ she added defiantly. ‘And this is Terri,’ she said to Luc, ‘who’s come to curate the exhibition for father.’

‘Ah yes, the retrospective,’ said Luc. ‘Enchanté.’ He held out his hand. Terri took it and they exchanged a perfunctory shake. ‘So you’ll be joining us in the studio. Peter is...’ He flicked a quick glance at Lindsey who was already at the fridge, refilling two glasses with white wine. ‘...excited about the exhibition.’

Lindsey made a point of walking back between them and held out a glass of wine for Luc.

‘You don’t need to go on my account,’ Terri said coldly. ‘I was just passing through.’

‘Even so, I must.’ He stepped back, ramming his hands into the pockets of his jeans. ‘I haven’t long been back and there are things I need to do. You drink my wine,’ he said to Terri. ‘I don’t think I have anything infectious.’

He nodded to her, exchanged a word with Lindsey, and walked away briskly. They heard the front door open and close.

‘He lives in the bergerie,’ said Lindsey. ‘It’s in a clearing near the edge of the woods.’ She held the glass out grudgingly. ‘Here, you’d better take this.’

‘It’s one glass. It won’t kill you. Here.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Do you and Luc know each other?’

‘I just thought...oh it doesn’t matter. Let’s take the wine to the sitting room.’

The sitting room was gloomy. A vine, growing up and across a pergola on the terrace by the front window, starved the room of the late afternoon sunlight while the window to the rear gave onto a dark bank of rising ground. Lindsey put the table lamps on then threw herself down on one of the sofas next to the fireplace, stretching her legs the length of it. Terri sat on the sofa opposite.

‘Mama doesn’t like this room,’ said Lindsey. ‘She thinks it’s too dark.’

‘It is a bit...still it’s cosy.’ Terri could imagine the rest of the ground floor being featured in the smooth pages of a minimalist interior design magazine, but this room was more homely.

Lindsey fixed her with one of her flat, hard stares. ‘So where do you live...normally?’

‘Crikey, Lindsey, do you cross-question everyone like this? Am I under interrogation or something?’

‘Oh...well, OK. I’m sorry.’ Terri felt wrong-footed, but then she never did this chatty getting-to-know-you thing well. She hesitated and tried again. ‘I think your father is very sure what he wants.’

Terri sipped her wine. It was dry and caught at the back of her throat. She looked up at the portrait of the woman in the halter-necked dress.

‘That painting...it’s unusual, isn’t it? Really striking. Do you know anything about it?’

‘Sure.’ Lindsey glanced up at the picture. ‘That’s Madeleine. She was father’s first wife.’

‘Ah.’ Terri nodded, surprised, and studied the image with fresh eyes. That possibility hadn’t occurred to her and she immediately wondered why Angela hadn’t told her when she’d asked about it. She considered asking Lindsey but then didn’t. ‘Do you paint at all?’ she said instead.

‘Me?’ Lindsey forced a laugh. ‘No, I didn’t inherit the arty genes. I don’t know one end of a paintbrush from the other.’

Terri sensed some intense personal disappointment behind the off-hand remark. Lindsey was hard to make out. One minute she was ignorant and rude, the next she seemed like a lost child.

‘Maybe you’re creative in other ways,’ she said kindly, ‘like your music.’

‘Oh you will. She’s barking by the way. And she and mama don’t get on.’ Lindsey laughed suddenly and the sullenness lifted from her face. ‘That’s a classic understatement. They can’t stand each other.’

‘Celia lives in the pigeonnier,’ said Lindsey. ‘She’s got the top floor as a studio, daft old bat.’

Lindsey laughed. ‘That’s not what I’d call it. Very impressionist, she says. Really bad, I’d say. She doesn’t paint like father anyway.’

Mention of Peter’s painting had Terri automatically looking up at the portrait again.

Lindsey followed her gaze and regarded the picture dispassionately. ‘She was supposed to be a bit of a free spirit or something. Hitched to Italy when she was a student and spent the whole trip looking at paintings. I mean, what a waste of a holiday.’ She hesitated, looking across at Terri slyly. ‘You’d probably have got on with her though - you know: another art geek.’

‘She certainly had a very animated face,’ she said. ‘Expressive. So did they divorce?’

‘No. She died...young. Why do you want to know?’ The aggressive note had quickly returned.

‘It was a long time ago. And it’s nothing to do with me. Anyway I’m not supposed to talk about her.’ Lindsey’s expression was shuttered again, her voice flat. She threw her legs round to put her feet to the floor and lifted her glass, tipping the remaining contents into her mouth before standing up.

‘I’d better go,’ she said curtly. ‘I’ve got things to do.’ She paused at the door. ‘Mama doesn’t like me playing the piano with Luc. I’d be grateful if you didn’t tell her.’

