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Peter checked the lie of his cravat in the bedroom mirror one more time, accepted that he wasn’t likely to improve it and moved away. He glanced at his watch. He’d looked at it some five minutes earlier but had barely registered the time. He crossed to the chest of drawers, picked up the copy of the catalogue Terri had given him and flicked through it once more. The thick, glossy paper felt satisfying to his touch; the effect was sophisticated and smart. The Opening View of his retrospective started in four and a half hours. It was his retrospective, maybe the ultimate glory of his career. He thought he should feel excited and proud; at this moment he just felt nervous and couldn’t settle. Terri had asked if he would prefer to spend the Thursday night in Nice so that he’d be fresh for the show but he’d thought he’d go mad, stuck in a hotel room with nothing to do except worry about how the exhibition would go, so he’d declined. It was only around two and a half hours to Nice, three if the traffic were really bad. Better by far to drive to get there with not much time to spare. Even so, nerves had made him get ready too early. He strode to the window and looked out to the garden.
Peter’s bedroom looked sideways out over the kitchen garden and the garages towards the winding lane through the trees. Beyond was the further blue line of the Luberon hills. It was a pleasant aspect but one of the least impressive views from any of the rooms. It mattered little to Peter; he rarely spent time looking out of his window. Now his eyes vaguely scanned the ground outside while his mind returned again to the exhibition. The previous week had felt very long with Terri away in Nice, knowing that she was hanging his exhibition, not taking charge of it himself. Of course he could have insisted on being present but he’d recognised that it would be a mistake. Terri knew what she was doing. Even Christophe, he reluctantly accepted, probably did. Indeed, they would hang the exhibition better without his interference.
He heard a wardrobe door close and his mind turned to Angela who was in her bedroom next door getting ready.
‘What time do we need to get there?’ she’d said. ‘Would you like me to drive?’
‘You’re coming?’ In his surprise he thought he’d sounded rather stupid.
‘Of course I’m coming,’ she’d responded indignantly. ‘This is a special event isn’t it? I’ve lived with this exhibition for God knows how many months, Peter. I’ve got to see it. Anyway, I want to.’ She’d smiled then and kissed him and he was pleased. They would never get back to the early days of their marriage – who ever did? – but he thought they had started moving in the right direction.
Would the man with whom she’d had the affair come to the exhibition? Not to the opening preview surely? But though invitations had been sent out to the great and good in the art world, there was nothing exclusive about the event. It was not policed in that way. He wondered if she still ever saw him. Of course she had apologised – she’d sounded sincere - and the implication had been that the affair was over. He wanted to put it out of his mind but it had proved harder than he’d expected. When he saw her talking on her mobile he found himself trying to listen in; when she went out ‘with friends’ he was unable to stop himself from wondering if she would be seeing the man again; when she came home from a trip out he would look her over for any sign of intimacy with another. It was embarrassing and he felt foolish: a man of his age behaving in this way, but he had found that jealousy – or perhaps the fear of betrayal – was no respecter of age. Indeed, if anything, he thought getting older simply made it worse; he felt more vulnerable now.
Peter watched Sami walk into the kitchen garden with a spade and begin to turn over an area of ground, digging in the remains of some crop or other. He’d been behaving a little oddly this week, Sami. He seemed...preoccupied. Peter smiled to himself. That was a strange thing to think about Sami – he who never normally said ten words when five would do. But Peter thought he had seen so much of Sami over the years that he knew his mood, just by looking at him. He hoped the man was not sickening for something. Perhaps he should ask him. The idea came as a novelty and he let it roll around in his mind for a couple of minutes and decided that perhaps he would, when occasion allowed.
Peter glanced at his watch again. It was nearly time to go. Lindsey had said she’d make her own way. He supposed she might go with Thierry. Terri had already left; she wanted to check on everything before it started. And Luc? He was unsure what Luc was doing though there had clearly been no rapprochement between them. Still, it really was none of his business. Luc could fend for himself; Terri too, he didn’t doubt.
He turned away from the window, picked up his waistcoat from the back of the chair and went next door to Angela’s room, knocked on the door and walked in. She was sitting at her dressing table, brushing her hair, and turned to look at him as he entered.
