by Kathy Shuker
Is there something wrong with your phone Terri? Have you disconnected it? C’mon baby. You know you love me. I’m sorry. How many more times do I have to say it? It won’t happen again. You need me. You’re not as independent as you think. And I really need you. It’s tearing me up. Call me.
The second was from the Sunday evening.
Where are you? I haven’t seen you all weekend and there’ve been no lights on. Where are you? Who the hell are you with? I can’t go on like this. Don’t make me cross Terri. You know what’ll happen and you won’t like it.
It had been like this for ages now: one minute vulnerable and pleading, the next volatile and threatening. Terri quickly deleted them, feeling the familiar fast beat of her heart and the shaking of her hands.
It was Monday morning. Peter was already at his easel, engrossed in his work, and hadn’t acknowledged her arrival. In the room next to his office she had arrived to find a trestle table and a wooden chair; the boxes, canvases, portfolios and assorted discarded frames and clutter which the room housed had been tidied back to one end. An old angle-poise lamp had been placed on the table, plugged into an extension lead and a revised list of the paintings Peter wanted included in the retrospective had been left nearby. It had grown by three and this time he’d added the potential locations of some of them scrawled alongside. Here also were a number of exhibition catalogues and a tumbling pile of Peter’s sacred notebooks. She’d been relieved, having half expected nothing to have changed. Picking up a succession of the notebooks, she flicked through them to see what sort of information they held.
Each loosely covered one year and was dated on the front. Inside they contained sketches, sometimes filling whole pages, sometimes tiny thumbnails squeezed into a corner or sideways along a margin. Writing had been forced in around the drawings, often with cramped notes apparently added later. Which of them had gone on to be completed paintings and what had happened to them afterwards was not always clear. Some made a direct reference to a later work, others did not. The notebooks were out of sequence and she immediately put them in order. Unsurprisingly there was one missing: 1973. Given the state of the studio she thought it could be anywhere.
At the computer, she started to plan her work: a list of tasks that would need doing and goals to be achieved by approximate dates. She lived by lists – the only way she could keep her plans in order. Then she picked up the paper with Peter’s choice of paintings. Any which were mentioned in the exhibition catalogues might be traced through the relevant gallery. After meticulous searching through every one, she found six of them. That left eight with no obvious history unless she found them in the notebooks. She would track them down though; it was the sort of challenge she liked.
Nicole had arrived promptly and installed herself in Peter’s office. She was a forty-something French woman with impeccable English, long dark hair coiled up high on her head and sophisticated clothes. Terri introduced herself and took the opportunity to acquire the contact details of the De Villaney gallery in Nice. She was in the middle of a telephone call to them when Peter opened the door of her office and walked straight in.
‘I assume this is acceptable,’ he enquired in his booming voice, gesturing at the room without waiting for her to finish the call.
Terri said, ‘excuse me a second,’ into the mouthpiece and covered it. It seemed the ‘not disturbing’ rule only applied to Peter. ‘Yes.’ She offered a polite smile. ‘Thank you.’
‘You can thank Sami. He spent all Sunday afternoon doing this for you.’
‘Then I shall.’
‘Don’t take the notebooks out of this room,’ he said sharply. ‘You understand? Under no circumstances. I don’t want you losing them. And I’m more than ready for my coffee by the way. No milk, remember, one sugar. The kitchen is at the other end of the studio.’ He pointed a finger and walked out of the door, leaving it open.
She glanced at her watch; it was ten thirty-five. She finished the call and made her way across to the kitchen, a galley space with a run of wall and base units containing all that was necessary to make a range of drinks and light snacks. Next to it was a shower room and toilet. The studio was like a self-contained flat. She made coffee for Nicole as well as for Peter, getting a surprised thank you from Nicole and no reaction at all from her employer as she silently placed the drink on his work table.
