Читать книгу A Sudden Change of Heart - Barbara Taylor Bradford - Страница 8

Whenever she was in Paris on business and had an hour or two to spare, Laura Valiant inevitably headed for the Musée d’Orsay in the seventh arrondissement on the Left Bank.

Today was such a day. The moment her lunch with two prominent art-dealers from the Galerie Theoni was over, she thanked them, promised to be in touch about the Matisse, and said her goodbyes.

Leaving the Relais Plaza, she crossed the lobby of the Plaza Athénée Hotel and stepped out onto the avenue Montaigne.

There were no cabs on the rank in front of the hotel and none in sight, so she decided to walk. It was a cold December day with a hint of rain in the air. She shivered and shrugged further into her black overcoat.

Laura was dressed entirely in black, from the topcoat to her smart woollen suit underneath and soft leather boots that stopped just short of the knee. Her jet-black hair, styled in a short, sleek cut, accentuated both her pale face and her eyes of a blue so brilliant they seemed supernatural. A slender tall young woman, she looked much younger than her thirty-one years.

Laura was a striking figure as she hurried along; many a male head turned. But she did not notice those admiring glances, so intent was she in her purpose.

She lifted her head and looked up at the sky. It was leaden and grey this afternoon; a watery sun was trying to push through the clouds without much success. But the weather was irrelevant here. To Laura, Paris was a city full of nostalgia and memories, memories happy and sad…so much had happened to her here.

First love – oh, how she had loved him and willingly lost her virginity at eighteen – and first heartbreak, when he had said it was over and had left her with such sudden abruptness that she had been stunned. And oh, the terrible jealousy when she had gone to see him a few days later and found him in bed with another girl. But there was more self-love than love in jealousy, de la Rochefoucauld had written long ago; she had taken those wise words to heart on that awful day and made them her own personal motto over the years. And she had fallen in love again, more than once, even though she had believed she never would. Miraculously, or so it had seemed to her at the time, she had eventually recovered from her broken heart to discover that there were other attractive young men in the world, and many were available.

It was her mother who had first brought her to Paris when she was twelve, and she had been captivated. At the age of eighteen she had returned to study art history and literature at the Sorbonne. In the two years she had lived in Paris as a student she had come to know it as well as she knew New York, where she had been born and raised. Whether shrouded in spring rain, wrapped in the airless heat of summer or coated with winter snow, Paris was the most beautiful of cities.

City of Light, City of Lovers, City of Gaiety, City of Artists…it had so many names. But no matter what people chose to call it, Paris was a truly magical place. She had never lost her fascination with it, and whenever she came back she immediately fell under its spell once again.

Mostly, Laura thought of Paris as the City of Artists, for had they not all worked and lived here at one time or another, those great painters of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries? Whatever their origins and from wherever they sprang, they had eventually come here, armed with their palettes and brushes and paints, and their soaring talent. Gauguin, Van Gogh, Renoir, Manet, Monet, Matisse, Cézanne, Vuillard, Degas, Sisley and Seurat. The Impressionist and Post-Impressionist painters she most admired, and in whose work she was an expert, had all converged on Paris to make it their home, if only for a short while.

The world of art was her world, and it had been for as long as she could remember. She had inherited her love of art from her mother Maggie Valiant, a well-known American painter who had studied at the Royal College of Art in London and the École des Beaux Arts in Paris.

But Laura was the first to admit she lacked her mother’s talent and vision as a painter, and when she was in her early teens painting became an avocation rather than her vocation. Nonetheless, she had decided she wanted to work with art once she had finished her studies, and after her graduation from the Sorbonne she did stints with several galleries in Paris before returning home to the States. Once back in New York, she did gallery work again, and then completed a rewarding four years at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

One of her superiors at the museum, impressed by her unerring eye, superb taste, and knowledge of art, encouraged her to become an art-adviser. And so three years ago, at the age of twenty-eight, she and Alison Maynard, a colleague at the Metropolitan, had started their own company. The two of them had made a great success of this venture, which they had named Art Acquisitions. She and Alison bought art for a number of wealthy clients, and helped them to create collections of some significance. Laura loved her career; it was the most important thing in her life, except for her husband Doug, and the Valiants.

A few days ago she had flown to Paris from New York, hoping to find paintings for one of their important clients, a Canadian newspaper magnate. Unfortunately, she had not found anything of importance so far, and she and Alison had agreed on the phone that she would stay on a bit longer to continue her search. She had a number of appointments, and she was hopeful she would find something of interest and value in the coming week.

