by Jane Holland
‘Not your fault,’ she says, not very convincingly for an actress. ‘A trick of the light. I got confused, that’s all.’ The dementia, of course. ‘Oh God, I’m so tired. I didn’t sleep very well. I’m going back to bed.’
Concerned for her state of mind, I follow Tamsin back to her bedroom. The shutters are still closed, the large room in darkness. There’s that perfumed air again. Sweeter this time. The same scent I recall from my childhood.
‘Perhaps I should help you choose something to wear?’ I cross to the closed mahogany wardrobe, even vaster than the one in her daughter’s room, and start to open the double doors. ‘Or would you prefer it if I called Lucille?’
‘No need, darling.’ She yawns, looking at her bed with yearning. ‘I’m not getting out of bed again today. Too tired. And my chest hurts.’
I’m concerned at once. ‘Should I call a doctor?’
But she merely shakes her head, pointing to a selection of pill bottles beside the bed. ‘I’ll take a few of those later. Then I’ll be fine.’
I pick one up and rattle it. But the prescription is in French and I don’t recognise the name of the medicine. The pills inside are small, white, cylindrical. Another bottle with an orange lid contains larger pills in a dull yellow.
‘What are all these?’
‘They keep me on an even keel. Sleeping pills and vitamins, mostly. And something for my nerves.’ She pauses. ‘For anxiety, you know?’
Yes, I do know.
‘Come on.’ I help her back into bed. She’s docile as a child, smiling vaguely up at me as I tidy her covers. ‘Comfortable?’
‘Very.’
But she clutches at my arm as I turn away.
‘You’re not going home yet, are you?’
I glance at her face, wondering if she has forgotten temporarily about Dad’s death. Blanked it out, perhaps. I don’t know much about how dementia works, but I do know it’s possible she’s already forgotten that her brother has died.
‘Not until later,’ I say warily.
‘Later today?’ Her lip trembles, her eyes begging. ‘Can’t you stay one more night? I’ve barely seen you …’
I hesitate, not willing to upset her with a flat refusal. And perhaps I should leave it another day before flying home to England. I’m needed in Cornwall to organise the funeral, of course. But the wheels will turn whether I’m there or not. And Tamsin looks so fragile this morning. I don’t want to abandon her. I could probably cover some of the initial arrangements by phone, if necessary.
‘Tomorrow morning, then.’
Her nod is relieved.
‘I’ve asked Lucille to drive me to the shops in Antibes. Would you like me to fetch you anything?’ I pour her a fresh glass of water from a covered jug beside the bed. ‘Some fruit, maybe?’
Tamsin shakes her head. ‘I don’t need anything,’ she says, and settles back against the pillows. She looks so pale and listless, it’s alarming.
‘Let me open the shutters,’ I say.
As the shutters open, blinding sunlight floods into the room. Below the chateau, the Med glints, already dotted with sails, a sleek cruise ship hanging white on the horizon, no heat haze yet to cloud its outline.
And I can see the electric gate from here.
There’s a guard in place already.
Security has been stepped down since the funeral. The gate guards come from an agency rather than being employed directly by my aunt, and are only on post at intervals during the day, looking after several celebrity properties on the Cap. At other times the gate is operated by remote control, from the house or inside the car. Not ideal, but it’s still comforting to know she has some security, even if it’s shared.
I don’t think Robin holds any grudge against her. But it’s clear he’s dangerous.
‘Miss Caitlin?’ The housekeeper is in the doorway, carrying Tamsin’s breakfast on a tray with legs. Her chin juts aggressively. ‘What are you doing here, Miss Caitlin? This isn’t your room either.’
This isn’t your room either.
‘It’s all right, Lucille,’ I say in French, and cross the room to take the tray from her. ‘Tamsin was awake when I came upstairs, so we’ve been having a chat. You can leave the tray. I’ll serve her breakfast myself.’
She meets my eyes, and her small mouth tightens. Then, with undisguised reluctance, she lets me take the tray.
‘I’ll meet you downstairs,’ I tell her firmly. ‘Tamsin has persuaded me not to leave until tomorrow. But I still need to go into town.’
