| |
So the film night had gone well; Luc was a little amazed at just how well. He hoped it had marked a turning point in his relationship with Terri and that she was beginning to trust him. Four days later, when the village celebrated its Saint’s Day with its biggest festival of the year, he asked her if she’d like to go with him. Despite his optimism, he was a little surprised when she readily agreed. Apparently she’d seen posters for it pinned to every tree and notice board for weeks, and even the usually taciturn Corinne had been enthusing about it.
It fell on a Wednesday, starting mid-afternoon, and Luc managed to persuade Peter to let them leave early. Setting off on the woodland path through to the village, Luc felt a nervous excitement develop in the pit of his stomach. It almost made him laugh: he hadn’t felt like this in years. He was reminded of afternoons skipped from school when he was a kid, sneaked trips to the cinema or football matches, or just to mess about; he’d had his pocket money withdrawn for an entire month once when his father had found out.
Terri flicked him a brief, bright glance, eyes shining. Maybe she thought it was a stolen moment too.
It was just after four when they emerged into Ste. Marguerite des Pins. The streets were already jammed with locals and tourists, all browsing the market stalls squeezed down the old medieval streets.
They idled the stalls, jostled by the crowd, pausing here and there before pushing their way on again. Every kind of local craft and produce was on show: lavender goods, pottery, hats, jewellery, linens, pictures and santons; olives, biscuits, pastries, bread, olive oil and wine. The hot air was heavy with perfume and the smell of food; it vibrated with noise and chatter. Somewhere a jazz band was playing and the music bounced and resonated down the narrow streets. Luc watched Terri with amusement and some frustration as she stopped at nearly every stall, treating herself to perfumed soaps and pot pourri, a beaded necklace and a silk scarf. It was a fête, she protested when he complained, and she wasn’t spending his money. They could split up if he preferred. He didn’t.
They ate ice-cream and drank home-pressed fruit juice, and ended up at the bottom of the village sitting on wooden benches in the gritty boulodrome watching a traditional pétanque competition. Later they pressed with everyone else to see the Saint’s Day parade passing by: a woman, dressed in sackcloth with a large wooden cross hanging round her neck, led a huge purple dragon by a yellow ribbon. Behind her, brightly costumed children marched to the beat of a pipe and drum band.
‘What’s it all about?’ Terri asked him.
‘That’s St. Margaret. She was thrown in a dungeon by a Roman governor for refusing to renounce her Christian faith. Then she was tortured but still refused to recant.’
‘So what’s the significance of the dragon?’
‘I think it represents the devil and she overcame it with the sign of the cross - something like that anyway. She was still put to death though.’ He nodded, his eyes flicking across the scene. ‘I must paint this sometime. It’d make a great image.’
When the procession had gone past, they eased their way back up to the square and dined early at a restaurant opposite the church. A stage had been built to one side of the square ready for music and dancing later in the evening and from their table on the terrace they watched the band setting up.
‘I should’ve gone to the exhibition,’ said Terri, glancing around the heaving terrace as the waitress walked away with their order. ‘I forgot.’
Luc frowned. ‘What exhibition?’
‘The Art Society exhibition.’
‘Why on earth would you want to see that? Don’t you get enough of that every day?’
‘I helped Celia choose which paintings she’d submit. She’ll probably expect me to know all about it.’
‘Non? Vraiment? How did that happen?’
‘She asked me.’
‘Why?
‘Because I have impeccable taste?’
He smiled pityingly. ‘She probably doesn’t even remember you came to see her.’
‘Of course she will. She’s not as batty as she makes out.’
Luc looked at her curiously. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘Oh, I don’t know...something about her,’ Terri said vaguely.
Over the meal they discussed places they’d visited and where else they’d like to travel. Making conversation with her felt easy at last, comfortable, even one on one, like this. He talked about America and a cousin who lived there whom he’d not yet managed to visit, and of his brother, Jean-Pierre, who lived in Canada. His brother was coming over to Paris the following week and Luc had arranged a few days off to go and see him. Terri kept asking him questions about Jean-Pierre: Were they similar? Did he miss not having him closer? Did they get on when they were growing up? He sensed her avid fascination with the idea of a sibling, what it would be like to have one.