‘Are you really wearing that?’ she asked.
*
Terri made another slow tour of the exhibition, exchanged remarks or information with anyone who approached her, watched people’s reactions and listened in to conversations, trying to gauge the success or otherwise of the event. The turnout was wonderful - the gallery was crammed – and a loud babble of conversation filled the air. There were numerous critics chatting, taking notes, cracking jokes, though what they would say in the days that followed would be quite another matter. She knew from experience that compliments and good-natured banter at a preview did not always translate into good reviews.
She looked across the room to where her employer stood, talking loudly and flamboyantly to a freelance arts journalist, a woman in a tight dress and toe-squashing high heels. Peter was wearing red trousers, a grey silk shirt and a red cravat. His waistcoat was a swirling paisley in both red and grey. He leaned forward conspiratorially, said something then straightened up, added the punch-line, and appeared to laugh at his own joke. He was putting on the performance of his life and Terri found herself smiling. How she had come to like the man over these last few weeks and how unexpected that was. Peter was such a contradiction. In public he hid behind this act, behind the outrageous remarks and the equally attention-seeking clothes. He was infuriating and pompous; he was weak and sometimes cruel; but she had seen glimpses of his humanity and of a surprisingly big heart.
But then she frowned, thinking of that last conversation with Celia in the orchard. Terri had been under the impression that Peter had been away from Le Chant when Tom died. Ever since, she’d been trying not to give the revelation any significance but still the information bothered her.
A tall, dapper man came up to her and drew her attention away. Speaking English with a pronounced French accent, he complimented her on the exhibition and asked questions about her experience and her French language skills. He informed her that his name was Bernard Simon and he was the director of a large Parisian public gallery.
Angela interrupted them. ‘Terri, dear, haven’t you been busy?’ She came alongside and put a proprietorial arm around her shoulder. In these last few days she’d been more like her old charming and affable self. Now she looked stunning in a pastel violet silk dress. She turned to the man and added, confidentially, ‘She’s worked so hard.’
Terri introduced Monsieur Simon but he made his apologies and moved away and she watched him go regretfully, scenting a lost job opportunity.
‘So it’s your last weekend with us,’ Angela said, sipping her white wine. We’ll be sorry to see you go.’
‘It’ll be strange to go. I hope I haven’t caused too much trouble.’
‘Of course not, darling. I’m sorry if we’ve had some misunderstandings. Nothing too serious though, hm? Now I have to tell you: Peter and I thought we’d have a little leaving party for you tomorrow night – you know, to see you on your way.’
‘Really, that’s not...’
‘But we insist. It’ll be a buffet...casual, you know? Family and a few close friends. Of course we’ll be sure to invite Luc too.’
Angela patted Terri on the arm as if she’d just awarded her a consolation prize and slid away, still smiling. Terri watched her go but her thoughts inevitably turned towards Luc. She’d watched for him from the start of the evening and he’d arrived late. Since then they’d both moved in different areas of the gallery. Despite wanting to ignore him, she found herself surveying the sea of bodies, trying to locate him, checking to see to whom he was speaking. She toyed with trying to talk to him. In three days’ time she would be on a plane and away from here for good, unlikely to see him again. She should ask him some questions, give him the chance to explain himself. Perhaps she should try to talk him out of writing the story? Or maybe, she thought, she was just desperate enough to want him to dupe her again? ‘You really are pathetic,’ she muttered to herself.
Even so, she glanced around and caught sight of him at the near edge of the linking room and began to nudge her way through the crowd towards him. But a collector who’d loaned one of the works approached her, keen to say how much he’d enjoyed the exhibition and by the time the conversation had finished, Luc was out of sight. Terri continued on her way to the next room and saw him nearby, in deep conversation with an older woman, heavy with make-up and, to judge from the way she kept touching him, somebody he knew well. Terri backed off, was asked a question by someone to her right and turned to answer. Then Peter appeared at her side and put his large hand on her shoulder.
‘Excellent work, Terri,’ he said gruffly. ‘Excellent.’ He reached down to take her hand and bent to kiss it. A flash lit the air as two different people took photographs of them. Peter grinned at her. ‘Bloody press,’ he said, without rancour. ‘Good picture for the rags tomorrow though.’ He smiled. ‘So...’ He raised his eyebrows speculatively. ‘...we were thinking of having a little party tomorrow night – to see you off in style. What do you think? Could you cope with that?’
