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Holding her mobile to her ear, Terri got up and pushed the door to. Luc was hammering at the other end of the studio and it was hard to hear. The voice continued, talking at length, somewhere far away.
‘Of course, if that’s what you want, Mrs Biedeker,’ she replied, when the voice paused. ‘No, of course...Yes, I understand...Yes...Yes...Of course. But we do have excellent security meas...’ The voice cut across her. Terri’s face set in a resigned expression. ‘Would it help if you spoke to Mr Stedding yourself?’ she enquired eventually. ‘No, I see. Well thank you for letting me know.’
Terri put the phone down and exhaled a long slow breath. With just eight weeks to go, the wheels appeared to be coming off all her careful plans for the retrospective. The day before she had heard that one of the paintings being shipped from Germany had gone astray.
‘How can you have lost it?’ she’d demanded of the man from the specialist German carrier on the telephone. ‘It’s a valuable painting and you assured me it would be traceable throughout its journey to get here.’
‘It is not lost,’ he asserted smoothly in his impeccable English. ‘It is just not where we expected it to be. It is misplaced.’
He spoke as if no human hand had had any part in the problem, as if the painting had wandered off of its own accord. She wouldn’t have been surprised to hear him say, ‘the painting is misguided.’
‘I think it might have got into the wrong consignment, that’s all,’ he said. ‘It has been very busy here. We will track it down very shortly I am sure. I shall get back to you,’ he added, and put the phone down.
There was a problem with the paintings which were being restored too. Just that morning Terri had rung up to get an approximate date for collection to be told that Stéphanie Lebrun had not been well and ‘wasn’t quite up-to-date with her work.’ After a fraught conversation in a mixture of French and English with the woman’s partner – a softly spoken woman with a harassed air - she found out that Stéphanie hadn’t even started Peter’s paintings yet. ‘It was just a virus,’ the woman said when Terri asked why she hadn’t been told. ‘She didn’t think it would last this long. But she’s better now and has just started work again. She’s sure she’ll have them ready in time.’
And now Mrs Biedeker, an American lady who lived in Switzerland, had changed her mind at the last moment and was refusing to let her treasured painting take part in the exhibition. To make matters worse it was one of the pictures which Peter had particularly wanted in the show. There had been a lot of robberies of famous paintings in the south of France recently, she’d said. They’d been reported on the news and she ‘simply wouldn’t risk it’. ‘These thieves are cleverer than all your fancy security, Miss Challoner, believe me,’ she’d drawled. ‘I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.’
Terri blamed herself. She thought that, distracted by things which had nothing to do with the exhibition, she’d taken her eye off the ball for too long and that this was the inevitable result. Josephine had occupied too many of her waking thoughts. Nevertheless, she would have to tell Peter and he was not going to be pleased.
She got up, desultorily, and opened the office door again. It was already lunch-time. Luc had disappeared and Peter appeared to be still deeply immersed in his painting. Deciding to tell him about Mrs Biedeker another time, Terri grabbed her bag and wandered up to the house for lunch. Corinne was in the kitchen, laying the table, and looked up as Terri walked in.
‘There’s been a man asking for you,’ she said, in French. ‘An Englishman.’ Her intonation was accusing, as if Terri had been keeping something from her.
‘An Englishman,’ Terri repeated stupidly.
‘Yes. Oleeva...something. I wrote it down on the pad by the phone.’ Corinne waved a finger vaguely towards the hallway. She frowned, staring into Terri’s pallid face. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Where is he?’ demanded Terri.
‘He’s in Ste. Marguerite. He wanted to check you were here.’
‘And you said I was?’
‘He said he was a friend. Why, isn’t he? Did I do the wrong thing?’
Terri didn’t answer but quickly looked out of the window as if Oliver might already be standing there. She took a deep breath, trying to quell her rising panic.
‘When was this Corinne? How long ago?’
Corinne shrugged one uncertain shoulder, glancing towards the clock on the wall. ‘Less than an hour ago. Should I have told him you weren’t here?’
