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Terri sat at the computer in her office, working through the final pages of the draft catalogue. Peter had finally agreed to her request for a fan and it stood at the end of the table, whirring incessantly, spinning side to side. Even so, her blouse stuck to her back and her scalp prickled with heat. She ran a hand through her hair, trying to release it and get the air to her skin. The rain of that Saturday night had been short-lived and the days had resumed their hot, dry routine. There had been only one brief, sharp shower since and it felt as if the heat was building, day on day. Outside, the clicking song of the cigales was loud and insistent. It sounded like a bomb waiting to go off.
It was now more than a week since that emotional meeting with Peter but the conversation still played across her mind, overshadowing even the confrontation with Oliver in her thoughts. Neither of them had mentioned it since - it was as if it had never happened – and they had resumed their habitual sparring relationship. In some ways, Peter was his usual self: charming, rude, impatient, sarcastic, genial. But though his mind seemed sharp enough, he had a vague air and a distant look. Terri was sure he was hiding something but was equally certain he wouldn’t tell her. She was waiting for an opportunity to go back and search ‘Raphael’ but none presented itself. The old mas, basking like a lizard in the languid heat, never seemed to be empty for long enough.
She stretched her arms to free her sticky blouse and scrolled down to the next page. She had a few days off the following week but the catalogue had to be finished and sent on to Christophe before she went. It was going to be produced both in English and French and he had offered to get it translated before sending it to the printers. She read to the end, changed one word on the last page, and set the document to print. Her door was open to the studio in a vain effort to keep the air moving and she could see Luc working at the other end of the barn. He was painting today, working from sketches and a quickly executed watercolour.
She sat and watched him. On the previous Saturday he had asked her to visit Arles with him for the day. They’d explored the shops, the vibrant market and the huge Roman amphitheatre; they’d lunched in the square opposite the café terrace famously painted by Van Gogh. It had been a good day. He hadn’t mentioned Oliver and neither had she. Luc was observant, witty, at times extremely thoughtful; physically, she couldn’t deny the attraction. When he’d brought her back to Le Chant he’d dropped her in the car park with a quick peck on the cheek and a vague promise of another outing. She knew she was falling under his spell again but was trying to hold back. Did she still think he had a hidden agenda or was it the memory of Oliver’s abuse which still haunted her? Or maybe her feelings were false anyway, clouded by emotion and gratitude for his support and help.
She pulled her eyes away and turned back to her computer.
A few minutes later she heard the main door close and then voices. Peter had returned and was talking to Luc at the end of the studio. He’d been to a hotel in town where he’d given an interview to a journalist from one of the French national papers. ‘Neutral territory,’ he’d remarked to Terri that morning. ‘Stops them from snooping.’
The printer churned out the last sheet of the catalogue and Terri got up to clip it all together. Peter appeared in the doorway.
‘How did it go?’ she asked him.
‘Fine. Asked some damn fool questions but that’s to be expected. What she’ll write is anyone’s guess.’
‘When is it going in?’
‘No idea.’
‘You should have let me come too.’
‘I don’t need babysitting.’
‘No, but then I’d have known what was going on.’
‘Well...yes.’
Terri crossed to the door and held out the manuscript. ‘The catalogue’s finished. I need you to read it ASAP and tell me if it’s OK. If you let me know tomorrow I can send it to Christophe before I go away.’
Peter took the papers, looking at them suspiciously.
‘It’s all right,’ said Terri, with a wry smile. ‘I’ve been polite.’
‘I should bloody well hope so,’ he grunted. ‘I pay you.’ Then he surprised her with an exaggerated wink as he turned and left.
*
Peter poured himself a large glass of whisky, took a sip and placed it on the table by his leather armchair. He picked up the manuscript, settled himself down and pushed the reading glasses up his nose. On the table he’d put a pen, ready to score through the parts he would reject, and began to read.
The first part of the catalogue was a resume of his life and work. Terri charted his early interest in art and his studies both in England and Italy. The ‘commune’ he’d briefly set up with his friends near Avignon sounded exciting the way she’d described it and made him smile. She touched briefly on his romance with Madeleine and used it to explain his decision to settle in Provence.
All right so far.
She wrote briefly of his personal losses – with no mention of Josephine - and of the renewed happiness he had found with Angela which had enabled him to move forward. She made an intelligent study of his artistic development through the years, giving examples, and stressed how open he was to the work of others, unafraid to learn from them. She finished by noting how much he still challenged himself as shown in his work over the last few years and that many recent paintings still had the power to move or to provoke reflection.
