“That’s marvellous news, dear heart.” Vera puts down her wooden spoon, her forehead crinkling. “So why the tears?”
Eleanor stares across the kitchen, scrubbing at her face with her hand. She wants to say, “Because my lover should have been here on Saturday. I’m longing for him, and I can’t do anything about it.”
Instead she says, “Because I’ve got to see Robin with a serious business plan.” Her voice has an infuriating wobble. “Pretend to know what I’m talking about. Mummy thinks I’ll have shut up shop by Christmas and lost most of Daddy’s money.”
Vera wipes her hands on her apron. “You won’t lose a brass farthing. You’re the most determined young woman I know. Your tea-room will be a huge success and I’ll support you all the way… Now dry your eyes, dear heart. Give your Vera the biggest hug in the world.”
Making Plans
Woodstock, 1936
“As you know, Mr Parker, I’ve been thinking about making some real money.” Eleanor wills herself to present her plans calmly, while her heart thumps with trepidation. “The success of my exhibition gave me a brilliant idea.”
“Oh?” Mr Parker doesn’t look particularly interested. “I hope it won’t involve your investing large sums of money at great risk.”
“It won’t. It’s only a small amount.” Go for it, girl. Spell it out. “I want to open a tea-room. My mother’s agreed I can use our house. I’m still at the planning stage, but I’m going to open at ten and close at five.”
She crosses her legs, her list carefully balanced on her knees. She talks fast, to prevent Robin Parker interrupting, outlining her plans in detail: to trade five days a week, to sell fresh produce and no alcohol, to use the space in the house. Half an hour later, she marches out of the bank with her bank manager’s blessing and the name of an accountant in her pocket.
“Never forget you’re in business to make a profit, not merely to break-even.”
“Of course.” Eleanor’s heart throbs with excitement. Not once had Robin suggested her idea is a bad one, that she’s too young to see it through, she doesn’t have any experience, the venture might fail – or that she’ll need a husband to hold her hand and offer a shoulder to cry on.
“I’ll open a business account for you. The money from your cottage can go straight into it. And I’ll give you a business-account chequebook.” Robin gives her a direct, appraising look. “When do you plan to open?”
Eleanor explains about her short holiday. “After we’re back, I’ll need a couple of weeks to get everything ready. I plan to open on Wednesday the 1st of July. That gives me a clear six-month run before Christmas.”
Robin’s half-smile flickers at her. “My most important advice to you is: don’t turn yourself into a slave and work too hard.”
Eleanor gives a sharp, nervous laugh.
“I’m serious, Miss Drummond. Remember: you’re the boss. If you work yourself to death, nobody will be any better off. Stay fresh and rested. If you need extra help, consider it an investment, not a sign of weakness. You’re bound to make mistakes. Be prepared to learn from them.” He stands to shake her hand.
Eleanor says, “I’d been ready to do battle with you. I thought you’d tell me to go away and get married, forget the whole idea.”
“That wouldn’t have done me much good, would it?”
She laughs with relief. “None whatsoever!”
“I admire your courage, Miss Drummond. I wish you all the luck in the world.”
“I’ve brought you Daddy’s landscape,” Eleanor says to Jonny in Giffen Antiques on Monday afternoon, “and I’m sorry about Saturday.”
Jonny touches her shoulder with a brief, conciliatory gesture. “Think no more about it, Eleanor. I hope we’ll always be friends.”
“Will you come to supper with us tonight? Mummy was very upset to hear I’d turned you down—”
“Thank her for the compliment!”
“But not because of that. She’s given me the go-ahead for the tea-room. So has Robin Parker—”
“Congratulations, Eleanor!”
“Mummy took a lot of persuading and” – Eleanor blushes – “a hint of blackmail. Would you take a look at our dining room, give me advice on the tables we could put in it? I want you to be involved.”
“I’ll help all I can.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “Hell’s teeth, I’m going to miss you. When do you want to leave?”