She looked so guilt-ridden, Terri reached out a hand and touched her arm.
‘No, it’s fine,’ she said, trying to sound reassuring. ‘Really.’
‘Is he a friend?’
Terri shook her head. ‘He used to be. It’s OK.’ She said it as much to calm herself as Corinne and left the kitchen, all thoughts of lunch gone. She needed to know where Oliver was; she needed to decide what to do.
She went to her rooms and paced up and down, stopping intermittently to stare out of the patio doors into the grounds. She’d been stupid, allowing herself to think he’d lost interest. There hadn’t been a message from him in weeks and, despite sensing the ominous nature of his silence, she’d told herself that perhaps it was finally over. And there had been so many other things which had smoothly replaced him in her mind. Deep down, she supposed she’d always known that it would come to this.
She glanced outside again. He could be there already, waiting for her, standing behind some shrub or tree in the garden, the way he always had. She guessed he’d hired a car. If she went to the garages she’d know if there was a strange car parked there but she couldn’t bring herself to leave. Fear clutched at her heart and dulled every rational thought. She forced herself to make a mug of tea but barely managed to drink half of it, trying to decide what to do, thinking through her options. There weren’t many. It was foolish to hide away here; she couldn’t stay away from him forever. A weak resolve began to form. Sooner or later she was going to have to confront him and better that it should be on her terms than on his. With a shaky hand, she threw away the remains of her tea, left her room and walked through the house and out onto the terrace.
It was a surprise that nothing looked different. The grounds were calm and inviting in the sunshine and the rolling orchards and vines still stretched out to a blue, peaceful horizon. Terri checked the parking area: there was no strange car. She retraced her steps to the terrace. Perhaps she should go into Ste. Marguerite and meet him there. No. She preferred to see him here. This - at least for the moment - was her home, her ground.
Restless, she walked down into the parterre and then across into the olive grove, toyed with going to find Luc at the bergerie but, having kept him at a distance, baulked now at involving him in her personal problems. This was her battle to fight. She wandered on restlessly, regularly glancing round, then changed her mind and turned back towards the house. She was half way through an imaginary confrontation in the hallway of the mas when a voice spoke behind her.
‘Terri. So you are here, baby. I couldn’t really believe it, you know?’
Terri turned slowly and saw Oliver little more than a couple of yards away. How had she not heard him? She felt winded, frozen to the spot.
‘Oliver,’ she heard herself say. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Looking for you, baby. And I’ve finally found you. I couldn’t get anything out of that friend of yours...what’s her name? Begins with an S...Sally is it?’
Terri didn’t reply.
Oliver stared at her a moment, then gave up waiting for a response.
‘Well, whoever. So I went to Ferfylde’s. They said they didn’t know for sure where you were ‘cause you’d been kind of coy about what you were going to do, but then someone mentioned they’d seen you reading some advertisement.’ Oliver smiled and took a couple of steps closer. She could see the line of sweat on his upper lip, could smell the sour aftertaste of wine on his breath. His face was pale and puffy. ‘Someone in the bar told me I could walk through the woods but, Christ, it’s a bit hot for walking.’ He reached out suddenly and grabbed her by the arm. ‘You left me, baby.’ He smiled but his voice was accusing, bitter. ‘You shouldn’t have left me.’ He pulled her towards him, gave her a brief fierce kiss, and pushed her away again, still gripping her tightly by the arm. ‘I thought you’d come to your senses eventually but then you ran away and left me. I think I deserved better than that Terri.’
He raised his other hand and began to stroke her cheek. Terri could feel herself shaking, a tremor which started in her feet and reverberated all the way up her legs and body. Anger fought with her fear.
‘It’s over,’ she said, her tongue sticking to the dryness of her palate. ‘Oliver? Do you hear? It’s over between us. Let me go.’
‘Don’t be stupid, baby. Of course it’s not over. We’re supposed to be together. I’ve come to take you back. I’ve forgiven you.’
‘You’ve forgiven me?’ She stared at him, wide-eyed, feeling the sweat trickling down her back. ‘You’ve got a nerve. No, Oliver. No. I’m not coming back. I’ve got a new life now.’
