The path meandered between the trees, a well-designed circuit cut through a densely wooded thicket. Every so often they came across the ‘bundles’ Adeline had mentioned, disparate assemblages of stone and iron and wood, a bench next to each one. ‘Land art,’ said Claire. ‘Rather good, don’t you think? Have you ever tried that?’
‘Um... No.’ They looked a bit slapdash to Sophie but they were only experiments and besides, who was she to talk? ‘To be honest, I’m at a bit of a dead end. Looking for a new direction.’
‘Aren’t we all?’ Claire sighed. ‘Some way out of the rubbish I’m doing now.’
‘Really? Adeline said your work was powerful.’
‘Huh! Just trying to be nice. It’s a mess.’
‘Better a mess than nothing at all,’ Sophie said to encourage her, but at the same time she thought: What a pair of whingers we are! Poor little rich girls moaning about art. What right did they have when the whole world was a mess?
They reached the extremity of the path, where it doubled back on itself and twisted through the thicket to form a loop. But jutting from the path was a short spur leading to a gate, and out of curiosity they went to look. What they saw was a beautiful landscaped garden, where a soft, golden light filtered through the branches of cypresses, oaks and hackberries, dappling a sweep of downy grass dotted with shrubs and blossom. ‘The neighbour’s nursery,’ said Claire. ‘Adeline said we were welcome to wander round.’
Sophie pushed open the gate. ‘It’s amazing!’
‘Idyllic!’
The upper part of the property was like a painting itself, carefully arranged with rock clusters, wooden arches, and stone paths winding between the flower beds and bushes. There was something classical about it, a pastoral scene almost incongruous in the harsh, raw brightness of Provence; you expected to come across a Madonna and child reclining in the gentle shade of a bower. Further down, a large expanse of flatter land was the nursery itself, where lines of lavender, rock rose and fruit trees spread out around a large greenhouse glinting fiercely in the sun. They sat on a bench by a fishpond rich with aquatic plants, and fell into silent contemplation, comfortable with each other’s presence, mindful of the superfluity of words.
A huge, gawking goldfish rose to the surface, and a horrified scream from Claire rent the silence. What? Scared of a fish? But a moment later came a rustle from a clump of bamboo on the other side of the pond; Claire leapt to her feet and ran away. A human form flitted between the bamboo stalks and Sophie caught a glimpse of a face, partly obscured, reduced to an eye peering back, and a cheek deeply coloured by a port-wine stain. Hmm! So much for the idyllic garden next door. She was about to call out when the eye disappeared and the figure retreated. She considered following, demanding an explanation, but deciding it was more urgent to calm the shattered nerves of Claire Bourane, she rose from the bench and headed back to the Forsters.
Chapter 2 A Sweet Old Man
The eye (and the birthmark) belonged to Henri Seibel, father of Thibault, who ran the nursery with his wife, Jackie, the pair of them leaving Henri the upper patch to play with. So said Gareth, who was stocking the pool house fridge with drinks while Adeline tried to extract from Claire the details of their encounter. But it soon became clear there was nothing to extract, and Claire now seemed as much upset by the silliness of her reaction as by the episode itself. ‘I’m fine, I’m fine, it’s nothing,’ she repeated between sniffles; then, rejecting all further attention, she hurried down the path to the house.
‘I think she’s rather highly strung,’ Adeline declared, which surely qualified as a candidate for understatement of the year. ‘You can see it in her paintings, they’re quite... Edward Munch, you know? The Scream. Not a criticism,’ she added hastily. ‘Just an observation.’
‘Of course.’ Torment and art were close companions, and Adeline’s writhing plants on the stairs were passably manic themselves.
Having got nothing coherent from Claire, the Forsters turned to Sophie, who couldn’t say a lot more. ‘It was all over so quickly. I don’t know how long he’d been watching.’
Gareth and Adeline exchanged a glance which for all its brevity conveyed far more than Sophie could decipher. Then Gareth said with a chuckle, ‘Just a harmless old man getting an eyeful,’ as if peeping through bamboos at scantily dressed women was a perfectly innocent way to pass the time.
‘Ogling, dear, is the term,’ said Adeline.
Sophie concurred that it wasn’t pleasant, but still it was nothing to get hysterical about. ‘Unless he’s, like, Norman Bates or something.’
