by Kathy Shuker
‘Mm, what? Oh, right.’ He perched on the edge of a neighbouring chair. ‘I’ve been going through the bank statements.’
‘Ye-es. And?’
‘I haven’t looked at them for a while...got rather behind with things...’ He hesitated. ‘Anyway there are some entries I’m puzzled about. I wondered if you could shed some light on them.’
‘Oh Peter, you aren’t going to ask me what I spent money on six months ago, are you? I really won’t remember.’
‘But they’re cash withdrawals. Large ones.’ He tapped the papers impatiently with the fingers of his right hand. ‘From our current account and one from a savings account. Here...’ He held out the papers to her. ‘...look for yourself.’
Angela sighed. ‘Do we have to do this now darling?’
‘Well I’m worried. It could be serious. Did you really take all this money out?’ He began to read a list of withdrawals.
Angela shrugged. ‘Yes, probably.’ She massaged her temples.
‘But you must remember?’ His voice had risen, developing a strident, insistent note. ‘We’re talking about several thousand euros over the course of six months...in cash. I’m concerned someone else has gained access to our money. Have you lost any of your cards? I’m thinking of putting a stop on the accounts.’
Angela was aware of the slow fuse burning on his temper. She pushed herself up, reaching to the side of the chair for her handbag. ‘OK, I’ll check now.’ She pulled out her purse and began to flick through the card pouches. ‘No...no...no...no...’ She moved across to the other side. ‘No...no. No, they’re all here I think. There’s no need to alert the banks Peter. I can’t remember exactly but I’m sure it was me who took the money out.’ She snapped the purse closed and dropped it back in her bag. ‘But I can’t believe we’re having this conversation,’ she added, sounding hurt. ‘You’ve never checked up on my spending habits before. I didn’t realise I had to account for every little thing I bought or did.’ There was silence. Peter got to his feet, frowning. ‘Just the other day you suggested we might have a trip to Paris,’ she added. ‘Now it seems we’ve got money problems. I really don’t think it’s fair to accuse me in this way.’
‘No, we don’t have money problems,’ said Peter heavily. ‘I thought you said you wanted to visit Paris.’
‘Well not if you’re going to check on all my spending.’
Peter looked on the point of saying something else but wandered out of the room instead.
Angela listened to his receding footsteps along the passage. A few minutes later she heard him padding across the terrace, heading back towards the studio. His behaviour bothered her. He had never challenged her use of money before. His early success had already made him a wealthy man by the time she’d married him and, though he’d never squandered money, he had never been mean with it. And it was not just this business with the accounts - for she had indeed withdrawn a lot of cash lately, had perhaps been incautious. But in all sorts of subtle ways he’d not been quite himself recently. He was alternately more talkative than usual, then more introspective; his temper had shown less frequently. And then there was the offer of a weekend in Paris. Or Rome, he had suggested. ‘We don’t get away enough, do we? You must get bored.’ It had been years since he’d thought to take her away like that. She’d put it down to the head injury but now she was less sure. And she supposed she should be glad – she had struggled long enough with his temperament and his neglect.
Restless all of a sudden, Angela got up and walked through to the kitchen. She stared listlessly at the kettle; it was too warm for tea. The endless summer had started. Most of her friends thought the long hot days were a joy but she’d never really adjusted to the Mediterranean climate. When Peter had proposed to her all those years ago – handsome, wealthy, charming in a gruff sort of way - she’d thought his life in France was something exotic and exciting; she’d had no idea what the reality would be. And she’d vaguely assumed that they would split their time between France and England, taking the best of both, not hole up permanently in this forgotten corner of the mountains. True, Peter had suggested at the outset that he intended to live in France but she hadn’t really thought he meant it, or maybe she’d expected him to change. She had been disappointed.