‘No, we’re not remotely the same,’ he told her. ‘He’s an economist, not arty at all. We get on but I couldn’t say we’re close exactly.’ He shrugged. ‘But he’s my brother. He’s...’ Luc struggled to articulate it. ‘...he’s always been there. He’s a couple of years older than me and he’s just part of me too, in a way, part of my life.’ He grinned. ‘After all, we’ve shared so many arguments.’
Terri didn’t smile. She was looking at him blankly, chewing her lip.
‘And does your father get on with him?’ she asked.
‘With Jean-Pierre? Oh yes,’ he said lightly. ‘No problem there.’
She nodded, saying nothing, giving no clue to what she was thinking. They finished eating and Luc ordered coffee; Terri asked for tea.
‘Tell me,’ he said, stirring a sugar lump into his espresso. ‘Why did you never talk about your father?’
‘What was there to say?’
‘I don’t know...People usually talk more about their family. You seem very interested in mine.’
She was silent for a long moment. She appeared to be working up to an answer, and he waited. If he pushed too hard, he was sure she’d withdraw.
‘I didn’t see a lot of him, not latterly anyway.’ She took a mouthful of black tea. ‘My father had a new lady in his life.’
‘And you didn’t like her?’
‘It wasn’t that exactly. I didn’t know her well enough to say. It just felt...awkward.’
‘What was he like, your father?’
‘You met him,’ she said defensively.
‘Only briefly.’
She sighed. ‘He was patient. About some things anyway. I suppose you have to be to be a conservator. He would take days just to mend a tiny section of canvas. And he liked to read...biographies and travel books and art books.’ She shrugged. ‘He was very...self-contained.’
He gave an amused, indulgent smile. ‘That’s where you get it from then.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’re very independent.’
‘Why do men always say that like it’s an insult?’
‘I didn’t mean it as an insult. It’s just a fact. You are.’ The smile faded and he nodded reflectively. ‘I think it’s a good thing. I’d much rather a girl was her own person. Why would I want to be with someone who always liked what I liked or did what I wanted to do?’
‘Well I think you’re unusual.’
‘I’m guessing Oliver didn’t like it?’
She shook her head. ‘But he wasn’t the first. Some men seem to feel threatened if you have a mind of your own.’
‘More fool them,’ said Luc. ‘Are you happy to finish this?’ He held up the bottle of wine. She hesitated, then nodded. ‘I think you said once,’ he remarked, dividing the wine between them, ‘that your mother fell ill and died when you were very young. Do you remember much about her?’
‘Not really.’ Terri finished her tea and sat, fingering the glass of wine. ‘She wasn’t ill, you know. I just say that because...I dunno: it’s easier. The truth is...she killed herself.’ She paused. ‘She left home when I was six, but she killed herself two years later. I found out by mistake. I overheard dad and grandma talking.’
‘Mon dieu, that must have been tough.’
‘Yes, it was.’ Still she wouldn’t meet his eye. ‘My father couldn’t cope with being left with a daughter he barely understood. Yes, it was difficult.’
‘But you said your grandmother helped out?’
‘Well, she called it helping. She came to live with us eventually. It wasn’t great but I guess we’d have struggled without her. Dad had no idea about the house. He lived for his work.’ She glanced up at him. ‘Anyway you know all about difficult families.’
‘Yes, but nothing like that.’ Luc took a mouthful of wine, put the glass down and casually rubbed a stain off its base. ‘So has Celia been telling any more stories lately? I’m surprised you think she’s sensible.’
‘Not sensible exactly. Just not as foolish as she seems.’
‘She stills seems cuckoo to me. Are you starting to think her comments about your eyes have some significance, that maybe one of your parents was related to Madeleine after all?’
‘No.’
‘What about your mother: do you know much about her?’
‘Some...enough.’ Terri’s tone had definitely hardened. ‘Why?’
‘Just a thought. Peter is a changed man since you came to work here.’
‘You think?’
‘Definitely. That’s what made me wonder. But it’s a good change.’ Luc lifted his wine glass towards her. ‘I salute you. He can be almost human on a good day.’
Terri grinned, raising her glass too. ‘It’s my charm.’ She promptly changed the subject.
