Silent Faces, Painted Ghosts

by Kathy Shuker

  ‘Apple. Is that OK?’

  She nodded and stood at the edge of the kitchen and its L-shaped run of units, watching him pour it into two glasses. He handed her a glass and touched hers briefly with his own. ‘Santé.’ He took a sip, watching her. She looked uneasy – no, more than that, she bristled, as if she wanted to say something but was biting it back.

  ‘Something the matter?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’

  She turned, wandering away towards the back of the room where the walls were hung with his painted canvases, looking at each one in turn. ‘So will these all go in your exhibition?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘They should. They’re good. You’ll need a lot of work to make an impact.’

  Her voice was crisp, her manner all sharp edges. She walked back up the room and they sat on separate sofas either side of the battered wooden coffee table in front of the hearth. On the floor to one side of Luc’s sofa, a stack of books teetered dangerously with a bundle of newspapers hastily rammed between them and the wall.

  ‘Are you sure you’re OK?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, fine. You?’

  ‘Of course, yes. Why shouldn’t I be?’

  ‘No reason.’

  He stared at her, brows furrowed.

  ‘I suppose I will need a lot of work,’ he answered, belatedly. ‘The trouble is, I never think it’s good enough.’

  He cringed: now he sounded like he was fishing for compliments. But Terri was barely listening; there was clearly something bothering her. They exchanged small talk about his work, about the football club he belonged to, about her trip to the framer’s that day. She was still worried about the lost painting and the pictures awaiting restoration. Maybe that was why she was preoccupied.

  They moved to the table at the back of the room which he’d laid with place mats and Provençal print napkins and they dined by candlelight, augmented by the glow of a table lamp on an old cupboard against the back wall. Apart from a bland compliment from Terri on his cooking they barely spoke.

  Then suddenly Terri had abandoned the lamb, laid down her cutlery and was staring at him balefully.

  ‘Why are we doing this?’ she said. ‘You’re married. Were you planning to tell me? Or perhaps you didn’t think it was important?’

  Luc glanced up at her sharply but continued eating.

  ‘Where did you get that from?’ he said coolly.

  ‘That’s not the point is it?’

  Resignedly, Luc put down his cutlery and met her gaze.

  ‘On the contrary. It is very much the point. Because I’m not married. So I’d like to know who told you I was.’

  ‘Lindsey.’ Doubt puckered her brow. ‘Was she lying? She said Thierry overheard you referring to your wife when you were talking to one of the other students in the studio.’

  Luc pulled a thin smile. ‘Maybe he did but overheard conversations aren’t always what they seem. I thought by now you trusted me. I really thought we’d got beyond this.’

  She was still frowning, staring at him as if trying to read inside his head. Maybe he was as opaque as she was. Maybe sometimes that was a good thing.

  ‘So it’s not true?’ she pressed.

  ‘Some of it is true.’ He took a mouthful of wine. ‘The student Thierry referred to – Marc – was upset. I’d seen him struggling in the class, obviously not concentrating. I knew Peter would come down on him hard it he didn’t snap out of it so when he went to make drinks in the kitchen I followed him in. Apparently he’d just found out his girlfriend had been cheating on him. I sympathised, said my wife had done the same thing.’ He raised his eyebrows at her stunned expression and almost smiled. ‘I’m not married now Terri. Thierry would have heard that too but I pushed the kitchen door closed. He shouldn’t have gone telling tales.’

  ‘So when were you married?’

  He fiddled with the stem of his wine glass. ‘I met someone about three months after you and I split up. Lisette her name was. She was Swiss, a journalist on a magazine. A few months later, we got married.’

  ‘Grief, Luc, that was quick.’

  ‘Yes, but I thought we were...’ He shrugged. ‘...right, I suppose. Maybe it was rebound.’ He flicked her a glance; her eyes wouldn’t meet his. ‘And I liked the idea of marriage.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Perhaps it was my good Catholic upbringing.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘From the moment we put the rings on, everything went wrong. We argued and fought...’ He paused, swilling the thimbleful of wine in his glass round and round. ‘I found her in bed with my best friend a few months later. She said it was all my fault, that I’d become obsessed with my work and was neglecting her.’