She shrugged the thought away, poured herself a glass of chilled cranberry juice and was putting the carton back in the fridge when she heard the front door open and close. She got to the hall doorway just in time to see Terri slipping through the sitting room towards the annexe and she stared after her pensively. When she’d asked Peter what Celia had said about hounding Terri, he’d been vague, evasive even. And she’d seen him watching Terri at the barbeque, a reflective expression on his face.
And now Terri was creeping about in a strangely furtive way. So where had Peter’s little helper spent the afternoon, she wondered.
*
Terri fumbled in the back of her bedside cabinet and pulled out a small plastic wallet, flipping its two leaves open. It was an old, cheap affair - she couldn’t remember now why or where she’d bought it – but years before she had put a photograph of her father in each of the two clear pockets. In the picture on one side he was standing alone in the garden, looking awkward, cigarette in hand. She had taken it herself with her first camera. How old had she been? Ten? No, the camera was her eleventh birthday present. It wasn’t easy to see him in the weak bedroom light and she leaned across and flicked the bedside lamp on, moving closer. The photograph on the other side had been taken of him with his young daughter, his arm awkwardly round her shoulder. To judge from the way he looked, it had been taken around the same time, probably by her grandmother.
Her eyes glazed. The last time she’d seen her father had been six months before his death. They had lunched together in a pub near where he lived. A little over four years previously a woman called Lizzie had moved in with him and Terri had rarely visited the family home after. The two women had been mutually suspicious, wary, an uncomfortable atmosphere sitting between them. At her father’s funeral at the crematorium, Lizzie told her that her father had wanted his ashes scattered on the downs where they often went walking and a week later they had gone to do it together, virtual strangers, a difficult and somewhat bizarre expedition. Lizzie had seemed genuinely distraught. Presumably her father had loved her and his love had been reciprocated. Ever since, Terri had felt a painful regret at her behaviour before he died; she thought she’d been childish, jealous perhaps of her father’s new found happiness or feeling herself excluded.
She tried to put the thoughts away, felt two fingers down behind the second photograph and carefully pulled out two more pictures. These were snaps of her mother. The first was taken in a park somewhere, her mother standing in front of some iron railings. Behind her, ducks and moorhens paddled on a lake. Her eyes were puckered against the sunshine and she seemed to be saying something to the person taking the photograph. Terri peered more closely at it. It was small and the extreme brightness of the day had rendered her features flat and hard to distinguish. Her hair was shoulder length, pushed back behind her ears, and blonde. She was wearing a mini skirt, a short-sleeved, V-necked top and platform mules. She looked very young. Presumably it had been taken in the seventies.
Terri picked up the second photograph. In this one her mother was cradling a baby, her face turned down to look at the child. Terri stared at it and felt the familiar pang somewhere deep inside. She hadn’t looked at these pictures for years; they’d been left in a drawer, ignored. Only when her father had died had she taken them out again. Coming away she had slipped the wallet in her bag on an impulse, reluctant suddenly to leave it behind.
She always told people that her mother had died young from a short, aggressive illness. She’d told the story so many times, she almost believed it herself. But the truth was that Susie Challoner had simply walked out of the house one day and, nearly two years later, thrown herself from a bridge into the Thames. As a child, Terri had struggled to s
leep. Creeping down the stairs one evening, long after bedtime, she’d heard her father and grandmother discussing the news and how it would be best to tell her. Confused and upset she’d crept back to her bedroom. On top of her certainty that she was to blame in some way for her mother leaving, it had been the final proof of what she had already known: her mother could not have loved her or she wouldn’t have left her like that. Not a word; not a single word. And now she’d gone forever. It was a hurt that had burnt deep into her. Even after all these years, the pain had hardly diminished.
Terri pushed the photographs back roughly into the wallet. She was angry, really angry. She was not going to go searching for diaries and who knew what. Damn Celia and her stupid games, bringing it all back again. The whole story was foolish anyway and what difference did it make to her who her mother was? She never knew her and it was too late now.