“As soon as you can find a replacement. And would you do me a favour? I’m taking Mummy on a week’s holiday to the Riviera, before the tea-room opens. Would you drive us to Victoria station in the Morris? I hope you don’t mind my asking—”
“I’d be delighted to help.”
“And one more thing. What would you say if I asked you to give Mummy an afternoon job in my place?”
“Crikey!” Jonny’s eyes spark with surprise. “What would she think?”
“I don’t know. I’d like you to make the suggestion. If it comes from me, she’ll kill it stone dead. But she likes you, Jonny. I have a feeling she might just say yes!”
Searching for Moira
Juan-les-Pins, June 1936
It’s not until the last moment, after she’s packed, that Eleanor decides to take Pierre’s letters to the Riviera. She’d agonised over what to do with them. She’d written to Felix, telling him she’s taking Anne on a week’s holiday – but not where they’re going – and that she’d missed him at the exhibition. His painting hangs above her bed, making her heart lift. She describes her plans for the tea-room. He must come to Woodstock soon. She wants him to meet Anne.
But she tells him nothing about the letters. As the days tick by she becomes increasingly aware they shouldn’t be hiding in her desk like a guilty secret. They belong to Moira. If by any miraculous chance Eleanor manages to find the elusive woman, it’s Eleanor’s duty to give them back. So once again she slips them on top of the red taffeta frock.
Jonny drives them to Victoria that Thursday morning. His rejected proposal has brought him closer to Eleanor in a genuinely friendly way, for which she’s exceedingly grateful. He could so easily have turned his back on her in a huff of disappointment.
She sits in the back of the Morris, watching Jonny chat with Anne. He’s persuaded her mother to work in the shop when they get home. Although Anne protests she knows nothing about antiques and is hopeless with money, it seems as if she’s looking forward to it. Anne enjoys being wanted – and she’s so excited about the holiday. Eleanor feels guilty: her secret motive for this trip has nothing to do with her mother’s happiness. It’s about the promise she made to her father – one she now admits has become an obsession.
They take the boat-train to Dover, enduring a rough crossing to Calais, hindered by choppy seas that make them both seasick. By the time they reach northern France, Anne looks pale and tired.
“This holiday had better be worth it, dear daughter of mine.”
“Just think of the sunshine coming our way. From here on, our journey will be luxury.”
It is. The Blue Train proves immaculate, inside and out. After chuntering through the Gare du Nord and the Gare de Lyon, they leave Paris in the early evening. Pungent cocktails and an excellent dinner follow – clear soup, sole in white wine sauce, roast duck, lemon soufflé, each course with wines to match. The colour returns to Anne’s cheeks and she sleeps soundly through the night.
Eleanor listens to the whistle shriek and the wheels thunder as The Blue Train roars through Dijon, Châlons and Lyon to the coast and Marseilles. For the millionth time, she wonders what Felix is doing and who he’s with. Staring into the darkness, she’s gripped by depression. She must be crazy, spending her precious money on this jaunt. It’s sure to be a wild-goose chase. Nobody’s had sight nor sound of Moira for twenty-two years. What are the odds on her still being alive? A mill
ion to one? She could be anywhere in the world, with a changed identity, long dead and buried in some foreign city – or, indeed, at the bottom of the Cornish sea.
Eleanor closes her eyes as the train rocks and grinds. The person who should be here with her, sharing her anxiety, having an equally sleepless night, is Felix. He’s the one who should be looking for his mother. Moira is his responsibility, not Eleanor’s. And yet, and yet… That ever-haunting voice echoes in Eleanor’s head.
“Find Moira for me.”
She punches her pillow. “I’m doing my best, Daddy,” she murmurs. “I’m doing my level best.”
Juan-les-Pins is indeed filled with glorious sunlight. It twinkles onto terracotta roofs, white houses, blue Mediterranean bays, green faraway hills topped with bright glints of alpine snow, sprays of delicate mimosa, stern eucalyptus and forests of dense pine.