Terri turned in her seat to look at her. ‘Of course. I can’t imagine why I would.’

Lindsey regarded her gravely, managed a weak smile, then disappeared. Terri heard her footsteps going up the stairs and looked back up at the portrait. Peter’s first wife. She wondered when she had died, and how. Madeleine had looked so vital.

Her thoughts trailed away and her mind turned to Luc Daumier instead. Lies did not come easily to her but she hadn’t hesitated to tell Lindsey that she didn’t know him. So why was that? It was some years now since she had last seen him. And Luc had pointedly not acknowledged it either, though, given the way they’d parted, perhaps that wasn’t surprising. It seemed that, in the four months he had been working for Peter, he had already established an easy familiarity with the man’s daughter and was happy to visit the house behind her mother’s back.

Of course it was none of her business, but Terri couldn’t help but wonder why an arts journalist and critic, known for at least one major undercover exposé story and usually based in London and Paris, should be here in Provence, working for Peter Stedding as a lowly studio assistant.

Peter heard the door shut, heard the recognisable tap of Angela’s shoes approaching across the studio floor, but didn’t shift his gaze from the canvas. It was the Wednesday evening and already nearly half past seven. He was painting a portrait of Laurent Valdeau, a French businessman and philanthropist, and he wanted to finish the underpainting of the man’s arm before the natural light became unusable. At the moment he was having difficulty getting one of the hands just right.

He adjusted the lie of a finger and leaned back, looking over his glasses at the picture critically. He leaned forward again and put in another brushstroke.

‘Peter? I need to talk to you.’ Angela paused and glanced around. ‘For heaven’s sake, Peter, how can you work in this place? It’s a mess.’

‘You’re always busy. You said you’d be over at seven and I’ve been waiting at the house for you. I was supposed to be going out twenty minutes ago.’

Peter sighed heavily, put his brush down on the table and turned to look at her over the top of his glasses.

‘Sammy’s dug up my roses. And a friend gave them to me. The man’s driving me mad.’

‘Well, if he didn’t do it intentionally, he’s inept. He’s supposed to be the gardener for heaven’s sake.’

A late, low beam of sunlight caught the edge of Angela’s head and made her hair glow a soft apricot. When he’d first met her she’d had deep auburn hair, coppery when it caught the light. Ever since then she’d dyed it - highlighting, she called it - but he’d been rather fond of its striking russet tones. Even so she had a good bone structure and was still a very beautiful woman with a fresh clear skin which belied her age. He toyed with how to say it but the words escaped him and the moment passed.

‘Anyway he did do it intentionally,’ Angela was saying. ‘He argued with me about putting them in when I asked him to.’

‘I know he never argues with you, Peter. He’s not so obliging with everyone else. Anyway, he made it clear he thought it was a bad idea. You know the way he does: rolling his eyes away, getting all shifty and refusing to look at you.’

‘So what do you want me to do about it? Perhaps it was a bad idea. Perhaps they didn’t thrive and he got rid of them.’

‘Oh nonsense. Why do you always take his side? There was nothing wrong with them. He just didn’t water them enough. Look...’ Angela dragged a wooden chair over to sit in front of him. ‘...it’s time we talked about Sammy.’ A bleeping noise sounded from the pocket of her jacket. She pulled out her phone, glancing at the screen.

‘What now?’ said Peter impatiently. He glanced towards the window. ‘The daylight’s going.’

Angela dropped the phone back in her pocket. ‘I think he’s getting too old for the job.’

‘Yes. I think we should retire him. There are plenty of people looking for work. We could get someone better.’

Peter slowly removed his glasses and stared into her face. He could feel that familiar tightness developing in the pit of his stomach and tension in the muscles of his jaw.

‘Retire him?’ he said guardedly. ‘But he’s only...’ He thought for a moment. ‘...sixty-four.’

‘Thank you dear,’ said Peter dryly. ‘I hate to think what that makes me.’

Angela released a tut of frustration, as she so often did. ‘Oh, you know what I mean: to do that job. You’re just painting pictures all day. It’s hardly the same.’

‘Just painting pictures? No, hardly.’ Peter turned his eyes back to the painting on the easel and tried to put the issue away from him. He could feel irritation and anger knot in the pit of his stomach but he choked it back; there was no point being sensitive to the way Angela described his work. She’d never made any pretence of the fact that she didn’t understand all the fuss about what he did. And it wasn’t the first time she’d tried to get rid of Sami, but he couldn’t let the man go – for all sorts of reasons, some of which he could barely explain to himself, let alone Angela. ‘We can’t retire Sami yet,’ he said firmly. ‘He’s fit enough for the job. Anyway we don’t have any accommodation for another odd job man.’

