Читать книгу Letter from a Stranger - Barbara Taylor Bradford - Страница 13

‘You look great,’ Joanne Brandon exclaimed, walking across the worn Persian carpet covering the drawing-room floor. ‘Hard work and no play agrees with you!’

Feeling more relaxed for the first time that day, Justine smiled and rushed to meet her closest friend. ‘You don’t look half bad yourself…’ She left her sentence unfinished as she grabbed hold of Joanne’s hands.

‘Come on, give me a hug,’ Jo said.

The two women embraced, then stepped away, gazed at each other for a long moment.

Justine said, ‘You’ve done something to yourself… it’s a new hairdo! Shorter, and I love it. Very chic.’

‘And you’re leaner, fitter, and your hair’s different, too. Longer, glossier. You glamour puss, you.’

The two of them broke into peals of laughter, both recalling how they always used to greet each other with comments like this… about their appearance. They had once again fallen into the old trap, on purpose, of course, since it had become something of a joke these days. When they were teenagers they had accused each other of being overly vain.

Joanna went and stood in front of the blazing fire as she usually did, enjoying the warmth, especially on this cool April evening. Justine walked over to the round table in the corner, where bottles of liquor and glasses stood, along with a white wine in a silver bucket. ‘Is this all right?’ Justine asked, her hand on the bottle. ‘It’s Sancerre.’

‘Couldn’t be better.’

After pouring the wine, Justine carried the crystal goblets over to the fireplace, handed one to Joanne. They clinked glasses.

‘So the picture went well, did it?’ Justine asked, sitting down opposite her friend.

‘The best I’ve worked on yet,’ Jo answered. ‘The stars were great, had no problem with my PR demands, knew their lines, no temperament or tantrums. And we came in on time and on budget. Thank God. I was glad to get back to New York, and Simon. Poor kid, he really missed me. But there was no way he could’ve been in Los Angeles when I was working. I didn’t want him to miss school either, and anyway his father wouldn’t have liked him to be out of New York.’

‘No, he wouldn’t. How’s he doing?’

‘Oh, the same as usual. Bad tempered, bossy, impatient. Nothing’s ever right. He’s a negative man, Malcolm Brandon is, and a trifle petty.’

‘But he can turn on the charm when he wants to.’

‘Don’t tell me. He does it now, even though we’re divorced. But how about you? How did your editing go in the end? You sounded worried sometimes.’

‘A heavy month, as I explained on the phone when you called. But the documentary came out great in the end. Jean-Marc Breton was a devil to work with, but ultimately he was brilliant and his art is just superb. Breathtaking really. His paintings are so vivid, so colourful, and Provence and Spain are wonderful places to film! I’m showing it to Miranda Evans on Tuesday afternoon. She saw some of the rushes when she came over to France, and she’s also seen the rough-cut. Even though I say it myself, the finished product is… perfect.’

‘Knowing you, it wouldn’t be anything else. What did she say about the new title?’

Justine made a moue. ‘At first she wasn’t sure about it… after all, “Proof of Life” means different things to people. Show me that the hostage is not dead, is one example. That’s what the police say to a kidnapper, or a fugitive holding someone against their will. To me it meant that if I could film the world’s greatest living artist, an extraordinary painter, who was a recluse, non-communicative, and an eccentric, then I had proof of life that he wasn’t dead, like so many people thought he was. He’s hardly ever seen in public these days, and there has been a lot of gossip and speculation about his well-being. And I’ve just proved he’s alive and kicking and as right as rain, to submerge myself in a bunch of clichés.’

‘Clichés are true, the truth, used frequently, which is why they are called clichés.’ Jo took a sip of wine and eyed Justine speculatively over the top of the glass. ‘Is he really the lady-killer he’s said to be, or is that all part of the myth and the legend, and all that jazz?’

Justine’s face changed slightly and she remained silent, her blue eyes suddenly thoughtful, her face solemn.

Knowing her as well as she did, Joanne had the feeling she had accidentally stepped on dangerous ground. Taking a deep breath, she murmured, ‘I guess he’s a man with what is called fatal charm. Isn’t that so? Did you succumb to it?’

‘No, of course not, don’t be so silly,’ Justine answered swiftly, her voice rising slightly.

Joanne nodded; she thought: I don’t believe her. She’s blushing. What is she hiding from me? Clearing her throat, Joanne murmured, ‘The whole world says he’s irresistible to women.’

