| |
The idea that Madeleine’s attic studio still lay untouched somewhere in Angela’s chic, contemporary home was laughable. Terri shrugged it off as a bit of gothic fantasy, yet another of Celia’s bizarre flights of fancy. Even so, she caught herself glancing up to the top of the east wing each time she approached the house, unable to completely dismiss it from her mind. If such a studio did exist it might give an insight into the enigmatic woman behind the intriguing portrait. Her den, Celia had called it, so it would possibly also contain information which would throw a light on the mystery of Tom. But Terri repeatedly checked her curiosity. This was none of her business and, even if Celia were telling the truth, the studio was a forbidden place belonging to a woman no-one was prepared to discuss. Was that simply the result of a tragic bereavement? That seemed unlikely after all this time. So why the wall of silence?
It was pointless to brood over it; she was unlikely to ever learn more. The house keys, including the ones to the studio, were all kept on lines of hooks in a shallow cupboard under the stairs. Glancing along the tagged keys one day, she’d seen none labelled as ‘Raphael’. Further proof, if any were needed, that Celia had made the whole thing up.
The following Sunday afternoon however, stretched out reading on one of the sofas in the sitting room, Terri found herself alone in the house: Peter was in the studio; Lindsey was working and Angela had gone out. For more than half an hour after the last sounds of Angela’s shoes had faded on the terrace outside, Terri argued with herself about whether to take advantage of the opportunity or not. In the end the temptation proved too strong and she abandoned the book on the sofa and cautiously climbed the stairs to the first floor.
The staircase emerged in the middle of a long, straight landing with doors to left and right and windows looking out to the rear and the woods. Reminding herself that she was looking for an attic room, somewhere in the old part of the house, she paused to get her bearings, examined the illustrated nameplates on a couple of the doors - ‘Vermeer’ and ‘El Greco’; they were impressively good - then walked the length of the passage and descended two steps down to the upper floor of the east wing.
It didn’t look promising. To the front was a large bedroom - ‘Rubens’ - and behind it a walk-in linen store, but there was no obvious staircase to a loft. She glanced up at the ceiling; there was no trap door either. Still, something didn’t feel right. She looked back in at the linen store and then in the bedroom again where the en-suite bathroom extended back behind the wall of the corridor. Terri was a fair judge of size and distance and it didn’t look as if the two rooms between them were big enough to quite fill the space. So perhaps there was a passage between the two rooms after all? She examined the wall; it was smooth. She tapped it; it sounded solid. Clearly her imagination had been fed by too many films involving ancient houses and secret passages.
Even so she walked into the linen store and clicked the light on. The room was lined with slatted shelves, each covered with stacks of towels and assorted bed linen. To the right was a gap in the racking where a long-handled brush and a small folding stepladder were propped against the wall, a laundry trolley roughly pushed in front of them. The ladder made Terri look up, hoping to see the trap door, but again the ceiling was unbroken.
It wasn’t until she turned to leave that she saw the small, low handle on the wall behind the stepladder. And there was the unmistakeable outline of a door too, neatly flush with the wall. She dragged the ladder and trolley out of the way, turned the handle and the door opened smoothly away from her, into darkness. Leaning in, she could just make out the bottom of a flight of steps which turned and rose away to the left. Curiosity killed the cat, her grandmother had said to her once, finding Terri nosing through the contents of the old sideboard in the dining room. The back of the drawers had been full of all sorts of odds and ends she had never seen before. What does that mean? the young Terri had asked. It means people who go looking for things usually find out something they don’t want to know, had been the snapped response, and the drawers swiftly closed.
Now Terri straightened up and listened, but could hear nothing save the thumping of her own heart. The house was still empty. She stepped into the darkened passage, flicked a switch which made a lamp glow dully somewhere up above, and climbed the stairs, each step groaning at the unaccustomed tread.
At the top was yet another door and it had a nameplate – ‘Raphael’ - with a clever pastiche of one of the artist’s paintings of the Madonna. So Madeleine’s studio did exist after all. She tried the handle but it was locked, just as Celia had said it would be.
