Today, she would tackle her housekeeper and her agent. Everyone else could wait.
She went back downstairs, threw herself on to the sofa and closed her eyes. She forced herself to picture the vine-covered terrace of her beautiful home, perched high up on the hill in the ancient village of Ramatuelle, with the deep blue waters of the Mediterranean sparkling far beneath it.
She sighed, knowing the memories she had avoided with such determination could no longer be ignored if she was to start on the road back to life. And, besides, perhaps she needed to begin to remember those precious moments and treasure them, not resist them …
The sun is on its descent as I watch it, its lustrous red-gold colours making the blue water beneath it look as if it is on fire. The sound of Rachmaninov’s Piano Concerto No. 3 drifts across the terrace, reaching a zenith as the sun plunges gracefully into the sea.
This is my favourite moment of the day here, when nature itself seems to be still, watching the spectacle of the King of the Day, the force it relies upon to grow and flourish, make its journey into sleep.
We are able to be here together far less than I’d like, so the moment is even more precious. The sun has gone now, so I can close my eyes and listen to Xavier playing. I have performed this concerto a hundred times and I’m struck by the subtle differences, the nuances that make his rendition his own. It’s stronger, more masculine, which is, of course, how it should be.
I am ‘off duty’, with no engagements until the middle of next week, but Xavier must leave for a concert in Paris tomorrow, so this is our last night here together. When he’s finished playing, I know he will appear on the terrace with a glass of rosé from the local cave, and we’ll sit together, talking of nothing and of everything, and luxuriating in the tranquillity of our rare solitude.
The heart of our life, the energy that binds us both together, is inside the house. When I bathed our son, Gabriel, and put him down for the night, I knelt quietly alongside his cot, watching as the tension fell from his face and he drifted off into sleep.
‘Bonne nuit, mon petit ange,’ I whispered, tiptoeing out and closing the door softly behind me.
I’m glad that I am able to share a further week here with him. Some mothers have the pleasure of watching their children twenty-four hours a day, catching each smile, each new skill they learn on the path to adulthood. I envy them that, for I don’t have that luxury.
As I stare at the darkening sky, I contemplate the question that has turned around in my mind since the day that he was born, wondering whether I should have put my career on hold to watch him grow. I can’t develop my thoughts, however, for here is Xavier with the promised glass of rosé and a bowl of fresh olives.
‘Bravo,’ I utter, as he kisses me on top of my head and I raise my hand to stroke his face.
‘Merci, ma petite,’ he replies.
We speak in French together, his bad English verbs deemed worse than my dreadful French accent.
Besides, it’s the language of love.
He sits in the chair next to me and swings his long legs up on to the table. His hair, as always after he’s been practising, is standing on end, which gives him the appearance of a gigantic toddler. I reach across to him and smooth it down. He grabs my hand and kisses it.
‘It is sad I must go tomorrow. Perhaps next year, we could plan to take the whole summer off and be here together.’
‘I would love that so much,’ I reply, watching out of the corner of my eye as the moon unveils itself, taking the place of the sun and becoming Queen of the Night.
Xavier’s already pale skin is bleached whiter in the moonlight. I never tire of looking at him. He is so extraordinary. If I’m a creature of the day – of the sun – with my dark skin and dark eyes, then he is of the night – the moon.
His dramatic, aquiline features, inherited from his Russian mother, could never be described as classically handsome. His nose, for a start, is too long, his eyes – glacial in their blueness – set too close together. His forehead is furrowed and high, his thick black hair of a straw-like texture. His lips are the only perfect thing on his face, girlish in their fullness – pink, plump pillows – which open when he smiles to reveal a set of large, white, strong teeth.
His body is out of proportion: legs that could double as stilts they are so long, carrying a short upper torso which makes the length of his arms and his elegant, talented fingers seem as though they’ve been grafted on to the wrong body. He towers over me, a good foot taller than I am. There is not an ounce of fat on him and I am sure he will stay that way for the rest of his life. The nervous energy that even in sleep will not let him rest, as he tosses and turns next to me, twitches and fidgets – shouts out loud at some imagined foe – will eat up any middle-age spread his hormones care to produce.
