by Kathy Shuker
‘No. I’ve given up.’
‘About time.’
He turned his head briefly, looking at her sidelong. ‘I remember you didn’t like it.’
‘No.’ She wondered what else he recalled about her. In some ways she was surprised that he remembered her at all. ‘How long since you’ve had a cigarette then?’
‘Nearly six months.’
‘But you’re still craving them?’
He flicked her a surprised glance. ‘Yes. Sometimes.’
‘It’ll get easier. A friend of mine said it took her two years.’
‘Really? Some people say they never get over it.’
They picked up the road to Nice and Luc speeded up. Silence stretched between them again and Terri wondered at the misfortune that had brought them together again after all this time. For a while after they had split up she had followed his career, read his articles, second-guessed which shows he might attend. She told herself that she looked out for him as one does with a wasp in the room. Time passed; eventually she had been happy to let it go. She hadn’t noticed his absence from London of late.
‘What’s it like, living in the house?’ Luc asked, breaking into her thoughts.
‘Why do you ask?’
‘I imagine it’s strange: living with your employer. At least I have my own space. In your place I think it would be difficult to switch off.’
‘It’s fine. Peter’s rarely there. Lindsey’s out more than she’s in. Angela too. I often have the house to myself.’
She tried to sound more positive about it than she felt. She had cooked in the main kitchen a few times, had stored a couple of things in the fridge there and had even used the sitting room, but it was an uncomfortable situation. When she saw her, Lindsey was still guarded and largely uncommunicative and Peter barely acknowledged her presence. Corinne, the small, squat, black-eyed bonne – maybe a few years older than Terri - watched her warily and only spoke when she was spoken to. Terri felt like some sort of Jane Eyre, fitting in nowhere, living between stairs.
‘Angela’s charming,’ she said now.
‘Oh yes, Angela is charming,’ he said, his inflection ambiguous.
‘Don’t you like her?’
‘I didn’t say that. And you?’
Terri hesitated. It was hard not to like Angela. She was consistently attentive whenever Terri met her, friendly and solicitous. And yet there was a distance between them as if they spoke through glass, at a slight remove from one another.
‘We get on fine,’ she told him. She flicked him a glance, lips pursed with amusement. ‘But I gather she doesn’t like you giving piano lessons to Lindsey.’
‘Did she tell you that?’
‘Lindsey did.’
Luc gave one wordless nod of the head.
‘Are you becoming friendly with Lindsey?’ he said after a pause.
‘I hardly know her.’
‘You need to be careful. She likes to play people off against each other.’
Terri frowned. ‘Why?’
Luc shrugged and again didn’t answer. ‘I’ve heard Peter shouting at you,’ he remarked a few minutes later. ‘How are you managing?’
‘You know...it’s always difficult in a new job.’
‘He’s all right, you know. He’s just passionate about his work and hates to be deflected from it. And the studio is his domain; what he says, goes. You need to learn to duck and dive.’
‘Thanks. I’ll bear that in mind.’
Terri couldn’t see that it was that simple. Peter was frustrating her at every turn. Every time she tried to discuss the exhibition with him he put it off. Often he ignored her; sometimes he was offensive. The only real progress had been commissioning Sami to build the painting rack which she had done the previous week, explaining its details to his mask-like expression, giving him a drawing marked with dimensions. It was an absurd situation to be in. What was the point in employing someone when you wouldn’t let them do their job?
Neither of them made any further effort at conversation and Terri turned back to look out of the window. It was just before eleven when they arrived in Nice and the hurly-burly of traffic swept them along the Promenade des Anglais.
‘I’ll meet you for lunch,’ Luc said as he parked the car.
He suggested a restaurant and they fixed a time. She was amazed Peter hadn’t given him instructions to accompany her to the meeting. Walking out onto the streets of Nice, it was a relief to be both alone and away from Le Chant.
