by Kathy Shuker
‘Yes, yes, I could do that. Good idea. Apologise...try to say...mm. Yes. Yes, that would be the way to do it.’ He tried a smile. ‘Australia eh? Well, well, Australia. Who’d have thought it? But I’m glad. I can’t tell you how glad.’
‘I think you should rest now.’ She stood up and turned to go.
‘You haven’t heard my proposition.’
Terri turned back, surprised. She’d thought the proposition was something to do with her being ‘family’.
‘I was wondering what you’d think about writing a book about me.’ He raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Of course I realise I’m not Rembrandt or Reynolds so you’d be compromising yourself somewhat.’ He screwed up his face and sucked his teeth. ‘There have been a couple of books written about me – all absolute drivel, of course. You might make a better fist of it...considering. Edited highlights only of course. What do you think?’
She smiled. ‘It’d be a challenge.’
‘Yes, wouldn’t it? I thought that. For both of us. But I’m getting old. Now is the time, I think.’
‘We could probably work something out...if you don’t argue too much.’
Peter grunted and Terri walked to the door.
‘By the way, Terri?’
She stopped and looked round.
‘I daresay you’ve heard that Angela has gone. I’m going to make sure she’s set up. She’s Lindsey’s mother...you understand? But I haven’t told Lindsey what happened and I insist no-one else does either.’ He sat forward suddenly, his face white and pinched. ‘Oh my God, the portrait’s still there in the sitting room...’
‘No, it’s not. I’ve taken it down to the studio.’
He leaned back and took a long breath, exhaling slowly. ‘Lindsey may not be my biological daughter. I don’t know and I don’t care. She can live with her mother or she can stay here or live with Thierry. She can do whatever she likes. But as far as she is concerned, we have parted amicably because we’ve grown apart.’
‘I understand. I’ve said nothing.’
‘Good.’ He looked drained now. A spot of unnatural colour had formed on each cheek. He turned his head away and closed his eyes. A moment later she saw his breathing slow and he twitched a little in his sleep. His colour settled.
Terri slipped out and went downstairs. At some point she would have to admit to exploring Madeleine’s studio, to finding Josie’s diaries and to hiding the portrait of Tom, but now wasn’t the time. She wished he hadn’t been so quick to discharge himself from hospital.
*
In the kitchen, Terri found Celia, sitting at the table with a plate of party leftovers: quiche, tapenade and toast, chicken, saucisson sec and assorted salads.
‘Lindsey said Peter’s home,’ said Celia. ‘How is he?’
‘He’s sleeping now but he looks exhausted. I hope he’s going to be all right.’
‘Don’t worry. He’s done this before you know - got worked up and had a turn. Tough as old boots is Peter. A bit of rest; he’ll rally.’ Celia picked up a piece of the sausage and bit into it. ‘Angela’s gone, you know.’
‘Yes.’
‘And we have to pretend that it’s all a friendly arrangement for Lindsey’s benefit. Though since it happened rather suddenly I imagine our Lindsey will think that a little suspicious, don’t you?’
‘I’m sure Peter has made it sound plausible. Or maybe she’ll believe what she wants to believe.’
‘We all do.’ Celia finished the sausage. ‘Have you eaten dear?’
‘I’m having dinner with Luc later.’
‘Well, aren’t you the lucky one. Still, have one of these little tarts.’ Celia examined them. ‘They’re courgette and goat’s cheese, I think.’
Terri took one and sat down at the table.
‘It’ll do Lindsey good to have you around for a bit,’ said Celia. ‘Peter too. He pretends he doesn’t need anybody but of course he’s useless by himself.’
‘How did you know that I was going to stay on?’
‘I didn’t. Seemed likely though. Family needs to stick together at a time like this.’
‘I’m not family, Celia. I’ve found out. Josie wasn’t my mother. I’ve just told Peter.’
‘Really? Oh well never mind.’ Celia looked unmoved. ‘Family is as family does. Does this chicken wing smell funny to you?’
She held it out to Terri who sniffed at it, pulled a face and drew back, nodding.
‘Why did you think I was related in the first place?’ she asked.
Celia picked up a baby tomato and popped it in her mouth. She chewed for a minute and swallowed.
‘I tried to track Josephine down after she’d gone. I even went to London in hopes of finding her. The RA exhibition was on too so that was convenient. Anyway I couldn’t find her – any friends I could find were keeping mum. So I came home but I kept buying newspapers, French, British, just in case. I knew Josie wouldn’t have killed herself.’
‘But Angela said she left a suicide note.’
‘She simply left a note saying she couldn’t stand it here any longer. She didn’t say she was going to end it all. Angela told the story she wanted to believe. Anyway Josie was artistic so I paid attention to the art press. Then it occurred to me a few years ago that her child might work in the art world too, given the family it came from. One day I saw your photograph with an article about you and I was struck by the eyes.’
‘But Celia, I’m not...’
‘But you’ve got her eyes dear. And you were the right age.’
‘Co-incidence,’ said Terri flatly.
‘Yes. Isn’t that funny? Life is full of them though isn’t it? But then Peter had his accident and I thought it was a great opportunity.’
‘But how could you be sure I’d come? Or that Peter wouldn’t give the job to someone else?’