Excitement quickly gave way to apprehension and she softly retraced her steps down the stairs to the linen room. Among all the confused thoughts which ran through her mind as she put everything back the way she’d found it, the most disquieting one was the realisation that the eccentric Celia had to be taken seriously after all.
But more importantly, where would she find the key?
*
Having finished picking her way through the canvases, Terri now had an office full of ‘possibles’, waiting for Peter’s final judgement. Pressed to engage in the decision – and bribed with coffee – she finally managed to persuade him to join her in her office the following Wednesday, where they worked their way methodically through each picture in turn for more than an hour. Terri made a second round of coffee to keep Peter sweet.
‘These are the last two.’
She held up the final canvases, waited, then turned to look at him to find him staring at her face and not at the pictures.
‘So what do you think?’ she prompted, disconcerted.
He switched his gaze to the paintings, studying each one with a glazed expression.
‘Put that one in.’ He pointed at a brooding image of Ste. Marguerite des Pins viewed from the bottom of the village, looking up to a twilit sky. ‘The other one can go in the bin as far as I’m concerned. I don’t know why we picked it out in the first place.’ He took a mouthful of coffee. ‘Thank God that’s over. So...have you tracked down all my choices?’
‘No, not all. There are still two I haven’t located yet.’ She hesitated. ‘Do you often bin pictures?’
‘To judge from this studio, not enough of them. Are all the paintings coming here?’
Terri put the pictures to one side, sat down and picked up her coffee, but didn’t reply.
‘Terri? Pay attention. What’s the matter with you?’
‘Hm? Nothing. Er...yes, I’m going to get all the pictures collected here and check them over, then I’ll ship them all to Nice nearer the time. That’s why I suggested you fit a burglar alarm. Have you thought about it?’
‘Yes, yes,’ he muttered grudgingly. ‘I suppose we should. You can arrange it...for what it’s worth. It never stops the big galleries from being targeted.’
‘And insurance?’
‘Yes, if it’ll shut you up. I’ll speak to my insurer.’ He glanced down through his spectacles at the calendar on his watch. ‘First of June. No hurry. Lots of time still before the exhibition.’
‘Yes, but lots of things to do too. Restoration, framing, photography, publicity. And there’s the catalogue to write. I wanted to talk to you about that.’
‘I don’t want any personal mumbo jumbo in the catalogue.’ He regarded her beadily over the top of his glasses. ‘The exhibition is about the paintings, not me.’
‘It’s usual to have a biography though. People will expect it. They like it.’
‘Maybe. Something simple. But, remember, I want to see the catalogue before you have it printed.’
‘Of course. But I haven’t started writing it yet. I need to ask you some more questions.’
‘Questions, questions,’ he grumbled, without malice, sipping his coffee.
‘For example...’ She cast about for something to draw him out. He was in a surprisingly genial mood; it was too good an opportunity to miss. ‘...was painting your first love?’
‘Yes, definitely.’ He paused. ‘Of course there was cricket. When I was a boy I was quite good at cricket.’ He formed his hand into a cradle for an imaginary ball and twisted it over his head. ‘A fast bowler. I had the height you see. And I was pretty nippy in those days.’ His lip curled with amusement. ‘To judge from your blank expression, I guess you’re not a cricket fan.’
‘No, ‘fraid not. But tell me: what about your family - what did they think about you painting?’
‘They were pretty good about it. My father was a successful businessman. He’d assumed I’d follow him into the family business. Even so they were supportive when they realised I was serious. Fortunately I had a brother who wanted to work in the firm. Or at least he couldn’t think of anything else to do.’
‘Was there anyone else in the family who’d been artistic?’
‘An older brother of my father; he died in the First World War.’
‘And I believe Celia paints too?’
Peter looked at her pityingly. ‘Have you seen her work?’
‘Not really. Just odd bits when she’s out with her easel. She seems very passionate about it.’
‘Oh, I’d give her full marks for enthusiasm,’ he said dryly.
They both fell silent. Terri cast about for another question. Her mind was full of Tom and Madeleine but neither were subjects she dared broach. It was hard to focus anyway because he was studying her face again with a strange intensity as if she were a model whose planes or tints of colour he couldn’t get quite right.
