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The next Wednesday Christophe was due to visit the studio to discuss progress and plans for the retrospective. On the Tuesday evening, Terri worked late, adding notes to her timeline, making sure everything was clear and well-presented, determined to make a good professional impression, though what preoccupied her most was how Peter would behave. When she’d told him about the visit he’d been rude about the gallery in general and Christophe in particular. But it would be impossible to keep the two men apart; without Peter’s input - and approval - the meeting would be meaningless.
Christophe arrived soon after ten, studied Terri’s presentation and looked through the final choice of paintings. Afterwards she made coffee and invited Peter to join them. He greeted Christophe perfunctorily and watched him suspiciously while, in a vain effort to ingratiate himself, the young man talked too much about the gallery, gushed about Peter’s work and stressed how much they were all looking forward to the exhibition. He was trying too hard.
‘I have discussed the publicity with our director, Monsieur Stedding,’ he continued under Peter’s baleful gaze. ‘The gallery has a photographer we use always who will be good for the publicity shots. And I have approached some newspapers and magazines to make articles. They will contact you for the interviews.’
‘Interviews? I never said I’d do interviews.’ Peter glanced darkly at Terri.
‘It might be better to just do one,’ Terri suggested. The idea of Peter sounding off to half a dozen newspapers was alarming. ‘Do an exclusive for one of the bigger publications. Make it more important.’
Peter grunted ambiguously.
‘And this is a list of paintings I suggest we merchandise.’ Christophe handed Peter a sheet of paper. ‘Are you content with this?’
‘Merchandising.’ Peter glanced over the list with distaste. ‘It’s a tawdry thing to do with a work of art.’
Christophe frowned, clearly unsure on the vocabulary but picking up the negative tone. ‘But it was agreed in the contract, was it not?’ he said defensively.
‘Yes, yes, I know.’ Peter gave a resigned sigh. ‘You have to make money. I understand.’
‘Indeed. And we need to make the decisions quickly. Time is hurrying. Do you agree with my choices?’ He pointed impatiently at the paper in Peter’s hand.
Peter thrust the list at Terri. ‘Depends what you’re going to reproduce them on. I don’t want any of those desperately awful tea towels or umbrellas or...what did I see once?...toilet roll holders. Nothing like that.’ He turned abruptly to Terri. ‘What do you think?’
‘I’m not sure about the Earl,’ she said, studying the list. ‘In any case I think I might have difficulty getting permissions for it.’ She turned to Christophe. ‘I think the Durance landscape would be better. The light in that one is striking and it would add variety.’
‘It is an unknown work though,’ protested Christophe.
‘Exactly,’ said Terri. ‘And it has instant appeal. Not all the paintings need to be famous. If they’re popular at the exhibition, the goods will sell.’
‘Oh for God’s sake.’ Peter put his empty mug down and got to his feet with an exasperated grunt. ‘I’ve got work to do. You can argue it out between you.’ He looked directly at Terri. ‘I’ll let you decide. But make sure he doesn’t do anything embarrassing with my paintings. I’ll trust you to keep him honest.’
They watched him pad out, closing the door behind him. Christophe turned to look at Terri, eyebrows raised, and nodded knowingly.
‘You have made a conquest with this man,’ he said admiringly. ‘He lets you decide. I am amazed.’
‘Ssh,’ hissed Terri. ‘There’s nothing wrong with his hearing.’
But she was amazed at Peter’s behaviour herself. And obscurely uncomfortable with it.
*
We can’t go there again. It wouldn’t work. Why can’t we just be friends?
For the umpteenth time, Terri’s clear rebuff ran through Luc’s head. Friends. He supposed this at least was progress. A few weeks ago she would barely give him the time of day. He pulled his eyes away from the laptop screen and picked up the glass of wine sitting on the table nearby. He would have to watch this. Since he’d stopped smoking it was too tempting to subdue his cravings and tension by substituting with alcohol and he didn’t want to end up like Oliver. The man sounded like a complete pig. Just thinking about him made anger pulse through him again. And he remembered Terri, shaking, barely able to talk about it. Luc had never been a violent man but he thought someone like Oliver could change that.
He turned back to the screen, wrote another couple of sentences, then found himself thinking about Terri again. When they’d dated in London she’d been different: easier somehow and with more sparkle in her eyes, though it had always been difficult to get her to talk about anything personal. He had just been starting to know her when that article had come out and the whole relationship had come crashing down. Those dusky charcoal eyes of hers. Not exactly sparkling now but still they held fire and passion, a passion he guessed she found easier to give to her work than to another person.
