A French Affair (26 page)

‘I am sure you are right,' Daniella said. ‘And my brother, he is perhaps not always as attentive as he should be, but that is like most men,
non
?'

At that Jessica had to laugh, for Luc always seemed very attentive to her, and it was hard to imagine Claude as anything other when he clearly adored his beautiful wife. However, she had to concede that once in Paris with his music and musicians, Claude was most likely as single-minded as every other conductor she'd met. And as for Luc, it would surely be the same with him: once engrossed in his art he would be oblivious to the rest of the world, for that was always the case with creative people. In fact, Charlie was no different, for though his talents were perhaps not quite so esoteric, he was no less blessed with the male gift for closing down every other compartment of his mind to focus fully on the task at hand when required.

‘The studio,' Daniella declared, reminding them why they'd come.

Jessica put the photograph down while Daniella went in search of a key.

‘
Zut
, I cannot see it,' Daniella said, riffling about in a drawer. ‘Normally he leaves it here, but maybe the door to his studio is open.'

Jessica watched her walk across the room.

‘No, it is locked,' Daniella said, turning the handle. ‘I think he must be worried the twins will come in while he is away. They will be very likely to add
un petit morceau
to his work, so he is wise to take a precaution. So,' she said, smiling brightly, ‘I am sorry, we cannot go in there today, but I am sure Luc will be happy to take you in himself, when he returns.'

Thinking perhaps she'd prefer to go in when Luc was there to show her around, Jessica led the way back to the house and stayed to help Daniella clear up before strolling back down to the cottage.

Later that evening, as she walked through the
lusciously overburdened rows of vines, touching the softening skins of the grapes and trailing her fingers lightly over the rugged leaves, she was wondering whether or not to tell Charlie about the conversation she'd had with Fernand and Daniella at lunch. To her mind Veronica and Natalie's proposed visit to the village café virtually confirmed that someone else had been at the cottage that day, since her mother was the last person to take a walk in the rain when she was likely to be seen at the end of it – it would spoil her hair, or streak her mascara. Yet apparently they had walked in the rain – or so her mother had claimed at the time – but not to the café for lunch, since it had been too early for that. So where might they have walked to that morning? And what had happened to change their plans to go to the château, since the call Elodie had made to Natalie suggested at least a casual arrangement to get together that day? Had her mother and Natalie met someone while out walking who'd they'd taken back to the cottage with them? Someone with a car who was then going to take them to the café for lunch?

It wasn't piecing together well, and with so much doubt and suspicion making her restless and anxious she decided not to mention anything to Charlie, at least for tonight. Instead, she would ring around the local taxi firms in the morning to find out if her mother had made a booking for that morning. If nothing transpired from that, she'd add this new information to her notes and wait to see if it merged or conflicted with anything else she managed to find out over the next couple of weeks.

‘Hello? Mr Keane?' Charlie said into his mobile.

‘Yes. Mr Moore. I recognise your voice. What can I do for you?'

‘I was hoping you might have a number for my mother-in-law in Italy.'

‘Capri,' Keane corrected. ‘Yes, indeed I do. I'll get it for you.'

Appreciating the man's tact in not commenting on the fact that he had the number while Veronica's family didn't, Charlie waited for him to come back on the line, then after jotting the number down he said, ‘I probably should have done this before, but thank you for getting in touch when she disappeared. We might not have known otherwise.'

‘Oh, don't mention it,' Keane responded. ‘What matters is that everything's fine now.'

‘Yes indeed,' Charlie murmured, and after ringing off he sat for a moment wondering how much Veronica might have confided in her neighbour. In the end, accepting that it was impossible to tell without asking, he put it out of his mind and dialled the number in Capri.

To his surprise Veronica herself answered on the fourth ring.

‘Charlie? Is that you, darling?' she cried, clearly surprised and delighted to hear him, though she sounded slightly sleepy, he thought, or maybe she'd been drinking. ‘What a treat. How are you?'

