All that was down to Auguste. Well before anyone else, he spotted Sophie’s qualities and arranged for them to forge a relationship beneficial to both. Cyril does the groundwork, sets a course of action, gets her accepted on the case, and vouches for her with colleagues – does everything, in fact, apart from solve it. Because that’s where Sophie comes in. You might think he’d be annoyed, and the first time he was – so annoyed, in fact, that he wrote a bogus report and took all the credit himself. But now he’s come round to the idea: if this is how the partnership works, so be it. And crucially, Pico himself is on board with it. ‘Unorthodox, perhaps,’ was his observation last time, ‘but whatever gets a result.’ Though naturally, he doesn’t know what lies at the heart of it, doesn’t know they are soulmates. For obvious reasons, Cyril can never mention Auguste at work.
The only person who understands him, accepts it fully, is Gabrielle. She may not be in touch with spirits herself, but they don’t faze her one bit. Until he breached the topic with her, Cyril was frankly ashamed, even a little scared, because this, he knew, was inadmissible – what if it meant he wasn’t right in the head? But Gabrielle set him at ease – on the contrary, she said, Auguste was proof that he had a better head than anyone else, one not bound by the shackles of reason, one that was blessed with a gift to be nurtured and cherished.
‘Have a good day, my sweet.’ He smells the exhilarating scent of her body, feels her breasts against him as they hug. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
But even as he leaves the flat, his mind returns to Sophie, and the thrill of anticipation at whatever intrigue Auguste is setting up.
As ever, there’s a twinge of guilt, but he nips it in the bud. Gabrielle knows about her after all; it isn’t as if he’s hiding anything. He even invited Sophie to his wedding, thinking it would be good if they actually met. But Sophie had just given birth and regretfully declined, sending instead the most beautiful gift imaginable: a charming little figurine of him and Auguste. Cyril had been surprised at that, because spiritual bonds weren’t Sophie’s thing at all, she dismissed the whole notion as a load of hooey. Perhaps, he thought, she’s changed her mind – is that what the statue means? But it probably wasn’t wise to read too much into it. She simply knew that Auguste was important to him, and thought it would make a nice present. Which it did – even Gabrielle thought so, though he couldn’t tell if she was pleased or not that Sophie couldn’t attend. On the one hand, she was curious: who was this woman she’d heard so much about? On the other hand, unfortunately, she was jealous. There’d been no arguments, she’d never said anything explicit, but Cyril knew from the questions she asked, probing, wanting to know exactly what they’d done together, how the collaboration worked, and then the way she frowned, fell silent, mulling over his answers. Cyril has never mentioned the soulmate thing – she’s amenable to Auguste’s ideas, yes, but not that amenable. ‘Colleagues’ is the word he’s always used, clothing it in the matter-of-fact jargon of witnesses, suspects, forensic evidence and search warrants. Sophie, he led her to believe, was nothing more than a competent, though somewhat erratic, assistant. He wishes he could be surer that Gabrielle is convinced.
And now, in whatever drama is in the making, the curtain is about to be raised on another act. Because one thing is clear: Sophie’s presence in the same house as Eddy Ferrucci is not a coincidence. It’s a continuation of their journey, their partnership, their destiny. Cyril doesn’t know what the day holds in store but when he describes it this evening to Gabrielle, he will have to choose his words carefully. For the kitten, he thinks ruefully, has claws.
At 8.29 precisely, he arrives at the gendarmerie in Moudiret (punctuality is another of his virtues), but there, to his surprise, ‘Lieutenant Bondy?’ says the adjutant at reception. ‘He’s just left. Gone to Saint Abel down the road.’
‘Left?’ The sheer inefficiency infuriates him. ‘But we fixed an appointment.’
‘An emergency, I’m afraid. There’s been a murder at Venturi.’
Chapter 5 Maya Ferrucci
May 16th 2019
‘Nice, very nice. Good. Lots of colour.’
Gino Escarola took a step back, hands in pockets, mouth energetically working on gum. ‘Vibrant.’ He nodded, his whole body rocking in approval. ‘Good stuff, Maya, good stuff. How many did you say? A dozen?’