‘What does your mother do?’ he said suddenly. ‘You said your father was a restorer. So is she artistic too?’
Terri hesitated, examining the remains of her coffee. ‘She made hats.’
‘Hats?’ Peter looked surprised, or perhaps disappointed. ‘Past tense, I see. Doesn’t she make them any more then?’
‘She died.’ She looked up to find him frowning at her. ‘Why do you want to know?’
He lifted the mug and tipped back the last of his coffee.
‘You ask a lot of questions,’ he said, putting the mug down with a flourish. ‘I think I’m allowed to ask some too.’ He drummed the table with his middle finger. ‘What was her name?’
‘Her name?’
‘Yes, you know, her given name.’
‘Susan. Why?’
‘Just curious. Do you paint?’
‘Not at all. I’m useless.’ She finished her coffee too and hugged the empty mug, determined to regain control of the conversation. She didn’t like the way it was going. ‘So you studied in Italy. What made you settle in France?’
‘The south of France had attracted so many artists. It seemed the obvious place for a young man to learn his craft.’
‘And yet you stayed. It’s a long way from all the big cities: London, Paris, Berlin, New York. Didn’t you think it might be difficult to get noticed here?’
‘No, not really. They’re good places to visit but you can’t work in that sort of environment; at least I can’t.’ He paused, studying the fingers of his left hand and flexing them. ‘Besides,’ he added slowly, ‘I met someone.’ He raised his eyes to study her face again. ‘You must have seen the portrait in the sitting room?’
‘Yes.’ She wondered what was coming, was almost holding her breath.
‘Well, she was my first wife: Madeleine.’ He said the name oddly, as if it felt strange to actually hear it said out loud.
‘It’s a stunning portrait; she was beautiful.’
‘Yes.’ Peter nodded. ‘Yes, she was.’
‘And...was she an artist too?’
‘She was an art student when I first met her.’ Peter’s eyes developed a faraway look and he was silent so long that Terri began to wonder if he was all right. Then he started talking - in a soft, gentle voice she’d never heard him use before. ‘She came to an exhibition I’d put on with some others. Told me what she thought of it...just like that. And it wasn’t all good. Oh no.’ He snorted and smiled indulgently. ‘And yes, she painted. All sorts: people, still life, views, buildings. So many influences. She was really eclectic in her taste: she loved Turner, Caillebotte... Caravaggio...’ His voice drifted away.
‘And Raphael, of course,’ said Terri, barely conscious of having vocalised the thought but becoming aware of a growing, deafening silence in the room and Peter, eyes now alert and angry, staring at her, brows furrowed.
‘Who told you she liked Raphael?’
‘Lindsey did.’
‘Lindsey? Lindsey? What were you doing talking to Lindsey?’
‘We were just talking.’
‘About Madeleine?’
‘I asked her about the portrait.’
‘And have you been going round everyone asking questions?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘And I suppose you want all this for the catalogue, do you?’ he demanded.
‘No...’ Terri hesitated, sure that whatever she said now would be wrong.
‘I believe I made it clear to start with: I will not have my private life put on record. That is not what I employed you to do. Who else have you been talking to?’
‘I’m living here. Who do you expect me to talk to?’
‘I expect you to do the job I’m paying you to do...the way I want it done. Nothing more.’
He got up, glaring at her, and abruptly left her office, slamming the door. The door failed to catch and it bounced open again, just as Terri was doing a military salute to his departing back. So much for the good mood. She saw Luc looking across the studio and met his eyes briefly before stepping forward quickly to close the door.
*
On the first Saturday in June, Angela organised a barbecue and, for the first time, Luc was invited. Peter passed the message on when Luc was about to leave the studio one afternoon.
‘I gather you’re dating Terri,’ Peter said. ‘So Angela thinks it only makes sense to have you there too. Place’ll be swarming with people anyway – biggest event on my wife’s calendar.’
‘Is Terri going then?’
‘How should I know? I imagine so. Everybody goes. Anyway, why don’t you ask her yourself? You do talk I assume?’
‘I’d love to come. Should I let Angela know?’