Adeline laughed. ‘Oh, no. A bit prickly if you rub him up the wrong way. But quite a character, really.’
A term that was open to any number of interpretations, and Gareth, by way of clarification, added darkly, ‘Very Provençal.’
Coming from an Englishman who’d only been there two years, it didn’t clarify much. ‘Proud of his roots,’ he said when Sophie questioned closer. ‘As well he might be in a place like this.’
‘And very knowledgeable with it,’ said Adeline. ‘Not just plants – art as well, surprisingly enough. Just don’t get him onto Cézanne.’
‘Really? Why’s that?’
‘Oh, he has very firm ideas. Totally wacky, though. Basically, everything was fine till Cézanne came along. He ruined it all, including the Sainte Victoire. All the hikers trampling over it – blame Cézanne.’
The father of modern art tipped out with the rubbish – wacky indeed. It didn’t seem that way at the time but looking back now, there was a before and after Cézanne. And to many people today, rightly or wrongly, the before was at best old-fashioned, at worst monotonous and gloomy.
Leaving the Forsters to get on with their work, Sophie went back inside. The house was quiet, and thanks to the shutter policy, relatively cool. Her sandals made no sound as she padded about getting her bearings, poking her head through open doors on either side of the lobby. The television room, small and unadorned, like a hastily added appendix; the studio, silent as an empty classroom. It brought on a rush of anxiety: what was she going to do here? Two wooden benches flanked a white-topped table where a thick glossy book, Worlds of Blossom, lay open at a photo of orchids. Adeline clearly had a predilection for flowers. But Sophie’s domain was sculpture, and she turned her attention to a crate on the floor containing the ‘bits and bobs’ collected for her benefit: egg boxes, nuts and bolts, plastic cups, wooden spatulas, cardboard tubes, and a large carrier bag full of cloth, string and wire. Hmm. Bit of a letdown. She rummaged around a bit, hoping for stimulation, but a jumble of the sort of stuff Chloé played with at pre-school wasn’t a likely habitat for her mojo.
Still, she could always meditate: sit cross-legged, empty her mind, and wait for the soul of Cézanne to descend from the mountain and inspire her. The Zenhouse, empty apart from a low table with a couple of chairs, a stack of blue rubber mats, and a few yoga books and relaxation CDs on the window sill, did indeed feel peaceful. She kicked off her sandals, relishing the coolness of the tiles. But again, no genie wafted up through the grafting, and the only message she found herself receptive to was the strange, unsettling atmosphere that pervaded the house itself.
Continuing her exploration, she poked her head through another door: the leisure room. At first glance, it appeared a more propitious place to seek inspiration – yoga would no doubt do her a world of good, but right now, armchairs and bookshelves tempted her more than rubber mats. But she didn’t enter, not wishing to disturb the only occupant, a young black man who, engrossed in a book, hadn’t heard her. Must be the American, Lyle.
On turning back into the lobby, she saw a tall, buxom woman emerge from the kitchen carrying two large bottles. Isadora Waverley put the bottles down on a chest of drawers and pumped Sophie’s hand energetically. ‘Lovely to see you. Welcome! Finding your way around all right? Anything I can do?’
‘No, everything’s fine. Thank you.’
‘Jolly good.’ She moved
closer, lowering her voice. ‘Can’t say the same for Claire Bourane. Dreadfully upset. Went next door with you, I gather, but I couldn’t get anything out of her. What happened?’
‘Oh, nothing, really’ Sophie told her the story. ‘It startled her, I suppose. She overreacted.’
‘You can say that again, haw, haw!’ Isadora’s laugh resonated through the lobby. ‘Henri’s such a sweet old man. Wouldn’t hurt a fly! And what a beautiful garden, don’t you think?’
As they chatted further, moving from gardens to creativity, Sophie learned that Isadora lived in Ireland, wrote ‘trashy novels’, and had known the Forsters for years. She also haw-hawed a lot, a deep boom punctuating her sentences as if they contained a hidden meaning or bawdy innuendo. What was it Claire had said? Full of pep. Isadora seemed to have an endless supply of it, flowing from the fullness of her body.
