by Karen Swan
Flora swallowed, her mouth feeling dry. She felt she was being sucked into the marrow of this family. What had started as a cursory inventory and valuation was now turning into a full-blown forensic search across Europe (and perhaps further afield) for heirs to victims of Nazi-looted art. She looked at the faces waiting for her response – Jacques, anxious to atone; Lilian, like her own mother, merely anxious; Magda and Natascha, bristling with hostility and resentment. Xavier – well, she didn’t need to turn round to know the look that would be on his face right now. She could feel the heat of his glare just on her neck.
Half the family terrified her, openly pouring scorn on her, while the other half was beseeching, asking for her help, trying to scrabble out of this tabloid world they’d been thrown into because of her indiscretion. She wasn’t the ally they presumed her to be, she thought miserably. Wasn’t this the very least she could do? The least she owed them?
‘Of course I will,’ she replied. ‘It would be an honour to work on this project and help you restitute the artworks to the rightful owners.’
Lilian clapped her hands and got up, coming over to kiss Flora on the cheek. ‘We are so grateful,’ she said, her hands on Flora’s shoulders.
‘There is one more thing,’ Jacques said as Lilian took her seat again. ‘Our name is Vermeil, not Von Taschelt. We know the truth of our past – we can’t pretend we don’t – but we can turn our back on it. From this moment forwards, I do not want to hear my father’s name ever mentioned. Not in this house, not anywhere.’ He looked at his mother, his children. ‘Is that clear?’
Flora couldn’t see Xavier’s response of course but she saw Natascha nod, meek for once.
‘So then I propose a toast,’ Jacques said, holding his glass aloft. ‘To new beginnings.’
‘New beginnings,’ Lilian trilled, just as Genevieve came back into the room.
‘A visitor for you and Madame,’ she said.
Jacques looked surprised. ‘Thank you, Genevieve. Excuse us a moment.’
Flora watched in dismay as Jacques and Lilian left the room, leaving her alone with Magda, Natascha and Xavier. It would have been safer swimming in a tank of sharks.
Flora took a sip of her drink, not entirely sure what to do, a silence filling up as the atmosphere in the room changed. ‘Well, I should probably get going,’ she said, placing her drink on the table and rising to stand. ‘It was a pleasure t—’
‘You are the one who started all this trouble,’ Magda said, cutting over her, her hand still stroking the dog as she looked at Flora with chilling calm.
Flora shook her head. ‘No,’ she protested, feeling her mouth go dry again.
‘You did this. Everything was fine until you started digging, like a little weasel.’
Natascha gave a choked laugh at the sudden insult.
Magda sat forward in her chair, the dog giving a small squeal as it was squashed by her stomach and jumping onto the floor. ‘Why did you not leave it alone?’ The old woman’s hands were pulled into fists, her mouth grimly set in a straight line. ‘You only had to work on some paintings. Not destroy our lives.’ The last words came out as a hiss.
‘I . . . I wasn’t trying to cause trouble.’
‘No? Then what were you doing, hein?’ Magda slapped her palm on the arm of the chair. Flora jumped. Behind her, she heard Xavier move. God, what was he going to do? Put her in a headlock? She turned slightly so that she could see him on her right.
‘I was trying to be thorough. To understand,’ she said, as calmly as she could, but her voice clearly wavered and the old woman smiled at the sound of her fear.
‘Don’t be fooled by this act. She’s a troublemaker, Granny,’ Natascha chimed in with a cruel sneer. ‘Did you know she hit me? Did Papa tell you?’
Flora’s mouth dropped open. ‘What? No, it wasn’t like that,’ she protested, feeling tears gather in her eyes at the growing attack, the outright lies. She was outnumbered in here and they all knew it.
‘No? What was it like then? You saw, Xavier, didn’t you? You walked in and found her attacking me because she didn’t like something I’d said or done, or . . . whatever.’
Xavier didn’t reply.
Natascha arched an eyebrow, surprised by her brother’s silence. ‘Xav? Tell Granny what you saw. Tell her exactly what this bitch is really lik—’
‘That’s enough!’ Xavier snapped.
