Silent Faces, Painted Ghosts Read online

  Mention of Peter’s painting had Terri automatically looking up at the portrait again.

  Lindsey followed her gaze and regarded the picture dispassionately. ‘She was supposed to be a bit of a free spirit or something. Hitched to Italy when she was a student and spent the whole trip looking at paintings. I mean, what a waste of a holiday.’ She hesitated, looking across at Terri slyly. ‘You’d probably have got on with her though - you know: another art geek.’

  Terri ignored the pointed dig and studied the painting again, intrigued.

  ‘She certainly had a very animated face,’ she said. ‘Expressive. So did they divorce?’

  ‘No. She died...young. Why do you want to know?’ The aggressive note had quickly returned.

  Terri shrugged. ‘Just curious.’

  ‘It was a long time ago. And it’s nothing to do with me. Anyway I’m not supposed to talk about her.’ Lindsey’s expression was shuttered again, her voice flat. She threw her legs round to put her feet to the floor and lifted her glass, tipping the remaining contents into her mouth before standing up.

  ‘I’d better go,’ she said curtly. ‘I’ve got things to do.’ She paused at the door. ‘Mama doesn’t like me playing the piano with Luc. I’d be grateful if you didn’t tell her.’

  Terri turned in her seat to look at her. ‘Of course. I can’t imagine why I would.’

  Lindsey regarded her gravely, managed a weak smile, then disappeared. Terri heard her footsteps going up the stairs and looked back up at the portrait. Peter’s first wife. She wondered when she had died, and how. Madeleine had looked so vital.

  Her thoughts trailed away and her mind turned to Luc Daumier instead. Lies did not come easily to her but she hadn’t hesitated to tell Lindsey that she didn’t know him. So why was that? It was some years now since she had last seen him. And Luc had pointedly not acknowledged it either, though, given the way they’d parted, perhaps that wasn’t surprising. It seemed that, in the four months he had been working for Peter, he had already established an easy familiarity with the man’s daughter and was happy to visit the house behind her mother’s back.

  Of course it was none of her business, but Terri couldn’t help but wonder why an arts journalist and critic, known for at least one major undercover exposé story and usually based in London and Paris, should be here in Provence, working for Peter Stedding as a lowly studio assistant.

  *

  Peter heard the door shut, heard the recognisable tap of Angela’s shoes approaching across the studio floor, but didn’t shift his gaze from the canvas. It was the Wednesday evening and already nearly half past seven. He was painting a portrait of Laurent Valdeau, a French businessman and philanthropist, and he wanted to finish the underpainting of the man’s arm before the natural light became unusable. At the moment he was having difficulty getting one of the hands just right.

  ‘Peter?’

  He adjusted the lie of a finger and leaned back, looking over his glasses at the picture critically. He leaned forward again and put in another brushstroke.

  ‘Peter? I need to talk to you.’ Angela paused and glanced around. ‘For heaven’s sake, Peter, how can you work in this place? It’s a mess.’

  ‘Not now, Angela,’ he said tersely, ‘I’m busy.’

  ‘You’re always busy. You said you’d be over at seven and I’ve been waiting at the house for you. I was supposed to be going out twenty minutes ago.’

  Peter sighed heavily, put his brush down on the table and turned to look at her over the top of his glasses.

  ‘What is the emergency?’

  ‘Sammy’s dug up my roses. And a friend gave them to me. The man’s driving me mad.’

  ‘Not this again Angela. I don’t suppose he did it intentionally.’

  ‘Well, if he didn’t do it intentionally, he’s inept. He’s supposed to be the gardener for heaven’s sake.’

  ‘Odd job man,’ Peter corrected.

  A late, low beam of sunlight caught the edge of Angela’s head and made her hair glow a soft apricot. When he’d first met her she’d had deep auburn hair, coppery when it caught the light. Ever since then she’d dyed it - highlighting, she called it - but he’d been rather fond of its striking russet tones. Even so she had a good bone structure and was still a very beautiful woman with a fresh clear skin which belied her age. He toyed with how to say it but the words escaped him and the moment passed.

