by Jane Holland
The face disappears. Nobody answers.
‘She’ll be running me a bath, I expect,’ Tamsin says, unconcerned.
Something shifts in my head, like a gear crashing into place, and I stop dead on the stairs. A bath tub, red splashes … Screaming.
My aunt stops too, looking back at me in surprise. ‘Caitlin? What’s the matter? You’ve lost all your colour.’
‘Nothing, I …’ My heart is beating hard, but I don’t know why. ‘Sorry. Go on.’
‘One night, Robin got blind drunk. He came banging on the door, demanding to see Emily. I told him to go back to his Diane and the child. But he wouldn’t listen. He was wild, said somebody had seen Diane with another man. That if she was “banging” someone behind his back, he could be unfaithful too. Sauce for the goose, et cetera.’
‘Diane was unfaithful?’
‘She wasn’t the type. But Robin clearly believed it. And worst of all, so did Emily.’ Tamsin falters again, suddenly looking beaten. Her lower lip trembles. ‘I tried to keep them apart. You must believe me.’
‘But they started up their affair again.’
‘He was besotted after that, couldn’t leave her alone. Something was driving Robin in those days. Some evil influence. Lucille said he had the devil in him.’ Tamsin shakes her head. ‘But it was just drugs. Drugs and alcohol.’
‘I’m surprised Emily was interested if he was that far gone.’
‘That level of passionate intensity can be very seductive. Especially after the heartache she’d suffered.’
I slip a supportive hand under her elbow as we reach the top of the stairs. She looks done in. Her room is at the far end of the corridor, the last door before the guest bathroom. I glance ahead. The guest bathroom is ajar. There’s a light on inside and I can hear water running.
‘Sounds like your bath is almost ready.’ I feel uneasy though, my stomach churning, and can’t work out why. ‘Aunt Tamsin, why are you using the guest bathroom?’
‘The bath tub leaks in my ensuite. Straight into the room beneath. Jacques had a go at it, but says we need to call in a plumber. Crack in the pipe.’ She sighs. ‘I use the guest bathroom now for my baths. It’s not as grand, but …’
‘Right.’ I put my uneasiness aside. ‘So presumably Diane asked for a divorce.’
‘Oh no.’ My aunt sounds shocked. We stop outside the guest bathroom door. Through the partly open door, I can see pale striations on the wall, the reflection of light on water. ‘Better if she had. But she was a Catholic, and those people don’t divorce lightly.’
‘I don’t understand. You said …’
‘There was a fire,’ she whispers, against the backdrop of running water. There are tears in her eyes. ‘A terrible, terrible fire. It gutted the villa.’
‘Oh my God.’
‘It was the middle of the night. Diane and dear little Charlie were fast asleep. They never got out …’ Tamsin can barely go on. ‘The police suspected arson, and arrested Robin.’
I stare, horrified. ‘I never heard any of this.’
‘His father flew over straightaway, hired a team of top Parisian lawyers. They managed to keep the worst of it out of the papers. And the police had to release Robin almost immediately. He had an alibi, anyway. Rock solid.’
‘Emily?’
‘The two of them were together the night of the fire, he claimed. Holed up in some little hotel in the hills, I can’t remember exactly where now. There were witnesses at the hotel to back up his story. And Emily always swore he never left her, not for a minute.’
My breath catches in my throat. ‘Wait … In the hills? Not Les Baux de Provence?’
‘That’s it, yes. I remember now.’
‘But that’s where Robin took me too. To Les Baux.’
‘Oh, my poor darling.’
I remember Robin daring me out onto the narrow balcony to admire the view, and the way the receptionist smiled so comfortably at him. His odd familiarity with the layout of the town. He took me to the same town, probably to the same hotel. I thought he was being spontaneous and romantic, when in fact he was reconstructing the scene of an old alibi. But why?
Perhaps he wanted to see the effect it would have on me. To find out for sure if I knew what he’d done.
‘But surely Emily couldn’t trust him after that?’
‘Emily was devastated about the fire, like all of us. But she was adamant that Robin was at her side the whole time.’