Increasing her pace, Laura soon found herself turning onto the rue de Bellechasse, where the Musée d’Orsay was located not far from the Eiffel Tower and Les Invalides. She had made it from the hotel faster than she had expected, and as she went into the museum she experienced a little spurt of excitement. Inside were some of her favourite works of art.

The museum was deserted and this pleased Laura; she disliked crowds when she was looking at paintings. It was really dead this afternoon, so quiet you could hear a pin drop. The only sound was the click of her heels on the floor; her footsteps echoed loudly as she walked towards the hall where the Renoirs hung.

She stood for a long time in front of Nude in Sunlight. Renoir had painted it in 1875, and yet it looked so fresh, as if he had created it only yesterday. How beautiful it was; she never tired of looking at it. The pearly tints and pink-blush tones of the model’s skin were incomparable, set off by the pale, faintly blue shadows on her shoulders which seemed to emanate from the foliage surrounding her.

What a master Renoir had been. The painting was suffused with light – shimmering light. But then to her, Renoir’s canvases always looked as though his brush had been dipped in sunlight. Lover of life, lover of women, Renoir had been the most sensual of painters, and his paintings reflected this, were full of vivid, pulsating life.

Laura moved on, stopped to gaze at a much larger painting, Dancing at the Moulin de la Galette. It represented gaiety and young love, and there was so much to see in it – the faces of the dancers, merry, sparkling with happiness, the handsome young men, their arms encircling the beautiful girls; how perfectly Renoir had captured their joie de vivre. His use of colour was superb: the blues and greens in the trees, the blues and creams and pinks in the girls’ dresses, the soft, clear yellow of the men’s straw boaters, and the…

‘Hello, Laura.’

Believing herself to be alone with the Renoirs, Laura jumped when she heard her name. Startled, she swung around. Surprise registered on her face, and she froze.

The man who stood a few feet away from her, went on, ‘It’s Philippe, Laura. Philippe Lavillard.’ He smiled, took a step towards her.

Laura recoiled imperceptibly. Dislike and a flick of anger curdled inside her.

The man was thrusting out his hand, still smiling warmly.

Reluctantly, Laura took it, touching her fingers quickly to his and then pulling them away. This man had always spelled disaster and trouble. She could hardly believe he had run into her like this.

‘I thought you were in Zaire,’ she managed to say at last, wondering how to get rid of him. There was a slight pause before she added, ‘Claire told me you were…living in Africa.’

‘I am. I arrived in Paris a couple of days ago. Actually, I’m en route to the States. I’m going to see the head of the CDC.’

‘The CDC?’ she repeated, sounding puzzled.

‘The Center for Disease Control. In Atlanta. I have some meetings there.’

‘Claire mentioned you were working on Ebola in Zaire.’

‘And other hot viruses.’

Laura nodded, tried to edge away.

He said, ‘Are you staying in Paris long, Laura?’

‘No.’

‘How’s the famous Doug?’

‘He’s well, thanks.’

‘This is one of my favourites,’ Philippe Lavillard began, looking intently at Dancing at the Moulin de la Galette, then gesturing towards it. ‘I think I favour it because it’s so positive. There’s so much life in it, such happiness, don’t you think, such hope and expectation in their faces, and a sort of quiet exuberance, even innocence –’ Abruptly he cut himself off, and glanced to his right.

Laura followed his gaze, saw a woman approaching. As she drew closer, Laura realized, with a sudden flash of recognition, that it was Philippe’s mother: a dumpy middle-aged woman in a maroon wool dress, with a black coat flung over her shoulders. She was carrying a handbag on one arm and holding a Galeries Lafayette shopping bag in her hand. She moved at a measured pace.

A second later, Rosa Lavillard was standing next to her son, staring at Laura with undisguised curiosity.

Philippe said, ‘You remember Laura Valiant, don’t you, Mother?’

‘Oh yes, of course,’ Rosa Lavillard responded in a cool tone. ‘Good afternoon.’ Rosa’s lined face was impassive, impenetrable; her pale eyes were frosty, and there was a degree of hostility in her manner.

‘Hello, Mrs Lavillard, it’s been a long time,’ Laura answered, recalling the last time she had seen her. At the wedding. Trying to be polite, she added, ‘I hope you’re well.’

‘I am, thanks. Are you here on vacation?’ Rosa asked.

‘No, this is a business trip.’

‘Laura’s an art-adviser, Mother,’ Philippe explained, glancing down at Rosa and then across at Laura. ‘She helps people to select and buy paintings.’

‘I see. You like Renoir, do you?’ Rosa murmured.

