Fatal Inheritance

by Rachel Rhys

  ‘You’ve gone awfully red,’ Sully says, studying her with interest.

  Eve looks away sharply, and finds herself gazing into a pair of amused blue eyes. The eyes are set in a narrow face with a long, aquiline nose under which a fair moustache brushes the top of a surprisingly full mouth. The man is tall and graceful and his elegant clothes seem like an extension of his body, so naturally does he inhabit them.

  He raises one eyebrow as if asking her a silent question, the corner of his mouth twitching in a smile.

  Eve has no idea why he is looking at her like that, as if they are both in on a joke that no one else shares. But he has a kind face and, surrounded by strangers and feeling so out of her depth, she appreciates that.

  But now there is a hush and everyone is looking around as the orchestra suddenly launches into a melody that Eve recognizes as the soundtrack to a movie she and Clifford saw on one of their first dates. A murmur starts among the crowd by the door and spreads outward like dye in water.

  And now Eve sees her. Flame-red hair that falls in thick waves to her shoulders and curves constrained in a dress of coral that clings and shimmers. Creamy white skin – so much of it on show – and a full, wide mouth outlined in red. A glow surrounds her, though whether it emanates from her person or her celebrity, Eve couldn’t have said.

  Beside her, with one hand on the small of her back so that he steers her around as if he is operating her from behind like a ventriloquist with his dummy, is a small man in his late forties or early fifties, with thick black hair and the sly smile of a fisherman who has just landed the catch of the day.

  ‘Laurent is looking particularly pleased with himself,’ observes Sully.

  ‘She is so beautiful though,’ Eve says.

  ‘Beautiful and high as a kite. Look at those eyes.’

  Eve peers more closely. It is true that Gloria Hayes’s famous green eyes, reportedly insured for fifty thousand pounds each, seem strangely glassy and unblinking.

  ‘I’ve heard she can’t get up in the morning without a pep pill. And I’ll bet she needs an elephant’s dose of barbiturates to go to bed with him.’

  Eve feels herself blushing and turns away, hoping to see the tall fair-haired man with the moustache, but he has disappeared.

  ‘I think he looks distinguished,’ she tells Sully. ‘And anyway, why would she be with him if she didn’t love him? It’s not as if she needs the money.’

  ‘No, but her last two pictures have flopped and she needs to keep the studio happy. And what will make the studio happy is a fairytale wedding to a European playboy in front of the whole world’s media. Publicity for them, publicity for her. Box office bonanza. Besides, everyone knows she’s on the rebound from her marriage to Greg Dalladay. She would probably have married this glass of champagne if it had asked her.’

  ‘You don’t have a very high opinion of women, do you, Mr Sullivan?’

  ‘On the contrary, Mrs Forrester. I love women. Though if I could only get into the habit of loving them one at a time, my life would be a lot simpler.’

  An elderly woman materializes from the crowd. She has the physique of a squat pillar box, with her shoulders exactly the same width as her middle and her hips, and dyed hair through which her scalp shows pink.

  ‘Sully, you bad man. We waited all night for you at the casino on Saturday and I lost all my money and my jewellery and my firstborn and we had to slink out through the back way in disgrace, and it is all of it your fault and now I am kidnapping you until you have entertained us sufficiently to repay your debt.’

  The woman places a heavily ringed hand on Sully’s arm and steers him in the direction of a group of similarly aged people, who visibly straighten as they see him approach and step back to leave a space for him to pass through. Sully shoots Eve an apologetic look before the ranks close around him, blocking him from view. An excited buzz travels around the company and the pink-scalped woman smiles, triumphant, the hunter bringing home the prey. Eve has the unpleasant impression that the group has eaten Sully alive.

  Suddenly alone and feeling conspicuous in her plain clothes, Eve makes her way to the end of the room, where the doors are thrown open on to a large formal terrace laid out in a grid of paths bordered by bushes. Steps lead down from either side to a further terrace below, where a large floodlit swimming pool seems to fall away into the sea itself.