‘So she kept seeing him?’
I remember how Robin threw himself onto the loose soil of her grave and wept so bitterly. Perhaps they truly were in love.
‘Oh, Caitlin …’ Tamsin’s face seems to crumble. She shakes her head, and I can see that she’s crying now. ‘They had an argument. Robin wouldn’t stop drinking, you see. Emily refused to see him anymore. Then one night, he somehow got into the chateau and … Well, there’s no easy way to say this. He raped my darling daughter.’
I’m too shocked to speak, but shake my head, unable to believe it.
‘She didn’t tell the police for days. That was how much Emily loved him, deep down. By then, it was too late though. There was no evidence, and of course Robin denied it. He even had an alibi for that night too. So the police couldn’t charge him.’
‘Good God.’
‘Robin came round here a few days after the police let him go. He was furious, off his head on drink and drugs, throwing things at the windows …’ She closes her eyes. ‘The guard tossed him out. I don’t think Emily ever saw him again after that.’
‘I had no idea.’
‘I should have told you as soon as you came back to France. But it was so long ago, and with my bad memory … Sometimes I hoped that I’d imagined it all.’
I kiss her on the cheek, though inside I’m screaming. ‘Let’s talk more in the morning. You’re exhausted now. Have your bath. Get some sleep.’
She nods weakly.
The water is still running in the bathroom, I realise, surprised. The bath must be full by now. What on earth is Lucille thinking, letting it run on and on like that?
Aunt Tamsin pushes the bathroom door open and peers round, then gasps. She steps back against me, recoiling.
‘Oh my God!’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
‘What is it?’
I step past my aunt, my heartbeat drumming unpleasantly in my ears. My mind keeps swinging back and forth, recalling a dark corridor, the sound of screaming, and then … fade to black, my memory still uncooperative.
I expect to see the housekeeper inside the bathroom. Perhaps some scene of carnage. All I know is that I need to protect my aunt from whatever is behind this door. It’s me Robin is after, anyway. Otherwise, why would he have tried to kill me at Les Baux?
But the bathroom is empty. No sign of Lucille. No sign of Robin.
Not even any sign of violence.
The taps have both been left running, the bath full to the brim, water sloshing over the top. The bathroom floor gleams with a small sea, slippery and dangerous.
‘Look what she’s done …’ Tamsin gasps, as though the bath overflowing is the end of the world. ‘Oh no, no.’
Gingerly, I lean over and turn both taps off. It’s difficult; they’ve been turned on full, so hard they’re almost stuck in that position. And the water that’s been pumping out of the hot tap is merely lukewarm. For God’s sake. My racing heart begins to slow. There’s nothing sinister here. Just a forgetful housekeeper and a wet bathroom floor.
‘Lucille must have forgotten to turn the taps off, that’s all.’
‘But that’s so unlike her.’ Tamsin sounds confused, even frightened. ‘Where is she? What’s happened to her?’
‘Probably gone on some errand. Don’t worry, Aunt Tamsin, I’m sure she’s around here somewhere. We’ll soon find her.’ She looks past me, pale, uncomprehending. Her mental frailty worries me. I suddenly wish I didn’t have to leave. But what choice do I have? ‘Watch your step, the floor’s wet.’
There’s a clattering noise down the other end of the corridor. We both turn, staring. Lucille emerges from the attic stairs, looking flustered, a heap of crumpled linen in her arms. She hurries towards us.
‘Pardon, Madame,’ she says breathlessly. ‘J’arrive.’
‘Where on earth have you been, Lucille?’ my aunt demands in French. ‘The bath has run over.’
‘I forgot to prepare Mademoiselle’s room for her return.’ Her voice is unusually high and agitated. ‘I took up clean bedding, but there was a bird trapped in the room. I had to release it. It took longer than I intended.’
She throws the dirty sheets into a basket just inside the guest bathroom door, and pauses to examine the damage. ‘I’ll fetch the mop, then run you a fresh bath.’
‘No need. There’ll be no hot water left now anyway.’ My aunt raises thin eyebrows at Lucille’s horrified expression. ‘I’ll take a shower in the morning instead.’
