Читать книгу A Sudden Change of Heart - Barbara Taylor Bradford - Страница 9

‘Don’t you like the room, Hercule?’ Claire Benson asked, pausing near the grouping of Louis XVth chairs, resting a hand on the back of one of them. ‘Is it the chairs? Do you think they’re inappropriate? Don’t they work?’ She shot these questions at him as she glanced down at the silver-leafed wood frame under her hand, and then at the silver-grey upholstery. ‘Yes, it is the chairs, isn’t it?’ she asserted. ‘Maybe they’re totally wrong for the setting.’ She looked across at him questioningly.

The Frenchman chuckled. ‘Ah, Claire, so many questions you fire, rat-a-tat, and you make the jest, n’est-ce pas?’

‘No, I’m being serious.’

‘The room is superb. Formidable, oui. You have the wonderful taste. The furniture, the fabrics you have chosen, this Aubusson rug, everything is perfection. But –’

‘But what?’ she cut in before he could complete his sentence.

‘The room is incomplete, my dear. A room is never finished until it has –’

‘Art,’ she supplied, and then immediately laughed when she saw the amusement in his face, the twinkle in his eye. ‘I need paintings on these walls, Hercule, I know that. But what kind of paintings? That’s one of the reasons I wanted you to see the setting, to help me make some decisions about art. Shall I use a Picasso? Or a Gauguin? Or go for a modern work, such as Larry Rivers? A Van Gogh? A Renoir, maybe? On the other hand, I could look for something really old, like a pair of Canalettos.’

‘A Van Gogh or a Gauguin would give the room strength, but I do not think it is a strength you require here, Claire. And Canalettos would be wrong. A soft painting would be the ideal choice, something in the pastel tones. It would underscore the stillness, the sense of…quietude you have created. Also, this space has a light look. Airy. A Renoir, most definitely. Oui. Parfait.’

‘Perfect, yes, I agree. But where am I going to find one? And who would lend me one for the photography? People don’t normally let their Renoirs out of their sight.’

Hercule Junot smiled. ‘There is a possibility that I might be able to find one for you. A few months ago, I was shown a Renoir which was for sale –’ He paused, shrugged lightly, raised his hands. ‘Well, I do not know, chérie, perhaps it has been sold.’

‘If it hasn’t, do you think the owner would agree to lend it to me?’ she asked, her face eager.

‘Mais oui. The owner is a friend, a former client…I am happy to speak with her. If she still has it, she will allow me to borrow it. For a few hours. If that is enough time for you, Claire. Because of its great value, she would not want to leave the painting here in the studio overnight.’

‘And I wouldn’t want it to be here overnight! Not unless I slept with it. I wouldn’t want the responsibility, although we will insure it, of course, even if it’s here for only a few hours. Too risky not to.’ Claire stepped out of the set, went to join Hercule Junot, who was standing on the studio floor. ‘When can you speak to your friend?’

‘I shall be happy to telephone her this evening.’

Claire said, ‘My lead time is three to four months, as you know, and I’m shooting this for the March issue. It’s going to be the cover shot.’

‘If she has not sold it, that might be an inducement for her to lend the Renoir. Having the exposure in the magazine could serve a purpose.’

Claire nodded. ‘Good thought. What’s the painting like?’ She grinned. ‘Although who needs to know that, a Renoir’s a Renoir.’

Hercule’s face had lit up at the thought of the painting, and he beamed at her. ‘It is beautiful, bien sûr, a semi-nude, a bather sitting on a rock. But this is not a large painting, Claire. It would only be suitable to hang over the fireplace or above the console. You will need a larger one…for the wall where the sofa is placed.’

‘I’m pretty sure I have one already. My assistant found a Seurat at one of the galleries, and they’re prepared to lend it to us.’

‘That is good. A Seurat will be compatible. It will sit well with the Renoir. I shall telephone you tomorrow, after I’ve spoken with my friend.’ He picked up his dark overcoat, which was thrown over the back of a wooden chair. ‘I must return to my bureau, Claire. Will you come with me? Can I take you to the magazine? Or are you staying here at the studio?’

‘No, I’m not, Hercule. I’ve finished for today. I’ll just have a word with my staff who are still working on another set, and then I’ll come with you. I’d love a lift to the Plaza Athénée, if that’s not out of your way.’

‘Ce n’est pas un problème, Claire.’

Claire had known Hercule Junot for twelve years, having met him when she first came to live in Paris as a young bride. They had been seated next to one another at a posh dinner party, and the renowned older man and the unimportant young woman had taken to each other at once. He had found her irreverent, saucy, provocative, and challenging, and her knowledge of art and antiques, coupled with her journalistic flair for telling a good story, had been impressive. She had been the most interesting and entertaining dinner companion he had had in many a year, a sheer delight to be with.

