Читать книгу The Last Will And Testament Of Daphné Le Marche - Kate Forster, Kate Forster - Страница 8

Sometimes Celeste Le Marche wondered if she should have died instead of Camille.

If she had gone to the dance lesson with Camille instead of having a tantrum at home because she didn’t get new ballet shoes like her sister, then they would have argued over who got the front seat, and Celeste, being the more aggressive of the sisters, even though she was younger, would have won.

Camille would have been relegated to the back seat behind Papa, because that was the only seat belt in the back of the Audi that worked and it would have been Celeste that died instantly when the truck hit the car.

Then Camille would have gone to the hellhole school that was Allemagne and Celeste would have gone to heaven with Uncle Henri and Pépère, and everything would be as it should be.

She used to wonder what it was like in heaven. Every imagining changed according to her age. One year it was bowls filled with sweets on pretty little tables and talking goldfish that swam in ponds, then it was filled with every fabulous item of clothing she could imagine, and then it was champagne and cocaine and dancing without ever needing to sleep.

Now, as she wandered through the dark villa belonging to her mother, she wondered if heaven was actually being able to sleep through the night.

She could hear the sounds of the waves on the rocks below and she wondered about her uncle for a moment, and then pushed the thoughts from her head.

Why did the darkest thoughts always come when there was so little light?

She checked her phone and saw the missed messages from Paul in Paris.

Instead, there were over twenty messages from the press. News of her affair with the Minister of Trade had just been leaked by someone, probably that little shit who worked for him, she thought. He was always flouncing around wearing too much cologne and his pants too tight. Now it would be in the news tomorrow, unless Paul tried to put a stop to it by offering something in return.

A text came through from him as she peered at her phone.

Celeste, we need to talk. Now!

She snorted at her phone. He had a night free from the confines of the family home and he thought her worthy enough to give her his company, except she was in Nice and he wasn’t happy about it all, judging by the tone of his text.

He could wait for a change, she thought, as she sat on the cane chaise and covered her long legs with the cotton blanket her mother had left at the end of the lounge. The sun must be nearly up, she thought, as she peered into the darkness. On the horizon, a light glimmered, and Celeste was thankful the night was nearly over.

Matilde was so thoughtful to her guests, thought Celeste, as she straightened out the blanket. It was just her daughter she forgot about. The only time she had been nurtured by Matilde was when she had her tonsils out when she was six, the year before Camille died. Matilde had put her daughter into clean sheets and rubbed lavender onto her temples when she had a headache. Camille had sat at the end of the bed and had read her Babar, and Papa had bought her little honey sweets to soothe her throat.

Her mother certainly hadn’t been in this mood when Celeste arrived unannounced from Paris the day before.

‘Celeste, what are you doing here?’ she had asked, surprise showing in her blue eyes. At fifty-five years old, Matilde Le Marche had retained her figure, her married name, and her love of socialising.

‘I needed to get away from Paris,’ was all Celeste had said, pushing through the door of the villa.

‘Married men make women crazy and women make married men crazy. It is better to be single,’ said Matilde as she’d picked up her tennis racquet, which was next to the front door. ‘Look at me.’

Celeste knew better than to open the door to the conversation that would start if she commented on her mother’s statement. The only thing Matilde liked to do more than gossip was to complain about the affairs her father had had while they were still married.

Of course, Matilde had learned of Celeste’s affair with Paul Le Brun from the nephew of a friend, whose ex-boyfriend was in love with Paul.

Too many visits under the guise of decorating his office had brought attention to their relationship, and since then Paul had been retreating from seeing Celeste as often.

Was it just her, or was the sex a little less intense also, or was that because he was nearing fifty?

What if he died while they were making love? She had heard of such stories, and the idea of Paul dead on top of her while still inside her made her shudder.

Celeste tried to shake her morbidity and closed her eyes, the cool air caressing her face. Her phone chimed again and she rushed to turn it down and saw a text message from her father.

Grand-Mère passed last night

So much death in this family, she thought, as she read the message.

Her father Robert was not one for extreme displays of emotion and the news of Grand-Mère Daphné’s passing was handled in his usual taciturn way.

She thought about messaging him back, but what could she say to ease her father’s relationship with his mother?

She had enough problems with Matilde. The idea of her mother was far nicer than the reality. It was the same with Grand-Mère Daphné. She was always frightening to her as a child and she hadn’t seen her in a year, not since Daphné’s heart went into failure and she had gone into hiding.

‘I’m surprised she has a heart to fail,’ her father had quipped over their quarterly lunch at La Tour d’Argent, which Celeste loathed but knew it was vital to attend if she were to keep her measly allowance from Papa.

Daphné Le Marche was never a warm person to Celeste or anyone else, but she had rescued her granddaughter from her time at the Allemagne school and that alone was worth a moment’s silence for the old woman.

