by Kathy Shuker
He lowered himself into one of the sofas and Terri sat on the one close by.
‘Santé.’ He raised his glass and leaned back, regarding her levelly. ‘So I’m guessing there’s a problem?’
‘Yes. I’m afraid the ‘Woman with the Braided Hair’ is lost in transit. Or, as the carrier preferred to describe it: temporarily misplaced. He promised me they would find it but it’s sure to be late arriving. It might make things tight.’
He grunted.
‘And there’s something else; the Mandini portrait. Her daughter owns it now and she’s changed her mind about lending it to the retrospective. She’s adamant it’s not safe; there’ve been too many burglaries lately. Even if the ‘Braided Hair’ turns up in time, it leaves us one down.’
Peter nodded, lips pursed up thoughtfully. ‘That’s disappointing. Have you thought of a replacement?’
‘I have a few suggestions though nothing quite so commanding. Obviously it needs to be something easily accessible at short notice.’
Terri sipped her wine and found her eyes drawn, as they always were when she sat there, up to the portrait of Madeleine. This singular portrait would have been perfect for the retrospective, but the last time they’d talked about his first wife it had ended in a row.
Peter followed her gaze and studied the painting for a few moments as if seeing it for the first time. ‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘I know what you’re thinking but I can’t exhibit this.’
She eyed him warily: now he was reading her mind. But he looked surprisingly calm and she was prepared to argue the point.
‘It would be ideal though,’ she said slowly. ‘It’s a wonderful painting. Would you consider putting it up if we didn’t name the sitter?’
She expected him to rage and bluster, but he was silent.
‘It would provoke questions,’ he said eventually, ‘and Angela wouldn’t like it. She...’ He paused, weighing his words. ‘...She has felt engulfed for too long by Madeleine’s shadow; it would be insensitive.’
Terri nodded but didn’t reply, surprised by his reflective tone.
‘You’re a smart girl, Terri.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘I’ve been wondering what you made of Celia’s claims that you look like Madeleine?’
‘What am I supposed to make of them? I gather she’s done the same thing before.’
‘Yes, yes, she has.’
He swept his gaze back up to the picture. She formed the impression he wanted to say something else, but nothing came.
‘Celia said you had a daughter by Madeleine.’ It was out of her mouth without her having consciously decided to say it. ‘Her name was Josephine and she ran away. Celia said she was pregnant when she left.’ Peter was already shaking his head. ‘She says my age and birthday fit, that Josephine could have been my mother. I’ve thought it all through, over and over, and it is possible she’s right.’
‘Is that so?’ Peter examined her face. ‘Well as you’ve found, Celia says a lot of things. Mostly nonsense.’
‘But you were the one who brought the subject up,’ said Terri crossly. ‘Why did you do that? And why did you ask all those questions about my mother? Tell me. Is it true? Any of it? All of it?’
He finished the last of his wine, glanced at Terri’s untouched glass and refilled his own. He sat back, hugging it. For a while she thought he wasn’t going to reply. When he did, he spoke quietly, as if he was scared of waking some long-sleeping ghosts.
‘All right, I will tell you. Madeleine and I did have a daughter and yes, she was called Josephine.’ He paused. ‘In some ways, Josie was a wonderful girl: bright, quick. She had her mother’s passion and spirit. But she also had my stubbornness and pride.’ He smiled ruefully, glancing up. ‘Yes, I know she had that from me. And she had a temper – which she must have got from me too; she certainly didn’t get it from her mother. When her mother was alive she was a delightful child. It was a joy to see them together. Even so she could be...difficult.’ He shook his head and sighed. ‘After Madeleine died she began to steal things, she sulked, she lied. It was a nightmare. I didn’t know what to do with her.’
‘What did you try to do with her?’ said Terri accusingly. ‘She was upset.’