‘Well. Better be going. Still a lot to see to.’ She picked up the bottles, wiggling them like prizes to be won. ‘Home-made sangria. Hope it’s not too strong, haw, haw!’ The laugh this time was accompanied by an ostentatious wink. Sophie watched her go, tempted to tag along in her wake – perhaps some excess pep would come her way.
Up in her room, she realised she’d barely thought about Dorian since arriving. Is that good or bad? Batting away an attack of guilt at the thought of her baby running a temperature back home, she decided it was good. A break. Luc had insisted. You’re frazzled. No ifs or buts – a week of being pampered, everything laid on, Mum and I looking after the children. She just had to let go, forget Dorian wheezing with his face screwed up like a shrivelled tomato, and give herself up to the moment.
Opening the shutters just enough to stare in vacant contemplation at the mountain, she patiently pumped for twenty minutes, stowed the milk in the minibar, and lay down on the bed. Within a couple of minutes she was asleep.
Chapter 3 Broken Ice
‘I wonder. Do I tickle you into submission or simply ask you to describe yourself?’
The Forsters wanted a group dynamic to emerge. To which end, they’d marshalled the guests into a succession of ice-breaking activities: Egg Wibble-Wobble was followed by Court Jester (Sophie’s performance of the Duck Dance, excruciating for her, was widely applauded), Wise Wally (she was sent to Devil’s Island), and the rather disturbing Moral Maze, in which she was given the role of Magda Goebbels. Now it was Punchy Portrait: talk in pairs for five minutes, decide what you would highlight in a portrait of your partner, move on to someone else. ‘Strictly for fun, of course.’ Gareth wagged a finger, adding somewhat ominously that they had to spend the next six days together.
Unlike Sophie, who was starting to find the whole thing hard work, Martin Best was enjoying himself immensely. Dismissing Sophie’s gambit with a wave of his hand, he said, ‘I’ll go one better. You’ve been crossing the desert for days, hot and thirsty and exhausted, when you come to an oasis. Describe it to me.’
‘Sounds a bit risky. I’m not sure if I dare.’
‘In that case, we’ll stick to small talk.’ He affected a huff – unless it was real? He’d caused a few raised eyebrows in Moral Maze by making a curiously passionate case for eugenics (‘Very, um, convincing,’ had been Adeline’s worried response before suggesting they move onto another activity), and Sophie got the impression that whatever dynamic was emerging, harmony was the least of Martin’s concerns.
‘OK, then. An oasis.’ All in all, she thought it best to humour him. ‘Um... A clump of palm trees, dusty. Trickle of water. Maybe a couple of fish in it.’ She thought of the fish next door, and an image of Henri Seibel flashed into her mind. ‘Oh, and an old man. With a camel. Which tries to bite me when I drink.’
Martin sniggered like a schoolboy coming across some smutty drawing. Annoyingly, she had to press him before he told her why: she’d just described her attitude to sex.
‘Oh, God, I knew it! That’s so unfair!’ She shrieked, laughing it off, but was mortified. All the more so as it was true – sex was another thing that had gone by the board since Dorian’s birth. Dwindled to such an arid outback that she’d finished by looking it up, which of course didn’t help because then she set to fearing that she suffered from Hypoactive Sexual Desire Disorder. ‘Nonsense,’ Luc had declared, seemingly confident they’d soon be back frolicking in the lushest oasis imaginable. Sophie wasn’t so sure. She didn’t want to alarm him, but she felt as if she was glumly stuck forever in the one she’d described to Martin.
Was there any way she could put this right? Ah, but beneath it there’s a billion barrels of oil. Accompanied by a lascivious wink and a nudge. Oh, what the hell. Let him have his fun. Too late now. ‘I should have whooped for joy, ripped off my clothes and dived into the water. I suppose that’s what most people do?’
‘Quite a few. It’s the first time there’s been a vicious camel. I’ll leave you to interpret that yourself.’
She drew back a step, pointedly looking him over, with particular emphasis on the pale, hairy patch of paunch that showed between the undone lower buttons of his shirt. Martin Best was, to put it charitably, unkempt, his attempt at smart-casual having signally failed to conceal the inner slob. Or else he simply didn’t care, either about the way he looked or what people thought of him. Which in a sense was admirable.