He frowned. It felt as if he were reading a history of someone else’s life: it was rounded; it made sense. Terri seemed to understand his passion, his perfectionism, the constant drive to improve his work. He pulled off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. God, he was tired. He took another mouthful of whisky and swung his glasses side to side, looking out of the window. But his life hadn’t really been like that. Terri had made it sound so simple, so linear. Of course, that was her job and she was good at it. The piece read well - it was sensitive and informed - but it was a half-truth at best.
He perched the glasses back on his nose. The rest of the catalogue was a detailed history and description of the works on show. The final publication would contain colour reproductions of the paintings but the draft had more of Terri’s quick line drawings to illustrate each one, presumably to avoid confusion at the printer. He found himself smiling again. Some of the drawings were quite comical but they were descriptive and accurate. She claimed to have no artistic ability but clearly that was untrue.
So who was Terri? The question persistently nagged at him. She bothered him and she challenged him yet it was impossible not to like her. At times he felt immensely drawn to her. Was that because of a family bond? After studying her endlessly he thought he could now see the likeness to Madeleine around the eyes. Could that be? He tried to see Josephine in her too but found he could not now remember his daughter’s features very well and the realisation shocked him. Certainly the photograph Terri had shown him had meant nothing.
But he did remember a day many, many years ago, when Tom was crying - and with such an anguished cry - in the nursery. He remembered going in and finding Josie leaning over the cot. No, he couldn’t recall her features and yet he still remembered the quick way she’d looked round and her furtive, guilty behaviour. He tried to shake the image away but there were other memories too, awful things he had long since pushed way down, out of heart and mind. Why had Terri come into his life now? In any case, she was probably just another of Celia’s projects, wasn’t she? Or an interfering busybody.
He sipped his whisky then cradled the glass, glancing down at the spindly drawings and feeling an unfamiliar thickening of his throat. Or was she some kind of second chance: an opportunity to wipe the slate clean and make a fresh start? Surely it couldn’t be that simple? And of course it wasn’t. For what would she say if she found out the truth?
*
On the Friday, Luc invited Terri to dinner at his cottage. He’d offered it as a ‘farewell meal’ because she’d said she was going to spend her days off back in London. He wondered why she was going back now though he thought he could guess. Even so, there was a lot about Terri which he still didn’t know. Every time he thought he was getting close to her, she seemed to dance away again. He’d been half-surprised that she’d even accepted the invitation.
His cottage was a rustic stone building in a clearing at the edge of the pine woods, its central door flanked on each side by a shuttered window, a skylight let into its pan-tiled roof. Luc had found he liked living there. It had none of the sophistication of his flat in London but it was comfortable enough and it gave him peace and solitude, a space in which to work. Now, in anticipation of Terri’s visit, he tried to make it look welcoming. He tidied up and made sure it was clean; he bought some flowers – he couldn’t remember what they were – and rammed them in a glazed earthenware jar; he bought a bottle of a local soft red wine and prepared stuffed tomatoes and herbed lamb with ratatouille.
He was in the process of checking the tomatoes in the oven when there was a brisk knock on the door and, when he pulled it open, Terri stood on the doorstep clutching a paper bag. She thrust it at him wordlessly.
‘You didn’t have to bring anything,’ he protested.
‘My grandmother’s rules. Never go to someone’s house without a gift.’ She shrugged. ‘Here. Take it. It’s not much.’
Luc took the bag and pulled out a box of chocolate covered coffee beans.
‘You remembered: my favourite. Thank you.’ He leaned forward, brushing his lips against her cheek.
She turned away, glancing round the cottage. He was aware of the acuteness of her curiosity, taking it all in, his home. The old shepherd’s hut had been extended and renovated long before he’d arrived. The ground floor was an open plan living space with a small kitchen to one side, two old sofas before a fireplace to the other and a dining area at the back. To the left of a door at the rear, a staircase rose against the side wall.
‘Kir,’ he offered. ‘Or juice?’
‘Juice please.’
‘Apple. Is that OK?’
She nodded and stood at the edge of the kitchen and its L-shaped run of units, watching him pour it into two glasses. He handed her a glass and touched hers briefly with his own. ‘Santé.’ He took a sip, watching her. She looked uneasy – no, more than that, she bristled, as if she wanted to say something but was biting it back.
‘Something the matter?’ he asked.
‘No.’
She turned, wandering away towards the back of the room where the walls were hung with his painted canvases, looking at each one in turn. ‘So will these all go in your exhibition?’