She worked till one, planning and prioritising, creating documents on the computer, making notes of things to ask Peter, then went up to her room for her lunch break. Back in the studio at two thirty, she found herself alone and took the opportunity to glance through a stack of paintings stored against the wall. There were gallery stickers on occasional works – clearly exhibited but not sold - and Peter had written a year on a few others. Most were bare. When he returned, just after four o’clock, Terri was holding an exquisite small painting of a child’s head and shoulders.
‘This is lovely,’ she remarked as he walked to his work station not far from where she stood.
He came closer and reached wordlessly for the painting. Like many of the other canvases propped up around the walls, it was unframed. He raised his glasses to his nose and studied it with a critical eye.
‘Who is it?’ she asked. ‘Can you remember?’
‘Certainly. It’s Nicole’s youngest daughter.’ He turned the canvas over. It was dated 2002.
‘I thought I could put ‘possibles’ for the retrospective on one side for us to choose from later. I think this would be perfect.’
She put out her hand to take the painting back but he held on to it and stared at her over the top of his glasses.
‘You’ve been here five minutes,’ he said in a mild, sarcastic voice, ‘and you’ve already chosen another painting.’ He glanced around the assembly of stored canvases. ‘This could prove to be a very big exhibition. I think we should restrict ourselves to the more important works...’ He held out the portrait for her to take. ‘...not these sketches.’
Terri frowned.
‘But surely it’s these ‘sketches’, as you put it, which bring an exhibition alive?’ She gave an expansive gesture with her hand, taking in the canvas she now held and any as yet unseen ones stacked against the wall nearby. ‘If you want the retrospective to capture your audience’s imagination, it has to be surprising, it has to teach them something they don’t already know about your work. Sometimes the sketches...’
‘Miss Challoner,’ said Peter, cutting across her. ‘Are you familiar with the expression: teaching your grandmother to suck eggs?’
Terri was silent.
‘Well, are you?’ he prompted.
‘Yes.’
‘Then please bear that in mind next time before you try to tell me how my own retrospective should be.’
‘But...’
‘Is – that - understood?’ His eyes bored into her.
She nodded. Peter turned away to his work station.
‘I’ve spoken to the gallery,’ Terri said to his retreating back. ‘I’m going there next Monday to have a look round.’
‘Then we’ll be granted some much needed peace,’ he replied without turning.
Terri’s eyes narrowed in mute anger.
‘Just get me a new jar of medium, will you?’ Peter eased himself onto the tall stool in front of his easel. He pointed vaguely up the studio without looking at her. ‘It’ll be on the shelves beyond Luc’s work station. Labelled Medium 3.’
Terri walked up the studio, past the assistant’s easel and work table, and scanned the shelves for the jar. She found it and walked slowly back, glancing back at the painting on Luc’s easel as she passed. It was a portrait of a young man and was remarkably good.
She put the jar on Peter’s table and retreated into her office, keeping her lips firmly clamped together. The man was odious but she had to stick it out. She couldn’t face going back to London. Not yet.
*
The estate the house sat in was extensive. ‘Do make the most of the grounds,�
�� Angela had told Terri. ‘The woods are very large and our land extends into them – you can see a line of stakes in places, marking the boundary. They’re rather dark but there are lots of footpaths; the main one goes through to the village.’ She’d raised one amused eyebrow. ‘Don’t get lost though will you? We might never find you again.’
On the Monday, leaving the studio at the end of the afternoon, Terri detoured from the route leading directly back to the house and meandered on and up the hill, through a cherry orchard and past a pétanque pit, to the first line of whispering pine trees. When she stopped and turned to look down, the whole of Le Chant du Mistral was spread before her, a series of level terraces and sloping banks, basking in the spring sunshine. Below and to her right stood the huge U-shaped farmhouse with the old pigeon house – a tower-like building - behind to the west. In a dip on the other side lay a large rectangular swimming pool, still with its winter cover. To her left, separated from the pool by a line of shrubs was a large, incongruous area of lawn, bordered on two sides by flower beds, and in front, way below, was the unmistakeable red roof of Peter’s barn. Beyond was the valley: a couple of distant farmsteads and countless fields of olives and vines stretching into the blue distance. It was a spectacular view and she stood, trying to soak in the peace and beauty of it.