Tamsin says nothing, but her gaze is narrowed now, speculative. The two women exchange a brief glance, then Lucille nods. But I sense her reluctance.
Once we’re alone again, I carry the breakfast tray over to the bed with a falsely cheerful smile.
‘Come on, Aunt Tamsin, you’d better sit up properly.’ I balance the tray on the edge of the bed, careful not to spill the deep bowl-like cup of milky coffee that smells so miraculous. ‘Breakfast is served.’
She makes a face. ‘I’m not hungry today.’
I uncover a basket of warmed croissants, meltingly soft and fresh-baked, side-by-side with a pot of golden, lavender-scented honey. My own stomach rumbles at the delicious aroma.
‘Mmm, gorgeous,’ I say.
She sighs and sits up. In the sunlight, I see that the lacy white night gown has pink ribbons and tiny pearly buttons at the neck.
‘Better put my hair on,’ she says. She drags off her cap, and I catch my breath. Her hair is short and grey underneath, just a few bare tufts. Making a wry face, she points behind me. ‘Help me?’
I look round.
Sure enough there are several wigs on the night stand. The perfectly coiffured silvery hair I’ve grown to expect from her, one styled in an elegant chignon, the other long and slightly curled back on either side, with thick provocative bangs. Tamsin indicates the longer wig. I fetch it for her, struggling to hide my shock.
‘Thank you,’ she says tartly.
Her hands fumble a little, perhaps not used to putting her hair on in bed without the help of a mirror. She fits it awkwardly, her face averted.
I turn away until she’s finished, pretending to admire a photograph on the wall opposite that shows her and David standing hand-in-hand in front of the chateau. It must have been taken many years ago. There are several young children on the lush green lawn in the background, enjoying what seems to be a celebratory picnic, complete with birthday cake and party hats. None of the children look to be much older than five or six years. One of the boys, kneeling up to wave gleefully at the camera, even looks like Robin.
That mischievous smile. The short dark hair. His head tipped to one side in a familiar gesture.
‘Aunt Tamsin, is that Robin?’
Her long silver wig is now in place, if a little askew. She glances past me at the photograph, and an odd look comes into her face.
‘I can’t really see at this distance. Probably, though.’
‘Who took the photograph?’
‘Lucille, I imagine.’
‘She must have been with you a long time.’
‘Oh God, forever.’
I digest that thought for a moment, studying the photograph. The boy’s face. ‘She must be very dedicated to her job, then. I mean, she never married.’ I turn, surprised by her silence. ‘Did she?’
But Tamsin is merely sipping her coffee. ‘What’s that? No, Lucille never married. Never even came close.’
‘Why?’
‘To be honest, I have no idea.’ Tamsin reaches for a croissant, and tears it open before spreading it with a thin smear of honey. ‘Lucille was a complete knockout when she was younger. Turned all the men’s heads in Hollywood. Lovely Lucille, they called her. Or Leggy Lucille, at the pool parties. She was such a stunner, men were always trying to get her into bed. Or into films.’ She makes a face. ‘You know how much Americans adore France and the French.’
‘I didn’t, actually.’
‘Oh yes,
the French seem far more romantic to them. Not like us hard-headed Brits.’
‘So Lucille was never tempted? She didn’t fancy becoming an actress too?’
‘Oh, maybe at one time,’ she says, almost too casually. ‘But people change their minds, don’t they? I suppose she decided in the end to stick with me. Acting can be a precarious profession, you know. It takes a certain temperament to deal with all the knocks.’
‘A temperament Lucille doesn’t possess?’
‘Exactly.’
Tamsin looks up at me with a relaxed smile. She looks completely different to the half-demented woman I found wandering along the landing. It’s almost as though she’s shed ten years now the wig is back in place.
How much of that is acting though, I wonder, and how much of her earlier performance could be put down simply to a bad night’s sleep?
Tamsin holds out the basket. ‘Would you like a croissant?’