The band struck up at a volume which precluded conversation, and a few minutes later they watched the first people brave the square and start to dance. More quickly followed and soon it was a heaving mass of jigging bodies. Though not yet fully dark, multi-coloured lights had come on, glowing dimly, strung between the trees and posts around the square. They left the restaurant and stood among the people watching at the side. There was a buzz of happiness in the air and Luc noticed Terri, smiling, tapping a foot along in time to the music. A moment later, he grabbed her hand and pulled her onto the dance floor and they too danced and bobbed with the throbbing crowd.
It was dark by the time they left the party and walked back through the whispering woods, both of them silent, lost in their own thoughts. Terri was hugging her arms against her chest, her cardigan slung loosely round her shoulders. An awkwardness had now settled on them as if the intimacy and laughter of the day had been an aberration, a mistake perhaps. Luc flicked a torch side to side in front of them as they padded across the dusty ground, hearing the odd rustle from the tree canopy above or from the obscure blackness of the undergrowth. Terri looked preoccupied. He noticed her flick glances into the darkness occasionally and wondered - as he often did - what she was thinking about. Oliver maybe. Maybe not. He still couldn’t read her.
When they reached the clearing he offered to walk her back to the house but she refused.
‘Then you should take the torch.’ He held it out.
‘I’ll be fine.’
‘Of course you will, but you might need the torch.’
She stretched her hand out for it, brushing his fingers as she took it and he noticed her start a little as if a charge of electricity had passed between them. He’d felt it too and he leaned forward, put a hand behind her head and pressed his mouth to hers greedily, his tongue exploring insistently inside her mouth. Immediately he could feel her respond, putting her arms round him, pressing her body close against his. His lips strayed down to her neck and she tipped her head back, moaning softly.
‘Stay,’ he murmured, stroking her hair back from her face. ‘Please stay.’
But suddenly she was pushing him away, almost fighting him off and he let her go, looking at her in surprise.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘No,’ she said. ‘No, I can’t.’ She took a step backwards, breathing heavily. She actually looked frightened and he was shocked. ‘I didn’t intend this. Can we go slow, Luc...please.? I’m not ready for more yet. Or maybe not at all.’
‘Sure.’ He released a slow, almost inaudible sigh and forced a smile. ‘Sure, I can do slow. Comme un escargot.’
She stared at him a moment, then slipped quickly away across the clearing.
*
Balancing three mugs on the tray, Terri left the kitchen and crossed the studio. She automatically glanced towards Luc’s work station as she passed. It was still empty. Luc’s ‘few days’ in Paris had turned out to be a whole week. Long into the night, after the fête, she had lain awake in bed, going over the events of the day, trying to analyse what was going on between them. She had no idea. Part of her regretted not staying the night, much of her was relieved that she’d had the sense to leave. That last violent encounter with Oliver, when he had tried to drunkenly make love to her, when his anger at her refusal had turned so quickly to brutality, felt as if it would always haunt her. But now, after a dreary weekend, and well into a new week, she thought the place felt absurdly empty without Luc. She was aware that their friendship had jolted a step forward but what significance that had and where it might lead she was reluctant to examine.
She silently placed a mug of coffee down on Peter’s work table and he surprised her by looking round.
‘Ah, Terri,’ he said. ‘Thank you. Nicole says the merchandising samples have arrived.’
‘Yes, they have. They’re in my office. Are you going to take a look?’
‘Yes, I’ll drop by in a few minutes.’
She moved on, dropped off a caffeine-free drink by Nicole’s computer – Nicole progressed through a seemingly endless chain of special healthy diets - and took her own coffee into her office, closing the door behind her. Sitting at her desk again, feeling lethargic in limb and mind, she read a note she’d made to remind herself that the security man was returning that morning. The alarm had gone off a couple of times for no apparent reason and he had promised to sort it out. She hoped he would; Peter had been vociferously furious at having his concentration disturbed.
Her thoughts settled on Peter. Her feelings towards him had become more and more ambivalent. Over the weekend she had reached the end of Josephine’s first diary and started on the second; they were still painful to read. When she was twelve years old, Peter had sent his daughter away to boarding school in England. A couple of weeks before she left, she had written:
He doesn’t want me around the house. He wants to punish me. I told him I would behave better but he said he thought I needed the company of other girls. BUT I DON’T WANT TO GO.
The beginning of her stay in the school in Sussex had been recorded even more emotively:
It’s freezing here and dark. The bed is hard and the girls aren’t at all friendly. The food is awful. I hate it. If maman were alive she wouldn’t have sent me here. I miss her so much it makes me feel sick. Papa is very cruel. Does he want me to die here?