  ‘Anyway he did do it intentionally,’ Angela was saying. ‘He argued with me about putting them in when I asked him to.’

  ‘Sami argued?’

  ‘I know he never argues with you, Peter. He’s not so obliging with everyone else. Anyway, he made it clear he thought it was a bad idea. You know the way he does: rolling his eyes away, getting all shifty and refusing to look at you.’

  ‘So what do you want me to do about it? Perhaps it was a bad idea. Perhaps they didn’t thrive and he got rid of them.’

  ‘Oh nonsense. Why do you always take his side? There was nothing wrong with them. He just didn’t water them enough. Look...’ Angela dragged a wooden chair over to sit in front of him. ‘...it’s time we talked about Sammy.’ A bleeping noise sounded from the pocket of her jacket. She pulled out her phone, glancing at the screen.

  ‘What now?’ said Peter impatiently. He glanced towards the window. ‘The daylight’s going.’

  Angela dropped the phone back in her pocket. ‘I think he’s getting too old for the job.’

  ‘Sami?’

  ‘Yes. I think we should retire him. There are plenty of people looking for work. We could get someone better.’

  Peter slowly removed his glasses and stared into her face. He could feel that familiar tightness developing in the pit of his stomach and tension in the muscles of his jaw.

  ‘Retire him?’ he said guardedly. ‘But he’s only...’ He thought for a moment. ‘...sixty-four.’

  ‘Exactly. He’s too old.’

  ‘Thank you dear,’ said Peter dryly. ‘I hate to think what that makes me.’

  Angela released a tut of frustration, as she so often did. ‘Oh, you know what I mean: to do that job. You’re just painting pictures all day. It’s hardly the same.’

  ‘Just painting pictures? No, hardly.’ Peter turned his eyes back to the painting on the easel and tried to put the issue away from him. He could feel irritation and anger knot in the pit of his stomach but he choked it back; there was no point being sensitive to the way Angela described his work. She’d never made any pretence of the fact that she didn’t understand all the fuss about what he did. And it wasn’t the first time she’d tried to get rid of Sami, but he couldn’t let the man go – for all sorts of reasons, some of which he could barely explain to himself, let alone Angela. ‘We can’t retire Sami yet,’ he said firmly. ‘He’s fit enough for the job. Anyway we don’t have any accommodation for another odd job man.’

  ‘What do you mean? If we sack Sammy he could use the same rooms.’

  ‘No. Sami’s living there. I promised him he could stay there as long as he needed them.’

  ‘Oh really Peter, how could you? You never told me.’

  ‘I believe I did.’

  Peter looked back at Angela and held her gaze. With some exceptions he left her to organise the house as she chose; he didn’t like everything she did up there but he rarely quibbled. It was only fair since he was down in the studio so much and it was Angela’s home. And though it was often a struggle, he tried not to argue with her, not seriously anyway; she was his wife and he thought he owed her that. But he wouldn’t be swayed on this.

  ‘Where would he go?’ he said. ‘In any case, I can’t go back on a promise, now can I? Would you?’

  ‘Oh really Peter, what a thing to say.’ She stood up. ‘Well, you should at least talk to him. There’s no point in me trying to do it.’

  She glared at him, then stalked out.

  Peter wondered why she disliked Sami so much. Was it because she hadn’t employed him herself, that he was one
of the few relics of Peter’s former life? Or was it because he was Algerian? Angela distrusted foreigners of every kind except – for some reason she’d never explained - Americans. Sometimes it was funny; most of the time he just found it irritating, like the way she always had to anglicise Sami’s name. She surrounded herself with ex-pats and disdained any kind of French culture. Her regular attempts to turn the estate into an English country garden mystified Sami and were in any case doomed to failure.

  He returned his attention to the painting but Angela had disturbed his concentration and in the end he got up and walked across to his study. The door to Terri’s office was open and he automatically glanced inside.

