by Rachel Rhys
Eve turns around to study the woman more carefully, freezing when she finds herself being intently studied in return. Eve smiles out of politeness, but the woman merely carries on staring, before abruptly turning on her heel.
Eve and Marie exchange a glance as the click-clacking grows fainter. Then they begin climbing again. Eve dares not speak for fear that the sound will carry down the stairway.
Only when they arrive on the fifth floor and stop outside a door that bears a brass plaque reading ‘B. Gaillard, Notary’ does she risk whispering, ‘Was that Guy Lester’s wife?’
Marie nods.
‘But why—?’
Marie puts a hand on her arm. ‘You will find out all,’ she says, turning the handle of the door to cut short the conversation.
They enter a small room with high, tobacco-discoloured ceilings and a tall window overlooking the street. There are four empty chairs lined up along one wall and a large desk, behind which sits an elderly woman with tortoiseshell glasses on a stick that she holds up to her eyes as they come in.
‘Bonjour, Madame Galvin,’ calls out Marie.
Madame Galvin starts and puts her hand to her chest as if their sudden arrival has brought about some alarming irregularity of her heart. She and Marie have a brief exchange that involves much gesticulating in the direction of the closed, half-glazed door behind Madame Galvin’s desk.
Finally Marie turns to Eve. ‘We go in now,’ she says, leading the way past Madame Galvin. Eve shoots an apologetic look at the old woman, whose glare communicates a most profound disapproval.
The room they now enter is cramped and dimly lit, the blind on the single window having been lowered. So at first Eve struggles to make out the features of the man who jumps up from his desk to shake her hand. Gradually her eyes adjust to the darkness and she sees first a thatch of springy hair that starts high up his forehead as if driven back like the tide, and second a pair of deep vertical scores running down his face on either side of his mouth, from midway down his nose almost to his chin. And finally a pair of soft brown eyes.
‘Mrs Forrester,’ he says in barely accented English. ‘How happy I am to see you.’
He presses her hand between both of his and suddenly she finds herself absurdly close to tears agin, thinking back to that moment standing on the platform at Cannes, when she had felt so utterly alone and so foolish, believing that Clifford was to be proved right after all, that she had been taken advantage of, that this would all turn out to be some elaborate ruse.
‘I will wait for you outside,’ Marie tells her.
Eve watches as Marie kisses her husband full on the lips before leaving. She tries to imagine herself doing the same at Clifford’s office and her chest feels tight at the impossibility of it.
When they are alone, Bernard goes back to his seat behind his desk, urging her to sit down in the cushioned chair opposite. Eve is just about to do so when the cushion reveals itself to be alarmingly alive.
Instantly Bernard is on his feet and shouting.
‘Horace! Qu’est-ce que tu fais?’
The cat jumps lazily to the floor and slinks towards the door, whereupon Bernard swoops upon it and throws it out, slamming the door behind it.
‘I apologize, Mrs Forrester. My wife found the animal in the street when he was a baby and took pity on him but he is really beyond control.’
‘Don’t worry at all,’ says Eve, brushing orange hairs off the chair before sitting down.
This is not what she had been expecting. She had imagined somewhere smart and intimidating, with silent clerks bent low over desks and a black-suited solicitor with an officious demeanour and a full diary who would want to do what needs to be done and get back to his work with the minimum of disruption. Not Bernard with his kind eyes and his large ginger cat.
‘I am sure you must be wondering, Mrs Forrester, what brings you here. The truth is Mr Lester left very particular instructions.’
‘And Mr Lester was someone used to getting his own way?’
She means to convey her disapproval of all this apparent secrecy. Or, rather, Clifford’s disapproval. But Bernard merely smiles.
‘Oh yes. Everyone wanted to make him happy. Some people have that gift, don’t you think?’
‘And was he? Happy, I mean?’
The question is out before she realizes how odd it sounds. What business is it of hers whether this man she has never met was content, or whether he died miserable and alone?