Peter shook his head. ‘I’ll tell her.’ He studied Luc morosely. ‘Don’t be too pleased: it’ll be boring as hell. A load of people all trying to look wealthier and more fashionable than everyone else. Tsch. Idiots.’ He studied Luc’s face, expressionless. ‘Brave chap, aren’t you, dating Terri I mean.’ He trudged away.
Peter was right: the party was enormous, spread the full width and depth of the terrace and spilling out beyond, with a team of outside caterers providing the food and waiters serving wine from long trestle tables. It was already in full swing by the time Luc made his way there, the babble of chatter reaching him as he cut through the olive grove. He could hear music too, the resonant tones of Sinatra, Nat King Cole, Bing Crosby and Rosemary Clooney ringing out in the smoky, fragrant evening air. There had been noise and activity round the house all day, vans grinding up and down the track from the road and sounds of hammering and voices from the terrace. Getting closer he could see lights had been strung across the front of the house and between posts erected at the edge of the terrace. It was still light and they twinkled insignificantly.
With a glass of red wine in his hand, he worked his way through the crowd to the edge of the terrace, checking out Angela’s guests. There was hardly anyone he knew. Peter had come – surprisingly – and was holding court on the other side of the terrace, and he’d seen Angela up near the house, but there was no sign of Lindsey nor, yet, of Terri. He hadn’t told her that he’d been invited and wasn’t sure why. Did he think she wouldn’t come if she knew he would be there? But maybe Peter had told her anyway. Though, given Peter’s fit of temper the other day when he’d stormed out of Terri’s office, that seemed unlikely; Luc had seen little interaction between them since. He mooched to one of the linen covered side tables, speared an olive with a cocktail stick and popped it in his mouth.
Then he saw Terri. She was standing near the drinks tables with a glass of something orange in her hand, looking across to where Peter’s booming voice appeared to be holding his listeners in thrall. Luc saw her exchange a polite word with someone, then move on. He raised a hand but she failed to see him and for a moment was out of sight. When she reappeared she was just a couple of yards away and again he raised his hand. This time she noticed and crossed to join him at the edge of the terrace.
‘I didn’t know you were going to be here,’ she said. She looked almost glad to see him.
‘Angela thinks we’re dating so she felt she had to invite me.’
‘Oh great. Thanks to Lindsey no doubt.’
‘Probably. Is it so bad?’
‘Honestly? At the moment I’m just glad there’s someone here I know.’ There was a peal of laughter from the circle round Peter and she glanced back towards him. ‘He seems to be on good form tonight,’ she said bitterly. ‘I believe he saves his worst moods for me.’
‘I saw you had another fight the other day. I thought you were getting on better with him.’
‘So did I.’
‘What was it about?’
Terri eyed him warily. ‘I was asking some questions. I need to write a biography for the exhibition catalogue. Peter mentioned his first wife and became upset when he found out that I’d already asked Lindsey a couple of questions about her. He overreacted.’
‘Ah.’ Luc took a sip of the wine from his glass, watching her over its rim. ‘So perhaps you remind him of the delightful Madeleine too? It might make him oversensitive.’
‘Nonsense,’ she said, not altogether convincingly. ‘I mean, do you really think I look like her?’
‘I haven’t looked at the painting recently.’
She grunted and sipped her drink.
‘What do you know about her?’ she asked.
‘Madeleine?’ He pulled a face. ‘Not much. The same as you I imagine: died in childbirth; the baby was sickly and didn’t live. C’est tout.’ He met her gaze again. ‘You seem to have taken a particular interest in her though.’
Terri studied him a moment as if she were considering telling him something. But Angela banged a large spoon on a table, drawing all eyes and announcing that the food was ready.
They collected plates of cooked meat and salad and a second glass of wine for Luc, and moved away from the already congested tables and chairs of the terrace, down into the sunken parterre where they found a bench looking out over the herb garden and the cherry orchard beyond. The night was warm and redolent. Sitting with the wall at their backs and buffered by a run of dangling shrubs, the chatter of the party above was dulled and irrelevant and for a while they ate in companionable silence. Luc finished first, picking up his wine glass. He wished he could get the conversation back to Madeleine - it intrigued him that Terri was apparently so rattled by Celia’s remarks - but could think of no subtle way of doing it.