‘Of course,’ he answered crossly, ‘but what was I supposed to do? No, well, maybe I should have tried harder. But I was lost too. By the time I realised there was a problem it was too late to change anything. She hated me. She didn’t want to know.’ His eyes glazed. ‘She threw things at me, you know. My own daughter.’
‘She just wanted you to notice her.’
‘But I did notice her.’
‘You sent her away to school. That’s not noticing.’
Peter nodded slowly, staring into his wine. ‘I see Celia told you everything. Yes, I did arrange for her to go to school...in England. I thought the change might do her good. And I didn’t know what else to do with her. Celia came over to help out when Madeleine was ill after her last miscarriage. She was supposed to keep an eye on Josie too.’ He glanced up at Terri’s face. ‘She might talk fine words about her niece now,’ he added bitterly, ‘but she didn’t show too much interest in her when she was little. Too busy painting her foolish pictures.’ He was silent for a moment. ‘Boarding school just made Josie worse. I knew she didn’t like it but I thought she’d get used to it after a bit...make friends. And she did in the end.’ He nodded. ‘We had a few good times together...later. Yes, she did settle down. Or at least I thought she had.’ He looked up suddenly, studying Terri’s face again. ‘Don’t you remember your mother at all?’
She shook her head.
‘And your father never said anything about her? He must have.’
‘No, very little. He didn’t want to talk about her. I don’t think they got on.’
Peter grunted.
Terri stood up suddenly. ‘I’ve got photos though. I can show you.’
When she returned, she already had the two photographs out of the plastic wallet, feeling a strange greedy excitement building inside her.
‘Did she look like this?’ She thrust them at him.
Peter stared at each of the pictures in turn and handed them back, shaking his head.
‘I’m not sure. That could be anyone.’ He cleared his throat. ‘How did she die then, your mother?’
Terri frowned but said nothing, a choking disappointment settling on her like a shroud. She slowly replaced the photographs in the wallet. ‘She killed herself,’ she said dully, looking up. ‘She threw herself off a bridge into the Thames.’
Peter’s expression froze. He said nothing, staring at her bleakly.
‘You do think Josie was my mother. You do, don’t you?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said angrily, spots of colour quickly rising to his cheeks. ‘How should I know?’ He downed a gulp of wine. His hand was shaking.
‘Was she pregnant?’
‘I don’t know. She wouldn’t tell me a thing like that.’
‘So why did she leave?’ The volume of Terri’s voice had risen several notches. ‘Celia said you had a row with her. If you didn’t row about her pregnancy, what did you row about?’
‘We were always rowing.’
‘Yes, but what made her leave and never come back?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’ He was shouting now. ‘For God’s sake, woman, why can’t you leave it alone? What do you think you’re doing, coming and meddling and stirring it all up? Haven’t I been through enough, damn it all? Stop it. Stop it. God Almighty.’
He downed the rest of his wine in one long gulp and as he did so Terri slowly got to her feet and moved to stand in front of him.
‘I don’t know what happened,’ she said tersely. ‘And I don’t know if I have any claim to know. But Josephine was your daughter. Didn’t you love her? Don’t you ache to know what happened to her?’ She hesitated. ‘Or do you know something you’re not prepared to tell me?’
She turned and walked quietly out
of the room.
Chapter 17
Terri sat at the computer in her office, working through the final pages of the draft catalogue. Peter had finally agreed to her request for a fan and it stood at the end of the table, whirring incessantly, spinning side to side. Even so, her blouse stuck to her back and her scalp prickled with heat. She ran a hand through her hair, trying to release it and get the air to her skin. The rain of that Saturday night had been short-lived and the days had resumed their hot, dry routine. There had been only one brief, sharp shower since and it felt as if the heat was building, day on day. Outside, the clicking song of the cigales was loud and insistent. It sounded like a bomb waiting to go off.