‘I wish I could do caricatures. I’d get my revenge then.’ It wouldn’t be too difficult, in fact. Round face, spiky hair, thick-rimmed glasses and stubble. Accentuate the paunch, the jowls, give him a simian grin to go with the hands – large, ape-like appendages, one clutching his glass, the other hanging at his side. Turn him into a slovenly chimpanzee. ‘But I can’t. And nor do I have any questions as horrid as yours, so I don’t know... Tell me what your ambition is. As a writer.’
‘That’s easy. None. I dabble. Penelope’s the reason we’re here.’ He jerked his head in the direction of his trim, diminutive wife, hands clasped round her glass as she solemnly listened to Gareth Forster’s punchy portrait of her. ‘Lucy Locket.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Children’s books. The Lucy Locket series? Very well-known. To prepubescent girls, anyway.’
Sophie was surprised: she’d spent some time talking with Penelope, who’d declared herself a novice. ‘She told me she was here to learn how to write.’
‘For adults. Wants to branch out. A different ball game entirely.’
‘I see. So you yourself won’t be participating at all?’
‘Oh, I’ll tag along for the show. But I have no illusions. Nor any ambition. I’ll be happy enough lying by the pool with Styles.’
Sophie looked around. ‘Styles? There’s no one here of that name, is there?’
‘The Mysterious Affair at Styles.’ He gave an indulgent chuckle. ‘Agatha Christie. Gareth’s quite a fan, to judge by his collection.’
And you’re quite a clever clogs, to judge by your conversation. She was about to reply when a voice came in French. ‘So have you figured each other out?’
She turned: the American, Lyle Carmichael, accompanied by Claire. ‘Yes. Incorrigible wag,’ said Sophie, hand outstretched towards Martin, pre-empting any jokes about withered palm trees. She wondered if he’d have the gall to tell anyone. Penelope – he was bound to tell Penelope. Who would then put it into her first novel for adults... Sex was as frequent as an oasis in the Sahara. And even then, it was little more than a puddle. And then there’d be a film... Oh, god! She put on a sociable smile. ‘And you?’
‘Very agreeable company. And from what I gather, a highly original painter.’
His gentle features and velvet voice accentuated the compliment, but Claire was having none of it. ‘That’s not the word I used. I said “weird”.’
‘And your portrait of him?’ asked Sophie.
‘I didn’t really come up with one. The odd man out?’
‘Really? Why?’ For one dreadful moment she was afraid Claire was going to point out he was black.
‘Well, the only American.’ Claire’s hand ma
de a swish in the air, wiping away her words. ‘Not very observant, is it? But I can’t do portraits. They’re just a mess.’ Her bout of hysterics appeared to be forgotten, but the self-doubt was there to stay.
‘Perhaps,’ said Martin, ‘that’s what we are. Gathered here in beautiful Provence, being charming and witty for all we’re worth, but beneath it we’re a mess. So your portraits,’ he added, touching Claire’s elbow, ‘capture the essence. Another drink?’
Sophie wasn’t sure that she’d put Martin down as charming and witty. More a sort of blustering buffoon. A mess. Was he serious? Perhaps it was just a trite remark about the inner turmoil of artists. Though from what she’d seen of Claire, it seemed quite accurate. As for Martin, if his outward appearance reflected the state of his mind, it could do with a good spring clean. Sophie cast another glance at his wife: there was nothing messy about Penelope, glittering with jewellery, decorative as a doll. Or rather a budgerigar, hopping from foot to foot in a bright yellow dress, head of mousy pageboy hair bobbing back and forth as she pecked at whatever morsels of wisdom Gareth was dispensing. For all her bright exterior though, she left no lasting impression; Sophie had a good memory for faces, but although she’d been paired with Penelope in Wise Wally, she barely remembered what she looked like. Perhaps the dress and the necklace were there for that reason: to compensate for an absence, lend a substance to someone who in reality wasn’t there. But of course, a couple of tortuous party games couldn’t reveal what really goes on in people’s minds. Nor, she reflected, thinking again of that trickle of water, in their marriages. What was their oasis like? A deep, clear, iridescent pool, the trees around it laden with luscious fruit? Somehow she found that hard to imagine. At any rate, she hoped for Penelope’s sake that she was on top; and she actually winced at the thought of the poor budgie crushed by a chimpanzee.
Painter Palaver Page 2