‘More to the point, how are you?' he countered.

‘You got my letter? Yes, of course, or you wouldn't be calling. I expect my neighbour, Rufus, gave you the number here, did he? I said he could, if you asked for it.'

‘We've been worried about you,' Charlie told her. ‘First you disappear, then you send a letter telling us you're in hospital . . . You should have called, Veronica. You know we're here for you.'

‘You might be, darling, but I don't think Jessica is or
she'd be the one ringing me now. Did you give her my letter? No, of course not. I knew you wouldn't, and I'm sure it's the right decision, but you do understand why I had to write it?'

Not at all sure that he did, Charlie said, ‘Jessica's in France. She's gone back to the cottage.'

Veronica fell silent.

‘Are you still there?'

‘Yes, I'm here. You have to tell her, Charlie. It was an accident . . .'

‘But she won't see it like that.'

‘She has to,' Veronica insisted. Then, sounding more troubled than ever, ‘The doctor told me I should avoid any kind of stress, and now all this is catching up with me again . . .'

‘I'm sorry, but I had to call. Jessica wants to be sure you're all right.'

‘She cares?'

‘Of course. She's still angry, I won't deny that, but you're her mother . . .'

‘She's never put much store by that. She hates me, you know, and I hate myself now. I shouldn't have allowed myself . . .'

‘If you're to avoid stress I think we should change the subject,' he broke in, unable to bear even the thought of her going into any kind of detail. ‘How long are you staying on Capri?'

‘We haven't decided yet. Maurice is being such a sweetie. We might stay the whole summer, if we can. It all rather depends on . . . Well, a number of things. Oh dear, I feel very upset to think of Jessica being back in France . . .'

‘You still haven't told me why you collapsed,' he interrupted.

‘Oh, it was nothing, really.'

‘They don't keep people in hospital for a week or more for nothing.'

‘They were running tests and that sort of thing. They'd have let me out sooner if there hadn't been a mix-up over some of the results, but it was all straightened out when Maurice got strict with them, and after that he was allowed to take me home.'

‘Where is he now?'

‘Poodling about on his boat somewhere. He'll be back soon.'

‘Well make sure he has my number in case you decide to collapse on us again.'

‘I will, but you're not to worry. I'm on top form now, or I will be after our little holiday. I should ring off now though, darling. You won't mind, will you?'

As he put the phone down Charlie felt such a weight in his chest that he was unable to move. He continued to sit at the wheel of his car, thinking of how neither of them had mentioned Natalie, or any of the details contained in the letter to Jessica. His eyes closed as though to block the images as they came crowding back in, but the darkness only made them seem more vivid and even more terrible than they actually were. Just thank God there was nothing at the cottage for Jessica to find, and no-one who could tell her what had happened either. Fernand's family clearly had no idea of the truth, or one of them at least would surely have spoken up by now.

OVER THE WEEKEND
the valley became hotter and sultrier than ever, so that by Sunday afternoon even the thick stone walls of the cottage seemed to be sweltering in the heat, while in the distance the village clock chimed the hour so slowly and languidly it was as though it might not gather the momentum to reach five.

Jessica had spent much of the time either walking in the woods, or cycling through the sun-drenched countryside, or, when it became too hot to go outside, immersed in research for Jeanne and Modi's story. She'd never imagined she could be so contented spending so much time alone, though she knew in her heart it was the gentle connection she was feeling to Natalie that was really helping her to feel at peace. Being away from the others, not always having to put their grief first, or hide her own, she could speak to Natalie in her mind as often as she liked, telling her how sorry she was that she'd let this happen, and asking her over and over why she'd been afraid that day. What had happened to make her call in a panic?
How had she really come to fall down the stairs? Was it true she'd tripped over a pile of newspapers, or was there more to it? Of course she never received any answers, nor did she expect to from that silent quarter, but her mother, she was certain now, had much more to tell.