‘Maybe.’
‘They should. They’re good. You’ll need a lot of work to make an impact.’
Her voice was crisp, her manner all sharp edges. She walked back up the room and they sat on separate sofas either side of the battered wooden coffee table in front of the hearth. On the floor to one side of Luc’s sofa, a stack of books teetered dangerously with a bundle of newspapers hastily rammed between them and the wall.
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ he asked.
‘Yes, fine. You?’
‘Of course, yes. Why shouldn’t I be?’
‘No reason.’
He stared at her, brows furrowed.
‘I suppose I will need a lot of work,’ he answered, belatedly. ‘The trouble is, I never think it’s good enough.’
He cringed: now he sounded like he was fishing for compliments. But Terri was barely listening; there was clearly something bothering her. They exchanged small talk about his work, about the football club he belonged to, about her trip to the framer’s that day. She was still worried about the lost painting and the pictures awaiting restoration. Maybe that was why she was preoccupied.
They moved to the table at the back of the room which he’d laid with place mats and Provençal print napkins and they dined by candlelight, augmented by the glow of a table lamp on an old cupboard against the back wall. Apart from a bland compliment from Terri on his cooking they barely spoke.
Then suddenly Terri had abandoned the lamb, laid down her cutlery and was staring at him balefully.
‘Why are we doing this?’ she said. ‘You’re married. Were you planning to tell me? Or perhaps you didn’t think it was important?’
Luc glanced up at her sharply but continued eating.
‘Where did you get that from?’ he said coolly.
‘That’s not the point is it?’
Resignedly, Luc put down his cutlery and met her gaze.
‘On the contrary. It is very much the point. Because I’m not married. So I’d like to know who told you I was.’
‘Lindsey.’ Doubt puckered her brow. ‘Was she lying? She said Thierry overheard you referring to your wife when you were talking to one of the other students in the studio.’
Luc pulled a thin smile. ‘Maybe he did but overheard conversations aren’t always what they seem. I thought by now you trusted me. I really thought we’d got beyond this.’
She was still frowning, staring at him as if trying to read inside his head. Maybe he was as opaque as she was. Maybe sometimes that was a good thing.
‘So it’s not true?’ she pressed.
‘Some of it is true.’ He took a mouthful of wine. ‘The student Thierry referred to – Marc – was upset. I’d seen him struggling in the class, obviously not concentrating. I knew Peter would come down on him hard it he didn’t snap out of it so when he went to make drinks in the kitchen I followed him in. Apparently he’d just found out his girlfriend had been cheating on him. I sympathised, said my wife had done the same thing.’ He raised his eyebrows at her stunned expression and almost smiled. ‘I’m not married now Terri. Thierry would have heard that too but I pushed the kitchen door closed. He shouldn’t have gone telling tales.’
‘So when were you married?’
He fiddled with the stem of his wine glass. ‘I met someone about three months after you and I split up. Lisette her name was. She was Swiss, a journalist on a magazine. A few months later, we got married.’
‘Grief, Luc, that was quick.’
‘Yes, but I thought we were...’ He shrugged. ‘...right, I suppose. Maybe it was rebound.’ He flicked her a glance; her eyes wouldn’t meet his. ‘And I liked the idea of marriage.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Perhaps it was my good Catholic upbringing.’
‘What happened?’
‘From the moment we put the rings on, everything went wrong. We argued and fought...’ He paused, swilling the thimbleful of wine in his glass round and round. ‘I found her in bed with my best friend a few months later. She said it was all my fault, that I’d become obsessed with my work and was neglecting her.’
‘Your fault? But she could’ve talked to you about it, instead of jumping into bed with someone else.’
‘Yes, that’s more or less what I said, only not quite so politely.’
‘So you divorced her?’
‘Oui, bien sûr...despite the good Catholic upbringing. My mother understood. My father was less impressed. She was the daughter of a good friend of his, a Swiss diplomat. I suppose that should have warned me really.’
‘And that’s when you fell out?’
‘Well, it was certainly the last straw. And the beginning of my decision to make changes in my life. After some heart searching, I had to accept that she was at least partly right.’
‘Oh...’ Terri looked down, picked up her cutlery and prodded disinterestedly at her food again. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said eventually. ‘I spoke out of turn. Anyway, it’s none of my business.’
‘No, of course it’s your business. You had a right to know. I should’ve said. You took me by surprise, that’s all. The marriage was a stupid mistake and I don’t often talk about it.’
