by Kathy Shuker
With a glass of red wine in his hand, he worked his way through the crowd to the edge of the terrace, checking out Angela’s guests. There was hardly anyone he knew. Peter had come – surprisingly – and was holding court on the other side of the terrace, and he’d seen Angela up near the house, but there was no sign of Lindsey nor, yet, of Terri. He hadn’t told her that he’d been invited and wasn’t sure why. Did he think she wouldn’t come if she knew he would be there? But maybe Peter had told her anyway. Though, given Peter’s fit of temper the other day when he’d stormed out of Terri’s office, that seemed unlikely; Luc had seen little interaction between them since. He mooched to one of the linen covered side tables, speared an olive with a cocktail stick and popped it in his mouth.
Then he saw Terri. She was standing near the drinks tables with a glass of something orange in her hand, looking across to where Peter’s booming voice appeared to be holding his listeners in thrall. Luc saw her exchange a polite word with someone, then move on. He raised a hand but she failed to see him and for a moment was out of sight. When she reappeared she was just a couple of yards away and again he raised his hand. This time she noticed and crossed to join him at the edge of the terrace.
‘I didn’t know you were going to be here,’ she said. She looked almost glad to see him.
‘Angela thinks we’re dating so she felt she had to invite me.’
‘Oh great. Thanks to Lindsey no doubt.’
‘Probably. Is it so bad?’
‘Honestly? At the moment I’m just glad there’s someone here I know.’ There was a peal of laughter from the circle round Peter and she glanced back towards him. ‘He seems to be on good form tonight,’ she said bitterly. ‘I believe he saves his worst moods for me.’
‘I saw you had another fight the other day. I thought you were getting on better with him.’
‘So did I.’
‘What was it about?’
Terri eyed him warily. ‘I was asking some questions. I need to write a biography for the exhibition catalogue. Peter mentioned his first wife and became upset when he found out that I’d already asked Lindsey a couple of questions about her. He overreacted.’
‘Ah.’ Luc took a sip of the wine from his glass, watching her over its rim. ‘So perhaps you remind him of the delightful Madeleine too? It might make him oversensitive.’
‘Nonsense,’ she said, not altogether convincingly. ‘I mean, do you really think I look like her?’
‘I haven’t looked at the painting recently.’
She grunted and sipped her drink.
‘What do you know about her?’ she asked.
‘Madeleine?’ He pulled a face. ‘Not much. The same as you I imagine: died in childbirth; the baby was sickly and didn’t live. C’est tout.’ He met her gaze again. ‘You seem to have taken a particular interest in her though.’
Terri studied him a moment as if she were considering telling him something. But Angela banged a large spoon on a table, drawing all eyes and announcing that the food was ready.
They collected plates of cooked meat and salad and a second glass of wine for Luc, and moved away from the already congested tables and chairs of the terrace, down into the sunken parterre where they found a bench looking out over the herb garden and the cherry orchard beyond. The night was warm and redolent. Sitting with the wall at their backs and buffered by a run of dangling shrubs, the chatter of the party above was dulled and irrelevant and for a while they ate in companionable silence. Luc finished first, picking up his wine glass. He wished he could get the conversation back to Madeleine - it intrigued him that Terri was apparently so rattled by Celia’s remarks - but could think of no subtle way of doing it.
‘You know,’ he said instead, ‘the last time I saw you was at the preview for an exhibition at Tate Britain: spring last year.’
‘The Tate.’ She finished eating and wiped her fingers on the napkin, frowning. ‘I don’t remember seeing you there.’
‘You were with someone.’
She nodded slowly. ‘That’s right, I was.’
‘Are you still with him?’
‘No.’ She hesitated. ‘And you?’
‘No, I’m not with anyone.’
‘No?’ She flicked him a glance, unreadable as usual. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t see you...at the exhibition, that is. There were a lot of people there.’
‘There were.’
They sat looking out over the garden. It was a beautiful scene. The sun was already setting, the yellow light already dimming to blue-violet.
‘I saw that portrait exhibition you curated,’ said Luc. ‘When was that...two years ago? It was really good.’