‘Thank you, they smell amazing.’ I sit on the edge of her bed and help myself to a flaky croissant. The buttery, home-baked pastry is slightly greasy but melts in the mouth. ‘Taste great too.’
My aunt looks at me regretfully. ‘I’m going to miss you, Caitlin. It’s been wonderful to have you here. Such a comfort after ...’ She puts down her coffee cup, her thought unfinished, her mind wandering again. ‘What was I going to say?’ She shrugs. ‘I wish you weren’t leaving.’
‘It can’t be helped.’
‘No, of course not. But perhaps you were right, I should fly back with you. Go home.’ She says the word ‘home’ with sudden nostalgia, and then sighs. ‘I haven’t been back to Cornwall in such a long time.’
I’m surprised but delighted. ‘But that’s wonderful. I can book us two seats together for tomorrow morning, if you like.’
She looks horrified that I’ve taken her literally, saying hurriedly, ‘I couldn’t. Not really. Lucille would disapprove. And she certainly wouldn’t come with us.’
Irritation flashes through me. ‘Well, sod Lucille.’
‘Oh no, darling. Lucille knows what’s best for me. It’s not just my poor memory. My heart isn’t strong enough for long distance travel.’ She settles back against the pillows, her face disconsolate again. ‘Though sometimes I wonder if it wouldn’t be better just to let nature take its course. It’s surely better than what my brother suffered. A painful, lingering disease. My dear David had a heart attack, you know.’ She clicks her fingers. ‘Out like a light. Why shouldn’t I enjoy the same blessing?’
There are tears in my eyes. ‘You must take care of yourself, Tamsin. Promise me.’
‘Nothing lasts forever. But I promise.’ She laughs, a little self-consciously, and pushes away her breakfast. ‘Here, I’ve finished with this.’
‘I’ll let you rest now.’ I remove the breakfast tray. She has barely eaten anything, I realise, despite her show of lavishly buttering a croissant. ‘Will you be all right on your own for an hour? Lucille and I need to grab some quick shopping in Antibes.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ she says, and waves me away.
I kiss her on the cheek, then carry the tray to the door. It was a good idea for me to stay an extra day. Perhaps I could even manage to speak to Tamsin’s doctor before I leave. She needs someone to look after her, and not just Lucille, who is always so busy.
When I look back, Tamsin is gazing at the old photograph on the wall opposite again. She’s chewing her lip, her expression distracted, as though trying hard to remember something …
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
At my request, Lucille drives me down into the centre of Antibes. I want to try a florist I visited for Emily’s funeral flowers. They do marvellous floral arrangements, and I’m sure will be able to suggest something Tamsin will love. Something to lift her spirits on this darkest of days. Oblivious to the irony, the weather is beautiful as always, of course, sunlight dazzling off the Mediterranean as we round the cap.
Ignoring Lucille’s protest, I buzz the electric window of the Rolls down and lean my arm outside, enjoying the heat on what will probably be my last full day in France.
‘The air conditioning is on,’ she points out, her tone acidic.
‘I love to feel the sun on my skin.’
Villas flash past, rich with flowers, the occasional blue shimmer of a pool just visible behind wire fences. Another glorious summer morning on the Cap. It’s all tainted for me though, the sunshine and the perfumed beauty of the Riviera, by the knowledge of my father’s death, over a thousand miles away in Cornwall.
I should have gone back sooner. Been there with him at the end.
Instead, I was with Robin.
A murderer and a rapist, potentially. Certainly a liar and an adulterer.
Guilt gnaws at me like acid.
I turn my face into the sun, trying to resist that sheer drop into depression. I need to stay whole, to survive this horror. If for no other reason than that Tamsin still needs me. Besides, there’s my father’s funeral to arrange. Things are already in motion back home, thanks to Madern. But I need to be there too, to take responsibility, to make sure it’s done how Dad would have wanted.
However tough things get, I can’t afford to collapse.
Not yet.
For the entire journey, Lucille doesn’t speak a single word. Which suits me fine, as I’m still smarting from our angry exchange earlier.