The Galerie De Villaney was on the Boulevard Victor Hugo, a broad, leafy street a short walk from the centre. A wealthy philanthropist and collector had set it up in the sixties. It was now run by a generously endowed trust and showed a permanent collection of fine art alongside its temporary exhibitions. The building – an elegant three-storeyed structure – was set back off the road behind a small, gated, parking area. Two palm trees flanked the entrance giving it an exotic air. She paused outside, gathering herself. From her telephone conversations with the gallery director, it was clear he was not happy with Peter’s decision to employ his own curator. Caught in the middle, this visit was as much a diplomatic mission as a chance to view the exhibition space. She muttered the name Christophe Cahen to herself – the name of the gallery assistant with whom she would be dealing – and pushed the glazed door open.
*
The waiter put a glass and a bottle of Perrier by Terri and served Luc a glass of draught beer. He took their order for food and left.
‘So how did you get on at De Vilaney’s?’ said Luc.
‘Fine. Christophe was OK, helpful.' Relief made Terri smile. Unlike the gallery director the tanned gallery assistant was only too happy to have someone else to mediate; he had found Peter impossible to deal with. Christophe was also a merciless flirt but he did it lightly, almost as a matter of routine. She had found it amusing, even a little flattering, but not remotely threatening. ‘Have you met him?’ she asked.
Luc shook his head, downing a mouthful of beer. ‘No. He came to the studio once but we didn’t speak.’
She looked at him curiously. ‘I’m surprised that you weren’t told to come to the gallery too, given that I’m supposed to be so out of control.’
Luc gave a typically Gallic shrug, disclaiming responsibility. ‘He didn’t specify. He just asked me to come with you.’ He raised his eyebrows and held her gaze. ‘I won’t tell him if you don’t.’
Terri looked away and drank some Perrier. They were on the terrace of a restaurant in the Cours Saleya where the flower market had been that morning. The stalls had all been cleared away and the ground hosed down. Water still pooled in places and odd flower heads and bits of stem lingered in the gutters. There was already warmth in the sun and all the restaurants lining the street were busy. She looked back at Luc to find his eyes still on her.
‘So what did you do this morning?’ she asked.
‘I visited a couple of galleries and I bought some piano music. There’s a good music shop here.’
‘I hadn’t realised you played the piano.’
‘It never came up. Our relationship was short-lived.’
‘We didn’t have a relationship. You can’t base one on a lie.’
Luc raised one eyebrow at her as the waiter arrived with his steak and frites and her mushroom omelette. They abandoned conversation and ate.
Luc finished first and cradled his beer. Terri felt herself being examined again.
‘You haven’t changed much,’ he said after a couple of minutes.
‘No? I’m surprised. I feel a very different person.’
‘In what way?’
She was tempted to say, ‘wiser,’ but, given recent events with Oliver, wasn’t sure she could claim that to be true. She finished eating and ignored the question, dropping her napkin on the table and picking up her glass.
‘What are you really doing here, Luc?’
‘I’m doing what you see I’m doing. I’ve had a career change.’
She looked a
t him scathingly. ‘Really? What a remarkable coincidence.’
‘It’s true. And I could explain why but I suppose you wouldn’t believe me whatever I said.’
‘That’s absolutely right.’
Luc finished his beer and thumped the glass down on the table, his lips pressed together in an angry line.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘I told you: I didn’t date you to get access to your father. I had already intended to see him. And then we met and I liked you. Just at the moment that might seem surprising, but I did. So I asked you out. I didn’t say what I was doing because it was undercover work. And after all, you hardly ever mentioned your father.’
Terri rolled her eyes, shaking her head. ‘I can’t believe your arrogance. So now it’s my fault? Can I just remind you that it was you who set out to single-handedly ‘clean up’ the art market? It was you who lied your way into my father’s workshop, pretending to be a collector with a Pissarro which needed restoring. And you said you knew me, that it was I who had recommended him. It was a blatant lie. Just how many other innocent people had their reputations ruined by your exposé?’