There were similar entries and then nothing except some English clearly written by another hand:
This is the smutty diary of a French slut.
Josie hadn’t written in it again until she’d returned home when she described in detail how much she hated the school and how the other girls made fun of her and bullied her because she was different. She had started to mix English with the French.
I can’t believe how much Tom has grown. He can even walk a little now with aids and stuff but it’s jerky and he falls over a lot. I think he’s forgotten who I am. It was sort of fun spending time with him. He’s a happy little thing, considering. He has a new nurse. Her name is Christine. I’m not sure about her yet. She seems lazy.
I tried to tell papa that I hate the school but he didn’t want to know. He said it would do me good but I don’t think he cares about me anymore. Sami saw me playing pétanque by myself yesterday and he came to offer me sweets again. But I can’t say anything to him. He’s nearly as devoted to papa as he was to maman. He had a funny expression on his face the other day when I was with Tom. I’m not sure whose side he’s on.
Her final entry before returning to England for the new term was an apology to the diary for not taking it with her.
I daren’t be seen writing in you and there’s nowhere safe to hide you.
Returning home for the next holidays, her accounts of school and of her relationship with her father were little changed. Upset by Josie’s clear loneliness and isolation, Terri could feel a simmering resentment building inside her at Peter’s intransigence.
There was a knock at the door of the office and Peter walked in, bringing his coffee with him. Terri dragged her mind back to the present. The samples were in a box on the floor and she unpacked them and spread them out across the table. She and Christophe had settled on a selection of postcards, prints, notebooks and mugs.
‘Are you feeling all right?’ Peter enquired as he watched her do it.
‘Yes. Why?’
‘You don’t seem quite yourself.’ He picked up each sample in turn, studied them, and flicked her an amused glance. ‘Missing Luc I dare say.’
Terri said nothing.
‘There’s a mistake in the title of this painting.’ He handed her one of the postcards. A minute later he added, ‘The image on this mug is askew. It won’t do like that.’
‘No, of course not,’ she replied. ‘I had noticed.’ It came out more crisply than she’d intended and she checked herself, reluctant to meet his eye. ‘I’ll get on to it.’
He frowned. ‘Hurt your professional pride did I? Well, anyway, they’re a good choice, I’d say. Yes, very good.’ He leaned back in his chair and picked up his coffee, regarding her thoughtfully. ‘I was wondering if you’ve seen much of Lindsey lately?’
‘Lindsey? A little, now and then.’
‘She’s dating Thierry, you know.’ He sipped at his coffee, looking at her over the rim of the mug.
‘Yes, I did know actually.’
‘Hm. Thought you might. I imagine fathers are always the last to hear. Is it serious then, do you know?’
‘With Thierry? No, I don’t know.’ She paused. ‘Perhaps you should ask her.’
‘Ask her?’ He looked astonished.
‘Yes. I’m sure she’d love to talk to you but she doesn’t feel she can.’
‘She can see me whenever she wants.’
‘Oh come on Peter, you know that’s not true. You’re so tied up in your work.’
‘I don’t think I need a lecture in how to treat my own daughter from you. You are presuming on my...my respect for you. Anyway I’m...’ He looked uncomfortable. ‘...I’m devoted to her.’
‘Then maybe you should tell her.’ Terri hesitated but couldn’t stop herself from adding, ‘If you must know, Lindsey’s besotted with Thierry but Angela insists that she doesn’t see him. And she’s too nervous to speak to you about him in case you don’t approve either and you send him away.’ She paused. Peter was staring at her with an amazed expression. ‘There’s a lot about your daughter you don’t seem to know. She can play the piano really well. She can sing too. She’d like to study music. She told me so.’
Peter stared at her, a deep frown furrowing his brow, then he got up without another word, abandoned his coffee, and walked out leaving the door wide open. Terri closed it behind him, leant against it, took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. She had not intended to do that. She didn’t know what had got into her. She was interfering in matters which did not concern her. She put a hand to her head; this was crazy behaviour. It was presumptuous to think she could fight other people’s battles and she was taking the whole thing too personally.
She walked back to her desk and tried to concentrate on the job in hand. The security man had not yet arrived. The first of the loaned paintings was being shipped in later that week so she hoped he wouldn’t let her down. Everything needed to be in place and working. She glanced at her watch and picked up the phone.