‘Of course. Thank you. Angela has already mentioned it to me actually.’
‘Has she, has she?’ Peter automatically glanced round to where his wife was chatting animatedly to a man nearby. He returned his eyes to Terri’s face. ‘Well, there you are then. I believe Angela’s going to invite Luc too. You don’t mind, do you? No...well that’s good.’
Terri glanced across to where Luc was still talking to the made-up woman. On a second inspection, she thought the woman looked familiar.
‘Peter?’ She touched his arm as he began to walk away. ‘Do you know the woman Luc is talking to?’
‘Mm?’ Peter gazed across the room. ‘Oh, that’s Grace Meachin. He used to work with her at the paper.’ He dropped his voice a notch. ‘I hope she gives us a damn good review.’ He moved away.
Terri stared across at Grace Meachin. The clearly intense nature of the conversation now made sense. Someone pushed into her line of vision and she turned away. The Parisian gallery director came back to speak to her. He asked her to email a résumé to him; he promised he’d send her details of a vacancy which would be coming up in the new year. She smiled and said all the right things as if someone else were speaking for her. He left and she wandered away aimlessly. She should have been excited but felt completely flat, devoid of emotion.
‘You must be Terri?’ said a voice behind her. Terri turned to find herself face to face with Grace Meachin.
‘Yes, I am.’ She studied the woman’s features dispassionately: the make-up seemed to overlay a pinched complexion; the smile looked strained.
‘I’m Grace Meachin,’ the woman said and mentioned the newspaper as if she expected Terri to be impressed. ‘Luc used to work for me.’
Terri nodded but said nothing. Grace cast an eye round the exhibition then fixed a shrewd gaze back on Terri.
‘It’s good,’ she said simply. ‘I’m impressed. When I heard he’d employed you to do this I laughed. Not because of you, of course.’ She put an overly familiar hand on Terri’s arm. ‘But because of him. He had such a reputation. I didn’t think you’d last a month. But here it is and it’s a great show.’ Grace nodded and puckered her lips up in an amused way. ‘You’ve tamed the beast, it seems. He was almost civil to me.’
‘He’s been a pleasure to work with,’ said Terri.
‘Really? You surprise me. And perhaps it’s you that’s had such an effect on Luc too? There was a time when he wouldn’t have dreamt of turning down the kind of opportunity I’ve been offering him. Now all he wants to do is paint...and presumably be poor.’ She scoffed. ‘I can’t imagine he’s going to be the next Peter Stedding. I mean...really...’
‘Actually he paints very well,’ said Terri. ‘But he turned you down, you say?’
‘Yes...twice now. I suppose he must mean it.’
Terri smiled. ‘Well I don’t think that had anything to do with me.’ She bit back an insolent remark, reluctant to jeopardise Peter’s reviews.
Grace stared at Terri for a moment with undisguised curiosity and a knowing smile.
‘But I got the distinct impression from the way he spoke about you that you were rather close.’
‘Did you? Well, Peter’s studio is quite an intimate working environment; inevitably you get to know your colleagues well. Anyway, I’m glad you enjoyed the exhibition. Please excuse me.’
‘Terri?’ Grace put her hand on Terri’s arm again.
‘What?’
‘Do you have a job to go to?’
‘Possibly.’
‘It’s a very insecure profession, isn’t it?’ Grace smiled. ‘I wondered if we could have a chat some time?’
‘And that would be about?’
Grace glanced round and dropped her voice. ‘It occurred to me that an insight into the workings of a professional artist’s studio could make an interesting article. Peter’s especially.’ She brandished the catalogue. ‘I see that you can write. It could be a lucrative assignment.’
‘I see. I’m afraid you’re wasting your time. I’m not interested. Excuse me.’
People were starting to leave and Terri moved away, searching everywhere for Luc. It was important that she speak to him; she had to apologise, seriously apologise. She negotiated more compliments and enquires and managed to check all three rooms of the exhibition. There was no sign of Luc anywhere. She found Lindsey and Thierry together near the doors and asked them if they’d seen him.