  ‘Your fault? But she could’ve talked to you about it, instead of jumping into bed with someone else.’

  ‘Yes, that’s more or less what I said, only not quite so politely.’

  ‘So you divorced her?’

  ‘Oui, bien sûr...despite the good Catholic upbringing. My mother understood. My father was less impressed. She was the daughter of a good friend of his, a Swiss diplomat. I suppose that should have warned me really.’

  ‘And that’s when you fell out?’

  ‘Well, it was certainly the last straw. And the beginning of my decision to make changes in my life. After some heart searching, I had to accept that she was at least partly right.’

  ‘Oh...’ Terri looked down, picked up her cutlery and prodded disinterestedly at her food again. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said eventually. ‘I spoke out of turn. Anyway, it’s none of my business.’

  ‘No, of course it’s your business. You had a right to know. I should’ve said. You took me by surprise, that’s all. The marriage was a stupid mistake and I don’t often talk about it.’

  They finished the meal in silence. Luc offered Terri more wine and, when she refused, tipped the last of it into his glass and leaned back in his chair, watching her thoughtfully.

  ‘So...why go back to London for your holiday?’ he said. ‘Why not stay here?’

  ‘If I stayed here it would be impossible not to think about work.’

  ‘And Oliver?’

  ‘I’ve heard nothing from him since he was here. I can’t avoid going back there forever. Anyway, weren’t you the one who said he wouldn’t bother me again?’

  He nodded slowly. ‘Are you sure there’s no other reason for the trip?’

  ‘No. Why should there be?’

  ‘I went up to see Celia earlier in the week.’

  ‘Oh? Why?’ Her tone was clipped, guarded.

  ‘I was curious. You said you thought she wasn’t as batty as she pretends. I thought I’d go and see for myself.’

  ‘I see. So what did she say?’

  ‘She said a lot of things, mostly complete nonsense, and she showed me her paintings, gave me a drink. Said she’d seen we were courting – her word – and she was so pleased.’ He paused, finished his wine and put the glass down. ‘I asked her about Madeleine and why she thought you might look like her. Apparently Madeleine had a daughter. She told you this too?’

  Terri met his gaze. ‘Yes.’

  ‘She said she ran away. And that she was pregnant.’

  ‘Ye-es. But Angela says she died.’

  ‘And how does she say she died, this daughter?’

  ‘Josephine. She killed herself...in the woods. She was nineteen.’

  Luc’s eyes narrowed. ‘But Celia says you’re her daughter. And you want to believe her?’

  ‘What I want is to know why you’re cross-examining me like this?’

  ‘I’ve been wondering why you never told me any of this. Why have you been so secretive?’

  ‘I’m not the only one who’s secretive, am I? How come you didn’t tell me you were divorced?’

  He shrugged. A frosty silence settled on them.

  ‘Do you have any reason to think Celia is right?’ said Luc eventually.

  She hesitated. ‘Angela said that Josephine’s body was never f
ound. Doesn’t that strike you as odd? And Peter virtually admitted that I might be related and told me all about Josephine.’

  ‘Really? Peter did? What prompted that?’

  ‘I asked him.’

  ‘You don’t actually know anything about your mother, do you? You lied to me.’

  ‘Lied? No. Not exactly.’

  ‘You said you knew about her. Enough, you said. And yet you’ve clearly convinced yourself that Josie was your mother.’

  ‘I’m just saying it’s possible.’

  ‘Are you sure you aren’t chasing shadows? You’re letting yourself be sucked into Celia’s strange world and it’s not healthy.’

  ‘It’s easy for you to say that when you grew up with a family,’ she said angrily. ‘Whatever problems you had with your father, you still don’t know what it’s like to be a child in a vacuum, surrounded by whispering and silences. I’d like some explanation; I’d like to know who my mother was and why she did it. She left me, don’t you see? She walked out and left me.’

  Terri stood up suddenly, pressing her lips together and blinking tears away. She picked up her wine glass – still half full - and marched through to the kitchen. Luc followed her.