Though she'd played tennis at Daniella's on Saturday evening, and stayed on for dinner, any hope she'd had of seeing Luc, who'd returned from Paris earlier in the day, came to nothing when Daniella told her he was taking Fernand to an informal gathering of the
Chevaliers de Tastevin
at a hotel near Pouilly-Fuissé. But there was no rush. They would catch up with one another soon enough, and if the truth were told she was more nervous about seeing him than anyone else, for in his way, he was her last link to Natalie.

Having spent most of Sunday immersed in the gaiety and romance of the belle époque in preparation for her book, she was still feeling enchanted by the images of saucy mistresses and struggling artists, as she rested her chin in her hand to stare out through the open French doors to the dazzling light around the vines. Apart from the copious notes she was making she had, as yet, to put pen to paper concerning Jeanne and Modi's tragic romance, but fortunately the book wasn't due to be delivered until the following July so she was free to indulge herself in as much reverie as she liked for now.

So she remained lost in the colourful surroundings of the Bateau-Lavoir where Matisse, Braque, Picasso and Modigliani had rented studios for meagre sums and created works that were now worth tens of millions. Finally, around six, she went to take a bottle of chilled Macon-Valennes from the cooler, and after
pouring herself a glass she wandered outside. The sun was still blisteringly hot, and the air so thick and moist it wasn't easy to breathe. For a while she stood sipping her wine and watching tiny white butterflies skimming about on their gauzy wings, as she recalled cherished lines of French poems.

and

The fact that she could still love it here so much after what had happened to Natalie both intrigued and confused her, but most of all it pleased her, for it would be unbearable to think that Lilian's home was no longer a place she could visit. To feel such a sense of tranquillity when her mind was hardly at rest must surely mean that nothing was as bad as she feared. Indeed, were it not for the anomalous walk in the rain, she might almost be ready to believe it was all as tragically simple as she'd been told.

Guessing Charlie would be finished in the studio by now, she wandered back inside, but his mobile was still off. After leaving a message she tried Nikki, and had no luck with her either. So she rang Harry, and as she listened to him chattering on she smiled and laughed and wanted nothing more than to squeeze him in her arms and smother him in kisses. However, it was hardly possible, so in the end she had to let him go and the next time she tried Charlie she got straight through.

‘I just picked up your message,' he told her, sounding slightly sharp. ‘Is everything all right?'

‘Of course. Why wouldn't it be?'

‘I don't know, you sounded . . . a bit vague, I suppose.'

‘It's probably the heat – or the fact that I'm wondering if you're avoiding me.'

His tone was genuinely baffled as he said, ‘Unless I'm imagining it we spoke at least twice yesterday, and again first thing this morning, so how is that avoiding you?'

‘If you hadn't rushed off the line each time, it might not have been . . .'

‘Some of us are still working.'

‘OK. Sorry, it wasn't meant to be a criticism, it was just a roundabout way of saying I'm missing you, but clearly I've failed and now I've upset you . . .'

‘I'm not upset,' he assured her, sounding much gentler. ‘And I'm not avoiding you either.'

‘Good, so you have time to tell me now what happened when you spoke to my mother?'

With a sigh he said, ‘Nothing happened, as such. She sounded tired, but she might have been drinking . . .'

‘Did you ask her where she and Natalie walked that morning – in the rain?'

‘No, I didn't. She got quite upset when I told her you were in France, and since the doctor says she has to avoid becoming stressed . . .'

‘Well, how convenient,' Jessica cut in sarcastically. ‘It's perfectly obvious to me that she's lying and now she's hiding behind . . .'

‘Darling, people go out in the rain all the time, even your mother . . .'

‘How do you know they went out? Did anyone see
them? Were there wet coats or muddy boots at the house?'

‘As far as I'm aware, yes there were, but what the hell difference does it make now, if they went out or not?'