by Joan Carter
“I know I’ve been suspicious of Frédéric from the start,” said Ned, “but it’s just too, too much for me to believe that there isn’t a great deal of skulduggery afoot here.”
“But if there is skulduggery,” said Imogen, “then surely they wouldn’t have brought their relationship out into the open?”
“He’s overconfident, probably. Thinks he’s got away with it. Well, time will tell. Monsieur Junot, I’m on your trail.”
“I still don’t see why you have to be quite so anti him.”
“Oh, it’s just a thing I have about supposed lady-killers – although that is an unfortunate term to use in this context.”
“You can say that again.”
“I get the impression that he thinks that every woman is after him and that annoys me. I also get the impression that he’s after most women, especially you, and that annoys me even more.”
“I get it,” said Imogen, feeling it was time to change the subject before Ned got any more heated. “Actually, I’ve just thought of something.”
“Fire away,” said Ned. He was used to Imogen deflecting the conversation when it suited her and he usually let her get away with it.
“What about Paul? He must be devastated. They were quite an item.”
“Good point, although I’m not convinced they were that devoted. He used her a lot in the restaurant, don’t forget. I never really felt that they were besotted with each other. More of an affair.”
“You may be right. It was somewhat a working relationship, and she was quite a flirt. She even flirted with Tarquin when we visited her flat in Paris. But then I remember how Paul used to watch her when she walked and she used to dress in such an alluring way. I always thought that was for him.”
“It could have been to attract men into the restaurant,” said Ned, laughing.
“She seemed to work quite hard at it with you, if I remember correctly,” said Imogen, instantly regretting her words.
Ned rose from his seat and Imogen could tell from the way his jaw was set that he wasn’t pleased.
“Same again?” he asked.
*****
Strolling back across the heath, Imogen felt constrained about raising the subject of Frédéric’s relationship with Sophie, after her faux pas about Sophie flirting with Ned.
“You’re very quiet,” said Ned.
“I can’t get all this off my mind,” said Imogen. “I’d love to find out the truth about what Philip said this evening. I can’t think how to. I can’t just rush back to Paris and, anyway, neither Frédéric, nor Sophie, said anything while I was there.”
“What about Paul, or even Sabine?”
“It’s even more difficult to approach them. It’s possible that Sabine doesn’t know. Anyway, how could I go all the way to Provence when I’ve just got back? Sebastian is very long-suffering, but I don’t think that even he would be very pleased about such an idea. Plus, how would I broach such a subject with them? I hardly know Paul, although he did try it on with me a bit once.”
“I’ll kill him,” said Ned. Imogen wasn’t too sure he was joking.
“And Sabine is far too highbrow. I’m sure she’d never gossip, whatever she felt – at least not with me.”
“You never know, a woman spurned…”
“I suppose so.”
“I think we should sleep on it. Something will turn up. It always seems to where this bunch is concerned.”
*****
“Imogen,” said Sebastian, the following morning. “I’m glad you’ve arrived. That chap, what’s-his-name…”
“Ned?” suggested Imogen.
“That’s it. He’s been phoning like someone demented. I promised I’d get you to ring him the moment you came in, but he still rang back – and not just once, either.”
“I wonder,” said Imogen, taking out her mobile. “Oh, yes, I hadn’t turned my mobile on. I can never see the point when I’m on the tube. Then, I forgot to turn it on when I surfaced. Sorry about that, Sebastian, but Ned can get a bit carried away. I’ll give him a roasting.”
“No need to go overboard, darling. Just a gentle hint would do. We are very busy here, after all.”
“Of course,” said Imogen, especially when none of your cronies are up, let alone at their desks and phoning you.
*****
“Hi,” said Imogen, when Ned answered his phone. “I hear you’ve been trying to get me. You’re very much in Sebastian’s bad books.”
“Oh, dear. Listen. You won’t believe this.”
“I might.”
“Picture of Lover Boy in The Times today. Giving an interview about, and I quote, ‘Losing Love and Finding it Again. The Pain.’”
“My goodness. That sounds pretty heavy.”
“Drama doesn’t even begin to describe it. When it comes to soul-searching, this article could match anything you find in opera. Think heavy stuff like Boris Godunov and Don Carlos, where all the deep self-analysis goes on.”
“But what does he actually say?”
“Oh, that he is beginning to claw his way out of despair – his words – and feel that, in fact, life will be able to go on after all.”
“But what about Sophie?”
“He’s cunning, as usual. He says that he has been lucky enough to find a soulmate – yuk – who is helping him to move on. I bet she is. I’m sure Sophie could help anyone move on, if she felt so inclined.”
“So he doesn’t actually name her.”
“No. Do you know what I think?”
“I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
“I think he’s paving the way for them being an item in public. You know, he doesn’t just want to appear with her because it might seem callous. Instead, he’s putting the case that she’s helping him. Plus, of course, any publicity is better than no publicity. Very sneaky, which is what we’d expect.”
“I wonder why The Times ran it now?”