  ‘So what are you going to do in London?’ he demanded.

  ‘I have some papers of my father’s in my flat.’ Terri left the glass by the sink and turned, chin raised. ‘I thought I’d look through them.’

  Luc reached into a wall cupboard and took out two brandy glasses, then picked up a bottle of cognac from the back of the unit. ‘Brandy?’ he offered, pulling the stopper out.

  ‘No, thank you. And I wish you wouldn’t either.’

  He fixed her with a look but she stared him out. He sighed and replaced the stopper. ‘So suppose you don’t find anything out in London,’ he said, putting the bottle back, ‘suppose all your investigations are inconclusive? What then?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean,’ he said, coming to stand in front of her, ‘will you let it go or will you go on trying to persuade yourself that Peter is your grandfather?’

  ‘I’m not trying to persuade myself of anything. I didn’t start this.’

  ‘No, Celia did. But the more you look and dwell, the greater your need seems to become. As if it will answer some question in your life, bigger than anything to do with your mother.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous. That’s all I want to know: was she Josephine?’

  Luc shook his head. ‘No. I don’t think so. It’s all about you. You think no-one loves you and you want to know why.’

  ‘You’ve got a nerve,’ she spat, and turned to walk away.

  But Luc threw out a hand, took hold of her arm and pulled her towards him, covering her mouth in a rough, hungry kiss. It was over in a moment and he released her. She immediately slapped him across the face.

  ‘Who the hell do you think you are?’ she said, eyes dancing with anger.

  Luc put a hand up to his burning cheek, breathing heavily with suppressed emotion.

  ‘I love you,’ he said simply. ‘I thought you knew.’ He pursed his lips up and gave a light, apologetic shrug then reached out a hand to her, palm up. ‘Terri...please.’

  She stared at his hand for what felt like an eternity before eventually putting her own in it. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I am really.’ She hesitated, staring into his face. ‘But I think I’m falling in love with you too. And its scares me.’

  ‘Don’t be scared,’ he said, pulling her close. ‘You can trust me.’

  *

  ‘I could come to London,’ murmured Luc into the back of Terri’s shoulder as she lay curled up in his bed the next morning, his body crooked around her. ‘I’m sure Peter would let me have another couple of days off. Just in case Oliver’s still around.’

  Terri quivered with the tickle of his breath on her skin. She smiled softly to herself, sure that she had never felt so contented. She ran her hand slowly along Luc’s forearm where it lay across her chest. He nuzzled at her neck and shifted his hand to cup the swell of her breast.

  ‘No,’ she said quietly.

  ‘No what?’

  ‘No, you can’t come to London.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I need to go alone. I have to prove it to myself. I can’t let him keep me running away forever. Anyway I want to look into who my mother was and you’ll try to stop me.’

  He rolled away from her onto his back, put his hands behind his head and looked up at the sloping uneven ceiling. She turned over and nestled into his side, putting her head on his shoulder and resting her hand on his chest.

  ‘Don’t be like that,’ she said. ‘It’s not that I wouldn’t like you there; I would. But you’d be a distraction.’

  He moved one hand to stroke the top of her head. ‘I suppose I’ll have to believe you.’

  ‘Yes, you will.’

  ‘I still don’t understand why you’re so sure Josie was your mother.’

  Terri hesitated, then leaned herself up on one elbow, looking down at him.

  ‘Josephine kept diaries,’ she said. ‘She started after her mother died and kept it up all through her teens. And I’ve been reading them.’

  ‘Diaries?’ Luc stared at her in amazement. ‘Where did you find them?’

  ‘In Madeleine’s old studio.’ She laughed at his puzzled expression. ‘It’s an attic room in the east wing, called ‘Raphael’’. It was her private space, her den. It’s a fascinating place.’

  ‘I didn’t even know it was there.’

  ‘You wouldn’t. The entrance is through the linen room and it’s kept locked. Peter has the key in his study and doesn’t let anyone go there.’

  ‘But he let you.’

  Terri focussed her attention on the hairs on Luc’s chest, curling a couple round and round with her finger. ‘He doesn’t know I’ve been there.’