It was now more than a week since that emotional meeting with Peter but the conversation still played across her mind, overshadowing even the confrontation with Oliver in her thoughts. Neither of them had mentioned it since - it was as if it had never happened – and they had resumed their habitual sparring relationship. In some ways, Peter was his usual self: charming, rude, impatient, sarcastic, genial. But though his mind seemed sharp enough, he had a vague air and a distant look. Terri was sure he was hiding something but was equally certain he wouldn’t tell her. She was waiting for an opportunity to go back and search ‘Raphael’ but none presented itself. The old mas, basking like a lizard in the languid heat, never seemed to be empty for long enough.
She stretched her arms to free her sticky blouse and scrolled down to the next page. She had a few days off the following week but the catalogue had to be finished and sent on to Christophe before she went. It was going to be produced both in English and French and he had offered to get it translated before sending it to the printers. She read to the end, changed one word on the last page, and set the document to print. Her door was open to the studio in a vain effort to keep the air moving and she could see Luc working at the other end of the barn. He was painting today, working from sketches and a quickly executed watercolour.
She sat and watched him. On the previous Saturday he had asked her to visit Arles with him for the day. They’d explored the shops, the vibrant market and the huge Roman amphitheatre; they’d lunched in the square opposite the café terrace famously painted by Van Gogh. It had been a good day. He hadn’t mentioned Oliver and neither had she. Luc was observant, witty, at times extremely thoughtful; physically, she couldn’t deny the attraction. When he’d brought her back to Le Chant he’d dropped her in the car park with a quick peck on the cheek and a vague promise of another outing. She knew she was falling under his spell again but was trying to hold back. Did she still think he had a hidden agenda or was it the memory of Oliver’s abuse which still haunted her? Or maybe her feelings were false anyway, clouded by emotion and gratitude for his support and help.
She pulled her eyes away and turned back to her computer.
A few minutes later she heard the main door close and then voices. Peter had returned and was talking to Luc at the end of the studio. He’d been to a hotel in town where he’d given an interview to a journalist from one of the French national papers. ‘Neutral territory,’ he’d remarked to Terri that morning. ‘Stops them from snooping.’
The printer churned out the last sheet of the catalogue and Terri got up to clip it all together. Peter appeared in the doorway.
‘How did it go?’ she asked him.
‘Fine. Asked some damn fool questions but that’s to be expected. What she’ll write is anyone’s guess.’
‘When is it going in?’
‘No idea.’
‘You should have let me come too.’
‘I don’t need babysitting.’
‘No, but then I’d have known what was going on.’
‘Well...yes.’
Terri crossed to the door and held out the manuscript. ‘The catalogue’s finished. I need you to read it ASAP and tell me if it’s OK. If you let me know tomorrow I can send it to Christophe before I go away.’
Peter took the papers, looking at them suspiciously.
‘It’s all right,’ said Terri, with a wry smile. ‘I’ve been polite.’
‘I should bloody well hope so,’ he grunted. ‘I pay you.’ Then he surprised her with an exaggerated wink as he turned and left.
*
Peter poured himself a large glass of whisky, took a sip and placed it on the table by his leather armchair. He picked up the manuscript, settled himself down and pushed the reading glasses up his nose. On the table he’d put a pen, ready to score through the parts he would reject, and began to read.
The first part of the catalogue was a resume of his life and work. Terri charted his early interest in art and his studies both in England and Italy. The ‘commune’ he’d briefly set up with his friends near Avignon sounded exciting the way she’d described it and made him smile. She touched briefly on his romance with Madeleine and used it to explain his decision to settle in Provence.
All right so far.
She wrote briefly of his personal losses – with no mention of Josephine - and of the renewed happiness he had found with Angela which had enabled him to move forward. She made an intelligent study of his artistic development through the years, giving examples, and stressed how open he was to the work of others, unafraid to learn from them. She finished by noting how much he still challenged himself as shown in his work over the last few years and that many recent paintings still had the power to move or to provoke reflection.