  As soon as she is outside, she laments the cardigan left behind on her bed. The breeze whips up from the sea, coating everything in a cold damp spray. Too late she remembers her hair, already tightening into ringlets from the atmospheric moisture. She shivers but resists going back inside. At least out here it is dark and the few other guests who have braved the wind are huddled on the benches nearest the house, so that if she stands near the railings looking out across the pool to the sea, she feels unobserved.

  Raised voices travel towards her from the direction of the house, and looking around she is surprised to see Duncan Lester and Laurent Martin framed in the doorway, deep in conversation. She resumes her scrutiny of the sea before she can be caught staring, and the next time she risks a glance, the two have disappeared.

  ‘Here you are. I was so afraid you might have left early. Like Cinderella.’

  The voice is soft with only the slightest hint of a French accent, and even before she turns around, Eve knows it will belong to the tall fair man who had smiled at her across the room earlier, as if they knew each other from somewhere.

  Up close he is older than he’d first appeared. Late thirties, she’d guess, with a fan of slender lines that opens up around his eyes when he smiles, as he does now. He leans on a black cane with a silver handle, and she tries to pretend she has not seen it in case it embarrasses him.

  ‘No. Still here,’ she says.

  He introduces himself as Victor Meunier and interrupts her before she can finish giving him her name.

  ‘I already know who you are, Mrs Forrester. Don’t forget, we are a small community, starved of fresh air. Rumours and scandal are our oxygen.’

  Eve feels torn between wanting to return his smile, to prolong the feeling that they are both colluding in something amusing, but also resenting that this extraordinary, private thing that has happened to her should have become the local entertainment.

  ‘Well, that puts you at an advantage,’ she says stiffly.

  Victor’s smile falters. ‘Please forgive me if I have said something stupid. My English needs improvement.’

  His English is faultless. His eyes in the semi-darkness are dark pools of concern. Eve swallows, suddenly acutely conscious of everything – the fat clouds overhead, the wind biting through her blouse and making the fine hairs on her arms stand up, the vibrato of the violin coming from the open doors. Being here, in this place, with this stranger who looks at her as if they share a secret.

  ‘Are you from around here, Monsieur Meunier?’

  His face, which is mostly long lines and hollow planes, seems to lose some of its angularity as he smiles.

  ‘No, from Paris. But I have a small art gallery here, in Nice. This is where the artists I love came to paint. Matisse, Chagall, Picabia. Picasso, of course. So this is where I live.’

  ‘Have you lived here for long?’

  He shrugs.

  ‘The war has made questions of time so hard to answer. I was living in Paris, but then during the war I spent two years as a prisoner in Germany.’ Here he makes a gesture towards the cane, as if explanations are unnecessary. ‘I returned to Paris after I was released, but it was too hard to see the Nazis marching down the Champs-Élysées so I came south. And voilà. Here I am.’

  He smiles, his teeth long and white in the gloom.

  ‘Oh,’ says Eve. ‘I am sorry to hear that. About the war, I mean, not about you being here.’

  How ridiculous she sounds, prattling on. She becomes conscious of a presence behind her, someone momentarily blocking the wind so that her back feels pleasantly warm once more. She looks behind her and i
s surprised to find Noel Lester there, scowling into the night air.

  ‘You’re cold, Mrs Forrester.’

  It is a statement rather than a question. Eve feels herself prickling with irritation, both with the presumption of his statement and the way he has interrupted her conversation. She can see by the hardening of Victor Meunier’s face that he does not welcome the other man’s uninvited arrival. She doesn’t turn around, so that her back remains rudely presented to Guy Lester’s older son.

  ‘On the contrary. It’s at least ten degrees warmer here than in England. Practically balmy.’

  Victor’s mouth twitches.

  ‘I will take my leave of you,’ he says. ‘It has been a great pleasure.’

  His eyes, for a moment, are fixed on hers and there is the most curious feeling that she is falling headlong into them. Then he glances behind her at Noel Lester and nods politely before moving off, leaning on his cane.

  ‘I see you’ve been busy making friends,’ says Noel stiffly. Then he straightens up, adopting a lighter tone. ‘I imagine this isn’t the sort of thing you would be doing on a Wednesday evening in Sutton.’

