by Kathy Shuker
‘No, she’s already gone to a friend’s house for a charity do of some kind. Won’t be back for ages. And I’m going to a concert. Father’s coming.’
‘Oh? Well, have a good time.’
‘You could come too.’
‘Me? Thanks, but no, I don’t think so. You don’t see much of each other as it is.’
Lindsey grinned. ‘You think we should do that father-daughter bonding thing, do you?’
‘Something like that.’
‘By the way, you can tell Luc that the piano’s fine now.’
‘Why, what was the matter with it?’
‘A couple of the keys were sticking. Luc took a look at it while you were away. I haven’t seen him since to thank him.’
‘Fine. I’ll tell him. He’s away till tomorrow.’ Terri got to her feet, flicking water off each foot in turn.
‘Sami might know,’ said Lindsey, tilting her head back to look up at her.
‘Know what?’
‘About Josephine. I was just thinking: he’s been here, like, forever. He might know something...if she ran away, I mean. But maybe mother’s right after all...’ Lindsey pulled her feet out of the water and stood up, facing Terri. ‘I mean, after she killed her brother she probably went into meltdown or something, you know, couldn’t face what she’d done.’
‘Whoa. Wait a minute. Who told you she killed her brother?’
‘Mama did.’
‘That’s not true. She didn’t tell me that. No-one’s said that.’
‘I thought you knew. Apparently she’d always been jealous of Tom because he was the centre of everyone’s attention. She’d had tantrums about it off and on for years. When everyone got back to the house on the day he drowned, Josie was in the pool with him. She was raving. The police were called. The next thing, she’d disappeared.’
Terri stared at Lindsey blankly. She felt as though her mind would explode; she couldn’t take it in.
‘It’s not true,’ she said dumbly. ‘She said that because she knew you’d tell me.’
Lindsey slowly shook her head.
‘No Terri. I’m sorry, but it’s true. I don’t think mama thinks it should be talked about – because of father, you know? But I told Thierry about it and apparently his grandmother remembered it happening. It caused a huge stir in the village at the time – with the police involved and everything. Everyone knew it was the daughter who’d done it.’ Lindsey put her hand on Terri’s arm. ‘I’m sorry. I thought you knew,’ she repeated. ‘But it doesn’t affect you, does it?’
*
It doesn’t affect you. No, it doesn’t affect me, thought Terri. Why should it? And yet it wasn’t that simple. As the weeks had gone by, she had convinced herself that Josie was her mother; it was what she had wanted to believe. And after all those nights reading the girl’s diaries, she thought she knew her. It had been a help to feel some empathy with the girl, to understand why she was the way she was, even perhaps why she had become the mother she was. But murder...? That was a step too far and Terri couldn’t go there. And it didn’t fit surely? Or maybe she just didn’t want to accept it. At the back of her mind was a creeping fear she refused to acknowledge, that her mother was a murderer, and that she had inevitably inherited the stain: they shared the same blood. Whatever the truth was, she told herself, she should forget about it, put it away from her, walk away. It didn’t need to concern her.
But she couldn’t. The issues circled and drummed repeatedly through her head, and the temptation to resolve the matter one way or the other was overwhelming. Now she knew that the house was going to be empty all evening, there was a fleeting chance - probably her last - of finding Josie’s final diary. So half an hour after she was sure Lindsey and Peter had left the house, clutching the stolen key from Peter’s desk, Terri let herself into the attic room once again.
The low evening sun filled the room with a soft, rosy light; it was stuffy and hot. It was all so familiar and yet she didn’t know where to start. But if the last diary was here it couldn’t be far away; perhaps she’d already looked straight at it without realising. She crossed to the work station, pulled open the drawer in which she’d found the first three and searched it again. No, it wasn’t there.