Hercule Junot, who was now seventy-six years old, was one of the most famous interior designers in the world, on a par with his peers Stéphane Boudin, a fellow Parisian, and the Italian, Renzo Mongiardino. Renowned for his elegant and glamorous formal interiors, he had great taste, immense flair, a discerning and critical eye, and was considered to be one of the foremost experts on Fine French Furniture. Another area of his formidable expertise was Impressionism, most especially the paintings of Van Gogh and Gauguin, the latter a great personal favourite.

Rather than lessening as he grew older, his business seemed to be flourishing even more than ever, and he was in constant demand by those who appreciated his extraordinary gift for creating tasteful but eyecatching interiors full of style, wit and comfort; those who had the vast amounts of money required to pay for the antiques and art of the highest pedigree and quality which he favoured in his designs.

Claire had been at a crossroads in her career when they had met. She wanted to continue working as a journalist, but she felt more drawn than ever to the world of visual and decorative arts.

At that first meeting over dinner she had found herself confiding her concerns about her career and the route it should take, and Hercule had made up his mind that he must somehow help her.

The following morning he had talked to a number of influential people, pulled a few strings, and in the process had contrived to get her a job on Decorative Arts and Design, a glossy magazine devoted to art, antiques, and interior design which was popular with the French and with the international public. It was owned by a friend of his who had long owed him a favour.

Claire had started out in a most lowly position, that of caption writer, but such was her creative talent and energy that within eight years she had risen to the top of the hierarchy of the magazine.

Four years ago she had been named publisher and editor-in-chief, answerable to no one but the owner. Hercule Junot, not unnaturally, was proud of her success and the name she had made for herself.

In the ensuing years since that first meeting, most propitious for her, these two had remained staunch friends, and Hercule had become her mentor. Claire trusted his judgement about everything in the world of design, and whenever she was doubtful about a project she ran to him for his opinion and advice.

Such had been the case today; a sudden lack of confidence about the set, an unprecedented occurrence for her, had induced her to invite him to the photographic studio to give his opinion.

The set had been painstakingly designed and skilfully installed with the utmost care; nonetheless, she had been unusually critical of her own work when she had seen the finished result. She had also been suddenly hesitant and indecisive about the art she should choose to complete the room.

Hercule had been impressed by the beauty and quality of the formal salon and the splendid choices she had made, and more so than he had actually said. Now he wondered if this had been an error on his part. Perhaps he should have expressed himself more volubly. She was certainly quiet, preoccupied, a silent companion in the Mercedes, and this was most unlike her.

Hercule sighed under his breath, leaned back against the leather upholstery and glanced out of the window. It had snowed earlier, but the light flakes had melted, leaving the dark streets wet and glistening. Under the bright lights of the boulevard du Montparnasse the road looked slick as a mirror, as his chauffeur manoeuvred the car carefully through the busy traffic of the Left Bank.

If he had any regrets about Claire professionally, it was only that he had not brought her to work for him as his assistant all those years ago. She would have been a godsend to him today, the perfect right hand. She had flair and taste, and her skills as a designer were wasted at the magazine; they only came into play when she created a room to shoot for one of the magazine’s covers. The rest of the time she was plying her trade as a journalist. C’est dommage, he thought. My mistake.

Hercule had one other regret about her, and this was intensely personal. He never ceased to wish he had courted Claire when she and her husband had separated seven years ago. He had wanted to do so, but he had been…afraid. Yes, afraid of looking foolish…of being rejected…of spoiling the friendship. Better to have her in his life as a friend, than not there at all.

There was his age to consider: he was forty years older than Claire. What could she possibly want from him? he had asked himself innumerable times. His late wife Veronica had always said he did not look his age, and he had believed her. He was fit and trim, mercifully not as lined and ancient-looking as some of the men he knew who were his age. Admittedly his hair was white, but it was a full head of hair. And sex was not a problem, not at all.

Initially, he had not pursued Claire or pressed his suit because she had been so distraught at the time of the divorce, a state he had found most odd since she purported to detest her husband. And so time had slipped by, other things had intervened, and the opportunity had been missed. They had fallen into a pattern of loving friendship, and he did not know how to change this without upsetting her unduly.

Veronica had been dead for fifteen years. There was not a day he did not miss his wife; yet he had known, when Claire had separated, that this young American woman could so easily fill the void created by his wife’s death. Veronica had been an American too; they had that in common. There any resemblance between them stopped. Veronica had been tall, long-legged, an all-American beauty, blonde, blue-eyed and wafer-thin, one of the great post-war models in Paris, on Christian Dior’s runway showing his New Look and on the cover of every fashion magazine in the world. When he had met her it had been love at first sight, a coup de foudre, and a most happy union until the day she died.

