Villa of Sun and Secrets

by Jennifer Bohnet

  David picked up a sealed envelope marked ‘Josette. Private and Confidential’.

  ‘Wonder what this is. Shall I open it?’

  Carla took the envelope from him and examined it curiously. ‘Tempting as it is, I don’t think we should open it. I’ll put it to one side and pop it in the post to Josette next time I go to the post office. I don’t suppose it contains anything of earth-shattering importance to her though.’

  ‘You could always go for a visit. Deliver it personally,’ David said. ‘You could do with a break after the last couple of months.’

  Carla looked at him. ‘True. But you’d be on your own now both the children are living away.’

  ‘For god’s sake, Carla, I’m quite capable of looking after myself, you know. You haven’t been around looking after me recently anyway.’

  ‘I didn’t have the choice. Mum’s house had to be sorted. I’m sorry you feel hard done by, but you were busy too. There weren’t many evenings when you were even home to eat dinner.’ She didn’t add: And you were clearly too busy to even offer to help me.

  ‘No point in coming home when you weren’t here. Easier to work late and eat at the club before coming home.’

  David’s look challenged her to argue, but she couldn’t summon the energy, so she ignored it.

  ‘Don’t worry about me. A break would do you good,’ David said. ‘At least think about it.’

  ‘To be honest, I’m not sure about visiting Tante Josette. It’s not as if she’s ever issued an invitation.’ Carla looked at David. ‘Are you busy at work for the next few weeks? We could go together?’

  ‘Not a chance,’ David said. ‘You don’t have to stay with Josette. Just hand her the envelope and if she doesn’t want to talk, you’ve done your bit. Find a hotel and have a few days’ holiday.’

  Carla shook her head. ‘I don’t want to go alone. It’s better to post the envelope. I’ll finish going through everything in here in case there’s anything else marked for her.’

  David shrugged. ‘Whatever.’

  A day later, the sorted box of photos was ready to go into the cupboard in the spare room. Pushing it onto the bottom shelf, Carla met with resistance and dropped to her knees to see what was blocking the way. An old shoe box had somehow wedged itself across the back, and as Carla tugged it free, the lid moved and she saw the black velvet jeweller’s box.

  Christmas was over months ago and it was too early for her birthday. Had David planned to give her a surprise? Something to help ease the pain of the last few months? Carefully, she took the diamond pendant necklace out of the box and held it against her neck. Beautiful. As she did so, a piece of paper fluttered out of the lid onto the floor.

  Darling Lisa, all my love, David.

  Carla felt a stab of real pain reading the words and tears spilled down her cheeks. After the stress of the last few months, she didn’t know if she could cope with David having another affair. Her fingers trembled as she replaced the necklace in its box. He’d promised so often that each time was the last; that it was Carla he truly loved and begged her forgiveness. She knew that if she confronted him about Lisa he’d do the same this time. As she stood up clutching the velvet box, she mentally straightened her shoulders. This time she wasn’t in a forgiving mood.

  Twenty-four hours later, without a word to anyone, Carla fled to France and Tante Josette.

  2

  The Hotel de Ville clock struck the hour as the taxi driver took Carla’s suitcase out of the boot and pointed, ‘Vingt mètres à gauche.’ He didn’t bother to ask if she could manage, just took his fare and drove away.

  Carla dragged her suitcase the twenty metres in the direction he’d indicated and looked around. The townhouse Josette lived in was hidden away in the old town of Antibes, down a narrow rue where few cars dared to venture. The sea was thirty metres away as the gulls flew, a three minute walk via the ramparts for everyone else.

  An old collie, sleeping in the doorway of a decrepit building, opened an eye before deciding she was not interesting enough to disturb his slumber and closed it again.

  Tall medieval houses faced each other across the cobbled street. Two, near the small square with the ancient wisteria and the even older fountain, were linked by an arch with a window overlooking the narrow rue, geraniums in pots hanging from its open shutters. Scaffolding was pinned to one of the houses, workmen on its planks whistling as they filled cracks and holes with grey mortar.