Chapter 11
The next Wednesday Christophe was due to visit the studio to discuss progress and plans for the retrospective. On the Tuesday evening, Terri worked late, adding notes to her timeline, making sure everything was clear and well-presented, determined to make a good professional impression, though what preoccupied her most was how Peter would behave. When she’d told him about the visit he’d been rude about the gallery in general and Christophe in particular. But it would be impossible to keep the two men apart; without Peter’s input - and approval - the meeting would be meaningless.
Christophe arrived soon after ten, studied Terri’s presentation and looked through the final choice of paintings. Afterwards she made coffee and invited Peter to join them. He greeted Christophe perfunctorily and watched him suspiciously while, in a vain effort to ingratiate himself, the young man talked too much about the gallery, gushed about Peter’s work and stressed how much they were all looking forward to the exhibition. He was trying too hard.
‘I have discussed the publicity with our director, Monsieur Stedding,’ he continued under Peter’s baleful gaze. ‘The gallery has a photographer we use always who will be good for the publicity shots. And I have approached some newspapers and magazines to make articles. They will contact you for the interviews.’
‘Interviews? I never said I’d do interviews.’ Peter glanced darkly at Terri.
‘It might be better to just do one,’ Terri suggested. The idea of Peter sounding off to half a dozen newspapers was alarming. ‘Do an exclusive for one of the bigger publications. Make it more important.’
Peter grunted ambiguously.
‘And this is a list of paintings I suggest we merchandise.’ Christophe handed Peter a sheet of paper. ‘Are you content with this?’
‘Merchandising.’ Peter glanced over the list with distaste. ‘It’s a tawdry thing to do with a work of art.’
Christophe frowned, clearly unsure on the vocabulary but picking up the negative tone. ‘But it was agreed in the contract, was it not?’ he said defensively.
‘Yes, yes, I know.’ Peter gave a resigned sigh. ‘You have to make money. I understand.’
‘Indeed. And we need to make the decisions quickly. Time is hurrying. Do you agree with my choices?’ He pointed impatiently at the paper in Peter’s hand.
Peter thrust the list at Terri. ‘Depends what you’re going to reproduce them on. I don’t want any of those desperately awful tea towels or umbrellas or...what did I see once?...toilet roll holders. Nothing like that.’ He turned abruptly to Terri. ‘What do you think?’
‘I’m not sure about the Earl,’ she said, studying the list. ‘In any case I think I might have difficulty getting permissions for it.’ She turned to Christophe. ‘I think the Durance landscape would be better. The light in that one is striking and it would add variety.’
‘It is an unknown work though,’ protested Christophe.
‘Exactly,’ said Terri. ‘And it has instant appeal. Not all the paintings need to be famous. If they’re popular at the exhibition, the goods will sell.’
‘Oh for God’s sake.’ Peter put his empty mug down and got to his feet with an exasperated grunt. ‘I’ve got work to do. You can argue it out between you.’ He looked directly at Terri. ‘I’ll let you decide. But make sure he doesn’t do anything embarrassing with my paintings. I’ll trust you to keep him honest.’
They watched him pad out, closing the door behind him. Christophe turned to look at Terri, eyebrows raised, and nodded knowingly.
‘You have made a conquest with this man,’ he said admiringly. ‘He lets you decide. I am amazed.’
‘Ssh,’ hissed Terri. ‘There’s nothing wrong with his hearing.’
But she was amazed at Peter’s behaviour herself. And obscurely uncomfortable with it.
*
We can’t go there again. It wouldn’t work. Why can’t we just be friends?
For the umpteenth time, Terri’s clear rebuff ran through Luc’s head. Friends. He supposed this at least was progress. A few weeks ago she would barely give him the time of day. He pulled his eyes away from the laptop screen and picked up the glass of wine sitting on the table nearby. He would have to watch this. Since he’d stopped smoking it was too tempting to subdue his cravings and tension by substituting with alcohol and he didn’t want to end up like Oliver. The man sounded like a complete pig. Just thinking about him made anger pulse through him again. And he remembered Terri, shaking, barely able to talk about it. Luc had never been a violent man but he thought someone like Oliver could change that.
