Silent Faces, Painted Ghosts

by Kathy Shuker

  ‘Terri dear. What an unexpected pleasure. Have a seat.’ She looked down at the half-eaten peach, appeared to consider whether it was too late to offer it to her new companion, then apologised for having finished all the food.

  ‘It’s OK, thanks.’ Terri perched on the other side of the food box. ‘I’ve had lunch.’

  ‘Oh good.’ Celia studied her a moment. ‘You’re off to Nice tomorrow I gather.’

  ‘Yes. It’ll be a relief to get the thing underway.’

  Celia nodded, put the peach back to her mouth and sucked off the remaining flesh. She dropped the stone in the box and glanced at Terri expectantly.

  ‘Celia, do you remember the bonne who used to work here, years ago. Her name was Basma.’

  ‘Basma,’ repeated Celia. ‘That’s an interesting question. The name seems a little familiar. Remind me why I should remember her?’

  ‘She was working here when Tom died.’

  Celia nodded slowly. Terri got the impression she had remembered all along. ‘Ah yes, that Basma. Small girl; pretty. Good with Tom.’

  ‘Yes. Do you know where she went when she left here?’

  Celia grinned, eyebrows raised. ‘That’s a very long time ago, Terri. I’m flattered you think I’d remember. What makes you think I’d even know?’

  ‘You seem to know everything else that’s gone on here.’

  ‘I’m afraid not. I wish I did.’

  Terri examined her companion’s face. It was the first time she’d heard Celia talk in an apparently earnest way – no sing-song flippancy or hedging answer. Or was this just a different game?

  ‘Is finding Basma important?’ Celia asked casually.

  ‘I think so. Do you have any idea where she went?’

  ‘You’ve found the last diary.’ Celia stated it as fact, her gaze fixed down the valley.

  ‘The last one? I don’t know what you mean.’

  Celia turned her head and rested accusing eyes on her companion.

  ‘Oh, come on girl. We both know there were three diaries in ‘Raphael’. But they don’t finish the story. There had to be another one. And unless you’ve read the last one you wouldn’t know that Basma was still here when Tom died. I’d be curious to know where you found it. I looked everywhere.’

  Terri refused to commit herself.

  ‘What do you remember of that day Celia, the day Tom died?’

  Celia pulled her gaze away and sighed. She pulled a face.

  ‘Not enough. If you knew in advance that something momentous and terrible would happen you’d make an effort to imprint it all in your mind, wouldn’t you, every detail. But of course you don’t know. And perhaps that’s just as well.’

  ‘But who was here, at Le Chant?’

  ‘Well, let me see... I’d gone to an exhibition in Avignon. Angela was out, gone shopping, I think – Aix probably; she was always shopping back then. Peter spoiled her foolishly. He was in the studio working. He didn’t need siestas then the way he does now. He used to get straight back to work after lunch.’

  ‘He was here?’

  ‘If you can call Peter ‘here’ when he’s working,’ said Celia drily. ‘You know what he’s like.’

  ‘And Sami?’

  ‘Sami?’ Celia frowned and turned to look at Terri again. ‘I don’t know where Sami was. Why? What did Josie say in her diary?’

  ‘I didn’t say I’d found another diary,’ said Terri coolly. ‘I just wondered. Do you have any idea how I could track Basma down? Did she stay in France?’

  ‘So it is important. Well, I’d have to think about it. Of course Sami might know.’ Celia looked at Terri meaningfully, eyebrows raised again. ‘But I’m guessing you don’t want to ask him.’

  ‘I don’t intend to talk to anyone else about it.’

  Celia nodded. ‘I know people who know people. I’ll ask a few questions...careful questions.’ She put a smug finger up to touch the side of her nose. ‘That’s how you find things out in this world, my dear. It beats the internet every time.’ She leaned her head back against the tree trunk and closed her eyes. ‘But first I’m going to have a doze. I’m knackered.’

