Silent Faces, Painted Ghosts Read online

  She checked along the place-names, making sure Corinne had put them out correctly. The right mix and placing was important; she had learned that the hard way. Parties could be ruined if you got it wrong. It was like directing a play: setting the scene, choosing the best cast to play off each other, making sure everyone knew where they should be. At least Peter never attended any more. She suspected he used to come from some misguided sense of duty but then he would play up, hate being asked questions about his painting and more often than not slope away half way through the evening. It was much better for everyone if he stayed away.

  One place-card leaned in its holder drunkenly and she fingered it back into position. Terri. Angela frowned. She had felt obliged to invite her but really, it was a difficult situation. And there was something about the girl which bothered her. She seemed pleasant enough but her eyes were dark and serious. And she was quiet, too quiet in fact. Angela liked company and she liked chatter; she preferred people with an open disposition. That’s why she liked Americans: you knew where you were with them. With silent people you were never sure what they were thinking.

  Angela sighed, gave one last sweeping look at her table and turned to leave. Then she noticed the wine cooler hadn’t been put out on the side table, nor the dishes for dessert.

  ‘Corinne?’ she called. ‘Oh really. Corinne, where are you?’

  *

  The guests drifted back into the salon in twos and threes, talking. Terri came too, alone. The after-dinner coffee was laid out on a table at the top of the room and was served by Corinne who’d been waiting on table all evening wearing a black dress, a small white apron and an expression of blank disinterest. Terri was relieved to have escaped the halting, awkward conversation with her neighbouring dinner guests. This wasn’t her world. She was dressed in the most sophisticated of the three dresses she had brought with her but knew it didn’t match the glamour of the occasion. With its exotic cocktails, recitations and Cole Porter songs, all interspersed with music on the piano by Berlin and Gershwin, the party had the feel of a Hollywood film set straight from the thirties.

  She picked up a cup of coffee and wandered away down to the bottom of the room near the patio doors. One of them was open and she wondered how long it would be before she could politely slip away. Her grandmother would have liked this, she thought wryly. Janet Challoner had liked smart restaurants she could barely afford and dress shops where the assistant called you ‘modom’ and offered you a seat; she’d had a smart telephone voice, never left the house without make-up on and used to get her hair set once a week. Terri had been a disappointment to her: as a child, she’d been a tomboy and Janet had regularly chastised her son for allowing his daughter to ‘grow up wild.’ And what had her father thought about it? Terri mentally shrugged. She had no idea.

  Lindsey came to join her. She had been seated at the other end of the table and they’d barely exchanged a word all evening.

  ‘You survived then,’ she said, cradling her coffee. ‘Do you hate these things as much as I do?’ She didn’t wait for a reply. ‘Mama has one of these dos every month. She loves them.’

  ‘I see your father didn’t come.’

  Terri was relieved. Despite Peter’s earnest promise of cooperation, she had managed to persuade him to only one discussion since their altercation, and his temper was as volatile as ever. Fortunately, she rarely saw him round the house.

  ‘Father never comes any more,’ said Lindsey. ‘Well, hardly ever. I can’t say I blame him.’

  ‘So why do you come if you hate them so much?’

  Lindsey seemed surprised by the question. ‘Because mama expects me to, I suppose. It’s less hassle. Did you used to stand up to your mother?’

  ‘I barely knew her so it never came up.’

  Lindsey nodded slowly, apparently taking it in, unsure what to say. She glanced across at Terri furtively. ‘I was thinking...maybe we could go shopping together sometime?’

  ‘Yes,’ Terri said carefully, ‘we could do that. Where would you suggest?’

  ‘Aix. I know some good boutiques there.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Good.’ Lindsey emptied the tiny coffee cup in one movement, glanced up the room and put a hand to her forehead, massaging it with her fingers. ‘I’ve got one of my headaches coming on. I need some fresh air. Will you tell mama I’ve gone to lie down?’

  ‘If you want. Are you OK?’

  ‘Yes, of course, I’ll be fine.’ She dumped the coffee cup nearby and slipped out of the patio door into the night.