Terri sat back, tight-lipped as the waiter came to clear. He asked if they wanted dessert. Terri declined and asked for tea; Luc ordered an espresso and the waiter left. Luc handled the remaining cutlery on the table with restless fingers.
‘You don’t condone forgery, I assume?’ he said sharply.
‘Of course not.’
‘So where’s your problem? I simply set out to find the crooks who were pushing fakes onto the market. I didn’t target your father. I wanted to show how weak the whole system is. Paintings get passed through so many hands and nobody asks enough questions. The forger I revealed by my investigation – his paintings regularly got sent to a restorer. The guy he worked for used to ‘age’ them and then get them restored to give them more authenticity. The first time it was a gamble. Suppose the restorer said something? The guy would have claimed that he was duped. But the restorer said nothing, and was happy to do it again and again. He knew what he was doing but he was well paid. He didn’t care.’
‘I know all this. Spare me the preaching. But why drag my father into this? You tried him with one painting. He did the job he was paid to do. He didn’t realise what was going on.’
Luc shook his head. ‘I wanted to show how no-one says anything. There’s a conspiracy of silence. Your father must have had some doubts about the fake. He was an experienced restorer, wasn’t he?’
‘That is completely unfair,’ she responded hotly. ‘Even the experts...’
Terri stopped as the tea and coffee arrived and the bill was left on the table. She dangled the teabag into her cup of hot water and left the sentence unfinished. She had wondered herself that her father hadn’t noticed, had not voiced any concern, but she’d felt unable to ask him about it; they hadn’t had that sort of relationship. Even so, she’d never doubted his honesty.
‘You could have left him out of the article,’ she said now, putting the teabag back on the saucer. ‘But I suppose to you it was just a good story; to my father it was his reputation. Mud sticks in this business as you well know. And he had done nothing wrong.’
‘I’m sorry, OK?’ he shouted angrily, then dropped his voice as other diners turned to look. ‘I didn’t think it would upset you so much. You told me you didn’t get on with your father. I got the impression you were largely estranged from him.’
‘Well I wasn’t...not estranged. But my relationship with him isn’t the point, is it? You were deceitful. You lied. And you didn’t even have the decency to tell me before it came out.’
‘No, I know. I got a lot of things wrong.’ Luc gave a brief shake of the head, drank a mouthful of espresso and drummed his fingers on the table. ‘How is your father anyway?’
‘He’s dead. He had a heart attack in October.’
‘Ciel. I’m sorry Terri. I had no idea. He can’t have been very old.’
‘Fifty-six,’ she said. ‘But he smoked like a chimney.’ Terri bit her lip. A wave of emotion ran through her, hard to define and taking her by surprise. This kept happening. It choked her for a moment and she swallowed hard, suppressing it. ‘So tell me,’ she said, ‘why I should believe that you’re genuinely here to work as a studio assistant? An insider article about one of the most controversial characters in contemporary art would be a big story I imagine.’
Luc’s eyes narrowed. He finished his coffee and sat back, regarding her dispassionately.
‘If you expect to be disappointed in people, I guess you always will be. I can’t win whatever I say. Have you finished? We’d better be on our way.’
Terri glared at him and put her share of the bill on the table. They left the restaurant and drove back to the estate, barely speaking. Drawing the car to a halt in the parking area, Luc left the engine running as Terri gathered her things together. Wordlessly, she opened the door to get out.
‘Terri?’
‘What?’
‘I get on fine with Peter and he knows what I used to do. I told him. He won’t believe you if you go to him with stories about me. It won’t make your life here any easier.’
‘That sounds like a threat.’
‘It’s advice.’
‘Oh advice. Well it doesn’t matter. You don’t scare me. I’m not about to go telling tales and I know Peter wouldn’t listen to me anyway. But don’t even think about putting me in one of your sordid little articles.’
As soon as she’d shut the door, the car sped off, gravel spurting backwards as the wheels gripped. She watched it disappear down the track which wound round the bottom of the estate past the studio, and turned away, picking her way slowly up towards the house.