The Provençal Hotel, an enormous white-stone palace, overlooks its beach and curling sapphire seas. Eleanor and Anne have adjoining rooms on the third floor. Eleanor tips the smiling garçon and goes straight to the window with its spectacular view. She turns back towards the bed and gasps. Above it hang two exquisite still-life watercolours. Their resemblance to those she has seen in The Hideaway is too striking to be a mere coincidence. She inspects them more closely. They are both of tropical fruit in a bowl, but done with a brightness of colour and a confidence of touch that surpass the Cornish work.
Neither is signed.
Eleanor slumps onto the bed, her legs weak from the journey, the relief of being in Juan-les-Pins – and now the possible discovery of a first clue. Are the watercolours by Moira? If they are, might there be others in the hotel? Could Eleanor find them and ask about the artist? Would she be given a name – and even an address? Her mind whirrs with possibilities.
In the hotel’s dining room ready for a late luncheon with Anne, Eleanor stares across at a wall near the French windows that lead onto a glamorous terrace, filled with guests whose voices and laughter filter lazily into the room. The canvas hanging there is an enormous oil painting of a Parisian cocktail bar dominated by a pair of lovers in full evening dress, looking into each other’s eyes. No, not Moira’s work, but there are many other public rooms in the hotel. The thread Eleanor longs to establish could be here.
Later that afternoon, with Anne parked on the beach with an elderly English couple who’d been sitting at a nearby table, Eleanor walks back to the hotel, bent on exploring as much of The Provençal as she can. She wanders into a half-empty lounge where above the fireplace, filled with mimosa, hang four watercolours. She stares up at them, positive they are by Moira.
Her heart beating with determination, Eleanor finds a young concierge in the hotel’s foyer. In halting French, she tells him she admires the paintings in her room.
His face lights up. “But of course. They are very pretty. The Provençal is lucky to own them.”
“Could you tell me who painted them?”
His eyes harden. “No, Mademoiselle. The artist wishes to remain anonymous.”
“So none of the paintings are for sale?”
“Not here. But there is a small art gallery in Juan, called L’Art sur la Plage. I believe the same painter often exhibits there. The gallery’s near this hotel on the right-hand side, along the Esplanade.”
By eleven o’clock next morning Eleanor has escaped her mother and her group of new friends. She leaves them on the terrace, and finds L’Art sur la Plage. It’s closed, but will open again at four that afternoon.
While Anne’s having a siesta, Eleanor changes into a fresh cotton frock. She slips out of The Provençal just after four. The gallery’s owner makes her life easier: he greets her in English with a marked American accent.
“Good afternoon! I’m Adam Selby… Welcome to Sur la Plage. Are you looking for anything in particular?”
“I’m staying at The Provençal. They have some exquisite still-lifes of flowers and fruit, done in wonderful detail—”
“I know exactly what you mean.” Adam adjusts the cuffs of his blue-silk shirt. “You’re in luck. I have several by the same artist… I’ve hung them in this room here.” He turns away to greet new visitors. “Excuse me… I’ll be right back.”
Eleanor walks into the adjoining room. Its three white-washed walls gleam out at her, lit by porthole windows that remind her of the kitchen in The Hideaway. One of the walls has been hung with pencil sketches of a male nude with a muscular body and a sweep of straight dark hair. A second boasts black-and-white photographs of Paris. But on the third are a dozen small paintings, split into two groups. Six are landscapes, done in smudged pastels, of narrow French streets leading to the sea.
And the other six? Eleanor moves closer. The painter has chosen a mahogany table placed beneath a window. Strong sunlight falls onto a crystal water jug, two wine glasses and a vase of crimson tulips, bending in full bloom.
Adam rejoins her. “What do you think?”
“They’re beautiful. Are they all for sale?”
“Sure… How many would you like? I can give you a discount—”
“Only one, thank you… I’ll have to carry it home.” Eleanor points to the still-life in the centre. “That’s by far the best. May I buy it?”
“Delighted!” Adam lifts it off the wall, reading aloud the price tag on the back. “The artist will be pleased!”
“Does he have a name?” Eleanor makes her question sound casual and deliberately masculine. She follows Adam to his desk in the front room.