An astonished pause ricocheted off the walls.
‘What did you say?’ Natascha whispered, so utterly stunned it was as though she’d been punched.
‘I said that’s enough,’ Xavier repeated more quietly.
Natascha’s mouth opened in shock, her eyes narrowing to slits. For several moments, she literally couldn’t speak. ‘You’re taking her side?’
‘No. I’m not taking—’
But Natascha wouldn’t be denied. ‘You are. You are! But you hate her. You told me so yourself.’
‘I . . . No, I . . .’ He glanced at Flora. ‘I just don’t think anything’s going to be achieved by acting like this. Papa’s right. What’s done is done. What matters now is how we move forward.’
But rationale found no home with Natascha. ‘Have you slept with her, is that what it is?’ she cried, on her feet now. ‘Has she got in your head?’
‘What? No!’ he sneered, almost recoiling from the suggestion.
Flora felt it like a slap but Natascha whirled her attention onto Flora again, giving her no time to breathe. ‘Is that your game – divide and conquer? You think you can come between us? You think your Little Miss Perfect routine’s going to work on him like it has my father?’ She gave a brittle laugh. ‘I’ll give you some advice right now. Don’t. Even. Try.’
‘You’ve got this all wrong,’ Xavier said, advancing towards his sister. ‘Nothing has happened between us. She’s . . .’
‘She’s what?’ Natascha asked, as he failed to finish the sentence. Slowly, she walked towards her brother, holding his gaze in hers. ‘What is she, Xav?’
He looked down at her, not answering. Flora felt herself trembling as she – they – awaited his verdict.
‘What is she, Xav?’ Natascha prompted. ‘Tell me.’
He shrugged. ‘She’s nothing.’
Flora couldn’t help it, a gasp escaped her, her humiliation complete – a ‘little weasel’, a ‘bitch’, a ‘nothing’ – and she ran from the room before they could see her tears, Natascha’s victorious laugh ringing in her ears.
‘Wait!’ she heard Xavier call, but he didn’t follow, didn’t apologize and within minutes she was back in the cottage, sobbing on the sofa, the front door firmly locked.
Chapter Twenty
She kept the door locked to the flower room now too. She explained to Genevieve the next morning, as she asked for the key, that it was a precaution – that until the appraisals were complete and valuation estimates made, insurance couldn’t be arranged. But it kept them out: Magda, Natascha, Xavier . . .
The French doors onto the garden were open, of course – the daytime temperatures in there would have been untenable otherwise – but either no one thought to seek entry that way, or they weren’t stupid enough to try, and for the past two days, she had been able to work in splendid isolation, letting herself into her workshop at 7.30 a.m., long before anyone else was up, and running back to the cottage at 6.30 p.m., when the family seemed to disappear upstairs to get ready for drinks and dinner.
She was keeping her days intentionally long. Not only did it mean she didn’t have to see anyone – the only time she was ever at risk of that was during her occasional furtive sprints across the lawn for lunch and even then she was careful to check the coast was clear before making a dash for it – but it was also clear that the sooner she did this, the sooner she could be out of here and back in London with her own family, where she was needed.
Her iPad FaceTime rang out and she picked up. ‘Hey, Angus,’ she said over her shoulder, walking to the far wall and unhooking a Pissarro
that was next on her list.
‘How’s it going? Or do I even need to ask? It looks terrible over there. Another day of rain, I see.’
She walked back to the bench and, laying the painting down on the counter, began removing the fixings on the back. ‘Ha! You can talk. Where are you now? The Hamptons again?’
‘Working!’ he protested. ‘This is where the market is in the summer. There’s not a living soul left in Manhattan.’
‘Not a rich one, anyway,’ she smiled, expertly popping the painting carefully from its gilded frame so that she could examine the sides of the canvas.
‘How’s it going there? I was getting concerned I hadn’t heard from you.’
She glanced up at him. ‘It’s all fine. Just putting my head down and trying to make some progress on this lot.’
He watched as she squinted at the brushworking around the artist’s signature. ‘Amazing that they want to sell after all,’ he said.