But did her eyes resemble Madeleine’s? He hadn’t had a chance to look at the portrait since. The idea of a link was intriguing - how could that have come about? - but it was doubtful: Celia came out with all sorts of bizarre statements. Still, if it were true, there could be a good story behind it, a unique slant on an eccentric and infamous character. And what interesting titbits of information did Peter tell Terri when they were closeted together in her office – odd comments which seemed insignificant in the context of her work but might be truly revealing of the man?
He finished the last mouthful of wine and pushed the glass away. There was no doubt that Terri had been pleased to see him at the party. If he wanted to get close to her again, he needed to be patient. The attraction between them still lingered; he could feel it.
*
Terri parked the car and carefully unpacked the paintings from the back. It was the Friday and she had brought the damaged and dirty canvases to a restoration studio in Avignon which Christophe had recommended. It was the only one on his list which had promised to complete the work in the limited time available. The painting conservator, Stéphanie Lebrun, was a short, round ball of a woman with a glum expression and a sad offer of refreshment. Her workshop was at the back of an uneven stone courtyard, hidden away through an arch behind tall, wooden gates.
Stepping inside the low stone outbuilding, Terri was immediately reminded of her father. It was not so much the clutter of tools and equipment nor the procession of paintings in various stages of undress as the all-pervasive smell which conjured him up so vividly. No matter how often he opened the doors and the windows to ventilate the space, he never succeeded in removing the distinctive aroma of oils, spirits and adhesives which hung in the air. As a child Terri would feel her nostrils start to tingle as soon as she walked in; invariably she would sneeze. She did it in front of Madame Lebrun. Perhaps it was a Pavlovian reflex in the familiar surroundings; Peter’s oils and mediums never had that effect on her.
Stéphanie assessed the paintings, complained plaintively that one of them, which had a small hole in the canvas, was in worse condition than she had expected, but said she saw no problem in completing the work in advance of the exhibition. Terri thanked her and took the road back to Le Chant, memories of her father continuing to parade through her mind. She remembered him playing Monopoly with her when she had measles – a special event because he never normally played games with her; she remembered watching him standing smoking a cigarette outside his studio, staring into space, wondering what he was thinking about; she remembered him shouting at her when he found her in his bedroom, searching through the cupboards. It was an indistinct memory, more emotion than detail, and had something to do with her mother. What had she been looking for? She could not now recall.
Turning off the Route Nationale to loop into the foothills of the Luberon, Terri’s thoughts moved reluctantly to her mother. It was so hard now to remember her, harder still to separate out the genuine memories from what she’d been told or heard from somewhere else, or even from her own imagination. Waking up slowly the previous morning, her thoughts had slipped seamlessly from a dream she barely remembered to a memory of being with her mother when she was a little girl. They had been on a day trip up to London and, somewhere in the centre of town, a group of boys had stopped them and asked the way somewhere. She remembered that the boys had funny accents and that her mother had replied using strange words. French? She had no idea. Schoolgirl French or the mother tongue of a French native? Perhaps neither and Terri had made the whole thing up.
Arriving back at Le Chant, she parked the car and wandered back up to the house. Angela was sitting on one of the chairs on the terrace, reading a magazine. She looked up at the sound of Terri’s footsteps.
‘Terri?’ She tossed the magazine on the table under the pergola, rose to her feet and crossed to meet the younger woman half way across the terrace. ‘I was hoping to see you.’ She lifted her sunglasses to push them up into her hair.
‘Hello Angela...Lovely day,’ Terri added vaguely.
‘Are you doing anything tomorrow evening?’ Angela’s green eyes studied Terri’s expectantly.
‘Er...no, I don’t think so.’
‘Good. Would you have dinner with me? Peter’s going to see a friend who’s ill and Lindsey’s working late. I hate eating alone.’ She smiled, like a politician. ‘Anyway, it’ll give us a chance to get to know each other. Say seven-thirty for cocktails?’
‘Sure. Thanks.’
Terri continued into the house, frowning. Angela’s manner had definitely cooled of late. So why the invitation?
*
They ate outside, sitting at the long iroko table under the pergola with two citronella candles lit to keep the flies away. The sun still bathed the terrace in a warm glow, dappled where they sat by the fronds of the vine climbing overhead. Across the background thrum of the cicadas, birdsong started up again as the air slowly cooled. Angela had gone to some trouble with the meal, serving melon and blackberries doused with limoncello, followed by grilled John Dory with French beans and tiny roast potatoes, all accompanied by generous amounts of red wine. But Terri had drunk little, despite much pressing, and the conversation had so far been polite but stilted. A succession of questions about herself, her travels and her family had produced only wary, guarded answers. Behind the apparently casual questions she was sure Angela had an agenda.
Now Angela returned from the kitchen with two dishes of crème brûlée and a chilled bottle of white wine. She poured the wine into fresh glasses.
‘So the work’s going well?’ She picked up her spoon. ‘All going to plan?’