  Really. The affront of him. He has taken one look at her and pigeon-holed her as dull and provincial without knowing the first thing about her. The idea that he is imagining her as some bored housewife, stuck in her stuffy front room listening to the wireless, is insupportable.

  ‘I play bridge on Wednesdays,’ she says.

  She is not looking at him, but she senses his amusement.

  ‘Of course you do.’

  Now Eve is angry.

  ‘Look,’ she says, turning to face him to prove that she is not intimidated. ‘I know you have come out here thinking you can press me into telling you why your father might have included me in his will, but the truth is I don’t know any more about it than you, so you might as well save your breath and go back and enjoy the party.’

  Her heart is thumping in her chest through her cotton blouse and Noel looks at her in surprise.

  ‘You’re right, I did come to talk about the house. The thing is,’ he says, recovering quickly, ‘there are various taxes that will become due. Inheritance matters. I suppose Bernard warned you that you’ll be facing an almighty inheritance tax bill?’

  Eve nods, not wanting to appear at a disadvantage, but she can’t help feeling foolish. Of course there would be money to pay.

  ‘Plus there are certain other familial financial commitments that make a quick sale imperative,’ Noel continues. ‘Now, apparently someone wants to buy it, money pit though it is, and the mad bugger is willing to pay six months’ rent and commit to a purchase agreement in principle until it is ready to be sold. So, frankly, we don’t need any complications. And you, Mrs Forrester, are a complication.’

  Now is the time to say it. You can put your mind at rest. I will not be accepting Mr Lester’s bequest. The words dry up on her tongue. Instead she answers: ‘But Bernard – Monsieur Gaillard – assured me you and the rest of your family were well provided for in Mr Lester’s will.’

  ‘How kind of Monsieur Gaillard to make our financial affairs a matter of public record.’

  ‘That’s not how it was. He was—’

  But the rest of her sentence is broken off when Noel, in one slight movement, slips off his jacket and drops it over her shoulders.

  ‘You were shivering,’ he says matter-of-factly.

  The unsolicited jacket burns her shoulders and yet she is so glad to be warm she cannot bring herself to shrug it off.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re not the first Brit to misjudge the climate of the Riviera.’

  His condescension takes her breath away. But before she can think how to reply, he changes the subject.

  ‘What did you think of Gloria Hayes? You’re sticking around for the wedding party, I hope. Shame to come all this way and miss out on the social event of the decade.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I be invited to the wedding? I don’t know either of them.’

  Noel blows out air through his lips in a pfff sound.

  ‘That puts you at an advantage around here. Fresh meat in the Riviera is a sought-after commodity. We’re all so sick of the sight of ourselves. Everyone outdoing each other with new themes and venues and clothes and cocktails to disguise the fact that it’s just the same old faces underneath all the fancy dress and the hats and the baubles. Anyway, Sully will bring you along. He’s a sucker for a pretty woman.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware Mr Sullivan had been invited.’

  ‘Mr Sullivan needs no invitation.’

  Eve is reminded of how she asked the American if he might end up destitute, and something shrivels inside her. She and Noel stare at the sea in silence. Behind them the orchestra is playing ‘Night and Day’, the music buffeted by the breeze so that the notes waft up into the night sky.

  She tries not to think about what he just said, but the word ‘pretty’ lodges stubbornly in her mind.

  Archie had told her she was pretty. He wasn’t overly tall so he liked the fact that she was so petite. And he loved looking at her. ‘Every bit of you just fits together so perfectly,’ he’d tell her. But Clifford has made little mention of her appearance beyond congratulating her on not being obvious. Obviousness in a woman was one of the cardinal sins, in Clifford’s book. Once, in a moment of weakness, she had tried to push harder. She knows looks aren’t important in the scheme of things, but surely it’s natural to want to be sure that the person who wakes up with you in the mornings likes what they see. ‘You aren’t one of those women who expect to get by on their looks,’ Clifford eventually ceded. ‘You don’t thrust your face or your figure forward demanding to be noticed. Men prefer to feel as if they have discovered a hidden prize.’