And I have loved every millimetre of him, body and soul, since the day I listened to him playing Schubert’s Piano Sonata in B flat major at the Tchaikovsky piano competition in Leningrad.
I won.
He came second.
I look at his beloved face, so familiar to me and yet ever fascinating, because there are so many depths still to explore. I’m so much less complex than he is. I can play the piano, quite brilliantly, so I’m told. Just because I can. Equally, I can walk off the platform and return to being a normal human being. Xavier, however, carries his music with him everywhere, always thinking about how to perfect the next piece.
I truly believe that if they turned all the pianos in the world to firewood, he would throw himself on top of the bonfire.
We have laughed together about the fact that it is me and not him that is famous. But we both know that I look much prettier in a dress than he does, that I play much more photogenically … I am a ‘girl’, and therefore more marketable.
But I know that he is the genius, that he can take the Chopin ‘Études’ and add a touch of magic, a spark, that makes them definitively his own. I also know that one day the world will recognise this. And I will be happy to take second place.
I’m sure my playing has gone from strength to strength because of him.
And I adore him.
He is my piano. He is my bonfire. And if he was no longer there, I would throw myself on top of that fire willingly.
6
Julia found her face was wet with tears. She knew there were many more to come, as she continued to force herself to remember.
‘Xavier.’ She spoke his name out loud for the first time. ‘Xavier, Xavier …’ she repeated the word again, and again, knowing that when she spoke to her housekeeper and her agent, they were sure to speak it too, and she wanted to be practised in controlling her emotions when she heard it.
She went upstairs to take a shower, dressed and sat on the edge of the bath once more, steeling herself to press the numbers that would launch her back into her life.
Agnes, her housekeeper, did not answer her mobile, and Julia was grateful for the stay of execution. She left a message and asked Agnes to call her back.
Next: her agent, Olav. She checked the time on her mobile – it was ten thirty. Olav could be anywhere in the world; he had offices in New York, London and Paris. As she dialled his number, she hoped she would get his voicemail too, but it was rare that he didn’t answer his phone to her, even if it was the middle of the night for him.
The line rang and she waited, holding her breath. He answered after three rings.
‘Julia, honey! How wonderful to hear from you. At last,’ he added pointedly.
‘Where are you?’ she questioned.
‘In NY,’ he answered. ‘I had a client playing with the New York Symphony Orchestra at the Carnegie tonight. Jeeze, it was uninspired. Anyway, honey, let’s talk about you. I’ve a hundred unanswered emails currently sitting on my desk; requests for your presence from the usual suspects in Milan, Paris, London, et al. I’ve told them you’re taking a sabbatical but, Julia, baby, they won’t keep asking forever.’
‘I know, Olav,’ she repli
ed apologetically.
‘These guys are working eighteen months to two years in advance. If we don’t accept a booking soon, it could be three years before you’re back on the platform. Any thoughts as to when you’ll be ready to give me a “yes”?’
Even though Julia was grateful that Olav had not taken the sympathy route and had got straight down to his greatest love – business – it did not give her a solution as to how to respond.
‘No. To be honest, I haven’t given it a lot of thought.’
‘Do you have email there, honey? I can send the requests through to you, you can peruse, and see if any of them appeal.’
‘No, I don’t. My laptop is still in my house in France.’
There was a pause on the line. ‘You still in Norfolk?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Well then, baby, I’ve gotta better idea. I’m in London next week. We can meet for lunch at Claridge’s, and I’ll give you the file myself.’
Julia could hear pages being turned at the other end of the line. Eventually, he asked: ‘How would next Thursday suit? I can also hand you over the bunch of cheques that have arrived here over the past seven months. As I said on the voicemail, it’s a substantial sum. I didn’t bank them with you, as I normally would. I wasn’t sure what you were doing with your old joint account.’