‘I resisted, take my word for it.’

Richard asked, ‘Resisted what, Juju?’ He came strolling into the drawing room, went to hug and kiss Joanne, and then poured himself a glass of wine, joined her on the other sofa.

His sister said, ‘Jo was teasing me about Jean-Marc Breton, or rather about his reputation as a womanizer. I was just telling her that I resisted his so-called charms.’

Richard knew that his twin was embarrassed for some reason, and wanting to alleviate this, he said, ‘I thought he was truly a decent kind of guy when I met him, Jo. Fascinating to talk to, well informed about a lot of things, and it goes without saying that it was a great privilege to meet him in his home. And to be shown around his gallery by the maestro himself was an honour.’ Richard took a swallow of wine. ‘He didn’t strike me as a man who went around pouncing on women.’

‘I didn’t say he did!’ Joanne cried, and then laughed. Focusing on Justine, she changed the subject. ‘When are you planning to go to Istanbul?’

‘Next week, once I’ve shown the final cut to Miranda on Tuesday. I feel certain she’ll like the film, and when I get all the business with CNI out of the way, I’ll be on my way.’

‘So are you going to do a documentary on Istanbul?’ Joanne’s auburn brow lifted questioningly.

‘I’m not sure. I have an idea I want to pursue, and if I think it’ll work, then yes, I might well be filming there later this year.’

‘So what’s the idea then?’

‘You know I’m superstitious, Jo,’ she murmured, sidetracking her friend. ‘I never talk about an idea until I’ve developed it and finally got it nailed.’

‘I understand. I have a great friend there, and she’ll be extremely useful. First of all, she speaks perfect English. She’s actually a professor of archaeology. However, being smart, she knew she’d never make a proper living doing that, so she started a boutique travel business. She knows a lot of people, and everything there is to know about all of the ancient sites, ruins, palaces, and the history of the country from the Byzantine period through the Ottoman Empire up to today. Ask her anything. She’ll have the answer. I’ve already sent her an e-mail explaining that I will call her tomorrow.’

‘What’s her name?’ Richard asked.

‘Iffet Özgönül, and her company is called Peten – Peten Travels, actually.’ Opening her handbag, Joanne took out a sheaf of papers. ‘Here’s some information I pulled up on my computer about her and her background. And also some pages about Istanbul.’

Justine took the papers eagerly.

Richard and Joanne started to talk about a barn on her property which she wanted to convert into a studio, and Justine buried her head in the sheaf of papers, the computer printout. It was a relief to have them.

She had suddenly grown apprehensive when Joanne had launched into a discussion about Jean-Marc Breton and his reputation as a lady-killer. So called. Making a documentary film about a great artist, his work and his life had been problematic enough; things had grown much more complicated and complex when he had fallen for her. She had made a decision months ago not to discuss the making of the film with anyone, and she certainly had no intention of speaking about her relationship with him.

Brushing thoughts of the Frenchman aside, she went on reading about Iffet Özgönül, liking the sound of her. This was a person who could no doubt help her in a variety of different ways, and it was very likely that Iffet would be able to find Anita Lowe, who was the key to Gabriele’s whereabouts.

The sudden appearance of Tita in the doorway made Justine look up, and she raised a brow. ‘Do you want us to come to the table?’

‘Please, now Pearl says, for the eggs.’

‘I’m famished,’ Richard announced, standing up. ‘Come on, Jo, and bring your drink.’

Tita disappeared down the corridor and Richard led Joanne and his sister into the small cosy dining room next door, which had once been the breakfast room, full of sunny yellows and greens and glass furniture. Richard had redesigned it. Removing all of the glass pieces, except for two étagères on either side of the fireplace, he had used a colour scheme of scarlet and black …scarlet on the walls, a black floor plus mellow antiques made an enormous difference.

‘This has been a terrific transformation,’ Joanne remarked, as Richard pulled out a chair for her, then went to help Justine.

He whispered against his sister’s cheek, ‘Where’s the letter? I left it on my desk.’

‘I have it in my pocket,’ she murmured, and then, looking across at Joanne, said, ‘I agree with you about this room, and although I was only half listening when you were discussing the barn, I think Rich has some great ideas for remodelling it.’

‘He does. But then he’s the best,’ Jo responded.

‘I like Iffet before meeting her,’ Justine murmured.

‘Here’re the Parisian eggs,’ Pearl announced, striding into the room with a tray of plates, followed by Tita, who handed one to each of them.

