Hothouse Flower

by Lucinda Riley

  ‘A bientôt, chérie,’ Xavier said. ‘Play well, as you always do. I will long for your return.’ He hugged Julia to him and kissed her.

  ‘Je t’aime, chéri. Take care of Gabriel for me,’ Julia added as she walked down the front steps.

  ‘I hope he will take care of me,’ Xavier laughed. Gabriel came to stand by his father and took his hand as they waved her off in her taxi.

  In her dressing room in Paris, Julia had rung Xavier on his mobile just before the recital. It was on answer-phone, but this was not unusual. They were probably not back from the barbecue yet. She would try again in the interval. Hearing her two-minute call, Julia had switched off her mobile and made her way to the wings.

  The faintest glimmer of nerves had flooded through her as she walked on to the platform and took the applause from the audience. Then, when she sat down on the stool and looked down at the keys that would transport her and her audience on to another plane, the fear had left her. Her fingers touched the keys, and the first haunting notes of the concerto filled the hall.

  When she had finished playing, she’d known the rendition she had just given was the best she had ever played. The audience seemed to think so too, and gave her a standing ovation. Clutching a blood-red bouquet of roses, Julia had walked from the stage, elated. People clustered round her, as they always did, congratulating her, showering her with praise, wanting to bask in her unique talent.

  ‘Madame Forrester.’

  She had heard the manager’s voice from behind the group of well-wishers, and looked up. His grave face was in stark contrast to the animated smiles around her. He pushed his way through to her.

  ‘Madame Forrester, can you come with me, please?’

  He had led her to his office and closed the door behind him.

  ‘What is it? Is something wrong?’

  Julia remembered the pounding of her heart as he explained there had been a call for her from the Gendarmerie in St Tropez. He had the number and the Inspector he had spoken to wanted her to call him back immediately.

  ‘Do you know why?’ Julia had asked as the manager dialled the number for her and she’d taken the receiver with shaking hands.

  ‘Madame, I … do not know the details. I will leave you alone to talk with him.’

  He’d left her there, in the office. She had asked to speak to the Inspector whose name was on the piece of paper in front of her. He’d answered immediately. And told her what had happened, ending her world.

  The car veering off the road on a narrow bend, tumbling down the steep hillside then bursting into flames, setting light to the tinder-dry hillside around it.

  And somewhere, in the charred, blackened landscape, lay the remains of her husband and son.

  It was a week later, by which time Julia was back in England, that the French authorities informed her that they had found some remains near the site: the bones of a child aged about two, discovered on the hillside above what was left of the car. Which, the Inspector had explained, meant Gabriel had probably been thrown out as the car tumbled down the hillside.

  There were other, adult bones nearer the car. The Inspector told her that, because fire removed any trace of DNA, it was impossible to officially identify either of them.

  Julia could barely remember what had happened after that first, dreadful call at La Salle Pleyel in Paris. Alicia had arrived – she didn’t know when – and had taken her home to England.

  After two days in Alicia’s spare room, Julia had known she could not bear the screams and laughter of Alicia’s children. So she’d moved into the tiny cottage in Blakeney, preferring silence to the unbearable sound of what she had just lost.

  Julia roused herself, bringing herself back to the present and wiping the tears from her eyes. She knew she was on very dangerous territory. She must not allow herself to sink back down by remembering. There were practical things she had to do here in France – the sooner she did them, the sooner she could leave.

  She went back into the kitchen and, adhering to Kit’s advice to make sure she ate, warmed some casserole from the stove, then sat down at the table with a glass of wine and forced the food down her throat.

  After supper, Julia steeled herself to walk into the sitting room. She sat down at the piano and put her fingers to the keys.

  Julia played for them: for her husband and her beloved son. And tried to believe somewhere in her heart that, wherever they were, they could hear her.

  Sometime later, Julia opened the door to the bedroom she had shared with Xavier. She took a nightshirt from her holdall, not daring to go near the wardrobe, where all her husband’s clothes would still be hanging, and climbed on to the bed.