“No. No signature and no identity.” Adam starts to wrap the watercolour. “Sorry, but the anonymity’s important. It’s a matter of trust. I have to honour the artist’s request.” He pulls an accounts’ book from a drawer and opens it. Eleanor spots a handwritten list of names – and details she longs to read.
The bell clangs at the gallery door. A woman in a long pale frock and wide-brimmed hat holds out her arms. “Adam! I made it!”
“Ingrid!” Adam dashes towards her. “Wonderful to see you! I wasn’t expecting you until seven!”
In a flash Eleanor reaches for the book, rapidly skimming the list of names. Half-way down she spots:
Madame T. Cinq Saisons. Tulips in Full Bloom. Six, same size.
She marches back to The Provençal muttering Cinq Saisons under her breath, the precious watercolour beneath one arm, hatching a plan. She reaches her room without meeting Anne, and slides the painting into her suitcase. She’ll hang it over her desk the minute she’s back in Woodstock. Now she must put every moment of the next few days to good purpose.
First she’ll find the villa. She’s only guessing that Adam’s “Madame T” is Moira Tessier, but that’s what she’ll assume until she has proof to the contrary. She’ll leave The Provençal early next morning and ask directions to Cinq Saisons from anyone she meets. It can’t be that far: Juan is hardly a sprawling town. If asked, she’ll say she has an urgent letter to deliver.
At breakfast Anne plays into her hands, telling Eleanor she’s been offered a lift to Cannes. “You won’t mind my leaving you to your own devices for a few hours, will you? I’ll be back in time for supper.”
The minute her mother has left, Eleanor makes her first foray along the narrow villa-lined streets. They lead away from the Esplanade, up into the pine-filled woods, blessed with a quiet shade.
She asks for Cinq Saisons from a gardener, a woman with a child, and a cyclist repairing his flat tyre. None of them recognise the address. She returns to the sea-front for a coffee in the beach café. Perhaps a waiter can help?
At the café, fortune finally appears to be on her side. The waitress who serves her iced lemonade and a black coffee says she knows Cinq Saisons. She worked there for a time, it’s a beautiful villa, and Monsieur Tessier is the owner. She points Eleanor in the right direction. Cinq Saisons lies on the other side of The Proven�
�al, half an hour’s walk into the hills.
Eleanor waits until mid-afternoon to avoid the noonday heat. She walks fast, following her instructions to the letter. Relief makes her heart jump as she finally sees the sign above a pair of wrought-iron gates.
Cinq Saisons
She hesitates on the opposite side of the road, deciding what to say, if and when somebody greets her. But even before she has crossed the street, the front door opens and the iron gates swing wide. A woman in a crisp nurse’s uniform pushes a bath-chair down the villa’s drive and onto the street. In it sits an elderly, frail-looking man whose white hair sticks out beneath his Panama.
Eleanor stands in the shadow of the pines as the couple move down the hill. Is that Pierre Tessier? Is he really now an old man? In her imagination he’s still the passionate young lover writing to Moira, begging her to join him. But those letters had been written a long time ago…
She looks across at the villa again, alerted by voices. A garage door opens, a wine-red Daimler emerges. The front door opens again. A woman in a dark suit steps straight into the car. Doors slam. The car purrs down the drive, through the gates, and past Eleanor.
Desperate to see the woman in the back, Eleanor flings out an arm in a wild attempt to stop the car. The chauffeur, wearing his regulation cap and jacket, ignores her. She only manages a brief glimpse: the woman’s face is hidden behind the veil of a fashionable hat.
Over supper Anne chatters excitedly about her day.
“You look a bit peaky.” She sips at her red wine. “What have you been doing?”
“Nothing in particular. It’s been too hot to think.”
In bed, Eleanor can’t sleep. Tomorrow she’ll make the same tracks to the villa. She rehearses what she’ll say when the villa’s door opens. But what if Madame Tessier never entertains guests? What if, the moment she knows who Eleanor is, she’ll be asked to leave? She needs a cast-iron excuse to visit Cinq Saisons that has nothing to do with her father or Felix.
The Choice Page 27