‘What? Here?’ He laughed mockingly, looking round. She could feel his fingers digging deeper and deeper into the flesh of her arm. ‘Give me a break. This isn’t your sort of place any more than mine. C’mon.’ He pulled her close again and locked his lips onto hers in another aggressive kiss. She put her free hand to his shoulder and tried to push him away but he grabbed her wrist and held her all the harder, fighting easily against her convulsive efforts to free herself.
She tried to pull her knee up to catch him in the groin. It was a mistake. He was angry now and she was off balance. He pushed her hard and she thumped down on her back. Oliver was quickly on top of her, pinning her to the ground. She fought uselessly, could feel his hands tearing at her clothes, could hear herself screaming till the sound seemed to echo through her head and all she was aware of was the unequal struggle of hand and limb and the crush of his weight pressing the air out of her body. And just when she thought she could keep him at bay no longer, he’d gone. Dazed, she dragged herself up onto one elbow on the dusty ground and looked around wildly. It was Luc who had pulled Oliver up bodily and was now punching him like a man possessed. There was a brief ugly fight and Oliver was soon on the ground himself, looking bemused and holding his jaw. A trickle of blood ran from his lip.
Luc came across to help Terri to her feet. He had blood on his knuckles and a livid contusion on one cheek. She straightened her clothes, struggling to grasp what had just happened, and kept brushing herself off obsessively as if she could brush Oliver out of her mind and her life with the same motion.
‘Are you OK?’ said Luc.
She realised it wasn’t the first time he’d asked. She nodded and tried to speak but nothing came out.
‘You’re sure? I’ll kill him if he’s hurt you.’
‘I’m fine,’ she managed. ‘Really. Fine.’
Luc studied her a minute then turned away and retraced a few steps back to Oliver.
‘Bugger off,’ he bellowed. ‘Just bugger off and don’t come near Terri again. D’you hear me? Next time, you won’t get up again, I swear.’
He came back, took Terri’s arm and pulled her away, almost roughly. She was still shaking and felt cold, despite the heat of the sun.
Reaching the edge of the terrace, Luc stopped, cradling his bleeding hand. ‘Will you be all right now? I’m going to go back and make sure he leaves. I don’t think you’ll be seeing any more of him.’
She looked at him doubtfully then glanced down at his hand. ‘You should wash that,’ she heard herself say.
‘I will. Now go.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Forget it.’ He turned and quickly moved away back towards the woods. She saw him break into a run.
*
On the Saturday morning Luc went up to the house to tell Terri that Oliver had checked out of the chambres d’hôtes where he’d been staying and had been seen driving away. Luc had briefed some friends in the village to keep an eye on him. It was a strange and awkward meeting. Standing in the doorway of her room, Terri thanked him again but seemed embarrassed, wouldn’t look him in the eye and didn’t invite him in.
‘So you found my room,’ she remarked, standing with her hands rammed into the pockets of her cropped trousers. ‘Or did someone show you?’
‘I called at the front door. Lindsey was in the kitchen. Angela’s still in bed apparently.’
‘She’s not a morning person. She told me.’ Terri’s face was ashen; there was a smudge of darkness under each eye as if someone had rubbed charcoal there.
‘Are you OK?’
‘Yes, I’m fine...thanks.’ She forced a smile. ‘A bit stiff. And tired - I didn’t sleep very well. How’s your hand?’
He glanced down at it. It was bruised and swollen.
‘A bit sore. It’s OK.’
She nodded then glanced up at him, frowning. ‘Did you say anything to Lindsey? Only I haven’t told anyone what happened. Except Corinne.’
‘Corinne?’
‘She knew Oliver was here. And we get on quite well.’
‘I didn’t say anything to Lindsey.’
‘Good. Thanks. Corinne won’t talk about it. She promised me.’ She produced another pinched smile. ‘So it’s over...for now anyway.’
‘He won’t bother you again. He’s a coward.’
She nodded but looked unconvinced.