‘No. Sami’s living there. I promised him he could stay there as long as he needed them.’

Peter looked back at Angela and held her gaze. With some exceptions he left her to organise the house as she chose; he didn’t like everything she did up there but he rarely quibbled. It was only fair since he was down in the studio so much and it was Angela’s home. And though it was often a struggle, he tried not to argue with her, not seriously anyway; she was his wife and he thought he owed her that. But he wouldn’t be swayed on this.

‘Where would he go?’ he said. ‘In any case, I can’t go back on a promise, now can I? Would you?’

‘Oh really Peter, what a thing to say.’ She stood up. ‘Well, you should at least talk to him. There’s no point in me trying to do it.’

Peter wondered why she disliked Sami so much. Was it because she hadn’t employed him herself, that he was one of the few relics of Peter’s former life? Or was it because he was Algerian? Angela distrusted foreigners of every kind except – for some reason she’d never explained - Americans. Sometimes it was funny; most of the time he just found it irritating, like the way she always had to anglicise Sami’s name. She surrounded herself with ex-pats and disdained any kind of French culture. Her regular attempts to turn the estate into an English country garden mystified Sami and were in any case doomed to failure.

He returned his attention to the painting but Angela had disturbed his concentration and in the end he got up and walked across to his study. The door to Terri’s office was open and he automatically glanced inside.

‘We need to talk about your career and what got you started painting in the first place,’ Terri had said to him that morning. ‘Perhaps you could think through who your particular influences have been? We could incorporate reproductions of your favourites into the show. When would be convenient for a meeting?

‘For God’s sake, woman, I said I don’t know. I’ll tell you when I’m ready.’

‘We need somewhere to keep the paintings which are going to be exhibited to keep them safe till they’re shipped to the gallery. Some racks near the door over there would be ideal. Could I arrange to get some made?’

That, at least, was a good idea. He’d told her to ask Sami. Sami was good at things like that.

In the short time she’d been there he’d heard her speaking on the phone, had seen her talking to Nicole, nosing through pictures in the studio or flicking through his notebooks - he already regretted giving her those. Having been talked into accepting help - when he’d been too weak and muddled to judge what he was doing - it had occurred to him afterwards that perhaps it wasn’t such a bad idea after all. He needed to paint and he didn’t have the time or, honestly, the energy to sort out the exhibition too and he certainly wasn’t going to hand it back to the gallery. He liked the idea of having somebody in his own employ whom he could control.

But now she was here, Terri was not what he’d had in mind. She was smart but he didn’t want smart, just efficient. And he could see wilfulness in her eyes: unusual large charcoal eyes, set each side of a small, straight nose. Her mouth turned up at the corners but looked remarkably stiff as if always holding something back. An insolent remark probably, to judge from their exchanges so far. Even so, she would be good to paint with her sleek dark hair and expressive eyebrows, though he doubted she would ever accept a pose; behind her crisp politeness he could sense obstinacy.

He turned away and walked into his study, crossed to the whisky decanter on the cupboard under the window and poured himself a measure, circling his long fingers firmly round the glass. The retrospective was the recognition he’d craved for his lifetime’s work but all he’d had in mind was an exhibition of his paintings whereas clearly this Terri woman wanted much more: she wanted to examine him minutely and parcel his life up into neat little packages. He took a mouthful of whisky and enjoyed its searing warmth as it slid down his throat.

Well, he had no intention of letting her search and delve. The past was done and buried; he would not have her digging it up.

Luc finished the last of his pasta, laid the fork on the plate and leaned forward to put the tray on the scruffy wooden coffee table. He leaned back and stared towards the window. The daylight was nearly spent and he could see little of the woods outside, just washed out reflections of the room in which he sat. Still he was thinking about Terri. All evening she had intruded on his thoughts, odd images and scenes from the past dancing across his mind, though if he had hoped to analyse how he felt about seeing her again, he had failed. He still wasn’t sure.

She looked older, of course, her features a little more prominent, her cheeks less rounded, but still she was pretty. He’d been stunned to walk into the kitchen and see her there. What chance had brought her to this place at this time? And what were her feelings about him now? Had they changed? It had been impossible to tell. There again, maybe it wasn’t chance at all; maybe she had followed him there. He shook his head. After all this time, that was an absurd idea. In any case, she had looked too surprised to see him and he doubted she’d be able to fake it; she’d always been reserved but never devious. So perhaps it was Fate or some greater hand toying with him?

He got up brusquely, shaking his stupid superstitions away, and took his tray through to the kitchen. Whatever the reason, Terri’s arrival didn’t need to affect his plans - or at least, not in a bad way. Quite the contrary. He dumped his dishes in the sink, wondering which way he should play it, and almost smiled.