  ‘We need to talk about your career and what got you started painting in the first place,’ Terri had said to him that morning. ‘Perhaps you could think through who your particular influences have been? We could incorporate reproductions of your favourites into the show. When would be convenient for a meeting?

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll have to think about it,’ he’d prevaricated.

  ‘Shall we say Wednesday then?’

  ‘For God’s sake, woman, I said I don’t know. I’ll tell you when I’m ready.’

  But before he could go, she’d started again.

  ‘We need somewhere to keep the paintings which are going to be exhibited to keep them safe till they’re shipped to the gallery. Some racks near the door over there would be ideal. Could I arrange to get some made?’

  That, at least, was a good idea. He’d told her to ask Sami. Sami was good at things like that.

  In the short time she’d been there he’d heard her speaking on the phone, had seen her talking to Nicole, nosing through pictures in the studio or flicking through his notebooks - he already regretted giving her those. Having been talked into accepting help - when he’d been too weak and muddled to judge what he was doing - it had occurred to him afterwards that perhaps it wasn’t such a bad idea after all. He needed to paint and he didn’t have the time or, honestly, the energy to sort out the exhibition too and he certainly wasn’t going to hand it back to the gallery. He liked the idea of having somebody in his own employ whom he could control.

  But now she was here, Terri was not what he’d had in mind. She was smart but he didn’t want smart, just efficient. And he could see wilfulness in her eyes: unusual large charcoal eyes, set each side of a small, straight nose. Her mouth turned up at the corners but looked remarkably stiff as if always holding something back. An insolent remark probably, to judge from their exchanges so far. Even so, she would be good to paint with her sleek dark hair and expressive eyebrows, though he doubted she would ever accept a pose; behind her crisp politeness he could sense obstinacy.

  He turned away and walked into his study, crossed to the whisky decanter on the cupboard under the window and poured himself a measure, circling his long fingers firmly round the glass. The retrospective was the recognition he’d craved for his lifetime’s work but all he’d had in mind was an exhibition of his paintings whereas clearly this Terri woman wanted much more: she wanted to examine him minutely and parcel his life up into neat little packages. He took a mouthful of whisky and enjoyed its searing warmth as it slid down his throat.

  Well, he had no intention of letting her search and delve. The past was done and buried; he would not have her digging it up.

  *

  Luc finished the last of his pasta, laid the fork on the plate and leaned forward to put the tray on the scruffy wooden coffee table. He leaned back and stared towards the window. The daylight was nearly spent and he could see little of the woods outside, just washed out reflections of the room in which he sat. Still he was thinking about Terri. All evening she had intruded on his thoughts, odd images and scenes from the past dancing across his mind, though if he had hoped to analyse how he felt about seeing her again, he had failed. He still wasn’t sure.

  She looked older, of course, her features a little more prominent, her cheeks less rounded, but still she was pretty. He’d been stunned to walk into the kitchen and see her there. What chance had brought her to this place at this time? And what were her feelings about him now? Had they changed? It had been impossible to tell. There again, maybe it wasn’t chance at all; maybe she had followed him there. He shook his head. After all this time, that was an absurd idea. In any case, she had looked too surprised to see him and he doubted she’d be able to fake it; she’d always been reserved but never devious. So perhaps it was Fate or some greater hand toying with him?

  He got up brusquely, shaking his stupid superstitions away, and took his tray through to the kitchen. Whatever the reason, Terri’s arrival didn’t need to affect his plans - or at least, not in a bad way. Quite the contrary. He dumped his dishes in the sink, wondering which way he should play it, and almost smiled.

  But hell, he’d kill for a cigarette.

  Chapter 4

  Terri got into the passenger seat of Luc’s Peugeot hatchback, turned to put her bag on the back seat, and clipped the belt into place. She had expected a grander car – he had driven something sporty in London – but she supposed the more humble model fitted the part he was playing. Starting the engine, he set the car in motion down the track and out of the estate. He was driving her to Nice for her Monday morning appointment at the gallery. She had intended to drive herself but on the Friday afternoon Peter had informed her that Luc would be taking her and the subject had clearly not been open for negotiation.