*
Peter exchanged a few words with the newsagent, paid for his magazine, and left the shop flicking through its pages. It was a British art periodical which he had on a regular order. Even if he affected disinterest in the current art establishment and its encircling sycophants, he couldn’t resist knowing what it was saying and doing. And, though she was uncertain when it would be printed, Terri had told him that an advertisement for his retrospective would appear in its pages. He began flicking through the magazine in search of it. He was becoming nervously aware of the event looming over him. It could be a glorious pinnacle to his career or an insignificant flop. He tried not to care but he couldn’t pretend to himself: he cared very much.
He reached the road, abandoned the magazine for a moment, cast a glance up and down and then wandered across towards the tree-shaded car park. He found his car beside the trunk of one of the huge plane trees and eased himself in. Sitting behind the wheel, he continued looking through the magazine but could find nothing. The gallery in Nice were arranging the bulk of the publicity for the exhibition; perhaps that had been a mistake and Terri would have done it better. He tossed the magazine down on the passenger seat.
He thought about Terri’s barbed conversation of the day before. What had got into her lately? But it was the revelation about Lindsey which occupied his mind most – he had thought about it off and on ever since. Was he really as unapproachable as Terri had suggested? Not to his own daughter, surely? He loved Lindsey. She must know that. Though perhaps he did not give her a chance to talk as much as he should...well, ever really. Not since she was little. He blew out a rueful breath. Maybe not even then. It was a chastening thought. He drummed the steering wheel with his fingers agitatedly. How would he approach it now? He never knew what to say. Madeleine had been the only woman he’d ever found it easy to talk to – perhaps because she always seemed to know what he wanted to say before he even said it. His eyes glazed over and he remembered another daughter in another time, a whole lifetime ago, it seemed. He’d never known what to say to her either.
With his mind elsewhere, he watched a young family return to their car opposite, slowly install themselves and then drive off. A car drove into a space on the row immediately beyond. Peter watched a man get out of the driver’s side then walk round to hold the door open while an elegant woman slid out of the passenger seat. Peter stared more fixedly: that was Angela. The man looked familiar too: clean-shaven, square jawed, lean and muscular, with a brushstroke of grey at each temple. Peter had seen him at the summer barbeque: an American fitness instructor, if Peter’s memory served him right, talking about opening a gym in Avignon, looking for financial backers. The name escaped him though.
Closing the car door, the man moved across and pressed himself against Angela, pushing her, almost roughly, back against the side of the car. Peter saw her giggle – he could almost hear it in his head – and glance furtively round. The man leaned in and gave her a long, lingering kiss while his hands fondled her breasts then roamed down the sides of her body.
Peter watched, open-mouthed. This was the kiss of a lover. His thoughts felt both frozen and yet racing, trying to make sense of it. A host of little actions and events played across his mind and began to form a pattern. He remembered odd words or gestures; glances he had caught at parties; phone calls cut short when he entered the room or text messages, earnestly read when Angela thought his attention was elsewhere. There had been nights spent away at short notice – ‘Jill has got tickets for the theatre in Avignon; we’ll stay over rather than be late back’ – and, yes, when he thought about it, a dreamy air of satisfaction about her the next day. He wondered when it had started, this catalogue of deception. With a deadening feeling of clarity he knew that it was not recent. He had seen it all and yet not registered it until now. Angela’s social circle had long been the centre of her existence; Peter lived on the periphery of her life.
He watched the kiss end and wondered at the public nature of it. This was the village where he had lived for the past fifty years. Did everyone already know that his wife had a lover? Or maybe she had had several? Unwillingly, he continued to watch them. Angela glanced around again; she appeared self-conscious suddenly and they exchanged a few words before moving apart. She said something else, leaned forward again to give the man a brief kiss and, smiling, walked away. Peter saw her get into her own car, glance back once, and drive off. The man left moments later.