“His publicist possibly just gave them the story. It does mention, however, that he’s giving a concert at the Wigmore Hall at very short notice. Just some arias, with a pianist. In my experience, this is quite unusual. The Wigmore Hall tends to book months ahead, if not years. I think he’s doing a sort of relaunch.”
“Wow, that’s interesting,” said Imogen.
“We’ll have to go.”
“Well, I probably would go anyway, unless Sebastian decides to cover it.”
“See if you can arrange it.”
“Yes, I will. I’ll have to ring them to get an extra ticket. I’ll do that right away. It’s quite a small venue and tickets for this will go like hot cakes.”
“Perfect. By the way, I did have one other thought.”
“Which is?”
“Juliette Pascal, the ‘rising star’ whom you interviewed. She never mentioned anything about Frédéric and Sophie to you. Yet surely she would have known? I mean, you interviewed her on the same day that we met Philip. If she’s only just found out, I’d be interested to hear what she and her family make of it.”
“Not a lot, I imagine.”
“Even so, she might be able to add some background. A few killer snippets.”
“Your choice of words is pretty inappropriate, this evening. I’ll give her a call. There are one or two points in the interview that I’ve just decided I wouldn’t mind following up.”
*****
“Thank you so much for seeing me again,” said Imogen, as she and Juliette sat down in a small café, close to the studios where they had met previously. Juliette looked rather lovely in a multicoloured tea dress with tights and moccasins. She carried a pink canvas jacket. Imogen was a little less formal than at their previous meeting, in a black pencil skirt and tights. Her short, cream, woollen sweater was belted with a black patent belt
to match her pumps.
“You’re welcome,” said Juliette. “It’s good practice for me.”
“There are just a few questions I would like to go over.”
“Let’s be honest. It’s about Frédéric and his new lover.”
There was no point denying it. Aware that her cheeks were reddening, Imogen looked straight at Juliette and asked, “How did you know?”
“It was obvious when we met before how interested you were in him. Now I hear from you as soon as an article about him is published.”
“It’s true,” said Imogen, pretending to hunt in her bag for something in an effort to hide her embarrassment.
“Can you tell me why you want to know about him?”
Imogen hesitated, but realised that Juliette was too smart to be deceived. “I interviewed him,” said Imogen, “as I told you, earlier in the summer, just before Elodie’s death. In fact, I sat next to her at La Bohème on the night she died.”
“I thought she had withdrawn from the production.”
“She had, but she came to hear the first two acts.”
“That’s very strange. I never heard that before.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Imogen. “Anyway, Frédéric contacted me and asked for help on a few things. I have a friend, who has since become very interested in it all. It probably seems rather strange to you.”
“You’re not the first woman Frédéric has entranced.”
“I felt sorry for him and wanted to help. My friend is more sceptical, though, so his interest stems from wanting to find out the truth. He doesn’t believe a lot of what has been said.”
“Perhaps he is in love with you and worries that you are too sympathetic towards Frédéric.” Juliette laughed.
“Oh, no, we are close, but not romantically involved. To be honest, I’ve just come out of a long-term relationship. It was a painful ending and I don’t want any serious romance in my life for a very long time.” Imogen was surprised to find herself confiding in Juliette.
“Even so,” said Juliette, “that doesn’t stop your friend from being in love with you!”
Flustered, Imogen busied herself with her notebook, as though she were checking her notes.
“Anyhow,” said Juliette, “you would like to know what I have heard?”
“Yes,” said Imogen. “The news about the affair came out so soon after I had interviewed you, I thought that either you had known then and said nothing, or that you found out when we did.”
“I had heard that something was going on. Don’t forget that I come from Nice. We have many friends. They know our feelings and we all keep in touch. All I can tell you, though, is that he is having an affair with Sophie Lemet.”
“Is this her?” asked Imogen. She had a photo of Sophie on her mobile. She wanted independent verification, even though she had no doubt.
“Yes,” said Juliette, “I don’t know how serious it is, but it has caused many problems. She has a lover in Provence. He is not happy to hear of all this.”
“So she and Paul were lovers, as we thought,” said Imogen, almost to herself.
“You know him?” asked Juliette.
“I haven’t told you about my trip in the summer. I spent some time in Provence and met Sophie and Paul. I was staying in Eygalières.”
“Ah,” said Juliette, “so you are well informed about them and their group.”
“Yes and no.” Imogen hesitated. “I was never very sure what was going on. Who knew whom or whether what they said was the truth. I always felt I was being watched, almost tested, in their company. I had to be so careful what I said.”
“I know what you mean. You can’t really trust them. They go back a long way and I have always felt that there are things they are covering up – that’s what keeps them together.”
“Anyhow, whatever they are or aren’t, what do they think of Sophie going off with Frédéric? I presume they know?”
“Well, I haven’t heard a lot of detail, but there is anger, of course. Some of them, especially Sabine, never really liked Sophie. Now, they feel she has shown her true colours. Also, they think that Frédéric has behaved badly.”
“But doesn’t he have an excuse?”