‘Three. It was three years ago now. Thanks.’ She offered him a quick smile. ‘I have to admit I was pleased with it – eventually.’
‘What else have you been doing with yourself?’
‘Oh, you know, this and that. I was filling in for someone’s maternity leave at Ferfylde’s before coming here.’
‘Ferfylde’s? What, persuading the wealthy to buy something that’ll both match the wallpaper and count as an investment? That’s hardly your style, is it?’
‘No, well, there aren’t always the right jobs when you want them,’ she said defensively. ‘Especially if you want to work somewhere in particular. And I do have bills to pay.’
‘You wanted to be in London?’
‘Yep.’ She finished the orange juice and leaned over to put the glass down on the floor. ‘I was stupid enough,’ she said, straightening up, ‘to think that guy you saw me with was worth compromising my career over.’
‘Ah. And now you’ve finished with him, you came here to forget? I’ve been trying to figure out what would make you take this job.’
‘Something like that. But I’m not saying the challenge of creating a retrospective for one of the world’s best living portrait painters didn’t have some appeal too.’
‘Really? Despite the man’s appalling reputation?’
‘His reputation didn’t stop you wanting to work for him.’
‘OK, true.’ He finished his wine. ‘Look, can I get you another drink? Join me in a glass of wine? I could do with another.’
She shook her head. ‘I’m fine, thanks. I don’t drink much.’
‘I remember.’
‘Do you?’ She looked sceptical, or maybe hopeful. That surprised him: she looked as if she wanted to believe him.
‘Sure I do. I remember you used to have one glass of wine; that was your max. You never explained why though.’
‘I didn’t think it was anyone else’s business.’
Luc gave a wry laugh. ‘You see, that’s your problem, Terri. You think no-one should know anything about you. You keep it all locked up inside and then get hurt when people don’t understand you. How can they if you don’t give them a chance?’
Her dark eyes flicked to his face for a minute, then away again.
‘Well if you must know, it’s because my father drank,’ she said. ‘Not all the time. Sometimes he would go for weeks without touching alcohol. Then something...’ She shrugged. ‘...I don’t know...something twisted inside him and he’d spend all night drinking. He’d get completely smashed.’
‘But his work? How could he work if he was drinking? He must have needed such a steady hand.’
‘He wasn’t an alcoholic. Or maybe he was, I don’t know. The next day he’d have a headache in the morning and that was it; he’d get on with it. But it wasn’t that he needed a drink to get through; it was like something built up in him over time and every so often he had to release it.’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t explain it. I just decided I wasn’t going to get like that. It’s the way people change when they’ve been drinking...’ She stopped abruptly and he got the impression that still she was holding something back.
‘But you could have one glass.’ He grinned. ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t suddenly change into a monster.’
‘Oh sure, joke about it,’ she said gloomily. ‘You ne
ver know what people will be like. Really ordinary, nice people can become...become...’ She had that hunted expression again that she’d had when he’d picked her up in the car. And he saw her hand shake as she reached up to push a strand of hair behind her ear.
It all clicked into place - of course: she had come here to escape someone.
‘Your ex-boyfriend?’ he said softly. ‘He drank?’
Terri nodded, refusing to meet his eye.
‘Tell me.’
‘No...no. What’s the point, Luc?’
‘I dunno.’ He gave a brief laugh. ‘Didn’t you ever take your angst out on something when you were a kid, when you’d been told off maybe for doing something and sent to your room? I did. Honestly...’ He waited for her to look at him before continuing. ‘...I had a huge stuffed rabbit I used to complain to loudly. That rabbit was the best confidant I ever had. He never judged, always listened.’
She was smiling now, shaking her head at him. ‘What was his name, this wonderful rabbit?’
‘Albert.’
‘Albert? Why?’
‘I have no idea. I liked the name I suppose.’ He repeated the name with a French pronunciation. ‘Alberrrt. Very international.’
She laughed.
‘That’s better. So think of me as your own personal Albert.’ He raised one hand. ‘I promise not to judge...really.’
Terri stared down the garden, watching the leggy purple shadows gradually dissolve in the dying light.