‘Mr Lester lived a very good life. He enjoyed life. You know what I mean? He dived right into it and splashed around.’ Here Bernard makes flapping gestures with his arms in illustration. ‘But there was something sad inside him. You know, during the war, the Jewish refugees escaping from the Nazis would arrive here with nothing. They had to leave behind their possessions, their homes. But often they would bring some little thing of value – their mother’s wedding ring, a gold coin, even just a photograph – sewn into the inside of their coat.’ He opens his own jacket to indicate the brown silk lining. ‘With Mr Lester it was like he had a little piece of sadness sewn into his coat. Do you see?’
Eve nods. ‘And he had a family?’
She is aware on some level that she is asking questions to stave off the moment when Bernard will reveal the disappointingly mundane reason for her visit and this whole strange, glorious dream will be over. And Clifford will meet her on Saturday morning at Victoria with that face he wears sometimes when they play bridge with his cousin Vernon and his whey-faced wife, and Eve makes a play and he says tightly, ‘Are you sure you want to do that, my dear?’ and she says yes, just to spite him, and of course it’s wrong. That face that says, You thought you knew better and I let you make your own mistakes, and now look where we are.
‘Oh yes. He had two families, in fact. He married when he was young, and they already had two sons – Noel and Duncan – when they moved here in 1920. The first Mrs Lester, Madeleine, was a very sympathetic lady. Kind. You know. Unfortunately she died in the late twenties. Influenza. Mr Lester married a second time in 1930. Another English lady. Diana.’
‘Yes, I think we passed her on the stairs. She seemed in a hurry.’
Bernard casts his eyes downwards and nods before continuing.
‘Diana and Guy had a daughter, Libby, who is sixteen now, I believe. She’s here now because of her father’s death, but usually she is at school in England and Mrs Lester herself spends a lot of time in London and Paris. She finds us rather boring, I think.’
While he is talking, Bernard slides open the bottom drawer in his desk and rummages through. He produces a cardboard box file. The label on the front – ‘M. Guy Lester’ – is neatly typed, and Eve pictures the elderly secretary clacking at the keys of a typewriter, her mouth set tightly.
He opens the file and produces a leather-bound document from the top.
‘This is the last will and testament of Guy Lester,’ says Bernard, and Eve sees that his bearing is quite changed, solemn and charged with a formality that was absent a moment ago.
Bernard opens the document. The paper inside is thick and stiff and the colour of clotted cream, the writing in untidy black ink.
‘Mr Lester’s family was here earlier to hear the will, and Mrs Lester remained after the others left. There were some, ah, surprises. Alas, Mrs Forrester, the final instructions of the people we love are not always what we might wish to hear.’
Bernard pauses, his hand resting on the clotted-cream paper.
‘I should tell you, Mrs Forrester, that Mr Lester changed his will only recently. Just weeks ago, in fact. Which is why it has come as a surprise to his family. He had not long before discovered that he was ill. Cancer of the throat.’ Here Bernard rests his fingers on his own neck in demonstration. ‘But he did not know how advanced it was; certainly he had no idea the end would come so quickly. He went once to England to find you and was intending to go a second time on the very day he died. He wanted to see you in person, he told me. To explain.’
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‘Explain what?’
‘Why he made a provision for you in this new will.’
Eve feels a swell of excitement.
‘Do you know why, Mr Gaillard? Do you have any idea what his connection was to me?’
Bernard shakes his head.
‘I am afraid all I know is what is written in this document. Oh, really, it is most unfortunate that his death was so quick. He was not prepared, do you see?’
The notary’s expression is one of such sincere concern, Eve finds herself nodding, which seems to reassure him.
‘Are you ready, Mrs Forrester?’
She swallows hard. Now there is a lump in her own throat, with rough, raw edges like freshly sawn wood.
Bernard’s eyes soften. ‘Courage,’ he says.
He unfolds a pair of tortoiseshell glasses from a box on the desk, blinks to refocus his eyes, then reads: ‘I, Guy Lester, being of sound mind, do hereby bequeath to Mrs Eve Forrester (née Shipley) of Newbolt Avenue, Sutton, a quarter share in Villa La Perle in Cap d’Antibes, in atonement for past wrongs.’