They finished the meal in silence. Luc offered Terri more wine and, when she refused, tipped the last of it into his glass and leaned back in his chair, watching her thoughtfully.
‘So...why go back to London for your holiday?’ he said. ‘Why not stay here?’
‘If I stayed here it would be impossible not to think about work.’
‘And Oliver?’
‘I’ve heard nothing from him since he was here. I can’t avoid going back there forever. Anyway, weren’t you the one who said he wouldn’t bother me again?’
He nodded slowly. ‘Are you sure there’s no other reason for the trip?’
‘No. Why should there be?’
‘I went up to see Celia earlier in the week.’
‘Oh? Why?’ Her tone was clipped, guarded.
‘I was curious. You said you thought she wasn’t as batty as she pretends. I thought I’d go and see for myself.’
‘I see. So what did she say?’
‘She said a lot of things, mostly complete nonsense, and she showed me her paintings, gave me a drink. Said she’d seen we were courting – her word – and she was so pleased.’ He paused, finished his wine and put the glass down. ‘I asked her about Madeleine and why she thought you might look like her. Apparently Madeleine had a daughter. She told you this too?’
Terri met his gaze. ‘Yes.’
‘She said she ran away. And that she was pregnant.’
‘Ye-es. But Angela says she died.’
‘And how does she say she died, this daughter?’
‘Josephine. She killed herself...in the woods. She was nineteen.’
Luc’s eyes narrowed. ‘But Celia says you’re her daughter. And you want to believe her?’
‘What I want is to know why you’re cross-examining me like this?’
‘I’ve been wondering why you never told me any of this. Why have you been so secretive?’
‘I’m not the only one who’s secretive, am I? How come you didn’t tell me you were divorced?’
He shrugged. A frosty silence settled on them.
‘Do you have any reason to think Celia is right?’ said Luc eventually.
She hesitated. ‘Angela said that Josephine’s body was never found. Doesn’t that strike you as odd? And Peter virtually admitted that I might be related and told me all about Josephine.’
‘Really? Peter did? What prompted that?’
‘I asked him.’
‘You don’t actually know anything about your mother, do you? You lied to me.’
‘Lied? No. Not exactly.’
‘You said you knew about her. Enough, you said. And yet you’ve clearly convinced yourself that Josie was your mother.’
‘I’m just saying it’s possible.’
‘Are you sure you aren’t chasing shadows? You’re letting yourself be sucked into Celia’s strange world and it’s not healthy.’
‘It’s easy for you to say that when you grew up with a family,’ she said angrily. ‘Whatever problems you had with your father, you still don’t know what it’s like to be a child in a vacuum, surrounded by whispering and silences. I’d like some explanation; I’d like to know who my mother was and why she did it. She left me, don’t you see? She walked out and left me.’
Terri stood up suddenly, pressing her lips together and blinking tears away. She picked up her wine glass – still half full - and marched through to the kitchen. Luc followed her.
‘So what are you going to do in London?’ he demanded.
‘I have some papers of my father’s in my flat.’ Terri left the glass by the sink and turned, chin raised. ‘I thought I’d look through them.’
Luc reached into a wall cupboard and took out two brandy glasses, then picked up a bottle of cognac from the back of the unit. ‘Brandy?’ he offered, pulling the stopper out.
‘No, thank you. And I wish you wouldn’t either.’
He fixed her with a look but she stared him out. He sighed and replaced the stopper. ‘So suppose you don’t find anything out in London,’ he said, putting the bottle back, ‘suppose all your investigations are inconclusive? What then?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean,’ he said, coming to stand in front of her, ‘will you let it go or will you go on trying to persuade yourself that Peter is your grandfather?’
‘I’m not trying to persuade myself of anything. I didn’t start this.’
‘No, Celia did. But the more you look and dwell, the greater your need seems to become. As if it will answer some question in your life, bigger than anything to do with your mother.’
‘That’s ridiculous. That’s all I want to know: was she Josephine?’
Luc shook his head. ‘No. I don’t think so. It’s all about you. You think no-one loves you and you want to know why.’
‘You’ve got a nerve,’ she spat, and turned to walk away.
But Luc threw out a hand, took hold of her arm and pulled her towards him, covering her mouth in a rough, hungry kiss. It was over in a moment and he released her. She immediately slapped him across the face.
‘Who the hell do you think you are?’ she said, eyes dancing with anger.
Luc put a hand up to his burning cheek, breathing heavily with suppressed emotion.
‘I love you,’ he said simply. ‘I thought you knew.’ He pursed his lips up and gave a light, apologetic shrug then reached out a hand to her, palm up. ‘Terri...please.’
