A French Affair (33 page)

‘In English they would say I'm psyching myself up,' Luc informed him, apparently having heard. ‘Jessica has agreed to sit for me,' he added.

Fernand's eyebrows rose. ‘You feel safe to put your beauty in his hands?' he enquired.

Jessica gave a splutter of laughter. ‘I am relying on him to turn me into a veritable goddess,' she declared.

The light in Luc's eyes showed that her reminder wasn't lost on him.

‘It is more likely he will turn you into an electric plug or a carrot,' Fernand informed her. ‘He has created
some very lovely things in the past, but lately he sees things in very strange ways. Not at all as they are – I think this is because he no longer knows how to create the realism.'

Luc was laughing. ‘When have I ever turned a person into something abstract?' he challenged. ‘Unless they have asked me to.'

‘You made Rousseau look like a
cornichon
,' Fernand retorted, with a wink at Jessica. ‘How can you make a dog look like a
cornichon
?'

‘A gherkin!' Jessica cried.

‘That wasn't Rousseau, it was you,' Luc responded, taking a mouthful of food.

Fernand's eyes widened, then realising he was being baited he started to chuckle.

‘Which reminds me,' Luc went on, ‘where is my dog? No, don't tell me, he's decamped to the château again. Are they bringing him back tonight?'

‘Oh, I am sure they will. The children do not like to leave him at home on his own. How is their sculpture coming along, by the way?
Oh là là
,' he suddenly exclaimed. ‘I am very sorry, but I take a message from the foundry earlier. I think there is no big problem, but they would like you to call them back.'

Luc checked his watch. ‘They're still at lunch in Italy,' he said, ‘so I'll call in an hour. Will you take some more wine?' he said to Jessica, reaching for the bottle.

She gave it a moment's thought. ‘Well, I guess that depends on the pose you want me to strike,' she replied. ‘If I have to lie down, any more wine will send me to sleep. If I'm to stand I'll probably sway . . .' She started to laugh as he poured. ‘So are you intending to send me to sleep or to watch me roll around like a drunk?' she wanted to know.

‘You will have to wait to find out,' he told her, and saluting her with his glass he drank.

An hour later he led her into his studio, a vast, airy space with cool stone walls, a dusty concrete floor and high vaulted ceilings. Though it wasn't the first time she'd been in here, much about it had changed in the past few months, such as the skylights in the roof, and the new mezzanine and staircase constructed from bare pine boards at the far end of the room. Most of all, though, the sculptures themselves were different, for he'd long finished those he'd been working on the last time Lilian had showed her around. Now there were abstracts both large and small, grand-looking armatures, some of only bare wire, another half-covered in clay. A number of moulds labelled in black ink were stacked haphazardly in a corner, while all manner of tools, terracotta slabs, plaster sacks, lumps of marble and granite, as well as a small crane and an air compressor, were lying all about the place.

‘So,' she said, turning to find him setting up ready to work, ‘I'm bracing myself for instruction.'

Though he laughed at her choice of words, his attention was clearly more focused on the armature of bunched newspaper and wire that he was positioning on the sculptor's horse – a turntable atop a tripod – as he said, ‘The way I see you . . . the impression you're always giving me, is that you are in transition – moving from one phase of your life to another.'

She felt surprised and even slightly unsettled by how easily he'd put her feelings into words. And then she was fascinated to know how he was going to capture it.

‘There is a bench there,' he said, nodding towards it. ‘If you set it lengthways to me, and sit astride it . . .'

She did as she was told, glad she was wearing shorts and not a skirt, then awaited further instruction.

‘
C'est bon,
' he said, though whether he was referring to her position or the armature was hard to tell. ‘Now, if you put your hands in front of you,' he said, ‘pressing them into the bench as though you are about to get up . . .
Oui, c'est ça
.
Très bien,
but only lift yourself a little, and raise your chin so that your neck is stretched.
Oui, oui. C'est impeccable.
Now turn your head very slightly to the left, because I think your best profile is the right one. Mm,' he responded. ‘
Si
. This is the image I will create.'