Bernard looks up over the top of his glasses, his eyebrows raised in question at Eve’s stupefied lack of reaction.
‘Villa La Perle, Mrs Forrester. His house.’
In the car she is silent, even when Marie overtakes a bus just as they approach a bend and Bernard, who is in the passenger seat, yells out something in French that Eve is glad not to understand.
A share in a house. Here. In the South of France.
The instructions in Guy Lester’s will are clear. Ownership of the house is to pass in joint tenancy to Eve, and to Guy’s three children, Noel, Duncan and the sixteen-year-old Libby, whose share is to be held in trust by her mother. The four of them can dispose of the house as they see fit, once the legal formalities have been followed, but Guy hopes Eve might spend some time there before it is sold, if that’s what they all agree.
‘But what about Mrs Lester?’ Eve said, when she had recovered sufficiently to speak.
‘She is well taken care of. She never liked the villa, finding it small and old-fashioned. When the Lesters returned to the Riviera after the war, when property was cheap, she persuaded Mr Lester to buy a newer house in the hills behind Nice where it is more chic. The family moved there permanently a few months ago. Mrs Lester wanted to sell La Perle to pay for modernizations but Mr Lester always refused.’
‘And his sons?’
‘They each inherited a small trust when they came of age. They have separate apartments in the same block in the centre of Nice, and incomes of their own. The older son imports motor cars from England, I believe, and the younger works as a translator for various international finance companies – when he is not frequenting the gambling tables. Do not worry, Mrs Forrester. They will not starve. I should also tell you that there is already an interested buyer for the house. Of course, nothing can happen until the legal formalities are dealt with, but he is keen to move in as soon as possible and is prepared to pay six months’ rent in advance until the sale can proceed.’
They have left Cannes now, the road following the curve of the coastline with the pine-covered hillside rising up to their left, and to the right, past the train tracks, the sea, calm in the late afternoon sun.
‘Do you like to gamble, Mrs Forrester?’ asks Marie. ‘In the next town, Juan-les-Pins, we have a very famous casino where you can lose all your money in beautiful surroundings.’
Sure enough, the pine trees give way to square blocks of flats and some largish houses and soon they are in a small town, full of cars and shops and bars. It is cocktail hour and the streets teem with the most glamorous women Eve has ever seen, some already dressed for the evening in backless gowns that show off their smooth brown spines, others clearly fresh off the beach, in tight high-waisted shorts that leave little to the imagination and halterneck tops cut off at the midriff. Eve sees a young woman walk along in just a two-piece swimsuit, as if it is the most normal thing in the world. She has seen such things in magazines but it is quite another matter in the flesh.
‘You are lucky with the weather,’ says Bernard. ‘It is unpredictable this time of year but for two weeks we have had only sunshine. Next week I think comes the storm, but by then you will be safely back home.’
The road takes them alongside the boulevard that overhangs the sandy beach, where the hardiest sunbathers still lie soaking up the last rays of the early summer sun, even while all around them umbrellas are being folded up and towels shaken out, shirts slipped on to tender, sand-crusted skin.
Ahead is the casino, an impressive long building that flanks the beach, and past that a white building rises above the trees, stamped with the word ‘Provençal’.
Nothing feels real. Not the little car now shuddering as the road climbs out of the town, nor the pale golden wash in the sky behind them, nor the palm tree by the side of the road, its fringed branches fluttering in the breeze.
They seem to be leaving the coast now. The road is wide and winding and on both sides there are gates behind which grand villas hide themselves within lush gardens. Eve had thought they were heading inland, but then they crest a hill and there once again ahead of them is, unmistakeably, the sea.
‘This is Cap d’Antibes,’ says Bernard, as if reading her thoughts. ‘It is a small area of land that sticks out from the rest so you are surrounded by sea on three sides.’
‘It is a pity it is late in the day,’ says Marie. ‘The light here is so beautiful in the morning.’