‘Of course, Madame. Forgive me.’
When Lucille has scurried downstairs to fetch a mop, my aunt turns to kiss me on both cheeks. ‘I’ll say goodnight, darling,’ she says, her papery eyelids drooping with fatigue. ‘You won’t leave for England without saying goodbye, will you?’
‘Not a chance.’
What the hell was Lucille doing up in the attic?
After leaving my aunt, I peer over the banisters. It’s still dim and quiet downstairs. The attic stairs are lit up though, a pool of illumination in the darkness. In her hurry, Lucille did not turn off those lights as she turned off the chandeliers in the hall earlier. Not as expensive to run though, I expect.
I forgot to prepare Mademoiselle’s room for her return.
Which is strange. I told her when I left that I’d be back soon, and not to bother changing the sheets. And she had no reason to tidy my room. I left it spotless, my bed made.
When I head upstairs, I find the door to my room standing open. The light has been left on. There was a bird trapped in the room. I had to release it. I glance at the double windows that lead onto the balcony. They are closed and shuttered, just as I left them.
Why stop to close the shutters, yet forget to turn off the light or close the door behind her? And if there was a bird in here, it’s left no mess in its panic to be free. No loose feathers. No musty smell.
Lucille has dropped my rucksack on the floor near the wardrobe. I crouch to retrieve my phone, and find the rucksack partly unzipped. Has Lucille been rummaging through it? I can’t imagine what she could have been looking for. My dirty underwear?
I pick up the rucksack and dump it on the bed for unpacking. The sheets look and smell fresh to me. But the top sheet has not been turned down, and the bottom sheet is not properly tucked in, dangling down at the far corner. On both sides, I realise, leaning over to check. That kind of sloppiness is out of character for Lucille, who prides herself on the perfect execution of her domestic duties.
I begin to unpack my rucksack. Then I throw my suitcase onto the floor, open it, and transfer most of my possessions straight there. I stuff the dirty clothes into the zip compartment, since I won’t have time to get anything washed and dried before tomorrow’s flight.
I find the plastic bag of scented soaps from Les Baux intended as a gift for Tamsin, and stop to inhale the fragrance of Provence. The scent of deception and sex and violence now. Because that’s what it was. Violence. Both in bed with him, and when Robin grabbed me at Les Baux. My skin crawls with horror as I realise how close I came to being utterly, hopelessly in love with the man.
Where is Robin now?
Fled, I expect. Back into oblivion where he came from. And good riddance. He would be crazy to come anywhere near the chateau now.
When I’m done packing, I set the rucksack on the bed and check the wardrobe is empty, then my bedside drawers. Nothing in the top two drawers. There’s something in the bottom drawer though, rattling noisily about as I drag it open.
It’s a pencil.
I stoop and pick it up. It feels oddly familiar in my hand. An old pencil stump, only a little longer than my thumb, worn down almost to nothing, the lead soft and blunted.
‘My diary pencil,’ I whisper.
I remember what Robin said to me in Les Baux, the special ‘favour’ he asked me for.
When you get back to the chateau after this trip, take a look at your old diary.
I turn, pencil in hand.
I should probably ignore him. Another of his mind games. And yet …
The rug that was put down in my absence is still there, covering the loose floorboard under which I used to hide my diary from Emily’s nosy snooping.
Emily was always looking through my drawers and under my bed, eager to pry out all my secrets. So when I found a loose board in my bedroom floor, it made the obvious hiding place for all those things I did not want her to find. Like my childish sketches of Robin, drawn from memory late at night and decorated with snatches of song lyrics or poetry, anything that seemed to fit my teenage heartache. Emily would have wept with laughter if she had seen some of the poems I wrote for Robin. Or the diary entries where I poured my heart out …
It was one of the worst moments of my life when I realised, sitting on the plane home to England, that in my panic that morning, in my tearful, head-thumping rush, I’d forgotten to retrieve my diary from under the floor.
All my secrets, left behind in my diary, stranded in enemy territory with no chance of recovery. It had felt like the end of everything.