  At first she had felt proud to be a hidden prize. Only later had she grieved for the lack of any one part of her that he could single out and say, There. That. That’s why I fell in love with you.

  ‘What are those?’ Eve points far out to sea where a cluster of small lights are bobbing around in the darkness.

  ‘Fishing boats. Poor bastards. There never used to be so many, but since rationing anyone who can get hold of a boat is out there every night trying to catch tomorrow’s supper.’

  Eve remembers the queue outside the butcher’s that she’d seen from Marie’s car and then thinks of the tables she has just walked past, groaning with food.

  ‘Here you are.’

  Clemmie Atwood is wearing a strapless white dress that seems to be held up by willpower alone and her long arms are wrapped around her chest for warmth. She looks surprised when Eve turns around but recovers herself quickly, her mouth curling up in imitation of a smile.

  ‘The famous Mrs Forrester, I presume.’

  Noel makes the introductions with minimal enthusiasm. Lady Atwood declares herself to be quite agog with curiosity over the mystery of Guy Lester’s surprise bequest.

  ‘A love child,’ she says. ‘There is no other explanation. Which would make the two of you brother and sister, though I have to say I don’t see the resemblance.’

  Eve feels the blood rush to her face and is glad of the darkness.

  ‘Shut up, Clemmie.’

  Even Eve can sense the edge in Noel’s voice. But Clemmie’s smile grows wider and she sways, and Eve realizes that she is quite drunk.

  ‘Aw, that’s so sweet. You don’t believe your father would have slept around on your sainted mother?’

  ‘I said shut up.’

  Now there is no disguising the note of danger in Noel’s voice and Clemmie presses her lips together.

  ‘Oops,’ she says. ‘Have I gone too far again?’

  To Eve’s surprise, she sounds quite proud of herself.

  ‘I must go,’ says Eve, feeling out of her depth. ‘It’s getting very late.’

  ‘Late?’ Clemmie throws back her head and laughs, her slender throat pale as a bone in the half light. ‘How completely charming. My dear, this i
s the Riviera. The night hasn’t even started.’

  ‘No, really. I’ve had a very long day. Here. Your jacket.’

  She holds it out to Noel, but before he can take it, Clemmie has snatched it out of Eve’s hands and is shrugging her arms into it. The jacket dwarfs her, emphasizing her fragile blonde beauty.

  ‘I don’t care if I look a fright. I simply must get warm. Do I look a fright, darling?’

  She turns to Noel, holding her arms stiffly out, the jacket sleeves hanging over her hands, her mouth turned out in a theatrical pout.

  ‘Right. Well. Goodbye then,’ says Eve. ‘I don’t suppose I shall see you both again as I am leaving on Friday.’

  ‘Only a day to make a note of all the things in the house and tot up what they’re all worth.’

  For a moment Eve doesn’t think she has heard Clemmie correctly. But before she can protest, the other woman giggles.

  ‘There I go again, thinking out loud. Ignore me. That’s how I am, I’m afraid. I speak as I find.’

  Eve glances at Noel, wondering if he will say something in her defence, but he takes a cigarette from a case in his pocket and puts it in his mouth.

  ‘Adieu,’ he says, the cigarette moving up and down on his bottom lip. The fingers of his right hand flutter, whether in dismissal or farewell Eve cannot say.

  Walking away, she hears Clementine Atwood let out a loud peal of laughter behind her. The sound is carried by the breeze so it seems to Eve to be following her out.

  Guy, 18 April 1948

  ‘AND YOU ARE completely sure?’

  Bernard has a way of looking at you that conveys all the doubt that he is too polite to express out loud. Many is the time that look has caused me to stop in my tracks.

  Today, however, sitting across the desk from him in his small, chaotic office, I hold firm.

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘You do not worry about putting the young lady in a delicate position? Vis-à-vis your wife and your children, I mean?’

  ‘I already told you, I’m going to England to meet Eve and explain everything. And on my return, I’ll talk to my family. There are certain matters that have been too long hidden. It’s time to drag them into the light.’