‘Fifteen, if you’ve got the space.’
‘Sure. Speak to Axel. He’ll see to it.’ He patted her shoulder. ‘Champagne?’
Good stuff. Maya would have been happier if Gino wasn’t so full of bullshit it spilled out of his mouth every time he spoke. At least when it came to art – the rest she didn’t stir herself to judge. He’d bluffed and blustered and battered his way to wealth, bribed as well no doubt, so he had whatever it took, the confidence and kudos, and you had to admire him for that. The ambition. The self-belief. The sheer, brazen nerve that got him to where he was. Not forgetting the brown denim jacket with fringes. A real cowboy, Gino. But art? That was his fantasy world, an attempt to come across as refined, knowledgeable, a man whose interests went beyond the latest property deal or the price of a Lamborghini. To be fair, he knew a bit – a smattering paraded like a fake suntan – and when you can talk the hind legs off a whole herd of donkeys, it was plenty enough to fool anyone he felt the need to impress. But not Maya. She knew it was bullshit. And he knew she knew, which was why he didn’t bother to expand. Good stuff. And fob her off onto Axel, his apathetic, spendthrift, good for nothing son.
The bottle of Dom Perignon was drunk on the terrace where they watched the Sainte Victoire absorb the sunset. Then they went inside for dinner, during which Axel was called over to receive instructions. Madame Ferrucci would bring the rest of her paintings the next day and Axel was to note exactly how she wanted them displayed. Plan the opening according to her instructions – leaflets, flyers, invitations, press release. The exhibition would run for two months. Maximum publicity – double the usual budget. Insurance, just in case some scummy prick made off with them. No, on second thoughts he’d arrange that himself with Eddy. These were no ordinary pictures. Maya Ferrucci’s work was highly acclaimed and to have them displayed here in L’Ophrys was an honour. Why, she was doing them a favour, not the other way round. This was an opportunity for Axel to shine, show what he was capable of, go some way to restoring L’Ophrys to what it used to be.
‘Shine?’ said Maya when he was gone. ‘A bit optimistic, aren’t we?’
‘Never hurts to say it,’ Gino grumbled. ‘One day it might sink in.’
Maya had her doubts. In the three years she and Eddy had been back in France, Axel had managed to make a pig’s ear of a flourishing business, and it certainly wasn’t her paintings that were going to save it. Exactly who was doing whom a favour was a moot point. Until recently, she might have thought that for all its flattery, Gino’s comment was true: her work was on sale in Florilège, rue Lhomond in the 5th arrondissement of Paris, run by her friend Viviane. But then she’d sold up suddenly, and told Maya to collect her remaining pictures straightaway. It was only then that Maya realised how vulnerable she was. Living in Cameroun, she’d relied exclusively on Viviane, never built up a network for herself, didn’t even bother to set up a website. Now she had fifteen paintings to get rid of, and until she found an alternative, Gino’s shoddy restaurant, run by his shoddy son, was as good a place as any. At least they wouldn’t be moulding in her garage.
‘Do any ever get sold?’ she asked.
‘Now and then. It’s more the publicity, you know? Doing our bit to promote local talent.’
Needful as she was of a place to exhibit, Maya considered herself a cut above – several cuts, in fact – the talent she’d seen so far in L’Ophrys, standard, humdrum depictions of lavender fields or boats. She’d found a style of her own, taken inspiration from African imagery and turned it into something raw and vibrant. So said Viviane anyway, and Maya had no reason to disbelieve her. It helped, perhaps, that she painted in isol
ation, only started in Cameroun to while away the time, and never sought to do anything with it till Eddy incited her to, whereupon she put a press book together and struck her first deal with Viviane. ‘Self-taught but who cares?’ she had enthused. ‘Take it from me, Maya, you’re a natural.’
She told this to Gino, who nodded mechanically, humouring her. ‘Sure. Very true,’ he said through a mouthful of lamb. ‘How’s the cuttlefish? All right?’