‘OK, well...Oliver’s an actor, very talented, but he hit a rough patch and couldn’t get work. He always liked a drink but, then, with each failed audition, the drinking just got worse. He started chasing bottles of wine with shorts. Then he began to resent that I was working when he wasn’t. Nothing I said or did was right any more.’ She paused, glancing at Luc sidelong. ‘I always swore I’d never stay with someone who hit me. But the first time it happened, he was so out of it, I made excuses. All sorts of excuses. Then the next time, he was drunk when he tried to...’ She shook her head and swallowed hard. ‘He lost it when I pushed him away. I missed work for a couple of days, then had to use make-up to try to cover the bruises.’
She exhaled a long, shuddering sigh. ‘That was it. I finally finished it and moved back to my own place. But almost straight away he began to stalk me. He was there...all the time, watching, waiting...so I had to get away.’
‘Quel salaud.’ Luc reached across and gave her hand a brief squeeze. ‘I’m glad you had the sense to leave. And he’d never find you here.’
‘Don’t even go there. I certainly hope not. He keeps sending me messages but they haven’t been quite so regular lately so...’ She stretched her head forwards, peering down the garden. ‘Who’s that?’ she said sharply.
Luc stared into the dark shadows. ‘It’s Peter. Heading for the studio I imagine.’
Terri nodded, relaxed back. ‘Anyway, now you know: that’s why I won’t drink much. First dad, then Oliver. He changed, you know. He was OK before he started drinking.’
‘Was he? I’m sorry if I can’t agree. There’s got to be something fundamentally wrong with a man who takes his disappointments out on his girlfriend. He’s weak and inadequate. He must be. So he’s had tough times. Everyone does. It’s how you deal with them that shows what you really are.’
He got to his feet, stacked the plates and glasses together, left them on the seat and looked down at her expectantly. ‘So...no more wine. What about tea? I could make you some at the cottage. I also remember how much you liked your tea.’
Terri smiled but already he could sense her guard had come up again.
‘Yes, I know you always found it funny. But if you don’t mind, I think I’ll call it a night. I’m rather tired.’
She stood up, was tantalisingly close. He thought how easy it would be to put his arms round her and hold her.
‘I’d forgotten how well we got on,’ he said. ‘You’re safe with me, you know. I wouldn’t hurt you for the world. We could...’
‘No, Luc, please. Don’t.’ She stretched up a finger as if she was going to press it against his lips, but she let it fall and took a step away from him. ‘We can’t go there again. It wouldn’t work. Why can’t we just be friends?’
‘Friends can still come round for tea though.’
‘Maybe. But not tonight.’ She stared at him, reached her hand to his arm and touched it lightly. ‘Thanks.’ He watched her walk away, up out of the parterre and out of sight.
Luc abandoned the party and wandered back to the bergerie. He poured himself a brandy and sat cradling it, still able to smell her perfume on his clothes.
*
Peter let himself into the studio and flicked on the pendent ceiling lamps. They were fitted with daylight simulation bulbs and a blue-white light filled the space. The smell of oil and turpentine rose to his nostrils and he welcomed it like an old friend. He walked across to his work station and stared critically at the painting on his easel, trying to work out what he should do next, but his mind was too restless to settle to paint. Why had he gone to the party? It had been tedious as usual and absurdly huge. Still he preferred these summer parties, outdoors. Angela’s guests seemed less cloying out in the open air.
He walked into his study and closed the door, poured himself a large whisky, took a stiff draught of it and stood, cradling the glass. Terri had been at the party; he had seen her with Luc. For days their conversation of the previous week had echoed through his head. He rather regretted shouting at her in that way but he refused to have Lindsey drawn in to his past. And he was scared too of Terri’s quick, probing mind. Where once he had thought he had her under control, now he was not so sure, and then there was the way she had tricked him into talking about Madeleine...