  Back up the room, a wobbling contralto launched into a song. Left alone, Terri put her empty coffee cup beside Lindsey’s and noticed a small bronze sculpture of a horse further along the console table. She reached out a finger to touch its patinated surface.

  ‘Do you like my stallion? He is rather handsome, isn’t he?’ Angela moved smoothly to Terri’s side. ‘I know nothing about paintings but I do like sculptures. Are they part of your work?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  Angela smiled. ‘I saw you talking to Lindsey. I’m pleased. I’m afraid she gets a bit lonely here sometimes. And of course she’s very shy. I worry that she doesn’t mix more.’ She turned her head, glancing round the room. ‘Where is she, by the way?’

  ‘She’s got a headache; she’s gone to lie down.’

  ‘Oh?’ Angela’s eyes searched Terri’s face suspiciously. ‘That was very sudden. Did she say anything else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She shouldn’t lie down after all that food. Perhaps I...’ Angela’s expression froze. ‘Oh no,’ she murmured. ‘What now?’ She abruptly walked away.

  At the top of the room, Celia had walked in, wearing a calf length magenta dress and purple beads, a broad gold bangle pushed up into the soft, wrinkled flesh above her right elbow. Round her head stretched a half inch purple band holding a curling pink feather in place to one side.

  ‘Hello Angela,’ Celia announced loudly, ‘Sorry I’m late; my favourite quiz programme was on the television. Do you know, I’ve just seen an amazing advert for a gadget that uses an electric current to tighten up your buttocks?’ She paused and looked round the now silent room, then fixed on Angela again. ‘But maybe you already know about it dear? Keeps them taut and perky apparently.’

  ‘Celia,’ said Angela in a clear, icy voice. ‘Don’t apologise. We weren’t expecting you anyway. But, since you’re here, have some coffee.’ She took Celia’s arm and actively pulled her to the side. A few minutes later she was called away to a couple who were leaving and Celia bore down on Terri with an expectant expression. Terri watched her approach warily.

  ‘Terri,’ Celia said brightly, ‘how nice to see you again.’ She sipped her coffee, complained, ‘I’d rather hoped for wine,’ and surveyed the room as Angela came back to join them. ‘Isn’t Peter here? I was hoping to see him. Not that he’s ever liked these affairs.’

  ‘No, he’s not here,’ said Angela.

  ‘And no Lindsey either. Have you fallen out again?’

  ‘No, we have not fallen out,’ Angela replied crisply. ‘She has a headache and went to lie down.’

  ‘Oh, well, if you say so.’

  A taut silence fell between them. Terri cast about for something to say.

  ‘Where did you go painting today Celia?’ she asked.

  ‘Me? I...’ She stared into Terri’s face, just as she had done on the terrace. ‘Isn’t that amazing? I thought there was something about you.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Your eyes.’

  ‘Oh stop it Celia,’ said Angela impatiently.

  ‘Your eyes, they’re exactly like Madeleine’s.’ Celia gave Terri a knowing look. ‘Madeleine was Peter’s first wife.’

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Terri. Angela looked at her sharply.

  ‘You must be related to her dear, are you?’ enquired Celia.

  ‘Related?’ said Terri, frowning. ‘No. Why would I be?’

  ‘Of course she
’s not related,’ said Angela crossly. She checked herself and forced a tolerant smile. ‘It’s getting late and you do get muddled when you’re tired, Celia. Let’s get you a brandy and you can take it to bed with you.’

  Celia shook off Angela’s hand.

  ‘I’m not remotely tired. And it can’t be a coincidence. Go and look at the painting yourself if you don’t believe me.’ She turned back to Terri. ‘You should go and look too, dear. The resemblance is striking. But it’s a lovely portrait anyway. Have you seen it? It’s in the sitting room.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Terri. ‘It is a lovely painting.’

  ‘Yes, we’re all agreed it’s a lovely painting, Celia.’ Angela patted Celia on the arm. ‘Now let’s get you a brandy, shall we?’ She looped a more determined hand through Celia’s elbow and shepherded her up the room.

  Celia turned her head as she moved away and winked at Terri. ‘Ciao,’ she said, with a smile. ‘Buonanotte.’