‘Do you want to go out,’ he said, ‘get a coffee or something?’
‘Thanks, but I can’t. I’m meeting Corinne. There’s a special market today with local produits du terroir. She thought I might be interested. I think she’s got some desperate idea about teaching me to cook. Of course, she’s wasting her time but...’ She smiled weakly and shrugged.
‘OK, well, good...I’ll let you go then. I just wanted you to know he’d gone.’
‘Thanks. I’m really grateful.’
*
The weather had closed in and it had started to rain heavily by the time Terri returned to Le Chant that evening, running across the terrace and throwing herself in through the front door. At first there appeared to be no-one home but she found Peter in the kitchen pouring himself a glass of wine. He glanced up as she came in.
‘You got caught too, did you?’ he said. ‘I was sitting outside.’
‘I was hoping to see you,’ said Terri. ‘It’s about the exhibition. I’d intended to tell you yesterday. Is this a bad moment?’
‘No, no. Everyone’s out.’ He reached another glass down from the cupboard and poured her some wine. ‘Here.’ He grabbed the bottle. ‘We’ll take it through to the sitting room.’
He lowered himself into one of the sofas and Terri sat on the one close by.
‘Santé.’ He raised his glass and leaned back, regarding her levelly. ‘So I’m guessing there’s a problem?’
‘Yes. I’m afraid the ‘Woman with the Braided Hair’ is lost in transit. Or, as the carrier preferred to describe it: temporarily misplaced. He promised me they would find it but it’s sure to be late arriving. It might make things tight.’
He grunted.
‘And there’s something else; the Mandini portrait. Her daughter owns it now and she’s changed her mind about lending it to the retrospective. She’s adamant it’s not safe; there’ve been too many burglaries lately. Even if the ‘Braided Hair’ turns up in time, it leaves us one down.’
Peter nodded, lips pursed up thoughtfully. ‘That’s disappointing. Have you thought of a replacement?’
‘I have a few suggestions though nothing quite so commanding. Obviously it needs to be something easily accessible at short notice.’
Terri sipped her wine and found her eyes drawn, as they always were when she sat there, up to the portrait of Madeleine. This singular portrait would have been perfect for the retrospective, but the last time they’d talked about his first wife it had ended in a row.
Peter followed her gaze and studied the painting for a few moments as if seeing it for the first time. ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘I know what you’re thinking but I can’t exhibit this.’
She eyed him warily: now he was reading her mind. But he looked surprisingly calm and she was prepared to argue the point.
‘It would be ideal though,’ she said slowly. ‘It’s a wonderful painting. Would you consider putting it up if we didn’t name the sitter?’
She expected him to rage and bluster, but he was silent.
‘It would provoke questions,’ he said eventually, ‘and Angela wouldn’t like it. She...’ He paused, weighing his words. ‘...She has felt engulfed for too long by Madeleine’s shadow; it would be insensitive.’
Terri nodded but didn’t reply, surprised by his reflective tone.
‘You’re a smart girl, Terri.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘I’ve been wondering what you made of Celia’s claims that you look like Madeleine?’
‘What am I supposed to make of them? I gather she’s done the same thing before.’
‘Yes, yes, she has.’
He swept his gaze back up to the picture. She formed the impression he wanted to say something else, but nothing came.
‘Celia said you had a daughter by Madeleine.’ It was out of her mouth without her having consciously decided to say it. ‘Her name was Josephine and she ran away. Celia said she was pregnant when she left.’ Peter was already shaking his head. ‘She says my age and birthday fit, that Josephine could have been my mother. I’ve thought it all through, over and over, and it is possible she’s right.’
‘Is that so?’ Peter examined her face. ‘Well as you’ve found, Celia says a lot of things. Mostly nonsense.’
‘But you were the one who brought the subject up,’ said Terri crossly. ‘Why did you do that? And why did you ask all those questions about my mother? Tell me. Is it true? Any of it? All of it?’
He finished the last of his wine, glanced at Terri’s untouched glass and refilled his own. He sat back, hugging it. For a while she thought he wasn’t going to reply. When he did, he spoke quietly, as if he was scared of waking some long-sleeping ghosts.