  Luc pursed his lips up, and shook his head. ‘He’d be so mad if he knew.’

  Terri avoided meeting his gaze. It was something she refused to think about: what Peter’s reaction would be when he found out where she’d been and what she’d done.

  ‘Celia told me about the studio,’ she said, ‘and about the diaries. I thought she was daft but everything she said was true. It was there, just as she described, and so were the diaries.’

  ‘And what do these magical diaries say?’

  ‘Hey, don’t be so cynical. They’re amazing. They chart a girl growing up, painfully, grieving and confused, and how difficult her relationship was with her father. They’re harrowing, honestly.’

  Luc was serious now, staring at her. ‘So, have you got them?’

  ‘Yes. I borrowed them.’

  ‘Does Peter know about them?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’

  ‘Do they give any indication of what happened to her?’

  ‘No...not yet.’

  ‘You haven’t finished them? I still don’t see why you’re so sure she was your mother.’

  ‘Everything just seems to fit. She seems to fit, don’t you see?’ Terri spoke quickly, her voice rising with excitement. She wasn’t sure where this excitement had come from, only that she had to satisfy it somehow. ‘If I could just be sure that Josephine was pregnant when she left here...Anyway, I’m hoping that she’ll say so in the last diary. So far she’s made reference to feeling sick and that’s all. But she might even say who the father is and then...well...’ She sighed. ‘The problem is that I don’t have the last diary...yet.’

  ‘Why? Where is it?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Probably in the attic too but I haven’t been able to get back up there. It’s difficult. I can’t talk to Angela about it. She warned me off - she thinks I’m just a gold-digger, in league with Celia. And Peter...’ She shrugged. ‘So anyway I’m going to find out what I can in London and then look for it when I get back.’ She glanced at the clock then leaned forward and kissed him softly on the mouth before quickly rolling off the bed sideways.
/>
  ‘I have to go,’ she said, looking round for her clothes. ‘If I miss my flight I’ll never get another one today.’

  ‘I’ll ring...’ Luc promised, before she left. ‘...every day you’re away.’

  Terri walked back towards the mas with a light step, sure that everything was falling into place at last. In love with Luc...who would have thought it?

  It never once crossed her mind that it might have been wiser to keep the information about the diaries to herself.

  Chapter 18

  ‘Peter?’ Angela crossed the hallway to the sitting room. It was nearly noon on the Sunday and she’d not long been up. Making herself a mug of tea in the kitchen, she’d heard his rumbling cough. Now, mug in hand, she pushed the door back, walked in and saw him sitting on the farthest sofa, two piles of papers next to him on the seat. ‘Peter?’ she said again. ‘I thought I heard you.’

  He looked up, eyes blank, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. ‘Did you want me dear?’

  She moved closer.

  ‘Good play last night?’ Peter enquired vaguely.

  ‘Oh...yes, yes, quite good, thank you.’ Angela sat elegantly on the nearby sofa, took a mouthful of tea and put the mug down on the coffee table. ‘I thought this might be a good opportunity for us to talk – with Terri away.’

  ‘To talk?’ He frowned, replaced the sheet he’d been reading onto one of the piles on the seat and removed the glasses, letting them fall onto their cord. He produced a smile. ‘What about?’

  Angela hesitated. She’d rehearsed what she would say about Terri a million times, had been in no doubt that it had become necessary to say it, but now all the well-chosen words escaped her.

  ‘Your hair looks pretty like that,’ remarked Peter. ‘You’ve done something different to it.’

  ‘Yes...thank you. I...’ She let it go. She didn’t want to talk about her hair.

  ‘I’m just looking again at the catalogue Terri’s drafted for the exhibition.’ He tapped the papers in front of him. ‘It’s remarkably good. Perhaps you’d like to read it too?’

  ‘It won’t mean anything to me, Peter,’ Angela said briskly. ‘I don’t know anything about your work.’

  ‘Well, it’s not just about my work – it’s also a mini biography. You are mentioned of course. Terri’s written it very well actually.’ He became more introspective. ‘Though perhaps she’s made more sense of what I’ve done than I deserve.’