‘Very much. He’s a great favourite, and I try to come here whenever I’m in Paris,’ Laura replied.

‘Such beauty,’ Rosa remarked, looking about her. ‘All these Renoirs…they nourish the soul, calm the heart. And they are reassuring…these paintings tell us there is something else besides ugliness out there. Yes, such beauty…it helps to baffle the clamour of cruelty.’ She waved a hand in the air almost absently, peered at Laura and asked, ‘Do you like Van Gogh?’

‘Oh yes, and Degas and Cézanne, and Gauguin, he’s another favourite.’

‘His primitives are deceptive. They appear simple yet they are not, they are complex. Like people.’ Rosa nodded her head. ‘It’s obvious the Impressionists appeal to you.’

‘Yes, that’s my area of expertise. The Post Impressionists, as well.’

‘I like them myself. If I had a lot of money that’s what I would do, how I would spend my life. I would collect paintings from the Impressionist school. But I am just a poor woman, and so I must make do with going to museums.’

‘Like most other people, Mother,’ Philippe pointed out gently.

‘That’s true,’ Rosa agreed, and turning, she began to walk away, saying over her shoulder, ‘Enjoy the Renoirs.’ ‘I will,’ Laura said. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Lavillard.’ Rosa made no response.

Philippe inclined his head, gave her a faint half-smile, as if he were embarrassed. ‘Nice to see you again, Laura. So long.’ Laura nodded, but said nothing.

He stared at her for a moment, then he swung on his heels and followed his mother out of the hall.

Laura stood watching the Lavillards depart, and finally went back to her contemplation of the Renoirs. But the Lavillards had ruined her mood. Their intrusion on her privacy had brought too many memories rushing back, and most of them bad memories. Suddenly she felt nervous, unsettled, unable to concentrate on the paintings. But she didn’t want to leave the museum just yet; she might not have another chance to come back during this trip to Paris.

Glancing around, Laura spotted a small bench placed against the far wall, and she went and sat down, still thinking about the Lavillards. What a strange woman Rosa Lavillard was. She remembered a few things Claire had told her years ago, mainly that Rosa was unpredictable, a sick woman who had been hospitalized for long periods. Hadn’t Claire said she had once been in a mental institution?

From what Laura now remembered hearing, Rosa had led a troubled life…there had been a painful childhood in France, growing up during the war, the loss of her family in the Allied bombing raids, later a volatile marriage to Pierre Lavillard, then emigration to the States in the 1950s, where Philippe was born. Their only child. The doctor. The prize-winning virologist whom the medical world called a genius.

Claire had once said in a moment of anger that Rosa was a crazy woman, and should have been kept in the mental hospital. She had been very vehement about it at the time.

Laura closed her eyes, her thoughts settling on Claire Benson: her best friend and confidante, the elder sister she had never had, her role model. Claire had been living in Paris for a number of years, which was one of the reasons she liked to come here, to spend time with Claire.

Opening her eyes, Laura stood up. She began to stroll down the long gallery, determinedly pushing aside all thoughts of the Lavillards, mother and son. Within seconds she had forgotten them, once more enjoying the Renoirs hanging there. Soon she was lost in the paintings, soothed by their beauty.

And then once again she was no longer alone. Unexpectedly, there was Claire standing by her side, taking hold of her arm.

‘What are you doing here?’ Laura exclaimed, startled to see her friend, filling with a rush of anxiety. Oh God, had Claire run into the Lavillards? She hoped not; they usually upset her. She searched Claire’s face, looking for signs.

Claire explained, ‘You told me you were coming to the museum after your lunch, so I thought I’d join you.’ She peered at Laura. ‘What’s wrong? You look odd.’

‘Nothing, I’m fine,’ Laura answered. ‘You took me by surprise, that’s all.’ She was relieved to see that Claire was calm; obviously she had missed the Lavillards. But probably only by a few moments. Forcing a smile, she went on, ‘So, come on then, let’s walk around together.’

Claire tucked her arm through Laura’s. ‘I like seeing paintings through your eyes. Somehow I get much more pleasure from them when I’m with you.’

Laura nodded, and they moved on, gazing at the masterpieces on the walls, not speaking for a short while. At one moment, Laura lingered in front of a painting of a mother and child, frowning slightly.

Claire, always tuned into her best friend, said, ‘Why are you looking so puzzled?’

Shaking her head, Laura replied, ‘I’ve often wondered lately if any of these paintings are stolen –’

‘Stolen! What do you mean?’ Claire asked.