Hercule stole a look at Claire, surreptitiously, out of the corner of his eye, and for the second time today he thought she did not look well. She had faintly bluish smudges under her eyes, and the short, curly auburn hair, the bright burnished halo he found so attractive, did not have its usual glossy lustre.

What struck him with such force when he had arrived at the studio this afternoon was her weight, or rather loss of it. Always slender, she appeared thinner than ever. Maigre. A waif, that was how she appeared to him. An appealing gamin in looks and style, somehow she had become bony. Had she looked like this last week when he had lunched with her at Taillevent? No, she could not have; he would have noticed. He wondered if she were ill? But no, he did not think this was so; she had been full of her usual energy at the studio.

Worries of another nature? Money? If this were the problem then there was no problem. He would readily give her as much as she needed. Instantly, Hercule dismissed the thought that Claire lacked money. The mere idea of it was ludicrous. Her husband provided for Natasha, and she was well paid by the magazine. Could it be that Natasha was causing problems for her? No, no, he did not think this possible either. The girl was unusual, very steady and practical, older than her age in a number of ways. Whenever she had been concerned about her daughter in the past, Claire had discussed it with him and he had given the best advice he could. Since he had never been a father, he felt somewhat inadequate in doing so, and yet how kind she had been, always so appreciative of his interest in Natasha.

He began to formulate an opening sentence in his mind. He wanted to pose certain questions. How he longed to make whatever it was that ailed her go away. He knew he could do that. If she would let him. He loved her. He had loved her for a long time now. He would always love her, and because of this he had the need to ease the burdens of her life, if he could. And if she would permit him to do so. Women, ah, they were so contrary. He was a Frenchman, and he knew about their natures only too well.

Claire had always felt exceptionally comfortable with Hercule Junot, and there was a great sense of ease in their relationship. And so she did not think twice about drifting along with her thoughts, as his car eased its way through the early evening traffic, heading in the direction of the avenue Montaigne.

She considered the older man to be her dearest friend in Paris; and they never stood on ceremony with each other. To Claire, the silence between them was perfectly normal, acceptable; she never felt the need to talk to him, to entertain him. And she knew he felt exactly the same way about her.

She was thinking about Laura; she was looking forward to having dinner with her tonight. Laura was the only family she had, except for Natasha. Her parents were dead; Aunt Fleur was dead; her husband was ostensibly dead since they were long divorced. Momentarily, his face danced before her eyes, but she pushed it away. She did not want to think about him now; it would spoil her evening.

On their walk from the museum she and Laura had planned the weekend. It was going to be fun. Natasha was as excited as she was about Laura’s unexpected sojourn in Paris, and without Doug in tow for a change. Not that she minded Doug, he was fine. But having Laura to themselves was a very special bonus.

‘Is there something troubling you, Claire?’ Hercule asked, cutting into her thoughts.

Turning to look at him, Claire exclaimed, ‘No, of course not, Hercule! Why do you think there is?’

‘You’ve been very quiet on our drive across Paris,’ he remarked, touching her arm. ‘And I have to confess to you, I was most forcibly struck by your appearance this afternoon. You’ve lost weight, Claire. You’re like a…a waif.’

‘No, wafer-thin!’ she shot back, laughing, pleased with her play on words. ‘Remember what the Duchess of Windsor said: “You can never be too rich or too thin.”’

‘But you are too thin.’

‘I’ll confess, Hercule, I’ve been on a diet. I want to be slender and chic for your New Year’s Eve party.’

‘You are a lovely young woman; all this dieting is not necessary. Starving, starving, starving, and all for a size four dress. Mon Dieu, you could slip through the eye of a needle.’

‘It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter into the kingdom of God,’ she murmured, smiling at him, grasping one of his hands. ‘I first heard those lines from the Bible in that old Tyrone Power movie with Gene Tierney, Anne Baxter and Clifton Webb.’

‘The Razor’s Edge,’ he said. ‘How could I forget it? Ever. I have seen it a hundred times with you.’

‘Not quite a hundred,’ she laughed. ‘But we’re getting there, and I’m fine, Hercule, really I am. Actually, I’m as fit as a fiddle. A bit overworked, that’s all. But listen, I want to talk to you about the Renoir. If it’s not been sold, Laura might well be interested. For one of her clients. I know she has her heart set on a Matisse and a Bonnard, if she can find them, but why not a Renoir as well? She has several big collectors as clients.’

‘I know she does, and that is an excellent idea, Claire. I have a feeling that the painting is still hanging in my friend’s house. I am sure she would have told me if she had sold it.’ He gave her the benefit of a wide smile, and nodded his head, looking pleased. ‘I shall tell the countess there is the possibility of a sale.’