‘I couldn’t. But I asked around – I still know a few people in London – and I knew you were at the end of a contract. And as for Peter.’ Celia grinned. ‘I manipulated him a little bit. He wasn’t feeling too well, poor dear, and he’s no good with computers and printers at the best of times. I offered to do it for him but I only sent out a couple of adverts, you see. Then I went through the applications with him, told him I’d already set aside the ones who couldn’t start immediately. I didn’t push too hard – you know how stubborn he can be – but fortunately he remembered that exhibition you’d curated so he offered it to you. He insisted on dictating the letter. Then it was up to fate. If you were meant to come, you would.’ She picked up a gherkin and studied it dispassionately. ‘I’m a great believer in fate.’
‘Well, you were right about Josephine: she didn’t kill herself.’ Terri explained where she was.
Celia stopped eating and looked up.
‘Australia? Well, I never thought of that.’ She smiled. ‘Good for her.’ She picked up the last piece of sausage on her plate and waved it vaguely at Terri. ‘Still, I’m sorry you’re not exactly related. You’ll have to adopt us.’ She shrugged and bit into the meat. ‘If you think you could cope with us,’ she added, a couple of minutes later.
*
Terri wandered back to her room and slowly unpacked her case. She came across the Indian art book and ran a finger over the smooth, glossy surface of the dust jacket, then sat down and slowly turned the pages once more. Hunting scenes and animals, deities, family gatherings, portraits - a huge range of vivid, colourful images. She remembered her father showing her the pictures when she was still too young to read the complex text, explaining the symbolism to her, dwelling on the portraits, describing how the best portrait painters always capture the character of their subjects. He’d done it with other books too. Was that how she’d first developed an interest in portraiture? Probably. She lingered over an eighteenth century portrait, the man’s finely drawn face in profile and keenly expressive. Her father’s passion for his work and for art in general had been the centre of his existence. Consciously or unconsciously, he had passed it on to her. Sh
e couldn’t deny it; it was in her blood.
How she missed him. There were so many things she’d like to tell him. Silly things mostly, like...how the wind in the trees really did sometimes sound like a song; or what amazing aniseed bread they made here; or...how Provence was just like all the paintings she’d ever seen, only more so somehow: more intense, more concentrated, an assault on every sense. Because it was only since finding his note on the catalogue in London that she’d realised he might have wanted to know what she thought about anything. And she’d have told him about Peter too, the grandfather who wasn’t, and Luc... What would she have told him about Luc? She wasn’t sure yet.
All that time she’d spent blaming her father for her mother leaving, and then resenting him for not caring that she’d gone. What a waste. Of course, he’d made it difficult - he was hardly without blame - but she thought she could have made an effort when she’d grown up, tried to get to know him better. She should have got past it years ago. So many missed opportunities; so many regrets.
Her thoughts flicked back to Peter, then to Celia. Not exactly related. After all that angst and self-examination, no-one seemed to care that she wasn’t a blood relative after all. The Stedding family was a confusion of love and heartache, discord and silence, feuds and devotion, and yet they managed somehow. They’d even get over Angela eventually. And Luc’s family wasn’t much better. Terri used to think it was only her family that was abnormal, fractured; it had made her insular and defensive. She’d been a fool and it had taken her long enough to work it out. No-one’s family was perfect. It was a matter of muddling your way through it, loving where you could, letting the bad things go.
So maybe Kate Nayland would tell her something about her mother which she could relate to, or maybe not. She was going to try not to care so much. Maybe it was time to start concentrating on the here and now and stop letting the past colour her present.
She closed the book but continued to hold it, still, thinking. Eventually she put it down. It was time to go and meet Luc - but not before she’d slipped upstairs to check on Peter.
Note
The Ste. Marguerite des Pins of my story does not exist: it is a composite of a number of small towns and villages I have visited over the years in Provence. But I hope it captures the atmosphere of this truly special region, its colours and its perfumes, its architecture and its staggeringly beautiful views of forests, olive groves and vineyards. If you visit the area yourself, you will not be able to identify the street or café, but still I hope this story will help to make you feel as if you know it.
Acknowledgements
I should like to express my heartfelt gratitude to family and friends for all their support through the writing of this book. A particular thanks go to two kind and patient friends, both coincidentally called Jane, who took the trouble to read an early draft and offer their opinions.
Thanks also go to Design for Writers for the wonderful cover design, and for their untiring patience with my endless questions.
Last but not least, I should like to thank my husband Dave, whose belief in my writing and my stories is fortunately greater than my own, and who keeps me going when the doubts shout too loudly.
If you have enjoyed this novel and would like to connect with me, stay up-to-date with information about my writing or leave a review, please:
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Please see over for details of Deep Water, Thin Ice:-
Deep Water, Thin Ice
Kathy Shuker
When her husband, Simon - a flamboyant conductor - kills himself, Alex is mortified that she failed to see it coming. Confused, guilt-ridden and grieving, she runs away to Hillen Hall, an old house by the coast in Devon, abandoning her classical singing career and distancing herself from everyone but her sister Erica.
Hillen Hall, inherited by Simon from his mother and once a fine manor house, is now creaking and unloved. When Theo Hellyon, Simon’s cousin, turns up at her door, offering to help with its renovation, Alex is perplexed and intrigued, previously unaware that Simon even had a cousin. And Theo is charming and reminds her strikingly of Simon so, despite Erica’s warnings, it is impossible for Alex not to want him in her life.
But the old Hall has a tortured history which Alex cannot even begin to suspect and Theo is not remotely what he seems. So how long will it be before Alex realises she is making a fatal mistake?
Some reader reviews:-
‘...hard to put down’
‘...sorry to get to the last page’
‘...fine attention to detail brings the characters & their surroundings to life’
‘...an intriguing and engaging plot...I loved every minute of it’
Available now as an ebook and in paperback