‘He’s gone,’ said Lindsey. ‘I saw him slip out a few minutes ago.’
*
The clearing in the woods was deserted when Terri walked there late the next morning. The door of the bergerie was closed and there were no lights; she knocked but got no answer and turned away. She should have come earlier but it had been nearly three by the time she’d got to bed that morning and she’d overslept. Now she’d missed him and her carefully rehearsed apology would have to wait. Would he come to her leaving party that night? She doubted it. Maybe he’d gone away, determined not to see her again before she left. With her suspicions, distrust and allegations she’d ruined everything. She couldn’t blame Luc; she’d been an idiot.
There was a clear blue sky; it was pleasant and warm but Terri was in no mood to linger and she returned to her room. There were things to sort out; she should start packing. Fleetingly, she considered calling at the pigeonnier. She had neither seen nor heard from Peter’s sister since seeking her out under the cherry tree, and Celia hadn’t come to the exhibition preview, apparently unwell and unable to face the journey. ‘Food poisoning,’ Peter had declared roundly. ‘Hardly surprising; she eats some very strange things.’ But, increasingly, Terri thought chasing after Basma was a fruitless exercise anyway. With hindsight, she wished she had not been so quick to involve Celia.
Barely ten minutes later she was pushing note pads into a bag when she heard a light rapping on the patio doors and, quickly looking up, saw Celia standing outside, gesticulating at the lock and quickly glancing around behind her. Terri let her in and pushed the door to, automatically looking out herself across the terraced gardens.
‘Are you all right?’ said Terri.
‘Yes, yes, dear. A bit weak is all. Something disagreed with me. A bad mushroom perhaps. I pick them in the woods, you know. I don’t suppose you’ve got any brandy have you? No? Well, not to worry.’
‘Tea?’
Celia gave a pained expression and shook her head.
‘I’ve found out where Basma is,’ she said in a stage whisper, glancing towards the patio doors before continuing. ‘She’s working as a housekeeper at a hotel in St. Rémy-de-Provence. She’s married now. Finishes work around three-thirty usually. I can tell you how to find it.’ She grinned broadly. ‘This cloak and dagger stuff is exciting isn’t it? Have you got a map?’ She surveyed the room. ‘Have you really been living like this for six months dear? It’s so spartan.’
*
The hotel stood on the outskirts of St. Rémy de Provence, a cream-painted rendered building set back off the road in large leafy gardens. A broad gateway in the walled perimeter gave access to a car park, dotted with olive trees. Terri drew the car to a halt and glanced at her watch: it was twenty past three. She turned off the engine and glanced around. Though not exactly deserted – there were a handful of cars parked – the place was uncomfortably quiet. Sure that her very presence looked suspicious, she thought she stood out like an adult in a children’s playground. She fingered the ring in the pocket of her jacket, checking it was still there, got out of the car and made her way across to reception.
The girl behind the desk, olive-skinned with short, dark hair, dragged her eyes from a computer screen and smiled a welcome. Terri explained that she was looking for a Basma Chabanas whom she believed worked at the hotel.
‘Is she working today?’ Terri asked.
The girl studied her a moment, frowning, then tapped at her keyboard, glancing up at the screen. She turned back to Terri.
‘Yes, she’s working. Is there a problem?’
‘No. No problem. I was simply hoping to speak to her when she finishes. Will that be soon?’
‘Yes...probably. They should be back with the keys before long.’ The girl still regarded her suspiciously. ‘Please take a seat.’
Terri said she preferred to wait outside. She couldn’t imagine making her approach under the watchful gaze of the receptionist, and Basma was sure to pass that way - it was the nearest way through to both the road and the car park. She slipped out into the sunshine and perched on a low stone wall which gave her a view through the glass doors of the entrance straight into reception.