She would organise the funeral, she thought. It would be an elegant event, like Daphné. God knows what it would turn into if her father was left to manage the details. If he had his way, her grandmother would be shipped out to sea in a cardboard coffin, and not even a prayer offered.

Perhaps she should have said more to her grandmother over the years, especially after that telephone call from Allemagne, made to Daphné when she was sixteen, which saved her life. Robert and Matilde were so immersed in their own grief and self-destruction that they didn’t see their surviving daughter was dying at boarding school.

It was the only time in her childhood that Celeste had had a champion. It was Daphné who had told Robert that Celeste was anorexic, and a victim of extreme bullying and that she had tried to overdose on painkillers. It was Daphné who had told Matilde to step up and be a mother or she would lose both children. It was Daphné who had organised Celeste to attend hospital and finish her final classes at home with a tutor.

And it was Daphné who had ruined the school’s reputation with Europe’s elite when it refused to acknowledge any wrongdoing and turned a blind eye to the beatings of Celeste, the urine-soaked bed, courtesy of the girls in her dormitory, which Celeste was forced to sleep in most nights, and the ostracising of her from every meal and every social event.

What were once rumours of a culture of bullying at the school soon became absolute truth once Daphné made calls to certain important families. Soon there was a removal of some of the most elite students by their families and the school never quite regained its footing among the upper classes again.

Celeste never knew why it was her who had been chosen as the victim of the bullying. Was she too tall? Too thin? Too blonde? Too something?

The only time it had been discussed was when Matilde had called her on the telephone as Celeste was being put on a drip for dehydration and a low heart rate.

‘They don’t like you because you’re too beautiful, like me. Women don’t like women like us, we’re a threat,’ Matilde had slurred down the phone.

So Celeste grew to view all women as the enemy, even her own mother.

She opened her eyes, as she heard the sound of birds stirring in the bougainvillea, scratching and fighting to wake first. I envy them, she thought, it must be easy being a bird. She looked out at the growing light in the distance, colours of sherbet orange filling the sky and, for a moment, her eyes pricked with tears for Grand-Mère. She said a little prayer for Camille to look after her when she arrived in the afterlife.

She was under no illusions though that her grandmother would have thought of her on her deathbed. The woman barely had time for Robert, let alone his daughter. All she cared about was her business.

Now Le Marche would belong to Robert, and he would sell it to the Japanese as soon as he could. She pulled the cotton blanket up to her chest and wondered about Sibylla.

Did she know? Who would tell her? Would she come to the funeral?

But Celeste had no idea how to contact her cousin in Australia.

God, that was so far away, she thought. She struggled even travelling to London. Everything she needed was in Paris, Paul was in Paris. With his family, playing the perfect husband and father. That would be all over tomorrow if the news got out about their affair.

But if that were true, she thought, why had she run to Nice?

There were too many thoughts to try to put into order, so, instead, she watched the sun rise like fire in the distance.

But her thoughts came back like the waves below the villa, crashing into the cliff.

Was Paul at home in his bed with his wife, while their children slept peacefully in their little beds? Was he watching the sunrise from his balcony? Would he think of her as he showered? Would he think of her undressing as he dressed?

Did he sip on his coffee and wonder if she was thinking of him also?

Did he love her like she loved him?

Tears burned so harshly, she squeezed her eyes shut, even though Grand-Mère had always told her to never line her face with anything other than a smile.

A half sun sat on the horizon now, and Celeste felt more at peace in the glow.

Darkness was her worst time. Nights like this were hard to bear alone.

Thirty years old and the mistress of a politician. Thirty years old with no discernible career, except as an occasional interior designer and stylist. Thirty years old and still taking an allowance from her father.

What a joke she was. She lived off her father’s meagre allowance and her lover’s gifts, and was given her mother’s apartment in Paris because Matilde didn’t know how to love her only surviving child properly, and the apartment went some way to absolving her guilt.

For a moment, she was envious of her father and his inheritance. He could do anything he wanted with Le Marche, but she knew he would sell it, as much to spite Daphné as to live off the proceeds.

As the sun rose, Celeste thought of Daphné and her life.

At twenty-one, her grandmother had had two children and, within ten years, she had turned a family business into a cosmetics empire.

Self-esteem hadn’t ever been a mantle that draped Celeste’s shoulders, and now, when she thought of her brilliant grandmother, her self-sufficient mother and even her estranged cousin, Sibylla, who was a scientist or something similar, according to her research online, she felt hopeless.

She kicked off the blanket, stood up and stretched, then walked to the edge of the balcony.

The waves crashed below her and she could see the white foam greedily lapping the edges of the rocks.

She put her hands on the edge of the iron balcony and peered down further, trying to hear the sounds of the sea, seeing how far down the rocks were, or how far up she was.

What was below? she wondered. She thought of Uncle Henri. Is this what he felt? Did he hear l’appel du vide? The call of the void?