  She lay stiffly, looking around her. She had always loved this room, perhaps simply because it was hers; a place of refuge and not an anonymous hotel room hired for a night. She studied the painting, which she and Xavier had chosen together from a gallery in Gassin, and saw his hairbrush still lying on the bureau below the mirror.

  This was the moment she had most dreaded: the first night alone in their bed, plagued by thoughts of what had once been in this house and was no more. Surprisingly, she felt calm. Perhaps it was simply because she had now accepted that neither Xavier, nor her beloved petit ange, would ever be here with her again.

  They were gone. And nothing she could feel, or do, or say, would bring them back. The silent house, in which they had lived and loved as a family, was final affirmation of that.

  52

  When Julia woke the following morning, she was relieved to see it was almost nine o’clock and she had slept through the night.

  Agnes, her housekeeper and childminder, appeared an hour later, her eyes full of trepidation as she sought Julia out on the terrace. Julia understood. She stood up, went to Agnes and put her arms round her.

  ‘Ça va, Agnes?’

  Julia could see the relief in Agnes’s eyes as she answered. ‘Ça va bien, Madame Julia. Et vous?’

  ‘I am better, thank you. Come, have a cup of coffee with me,’ Julia continued in French, the language she had always used here, though it now felt strange and unnatural on her tongue.

  Agnes sat down uncertainly, as Julia poured some coffee for her.

  ‘Thank you so much for caring for the house. Everything looks perfect.’

  ‘It is nothing, Madame Julia. I am only glad to see you looking well.’

  ‘I’ve begun to accept what has happened. I realised I had no choice. The pain will never go, but …’ Julia ground to a halt. Seeing Agnes, a woman who had loved and cared for her child almost as much as she had, was threatening to overwhelm her. She swallowed hard and steeled herself to talk of practicalities. ‘There are some things I cannot bring myself to do, and I was wondering if you could help me with them.’

  ‘Of course, Madame, anything you want.’

  ‘I only intend to be here for a few days, and then I will be returning to England. I am going to sell this house.’

  ‘Oh, Madame!’ Agnes looked horrified. ‘But this is your home!’

  ‘I know,’ Julia agreed, ‘but, Agnes, I must. Everything here is what my life used to be. And if that can’t be any more, then I must move on.’

  ‘I understand,’ Agnes nodded sombrely.

  ‘I wanted to ask you whether you could bear to clear out Xavier’s wardrobe for me after I leave? And,’ Julia swallowed, ‘Gabriel’s bedroom. Perhaps you know a charity or a family who might appreciate his toys and clothes?’

  Tears came to Agnes’s eyes. ‘Of course, Madame. I know a family who would be grateful to receive such things.’

  ‘When the house is sold, I will return for my personal possessions. But I’m going to put it up for sale with the contents included. I think that’s best.’

  Agnes nodded. ‘There is an old French saying, Madame, that in order to belong to the future, you must accept the past. I will do whatever you ask to help you. I think you are –’ tears spilled unchecked from Agnes’s eyes, ‘very brave.’


  ‘No.’ Julia shook her head. ‘I haven’t been brave at all. And if I was brave, I’d stay here and still belong completely to them.’ She sighed. ‘I’ve come here to try and say goodbye.’

  Agnes reached her hand to Julia’s. ‘He – they – would want you to move on and find new happiness.’

  ‘Yes.’ Julia offered a wan smile. ‘I hope they would, and I must believe it.’

  ‘Yes, Madame, you must.’

  Agnes withdrew her hand, drained her coffee cup and stood up. ‘And now, if you will excuse me, I must get on with my work. I have left all the bills on the desk in the study for you. Everyone understands that you will pay when you are ready.’

  ‘Of course I will,’ Julia agreed. ‘I’ll attend to them today and leave the cheques for you. Please, thank everyone for their kindness on my behalf.’

  ‘Pas de problem, Madame. We all loved you here. All of you,’ she added, then turned abruptly and stepped back into the house.