  Terri got up and turned away. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a movement and looked round sharply. Sami was maybe ten metres away, idly raking at the rotten fallen cherries on the ground. He was moving away from her with his slow, silent tread, the collection of the old cherry stones an apparently haphazard affair. How had neither of them noticed him there? She determinedly walked past him, gave him a greeting to which he touched his cap, and moved on, wondering just how much he had heard.

  Chapter 21

  Peter checked the lie of his cravat in the bedroom mirror one more time, accepted that he wasn’t likely to improve it and moved away. He glanced at his watch. He’d looked at it some five minutes earlier but had barely registered the time. He crossed to the chest of drawers, picked up the copy of the catalogue Terri had given him and flicked through it once more. The thick, glossy paper felt satisfying to his touch; the effect was sophisticated and smart. The Opening View of his retrospective started in four and a half hours. It was his retrospective, maybe the ultimate glory of his career. He thought he should feel excited and proud; at this moment he just felt nervous and couldn’t settle. Terri had asked if he would prefer to spend the Thursday night in Nice so that he’d be fresh for the show but he’d thought he’d go mad, stuck in a hotel room with nothing to do except worry about how the exhibition would go, so he’d declined. It was only around two and a half hours to Nice, three if the traffic were really bad. Better by far to drive to get there with not much time to spare. Even so, nerves had made him get ready too early. He strode to the window and looked out to the garden.

  Peter’s bedroom looked sideways out over the kitchen garden and the garages towards the winding lane through the trees. Beyond was the further blue line of the Luberon hills. It was a pleasant aspect but one of the least impressive views from any of the rooms. It mattered little to Peter; he rarely spent time looking out of his window. Now his eyes vaguely scanned the ground outside while his mind returned again to the exhibition. The previous week had felt very long with Terri away in Nice, knowing that she was hanging his exhibition, not taking charge of it himself. Of course he could have insisted on being present but he’d recognised that it would be a mistake. Terri knew what she was doing. Even Christophe, he reluctantly accepted, probably did. Indeed, they would hang the exhibition better without his interference.

  He heard a wardrobe door close and his mind turned to Angela who was in her bedroom next door getting ready.

  ‘What time do we need to get there?’ she’d said. ‘Would you like me to drive?’

  ‘You’re coming?’ In his surprise he thought he’d sounded rather stupid.

  ‘Of course I’m coming,’ she’d responded indignantly. ‘This is a special event isn’t it? I’ve lived with this exhibition for God knows how many months, Peter. I’ve got to see it. Anyway, I want to.’ She’d smiled then and kissed him and he was pleased. They would never get back to the early days of their marriage – who ever did? – but he thought they had started moving in the right direction.

  Would the man with whom she’d had the affair come to the exhibition? Not to the opening preview surely? But though invitations had been sent out to the great and good in the art world, there was nothing exclusive about the event. It was not policed in that way. He wondered if she still ever saw him. Of course she had apologised – she’d sounded sincere - and the implication had been that the affair was over. He wanted to put it out of his mind but it had proved harder than he’d expected. When he saw her talking on her mobile he found himself trying to listen in; when she went out ‘with friends’ he was unable to stop himself from wondering if she would be seeing the man again; when she came home from a trip out he would look her over for any sign of intimacy with another. It was embarrassing and he felt foolish: a man of his age behaving in this way, but he had found that jealousy – or
perhaps the fear of betrayal – was no respecter of age. Indeed, if anything, he thought getting older simply made it worse; he felt more vulnerable now.

  Peter watched Sami walk into the kitchen garden with a spade and begin to turn over an area of ground, digging in the remains of some crop or other. He’d been behaving a little oddly this week, Sami. He seemed...preoccupied. Peter smiled to himself. That was a strange thing to think about Sami – he who never normally said ten words when five would do. But Peter thought he had seen so much of Sami over the years that he knew his mood, just by looking at him. He hoped the man was not sickening for something. Perhaps he should ask him. The idea came as a novelty and he let it roll around in his mind for a couple of minutes and decided that perhaps he would, when occasion allowed.