Each minute felt like an hour. Terri kept glancing at her watch. She had to be back at Le Chant for the party at seven-thirty and it was a good hour’s drive from St. Rémy. Three-thirty came and went. Three forty-five. Three fifty-five. Perhaps Basma had used another exit after all. But she hadn’t returned the keys to reception so hopefully she was changing out of her work clothes ready to go home. Terri decided to give it another ten minutes; she got up and began pacing up and down. A couple approached the door, suitcase in tow, and went into register. They were still at the desk when Terri saw two women cross the entrance hall. One of them stepped behind the desk and exchanged a few words with the receptionist before they both walked outside. The taller, broader woman was fair with dyed blonde hair. The smaller woman was slight, her dark hair peppered with grey, her skin the colour of pale cinnamon. Terri took a couple of steps towards them.
‘Basma Chabanas?’ she said uncertainly, her gaze settling on the smaller of the two women.
‘Oui,’ Basma had large, soft eyes and a nervous smile, quickly replaced by watchful mistrust. The lines on her face suggested that she often frowned. ‘What do you want?’ she asked in French.
‘Could I have a word?’
The blonde woman quickly said her farewells and left, walking away towards the car park.
‘I don’t know you do I?’ Basma pulled the strap of her bag higher onto her shoulder as if about to leave.
Terri hesitated. She had one chance here to persuade Basma to talk to her.
‘No, you don’t know me. I’ve been working at Le Chant du Mistral, curating an exhibition for Peter Stedding. In the course of my research, I found out that you were friendly with his daughter, Josie, and I want to know more about her. I wondered if you would be prepared to talk to me about your time there?’
Terri felt as though she were holding her breath. It had sounded so much better when she’d rehearsed the words in the car on the way. And now an expression of fear had indeed formed on Basma’s care-worn features; she was already backing off.
‘I promise I won’t pass on anything you don’t want me to,’ Terri added hastily. ‘Look...’ She fumbled in her pocket and withdrew the ring. It was a gold hoop, asymmetrically set with aquamarines, which Celia had prised from her finger, insisting that Terri took it with her. All those years ago, in the grounds of Peter’s estate, Basma had apparently admired the ring and Celia had joked that she would leave it to her in her will. It would be a gesture of faith, she’d said, for she had always got on well with the girl. Now Terri held it out for Basma to see. ‘...Celia told me to bring this to prove I meant no harm. She said she promised she would leave it to you in her will. Do you remember the ring?’ She held it out on the flat of her hand within Basma’s reach.
Basma glanced at it and nodded warily. ‘Did Monsieur Stedding send you?’
‘No. This was my idea, honestly. It’s a long story but I’ll explain if you’ll let me.’
Basma’s dark eyes flicked behind Terri as if someone else might be hiding there.
‘I’m alone,’ said Terri. ‘Completely alone. I promise. Could I buy you a drink somewhere? A coffee? Something cold? Then I could explain to you what I want to know and why. If you don’t believe me, you don’t have to say anything. I’ll go and that’s the end of it.’
She waited. Basma was staring at her, expressionless. Eventually, she nodded.
‘There is a café over there,’ she said, and led the way with short brisk steps.
The café-bar was set back off the road with a terrace of tables in front. Basma chose a table on the edge of the terrace, pushed in beside a trough of box hedging, and they both sat, neither speaking until the order had been taken. Terri was aware of Basma scrutinising her face. The waiter returned with an espresso for Basma and a Perrier for Terri and they both watched his receding figure.
‘Where are you from?’ asked Basma.
‘England.’
Terri poured the fizzing water over the ice in her glass and replaced the bottle on the table. She raised her head and met Basma’s gaze.
‘Six months ago,’ she began, ‘I came to Le Chant du Mistral to work as a curator for an exhibition by Peter Stedding. I’d never been to Provence before. As far as I was concerned it was just a job – and a way to get away from a man who was causing me trouble. But Celia said I bore a surprising resemblance to Peter’s first wife. She implied that there might be a connection between me and the family.
‘I thought it was an absurd idea. But my own mother died young and she was always a mystery to me so I tried to find out more. I already knew that Peter’s first wife had died in childbirth. It was only a matter of time before I then heard about how his son Tom had accidentally drowned and his elder sister had killed herself soon afterwards...or perhaps run away. Apparently she was pregnant at the time.’ Terri paused. Basma was looking down now, vigorously stirring sugar into her coffee. ‘I may have been the child she was carrying.’
Basma said nothing.