‘Decent enough. Might not be worth the effort it takes to get here.’
‘That’s what I keep saying. A place like this, miles out of town, it’s got to be exceptional. He thinks the view’s enough on its own. He’s got no fucking idea.’
Maya let him rant a bit more before returning to the topic. ‘Those were the good days.’ She was getting maudlin now but she couldn’t help it – wine wasn’t good for her. Especially not on top of all that champagne. ‘We’d just bought the house in Kribi. Whenever I wanted peace and quiet, I’d go down there and paint.’
‘Kribi. Remind me. On the coast?’
‘Eddy built a hotel there. Still got it. We should have kept the house too. Go there when we want, let it the rest of the time. A place to get away, like I did when I was there.’
‘Douala’s a shithole, huh?’
‘No, just a city. Noise, traffic...’ She drank more wine and giggled, spilling it down her chin. ‘Get away from Eddy, more like. Know what I mean?’ She didn’t know why she said that. She loved Eddy, dammit! She said this to Gino too, said it to his nodding face as she wondered where Eddy was now, ten p.m. in Douala, wheeling and dealing done for the day, one of his favourite whores sucking him off.
Gino understood, though. He had a wife who loved him too, though he was the same as Eddy, maybe worse. Fucking bastards, the pair of them.
He clutched her hand, squeezed it tight. ‘You and Eddy are good. Right for each other. He’s a good man, Maya. Hold on to him.’
‘I know. I will.’ She dabbed her eyes with a napkin, her other hand keeping hold of Gino’s till he gently prised it away. ‘I’ve got him a present,’ she said brightly. ‘A week in Venturi View. The new people, they’re running a course for writers and artists. No idea what it’s like but it might be worth a shot.’
‘For Eddy? A shot at what?’
‘Oh, he keeps on about writing a novel. And I think he’s got a good idea. Just needs someone to get him started. He won’t listen to me.’
‘Ah. Well, I’ll be keen to hear about that.’ He leant back, features resigned, disgruntled. ‘You know, I was all set to buy that place. It didn’t work out.’
‘Buy it? To do what. Bed and breakfast?’
‘Nah.’ He wrinkled his nose. ‘Self-catering flats. Six, you could fit in there. The owners weren’t keen, said it would lose its character, all the work they’d done there, blah, blah. But I had all the plans drawn up, we were getting close to a deal, then some English cunt comes along and snaps it up from under my nose. For less than I was offering, would you believe? But they had the cash in hand, no planning permission needed so... I dunno, maybe I set about it wrong. They thought I was just some swanky promoter who couldn’t give a shit. I got Seibel to try and convince them otherwise but it didn’t work.’
‘Seibel? The nursery people?’
‘Henri. The father. We go way back. He got on well with them, put in a word for me, but no dice. So,’ he sighed, ‘make sure he gets that bestseller out. At least something good will have come of it.’
Out in the car park, she said, ‘You know Mickael Durvez, don’t you? He bought Florilège from Viviane. For a very good price, she said.’
‘Yeah, you told me. What about him?’
‘I need someone to replace her. I called him myself but he didn’t... Politely gave me the brush off. But you... I thought you could put in a word.’
‘With Durvez? No offence, darling, but he’s a little bit out of your league. And I don’t know him that well. Met him a couple of times, that’s all.’
‘Special favour?’ She moved closer, put a hand on his chest. Gino could bluff his way to any dealer on earth.
‘He doesn’t do contemporary. But maybe he knows someone. I’ll give it a go if you want.’ An empty promise, forgotten as soon as it was said. He removed her hand. ‘Are you all right to drive? Want me to take you?’
No answer to that, except to thrust herself on him, half aggression, half embrace, and bring her lips hard upon his.
He pushed her away, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Maya, we’re not... What’s past is past. You know that.’
She knew, of course she knew. She didn’t want it otherwise. She’d got fed up with him just as he did with her. It was just... right now... that need to be held in someone’s arms, someone who, for an hour or two, would pretend to love her...