‘Yes, more or less. Though there’s still a lot to sort out to make sure everything comes together.’
Angela took a spoonful of dessert. ‘And Peter seems to have warmed to you. Honestly, I’m amazed. He’s not the easiest person to work with and he was in such a bad mood after that fall. What have you done to make him so co-operative?’
‘Me?’ Terri gave a weak laugh. ‘I don’t think I’ve done anything. And we do still have...differences.’
‘It’s a brave person who argues with Peter,’ said Angela lightly, ‘...or perhaps someone with, shall we say, particular qualities?’
Terri didn’t reply, unsure what she was being drawn into. Angela abandoned her dessert and picked up her glass, looking at Terri speculatively.
‘I see you and Lindsey seem to be hitting it off. I’m afraid she finds it quiet here. But she told me you went together to a concert in Ste. Marguerite the other night. Did you have a good time?’
Terri had not been anywhere with Lindsey since the shopping trip but she remembered seeing the posters in the village.
‘Yes, the tribute band.’ Terri spoke a little too quickly. ‘They were very good, though not really my thing, honestly.’ She frowned. ‘But surely Lindsey could move away if she finds it too quiet here, go and live somewhere bigger? She doesn’t have to stay.’
Angela didn’t quite manage a smile.
‘No, of course...she could. The thing is: she’s quite nervous. I try to encourage her to get out and meet people but she likes to stay close. Perhaps it’s just as well; she’s always had a tendency to fall in with the wrong sort. She’s easily led. I suppose it makes me...protective.’
The barb was unmistakeable. Out of the corner of her eyes, Terri watched Angela down the last of her wine and reach for the bottle.
‘Wine not to your taste?’ enquired Angela, glancing at Terri’s barely touched glass.
‘It’s very nice, thank you. I just don’t drink a lot.’
‘I see.’ Angela refilled her own glass and picked it up, taking a generous draught.
Terri finished eating, laying the spoon down and folding the napkin onto the table. ‘Delicious,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
Angela was staring at her, an odd expression on her face.
‘I suppose you’ve heard about all the sadness in Peter’s life?’ she said.
Terri hesitated. ‘Yes, well...some.’
‘Peter told you?’
‘No. Lindsey. She told me his first wife died in childbirth - when I asked about the portrait.’
‘Ah yes, the portrait...The one you admire so much.’ Angela nodded, toying with her unused dessert fork. ‘But then Lindsey doesn’t know much of what happened before she was born. We thought it was wiser that way.’
‘Why? What did happen?’
‘You mean you don’t know about the tragedy?’
‘Do you mean about Madeleine’s son?’ said Terri uncertainly. ‘Celia did mention that he’d died.’
‘Celia...yes, I’m sure she did. Did she say how?’
‘No.’
‘Maybe that’s just as well. Her version of events does tend to vary according to her mood.’ Angela glanced across at Terri as if considering the wisdom of saying any more. ‘The truth is he drowned. Tom – that was his name, but I suppose you knew that already – loved to swim. Went swimming every day virtually. And one afternoon he drowned in the swimming pool. Everyone was out except Josie...’ She shrugged. ‘...and the servants, I suppose. Josie was his older sister by the way.’ Terri nodded. ‘Oh, of course you knew that too. And you didn’t know about the drowning?’
‘No. How old was he?’
‘He was nine. Anyway, by the time we all got back, well, nothing to be done, I’m afraid. It was a tragic accident, but then he was very disabled; it was a miracle he could swim at all really.’
‘That’s awful,’ said Terri, automatically reaching for her glass and swallowing a mouthful of wine.
‘So you’re very pally with Celia then.’ It was a statement, not a question.
‘No, not at all. But she asked for advice about paintings for an exhibition so I went to look at them. Inevitably we got talking.’
‘About Madeleine?’
‘Yes, a little.’
‘Really?’ Angela looked at her sceptically. ‘Madeleine’s not the most obvious subject, is she? Tell me, did Celia approach you in London or wait till you came here?’
‘In London? I’m sorry, I’m not sure what you mean.’
‘Celia likes to go back to London once or twice a year to see exhibitions, she says. Maybe she approached you there, told you she could arrange something to your advantage? Or did she come to the studio when Peter wasn’t there and produced her little plan?’
Terri straightened in the chair. ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. Why are you so cross?’
‘Cross? I think I have a right to be cross. I’m talking about inheritance, Terri, that’s what I’m talking about.’
‘What inheritance?’
‘What did Celia tell you about Josephine?’ Angela pressed. ‘No, let me guess: she told you that Josephine had a terrible row with Peter and ran away and that you’re probably the baby she was carrying at the time?’
‘Yes, actually. That is what she said.’
‘Of course. Because she’s done it before. She’s trying to create a fictitious granddaughter of Madeleine.’