‘Anyway, it seems a lot of people don’t think Tom’s death was an accident at all; they think Josephine killed her brother. So I wondered what you knew about it. It’s important to me. You see, in her diary, Josie says that she wasn’t there when the accident happened.’
Basma looked up sharply, eyes wide. ‘She kept a diary? What else does she say?’
‘She says she went to see a doctor in Ste. Marguerite and when she got back Tom was alone. He was dead in the pool.’
‘She said I killed him?’
‘No,’ said Terri quickly. ‘No. She said she was sure you wouldn’t have hurt him.’
‘She said that? In her diary? Have you got it here?’
Terri shook her head. Still uncertain where she stood in this conversation; she wasn’t prepared to hand over a diary she wasn’t supposed to have to a woman she didn’t know.
Basma’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you recording this conversation?’ she demanded suddenly.
‘No, certainly not.’
‘Prove it.’
Terri emptied out her pockets. She stood up, turned round and showed Basma the inside of the cotton jacket which she had thrown over the back of her chair. The woman looked satisfied.
‘Who else has seen this diary?’ she asked.
‘No-one. I haven’t shown it to anyone. Look, I just want to know what happened. Josie says she left you to look after the boy while she went to the doctor. What happened after she’d gone? Was there someone else there?’
‘I did not hurt him,’ said Basma emphatically. ‘But it’s a long time ago. I’ve been many places since then, done many things. I’m not sure what happened now.’
‘Really? I’d have thought it was a day you’d always remember. Tom liked you and Celia said you were good with him. I thought maybe you liked him too.’
The aggression faded from Basma’s face to be replaced by an expression of profound sadness. She sat back in her chair and stared towards the chalky outlines of the Alpilles hills as if trying to come to a decision. Terri said nothing, and waited.
‘You think Josie was your mother?’
‘Yes. It’s possible.’
Basma studied her again, perhaps assessing her features for a likeness.
‘And what will you do when you find out what happened?’ she asked.
Terri shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Nothing. It’s for me. I just want to know.’
‘Perhaps it would be better if you don’t know. For if you know you have to carry the knowledge with you...forever.’
‘Josie didn’t want to tell anyone that she’d left Tom with you because she didn’t want to get you into trouble. So she was blamed.’ Terri leaned forward, passionate suddenly, angry. ‘My mother killed herself when I was a child. I want to know why. I want to know what happened.’
Basma continued to consider her thoughtfully.
‘It’s true,’ she said slowly. ‘I did like Tom. He was a good boy. And I liked Josie too, though she was more serious...she was an emotional girl. But you have to understand: I am Algerian. I did my work. I kept out of trouble. It was very important for me that I didn’t attract trouble.’ She paused, chin raised defiantly. ‘I came here illegally, you see. No papers. I have them now, but not then. I had no position. No-one would believe me. It was a very difficult situation.’
‘Yes, I can see that.’
‘Can you?’ Basma shook her head, smiling ruefully. ‘I doubt it. How would you understand? It’s not always easy now. Then it was much harder.’ She drank her coffee, finishing it in one gulp. Again she looked poised to go.
‘Maybe you’re right,’ said Terri. ‘How could I understand? So tell me what it was like. Help me to understand.’
Basma watched her, unblinking. ‘Sami is still there?’
‘Sami? Yes. Why?’
‘Does he know you’re here?’
‘No. Only Celia knows.’
‘So he doesn’t know about the diary?’
Terri shook her head. ‘No. I didn’t tell him. Are you scared of Sami? Was he there, that afternoon?’
‘Sami is always there. And he’s been at the house for many, many years. Monsieur Stedding is very good to him.’
‘Wasn’t he good to you?’
‘I hadn’t been there that long when the boy died.’
‘I don’t see what you mean.’
Basma leaned forward suddenly, rested her elbows on the table and pushed her face close towards Terri’s.
‘Do you really want to know what happened?’ she asked fiercely. ‘Because I do know. But no-one wants to know the truth. And who will believe me anyway?’
‘I will.’
Basma stared at her, clearly trying to gauge if she meant what she said. Then she began to talk in a quiet, urgent voice, and the words tumbled out as if she’d been waiting for this chance to speak for years.