He turned back to the screen, wrote another couple of sentences, then found himself thinking about Terri again. When they’d dated in London she’d been different: easier somehow and with more sparkle in her eyes, though it had always been difficult to get her to talk about anything personal. He had just been starting to know her when that article had come out and the whole relationship had come crashing down. Those dusky charcoal eyes of hers. Not exactly sparkling now but still they held fire and passion, a passion he guessed she found easier to give to her work than to another person.
But did her eyes resemble Madeleine’s? He hadn’t had a chance to look at the portrait since. The idea of a link was intriguing - how could that have come about? - but it was doubtful: Celia came out with all sorts of bizarre statements. Still, if it were true, there could be a good story behind it, a unique slant on an eccentric and infamous character. And what interesting titbits of information did Peter tell Terri when they were closeted together in her office – odd comments which seemed insignificant in the context of her work but might be truly revealing of the man?
He finished the last mouthful of wine and pushed the glass away. There was no doubt that Terri had been pleased to see him at the party. If he wanted to get close to her again, he needed to be patient. The attraction between them still lingered; he could feel it.
*
Terri parked the car and carefully unpacked the paintings from the back. It was the Friday and she had brought the damaged and dirty canvases to a restoration studio in Avignon which Christophe had recommended. It was the only one on his list which had promised to complete the work in the limited time available. The painting conservator, Stéphanie Lebrun, was a short, round ball of a woman with a glum expression and a sad offer of refreshment. Her workshop was at the back of an uneven stone courtyard, hidden away through an arch behind tall, wooden gates.
Stepping inside the low stone outbuilding, Terri was immediately reminded of her father. It was not so much the clutter of tools and equipment nor the procession of paintings in various stages of undress as the all-pervasive smell which conjured him up so vividly. No matter how often he opened the doors and the windows to ventilate the space, he never succeeded in removing the distinctive aroma of oils, spirits and adhesives which hung in the air. As a child Terri would feel her nostrils start to tingle as soon as she walked in; invariably she would sneeze. She did it in front of Madame Lebrun. Perhaps it was a Pavlovian reflex in the familiar surroundings; Peter’s oils and mediums never had that effect on her.
Stéphanie
assessed the paintings, complained plaintively that one of them, which had a small hole in the canvas, was in worse condition than she had expected, but said she saw no problem in completing the work in advance of the exhibition. Terri thanked her and took the road back to Le Chant, memories of her father continuing to parade through her mind. She remembered him playing Monopoly with her when she had measles – a special event because he never normally played games with her; she remembered watching him standing smoking a cigarette outside his studio, staring into space, wondering what he was thinking about; she remembered him shouting at her when he found her in his bedroom, searching through the cupboards. It was an indistinct memory, more emotion than detail, and had something to do with her mother. What had she been looking for? She could not now recall.
Turning off the Route Nationale to loop into the foothills of the Luberon, Terri’s thoughts moved reluctantly to her mother. It was so hard now to remember her, harder still to separate out the genuine memories from what she’d been told or heard from somewhere else, or even from her own imagination. Waking up slowly the previous morning, her thoughts had slipped seamlessly from a dream she barely remembered to a memory of being with her mother when she was a little girl. They had been on a day trip up to London and, somewhere in the centre of town, a group of boys had stopped them and asked the way somewhere. She remembered that the boys had funny accents and that her mother had replied using strange words. French? She had no idea. Schoolgirl French or the mother tongue of a French native? Perhaps neither and Terri had made the whole thing up.
Arriving back at Le Chant, she parked the car and wandered back up to the house. Angela was sitting on one of the chairs on the terrace, reading a magazine. She looked up at the sound of Terri’s footsteps.
‘Terri?’ She tossed the magazine on the table under the pergola, rose to her feet and crossed to meet the younger woman half way across the terrace. ‘I was hoping to see you.’ She lifted her sunglasses to push them up into her hair.