  Peter glanced at his watch again. It was nearly time to go. Lindsey had said she’d make her own way. He supposed she might go with Thierry. Terri had already left; she wanted to check on everything before it started. And Luc? He was unsure what Luc was doing though there had clearly been no rapprochement between them. Still, it really was none of his business. Luc could fend for himself; Terri too, he didn’t doubt.

  He turned away from the window, picked up his waistcoat from the back of the chair and went next door to Angela’s room, knocked on the door and walked in. She was sitting at her dressing table, brushing her hair, and turned to look at him as he entered.

  ‘Are you really wearing that?’ she asked.

  *

  Terri made another slow tour of the exhibition, exchanged remarks or information with anyone who approached her, watched people’s reactions and listened in to conversations, trying to gauge the success or otherwise of the event. The turnout was wonderful - the gallery was crammed – and a loud babble of conversation filled the air. There were numerous critics chatting, taking notes, cracking jokes, though what they would say in the days that followed would be quite another matter. She knew from experience that compliments and good-natured banter at a preview did not always translate into good reviews.

  She looked across the room to where her employer stood, talking loudly and flamboyantly to a freelance arts journalist, a woman in a tight dress and toe-squashing high heels. Peter was wearing red trousers, a grey silk shirt and a red cravat. His waistcoat was a swirling paisley in both red and grey. He leaned forward conspiratorially, said something then straightened up, added the punch-line, and appeared to laugh at his own joke. He was putting on the performance of his life and Terri found herself smiling. How she had come to like the man over these last few weeks and how unexpected that was. Peter was such a contradiction. In public he hid behind this act, behind the outrageous remarks and the equally attention-seeking clothes. He was infuriating and pompous; he was weak and sometimes cruel; but she had seen glimpses of his humanity and of a surprisingly big heart.

  But then she frowned, thinking of that last conversation with Celia in the orchard. Terri had been under the impression that Peter had been away from Le Chant when Tom died. Ever since, she’d been trying not to give the revelation any significance but still the information bothered her.

  A tall, dapper man came up to her and drew her attention away. Speaking English with a pronounced French accent, he complimented her on the exhibition and asked questions about her experience and her French language skills. He informed her that his name was Bernard Simon and he was the director of a large Parisian public gallery.

  Angela interrupted them. ‘Terri, dear, haven’t you been busy?’ She came alongside and put a proprietorial arm around her shoulder. In these last few days she’d been more like her old charming and affable self. Now she looked stunning in a pastel violet silk dress. She turned to the man and added, confidentially, ‘She’s worked so hard.’

  Terri introduced Monsieur Simon but he made his apologies and moved away and she watched him go regretfully, scenting a lost job opportunity.

  ‘So it’s your last weekend with us,’ Angela said, sipping her white wine. We’ll be sorry to see you go.’

  ‘It’ll be strange to go. I hope I haven’t caused too much trouble.’

  ‘Of course not, darling. I’m sorry if we’ve had some misunderstandings. Nothing too serious though, hm? Now I have to tell you: Peter and I thought we’d have a little leaving party for you tomorrow night – you know, to see you on your way.’

  ‘Really, that’s not...’

  ‘But we insist. It’ll be a buffet...casual, you know? Family and a few close friends. Of course we’ll be sure to invite Luc too.’

  Angela patted Terri on the arm as if she’d just awarded her a consolation prize and slid away, still smiling. Terri watched her go but her thoughts inevitably turned towards Luc. She’d watched for him from the start of the evening and he’d arrived late. Since then they’d both moved in different areas of the gallery. Despite wanting to ignore him, she found herself surveying the sea of bodies, trying to locate him, checking to see to whom he was speaking. She toyed with trying to talk to him. In three days’ time she would be on a plane and away from here for good, unlikely to see him again. She should ask him some questions, give him the chance to explain himself. Perhaps she should try to talk him out of writing the story? Or maybe, she thought, she was just desperate enough to want him to dupe her again? ‘You really are pathetic,’ she muttered to herself.

