Читать книгу A Sudden Change of Heart - Barbara Taylor Bradford - Страница 13

Laura had always thought of herself as an observer. She would sit back and watch, saying very little but hearing everything. And there had been a great deal to see and hear, whether she was observing her brother Dylan, the rebel, her father, the composer and conductor; or her mother, the artist.

Then there was her grandmother Megan, the once-great musical star, and her grandfather Owen, theatrical manager and professional Welshman. And Claire Benson – her heroine, role model, and best friend.

Each one of them was highly individualistic, a complex personality, and therefore a fascinating study.

The two people she most enjoyed observing were her grandparents, Owen and Megan Valiant. They were the greatest influence in her life, especially her grandmother; and, because she loved them so much, she saw them through eyes that were not in the least critical. So many of her values had come from them, and it was on her grandparents that she had based her own notions of romantic love.

Grandfather Owen would boast, ‘Ours is one of the greatest love stories that ever happened. I fell in love with Megan when I first heard her singing in the Chapel at Port Talbot, and I’ve loved her truly ever since.’

And whenever he said this, which was very frequently, her grandmother would blush prettily and smile at Owen with adoration. ‘It’s true, Laura. The day I set eyes on your grandfather I was kissed by the angels. It was the luckiest day of my life, meeting him.’

When she was young she was well aware that her parents loved each other, too. But unlike Owen and Megan, who never quarrelled, Richard and Margaret were often engaged in roaring battles.

‘It’s a feast or a famine with your parents,’ her grandmother would say. ‘They’re either in each other’s arms or at each other’s throats. Goodness me, I’ve never before seen such goings on in my life.’

Her parents’ way of making up after one of their regular tempestuous falling outs was to go off on a trip for a week or two. ‘Another honeymoon,’ Claire would say, and she would become a kind of surrogate mother to the two of them, aided and abetted by Mae, the housekeeper, Dylan’s nanny, Cissy, and Grandma Megan, who would swoop down in full force to take charge of the household.

Claire had been the other important influence in her life, and she had observed her dearest friend through loving eyes and hardly ever found fault.

‘Always the observer, Laura,’ her lovely gran had often said in those days, laughing lightly, and then Megan would go on to predict that her favourite grandchild would become a writer. She hadn’t, of course; nonetheless, she continued to be the observer, forever watching everyone, and assessing.

She was doing exactly that tonight as she sat on the stool in Claire’s kitchen, where Claire and Natasha were preparing dinner. As she looked from mother to daughter she saw the enormous love and friendship flowing between them. It was so potent, such a palpable thing, Laura felt as though she could reach out and touch it. To see them in such harmony made Laura happy. Neither she nor Claire had been close to their own mothers, a situation which had often saddened Laura. But then she’d had Grandma Megan, and so had Claire, for that matter. And they still had her, in fact.

Everything that Claire had said about Natasha earlier in the week was true. Laura had not seen her goddaughter for almost five months, and in that time she had lost her puppy fat and grown even taller. Like her mother she had bright auburn hair, although hers was full and flowing, unlike Claire’s which was cut short. Her resplendent locks gave her the look of a girl who had stepped out of a Renaissance painting. Her large eyes were a peculiar golden brown, a sort of amber colour, which Laura had always found unusual, and there was a faint dusting of freckles across the bridge of her slender nose. Otherwise, her creamy skin was without blemish.

Natasha had a short torso and long legs, and, as Claire had pointed out, although she was only fourteen, she dwarfed them both these days. She’s growing up to be a real beauty, Laura thought, then turned her attention to Claire.

Contrary to what Hercule believed, Laura was quite convinced there was nothing wrong with her friend. Tonight she was full of her usual bountiful energy; her face was flushed, her eyes shining brightly, and her short auburn curls were like a burnished halo around her pretty face. No, there was nothing wrong with her, Laura decided, filled with a sudden sense of relief. Her dearest friend was the picture of good health.

Claire was wearing a red wool tunic over matching leggings, and she was full of laughter and gaiety as she skilfully prepared Navarin of lamb, her famous lamb stew with vegetables. Simultaneously, she was putting finishing touches to another speciality of hers, Strawberries Romanoff.

Claire had always been a marvellous cook. This was the one thing Laura envied, since she herself had little talent in that direction. Although Claire had been an enormous influence on her in other ways, she had never been able to teach her the simplest rudiments of gourmet cooking.

On the other hand, Claire had shown her such important things as how to put on make-up, pluck her eyebrows and paint her toenails; it was also from Claire that she had learned how to walk properly in high heels when still too young to wear them, and most importantly, how to flirt with boys.

Flirt with boys. Laura smiled, thinking that before long Natasha would be doing that. She almost laughed out loud; in all probability, Natasha was flirting already.

Shifting slightly on the stool, Laura said, ‘Please let me do something to help.’ As she spoke she glanced across at Claire and Natasha, and added, ‘I feel like a spare wheel.’