  Julia spent a long time at her desk, sifting through the post accumulated over the past year. Condolence cards had arrived in a continuous stream since the accident. As she opened them and read the moving sentiments inside, she took comfort from knowing how many people had loved them.

  She put the cards into a folder to take home to England, then wrote out cheques for the people who had maintained her house in her absence.

  She opened a large, official-looking envelope and caught her breath: in it were death certificates for her husband and child, the final affirmation of their non-existence. The investigation and the case were now officially closed.

  Armed with a spade, trowel and two small cypress saplings, Julia drove the ten minutes to the treacherous bend where her husband and son had met their deaths. She parked in a bay up the road and made her way back towards the bend with the spade and trowel, then returned for the saplings. Standing at the top of the hill, she could see the charred edges of the trees around the bare spot that had been scorched by the fire. But, as she made her way slowly down the precarious slope, she noticed the beginnings of rebirth. The wild orchids that grew prevalently along the hillside in this region were beginning to poke their heads through the still-charred ground, and a small number of new green shoots were visible. Fire refertilised in its destruction, and Julia could only hope the rebirth she saw around her was metaphorically relevant to her too.

  With no ‘X’ to mark the exact spot where either of them had died, Julia chose what she imagined was the centre of the site and began to dig. It was hard work and very hot, but she kept going until she had planted the saplings side by side. She knelt beside them for a while, conjuring the beloved individuals they represented, and celebrating their lives.

  ‘Goodbye, mon petit ange and my Xavier. Sleep well. You will always be with me, wherever I go. And one day … one day, we will all be together again. I love you both, so much …’

  Finally, standing up and composing herself, she blew each a last kiss, and then walked up the hillside, away from them.

  The following morning, Julia felt a lightness, an inexplicable sense of relief that she had faced the worst, and been comforted by it. Others had suggested a memorial service to mark Xavier and Gabriel’s passing, and that might be possible now she had said her own private goodbye. Perhaps this was the moment of ‘closure’ everyone said was so important. Whatever it had been, it was a step in the right direction on her journey towards achieving inner peace to face the future.

  Julia now embarked on the next important step: she went to visit the local immobilier and explained that she wanted to put her house on the market. The estate agent feigned sadness but Julia knew that, in reality, he was rubbing his hands in glee at the thought of having the most sought-after house in Ramatuelle on his books.

  ‘Madame, I can pick up the telephone, make one call and you will have your sale. So rarely do houses like yours come on to the market. You can name your price and I can assure you I will get it. But you must decide if you truly wish to do this. Your house comes once in a lifetime, in this village.’

  ‘Completely sure,’ Julia reiterated. ‘My only thought is that it would be nice to have a family living there.’

  ‘I think I have just the people,’ agreed the agent.

  ‘Good.’ Julia stood up. ‘The sooner, the better. The house needs to be lived in and I cannot live in it. I will be leaving in a couple of days. If anyone wishes to view it, Agnes Savoir will have the keys.’

  The agent walked round his desk and shook her hand. ‘Thank you, Madame, for entrusting your beautiful house to me. And, please, let me offer my condolences for your tragic loss.’

  ‘Merci, Monsieur.’

  Julia left the office and walked up to the sunlit square. The pretty cafés were busy with people taking a late breakfast. Julia found herself a table in the sunshine and ordered a café au lait. She sipped it slowly, enjoying the relaxed atmosphere. She would miss it – the French way of life had always suited her.

  It suddenly occurred to Julia that one explanation for her feeling so at home here could be her genetic make-up: Adrienne, whom she now knew to be her great-grandmother, had been French. Julia smiled, taking comfort from links with the past. Human beings were a complex recipe, and she was fascinated to have discovered some of the ingredients that had produced her own uniqueness.

  She ordered another café au lait, unwilling to leave this moment of calm reflection after the emotional turbulence of the past few days. And she thought about the ‘other’ part of her, the part she knew so little about: it lay far to the East, bathed in the heat of the tropical sun, the result of a tragic love which was only briefly fulfilled. Perhaps one day she would go there and experience the beauty that had so bewitched Harry, but it was not for now.