Peter couldn’t move. He sat, staring out but seeing nothing, his brain numbed. He expected to feel anger, almost welcomed it, but instead a slow wash of pain, embarrassment and remorse flooded over him, each jostling for the upper hand. He’d been so stupid, so deeply stupid. It was all his own fault; in recent years he knew he had neglected her. Before he’d married Angela, friends had warned him that the age gap was too great, that he would live to regret it. Of course he had ignored them but perhaps they had been right. He was an old man now and Angela, though herself middle-aged, was still a very attractive woman. Could she be blamed for wandering? Was that how it had been: a search for younger flesh, more energy, more life? The first few years of their marriage had needed work, of course they had, but they’d been close back then, had enjoyed some real passion. Looking back now he realised how much had slipped and faded away over the years without him really noticing. He had put too much of himself into his art and not enough into cherishing her as he ought. Again he thought of Lindsey and felt another pang of remorse.
He’d failed in so many aspects of his life. For years he’d tried to suppress the knowledge of it but now he felt its full force and a stealthy, enveloping cloak of regret and self-loathing swept over him. He caught sight of the art magazine on the seat and threw it roughly to the floor. The whole business seemed so pointless suddenly. Even his own retrospective was a waste of time. Terri had said she wanted to use the exhibition to interpret his life, or perhaps it was to use his life to interpret his pictures. Either way, what was his life? And some of the most important paintings of his life wouldn’t even be in the exhibition. There were so many things he wished he’d done differently.
He finally gathered his thoughts and drove slowly and carefully out of the car park, taking the road home. He wondered what he should do now: confront Angela or pretend he knew nothing? Did anyone else in the house know? Maybe everyone knew, except him.
Peter drove the car up the track home, parked in front of one of the garages and switched the engine off. Again he sat while his jumbled thoughts ran pell-mell. After all this time, what could he say to Angela now? And if he overreacted, it could ruin everything. In any case who was he to start handing out recriminations? As long as she didn’t make a fool of him in his own house, he thought he could turn a blind eye. After all she’d had to put up with over the years, he thought he owed her that. And he must try to show her some real affection; he was very fond of her. But if the money he had seen leaving their bank accounts was going into the pocket of her lover as he now suspected, then that would have to be addressed. There were changes to be made...in all sorts of ways.
He eased himself out of the car to find Sami standing a few metres away, watching him with a concerned expression.
‘Vous allez bien, Monsieur?’
After all these years, he’d never been able to persuade Sami to address him less formally.
‘Yes, I’m all right, Sami,’ Peter replied in French. ‘Could I have a word?’
Sami raised a finger to touch his cap in his habitual gesture and waited for Peter to reach him. They walked slowly up the path to the house together.
*
Terri stretched her eyes and turned the page of the diary.
Everyone loves Tom. He’s always smiling and trying to do something new. I’ve heard papa say several times that he’s just like his mother. It hurts like crazy when he says that. He doesn’t seem to see her in me but she must be there. It’s hard not to like Tom though. He’s fun and really affectionate. Still I sometimes wish he wasn’t there. Am I wicked to think that? But I can’t help it. It’s just that if he weren’t there, papa would notice me.
Christine has it OK these days because Tom is going to a special school now. People sometimes think he’s stupid because he struggles to talk properly and he drools but it’s just because his muscles don’t work properly. You can see in his eyes that he’s really smart and sometimes he’s very funny.
Papa is doing a lot more these days. He’s been travelling quite a bit. Christine said he’s probably looking for love. That made me laugh!
All Josie’s diary entries were in English now and her handwriting had markedly improved. Over the preceding pages, she had recounted her slow integration into the English school and she was gradually learning to stand up for herself. It was noticeable however that she never took the diary back with her; all her notes were written during her holidays.
I still haven’t had a letter from Michael and he promised he would write during the holidays. I can’t write to him if he doesn’t write to me first. And if he doesn’t write I’m not going to speak to him when I go back.
Michael was a youth who worked at the stables where Josephine went riding from school once a week. For some time now her notes had been peppered with remarks about boys, complaints about her periods and frustration that her breasts weren’t growing quickly enough. The girl was growing up fast.
Terri had grown to like Josie. She was passionate about what or who she liked and at times quite witty. She was prone to self-pity but by this stage likely to finish any melancholic lament with a self-deprecating jokey remark. What had made this bright, energetic girl ultimately go out and take her own life? It was the question which lurked constantly at the back of Terri’s mind but which she was scared to consider too closely. For, if Celia was right and Josie didn’t kill herself in the woods, then Terri was increasingly convinced that she threw herself off a London bridge nearly nine years after leaving Provence for good.