  Terri took the opportunity to slip back to her room. Brushing her teeth in the bathroom half an hour later, she found herself staring at her reflection in the mirror, trying to remember what Madeleine’s eyes had looked like in the portrait. She resolved to take a look the next morning. But she failed to see why Celia had made such a point of the similarity and, coming so soon after the strange meeting on the terrace, she found it surprisingly unsettling. She finished in the bathroom, switched off the light and shook the thought away. Celia was batty; everyone said so.

  *

  Peter glared at the portrait of Laurent Valdeau. He still wasn’t happy with the right hand but couldn’t identify why. It was the Thursday morning and he’d been working at it for days already, building up the whole painting in layers but always coming back to that hand. He sighed and forced himself to concentrate on the area around the mouth instead, balancing the mahl stick on dry paint to the side of the head, steadying his right wrist on it as he touched in a little colour. But the stick began to slide and he felt powerless to stop it. Down it went, dragging slowly and inexorably into the wet paint in a long smudgy line before finally falling with a clack to the floor.

  ‘Oh – my – God,’ he bellowed, and cursed violently. ‘It’s useless. I mean, just look at it.’ He flipped his left hand back in frustration and then slapped at it with his right. ‘Useless. Absolutely – bloody - useless. I can’t grip anything.’

  In a fit of temper he bent over, picked up the mahl stick and threw it across the studio where it bounced off one of the windows – leaving an oily imprint on the glass – before falling to the floor. He sat down heavily on the stool, his temper already burning out, a feeling of impotence and desolation sweeping over him. His plaster had finally been removed the previous Thursday; he had been relieved and had expected so much. But his left hand simply would not work and now he felt more frustrated than ever. He rested it down on his thigh, looking at it forlornly. It was limp, swollen and pale grey, the skin dry and flaky. It was as if it belonged to someone else. It might as well do because it was no good to him. He raised his eyes to the painting again. It was a mess.

  ‘What crap,’ he declaimed.

  He didn’t notice Terri, who’d been crossing to the kitchen when he shouted, pick up the stick from the floor and walk back up the room with it. He only became aware of her as she put the stick down on the worktable and then stood looking at him. She had this way of sneaking up on him, saying nothing, making sure she was just within his eye line. If he didn’t speak she would say something and wait and speak again until he finally answered. She was so irritatingly persistent.

  ‘Your hand looks awful,’ she said now with a look of frank exasperation, and he watched her reach out, pick it up and begin to rub it. ‘Didn’t they suggest you have treatment?’ Peter raised surprised eyes to her face then watched her fingers massaging his.

  ‘They might have done,’ he said grudgingly. ‘But I don’t see why I should need it. Anyway I haven’t got the time to be footling around in some clinic while...’

  ‘My grandmother broke her arm once...’ Terri interrupted, still rubbing his hand. ‘...and it was useless for a while afterwards. But she had treatment and it helped; it made her hand stronger and less swollen.’ She turned the hand over and rubbed at the palm, then kneaded up Peter’s normally wiry forearm, now quite puffy.

  ‘Your grandmother? Is that supposed to make me feel better? What are you doing?’ He did not pull his hand away however. Actually it felt quite good.

  ‘I’m massaging the fluid out of it. This is what the physios did to my grandmother. And they gave her exercises to do. I went with her once and they showed me how to do it. She admitted it felt better afterwards. And believe me,’ Terri said with feeling, ‘she was the last person to say that if it wasn’t true.’ Peter looked up into her face again, frowning. ‘And she got the movement back,’ she added pointedly.

  ‘Work is exercise,’ he grumbled. ‘I try to use it as much as I can. But it’s got worse since the plaster came off. They probably didn’t set it right.’

  ‘Maybe. But apparently the muscles forget how to work when they’re in plaster. They need retraining.’ Terri stopped massaging and let go of his arm. ‘If you want it to get better you should have treatment. And you should rest with your hand up to stop it swelling.’ She shrugged. ‘But it’s your arm.’