The conversation with Luc circulated in her head but her thoughts settled, reluctantly, on her father. She remembered his funeral all too clearly: the confusion, the anger even, the guilt and the sudden and acute sense of loss which had left her almost breathless with surprise. She had expected to feel nothing. Not that Edward Challoner had been a bad father; there had been no physical neglect or abuse. But he had been preoccupied, disinterested and unable to show much affection. Left alone with him as a young child, Terri had felt herself a burden and had simply learnt not to need him. It was undoubtedly the biggest lesson he’d taught her: self-reliance. And then there had been the drinking: occasional benders when he tried to drown all his frustration and loneliness in alcohol, rendering him maudlin or volatile, often a mixture of the two. He had never hurt her but it had been unnerving all the same. They hadn’t been ‘estranged’ though. As the years had gone on, they had just never had much to say to each other.
None of this excused Luc’s behaviour however. He’d used her and now he was twisting her words to absolve himself of blame. She wondered if Peter, shut away in this secluded backwater, had any idea of the kind of man he was dealing with.
Chapter 5
As the second week of Terri’s contract drew to a close, Peter continued to live up to the worst of his reputation. On the Thursday he had been due to have his plaster cast removed and his mood had noticeably brightened as the day approached. But he’d returned from the clinic in the afternoon with a face as black as thunder and with the plaster still in place. ‘The bones aren’t knitted enough,’ he’d bellowed in the studio to no-one in particular. ‘Monsieur n’est plus un jeune homme,’ he’d said, mimicking the doctor. ‘As if I didn’t know that I wasn’t young any more.’ He swore, violently, and thumped a fist against the door. ‘Will I never get this thing off me?’
Terri had been using his regular absence from the studio in the afternoons to look through the stacks of paintings. Already she’d found some real possibilities for the exhibition but few of them had been dated and Peter refused to help, obliging her to make a laborious and time-consuming search through his notebooks in an effort to find the relevant entry. And he had rejected every request to sit down with her and talk through his early influences or the context of his work. Walking
up through the olive grove on the Saturday afternoon, vainly trying to put the angst of the week behind her, Terri could feel the frustration bubbling up inside her again. Without Peter’s cooperation the job was a disaster; she was wasting her time.
She paused, running a hand along the gnarled, twisted branch of one of the olive trees. They were exactly as Van Gogh had painted them: dark, sinuous and faintly sinister, like the ones on the name plaque on her room door. The previous morning, trying out her French on Corinne, she had commented on the plaque and asked if the bonne knew who had painted it.
‘Non.’ Corinne, washing down the worktops, shrugged, her expression suggesting such questions were for idle minds. ‘All the rooms upstairs have one. They were here when I came. I’ve never asked.’
‘Oh, OK. So what names are on the rooms upstairs?’
Corinne stopped scrubbing and scowled. ‘Voyons...’ she began, staring into mid-air. ‘...there is ‘Vermeer’, ‘Turner’, ‘Giotto’, ‘Caillebotte’, ‘Rubens’...’ She shook her head impatiently and went back to her rhythmic scrubbing. ‘I can’t remember them all now.’
‘Do they all have a painting on them?’
‘Ah oui.’ She sounded unimpressed.
Terri had been mildly intrigued; sometime, when she had the house to herself, she’d maybe take a look.
Now she reached the terrace and made for the fountain. The previous evening she’d heard a bullfrog croaking loudly in the stone pool which surrounded it and she stared into its shallow depths hopefully. The basin contained a number of water plants but no fish and apparently no frog. The sweet aromatic scent of herbs from the parterre below drifted up to her on the breeze but she barely registered it and sat down gloomily on the rim of the basin.
‘Now you don’t look happy.’
Terri turned her head. A tall, thin woman wearing baggy blue trousers and a huge, striped cardigan was approaching across the terrace pushing an old-fashioned pram. Terri had seen her twice before but always in the distance, plodding purposefully through the estate. With that distinctive gravel voice this had to be Celia, Peter’s ‘barking’ sister.