After a moment’s reflection, he put the glass down, retrieved a small key ring from the top drawer of his desk, and bent over stiffly to unlock the cupboard below the window. Pulling out a covered cardboard box, he took it and the whisky over to his chair, sat down and cautiously lifted the lid. In one corner was a small stack of photographs and on the top was a black and white photograph of Madeleine, sitting astride the carved zebra of a merry-go-round, the only adult on the ride. He pulled it out, tipped his head back and peered down through his glasses, tilting the photograph to catch the best of the light. She was laughing as she spun into view. They hadn’t long met when he’d taken this; she had been just twenty and unlike anyone he’d ever known before. From the very first moment he had found her enchanting. He stared at the picture; it had been years since he’d looked at these photographs. An ache started to develop deep inside him but he ignored it and kept picking the photographs up, print after faded print.
He found a photograph of the two of them together, taken by a friend. Madeleine had been much shorter than he and his arm was looped loosely round her waist, his head bent sideways over her, a stupid expression on his face. He tried to place where it had been taken but failed. It was such a long time ago and it was hard to associate this tall, good-looking idiot with the man he was today. Where had the years gone and what had he become since then? Shrivelled, bitter, haunted? Peter picked up another photograph: a toddler sitting in a tiny model car, his pudgy hands gripping the steering wheel and an expression of rapt concentration on his face. He immediately put it down and quickly replaced the rest of the photographs on top of it.
He took another mouthful of whisky and was about to close the box up, then hesitated and pulled out a broad flat wooden jewellery box, tipping the lid back. He nearly smiled. On the top of a pile of necklaces was one of Madeleine’s favourites: an assortment of pretty coloured shells intermingled with beads. How typical of her that she should favour something so worthless. But there was some good jewellery here too. He picked up a box containing a pair of gold drop earrings. She’d fallen for them in a shop window and he’d bought them for her just after she’d told him she was expecting another baby. Each one was set with a cascading fall of tiny deep blue sapphires
intermingled with three little diamonds. ‘They look like stars in a night sky,’ she’d said. By a cruel twist of fate she’d not lived long enough to enjoy them. Peter eased one off its cushioned bed and held it up to let it fall and catch the light. Beautiful. When Lindsey had reached eighteen he’d intended to give her Madeleine’s jewellery. But then he’d thought better of it, unsure what she would make of being given personal things which had belonged to his first wife and concerned that it might upset Angela. He’d bought her a fancy gold necklace instead.
He put the earrings away and picked up the fairground photograph of Maddy again, his thoughts returning to Terri. Since Celia had mentioned it, he too thought he could see a slight resemblance in the eyes: not the colour of course, but the shape and the way she moved them. And of course she was direct, blunt even. Madeleine had been like that. If you asked her opinion, she gave it frankly. He remembered a painting he’d done of her mother. ‘You haven’t caught her intensity,’ she told him, ‘her devoutness.’ She laughed and put her arms round him as he stood before the easel. ‘You’re too Anglo-Saxon Protestant,’ she said teasingly. ‘You don’t understand how she thinks.’ When he pressed her to explain, she added, ‘Oh I don’t know...think of a dark church smoky with incense and people on their knees, praying. Imagine what it would be like to spend your whole life feeling that you can’t atone enough for your sins.’ She had squeezed him hard, stretched up and kissed him, and left him to it.
In a brusque movement he put the photograph back in the box and slammed the lid on again. ‘Bloody Celia,’ he said, draining the whisky in his glass and dumping the box on the floor.
Chapter 10
Terri picked up a feather boa and draped it round her neck, flicking it back over her shoulder. There was a mirror hanging from a hook further along the shelves and she went to examine the effect, turning a little this way and that, gauging the effect from different angles. It was the Monday afternoon and she was alone again in the studio. Peter had not returned from lunch and Luc had gone to Marseille to visit a supplier. Walking back to her office, she was idling along Peter’s jumbled collection of artefacts and props. She removed the boa and tried on a succession of hats, then pulled out a piece of exotic fabric to find that it was a long silk smoking jacket. ‘Oh, very elegant,’ she murmured. On a lower shelf she found a tumbling stack of Venetian masks and picked through them, holding a couple against her face, checking them in the mirror. Then, buried at the bottom of the pile, she found the missing notebook for 1973. So it hadn’t been destroyed, just mislaid. She’d created an intrigue where there was none. Probably everything she’d thought was odd or suspicious could be just as easily explained.