  Josette’s house, when Carla finally stood in front of it, was as shabby as its neighbours, but its front door had been painted a defiant scarlet. There was no bell or knocker so Carla banged on the door with her fist.

  Above her head, a window opened.

  ‘If that’s you, Gordon, the door is open. Just give it a push. Anyone else, wait outside. I’ll be down in a moment.’ The window slammed shut.

  Carla stayed where she was. Inside, a shadow flitted past the small window to the right. Seconds later, the door opened.

  ‘Bonjour, Tante Josette,’ Carla said. ‘May I come in please? It’s an emergency. Sort of,’ she added.

  Josette’s blue eyes stared at her as if trying to gauge the depth of her emergency, before she shrugged and turned away. ‘Don’t see why not. I’ve a bottle of rosé in the fridge.’

  Carla stepped over the threshold, closed the front door behind her and followed Josette into the open-plan room with its beams and unlit log-burning stove.

  French doors opened from the kitchen area into a courtyard full of pots of lavender and gaudy geraniums, where jasmine and honeysuckle entwined together, covering the walls. A pair of pigeons canoodled in a recess in the corner, taking off with ruffled feathers as Josette shouted at them. A green wrought-iron table with matching chairs, made comfortable with cushions covered in the inevitable Provençal blue and yellow fabric, was placed in a corner. A large square white parasol provided shelter from the overhead sun.

  Josette poured two generous glasses of wine and handed one to Carla. ‘Santé.’

  They clicked glasses before Josette asked, ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘I told you. I had an emergency.’ Carla hesitated before saying, ‘You didn’t come for the funeral. I thought maybe you would.’

  ‘I sent a wreath. You came to berate me?’

  ‘No. I’ve several reasons for coming. One of them is to learn about the French side of the family. Mum never told me much – you’re the last one who can tell me. I also wanted to spend some time with you – a spot of aunt–niece bonding if you like. The last reason is,’ Carla stopped and drained her glass. ‘The last reason can wait. Any more wine in that bottle?’

  Josette phoned Gordon once she was certain Carla was busy making up the bed in the spare room.

  ‘We’ll have to forget our island excursion for a while,’ she said. ‘My niece has come for a visit.’

  ‘She might like to come with us,’ Gordon suggested.

  ‘Peut-être, but not this week. She has things on her mind.’

  ‘Do I get to meet this niece of yours?’

  ‘Maybe I’ll invite you to supper later in the week. If she stays that long.’

  Putting the phone down, Josette placed another bottle of wine in the fridge before returning to the courtyard and sitting at the table, closing her eyes and thinking about Carla’s words.

  Merde. She wasn’t mentally prepared for this encounter. Aunt-niece bonding. Learn about the French family. Both ridiculous notions. It was far too late for more than a superficial telling of family history. Josette prayed Carla wouldn’t push her quest for information about the family too far. The truth could serve no real purpose now. Thirty, twenty, even ten years ago when… Josette shook her head. She’d decided in the cathedral the morning of the funeral, the truth was best left to be buried with her when she died. She wouldn’t be leaving one of those ‘tell all when I’m gone’ letters either.

  ‘I’ve brought some photos,’ Carla said, joining her at the table, holding two large envelopes
.

  Josette opened her eyes and came back to the present with a start. Carla had changed into a floral maxi dress, her feet were bare and her hair was pinned up haphazardly. Her niece had grown into an attractive woman in the thirty years since she’d last seen her.

  ‘I can’t believe you’re fifty this year. You’ve certainly got the right kind of genes,’ Josette said.

  ‘You’re not the only one who can’t believe it,’ Carla said. ‘I find the prospect terrifying, particularly now.’

  Josette looked at her and waited, but Carla shook her head.

  ‘Later,’ and she opened one of the envelopes and began to hand things to Josette.

  ‘Pictures of Maddy and Edward,’ she said, holding photographs out to Josette.

  Josette took the photos. Twins, like her and Amelia. A great-nephew and niece she’d never met. Knew only the basics facts about them and their lives. ‘What are they up to these days?’

  ‘Edward is doing locum veterinary work in South Africa. Maddy is just starting her own PR business. Here’s a photograph of them taken at Christmas last year.’