  Her thoughts turned to Kit, and she smiled. He had left her alone in the past couple of days; understanding and undemanding as usual, simply sending text messages to say he loved her, and was thinking of her.

  Julia took her mobile from her bag, scrolled down, and looked at his message. What surprised her most was the way Kit seemed completely secure in professing his love for her, when she had yet to tell him she loved him.

  Perhaps she had not been ready.

  But now that she had completed the task that – in practical terms at least – closed the book on the past, there was no reason not to say it.

  ‘I love you …’

  Julia practised the words on her tongue and, basking in the sunlight, she knew there was no doubt in her mind that it was true.

  Back at the house, she went into the study to book her flight home online. She would leave tomorrow, eager to return to Wharton Park and Kit as soon as possible. She wanted to tell him that she was completely his at last; unencumbered, free to be with him if he wanted her, for the rest of their lives.

  Her mobile rang and she saw it was Kit. She answered it.

  ‘Hello, sweetheart, how are you?’

  ‘I’m … okay, thanks, Kit.’

  ‘Good. I must say, it’s nice to hear your voice. I’ve missed you, Julia. Are you taking care of yourself?’

  ‘Yes, I am,’ Julia smiled, ‘promise.’

  ‘Any idea of when you’ll be home?’

  Having just booked her flight, Julia knew exactly when, but decided she’d surprise him. ‘I’m not quite sure, but I’ve nearly done what I needed to, so probably sooner than you think,’ she grinned.

  ‘That’s wonderful news!’ Kit sounded relieved. ‘Can’t tell you how quiet it’s been here.’

  ‘Pretty quiet here too,’ murmured Julia.

  ‘Yes, it must be,’ Kit replied sombrely. ‘I’m thinking of you, sweetheart.’

  ‘Me too. Are you all right?’

  ‘Apart from missing you, yes, I’m fine. Right, I’ll let you get on then. Just let me know when you’re coming home, so I can kill the fatted calf and set off the fireworks. I love you, darling. Keep in touch.’

  ‘I will, Kit. See you soon.’

  Th
at afternoon, full of a sense of wonder that fate had given her a second chance at happiness, Julia sat down at the grand piano and played with joy rather than pain.

  As usual, she lost all sense of time, and became so immersed in the music that she didn’t notice the sun setting behind her. Neither did she hear the door to the sitting room open. Ending the piece with a final flourish, she looked down at her watch and saw it was past seven o’clock. Time for a glass of rosé, she thought, as she folded her score and stowed it in her case, ready to take it home the next day.

  A sudden movement behind her caught her eye. And she turned.

  For a moment she stared at him, at the figure framed in the doorway. Then instinctively closed her eyes.

  She was seeing a ghost, conjuring an image in her mind. He was not real, she knew that.

  When I open my eyes, he will be gone …

  She did so. He was still there.

  Then the figure spoke. ‘Hello, my Julia. I am returned.’

  53

  Julia had no concept of how long she stared at him. Still her brain refused to process the messages her eyes and ears were sending.

  Because it was … impossible.

  As she gazed at him, she realised that this was Xavier – and yet it was not Xavier. Or at least, not the Xavier she had carried in her head since the day he had died. This Xavier had aged ten years, perhaps twenty; a Xavier who was no longer merely thin, but gaunt to the point of emaciation. And a Xavier who had acquired a jagged scar running down the left side of his face.

  ‘I understand you are shocked to see me,’ he offered.

  Julia had an inappropriate urge to giggle hysterically at his understatement.

  She managed to find her voice. ‘I am trying to work out,’ she said slowly, over-exaggerating her words, ‘whether or not you are a ghost. A hallucination.’

  He shook his head. ‘No. I am not.’

  ‘Then …’ Julia struggled to find the right words, but merely managed a half-swallowed, ‘How?’

  ‘My Julia, there are many things we must speak of but, please, come to me. Hold your husband, who is back from the dead. And feel for yourself that he is real.’