‘No.’ Julia swallowed. ‘Next Thursday will be fine.’
‘Great! It’ll be good to see you, honey. Now, as it’s four thirty in the morning here and I’m flying to Tokyo tomorrow, I’d better get some shut-eye. Let’s make it noon in the bar by the restaurant. See you then, baby. Can’t wait.’
The line went dead.
Julia sighed in relief that initial contact had been made. She knew she could always cancel next Thursday, but her newly hatched, still fragile shred of optimism had not allowed her to turn him down point blank. Besides, she had to be practical. She had been living on the money in her English account, on the rental cheques from her cottage that she had deposited there over the past eight years. Last time she’d looked, which had been over a month ago, there had only been a few hundred pounds left. She hadn’t been able to face calling the bank in France where she and Xavier had held their accounts and into which the majority of her earnings were poured. There would be forms to fill in to change the accounts into her sole name. And, so far, she had not been ready to accept that Xavier was gone.
She knew she must return to France to sort out her life. But making a call was one thing, physically confronting the facts was another.
Not wanting to cloud the progress she had made so far this morning – one step at a time – Julia decided to go for a walk. Just as she was pulling on her jacket, there was a knock on her door.
‘Hi, darling, it’s me, Dad,’ said a voice through the wood.
In surprise, Julia opened it.
‘Sorry to barge in,’ George said, as he stepped over the threshold. ‘Alicia said you were usually here. I can come back some other time if this isn’t convenient.’
Julia thought how incongruous her father looked in the tiny room; like Gulliver in the land of Lilliput. ‘No, it’s fine,’ she said, removing her jacket as he sat down. ‘Want some coffee?’
‘No thanks, I’ve just had some. I’ve been out on the marshes at Salthouse taking a cutting of an unusual plant that one of my PhD boys found there. So, I thought I’d drop in on the way home.’ George studied her. ‘I won’t ask how you are, I know from experience it’s irritating. But I will say that I think you look better than I’ve seen you in a while. Not quite so drawn. Alicia keeps telling me she’s worried you’re not eating. Are you?’
Julia grinned. ‘Dad, you can check my fridge if you want. I went food-shopping only yesterday.’
‘Excellent. You know, I … do understand. I’ve gone through similar myself, although at least I didn’t have to suffer the pain of losing one of my children as well as your mother. And Gabriel was such a sweet little thing. It must be unbearable for you, darling.’
‘It has been, yes.’ Julia’s voice caught in her throat.
‘All I can say, without sounding patronising, is that things do improve, but it takes time – not to “get over it” because of course you never really do, but to …’ George searched for the right word, ‘adjust.’
Julia studied him silently, knowing he had more to say.
‘And at some point, you do get over the “hump”,’ he continued, ‘when you wake up one morning and the dark isn’t as dark as it was, if you understand what I mean.’
‘Yes,’ Julia agreed. ‘I think … well, something happened yesterday, and today – this morning, anyway …’ She struggled to voice what she felt. ‘You’re right. The “dark” isn’t quite as dark as it was.’
They sat there silently for a while, comfortable in mutual understanding. Finally, Julia said, ‘Was there anything particular you came to see me about?’
‘Yes, actually, there was,’ replied George. ‘It’s nearly lunchtime. What say we get out of this godforsaken cottage and walk across the road to the White Horse for a glass of wine and some freshly caught fish?’
Julia overrode her immediate knee-jerk negative response. ‘That sounds a good idea, Dad.’
Ten minutes later, they were ensconced at a cosy table by the fire. George ordered two plates of fish and chips and carried the glasses of wine back from the bar.
‘Great pub this,’ he commented, ‘a real “local”, especially in the winter, without the tourists clogging it up.’ Impulsively, he stretched his hand across the table and squeezed her arm. ‘Julia, I’m so proud of you. I know now that you’re going to make it. Keep going, darling. Understand you’ll have good days and bad, but just keep going.’