  Josette looked at the pictures of her great-nephew and niece, inwardly regretting the years of enforced separation.

  ‘This is one of the last photos of Mum,’ Carla said quietly, handing over another picture.

  Josette stared at the picture of Amelia, her late sister. The family likeness to their mother had strengthened down the years. Both had the thin lips that had shrivelled into hard lines as they’d aged and the bitterness in them had shown.

  ‘It’s hard to believe you were twins,’ Carla said. ‘Mum changed so much as she aged. Whereas you,’ she shrugged, ‘you’ve always looked the same to me on the rare occasions I’ve seen you.’

  ‘Was she very difficult at the end?’ Josette asked, ignoring the last comment.

  ‘No more than usual,’ Carla said simply. ‘Once her mind had gone, she did become more aggressive though, especially to me. Nothing I did was right.’

  Josette nodded thoughtfully and was silent for several seconds before asking, ‘’What’s in the other packet?’

  ‘Photos of babies and people I assume are French relatives. I’m hoping you’ll be able to tell me who they are and fill me in on some family history,’ Carla said, picking it up and pulling another envelope out. ‘And I found this amongst Mum’s things. It’s marked private and confidential with your name on it. I was going to post it but…’ she shrugged. ‘Things happened and it seemed a good idea to deliver it personally.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Josette turned the bulky sealed envelope over in her hands before glancing at Carla. ‘Did you open it?’

  ‘No. David wanted to but I wouldn’t have been happy opening something so clearly marked for someone else. Are you going to open it?’

  Josette shook her head. ‘No. Not tonight.’ She stood up and went into the house and pushed the envelope into the bottom drawer of the kitchen dresser – the one where she threw miscellaneous things that might come in useful one day.

  She didn’t need to open the envelope – she knew without looking inside what it would contain. It could stay in the drawer until the next time she lit the wood burner. Then she would burn it. Destroy the evidence forever.

  Carla watched through the open doorway as Josette closed the dresser drawer with an impatient push. At seventy-three, Josette was still slim. Her white hair was folded into a tidy French pleat, her fingernails neat and rounded, painted a soft coral. Unlike her toes, with their flashes of scarlet peeping out from her strappy sandals.

  As a teenager, Carla had been fascinated by this enigmatic aunt of hers and longed to get to know her better. Decades ago, she’d asked her mother why they didn’t see more of Josette – more of any of their French relatives in fact – and received the brusque answer ‘Family rift.’ No details were ever volunteered.

  Amelia had relented once when Carla was about nine. The three of them – Carla and her parents – had travelled to Antibes for her grandmother’s funeral. Young as she was, Carla had sensed the tension between her mother, Josette and her grandfather both in the church and back at the villa for the wake. It had been the only time during her childhood Carla had seen her aunt. When her grandfather had died a year later, Amelia had gone to France alone, leaving Carla at home with her father for five days.

  ‘She mixes with the wrong sort and moves around a lot,’ had been her mother’s excuse when a teenage Carla had asked why they didn’t see Josette. But the year Carla was due to go to Paris with the college, a Christmas card arrived with a Parisian address, a telephone number and a scrawled message: Living in the City of Light for a while. Secretly, Carla copied the contact details. And daringly rang her aunt.

  For two hours, they’d sat and chatted in a small cafe on the Left Bank. Josette interested in Carla’s life, deflecting questions about her own. When Carla had asked if they could keep in regular touch, Josette replied it was best to leave things as they were – but any emergency and she’d be there to help if she could. She’d told Carla not to forget that she travelled a lot in her freelance photography job so couldn’t promise to always be available.

  Down the years, Carla had contacted her at different times hoping to chat, but Josette had always been strictly impassive. ‘Not an emergency is it?’ she’d ask and the conversation would stall.

  Well, now she had a crisis and, thankfully, Josette had taken her in, although admittedly Carla had given her little choice.

  ‘We’ll eat supper out tonight,’ Josette said, returning to the courtyard and shrugging herself into an ancient linen jacket. ‘Nothing fancy,’ she added. ‘Place in the market does good pasta.’