She looked at him in astonishment. ‘You want me to hold this position for an
hour
?' she demanded. ‘I'm struggling already.'

He started to laugh.

Her eyes narrowed.

‘I accept it is a difficult position to hold,' he said, ‘so I will take some photographs, very quickly, then you can relax. But that doesn't mean you can leave. You must stay sitting there, so that I can measure you and look at you as I begin to work.'

After retrieving a camera from the next room he began shooting her from all angles, many of which she'd probably prefer no-one ever to see, especially him. He clearly had no intention of looking at them now, however, for when he'd finished he set the camera aside, and began laying several large plain sheets of paper on the workbench next to him. ‘Now I will measure you,' he told her.

Knowing how vital this was to the process she sat very still on the bench, looking up to the light as he took first the length, then the width of her face, to create the all-important T. After a while she found
herself inhaling the warm, masculine scent of him each time he came close, and almost straining towards the calipers in anticipation of their touch. She loved the tingling sensation of them grazing her skin, and felt deprived when they didn't quite connect. Her breath became shallow and her eyes fluttered closed as they gently pricked the corners of her mouth, then her eyelids, then the length of her brows.

She watched him going back and forth, eyeing her critically, making his notes, and then returning to measure some more. He seemed almost oblivious to her as a woman, and completely unaware of how, every time the calipers touched her, she responded somewhere deep inside to the tiny showers of sensation.

Finally he began moulding the clay, standing in front of it, swivelling the platform from time to time, frequently glancing at her, while using his thumbs and his fingers to start recreating her.

She wasn't entirely sure when his frown turned from one of concentration to something much darker, it was just there, and growing blacker all the time, until finally he threw out his hands in frustration.

‘
C'est une perte de temps
,' he growled, glowering at his efforts so far. ‘
Ce n'est pas ici. Que se passe-t-il? Mes mains ressemblent à des choux-fleurs
.' What is happening? My hands are like cauliflowers.

Unable to stop herself, she started to laugh.

His eyes came to hers. ‘You think this is funny?' he challenged, clearly trying not to laugh himself.

‘No, not at all,' she assured him, but the quivering of her lips was giving her away. ‘I'm sorry, it's just . . .'

‘Yes, it is just what?' he demanded, his eyes belying the harshness of his tone, but underneath it all he was
angry, she could tell, though presumably with himself, not with her.

‘Nothing,' she said, knowing she couldn't even begin to explain her happiness when it had no real logic.

‘OK, I think maybe that is enough for today,' he said, picking up a rag to wipe his hands. ‘I hope I have not scared you with my temper and you will come again tomorrow at the same time.'

‘I'm terrified of your temper,' she told him, ‘and I will see you before that, at dinner.'

He seemed baffled for a moment, then remembering he said, ‘Ah yes. You will enjoy the wine – and Daniella's friends are very interesting people.'

Their eyes met as they smiled, then she turned away, glad to be leaving now, because it just seemed right that she should.

BY THE TIME
she returned to the cottage Jessica was struggling to hold onto her good mood, but it was hard, for even as she dialled Charlie's number she was aware of how afraid she was of falling out with him again. However, if it was going to happen it luckily wouldn't be right away, as her call was diverted straight to his voicemail.

‘Hi, darling,' she said affectionately, ‘just wondering how you are, and if you've managed . . .' Realising any mention of her mother was likely to annoy him, she quickly altered what she'd been about to say, and continued with, ‘to speak to Harry today. He seemed a bit homesick when I called him this morning, so I wondered if he sounded the same to you. Anyway, give me a call when you can – and sorry about waking you this morning. Love you.'

Not sure how she felt about having to tread so carefully around him for fear of being snapped at or told she was insensitive to his feelings, she rang off and gave a deep, shuddering sigh. She guessed the important thing was that they didn't keep arguing
over nothing, and maybe it would help if she stopped telling him about her meetings with the officials. After all, he'd gone through the horror of it once before, and to a far greater degree than she had. Maybe she should accept that this was her quest for answers, not his, since he clearly believed he already knew them.