That’s what her mother once said when she had asked how he had died.

Was it calling her now?

She couldn’t be sure, as she saw a gull dive into the foam and pull a writhing silver treasure from the water.

‘Well done,’ she said with a smile to the bird.

Tiredness draped its heavy arms around her now, and she let go of the iron railing and nodded to the sea below.

‘Not today,’ she said, and went inside to finally sleep.

* * *

When she woke, dusk was settling in the sky. She walked out of her room and saw her mother had left her a note on the wooden table.

Gone to drink with the Michels. Come and join us if you want.

Celeste had no idea who the Michels were, but she knew her mother would be drinking too much with people who saw too much sun, regaling them of stories and gossip of her ex-mother-in-law, as no doubt the news of Daphné’s death would be out now.

Celeste sighed and picked up a peach from the mosaic bowl her mother had made during one of her artistic retreats. Matilde was a frustrated artist with no particular talent, but she had tried every mode possible in which to express herself.

It seems the peach doesn’t fall far from the tree, Celeste mused, as she bit into the soft flesh of the fruit. As the skin brushed her tongue, she missed Paul’s touch and so she picked up her phone from the table and dialled his number.

He answered on the first ring. ‘Darling, where are you? What’s happened? Are you with your grand-mère?’

Hearing his voice, Celeste relaxed. She walked out onto the balcony.

‘No, I’m with my mother,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t call you back, I’ve had some things in my head I needed to think about.’

She took another bite of the peach and then threw the rest over the edge, down into the void.

‘But I’m coming back to you now,’ she said and everything was back to how it was before, except it all felt so different and she couldn’t explain why.

* * *

Back in Paris, Paul was late, as usual. Celeste, feeling less restless than usual, thanks to a glass of wine and a few puffs on a cigarette, leafed through a copy of French Vogue.

Her phone rang.

‘Darling, I can’t get away,’ Paul complained.

Celeste took a gulp of wine.

‘But I came back from Nice for you,’ she said, hating that she sounded so whiny.

‘I know, but there is a meeting I must attend,’ he said. She could hear laughing in the background. ‘I will come to the funeral. Has your father told you the details yet?’

‘No,’ snapped Celeste. She had tried to call her father numerous times to learn of the funeral plans, but Robert wasn’t answering his phone.

‘You will let me know?’ Paul asked, sounding very formal, and Celeste hated him for a moment.

‘Perhaps,’ she said and ended the call.

She then scrolled through her phone until she found a number that made her smile.

After dialling, she waited. He would always answer her calls.

‘Hello.’ His voice sounded wary.

‘It’s Celeste,’ she said in her most seductive tone.

‘I know, your number came up on my phone.’

This wasn’t quite the greeting she had hoped for. She had left Charles for Paul and had ignored his calls and heartache for a year. Surely he wasn’t over her yet? She needed to let Paul know she also had a life outside of her bed.

‘Did you want to get a drink?’ she asked, running her finger over the rim of the wine glass.

‘No thank you, I have plans,’ Charles said.

Celeste believed him. She knew he wasn’t playing games; that was her job.

‘Are you seeing someone?’ she asked softly.

‘I’m engaged,’ came the reply.

Celeste sighed. Charles was a good man, which was why she had left him for Paul. She had terrible taste in men, Matilde had once said, not that she was the greatest connoisseur either.

‘Felicitations,’ she said and then ended the call with no further promises.

She leaned back in the chair and lifted up her long blonde hair so it spilled over the black leather.

She had dressed for Paul just the way he liked, in a black chiffon cocktail dress and no lingerie. The dress was short enough to show off her endless legs and plunged to take advantage of her décolletage.

God, men were so easy to amuse, she thought, as she kicked off her heels and then stood up, and peeled off her dress and walked naked to her room.

Pulling on sweatpants and an old T-shirt that was fraying at the edges but softer than what she imagined clouds would feel like, she went back to her chair, collecting the bottle of wine on her way through. Celeste could have been a model if she had been prepared to work hard enough, attending the castings and doing prestigious jobs for little money to build up her portfolio, but she didn’t want to work that hard, and her first two years after leaving Allemagne were spent in Amsterdam, where she got stoned every day and worked in a café, trying to recover from her schooling experience.

Her head began to hurt, so she took two of her extra strong painkillers and put her music player into speakers. Soon the soft sounds of Marvin Gaye singing accompanied her as she poured herself more wine.

She needed to do something about Paul, but she didn’t have the energy for it now.

Marvin was asking her to dance and Celeste needed to move. She felt her feet tapping and then her head bob and soon her hips moved with the rhythm. Closing her eyes, she turned up the music, put down her wine and gave her evening to Marvin, the only man who had never let her down.

Tomorrow could wait, she decided and she wondered what, if anything, was going to change now that Grand-Mère was gone.