  Even so, she glanced around and caught sight of him at the near edge of the linking room and began to nudge her way through the crowd towards him. But a collector who’d loaned one of the works approached her, keen to say how much he’d enjoyed the exhibition and by the time the conversation had finished, Luc was out of sight. Terri continued on her way to the next room and saw him nearby, in deep conversation with an older woman, heavy with make-up and, to judge from the way she kept touching him, somebody he knew well. Terri backed off, was asked a question by someone to her right and turned to answer. Then Peter appeared at her side and put his large hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Excellent work, Terri,’ he said gruffly. ‘Excellent.’ He reached down to take her hand and bent to kiss it. A flash lit the air as two different people took photographs of them. Peter grinned at her. ‘Bloody press,’ he said, without rancour. ‘Good picture for the rags tomorrow though.’ He smiled. ‘So...’ He raised his eyebrows speculatively. ‘...we were thinking of having a little party tomorrow night – to see you off in style. What do you think? Could you cope with that?’

  ‘Of course. Thank you. Angela has already mentioned it to me actually.’

  ‘Has she, has she?’ Peter automatically glanced round to where his wife was chatting animatedly to a man nearby. He returned his eyes to Terri’s face. ‘Well, there you are then. I believe Angela’s going to invite Luc too. You don’t mind, do you? No...well that’s good.’

  Terri glanced across to where Luc was still talking to the made-up woman. On a second inspection, she thought the woman looked familiar.

  ‘Peter?’ She touched his arm as he began to walk away. ‘Do you know the woman Luc is talking to?’

  ‘Mm?’ Peter gazed across the room. ‘Oh, that’s Grace Meachin. He used to work with her at the paper.’ He dropped his voice a notch. ‘I hope she gives us a damn good review.’ He moved away.

  Terri stared across at Grace Meachin. The clearly intense nature of the conversation now made sense. Someone pushed into her line of vision and she turned away. The Parisian gallery director came back to speak to her. He asked her to email a résumé to him; he promised he’d send her details of a vacancy which would be coming up in the new year. She smiled and said all the right things as if someone else were speaking for her. He left and she wandered away aimlessly. She should have been excited but felt completely flat, devoid of emotion.

  ‘You must be Terri?’ said a voice behind her. Terri turned to find herself face to face with Grace Meachin.

  ‘Yes, I am.’ She studied the woman’s features dispassionately: the make-up seemed to overlay a pinched complexion; the smile looked strained.
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  ‘I’m Grace Meachin,’ the woman said and mentioned the newspaper as if she expected Terri to be impressed. ‘Luc used to work for me.’

  Terri nodded but said nothing. Grace cast an eye round the exhibition then fixed a shrewd gaze back on Terri.

  ‘It’s good,’ she said simply. ‘I’m impressed. When I heard he’d employed you to do this I laughed. Not because of you, of course.’ She put an overly familiar hand on Terri’s arm. ‘But because of him. He had such a reputation. I didn’t think you’d last a month. But here it is and it’s a great show.’ Grace nodded and puckered her lips up in an amused way. ‘You’ve tamed the beast, it seems. He was almost civil to me.’

  ‘He’s been a pleasure to work with,’ said Terri.

  ‘Really? You surprise me. And perhaps it’s you that’s had such an effect on Luc too? There was a time when he wouldn’t have dreamt of turning down the kind of opportunity I’ve been offering him. Now all he wants to do is paint...and presumably be poor.’ She scoffed. ‘I can’t imagine he’s going to be the next Peter Stedding. I mean...really...’

  ‘Actually he paints very well,’ said Terri. ‘But he turned you down, you say?’

  ‘Yes...twice now. I suppose he must mean it.’

  Terri smiled. ‘Well I don’t think that had anything to do with me.’ She bit back an insolent remark, reluctant to jeopardise Peter’s reviews.

  Grace stared at Terri for a moment with undisguised curiosity and a knowing smile.

  ‘But I got the distinct impression from the way he spoke about you that you were rather close.’

  ‘Did you? Well, Peter’s studio is quite an intimate working environment; inevitably you get to know your colleagues well. Anyway, I’m glad you enjoyed the exhibition. Please excuse me.’

  ‘Terri?’ Grace put her hand on Terri’s arm again.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you have a job to go to?’