He frowned. It felt as if he were reading a history of someone else’s life: it was rounded; it made sense. Terri seemed to understand his passion, his perfectionism, the constant drive to improve his work. He pulled off his glasses and rubbed at his eyes. God, he was tired. He took another mouthful of whisky and swung his glasses side to side, looking out of the window. But his life hadn’t really been like that. Terri had made it sound so simple, so linear. Of course, that was her job and she was good at it. The piece read well - it was sensitive and informed - but it was a half-truth at best.
He perched the glasses back on his nose. The rest of the catalogue was a detailed history and description of the works on show. The final publication would contain colour reproductions of the paintings but the draft had more of Terri’s quick line drawings to illustrate each one, presumably to avoid confusion at the printer. He found himself smiling again. Some of the drawings were quite comical but they were descriptive and accurate. She claimed to have no artistic ability but clearly that was untrue.
So who was Terri? The question persistently nagged at him. She bothered him and she challenged him yet it was impossible not to like her. At times he felt immensely drawn to her. Was that because of a family bond? After studying her endlessly he thought he could now see the likeness to Madeleine around the eyes. Could that be? He tried to see Josephine in her too but found he could not now remember his daughter’s features very well and the realisation shocked him. Certainly the photograph Terri had shown him had meant nothing.
But he did remember a day many, many years ago, when Tom was crying - and with such an anguished cry - in the nursery. He remembered going in and finding Josie leaning over the cot. No, he couldn’t recall her features and yet he still remembered the quick way she’d looked round and her furtive, guilty behaviour. He tried to shake the image away but there were other memories too, awful things he had long since pushed way down, out of heart and mind. Why had Terri come into his life now? In any case, she was probably just another of Celia’s projects, wasn’t she? Or an interfering busybody.
He sipped his whisky then cradled the glass, glancing down at the spindly drawings and feeling an unfamiliar thickening of his throat. Or was she some kind of second chance: an opportunity to wipe the slate clean and make a fresh start? Surely it couldn’t be that simple? And of course it wasn’t. For what would she say if she found out the truth?
*
On the Friday, Luc invited Terri to dinner at his cottage. He’d offered it as a ‘farewell meal’ because she’d said she was going to spend her days off b
ack in London. He wondered why she was going back now though he thought he could guess. Even so, there was a lot about Terri which he still didn’t know. Every time he thought he was getting close to her, she seemed to dance away again. He’d been half-surprised that she’d even accepted the invitation.
His cottage was a rustic stone building in a clearing at the edge of the pine woods, its central door flanked on each side by a shuttered window, a skylight let into its pan-tiled roof. Luc had found he liked living there. It had none of the sophistication of his flat in London but it was comfortable enough and it gave him peace and solitude, a space in which to work. Now, in anticipation of Terri’s visit, he tried to make it look welcoming. He tidied up and made sure it was clean; he bought some flowers – he couldn’t remember what they were – and rammed them in a glazed earthenware jar; he bought a bottle of a local soft red wine and prepared stuffed tomatoes and herbed lamb with ratatouille.
He was in the process of checking the tomatoes in the oven when there was a brisk knock on the door and, when he pulled it open, Terri stood on the doorstep clutching a paper bag. She thrust it at him wordlessly.
‘You didn’t have to bring anything,’ he protested.
‘My grandmother’s rules. Never go to someone’s house without a gift.’ She shrugged. ‘Here. Take it. It’s not much.’
Luc took the bag and pulled out a box of chocolate covered coffee beans.
‘You remembered: my favourite. Thank you.’ He leaned forward, brushing his lips against her cheek.
She turned away, glancing round the cottage. He was aware of the acuteness of her curiosity, taking it all in, his home. The old shepherd’s hut had been extended and renovated long before he’d arrived. The ground floor was an open plan living space with a small kitchen to one side, two old sofas before a fireplace to the other and a dining area at the back. To the left of a door at the rear, a staircase rose against the side wall.
‘Kir,’ he offered. ‘Or juice?’
‘Juice please.’