‘I guess there’s no reason not to now,’ she murmured. ‘Everyone knows the truth anyway.’
‘Well, I got your email. It’s a great idea, giving the money to charity. Very philanthropic.’
Flora stopped what she was doing and smiled. ‘You think it’s a great idea because we still get our commission, regardless of where the profits go.’
Angus shrugged happily. ‘Tomayto, tomahto. So what’s the latest?’
She sighed and put down the canvas. ‘Well, I’m working my way down from the top – so orange dots first, then yellow, green, blue. For the orange, everything’s now inventoried and photographed and I’m pretty much done on the condition reports. So next up’s provenance—’
‘Your specialist subject.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘Yes.’
‘Found anything so far?’
‘I haven’t even started although Jacques is hoping that placing that ad will mean we herd the heirs to us. I’m not so sure. I have a nasty feeling we’re only going to end up trying to weed out chancers and hoaxers. Angus, it’s going to be a nightmare. You do realize I’m going to have to go into the catalogue raisonné of every single artist to get the title and date and start from there?’
Angus thought for a moment. ‘Or you could go straight to the Von Taschelt ledgers. You said they’re kept at a gallery in Saint-Paul anyway, right? What’s that? Half an hour from there?’
‘About that. But they’ve only got papers from before 1942.’
‘Great. That could still net a haul. Go there and see what info they have first. They might have photos or descriptions of the pieces he bought – that would save you having to individually consult the cat rais of every single artist and then trace it outwards from the beginning.’
‘That’s a good idea, actually.’
‘I have been known to have them once in a while,’ Angus smiled. He paused. ‘And everything else OK over there? Clients behaving themselves?’
‘They’re fine.’ Even she could hear the change in her voice.
He paused a beat. ‘Look, I know it can’t be easy for you living in the grounds with them. You’re doing a great job,’ he pressed. ‘They’re not exactly the easiest family to rub along with at the best of times and things are obviously pretty intense at the moment. Are the press laying off?’
‘A little,’ she shrugged. ‘Listen, don’t worry. I’m keeping a low profile and just getting on with the job. I think they’ve mostly forgotten I’m here, to be honest.’
‘You reckon?’ he chortled, the smile fading away as he saw her expression. ‘Well, look, just let me know if you have any trouble off them. I know Jacques is aware of what his kids are like and he wants to keep you happy.’
She swallowed and kept her eyes down, reliving her character assassination in the study. ‘I’m fine,’ she mumbled. ‘How are you getting on with the Faucheux? Any progress?’
‘It’s in with your chap at the Courtauld at the moment. They’re examining the paint.’
‘Good luck.’
‘I think we’re going to need it. I’m drawing blanks on it left, right and centre. There’s no mention of it in the cat rais, so I’ve put a request in with the Wildenstein Institute to gain access to their records. Apparently they’ve got his diaries. I’m hoping there might be something in there that alludes to paintings he was working on.’
Flora didn’t reply. He didn’t need her to point out how minuscule those chances were. ‘Oh, by the way,’ she said, walking over to the coffee machine that had been installed especially for her and popping in a cap. ‘I’m taking this afternoon off if that’s all right.’
‘Sure. I don’t think anyone can point the finger at you for shirking off recently. Doing anything nice?’
‘My friends are down from Paris for a few days. I’m just going to hang with them for a bit, try to relax.’ She pressed the button for the coffee, steam billowing in clouds around her. She walked back to the bench with it.
‘Good, that’s good,’ he frowned. ‘I’ve been worried about you. You’ve been looking very stressed recently.’
‘I’m fine,’ she sighed.
‘So you keep telling me. You’re sure there’s nothing else you want to tell me?’
‘I’m sure,’ she replied, rolling her eyes and trying to smile. ‘Bye, Angus,’ she said, disconnecting the line.
She walked to the open doors and sat on the step, her coffee in hand, looking out at the immaculate garden. It had a parkland feel to it, with large, mature trees dotting the grass, orange and white flowers framing the borders.