Claire laughed. ‘Everything’s under control, I promise you, so just relax and keep us company until Hercule gets here, then you can entertain him while we finish up.’

‘All right, that’s a deal. But let me know if you need me to peel a potato, chop something, or whatever.’

‘I’ve done all the whatevers for Mom,’ Natasha said, laughing as she looked up. Then she returned to the task of dropping dollops of chocolate-chip-cookie mixture on a metal cookie sheet.

‘It certainly smells delicious, Claire,’ Laura remarked. ‘I like your lamb stew better than Dina Zuckerberg’s famous specialities.’

Claire burst out laughing on hearing this, and Laura started to laugh with her; their peals of laughter rang out, echoed around the kitchen.

Puzzled by their sudden and unexpected hilarity, not understanding it at all, Natasha asked, ‘Who’s Zina Duckerberg?’

‘It’s not Zina Duckerberg, it’s Dina Zuckerberg,’ Laura corrected. ‘She used to live in the same building in New York when we were growing up, and she was always inviting us to dinner when her mother was out or away travelling.’

‘And she always “cooked” the same thing, pizza from Ray’s Pizza Parlor and Dayvilles vanilla ice cream,’ interjected Claire, who began laughing again, as did Laura.

Natasha shook her head wonderingly, smiled indulgently at the two women, whom she thought were suddenly slightly crazy, and immediately changed the subject. ‘You could do one thing to help, Laura. Would you go and ask Doug if we need more ice?’

‘Good idea,’ Laura replied, and slid off the stool. She found Doug on a sofa in front of the fire, nursing a drink.

‘Do we need more ice, Doug?’

‘No, darling, there’s plenty in the bucket.’

Laura glanced around, once more admiring the room. Claire had decorated it with a great deal of style and flair, and a little help from Hercule. It was easy for Laura to spot his touches here and there, such as the bouffant taffeta curtains at the windows. ‘Dance dresses,’ he called them, because they were narrow at the top and flared out like a skirt before they reached the floor. And the large silk lamp shades, the urns of twigs and leaves were also Hercule’s well-known imprints.

The room was old-fashioned, traditional, with spacious, rather grand proportions. A highly-polished wood floor met crisp white walls, with bookshelves soaring up to the ceiling on the long wall facing the fireplace.

On the other walls were hung oversized framed prints, all of them colourful reproductions of Toulouse-Lautrec’s Moulin Rouge Can-Can girls. A cream Savonnerie rug, patterned with red, black and green, covered part of the dark floor, and there were two large cream velvet sofas and several chairs arranged in an airy seating arrangement.

Claire had been collecting French country antiques for a number of years and their ripe woods gleamed in the lambent light, adding a touch of elegance and warmth to the room. She had arranged lovely old pieces of porcelain on some of the antique chests and tables, and grouped together a large collection of silver-framed photographs on a Provençal sideboard. Laura gazed back at all of the Valiants, as well as herself. And Natasha, Claire and her parents were also captured in different poses on celluloid.

The air was fragrant with the scent of fresh flowers, bowls of potpourri and Rigaud candles, all of which were trademarks of Claire’s. It was a lovely room at any time, but especially so at night, with the candles burning, the silk-shaded lamps glowing and the fire blazing in the hearth. There was a welcoming warmth here, and a great deal of love.

Walking across to one of the tall windows, Laura stood looking down at the place de Fürstemberg, which she considered to be one of the most picturesque little squares in Paris. It was a cold night. The inky sky was clear, without cloud, and the stars were few. But a curving crescent moon was bright as it cast its silvery light across the shadowy square.

Directly below the apartment windows was the solitary, old-fashioned lamppost with its five globes which gave off the only other illumination, except for the light streaming out from the windows of the adjacent apartments. Laura had always thought of the lamppost as a charming little sentinel standing next to the ancient Paulownia trees which were much treasured by every inhabitant of the square.

Laura knew the Sixième, the sixth arrondissement, very well and especially this quaint square with its great charm and oldworld atmosphere. It was she who had found the apartment for Claire seven years ago, just after she had separated from her husband. It had belonged to Madame Solange Puy, grandmother of her old friend Marie-Louise Puy, who dated from her Sorbonne student days.

Marie-Louise had inherited the apartment from her grandmother and had just put it up for sale. Fortuitously for Claire, as it turned out, Laura had been in Paris at this particular time, and the moment she heard about the apartment going on the market she had told Marie-Louise that Claire might well be interested in buying it.

The three of them had met at the apartment and Claire had instantly fallen in love with it. Within a couple of months the sale was complete with all the documents signed, and the place finally belonged to Claire. As soon as the deed was in her hands she began to decorate. Hercule, as always, was the chief adviser and initiator of ideas, and together they had created what Claire called, ‘My first real home as a grown-up.’ And it was beautiful, Laura was the first to acknowledge.

It had pleased Laura to see Claire so happy on the day her friend had shown her the finished apartment. Claire’s excitement about her new home had wiped the anger and pain off her face, for a little while at least.