‘Why?’
‘Oh come on, you can’t be that naïve.’ Angela smiled grimly. ‘Peter is a wealthy man. In France, direct line children and their offspring cannot be disinherited.’
‘So how would she benefit from that?’
Angela snorted softly. She had drunk a great deal now and had a wild-eyed, woolly air. ‘Celia? She won’t, I assure you. She just hates me and wants revenge. But you might benefit, quite a lot – if you got away with it.’
‘Me? You think I’m after Peter’s money?’ Terri shook her head in amazement, felt anger bubble up inside her and briskly got to her feet. ‘That’s so...Jesus, words fail me. What do you think I am?’
Angela sat back and regarded her dispassionately, cradling the last of her wine. ‘Don’t get all offended and go off in a huff. Look at it from my point of view. You come here to stay with us. I don’t know anything about you. Then you get all pally with Celia. What am I supposed to think?’
‘I’ve come here to do a job.’ Terri leaned forward onto the table and fixed Angela with a hotly indignant gaze. ‘I am not pally with Celia and whatever plot she might have hatched, it’s nothing to do with me. I am not after Peter’s money. I don’t even believe half she says.’
‘Good.’ Angela continued to study her shrewdly. ‘Then there’s no need to get upset,’ she said, more calmly. ‘Please sit down. It was just something that crossed my mind when I saw you talking with her. That’s why I wanted to get to know you better...and get a few things clear between us.’ She picked up her glass, held it towards Terri and smiled a little drunkenly. ‘Let’s drink a toast to our new friendship.’ She waited, while Terri reluctantly sat down and did the same thing. ‘Friendship,’ said Angela and downed the last mouthful of wine. ‘The thing is,’ she said, putting the glass down, ‘you can’t be Peter’s granddaughter, because Josephine didn’t run away at all.’
‘Why, what happened to her?’
Angela sat back. Despite the softness and slur of her speech, her eyes still held a steely purpose.
‘Josephine had a row with Peter – that much is true. I hadn’t been here long enough to know her well but apparently it wasn’t the first – everyone said she had become very difficult after her mother died. And her brother had recently drowned so of course she was...distraught.’ She paused. ‘But I’m afraid Josephine went off and killed herself...out in the woods. She even left a suicide note, quite explicit, said she was sorry but she couldn’t cope any more. The body wasn’t found but the police thought that meant nothing. People had gone missing in the woods before. They’re enormous and full of wild animals: boar, you know, that kind of thing. But you can see why we fudged the issue with Lindsey. These things can be very impressionable on a young mind.’
She leaned forward again, staring into Terri’s face.
‘So you won’t tell her about this, will you? In fact I’d advise you don’t tell anyone.’ She raised her eyebrows and looked at Terri meaningfully. ‘Peter would be absolutely furious if he found out we’d been talking about it.’ She nodded once to emphasise the point, her eyes never leaving Terri’s face.
*
Barely a quarter of an hour later, Angela retired to her room. She had insisted that Corinne would clear the dishes in the morning but Terri ignored her, and took everything back to the kitchen. Clearly Angela had forgotten that the following day was Sunday and Corinne wouldn’t be working. In any case Terri was glad of the activity and loaded the dishwasher before wandering back outside.
The last of the light had faded to nothing and a velvet darkness had settled over the grounds. She blew out the candles on the table then found herself staring in the direction of the swimming pool, its eerie desolation and disuse now explained. But these were unnaturally long shadows that had been cast; Tom had drowned decades ago.
Her thoughts were muddled and contradictory. So everything Celia had told her was false. Or was it? Why had the old woman not told Terri that Tom had drowned? And what other information might she be holding back? Presumably Angela was the more credible witness. Of course she was – Celia was several cards short of a pack. And yet Celia could be remarkably lucid when she chose and Terri was convinced she was not as confused as she pretended. Madeleine’s studio did, after all, exist, just as she’d said. But, feuds aside, why would either of them lie? Clearly Angela had Lindsey’s inheritance in mind. And Celia? Did she just like causing trouble? Angela’s pointed intervention had somehow only served to make Terri suspect there was more truth in what Celia said than she’d thought.
But how and why had Tom drowned given that he swam every day? Terri turned and looked towards the top of the east wing, towering above her, an inky shape against the midnight blue of the sky. Her mother had committed suicide in London. But suppose she had been Peter’s daughter, and Angela was wrong and Josephine had indeed run away? Her behaviour and her desperation might have had their roots here, in Provence, several years before. And Celia said the girl had kept a diary. If Terri could find those diaries, perhaps she could prove it one way or the other...and maybe even begin to understand why her mother had behaved the way she did. It occurred to her for the first time, with a feeling very akin to hunger, that she needed to understand why.