‘You know,’ he said instead, ‘the last time I saw you was at the preview for an exhibition at Tate Britain: spring last year.’
‘The Tate.’ She finished eating and wiped her fingers on the napkin, frowning. ‘I don’t remember seeing you there.’
‘You were with someone.’
She nodded slowly. ‘That’s right, I was.’
‘Are you still with him?’
‘No.’ She hesitated. ‘And you?’
‘No, I’m not with anyone.’
‘No?’ She flicked him a glance, unreadable as usual. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t see you...at the exhibition, that is. There were a lot of people there.’
‘There were.’
They sat looking out over the garden. It was a beautiful scene. The sun was already setting, the yellow light already dimming to blue-violet.
‘I saw that portrait exhibition you curated,’ said Luc. ‘When was that...two years ago? It was really good.’
‘Three. It was three years ago now. Thanks.’ She offered him a quick smile. ‘I have to admit I was pleased with it – eventually.’
‘What else have you been doing with yourself?’
‘Oh, you know, this and that. I was filling in for someone’s maternity leave at Ferfylde’s before coming here.’
‘Ferfylde’s? What, persuading the wealthy to buy something that’ll both match the wallpaper and count as an investment? That’s hardly your style, is it?’
‘No, well, there aren’t always the right jobs when you want them,’ she said defensively. ‘Especially if you want to work somewhere in particular. And I do have bills to pay.’
‘You wanted to be in London?’
‘Yep.’ She finished the orange juice and leaned over to put the glass down on the floor. ‘I was stupid enough,’ she said, straightening up, ‘to think that guy you saw me with was worth compromising my career over.’
‘Ah. And now you’ve finished with him, you came here to forget? I’ve been trying to figure out what would make you take this job.’
‘Something like that. But I’m not saying the challenge of creating a retrospective for one of the world’s best living portrait painters didn’t have some appeal too.’
‘Really? Despite the man’s appalling reputation?’
‘His reputation didn’t stop you wanting to work for him.’
‘OK, true.’ He finished his wine. ‘Look, can I get you another drink? Join me in a glass of wine? I could do with another.’
She shook her head. ‘I’m fine, thanks. I don’t drink much.’
‘I remember.’
‘Do you?’ She looked sceptical, or maybe hopeful. That surprised him: she looked as if she wanted to believe him.
‘Sure I do. I remember you used to have one glass of wine; that was your max. You never explained why though.’
‘I didn’t think it was anyone else’s business.’
Luc gave a wry laugh. ‘You see, that’s your problem, Terri. You think no-one should know anything about you. You keep it all locked up inside and then get hurt when people don’t understand you. How can they if you don’t give them a chance?’
Her dark eyes flicked to his face for a minute, then away again.
‘Well if you must know, it’s because my father drank,’ she said. ‘Not all the time. Sometimes he would go for weeks without touching alcohol. Then something...’ She shrugged. ‘...I don’t know...something twisted inside him and he’d spend all night drinking. He’d get completely smashed.’
‘But his work? How could he work if he was drinking? He must have needed such a steady hand.’
‘He wasn’t an alcoholic. Or maybe he was, I don’t know. The next day he’d have a headache in the morning and that was it; he’d get on with it. But it wasn’t that he needed a drink to get through; it was like something built up in him over time and every so often he had to release it.’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t explain it. I just decided I wasn’t going to get like that. It’s the way people change when they’ve been drinking...’ She stopped abruptly and he got the impression that still she was holding something back.
‘But you could have one glass.’ He grinned. ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t suddenly change into a monster.’
‘Oh sure, joke about it,’ she said gloomily. ‘You never know what people will be like. Really ordinary, nice people can become...become...’ She had that hunted expression again that she’d had when he’d picked her up in the car. And he saw her hand shake as she reached up to push a strand of hair behind her ear.
It all clicked into place - of course: she had come here to escape someone.
‘Your ex-boyfriend?’ he said softly. ‘He drank?’
Terri nodded, refusing to meet his eye.