‘Thousands and thousands of paintings were stolen by the Nazis during the war, and that art, looted by them, hangs on museum walls all over the world. It’s from some of the world’s greatest collectors, such as the Rothschilds, the Kanns, and Paul Rosenberg, who once owned one of the most prestigious galleries in Paris, to name only a few.’

‘I read something about that recently. I guess it’s hard for the heirs of the original owners to get their paintings back if they don’t have proof of ownership.’

‘That’s it exactly. And so many records were lost during the war. Or were purposely destroyed by the Nazis in order to blur provenance.’ Laura grimaced, and said, ‘A lot of museums are fully aware of the real owners, because many of the paintings are coded on the back of the canvases. It all stinks. It’s morally wrong, but try and get a museum to give a painting up, give it back. They just won’t…At least, most of them won’t…Some are starting to get nervous, though.’

‘Can’t any of the original owners sue the museums?’ Claire asked.

‘I suppose they could,’ Laura answered. ‘But only if they have proof a painting is theirs. And even then it’s dubious that they’d ever get it.’

Claire nodded, ‘I remember now, Hercule knows something about this…He mentioned it only recently. I believe he has a client who is the heir to art stolen by the Nazis from his family in 1938.’

‘Oh, who is it?’

‘I don’t know…He didn’t say.’

‘A great deal of the looted art is in private hands, and try and get them to give it back. They never will, not when they’ve paid millions for it. There’s going to be a lot of trouble in the next few years, now that it’s all coming to light. You’ll see.’

Claire said, ‘You’re repeating what Hercule was telling me not long ago. Maybe you should talk to him about it.’

‘I’d like that.’

‘Maybe we can get together with him this weekend. Anyway, do you represent someone with a claim to stolen art?’ Claire asked curiously.

‘Not at the moment, but I may well do so in the not too distant future.’

They fell silent as they continued to stroll around the museum, at ease with each other. Laura, forever worried about Claire, stole a quick look at her. In her years of living in Paris Claire had acquired a certain kind of chic that was uniquely French. This afternoon she wore a dark purple wool coat, calf length and tightly belted, over matching pants and a turtleneck sweater. The purple enhanced Claire’s large green eyes and auburn halo of curls. Big gold hoop earrings and a dark red shoulder bag were her only accessories, and she looked stylish, well put together. Laura admired Claire’s style, which seemed so natural and uncontrived.

Glancing at Laura, Claire came to a halt and said, ‘I’m glad you’re in Paris for a while, Laura, I miss you.’

‘I miss you too,’ Laura answered swiftly.

Looking at her watch, Claire went on, ‘I think I’d better be getting back to the photographic studio. I’m doing a shoot for the magazine, as you know, and Hercule’s coming over later. I need his advice about one of my sets.’

‘He’s turned out to be a good friend,’ Laura said. ‘Hasn’t he?’

‘Yes. But not my best friend. That’s you, Laura Valiant. Nobody could take your place.’

Laura squeezed Claire’s arm. ‘Or yours,’ she said.

Laura heard the phone ringing above the sound of the water pouring into the bath, and she reached for the receiver on the wall.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi, sweetie.’

‘Doug! Hello, darling.’ She sat down on the small bathroom stool near the make-up table, and glanced at her watch. It was six here. Noon in New York.

Her husband said, ‘I called you earlier but you weren’t there. I’m off to lunch with a client in a few minutes, and I wanted to catch you before you went out again.’

‘It’s such a clear line, you sound as if you’re around the corner!’ she exclaimed warmly, happy to hear his voice.

‘I wish I were.’

‘So do I. Listen, I’ve got a great idea! Why don’t you come in for the weekend? Tomorrow’s Friday, couldn’t you take it off and fly over? It would be lovely, Doug.’

‘Wish I could, but I can’t,’ he answered, his voice changing slightly, growing suddenly brisk, businesslike. ‘That’s another reason I’m calling you, I have to fly to the coast tomorrow. Meetings with the Aaronson lawyers. The merger’s on, after all.’

‘Oh. It’s unexpected, isn’t it?’

‘Yep, it sure is. But what can I do, I’m needed out there.’

‘Never mind. But it would have been nice to have you in Paris if only for a couple of days.’

‘Sorry, darling, it can’t be helped. When do you think you’ll be back?’

‘I have appointments set up for the early part of next week, Doug, so I’ll probably leave for New York on Thursday or Friday.’

‘Great! You’ll be here next weekend, and so will I. This is probably going to be a quick trip to LA. In and out.’

‘Where are you staying?’

‘Er, the Peninsula, in Beverly Hills, as usual.’