‘Oh my, Parisian eggs like your grandmother used to make …I just love them.’ Joanne picked up her fork, and began to eat at once.

How weird it is that no one has mentioned Gran for ages, Justine thought. And now, today, her name’s on everyone’s lips. Anxiety about her grandmother edged into her mind, as it had done on and off all day. Where was she? Was she well? Did she need money? What did she think of them? Her and Rich? Did she think they were in on this crazy estrangement, something promulgated by their insane mother? She hoped, no prayed, this was not the case.

Her mother. Deborah Nolan really was off her rocker, wasn’t she? Two husbands since their father had died; both had divorced her – or she them, Justine wasn’t sure which. What man would put up with her antics? She was skittish, silly, shallow, a spendthrift. Talented, tortured, tricky, troubled. Justine sighed under her breath. She could easily go through the alphabet, defining her mother, who had always been the absent mother, hadn’t she?

‘Penny for your thoughts,’ Richard said, sitting back in the chair, gazing at his sister, worrying about her and their grandmother.

‘Nothing much to tell you,’ Justine replied. ‘The eggs are good.’ She grinned at him.

‘And how. I’ve demolished them already. Great idea on your part.’

‘It was Pearl’s actually. By the way, I saw Carlos and Ricardo carrying some big planks of wood over to your building project this afternoon. How’s it coming along?’

‘They’re doing a great job, and it’ll be finished by the summer. But it’s really just a simple bungalow, Juju, not a stately home.’

She began to chuckle. ‘Simple? Don’t be silly, it’s beginning to look like something rather splendid, in my opinion.’

Joanne said, ‘I can’t wait to see it. When am I going to get the tour?’

‘Nothing to tour, as you call it, Jo – not yet. But I’ll show you around tomorrow before tea in the gazebo.’ He smiled lovingly at Joanne. ‘I heard all about tea from Daisy. She’s so excited that you and Simon are coming.’

‘So am I, so’s he,’ Jo murmured. She wanted to add that Justine and Richard were the only family they had, and that they loved them very much; that she and Simon were dependent on them in so many ways. But she refrained.

She stole a look at Richard, surreptitiously, as she had been doing for as long as she could remember. She had loved him all of her life, had hero-worshipped him, but he had never shown much interest in her, at least not romantically. And then one day she had been swept off her feet by the sweet-talking, fast-talking, aggressive Malcolm Brandon, who had turned out to be a glib dud. And Richard had married Pamela. Who had died. And Jo had divorced the glib monster of Wall Street fame.

As she sat eating cottage pie and savouring this favourite, it suddenly struck Jo that Richard did not seem so full of grief tonight. Distracted, yes. Preoccupied, yes. And worried. He was worrying about something.

She was suddenly absolutely certain he was not pining for Pamela at this moment. There was a difference in his demeanour; he appeared jumpy, on edge, and worry clouded those wonderfully blue eyes. He was thinking hard; she knew when he was doing that, had been aware of this even when they were kids.

Jo let her gaze rest on Justine, thinking that she was also different tonight, had retreated into herself after her comments about Jean-Marc. And yet… well, there was something else bothering her best friend. Was it a problem with their mother?

Deborah, the darling of every man who met her, that’s how Jo thought of her, and had since she was old enough to think about sex. The Sexpot. That’s what some people called Deborah Nolan. The sexiest sexpot on two legs. How old was she now? In her fifties? Yes. Fifty-three or thereabouts. But no doubt as beautiful as ever, with her sculpted face, flowing dark hair and liquid grey eyes. Come-to-bed eyes, that was the way Malcolm had described them, looking as if he fancied her. He fancied a lot of women and had a lot of women and that’s why they were divorced. And she was glad they were.

Clearing her throat, Joanne said, ‘There’s something wrong, Rich. I know there is, Juju.’ She fixed her eyes on them.

They stared back at her and said nothing.

‘Look, I’ve known the two of you since we were little kids, and we have a shared past. You can’t pretend with me. You’re both preoccupied and worried.’

Justine turned to her twin, her expression quizzical as she looked at him.

Richard pursed his lips, frowned. He said, ‘There is a problem, Jo, you’re correct. But I don’t want to talk about it now. Not here. Let’s finish dinner; Tita and Pearl have been working so hard in the kitchen. We can talk about it over coffee. Fair enough?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Jo answered, wondering what could be wrong.