But it is already the most beautiful place Eve has ever been. She cannot imagine how it could possibly be improved upon.
The car passes a white painted wall overhung with foliage and swings suddenly left through a set of wrought-iron gates into a small gravel courtyard, oddly shaped to accommodate the irregular strip of coastline into which it is wedged. They are at the side of a house that is completely screened from view by a row of tall cypresses standing guard like sentries.
‘We will not enter the house tonight,’ says Bernard. ‘It is better to see it in the daylight when you can appreciate it properly. And we ought to give the family time to digest the news of the will.’
‘They are upset?’ Eve remembers Diana Lester’s pink eyes.
‘Surprised,’ says Bernard tactfully. ‘Your existence has come as a shock to them, much as theirs has to you. However, I could show you the outside if you would like.’
Eve nods, but her throat feels tight. After the beauty of the journey, the talk of the Lester family comes as an unwelcome reminder of reality. Very well. She will wander around the outside of the house, to satisfy her curiosity and gorge herself on the light and the colours and the smell of the sea. Then she will explain to these nice Gaillards that she cannot possibly accept a share in a property from a man she does not know. And she will return to England and this will be a dream, a funny anecdote she can wheel out at dinner parties.
Except that she and Clifford don’t go to dinner parties. Marie says she will wait in the car, but Bernard has already shuffled off, his feet crunching on the gravel, and Eve has little choice but to follow.
What harm can it do? she thinks to herself.
But the word harm sticks in her throat like a fishbone.
Eve follows Bernard through a gap in the cypress trees and finds herself in an overgrown garden, still vibrant with colour even in the fast-fading light. Vividly green-leafed branches sag with the weight of pink and white blossoms; a dense honeysuckle colonizes the walls, releasing a fragrance that mingles with the smell from the bursting lavender bush, worlds away from the scent of the Yardley lavender water Eve has on her dressing table at home.
The villa itself is curious, silhouetted against the fast-darkening sky. A low-slung, pale pink building, the paint peeling in places, overrun with creepers and with no discernible entrance, just a row of green-shuttered windows gazing blankly at her. Her first reaction is disappointment.
She imagines they will stop and survey the house
and then return the following day to go inside, through the door that Eve still cannot locate, but instead Bernard carries on along the gravel path that leads around the side of the house.
And – oh my.
She is at the top of a flight of stone steps. Straight ahead is the Mediterranean, lit up gold by the setting sun to their far right. They descend towards it, past a kidney-shaped swimming pool with green tiles set into a wooden terrace, surrounded by assorted deckchairs and umbrellas.
By now the inky sky is streaked with pink and the water is at first orange, then rose. And by the time they arrive at the bottom, the sea is ablaze with colour. A small terrace, shaded by different types of trees, including a low-hanging eucalyptus, drops down on to a wooden jetty.
Bernard leans against the railings and for a moment the two of them stand in silence, drinking in the sight of the molten water. A dove is calling from somewhere above them, a soft coo that mixes with the low hum of the cicadas and a rasping noise that Eve thinks must be a toad.
‘And now you must see the house,’ says the lawyer finally.
Eve can hardly bear to look away, but she forces herself to turn around.
‘My God!’
Her hand flies to her mouth as she takes in the building. Though not overly wide, on this side it rises up two storeys high, complete with gleaming rows of tall windows. But while the front of the house had seemed a dull pink colour, this side blazes orange in the reflection of the setting sun and the glass window panes appear lit by fire. To the side of the entrance, two umbrella pines stretch their fingers skywards like upturned hands. The whole thing seems staged just for her, the house a flaming torch guiding her home.
This is not hers.
And yet.
Guy, 16 April 1948
‘HOW LONG?’
‘It is so difficult to quantify these things, Mr Lester.’
‘Weeks? Months?’
‘Oh, months, certainly. No fears on that score. Nine months or a year. Perhaps two – as long as you bear in mind your blood pressure is very high and avoid becoming too exercised. Plenty of time to get your affairs ship-shape.’