She stared at his hand for what felt like an eternity before eventually putting her own in it. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I am really.’ She hesitated, staring into his face. ‘But I think I’m falling in love with you too. And its scares me.’
‘Don’t be scared,’ he said, pulling her close. ‘You can trust me.’
*
‘I could come to London,’ murmured Luc into the back of Terri’s shoulder as she lay curled up in his bed the next morning, his body crooked around her. ‘I’m sure Peter would let me have another couple of days off. Just in case Oliver’s still around.’
Terri quivered with the tickle of his breath on her skin. She smiled softly to herself, sure that she had never felt so contented. She ran her hand slowly along Luc’s forearm where it lay across her chest. He nuzzled at her neck and shifted his hand to cup the swell of her breast.
‘No,’ she said quietly.
‘No what?’
‘No, you can’t come to London.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I need to go alone. I have to prove it to myself. I can’t let him keep me running away forever. Anyway I want to look into who my mother was and you’ll try to stop me.’
He rolled away from her onto his back, put his hands behind his head and looked up at the sloping uneven ceiling. She turned over and nestled into his side, putting her head on his shoulder and resting her hand on his chest.
‘Don’t be like that,’ she said. ‘It’s not that I wouldn’t like you there; I would. But you’d be a distraction.’
He moved one hand to stroke the top of her head. ‘I suppose I’ll have to believe you.’
‘Yes, you will.’
‘I still don’t understand why you’re so sure Josie was your mother.’
Terri hesitated, then leaned herself up on one elbow, looking down at him.
‘Josephine kept diaries,’ she said. ‘She started after her mother died and kept it up all through her teens. And I’ve been reading them.’
‘Diaries?’ Luc stared at her in amazement. ‘Where did you find them?’
‘In Madeleine’s old studio.’ She laughed at his puzzled expression. ‘It’s an attic room in the east wing, called ‘Raphael’’. It was her private space, her den. It’s a fascinating place.’
‘I didn’t even know it was there.’
‘You wouldn’t. The entrance is through the linen room and it’s kept locked. Peter has the key in his study and doesn’t let anyone go there.’
‘But he let you.’
Terri focussed her attention on the hairs on Luc’s chest, curling a couple round and round with her finger. ‘He doesn’t know I’ve been there.’
Luc pursed his lips up, and shook his head. ‘He’d be so mad if he knew.’
Terri avoided meeting his gaze. It was something she refused to think about: what Peter’s reaction would be when he found out where she’d been and what she’d done.
‘Celia told me about the studio,’ she said, ‘and about the diaries. I thought she was daft but everything she said was true. It was there, just as she described, and so were the diaries.’
‘And what do these magical diaries say?’
‘Hey, don’t be so cynical. They’re amazing. They chart a girl growing up, painfully, grieving and confused, and how difficult her relationship was with her father. They’re harrowing, honestly.’
Luc was serious now, staring at her. ‘So, have you got them?’
‘Yes. I borrowed them.’
‘Does Peter know about them?’
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘Do they give any indication of what happened to her?’
‘No...not yet.’
‘You haven’t finished them? I still don’t see why you’re so sure she was your mother.’
‘Everything just seems to fit. She seems to fit, don’t you see?’ Terri spoke quickly, her voice rising with excitement. She wasn’t sure where this excitement had come from, only that she had to satisfy it somehow. ‘If I could just be sure that Josephine was pregnant when she left here...Anyway, I’m hoping that she’ll say so in the last diary. So far she’s made reference to feeling sick and that’s all. But she might even say who the father is and then...well...’ She sighed. ‘The problem is that I don’t have the last diary...yet.’
‘Why? Where is it?’
‘I’m not sure. Probably in the attic too but I haven’t been able to get back up there. It’s difficult. I can’t talk to Angela about it. She warned me off - she thinks I’m just a gold-digger, in league with Celia. And Peter...’ She shrugged. ‘So anyway I’m going to find out what I can in London and then look for it when I get back.’ She glanced at the clock then leaned forward and kissed him softly on the mouth before quickly rolling off the bed sideways.
‘I have to go,’ she said, looking round for her clothes. ‘If I miss my flight I’ll never get another one today.’
‘I’ll ring...’ Luc promised, before she left. ‘...every day you’re away.’
Terri walked back towards the mas with a light step, sure that everything was falling into place at last. In love with Luc...who would have thought it?
It never once crossed her mind that it might have been wiser to keep the information about the diaries to herself.