‘All right, I will tell you. Madeleine and I did have a daughter and yes, she was called Josephine.’ He paused. ‘In some ways, Josie was a wonderful girl: bright, quick. She had her mother’s passion and spirit. But she also had my stubbornness and pride.’ He smiled ruefully, glancing up. ‘Yes, I know she had that from me. And she had a temper – which she must have got from me too; she certainly didn’t get it from her mother. When her mother was alive she was a delightful child. It was a joy to see them together. Even so she could be...difficult.’ He shook his head and sighed. ‘After Madeleine died she began to steal things, she sulked, she lied. It was a nightmare. I didn’t know what to do with her.’
‘What did you try to do with her?’ said Terri accusingly. ‘She was upset.’
‘Of course,’ he answered crossly, ‘but what was I supposed to do? No, well, maybe I should have tried harder. But I was lost too. By the time I realised there was a problem it was too late to change anything. She hated me. She didn’t want to know.’ His eyes glazed. ‘She threw things at me, you know. My own daughter.’
‘She just wanted you to notice her.’
‘But I did notice her.’
‘You sent her away to school. That’s not noticing.’
Peter nodded slowly, staring into his wine. ‘I see Celia told you everything. Yes, I did arrange for her to go to school...in England. I thought the change might do her good. And I didn’t know what else to do with her. Celia came over to help out when Madeleine was ill after her last miscarriage. She was supposed to keep an eye on Josie too.’ He glanced up at Terri’s face. ‘She might talk fine words about her niece now,’ he added bitterly, ‘but she didn’t show too much interest in her when she was little. Too busy painting her foolish pictures.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘Boarding school just made Josie worse. I knew she didn’t like it but I thought she’d get used to it after a bit...make friends. And she did in the end.’ He nodded. ‘We had a few good times together...later. Yes, she did settle down. Or at least I thought she had.’ He looked up suddenly, studying Terri’s face again. ‘Don’t you remember your mother at all?’
She shook her head.
‘And your father never said anything about her? He must have.’
‘No, very little. He didn’t want to talk about her. I don’t think they got on.’
Peter grunted.
Terri stood up suddenly. ‘I’ve got photos though. I can show you.’
When she returned, she already had the two photographs out of the plastic wallet, feeling a strange greedy excitement building inside her.
‘Did she look like this?’ She thrust them at him.
Peter stared at each of the pictures in turn and handed them back, shaking his head.
‘I’m not sure. That could be anyone.’ He cleared his throat. ‘How did she die then, your mother?’
Terri frowned but said nothing, a choking disappointment settling on her like a shroud. She slowly replaced the photographs in the wallet. ‘She killed herself,’ she said dully, looking up. ‘She threw herself off a bridge into the Thames.’
Peter’s expression froze. He said nothing, staring at her bleakly.
‘You do think Josie was my mother. You do, don’t you?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said angrily, spots of colour quickly rising to his cheeks. ‘How should I know?’ He downed a gulp of wine. His hand was shaking.
‘Was she pregnant?’
‘I don’t know. She wouldn’t tell me a thing like that.’
‘So why did she leave?’ The volume of Terri’s voice had risen several notches. ‘Celia said you had a row with her. If you didn’t row about her pregnancy, what did you row about?’
‘We were always rowing.’
‘Yes, but what made her leave and never come back?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’ He was shouting now. ‘For God’s sake, woman, why can’t you leave it alone? What do you think you’re doing, coming and meddling and stirring it all up? Haven’t I been through enough, damn it all? Stop it. Stop it. God Almighty.’
He downed the rest of his wine in one long gulp and as he did so Terri slowly got to her feet and moved to stand in front of him.
‘I don’t know what happened,’ she said tersely. ‘And I don’t know if I have any claim to know. But Josephine was your daughter. Didn’t you love her? Don’t you ache to know what happened to her?’ She hesitated. ‘Or do you know something you’re not prepared to tell me?’
She turned and walked quietly out of the room.