She worked her way through all the other drawers with no success, straightened up and surveyed the room. Perhaps it was on one of the bookshelves after all. She ran her eyes over the spines, systematically, top to bottom. A couple of the books were proud of the others - she automatically pushed them back – but there was no diary. The sunlight was now sickly and spent and she flicked the top light on making the dirty bulb shed an insipid light over the room. She tried the record cabinet without success. This was foolish; Josie must have taken it with her. Closing the cupboard door, she noticed the dust on the top of the cabinet had been disturbed.
The books had been shifted and the record cabinet had been handled. Someone else had been in the attic since her last visit. Suppose whoever it was had already found the diary and taken it away? But, for no rational reason, Terri didn’t believe it; she felt sure the book was still there. She stood in the middle of the room, eyes wandering over every surface. At length her gaze fell on the writing box on the long low cupboard by the sofa and her pulse quickened. ‘A writing box,’ she murmured to herself, already moving towards it. ‘Isn’t that where people put precious things?’
The box was beautifully crafted, veneered with figured walnut and inlaid in geometric patterns with satinwood. The corners and lock were finished with brass. In each end a brass handle lay, at rest, flush into the wood. And the key was in the lock. Terri turned it and lifted down the lid to reveal a worn green leather writing surface with, at the back, a narrow box section containing two brass-topped inkwells and a ridged pen holder. An old fountain pen lay in one of the grooves. She pulled on a tiny leather flap which lifted the writing slope to reveal a shallow compartment containing fine writing paper, yellowed with age. There was no diary.
And yet the depth of the box was clearly much greater than that of the compartment, so somewhere there had to be another, hidden, section. She lifted out the inkwells and the pen holder and began pushing and pulling everything at random until something suddenly clicked and a drawer, the full length of the box, slid out. Inside it lay a soft exercise book with 1976 scribbled on the cover. Terri’s breath caught in her chest; she could hardly believe it. Gingerly she lifted it out and opened the first page. The handwriting was unquestionably Josephine’s.
Without stopping to examine it further, she put the box back together, locked the room up and ran down the stairs to put the diary in her room. Then she slipped out into the night and down through the shadowy garden to take the keys back to the studio. She was just in time. Returning up the stone steps and on into the olive grove, she heard the unmistakeable sound of a car returning up the lane from the road, the grind of tyre on gravel carrying loudly in the still night air as it came to a halt in the car park.
*
Angela stepped out of the door into the sunshine and, holding a mug of tea, picked her way carefully across the terrace to where Peter sat by the pergola, a pot of coffee on the table, a Sunday newspaper in his hand. He looked up as she drew near and looked at her over the top of his glasses.
‘Angela...my dear. I didn’t realise you were up.’
‘I couldn’t sleep.’ Angela eased herself into one of the chairs nearby. ‘It was a sticky night, didn’t you think?’
‘Hm? Well, yes, perhaps it was. I fell asleep reading a book. Don’t know what time that was.’ Peter picked up the cup at his elbow and drained the last of the coffee from it. He immediately lifted the coffee pot from the table and poured himself another. He glanced across at Angela, hesitated a moment, then immersed himself in the newspaper again.
‘Peter?’
‘Hm?’
‘I’ve been thinking about what you said.’
Peter rested the newspaper down and looked at her enquiringly.
‘
You know: about...well...cheating.’ Angela glanced around the terrace as if someone might be listening. ‘Look, I’m sorry Peter. I mean it: really sorry. Of course, you’re right. I have been seeing another man. It was wrong of me. But I never meant to hurt you. I...well, I didn’t think you’d ever know. It wasn’t serious and I thought it would all blow over with no harm done. I was...actually I’m not sure why I did it. I think I was frightened of growing old. I wanted to prove that I still had it...you know...one last fling?’ She self-consciously stroked her hand down the soft jersey cotton of her dress where it stretched over her thighs. ‘I am sorry,’ she repeated.
Peter nodded slowly. ‘You look as beautiful as you ever did,’ he said. ‘Quite beautiful.’ He forced a grim smile. ‘It’s me that’s getting old.’
‘Nonsense darling, you’re mature,’ said Angela melodically, ‘like a good wine.’