Finally, backing into a rare parking space opposite one of the main shopping streets in downtown Antibes, she says in a bitter voice, not looking at me, ‘We shouldn’t have left her, you know.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Madame. We shouldn’t have left her alone.’
‘It’s only for an hour. And there’s a guard on the gate, isn’t there?’
Lucille makes a face. ‘Much good that does. Always on the internet, playing poker, that one.’
I am surprised. ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine. She’s not that unwell.’
‘A doctor now, are you?’
‘Tamsin told me about her heart. But she’s not in any immediate danger.’ I glance at her, frowning. ‘Is she?’
Lucille says nothing.
I think of Tamsin’s pallor, and her listlessness once I had helped her back into bed. The way she picked at her breakfast with so little appetite.
‘If so, you should have said something earlier,’ I tell her, anxiety sharpening my tone. ‘I could have ordered online, asked the florist to deliver. It wouldn’t have been such a personal gesture. But if it’s dangerous even to leave the house … ’
‘It wasn’t my business to tell you,’ she says, her tone sour. ‘Before you arrived, Madame asked me not to say anything about her problems. She is a very private woman.’
Like you, I think drily.
‘I’d better not waste any time then. I don’t want to leave my aunt alone any longer than necessary.’ I grab my purse and climb out of the car. No longer shielded by the tinted windows of the Rolls Royce, I blink up into bright sunlight. In my hurry, I’ve left my sunglasses behind at the chateau. I glance back at Lucille, sitting behind the wheel, unmoving, stony-faced. ‘You’ll wait here for me, will you?’
She nods without looking at me.
‘Okay, I’ll be as quick as I can.’
I dash across the busy morning street, ignoring horn blasts from speeding drivers. Bright sunlight glares off windscreens and the towering glass wall of an office block opposite, dazzling me. By some miracle I manage not to get run over.
The sun is hot on the back of my neck as I reach the other pavement and head down the street towards the florist’s shop at a steady trot. I regret now dressing for a flight back to England this morning. Not used to jeans in this suffocating heat, I’m soon sweating and breathless. But I need to grab some flowers for Tamsin and get back as soon as possible.
To my relief, the shop is empty. The red-haired florist recognises me and comes over with a gentle smile, enquiring in slow French how Emily’s funeral went. To be polite, I make conversation for a
moment, then explain that I’m flying home to England soon.
‘I’d like some flowers for my aunt. Something with a nice scent. As a parting gift.’
She smiles more broadly and suggests an elaborate arrangement from one of her books, which does look wonderful but will take her at least twenty minutes to make up, she says. To save time, I select a ready-made bouquet of white roses and lilies instead, and pay for it with cash.
‘Merci,’ I tell the woman, and hurry back outside into the heat.
I bury my nose in the flowers.
They smell gorgeous.
Outside, the street is growing busier and hotter. I resist the temptation of the cool arcade of shops and head swiftly back towards where I left Lucille waiting for me.
To my horror, the Rolls isn’t there.
Instead, there’s a much smaller car backing into the large space, a battered yellow Fiat being driven by a grizzled old man. I cross the road with my bouquet of roses and lilies, wondering if perhaps I’ve mistaken the place. But no, I recognise the street sign. And the car in the next space is the same one.
This is the right place, I’m sure of it.
I swear under my breath, staring up and down the street in hope of catching a glimpse of the familiar Rolls Royce.
Lucille has vanished.
The old man in the Fiat gazes at me in mild surprise before getting out and walking away from his parked vehicle, an empty shopping bag in his hand. He looks back several times, as though worried by my behaviour.
Why on earth would Lucille have driven off and left me here without warning? She knows we need to get back in a hurry. Perhaps she got a call from Tamsin. My hand goes automatically to my back pocket, but of course I’ve left my phone behind too. It’s sitting on the table in my attic room, next to my sunglasses.
‘Stupid, stupid …’
It’s several miles back to the chateau. Maybe an hour’s walk in this heat, and there’s no guarantee I wouldn’t get lost on the way.
I walk to the next corner and wait there prominently, in case Lucille had to move for some reason and will be coming back to collect me any minute.
Minutes pass.
Still no sign of Lucille.