  Luc sat at the wheel, wordless. Terri ignored the silence and checked her phone. There was one brief text from Sophie; nothing else. Still she kept expecting to see something from Oliver and wondered how long it would be before he learned her new number. Her new phone was basic with no access to the internet. Not being especially technology minded, it had been no real sacrifice. If Oliver could only access her through her laptop, she felt she was keeping him at a distance. In a vain effort to feel more secure, she usually checked her mail in the office when there were other people around. This last week, his anger at her disappearance had been increasingly apparent. One message still haunted her: I guess you’ve gone away but you know I’ll find you, don’t you? Just wait till I do. I can’t forgive you for treating me this way. Thinking about it again made her feel the familiar clutch of fear in her stomach and she quickly pushed him out of her mind.

  She glanced across at Luc instead; he was staring at the road with an unreadable expression. In the studio she’d seen him at the other end of the room, preparing canvases or mixing mediums or doing any of the other monotonous tasks Peter required of him. And she’d seen him painting: putting the finishing touches to a portrait or laying in the underpainting of a landscape. They had crossed occasionally and Luc had even brought her coffee but, as if by tacit agreement, they had exchanged barely half a dozen words. Even so, they couldn’t spend the entire day together without speaking.

  ‘I didn’t expect to see you here, in Provence,’ she said eventually.

  ‘No,’ he said slowly, ‘I was surprised to see you too.’

  ‘But you didn’t tell Lindsey that we knew each other. Why was that?’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘No. I didn’t think...’ She stopped, unsure herself why. ‘Why are you here?’ she asked instead.

  ‘I’m doing a job...and painting.’

  ‘Yeah. I’m sure you are.’ Terri studied his profile; it gave nothing away.

  ‘Why are you here?’ he countered.

  ‘I’m curating an exhibition. As you know, that’s what I do.’

  He flicked her a glance. ‘I saw you as more of a high flier. Buried away in rural France doesn’t seem to fit.’

  ‘I could say the same of you.’

  He didn’t answer and she looked away, watching the scenery flashing past. They were heading south to Aix-en-Provence to pick up the motorway east. Being in a car with him again felt odd. It was more than five years since she had met him for the first time. At the time she had been an assistant curator on an exhibiti
on of work by Rembrandt at the National Gallery. As the art correspondent for one of the British broadsheets, Luc came to the preview night and started talking to her, asking questions, saying how good the show was. It was his way of speaking perhaps that she remembered best – perfect English delivered with a mild but distinctively throaty accent. She remembered the suddenness of the attraction. It had caught her off guard; Luc was more intense than the men she usually went for. But he moved off, talked to a number of other people, circulated, and she remembered trying to track his progress round the rooms while mingling and answering questions herself. To her surprise he’d sought her out again before he left and asked her out to dinner. They went out on four dates and she had been dangerously close to becoming serious about him when she realised he was not the person she had thought he was.

  ‘Was this your idea?’ she asked now.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That you drive me to Nice?’

  He shook his head. ‘Why would I do that?’ he said coldly. ‘I still remember the last thing you said to me.’

  Terri said nothing. She remembered too. You’re just a bare-faced liar. I never want to see you again.

  ‘Peter wanted me to bring you,’ said Luc.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ He glanced across at her again. ‘I suspect he thinks you’re a loose cannon. He likes to be in control.’

  They began to loop round Aix and Luc concentrated on the road. She watched him surreptitiously out of the corner of her eye. He hadn’t changed much. He wasn’t classically handsome: his eyes were a little too deep set, his nose rather too long, but he had surprising pale brown eyes and a broad, warm smile on the rare occasions he chose to use it. His hair was still collar length and a little wavy; she remembered him regularly running a hand through it to push it off his face. Now a few grey hairs peppered his temples. His fingers kept fidgeting on the steering wheel and she frowned, trying to identify what was different about him.

  ‘You’re not smoking,’ she said suddenly.