Peter smiled more broadly. ‘Thank you for that, my dear.’ He examined her face for a moment. ‘We’ve both made mistakes, haven’t we?’
Angela reached across and rested her hand on his knee. He put his own over the top and squeezed it as their eyes met. At that moment, Terri emerged from the house, her bag slung over her shoulder. Angela quickly withdrew her hand.
‘Ah, Terri, good morning,’ said Peter. ‘Have a coffee?’
‘Morning Peter, Angela. Sorry to disturb you.’ Terri stopped nearby. ‘No, I’m fine, thank you. I’ve just had some tea.’
‘As you wish, though they’re hardly the same drink.’ Peter watched her over his glasses. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes...fine. I overslept. I’m feeling...odd.’ She glanced at Angela who was staring at her. ‘I thought I’d go for a walk, work it off, you know.’
He grunted. ‘Well, don’t go too far and get lost. It’s too late to break anyone else in now before the exhibition.’
Terri offered a pinched smile and walked away. Angela watched her go and sipped her tea.
‘Going to see Luc again, no doubt,’ she said.
‘He’s away.’
‘Oh? That’s odd. I saw her coming back into the house late yesterday evening.’
‘So? Does that have some significance?’ Peter said impatiently.
‘No, I suppose not.’
‘She doesn’t look quite herself though, does she?’
‘Doesn’t she?’ Angela looked towards Terri’s receding figure again, frowning, then turned back to Peter. ‘So tell me about the concert,’ she said, picking up her tea and smiling.
*
Terri walked briskly, paying little heed to where she went. She wanted to get away from the house and to breathe fresh air. The night before she had stayed up late, reading the diary, unable to settle until she’d finished it. Even then, she couldn’t sleep. Josie’s last entries had been completely unexpected. She’d assumed the diary would give her some closure but she’d been wrong and when she’d finally drifted off to sleep it had been a fitful rest, disturbed by vivid dreams. Now it was a relief to be up again and outside and she pushed herself to climb up through the woods, happy to sweat her confused thoughts out of her system.
When she finally stopped she was high up, in a clearing, with the whole valley stretched out below her. It looked like paradise from up here. Turning to the right she could see the house, its grounds and the swimming pool, the water glinting now in the sunshine. All so innocent – a world away from the tortured story she had read the night before. She turned away and sat down on a huge stone nearby, pulled a small bottle of water out of her bag and took a long drink.
She sat for ages, odd sentences from the diary going through her head. A bank of cloud began forming in the west and a brisk breeze tugged at her hair. She didn’t notice. The book was in her bag and a couple of times she glanced down to where it lay on the ground beside her. It was a can of worms she wished she’d never opened. She sank into a weary reverie and lost track of time, Josephine walking through her half-sleeping dreams. Then the wind rose in earnest and she was roused by its anguished howl through the trees. She started back down the hill, changed her mind and detoured left, making for the bergerie. Luc would not be home yet but he never locked the door, had said he didn’t see the point. There would be something to eat in his cottage and she could wait for him there. She dearly wanted to tell him what she’d found out and talk it through.
The clearing was silent, the cottage still. Terri knocked briefly then let herself in. Inside it was cool and offered a pleasing respite from the wind outside. She walked into the tiny kitchen and smiled indulgently. Luc’s breakfast things from the Friday morning were still in the sink where he’d left them with a couple of flies circling over the top. He wasn’t as domesticated as he pretended. A quick search of the kitchen revealed half a sliced loaf and some Emmental cheese. She made herself a sandwich and a mug of tea and took them over to the sofa, killing time flicking through some well-thumbed art magazines.
Afterwards, cradling the mug of tea, she toured the room again, studying Luc’s paintings. A light flashed on the answering machine on the cupboard against the rear wall. Terri looked at it, ignored it and moved across to study the painting on the other side of the dining table. But she glanced back at the machine then wandered back to face it. Luc said that, as a ‘last base back-up’, he often told people to leave a message on his landline if it was important because the mobile signal in the area was so patchy. Terri reached out a finger, let it hover over the button a moment, then pressed it. There were two new messages.