“Not really. After all, I told you he was like Don Giovanni in Mozart’s opera of the same name. I would be delighted if he ends up the same way – cast in stone or, in a more modern version, finished off in a car chase. I have told hardly anyone, but he even tried to have an affair with me.”
“What?” Imogen had spoken before thinking. “You mean while he was with Elodie?”
“Oh, yes. Very neat, the aunt and the niece,” said Juliette.
“That’s terrible.” Imogen shuffled her notes, unable to speak for a moment. When she finally managed to focus, she said, “What interests me is when they started seeing each other. Sophie spent most of the summer in Provence.”
“That is what we don’t know. Everyone assumes it is recent. Knowing him, it could have been going on for a long time. No doubt, the truth will come out one day.”
“Sophie does move in musical circles,” said Imogen. “She was at the Salle Pleyel when Tarquin, a colleague of mine, was there.”
“Ah, yes, the lovely Tarquin. He is so sweet when he is trying to be a professional photographer, but looks like an untidy schoolboy.”
“You’re exactly right.” Imogen laughed.
“Anyhow,” said Juliette, “that is all I know for now, unless you really do want to ask me something more about my career?”
“Well…” said Imogen.
“Don’t worry,” said Juliette, laughing. “I don’t mind you investigating Frédéric. I’m happy to let people know what a fraud he is. I will never forgive him for the way he treated my aunt and I.”
Imogen found it hard to respond. “Let’s keep in touch,” she said. “You know, by the way, that he is singing at the Wigmore Hall?”
“Yes, but I don’t intend to go. I prefer to keep away from him. I assume you are going? In which case, perhaps, we could meet up afterwards and you can tell me how it goes? I will be interested to know what you think.”
“I’d love to.”
“To be honest, I also want to know if Sophie will be there. I’d like to see if they dare to be together in public.”
“Oh, you can be sure I won’t miss Sophie,” said Imogen. Though I really hope she isn’t if Ned’s with me, she thought.
CHAPTER 20
“I must say, I like this little restaurant,” said Ned.
“I thought you liked all restaurants, whatever the size,” said Imogen.
“What I mean is, it does exactly what it needs to. Serves a small clientele with a limited but interesting menu, and with some nice wines to boot. Yes, I like the Wigmore Hall.”
“Let’s hope the recital lives up to the food. I mean, that is why we came, I think.”
“It should do,” said Ned. “Frédéric may not be my favourite person, but he can sing – even I have to admit that. I’m surprised, though, by the choice of repertoire.”
“Why?”
“Well, he’s singing a programme of what you might call popular hits. Plenty of Puccini, Verdi, Donizetti. A few well-loved tearjerkers, like ‘Una Furtiva Lagrima’ from L’Elisir d’amore.”
“What’s the problem?”
“Well, I always think of the Wigmore audience as a rather sophisticated one. For example, they regularly have recitals of German Lieder songs, even when, as in Frédéric’s case, the singer is known for performing in the more mainstream operas. Junot is doing crowd pleasers.”
“Well, if he’s trying to raise his profile, this repertoire might get more reaction in the press than some of the more erudite stuff.”
“I suppose so. Anyway, let’s get moving.
It’ll be starting in ten minutes. Do you know that the Wigmore is thought to have one of the best acoustics in London?”
“Yes. Opera is my job, don’t forget. You’re supposed to be the doctor.”
*****
“He must be pleased with that, three curtain calls,” said Ned, as he and Imogen left the small auditorium after the performance.
“He certainly looked pleased,” said Imogen. “I didn’t recognise the pianist, did you?”
“It said ‘To be announced’ in the programme, which confirms our suspicions that it was put together in a bit of a hurry.”
“It also ties in with what you said about the arias he sang. It’s a bit of a ‘Let’s go for it’. Mind you, it was lovely, especially ‘Questa O Quella’ from Rigoletto. He sings that beautifully.”
“I agree, but it’s a bit of an unfortunate choice given his reputation.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” said Imogen. “I suppose singing the equivalent of ‘All girls are the same to me’ when your wife’s recently been murdered, and you’ve got a new girlfriend, could be seen as rather callous – especially since the Duke of Mantua, who sings it in Rigoletto, is such a womaniser.”
“What do you say to a quick snifter in the bar downstairs before we make tracks?”
“Do I have any choice in the matter?”
*****
“Let’s sit here, so we can see who’s coming and going,” said Ned, as he carried two glasses of red wine towards a table in a corner of the bar. It was pretty full of concertgoers enjoying a post-performance drink. The atmosphere was lively, so people had obviously enjoyed the performance.
“You mean so that you can see who’s coming and going,” said Imogen, as she took the seat facing the wall. “No sign of Sophie, by the way.”
“Hmm, a pretty good claret. I really think the sommelier knows his job,” said Ned, as he took his first sip, too interested in the wine to respond directly. “Oh, I say, guess who’s here? And he’s making straight for us.”
Imogen turned around, just as Frédéric reached their table.
“Imogen. How lovely. I am delighted to see you. It’s so wonderful that you came tonight. Did you enjoy the performance? I saw you in the audience.”