Carefully, I tuck the pencil stump into my bag next to my phone.
I can’t leave my diary behind a second time.
My heart thudding loudly in the silence, I drop to my knees and gently roll back the rug until the loose board is revealed.
With only a few ominous creaks, I lever up the floorboard and then lean right forward. Almost lying on the floor, I peer over into the dusty little space under the floor where I used to keep my rolled-up sketches of Robin, and my diary, and a few other treasured objects.
It’s empty.
The diary – and everything else – has gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
There are five motorbikes racing each other uphill on the quiet, tree-lined Route du Phare, weaving about the narrow road, revving their throttles. It’s close to midnight. Luxury villas on both sides, hidden away behind high walls, most wrought-iron gates bearing a warning in French alongside a graphic of a guard dog.
Five drunken young riders, five pillions laughing and calling out to each other. Shorts and bare chests and designer bikinis. Thong sandals, and trainers that cost a month’s salary. Some of the girls on the back have no helmets, hair blowing wildly about their faces.
The bike engines whine, disturbing the night’s silence. The sweet, cloying fragrance of mimosa is all around.
You cling on like a monkey, arms linked around Peter’s thick waist.
He’s one of the oldest of your little group, another ex-pat Brit’s kid. A smug, over-fed bastard with a trust fund and a public school education. Of course, you ought to be grateful to be here at all, let alone with someone of Peter’s elevated status, practically one of the leaders this summer. They could have left you in town with the others, the out-of-focus kids, the hangers-on, the needy Cap trash.
But instead of enjoying the ride, you keep glancing back at Robin, on the bike behind you, and Emily, riding pillion.
Your cousin leans forward, saying something to Robin, and he laughs. That look on his face. “Pure happiness,” you’ll write in your diary later tonight.
You’re in love, and your eyes betray your jealousy.
You can’t help it, of course. How could you? Emily is beautiful, and her mother’s a world-famous actress. Your looks are plain by comparison. You’re a nobody, a poor vicar’s daughter from the back of beyond. You speak softly, prefer books to the outdoor life, and you don’t have the innate sense of privilege that allows these others to spit on their inferiors.
You cling
on because you must. Because you’d fall and be forgotten if you didn’t. Forgotten in the space between two heartbeats.
That’s how little you mean here.
Your cousin is the only thing that anchors you to this glamorous half-life of beach parties and all-night clubbing in St Tropez, and you know it. Under such circumstances, jealousy is natural. Understandable, even.
What’s less understandable is the way you worship those two. Sometimes, it’s almost as though you’d be happy for them to trample you to death, if it meant you were pleasing them.
You’re a born masochist. A servant. Less than a servant.
A slave.
And you don’t even know it.
The last swaying bend, and you’re up at the top. High above the Cap. The engines die into silence. Everyone dismounts, staring up at the black sky, its glittering stars, the bay lit-up brightly along the front, curving away into black where it meets the sea. There are lights inside the tiny chapel, perhaps some kind of midnight service going on.
You wander closer as though meaning to peer through one of the narrow chapel windows. Your bare legs gleam in the darkness.
‘What is this place?’
‘Don’t go in.’ Robin has followed you to the doorway. He smiles but holds you back from entering, a hand on your arm. You jerk at his touch and he registers it, amusement creeping into his voice. ‘It’s a chapel. And it looks like someone’s still in there. God knows why.’
The irony of this comment is apparently lost on him.
You’re flushed, staring up at him hungrily. Your eyes are wide, curious to know more about life, about the world.
‘Why are we here, Robin?’ Your smile is uncertain though, even a little wary. Like you think he could be dangerous for you. Which, of course, is true. ‘It must be midnight, at least.’
‘This is the Chapelle de la Garoupe. I like to come up here some nights for the view. To see the stars. And the bay.’ He turns on his heel, shows you how the lights across the bay below curve round, winking in the darkness like the scales of a landed fish, twitching on its side. ‘Look, see over there? That’s the Bay of Cannes.’ He shifts round. ‘And the Iles de Lérins are over in that direction. Remember the day-trip we took out there?’