‘Tell me.’
‘No...no. What’s the point, Luc?’
‘I dunno.’ He gave a brief laugh. ‘Didn’t you ever take your angst out on something when you were a kid, when you’d been told off maybe for doing something and sent to your room? I did. Honestly...’ He waited for her to look at him before continuing. ‘...I had a huge stuffed rabbit I used to complain to loudly. That rabbit was the best confidant I ever had. He never judged, always listened.’
She was smiling now, shaking her head at him. ‘What was his name, this wonderful rabbit?’
‘Albert.’
‘Albert? Why?’
‘I have no idea. I liked the name I suppose.’ He repeated the name with a French pronunciation. ‘Alberrrt. Very international.’
She laughed.
‘That’s better. So think of me as your own personal Albert.’ He raised one hand. ‘I promise not to judge...really.’
Terri stared down the garden, watching the leggy purple shadows gradually dissolve in the dying light.
‘OK, well...Oliver’s an actor, very talented, but he hit a rough patch and couldn’t get work. He always liked a drink but, then, with each failed audition, the drinking just got worse. He started chasing bottles of wine with shorts. Then he began to resent that I was working when he wasn’t. Nothing I said or did was right any more.’ She paused, glancing at Luc sidelong. ‘I always swore I’d never stay with someone who hit me. But the first time it happened, he was so out of it, I made excuses. All sorts of excuses. Then the next time, he was drunk when he tried to...’ She shook her head and swallowed hard. ‘He lost it when I pushed him away. I missed work for a couple of days, then had to use make-up to try to cover the bruises.’
She exhaled a long, shuddering sigh. ‘That was it. I finally finished it and moved back to my own place. But almost straight away he began to stalk me. He was there...all the time, watching, waiting...so I had to get away.’
‘Quel salaud.’ Luc reached across and gave her hand a brief squeeze. ‘I’m glad you had the sense to leave. And he’d never find you here.’
‘Don’t even go there. I certainly hope not. He keeps sending me messages but they haven’t been quite so regular lately so...’ She stretched her head forwards, peering down the garden. ‘Who’s that?’ she said sharply.
Luc stared into the dark shadows. ‘It’s Peter. Heading for the studio I imagine.’
Terri nodded, relaxed back. ‘Anyway, now you know: that’s why I won’t drink much. First dad, then Oliver. He changed, you know. He was OK before he started drinking.’
‘Was he? I’m sorry if I can’t agree. There’s got to be something fundamentally wrong with a man who takes his disappointments out on his girlfriend. He’s weak and inadequate. He must be. So he’s had tough times. Everyone does. It’s how you deal with them that shows what you really are.’
He got to his feet, stacked the plates and glasses together, left them on the seat and looked down at her expectantly. ‘So...no more wine. What about tea? I could make you some at the cottage. I also remember how much you liked your tea.’
Terri smiled but already he could sense her guard had come up again.
‘Yes, I know you always found it funny. But if you don’t mind, I think I’ll call it a night. I’m rather tired.’
She stood up, was tantalisingly close. He thought how easy it would be to put his arms round her and hold her.
‘I’d forgotten how well we got on,’ he said. ‘You’re safe with me, you know. I wouldn’t hurt you for the world. We could...’
‘No, Luc, please. Don’t.’ She stretched up a finger as if she was going to press it against his lips, but she let it fall and took a step away from him. ‘We can’t go there again. It wouldn’t work. Why can’t we just be friends?’
‘Friends can still come round for tea though.’
‘Maybe. But not tonight.’ She stared at him, reached her hand to his arm and touched it lightly. ‘Thanks.’ He watched her walk away, up out of the parterre and out of sight.
Luc abandoned the party and wandered back to the bergerie. He poured himself a brandy and sat cradling it, still able to smell her perfume on his clothes.
*
Peter let himself into the studio and flicked on the pendent ceiling lamps. They were fitted with daylight simulation bulbs and a blue-white light filled the space. The smell of oil and turpentine rose to his nostrils and he welcomed it like an old friend. He walked across to his work station and stared critically at the painting on his easel, trying to work out what he should do next, but his mind was too restless to settle to paint. Why had he gone to the party? It had been tedious as usual and absurdly huge. Still he preferred these summer parties, outdoors. Angela’s guests seemed less cloying out in the open air.