Insidiously, she found herself thinking about Oliver instead: how well their first few months together had gone, how quickly she had agreed to go and live in his flat, sure that this was a relationship which would last. He used to make her laugh; he told her wonderful stories about life on stage and on television sets. He was waiting for ‘that big break’ which would get him into movies. He loved art and encouraged her to take him round galleries, explaining about the pictures he could see. She was beautiful, he said, fascinating, endlessly surprising. She wanted to think he meant it. Then, at the last minute, he lost a good part he had been promised and struggled to find any work. That was when it had all started to go wrong.
A brisk, cold breeze came up, setting the trees behind her humming and tugging at her hair. She hugged herself for warmth and made her way back down to the house.
The front door was unlocked and Terri let herself in. On the Sunday morning, during Angela’s brisk tour of the ground floor of the mas, she had exhorted Terri to make herself comfortable – ‘use the sitting room if you like; no-one goes in there much’ - and to make use of the kitchen if she needed it. She had made it clear she expected Terri to fend for herself and to do it when she wouldn’t be disturbing anyone else, but she’d done it with a great deal of charm.
‘I must be in the way,’ Terri had taken the opportunity to say, reluctant, despite Angela’s courteous hospitality, to live the strange, skulking half-life she could see lay ahead. ‘I could look for accommodation nearby. Could you suggest some local agencies?’
Angela had hesitated for the blink of an eye. ‘Don’t think of it darling. Peter insists that you stay with us. You’d never find anything for the summer anyway and I’m sure we can all rub along together. We all come and go so much anyway.’ She’d produced one of her lovely smiles. ‘I confess I was a bit taken aback when Peter first told me you were staying but now that we’ve met I can see that we’re going to be great friends.’
Now, as Terri stepped into the cool, dark hall, the sound of piano music drifted through the half open kitchen door. Curious, she pushed it back and looked in. The door opposite led into a smart salon where she knew a grand piano stood at the top of the room. It was slightly ajar and she walked closer. She was no expert but whoever was playing was good. Then a woman began to laugh and the music came to a halting stop.
‘Useless,’ said a man’s voice with a discreet but distinct French accent. ‘So come on, you didn’t answer my question: why don’t you tell her?’
Frowning, Terri bent her head forward, listening more closely. That voice was familiar... She shook her head. It wasn’t possible.
‘You know what mama’s like. She’ll overreact.’ That was definitely Lindsey speaking.
‘And your father?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. I can’t talk to him. Hey, I’ll get us some more wine.’
Almost immediately, the door opened and Lindsey faced her.
‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded. ‘Snooping?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Terri defensively. ‘I’ve just come in and I heard the music. It was very good. Was that you playing?’
‘Yes.’
‘Liar.’ A dark-haired man, dressed in black sweatshirt and jeans and with a day’s stubble on his chin, moved to stand in the doorway. His gaze settled on Terri and their eyes met for a long, silent moment.
‘I’m not a liar.’ Lindsey glared at him. She turned back to Terri. ‘We were both playing. It was a duet. This is Luc Daumier, my father’s assistant. He helps me with my piano playing,’ she added defiantly. ‘And this is Terri,’ she said to Luc, ‘who’s come to curate the exhibition for father.’
‘Ah yes, the retrospective,’ said Luc. ‘Enchanté.’ He held out his hand. Terri took it and they exchanged a perfunctory shake. ‘So you’ll be joining us in the studio. Peter is...’ He flicked a quick glance at Lindsey who was already at the fridge, refilling two glasses with white wine. ‘...excited about the exhibition.’
‘How long have you worked for him?’ Terri stared at him, frowning.
‘Four months.’
Lindsey made a point of walking back between them and held out a glass of wine for Luc.
He shook his head. ‘I should go.’