  ‘Exactly. It’s my arm.’ Peter cautiously tried to flex his fingers and straighten them; they moved a little better. ‘Mm,’ he muttered, surprised. The outline of his knuckles was just visible under the skin for the first time since the plaster had come off. He raised his eyes to the portrait. ‘Wouldn’t you know it,’ he groaned. ‘That infernal hand hasn’t been damaged at all. What is wrong with it?’

  ‘The right hand?’ said Terri, who was already surveying the damage. ‘I think it’s a little too small.’ She pointed at it and then at the face. ‘You see, in comparison to...’

  ‘I was not asking for your opinion,’ barked Peter, glaring at her.

  Terri stared at him a moment, expressionless, then resumed her route towards the kitchen.

  Peter considered the hand, frowning. ‘Too small indeed,’ he grunted, and picked up a brush to start removing the smudged paint from his canvas. ‘Damn cheek of the woman.’

  *

  Terri paused on her way through the sitting room and crossed to look at the portrait of Madeleine. It was a week since the Easter party but Celia’s odd behaviour still stuck in her mind, like a riddle it was trying to solve, and it was not the first time she’d been back to look at the painting. She stared up at it now, flipping her car key between her fingers, then went in search of Lindsey. Peter’s daughter had the weekend off and they were going on their shopping trip to Aix-en-Provence.

  According to the guides Aix had elegant shops, beautiful architecture and a noble historical heritage; to Terri it was where Cézanne had kept his studio and painted some of his most famous works. When they arrived it simply felt like a modern town, its streets bustling with Saturday morning shoppers and tourists. Lindsey showed Terri where to park the car and proceeded to lead her on a tour of her favourite boutiques.

  Late morning, they stopped for coffee high up in the old part of the town, sitting on the terrace of a café bar. It was the last day of April, a clear, sunny day with a fitful chill breeze. Lindsey had said little all morning. She had occasionally picked out a dress or a top, held it up for Terri’s opinion, replaced it and moved on. Now she sat dunking a sugar cube in her coffee, her expression unreadable. Terri had tried a couple of opening gambits of conversation with little response. Now she had given up and wondered why Lindsey had invited her in the first place.

  ‘Thanks for covering for me last Saturday,’ Lindsey said suddenly, staring into her coffee.

  ‘Hm? Oh you mean the headache thing? Why, what were you doing?’

  Lindsey ignored the question. ‘Mama didn’t make a fuss about it so you must have been convincing.’

  ‘She was probably distracted. Celi
a made a dramatic entrance just after you’d gone.’

  ‘She has a way of doing that.’ Lindsey spooned the sugar cube into her mouth and sucked on it, refusing to meet Terri’s eyes.

  ‘She really behaved quite oddly, announcing that my eyes were just like Madeleine’s. Then your mother got cross and dragged her away.’

  ‘Sounds like Celia.’ Lindsey took a mouthful of coffee. ‘Mama is convinced the old bat’s determined to cause trouble and make her life a misery.’

  ‘Why?’

  Lindsey shrugged and dunked another sugar cube in her coffee. ‘She thinks father should exert more control over her since he invited her here in the first place. But he thinks Celia’s harmless. Of course she doesn’t play up the same when he’s around.’

  ‘So she’s done this sort of thing before?’

  ‘Oh yes. Celia’s compared all sorts of people to Madeleine in the past.’

  ‘I see.’ Somehow it didn’t feel that simple. Maybe she was taking it too personally but Terri couldn’t let it drop. ‘Does your father know she does this?’

  ‘He might do.’

  ‘So why is Celia so obsessed with Madeleine?’

  Again Lindsey shrugged, continuing to play with the sugar cube in her coffee.

  ‘Have you ever gone out with a Frenchman?’ she asked.

  ‘Why do you ask?’ hedged Terri.

  ‘Do you know Thierry?’

  ‘Your father’s student? The one with the beard?’

  ‘Yes.’ Lindsey lifted her eyes to meet Terri’s and produced a rare smile. ‘I’m seeing him. Only mama doesn’t know. So you mustn’t say. She doesn’t like me going out with French men. She thinks the culture’s too different. She’s got a thing about it.’