Silent Faces, Painted Ghosts Page 10

  ‘What do you think of Terri?’ he asked suddenly, unsure where the question had come from but dimly aware that she was often on his mind. Sami, he knew, saw everything. He never volunteered an opinion unless asked but could be a wise old bird at times.

  Sami hesitated as if considering all the possible meanings of the question.

  ‘Miss Terri takes her work very seriously,’ he said, flicking Peter a glance before looking away again. He rubbed one spindly index finger at a mark on the knee of his trousers.

  ‘Ye-es,’ said Peter dryly. ‘Don’t I know it.’ In the studio he was always aware of her presence; she seemed impossible to ignore. In the house she was more elusive. He occasionally saw her flitting through like some sort of sprite, reluctant to be pinned down. They rarely exchanged more than a few words. ‘Does she go out? I mean, has she made any friends?’

  Sami looked up to the distant rafters as if watching a film of Terri’s movements.

  ‘She sometimes goes out,’ he said slowly. ‘She went out with Miss Lindsey the other day.’

  ‘Oh? Well that’s good, I suppose.’

  Sami tipped back the remains of his coffee and carefully placed the mug down. ‘I’ve seen her talking to Corinne,’ he added.

  Peter frowned. ‘What about?’

  ‘I think she practises her French.’

  Peter grunted and let it drop. What Terri did outside her working hours was no concern of his. He finished his coffee and got stiffly to his feet. When they had moved all the paintings, Sami eased himself back down the ladder again, the dusty hessian cloth balanced on one bony shoulder, and carried the ladder back to the wall where he had found it.

  Alone again, Peter started to look through the paintings. There were pictures there which dated back to the fifties and his first professional offerings. He cringed at some of the canvases with their immature technique and predictable compositions. And it was draining too, working his way through them all. As he looked at them, images came back into his mind, of people long forgotten or even dead. He came across a landscape, a view across the valley from the top of the hill, with the house – still an L-shaped tumbledown farmhouse – partly showing in the foreground. It was not dated but he remembered it vividly. He and Madeleine had been married just a year or two. He recalled painting it, standing up on the hill with his easel, urged by Madeleine to do the whole thing outside ‘with the wind in his face’. He smiled at the memory. She occasionally, silently, came to stand behind him, putting a hand on his shoulder and checking to see how it was going. She had loved this picture. Why? He could point out a million faults with it. But of course she had loved it for its association. And he supposed he’d kept it for the same reason: or perhaps because she’d loved it. Otherwise he would have destroyed it when he’d burnt the others.

  He picked through the last of the paintings and then sat down, exhausted. He was relieved and yet a little disappointed. There was nothing there that he needed to keep from Terri’s probing hand. With all the time that had passed, he could not now remember which paintings he had destroyed and which he had decided to keep. He had done it in a rush of emotion, desperate to put everything behind him. Perhaps he had been too rash and there were some which he should have kept, but nothing would bring them back now. It was a blessing that he’d never destroyed the portrait of Madeleine which hung in the sitting room. Even so he sometimes wondered that he kept it on the wall, a bittersweet and taunting memento, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to take it down.

  He got up and wearily stretched. It was lunchtime but he had no great hunger and Angela had said that she was going out for the day. If he was going to sit alone he would prefer to do it here than in the house. He walked into his office, stretched out on the day bed and was asleep within minutes, twitching occasionally and mouthing names in his dreams.

  Chapter 8

  Terri smoothed skin cream into her face, staring once more at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Did she look like Madeleine? The almond shape of her eyes was definitely the same but little else. Madeleine’s face had been heart-shaped and her eyes sepia brown; Terri’s face was elfin, her narrow, straight nose making her dark grey eyes appear disproportionately larger and closer together. When serious, she thought it gave her an intense, almost puzzled look, odd. She had been teased about it at school. So who did she look like? Her father? No. Her mother? She couldn’t remember. When she was six, her mother had disappeared out of her life like a conjuror’s assistant evaporates from the magician’s box. One day she had been there; the next she had gone. ‘She won’t be coming back, Terri. You must be strong,’ her father had said, she wasn’t sure how much later. Her mother was a shadowy figure and her memories of her early childhood had long since been stacked away, little more than wisps and snatches of conversations which danced away from her whenever she tried to bring them close.

  She put the tub of cream to one side and began to apply mascara. Finding the portrait of the little boy had both intrigued and unsettled her. It still stood at the back of her office, wrapped up and out of sight. She had found its entry in the appropriate notebook but all it had provided was a name: Tom. And going through a notebook for 1975 a few days later, she had found one of the sheets torn out. Elsewhere in the books, when Peter had abandoned a painting or disliked its final appearance, he had scribbled it on the entry. So why had the record of a completed painting been removed? In a time-consuming and increasingly obsessive chase, she had searched through the other notebooks and found three other sheets similarly torn from the spines, all from the years up to 1976. Had they all been paintings of Tom? Had Peter’s grief been such that he’d felt compelled to destroy every picture of the boy? But surely it would have been more normal to have cherished the pictures of his only son? And the missing notebook for 1973 had never turned up which began to seem suspicious. What had it contained? Perhaps the whole thing had been destroyed. Several times she had thought of trying to broach the subject with Peter; every time she had abandoned it. But all the secrecy and silence was unnatural. What had happened to Tom?