The sound of a splash made her look up. Someone was in the pool. From the high-pitched shriek that followed, seemingly owing to the temperature, it was a girl. Natascha?
Another person – Xavier surely – was standing on the side in slim black swimming shorts, looking down into the water. They were talking. Flora watched, feeling sick at the sight of them both, as Xavier raised his arms above his head and dived in – easily, elegantly, no big show.
It was too far away for Flora to make them out clearly but the buzz of their conversation drifted on the breeze that swept in from the ocean, only two roads from here. There was a lilt to their voices – happy, excited. From her vantage point, the water droplets caught the sunlight as they became airborne, glinting like shattered glass over their heads. Bitterly, Flora wished it was.
‘Hey.’
The voice made her jump. She jumped again when she saw that it was Xavier standing on the lawn just a few feet away. He was wearing jeans cut off at the knees and another of his signature bleached linen shirts that always seemed to be trying to fall off him.
He blinked at her, as calm as she was unsettled, and she had to look over to the pool again to check there was still someone in there with Natascha. Who was it then, if not him? Her latest boyfriend? Today’s love interest?
He followed her gaze, looking back at her questioningly.
‘What do you want?’ she asked, but her voice sounded thick with emotion. She looked away quickly. ‘Actually, whatever it is, I don’t care what you want. I want you to go.’
She turned away, dismissing him, and walked back into the room, over to the sink where she ran cold water over her wrists; but when she turned back, she saw he had come in too, one hand on the counter as he watched her. He wasn’t a big man – not like Noah, not like his father – but he was tall and although lean, finely muscled. He seemed to fill the space, squeezing the oxygen out. She caught her breath. Was he trying to intimidate her? ‘I said—’
‘You’re right to hate me.’
What? She swallowed, trying to work out his game. Was this some sort of trick? ‘Damn right I am. You’ve been a bastard to me from the moment we met.’
His fingers tensed, pressing down into the wooden surface. ‘That was my intention, yes.’
His words had a brutality to them that took her breath away. It was his intention? Did he know what he was saying? Perhaps his English lacked the subtlety of a native speaker’s – but no, what other possible in
terpretation could there be?
She looked back at him, feeling herself tremble with a wildness she hadn’t felt before – rage and fury and indignation welling up in her that he not only felt entitled to behave badly but then casually admitted it too. A taunt.
He looked away, perhaps seeing the storm build up in her, his eyes alighting instead on the paintings that surrounded them, their silent witnesses – and she saw him flinch as the sheer scale of the stories and histories bore down on him. His reaction was similar to his father’s: his shoulders slumped a little, his mouth slackened.
But she didn’t care.
‘Just get out.’ Her voice was low, almost a growl. She hated him. She hated him with an intensity she’d never felt for anyone before. She couldn’t even stand to look at him, to be in the same room as him.
She went to walk out into the garden but he sidestepped into her path, blocking her way. ‘How dare you!’ she hissed, feeling the emotion begin to erupt now. She wouldn’t tolerate this. Him. She wouldn’t. ‘I am working here. You have no right to come in and—’
‘You’re not nothing.’ The words hung in the air like fireworks, leaving their glorious impression long after the bang. ‘Things with Natascha are . . . complicated. She’s not what you think.’
‘Oh, really?’ she asked sarcastically, folding her arms over her chest and staring right up at him, refusing to let him think he intimidated her in any way at all. ‘And you know what I think about her, do you?’
‘I can guess.’
She gave a derisive snort, refusing to look away, back down.
‘And what about you?’ she asked with a sneer. ‘Are you what I think too?’
He looked taken aback by the question and for the first time, she saw storm clouds pass through his eyes. ‘Yes.’
‘Really?’ She laughed contemptuously, quite sure his own high opinion of himself precluded the possibility of realizing how very low her opinion of him really was. ‘So – the drugs, the cars, the women . . . ?’
‘Yes.’
His unflinching honesty wrongfooted her. She upped the ante. ‘And you don’t care that other people regard you as spoilt and vain and shallow? An expensive waste of space? A loser playboy with more money than is good for you?’