He walked into his study and closed the door, poured himself a large whisky, took a stiff draught of it and stood, cradling the glass. Terri had been at the party; he had seen her with Luc. For days their conversation of the previous week had echoed through his head. He rather regretted shouting at her in that way but he refused to have Lindsey drawn in to his past. And he was scared too of Terri’s quick, probing mind. Where once he had thought he had her under control, now he was not so sure, and then there was the way she had tricked him into talking about Madeleine...
After a moment’s reflection, he put the glass down, retrieved a small key ring from the top drawer of his desk, and bent over stiffly to unlock the cupboard below the window. Pulling out a covered cardboard box, he took it and the whisky over to his chair, sat down and cautiously lifted the lid. In one corner was a small stack of photographs and on the top was a black and white photograph of Madeleine, sitting astride the carved zebra of a merry-go-round, the only adult on the ride. He pulled it out, tipped his head back and peered down through his glasses, tilting the photograph to catch the best of the light. She was laughing as she spun into view. They hadn’t long met when he’d taken this; she had been just twenty and unlike anyone he’d ever known before. From the very first moment he had found her enchanting. He stared at the picture; it had been years since he’d looked at these photographs. An ache started to develop deep inside him but he ignored it and kept picking the photographs up, print after faded print.
He found a photograph of the two of them together, taken by a friend. Madeleine had been much shorter than he and his arm was looped loosely round her waist, his head bent sideways over her, a stupid expression on his face. He tried to place where it had been taken but failed. It was such a long time ago and it was hard to associate this tall, good-looking idiot with the man he was today. Where had the years gone and what had he become since then? Shrivelled, bitter, haunted? Peter picked up another photograph: a toddler sitting in a tiny model car, his pudgy hands gripping the steering wheel and an expression of rapt concentration on his face. He immediately put it down and quickly replaced the rest of the photographs on top of it.
He took another mouthful of whisky and was about to close the box up, then hesitated and pulled out a broad flat wooden jewellery box, tipping the lid back. He nearly smiled. On the top of a pile of necklaces was one of Madeleine’s favourites: an assortment of pretty coloured shells intermingled with beads. How typical of her that she should favour something so worthless. But there was some good jewellery here too. He picked up a box containing a pair of gold drop earrings. She’d fallen for them in a shop window and he’d bought them for her just after she’d told him she was expecting another baby. Each one was set with a cascading fall of tiny deep blue sapphires intermingled with three little diamonds. ‘They look like stars in a night sky,’ she’d said. By a cruel twist of fate she’d not lived long enough to enjoy them. Peter eased one off its cushioned bed and held it up to let it fall and catch the light. Beautiful. When Lindsey had reached eighteen he’d intended to give her Madeleine’s jewellery. But then he’d thought better of it, unsure what she would make of being given personal things which had belonged to his first wife and concerned that it might upset Angela. He’d bought her a fancy gold necklace instead.
He put the earrings away and picked up the fairground photograph of Maddy again, his thoughts returning to Terri. Since Celia had mentioned it, he too thought he could see a slight resemblance in the eyes: not the colour of course, but the shape and the way she moved them. And of course she was direct, blunt even. Madeleine had been like that. If you asked her opinion, she gave it frankly. He remembered a painting he’d done of her mother. ‘You haven’t caught her intensity,’ she told him, ‘her devoutness.’ She laughed and put her arms round him as he stood before the easel. ‘You’re too Anglo-Saxon Protestant,’ she said teasingly. ‘You don’t understand how she thinks.’ When he pressed her to explain, she added, ‘Oh I don’t know...think of a dark church smoky with incense and people on their knees, praying. Imagine what it would be like to spend your whole life feeling that you can’t atone enough for your sins.’ She had squeezed him hard, stretched up and kissed him, and left him to it.
In a brusque movement he put the photograph back in the box and slammed the lid on again. ‘Bloody Celia,’ he said, draining the whisky in his glass and dumping the box on the floor.