‘I’ll try, Dad, I really will,’ she answered, a lump wedged uncomfortably in her throat.
‘Anyway,’ George cleared his own throat, ‘what I wanted to talk to you about was those orchid paintings you gave me. I’ve compared them to some of the other watercolours your mother did, and there is absolutely no doubt they were painted by her. More than likely when she was much younger.’
‘I’m so pleased I found them, Dad,’ said Julia. ‘It was obviously meant to be.’
‘Yes, but there’s something else interesting about those paintings, or at least, one of them.’ George took a sip of his wine. ‘I know that, as a child, your mother would spend hours in the hothouses with your grandfather, just as you did after her. To pass the time, she’d sit and paint the flowers. Now, I’ve identified three of the orchids, which are all commonly cultivated in England and could have been grown by your grandfather; all three of them are genus of Cattleya. William Cattley, a man whom one could call the “father” of British orchids, was the first horticulturist successfully to grow epiphytic orchids here in the early nineteenth century, and most of the orchids we see here are descended from them. But the fourth orchid your mother painted, well now, that’s another story altogether.’
‘Really?’ said Julia, as their lunch arrived.
‘Yes. If her painting is accurate, and having worked with her for fifteen years, I have to assume it is, then the orchid she has drawn is a Dendrobium nigum.’ George broke into the thick beer batter on his fish. ‘Now, either your mother copied the picture from a book, which is of course a possibility and to be honest the most likely scenario – or,’ he added between mouthfuls, ‘it was growing in her father’s hothouse at the time.’
Julia began to eat too. ‘So, if it was growing in the hothouse … ?’
‘Well, put it this way, the last specimen of Dendrobium nigum sold at auction for almost fifty thousand pounds. It’s an unbelievable bloom. Only a few were ever found around the hills of Chiang Mai in Thailand. It’s the closest thing to a black orchid there is, even though its true colour is deep magenta. Botanists have never been able to reproduce it out of its habitat, which makes it very valuable. I’d be amazed if this plant had found its way to the Wharton Park hothouses in the nineteen fifties.’
‘Didn’t Grandfather Bill have Mum type up all his notes and then weren’t they passed to you when he died?’ Julia asked. ‘Surely there might be something in there?’
‘That’s what I thought too,’ agreed George. ‘I’ve spent most of my time since Sunday scouring through them, but as far as I can see, there’s no mention of it.’ He placed his knife and fork together on the side of his empty plate. ‘Your grandfather had over two hundred different species of orchids growing in his hothouses. I haven’t found this one recorded yet, but I’m going to keep looking.’
‘Changing the subject for a moment,’ said Julia, ‘did Alicia mention the diary that Kit Crawford found under the floorboards in their old cottage?’
‘Yes, she did, briefly. Apparently, it’s an account of being a prisoner of war in Changi jail. If you’re going to ask me whether Bill was in Changi during the war, I’d have to tell you I’ve no idea,’ said George. ‘The only person who’d know would be Elsie, your grandmother. I had a Christmas card from her and she’s still going strong at eighty-seven. Why don’t you go and visit her?’
‘I’m going to, Dad,’ said Julia. ‘Alicia’s given me her number and I intend to give her a call.’
‘Good. So what else is new? Apart from perhaps thinking whether you really want to stay for much longer in that depressing cottage of yours.’
‘I know,’ Julia agreed. ‘But it’s only in the last couple of days I’ve actually realised how ghastly it is.’
‘And no room in it for a piano …’ added George softly.
‘I don’t want a piano,’ Julia said vehemently, ‘but if I’m going to be here for a while, then I might get Agnes to ship a few of my things over from France.’
‘That’s the spirit, darling. Right,’ George banged the table, ‘I must be off. I’ve a pile of emails to answer and a lecture to write before tomorrow morning.’
Hothouse Flower Page 6