  She finished with the mascara and put a brush through her hair. Her mind wouldn’t leave the subject alone. And Celia’s bizarre behaviour only added to the jumble of her thoughts: those questions about her mother and the astonishing suggestion that the Stedding family were known to her. Clearly, Celia wanted to believe that Terri was related to Madeleine in some way, presumably through her mother. But that was impossible. Well, unlikely for, in truth, Terri knew next to nothing about her mother’s family. She felt a rush of anger and dropped the brush down roughly on the shelf. After all these years, she was not going to start thinking about her mother now. It was all nonsense and she didn’t care anyway. Angela was right: Celia just delighted in stirring people up.

  Even so, a few minutes later she was glancing at Madeleine’s portrait again as she cut through the sitting room to the hall. Earlier that week, Angela had pointedly commented on how often she had seen Terri looking at the picture. ‘Is it particularly special in some way?’ she’d asked dryly. Terri had passed the question off, commented on the pose and the handling of the paint, but Angela had looked unconvinced, her easy charm evaporated. Studying Terri with shrewd, penetrating eyes, she’d smiled coolly and walked away. Terri guessed she had crossed some invisible line of acceptable behaviour, a demarcation of a house rule.

  Now she shrugged it away from her. It was Saturday morning and she had to go into the village to collect her car from the garage.

  *

  There was a woman walking by the side of the tree-lined road and a car coming the other way. Even without a pedestrian, the winding road to Ste. Marguerite barely allowed two cars to pass. Luc slammed on the brake, tucking in behind the woman and crawling in second gear, tapping the steering wheel impatiently. He saw her glance back as the oncoming car went past and belatedly realised it was Terri. He’d been miles away. He drew the car to a halt a few yards beyond her, flinging open the passenger door. A couple
of minutes later, she got in.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said in a pinched voice. Her face was abnormally pale and her hand shook as she pulled the door closed.

  ‘Are you all right?’ He put the car into first and they moved off.

  ‘Yes, fine.’

  ‘Going into Ste. Marguerite?’

  ‘Yes. My car’s in the garage. I’m going to pick it up.’

  He glanced across at her. ‘Are you sure you’re all right? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I’m absolutely fine.’ She glanced across at him, almost nervously. ‘It’s just...some guy stopped his car and pestered me. He rattled me.’

  ‘You should have gone through the wood.’

  ‘I thought I might get lost.’

  ‘You didn’t need to worry. The main path’s pretty obvious.’

  Terri stayed unnaturally silent. A few minutes later Luc took the turning into the village. ‘Shall I take you to the garage?’

  ‘I’m going to do some shopping first. Wherever’s convenient for you.’

  ‘D’accord.’

  Ste. Marguerite des Pins was a village of two parts. The original, old settlement stretched up the hill with, at its highest point, a small square dominated by a solid Romanesque church. Three winding streets, lined with houses and tiny boutique shops, led off the square and tumbled down the hillside. More houses and a range of modern retail and service units had been developed on the level ground below.

  Luc parked the car at the side of one of the hillside streets and turned off the engine.

  ‘Thanks for the lift.’ Terri reached for the door handle.

  ‘Let me buy you coffee,’ Luc said, turning to face her.

  ‘No, I don’t th...’

  ‘Just coffee,’ he pressed. ‘Don’t always make such a big deal out of everything.’

  She stared ahead of her for a silent moment then acquiesced with a brief smile. ‘OK. Thanks.’

  Luc led the way up the road to a café where they sat at a terrace table and ordered two cafés crèmes. For several minutes neither spoke. He noticed Terri glancing round then slowly relaxing back in the chair.

  ‘Remember that nude which you admired so much?’ she remarked.

  ‘Of course. You were sarcastic about my appreciation of it as I recall.’

  ‘I was sceptical.’

  ‘It sounded like sarcasm from where I stood.’

  ‘Oh dear, were you terribly wounded?’

  ‘I’m used to you. I’ll survive. So what about it?’

  ‘It’s a painting of Angela in her twenties.’

  ‘Angela? Really?’ He pulled a face. ‘I’m surprised. I’ve hardly ever seen her come anywhere near the studio. She was very striking.’

  ‘She still is.’ The waiter brought the drinks and they waited until he’d gone.

  ‘I imagine Peter won’t put it in the exhibition then,’ said Luc. ‘Shame. It’s really good.’

  ‘He said it was up to Angela.’

  ‘Have you asked her?’

  ‘Yes. She said we could use it. She seemed quite proud of it, actually.’

  ‘Interesting.’ They drank for a moment in silence, then Luc saw Lindsey across the street and raised his hand to wave. Terri turned her head to see who it was and Lindsey waved a second time before moving on.

  ‘Oh great,’ she complained, ‘now she’ll be convinced that we’re an item.’

  ‘What, because we’re having coffee together? Anyway, so what if she does?’