‘You don’t need to go on my account,’ Terri said coldly. ‘I was just passing through.’
‘Even so, I must.’ He stepped back, ramming his hands into the pockets of his jeans. ‘I haven’t long been back and there are things I need to do. You drink my wine,’ he said to Terri. ‘I don’t think I have anything infectious.’
He nodded to her, exchanged a word with Lindsey, and walked away briskly. They heard the front door open and close.
‘He lives in the bergerie,’ said Lindsey. ‘It’s in a clearing near the edge of the woods.’ She held the glass out grudgingly. ‘Here, you’d better take this.’
‘I’m not a great drinker, I’m afraid,’ said Terri.
‘It’s one glass. It won’t kill you. Here.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Do you and Luc know each other?’
‘No. Why?’
‘I just thought...oh it doesn’t matter. Let’s take the wine to the sitting room.’
The sitting room was gloomy. A vine, growing up and across a pergola on the terrace by the front window, starved the room of the late afternoon sunlight while the window to the rear gave onto a dark bank of rising ground. Lindsey put the table lamps on then threw herself down on one of the sofas next to the fireplace, stretching her legs the length of it. Terri sat on the sofa opposite.
‘Mama doesn’t like this room,’ said Lindsey. ‘She thinks it’s too dark.’
‘It is a bit...still it’s cosy.’ Terri could imagine the rest of the ground floor being featured in the smooth pages of a minimalist interior design magazine, but this room was more homely.
Lindsey fixed her with one of her flat, hard stares. ‘So where do you live...normally?’
‘I’ve got an apartment in London.’
‘Have you got a boyfriend? I see you don’t wear a wedding ring.’
‘No, there’s no-one special at the moment.’
‘How did you get on with father today?’
‘OK.’
‘Did he give you a hard time?’
‘Crikey, Lindsey, do you cross-question everyone like this? Am I under interrogation or something?’
‘I was just trying to be friendly,’ Lindsey said sullenly.
‘Oh...well, OK. I’m sorry.’ Terri felt wrong-footed, but then she never did this chatty getting-to-know-you thing well. She hesitated and tried again. ‘I think your father is very sure what he wants.’
‘And I suppose you want something differe
nt?’
‘It’s too early to say.’
Terri sipped her wine. It was dry and caught at the back of her throat. She looked up at the portrait of the woman in the halter-necked dress.
‘That painting...it’s unusual, isn’t it? Really striking. Do you know anything about it?’
‘Sure.’ Lindsey glanced up at the picture. ‘That’s Madeleine. She was father’s first wife.’
‘Ah.’ Terri nodded, surprised, and studied the image with fresh eyes. That possibility hadn’t occurred to her and she immediately wondered why Angela hadn’t told her when she’d asked about it. She considered asking Lindsey but then didn’t. ‘Do you paint at all?’ she said instead.
‘Me?’ Lindsey forced a laugh. ‘No, I didn’t inherit the arty genes. I don’t know one end of a paintbrush from the other.’
Terri sensed some intense personal disappointment behind the off-hand remark. Lindsey was hard to make out. One minute she was ignorant and rude, the next she seemed like a lost child.
‘Maybe you’re creative in other ways,’ she said kindly, ‘like your music.’
Lindsey stared at her warily. ‘That’s what Celia says. She’s my aunt.’
‘Yes, your mother mentioned her. I haven’t met her yet.’
‘Oh you will. She’s barking by the way. And she and mama don’t get on.’ Lindsey laughed suddenly and the sullenness lifted from her face. ‘That’s a classic understatement. They can’t stand each other.’
Terri grinned; the atmosphere had perceptibly thawed.
‘Celia lives in the pigeonnier,’ said Lindsey. ‘She’s got the top floor as a studio, daft old bat.’
‘She paints too?’
Lindsey laughed. ‘That’s not what I’d call it. Very impressionist, she says. Really bad, I’d say. She doesn’t paint like father anyway.’