She pushed him to the ground. ‘You’re full of shit, Gino Escarola.’ He lay on his back laughing.
A few miles down the road she had to pull over. Through the blur of her tears, she couldn’t see where she was going.
Chapter 6 Dropping Like Flies
7.06? Shit!
Sophie flung back the sheet and rolled out of bed. Dorian’s still asleep? Then she remembered where she was, and sank back onto the mattress, collecting as many of her wits as she could find. Which frankly wasn’t a lot: she’d woken at two to pump, found it too hot to get back to sleep, taken a shower, tried to read but her head was aching and she didn’t have any aspirin. Those two glasses of wine... ‘Fool,’ she scolded herself. A vision came to her of the homeless wreck who begged by the pharmacy in Sentabour. Then her sister Lexie lecturing her: ‘A fucked up world like this and you’re bringing children into it? That’s selfish, Sophie. Selfish and irresponsible.’ Sophie groaned, swung herself out of bed, and clamped the pump to her breast.
She wondered about the others. Must be some mighty hangovers skulking around. Martin’s especially, or else he was just not good at holding his drink. Either way, he’d been so incensed by Eddy Ferrucci’s determination to be rude that the pair of them ended up in a fight. While Gareth humbly went off to get the luggage, Martin had sprung to his defence, finally responding to Ferrucci’s persistent taunting by jumping from his chair, putting up his fists and challenging him to a fight. ‘Egad, sir, you’re a boorish brute! Come on now, Queensbury rules. What? Are you yellow too? The blackguard!’ When Eddy laughed him away, Martin grabbed him in a bear hug, attempting to lift him from the chair, with the consequence that it toppled over and they writhed around on the terrace like a many-limbed monster in its death throes. Gareth tried to untangle them but to no great effect, and it was only when Isadora, with far greater energy, threw herself on top of them that they finally rolled apart.
‘All in jest,’ panted Martin, miserably failing to arrange his shirt correctly. ‘Bit of harmless fun.’
Eddy didn’t look so sure, but he managed to retain a little more dignity about his person, and as he sat down again, he remarked with a chuckle, ‘That’s the spirit! I’ve always heard that the heart of a novel is conflict. Isn’t that right, Forster?’
Sophie had gone to bed at that point, and a few minutes later she heard footsteps on the stairs, the others having also concluded that the evening’s conviviality was dead and buried. Poor Adeline and Gareth. After all that work. What sort of group dynamic now? But perhaps, she thought, as she fell asleep, by the end of the week we’ll be chanting in unison in the Zenhouse.
The first indication that it wasn’t going to work out like that came as she made her way downstairs and met a distressed Penelope Best coming up, smart as ever in a blue sleeveless dress, but hair all over the place. Ignoring Sophie’s cheery ‘Good morning,’ she stared back in confusion, almost, it seemed, in fear; then she removed a strand of hair that was stuck to her forehead, muttered something incomprehensible and carried on up the stairs, her face screwed up in a fair imitation of Dorian’s wrinkled tomato. A bout of colic? But she’d neither eaten nor drunk to excess,
only forsaking her composure to rebuke her husband, and even then it was soft, discreet, and Sophie had thought that she must have a horror of drawing attention to herself. Wondering what could have caused such a fluster, Sophie continued somewhat apprehensively downstairs.
Apparently nothing, at least not in the dining room, where Isadora, bright and breezy as ever, greeted her with a perky ‘Good morning! Did you sleep all right?’ before turning her back to arrange jars of homemade jam on the sideboard. ‘It’s self-serve, tea or coffee, but we can fix chocolate if you want. Ever so sorry, we’re running a bit late. But Gareth’s just come in with fresh baguettes and croissants, I’ll just – ah, here they are, lovely!’ This last was addressed to Gareth, whose head loomed briefly in the hatch leading to the kitchen. Sophie caught a glimpse of his face, harassed and grim, as he handed the bread through. Behind him, an equally frazzled Adeline scuttled in a billow of steam at the hob, while the morning’s news droned from a radio in the background. The hatch slammed shut again.
Painter Palaver Page 4