‘Doug?’

‘Yes?’

‘I’ve really missed you this week.’

‘I’ve missed you too, darling. But we’ll make up for it, and you know what they say, absence makes the heart grow fonder.’

She laughed. ‘I guess it does…the way I’m feeling right now, I wish you were here…’ She laughed again, a light, infectious laugh.

He laughed with her. ‘Got to go, sweetie.’

‘When are you leaving tomorrow?’

‘My flight’s at nine in the morning, and I’m going straight into meetings once I’ve dropped my luggage off. I’ll call you.’

‘’Bye, darling.’

‘’Bye, Laura. And a big kiss,’ he said, before hanging up.

Laura sat soaking in the bath longer than usual. There had been no cabs on the street when she and Claire had left the museum earlier; they had walked all the way back to the hotel where Claire had finally found a cab.

The water was helping Laura to thaw out and to relax, and she luxuriated in the hot bubble bath for a while, thinking of Doug. She had married Douglas Casson when she was twenty-five and he was twenty-seven. They were a perfect fit, compatible, attuned to each other in the best of ways. But lately he worked too hard. She smiled at this thought. Didn’t he say the same thing about her?

To his way of thinking, they were both workaholics, and he seemed to relish announcing this. It was true, of course, but she didn’t like that particular word. It smacked of obsessiveness, and she was quite sure neither of them was that. Not exactly.

Anyway, Claire had always said that the ability to work hard for long hours was the most important thing of all, and that this was what separated the women from the girls.

But Laura thought that love was important, too. Hadn’t Colette, her favourite writer, once written that love and work were the only things of consequence in life. Certainly she believed this to be so. But Claire didn’t – at least not the love part, not anymore. Claire had been burnt. ‘And they were third-degree burns, at that,’ Claire had said. Those burns had taken a long time to heal. ‘Now I have built a carapace around me, and I’ll never get burnt again. Or hurt in any way. My shell protects me. Nothing, no one, can ever inflict pain on me.’

Laura loved Claire. She also had enormous compassion for her, because of all the bad things that had happened to her. Laura was well aware that Claire was raw inside; still, she couldn’t help wishing her friend would open herself up to love again instead of retreating into her shell the way she did. There was something oddly sterile about a woman’s life, if she did not have love in it, if she didn’t have a man to cherish and to love.

These days, whenever she broached this subject, Claire only laughed hollowly, and responded swiftly, ‘I have Natasha, and she’s all that matters. She’s my life now, I don’t need a man around.’

But a fourteen-year-old daughter wasn’t enough, was it? Laura wondered. Surely not for a loving, passionate, intelligent woman like Claire.

Claire. The dearest friend she had ever had. And still her best friend, the one she loved the most, even though they lived so far away from each other now. Claire and she went back a long way. Almost all of their lives, really.

She had been five years old when Claire and her parents, Jack and Nancy Benson, had come to live in the apartment opposite theirs in the lovely old building on Park Avenue at Eighty-Sixth Street. She had instantly fallen in love with her in the way a little girl of five falls in love with a very grown-up ten-year-old. She had worshipped Claire from the start, had emulated her. Once their two families had become acquainted, Claire had taken Laura and Dylan under her wing, had been baby-sitter, pal, and confidante.

Cissy, the Valiant nanny, had had her hands full with Dylan, who was then only two and very naughty. So Claire had been a welcome addition to the Valiant household. An only child, Claire had loved being part of this extended family, especially since Laura’s grandparents, Owen and Megan Valiant, were very much in evidence. They all helped to make Claire feel like a very special member of their family.

Because Claire attended Miss Hewitt’s School, Laura went there as well. And there came a time when the five years difference in their ages suddenly seemed negligible. As teenagers and young women they were as inseparable as they had been as children, bonded together as sisters in soul and spirit, if not blood.

Claire had married young, at twenty-one, and her daughter Natasha had been born a year later. Two years after that she had moved to Paris with her husband and child. But nothing, not distance, husband or child, had ever come between them or changed the nature of their friendship. Very simply, they loved each other, and, as Claire was wont to say, they would always be sisters under the skin, no matter what.

The sad part was that Claire’s life had gone horribly wrong seven years ago. Her marriage had foundered and she had divorced; her parents had died within a few weeks of each other, not long after this, and then Natasha had been in a car crash and had suffered serious injuries. But thanks to Claire’s nursing, the girl had made an amazing recovery.

Laura roused herself, pushing herself up in the bath. Here she was daydreaming about the past when she should be getting dressed.

No time to dawdle now.