  When they got to the market, restaurants lining the pedestrian side of the market had placed tables and chairs where, earlier, trestles piled with fruit and vegetables had stood.

  Josette ignored the restaurant tables without cloths and offering cheap plastic chairs, making straight for a restaurant where the tables were covered with pink and white checked cloths and the chairs had comfortable woven cane seats.

  ‘Bonsoir, Josette,’ the patron said, kissing her cheek before shaking Carla’s hand in welcome as Josette introduced her. ‘Ça va?’

  A carafe of house red appeared on the table, as Josette looked at the menu before ordering carbonara. Carla ordered a salad Niçoise.

  ‘You don’t like pasta?’ Josette asked.

  ‘I just don’t fancy it tonight,’ Carla said. ‘A salad will be fine. I’m not very hungry.’ She picked up her glass, already filled by an attentive waiter, and looked at Josette. ‘David’s got a mistress,’ she said. ‘Again.’

  ‘So, find yourself a lover,’ Josette replied.

  Stunned, Carla laughed. ‘If only it was that easy.’

  ‘It is.’

  Carla shook her head. ‘Haven’t got the energy to fight tit for tat. Waste of time too, I think.’

  ‘Having good sex is never a waste of time,’ Josette said. ‘Mind you, it has to be good sex. Merci,’ she addressed the young waiter placing their cutlery and the bread basket on the table. ‘Wham bam and thank you mam does not constitute good sex however desperate you are. I learnt that a long time ago.’ She picked a piece of baguette out of the basket before saying, ‘Maybe we can find you a French lover while you’re here.’

  ‘I can’t believe we’re having this conversation,’ Carla said. ‘I didn’t come for advice about my sex life.’

  ‘What did you come for?’

  Carla swirled the wine in her glass round and round for several minutes before looking up at Josette.

  ‘I told you, to learn about the French family and I needed to get away. Coming here seemed as good an option as any. But if it’s a problem, I’ll find a hotel tomorrow.’

  Josette shrugged. ‘Up to you. Just don’t expect me to behave like your average aunt dispensing good advice. Never been my thing and I’m too old to change now. Plus de vin?’ she asked, picking up the carafe.

  Carl
a lay on the bed in the small guest room at the back of the house, staring up at the ceiling, her body tired but incapable of overruling her active mind and sleeping. What was she doing here? Her problem might now be a thousand miles away, but it still existed.

  She glanced at her watch. Ten o’clock in the UK. Had David read the cryptic note she’d left propped against the coffee machine telling him she was going away for a few days, to think things through? Or was he out with his lover?

  Maybe she should have stayed, patiently ridden out the storm and taken him back when the affair ended, as it would, she had no doubt, in about six months. Heavens, it was their silver wedding next year. How could they not celebrate that together?

  Instead, she’d run away within twenty-four hours of learning about the affair, telling no one where she was going. As the plane had flown southwards high above France, the unexpected sense of delicious freedom that had engulfed her as she’d obtained the last available seat on the flight had evaporated, leaving a drowning sense of despair in its place.

  She closed her eyes. What had she hoped to gain by coming here? By conveniently running away, she’d inadvertently given David the freedom to engineer more adulterous meetings with this Lisa, whoever she was. More time to see a lawyer. Get things organised in his favour.

  Dammit, she wasn’t some deluded little woman, clinging to her man, no matter what he subjected her to. But of all the things she’d been expecting to happen in the rest of her life, leaving David wasn’t one of them. That wasn’t what she’d anticipated at all. She didn’t know if she was strong enough to survive on her own, even as the magazines kept telling her it was technically her time.

  She’d coped with his affairs before, making a scene over only one of them in the early days when he’d complained of feeling neglected when the twins were newborn. Hurt and humiliated, she’d decided to stay to give the children a secure childhood. Later, his redundancy and the setting up of his own advertising business had made finances tight and divorce too expensive an option – there would have been nothing to divide between them. The house, mortgaged to the hilt and signed over as security for the business, certainly wouldn’t have raised enough money to provide her and the children with a home.