  ‘You were the one who warned me about her. And she’s already guessed we knew each other before; she’s been asking about you.’ Terri paused, studying him with suspicious eyes. ‘Unless you’ve already told her about us?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’ve said nothing. Why? What did she say?’

  ‘She just asked, that’s all.’

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘That we met at a Preview. That’s all.’

  ‘Ah.’

  Luc drank a slow mouthful of coffee and replaced the cup carefully on the saucer.

  ‘Lindsey tells me that Celia caused a scene at Angela’s last party,’ he said, ‘...and it was all about you.’

  ‘Did she, indeed? And how did she come to tell you that? Over a cosy piano lesson?’

  Luc raised his eyebrows. ‘Tiens, that sounded suspiciously like jealousy.’

  ‘Oh please.’

  ‘So is it true?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That your eyes are like Madeleine’s and Celia thinks you’re related.’ He leaned closer, studying her eyes till she flushed. ‘Are you related?’

  ‘No, of course not. Don’t be ridiculous.’ Terri sat back, purposefully looking away across the square.

  ‘Is it ridiculous? Stranger things have happened. Some long lost relation of Madeleine’s, perhaps? Do you have a French connection in the family?’

  Terri shook her head firmly. ‘No.’

  ‘What did Peter say about it?’

  ‘He wasn’t there.’

  ‘No, of course not. He doesn’t like Angela’s parties.’ Luc looked thoughtful. ‘It’d be interesting to know though, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘Oh for goodness sake Luc, drop it,’ said Terri impatiently. ‘Lindsey said Celia’s always coming out with this sort of thing, but of course you think it would make a good story.’

  Luc’s lips compressed in annoyance.

  ‘I thought you’d be interested yourself.’

  ‘Well, I’m not. Celia gives me the creeps.’ She let out a slow breath, shaking her head. ‘I’m sorry Luc. That was unfair. I overreacted. I’m still a bit uptight after, you know...’

  ‘Forget it.’

  He finished his coffee, aware that Terri’s eyes were on him.

  ‘So how’s the “not-smoking” going?’ she asked lightly.

  He frowned. ‘OK.’ He glanced towards a couple of young women who were both smoking at a table further along the terrace. ‘Except when I can smell cigarette smoke.’ His gaze lingered on them wistfully.

  ‘I’m sure it’ll get easier.’

  Luc looked back at her and they both smiled. For a moment she looked as if she wanted to say something else, but then she looked away and drank the last of her coffee instead. A few minutes later they had gone their separate ways and he headed for the newsagent’s, wondering what was bothering her and why she was so touchy about her family. But she had always been reticent and defensive; if he was going to draw her out, he would need to tread softly.

  *

  On the Monday morning, Terri’s phone rang within minutes of her arrival in the office; the owner of one of Peter’s portraits had finally returned her call. Logging onto the internet shortly after, she found an email from Sophie who wrote at length about Stuart and how well they were getting on. Apparently she’d been invited to his family home in Hampshire the following weekend to meet his parents. In panic, she’d written:

  I don’t know what to wear!!!

  Then, almost as an afterthought, she’d added:

  By the way, I saw Oliver the other day at a theatre party. He came straight over as if he’d been waiting for me to arrive and asked where you’d gone. I said what you told me to say - that you were touring round Italy, visiting a few places you’ve always wanted to see. I’m not sure he believed me. Fortunately Stuart was with me and he soon gave up. He seemed quite distraught. I think he’s missing you badly. I hope I did the right thing – you still don’t want to see him?

  Terri felt a chill settle on her. Coming so soon after the encounter with the man in the car on the road to Ste. Marguerite – at first glance he had looked strikingly, frighteningly, like Oliver - it was as if she’d conjured him up with her wild imagination. She quickly answered: no, she did not want to see Oliver again, thanking Sophie for the lie and apologising for putting her in such an awkward position. She toyed with finally explaining about Oliver’s behaviour but wrote instead how pleased she was about Stuart; that work was goin
g fine; that the weather was getting warm and how great it was to be able to go for a swim in the pool after work. She pressed send and sat staring into space.

  A few minutes later, in an effort to clear her mind, she got up and wandered across the studio to the kitchen, made four coffees, put them on a tray and took them back into the studio. She put one by Luc who was applying gesso to a succession of canvases and left one with Nicole. Then she approached Peter. The painting of Laurent Valdeau had been put on one side to dry and he had a portrait of a young woman on his easel. Terri watched him apply a couple of delicate brush strokes to the woman’s lower lip. He dropped his arm and turned, fixing her with a hard, expectant look over the top of his shallow lenses. She put the coffee down at a safe distance from his paints and returned his gaze.

  ‘I’ve tracked down ‘The Boy with Olive Eyes’ - the one you wanted for the exhibition,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, I know. And?’

  ‘It’s in Monaco and the owner, a Frenchman called Pierre Marineau, is prepared to loan it to the exhibition. He’s thinking of selling it apparently and thinks the publicity will put the price up.’

  ‘Oh does he?’ Peter grunted. ‘A true lover of art then, our Monsieur Marineau.’

  He turned away and added more medium to the rosy colour on his palette until the pigment swam in an oily suspension.

  ‘There’s hardly any colour in that,’ she remarked.