A deep male voice spoke in French, exhorting Luc to get in touch to arrange a meeting about his paintings. The next message was from his friend Eric about a game of football. The third message had already been played and was from a woman, recorded on the Thursday, speaking in English:
‘Bonjour Luc.’ The woman laughed. ‘It’s Grace here. I’ve left two messages and a text already on your mobile but you haven’t replied so I wondered if you were so buried in the sticks that your phone doesn’t work. Or maybe you can’t afford it any more? Are you really leading the life of a hermit down there?’ Another laugh. ‘Look, you remember our discussion about a story on your Peter Stedding? I’ve discussed it higher up and there’s real interest. The timing of it would be so good now with his retrospective coming up and you’ve put yourself in a great position for the inside track. I’ve emailed some thoughts I’ve had about the piece. Whatever, you need to get back to me soon. Timing is everything as you should know. I’ll be available to take a meeting this weekend if you could get your cute little arse over here to London. Call me.’
‘Wha-at?’ said Terri, incredulous.
She pressed play again and listened to it a second time, then stood staring at the machine. She backed away and turned, took a deep breath and blew it out slowly, thinking rapidly. This Grace was Grace Meachin, section editor of the newspaper Luc had been working for when he’d done his most famous exposés.
Luc’s laptop was on the table and Terri quickly dumped the mug and booted it up. She already knew his password from searching the internet with him a couple of times. A few minutes later she found the email from Grace. It had been read but there had been no reply. Terri urgently searched through Luc’s documents. He wrote at the computer so if there was a story brewing, it would surely be here. She scanned quickly down the list and a document entitled Painting in the Shadows caught her eye. She opened it, willing it to be nothing, a personal reflection on his own artistic career maybe.
She was fooling herself. It was a comprehensive series of notes on Peter’s life and, though much of it was commonplace, some of it had come directly from Terri, including the disappearance of Josephine and the speculation about her fate. He had even noted down, virtually verbatim, accounts she’d told him from Josie’s diaries. He had a stunning memory, she’d give him that. Or maybe he’d been secretly taking notes all along. She felt punched, winded.
Everything started to fall into place: his constant questions; the way he’d gone to see Celia;
the disturbance in the attic; even the searching of her own room – after all, he’d been at the house ‘fixing the piano’ while she was away so that must have been him too. All he’d ever wanted from her was information for his article. There had been no romance: he’d just casually used her...again.
Terri meticulously closed the computer down and replaced it where it had been. A chill calm settled on her. She glanced at her watch, took her mug back to the kitchen and made herself more tea. She sat again on the sofa, glancing through the magazines. The wind continued to wail outside; rain began to patter against the window. It was after six when she heard Luc’s car drive up the track into the clearing and stop. She heard the car door slam and then the front door open as he rushed in out of the rain.
‘Terri,’ he exclaimed. ‘What a great surprise. I didn’t expect you to be here.’
‘No, I’m sure you didn’t,’ she said evenly, getting up.
She ignored him and walked across to the kitchen where she rinsed out her mug and set it aside. He came up behind her, putting his arms around her but she pushed him roughly away and turned.
‘Hey, what’s the matter?’ he said.
‘Where have you been Luc?’
‘What?’ He frowned and gave a short laugh. ‘Is this some sort of joke? You know where I’ve been: to Paris to see my mother.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure. What’s this about?’
‘It’s about not telling me any more lies, that’s what it’s about. You see, I know.’
‘You know what?’ His eyes narrowed.
‘Don’t pretend any more Luc. You’re good at cover stories aren’t you? All those questions you ask – and so innocent, everyone’s friend.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘And me,’ she went on, her voice rising. ‘I wasn’t much of a challenge, was I? I come across as all tough but you knew perfectly well that it was all an act. I was just ripe for someone’s shoulder to cry on, wasn’t I? And I suppose I’ve no-one to blame but myself: I knew what you were like right from the beginning and still I fell for it. So well done you. Congratulations.’