With that thought still in her mind, she began dialling her mother's number in Capri, and to her amazement there was an answer after the fifth ring. ‘Hello?' she said, sounding as uneasy as she felt. She'd been so certain of finding no-one at home that she couldn't quite remember what she intended to say now. ‘Is that Maurice?'

‘Yes,' a male voice replied. ‘Who am I speaking to?'

‘Jessica.'

‘Ah, Jessica.' He sounded genuinely pleased to hear her, and he had no reason not to be, she thought, for unlike most of her mother's conquests she'd always got along very well with Maurice. ‘How are you, my dear?' he asked. ‘I hear you're in France. Is it as hot there as it is here?'

‘Probably,' she answered, grateful to him for not mentioning the reason she was here. ‘I've been trying to get hold of my mother. Is she still with you?'

‘She most certainly is. She's in the pool at the moment, but I'll go and get her.'

‘Before you do that,' Jessica said, ‘tell me, is she all right? I mean, what was the collapse all about?'

‘Oh, she's on fine form,' he assured her warmly. ‘Never looking better, if you ask me. Ronnie, darling, here's Jessica to speak to you.'

Jessica heard the splash of water as her mother climbed out of the pool, then after a muffled exchange with Maurice, Veronica's voice came down the line
saying, ‘Darling, how are you? Charlie said you were trying to get hold of me, but we've been sailing for a few days . . .'

‘You've spoken to Charlie? When?'

‘Maurice, when did Charlie call? It can only have been about an hour ago, can't it? Yes, Maurice is nodding, so about an hour ago.'

‘Did he tell you why I want to speak to you?' Jessica asked, sounding more terse than she'd intended.

‘Yes, I'm afraid he did, but you're not to go shouting at me again, darling. I can't help it if a tourist got lost and stopped to ask the way . . . Of course, I understand that someone should have told you before now, but it was nothing, darling. Really. Nothing at all.'

‘I don't believe you. It's too much of a coincidence. So who was here that day, Mother?'

‘Nobody,' Veronica protested. ‘It was a tourist. Everyone else believes this, the police, Charlie, so why won't you?'

‘Because I know what you're like, and I know the kind of people you mix with.'

‘Oh, Jessica, don't say those things,' Veronica cried. ‘I only ever knew one man like that and he was put in prison for the things he did.'

‘So is he out now? Have you started finding girls for him again?'

Veronica gasped. ‘Jessica, I never in my life did anything like that and you know it. I might have my faults, but . . .'

‘Then tell me who carried Natalie to the sofa.'

Veronica fell silent.

‘Who carried her?' Jessica shouted. ‘You couldn't have done it . . .'

‘I'm trying to think,' Veronica wailed. ‘It was all so
terrible, and . . . It must have been the paramedic person . . . It can only have been him, but I don't remember it happening . . .'

‘How can you not remember someone picking her up? It doesn't make any sense.'

‘I'm sorry. I'm trying my best . . . We were all so upset . . .'

‘We?' Jessica exclaimed, pouncing on it. ‘Who's we?'

‘Oh you're twisting everything I'm saying. I mean all of us who were there. Me, the paramedics, and the police . . .' She broke off and a moment later Maurice's voice came gently down the line.

‘Jessica, I'm sorry,' he said, ‘but I can't allow you to go on upsetting your mother like this. I understand – we both do – how difficult this has been for you, but it hasn't been easy for her either. She was Natalie's grandmother, she loved her very much, so you can't believe she would let any harm come to her.'

‘But it did,' Jessica cried, her voice shrill with pain.

‘It was an accident,' Maurice replied quietly. ‘A terrible one, that should never have happened, it's true, but it did, and to keep going back over it like this is helping no-one, least of all you. Now, your mother's told you everything that happened, I believe she's even written it in a letter . . .'

‘What letter? I haven't received a letter.'