Painter Palaver

by Curtis Bausse

  ‘Besides, it’ll be a break. Then we could travel around a bit.’

  ‘Right.’ Martin grimaced, staring into his whisky. Travel around. She liked that. Writing in the morning, sightseeing in the afternoon. They used to stay in hotels, which suited him fine, but the last few years they’d rented, and room service switched from liveried staff to Martin: fetching and carrying of suitcases, cups of tea, glasses of wine, seeing that she was comfortable. Martin Best, professional valet. At your service. He wouldn’t be surprised if one day she started tipping him.

  But hey, why not? This was the year of her fiftieth birthday, their tenth anniversary, so a week or two in Provence, Penelope coughing up – go for it! He might even resurrect that novel of twenty years ago. He’d never heard of Gareth Forster but he had a couple of books out there, which was more than he could say for himself. Proper books, that is, not the guff he had to churn out for the wops and krauts and frogs. They want to learn English, fair enough, but the sooner we’re shot of the Brussels fucking gravy train, the better. He drained his glass, grimaced again, and placed his hand on his heart. Must be going wild. When you already have an irregular heartbeat coupled with high blood pressure, a day like this could be enough to kill you. Whisky wasn’t the best medicine of course, but a quick shot dissipated the stress. Now he needed to wind down properly over a pint.

  ‘Fancy a drink before dinner? I’m nipping down to The Fox if you want to come.’

  She didn’t. He knew she wouldn’t. She very rarely came to the pub, preferring her own company to other people’s. Including his, no doubt. But if he didn’t ask, she’d sulk. She was good at that. Penelope’s sulks could last for days, ending abruptly when she decided she’d punished him enough.

  Ten years. Jesus! Where had his life gone? More to the point, he thought as he got back into the car, where was it going? The question made him shake his head wryly at his own predicament. Midlife crisis still not over. Soon it would be too late.

  Too late for what? For dumping her, that’s what. Recognising the mistake, being honest with himself, seeing himself as he really was. A hanger-on like her so-called friends who pretended not to notice. Like Julia. Though at least Julia had an excuse. It wouldn’t do to tarnish the image of the author of Lucy Locket.

  You ought to get out more, promote yourself. Presentations, conferences... Would you like me to get you a slot at the Hay-on-Wye festival? That was a few years back, when Julia harboured the notion that ‘getting out’ was what Penelope needed. She never actually said, ‘It would do you good,’ because that would be to recognise there was a problem. And every so often, dutifully, Penelope did ‘get out’, doing the round of book signings and interviews whenever a new title was launched. She performed remarkably well, her answers a little succinct maybe, but always pertinent. Good for sales no doubt, and Julia was pleased, but it didn’t do Penelope any good. She simply developed the trick of being there just enough to handle the occasion, as if demonstrating some spectacular advance in artificial intelligence. But the real Penelope was somewhere else. You never knew quite where the real Penelope was.

  In cancer remission. Please don’t tell anyone. Julia doesn’t know. I’d rather it stayed that way. That was a couple of years after they married. Every so often, she went to see the oncologist in Oxford, coming back with long reports of what he’d said, the results of tests, T-cell levels not as good as they should be, complications that needed to be monitored. At first he offered to accompany her, but she didn’t want to put him out, and what with his heart, he saw enough of doctors already. On her return she was always upbeat, even when the news was bad, and he admired her optimism and courage, feeling almost ashamed that he so often thought of his own mortality with a suffocating sense of dread. The more fickle my heart in its work, the more constant in its love for you. He wrote that in a birthday card which she kept for months on the dresser.

  One day when she went for her tests, a meeting of his was cancelled, and he went to the bookshop in Banbury, and there she was with Julia, the pair of them happily browsing. They didn’t see him and he hastily withdrew, but he told her later and she said she’d got confused with the date of her appointment. The next time he went to Oxford, he made discreet enquiries. Cancer? What cancer? We have no record of that. A biopsy once but the result was negative.

  When he challenged her, it didn’t faze her one bit. A foible, she said, a facet of her personality that was good for her creativity. To listen to her, you’d think it made her a fascinating person to be with.

  He wasn’t sure why she did it. Mythomania? Compulsive telling of tales? Her previous marriage was another one. The way she spoke of him, you’d think her husband was Bluebeard, and she was constantly foiling his attempts to kill her. She’d managed to escape his clutches, but he could be back any time. Was that all nonsense too? She was good at playing the victim. You might say it was her speciality. That and celebrity friends. You met them of course, in a sense you couldn’t avoid it. Living in the Cotswolds, you rubbed shoulders with the rich and famous. If he wanted, he could say he was a mate of Jeremy Clarkson’s. If he was Penelope, he would. A little chat in the pub would be turned into a tour of Argentina.

  But she could go for a long while quite sensibly. More discreet enquiries among her friends led him to realise that she spun different stories to different people, and he wondered how she kept track of what she’d said to whom. Worse than the plot of Bleak House. Try to summarise that in an EFL reader. Then it struck him that she didn’t have many friends in any case. And the ones she did have were after a free meal or an invitation. Hangers-on, who suspected she was odd, but humoured her, listened to her tales as if they believed them. Penelope fed them what they wanted to hear, and if she got caught out, she simply kept on bluffing. Double or quits.

  He parked outside The Fox and sat for a while twisting the keyring in his fingers. Creativity. Maybe it was true. Lucy Locket couldn’t tell dreams from reality, lived them the other way round. Could Penelope ever write those books if she wasn’t the way she was? She was writing about herself. Who was he, in any case, to question it? When he got fed up with summarising Dickens, he’d asked about writing one himself. Sure, his editor said, there was always room for original titles, upper-intermediate especially, you know the sort of thing, a murder mystery would be perfect. Martin delved into Agatha Christie, figured out how she did it, but when he sat down to do it himself, nothing came. Next month, he told his editor, but he kept putting it off. Frankly, it was easier massacring Dickens than making one up yourself.

  He wondered what she’d come up with during the course. Maybe nothing, though that seemed wishful thinking. A week with a new audience would be too tempting. With a bit of luck, though, it would be harmless, perhaps no more than a little embellishment on the William and Kate story. That was one of her favourites.

  Of course, if he dumped her, he’d lose everything. The house was hers, he was paying his first wife alimony, his EFL earnings could never buy him a place in the Cotswolds, not like this. As he got out of the car and walked towards the pub, his attention was caught by a brand new Aston Martin Vantage. Was Jeremy in the pub? Could be. You never knew what feat of engineering he’d been given to test this week. Martin straightened his hair, tucked in his shirt, prepared himself to share a couple of jokes, comment on the latest Brexit news. Yes, he thought, as he stepped inside, there are perks to everything. Even marriage to Penelope.

  Chapter 24 Parricide

  No one having the temerity to request a fuller account, the conversation did indeed resume, albeit with all the strain of a tanker churning into motion. With Gareth and Adeline taking turns at the helm, they discussed inspiration, followed by plagiarism, and had just tucked into zombies (and balsamic grilled chicken with aubergine), when Praud and Bondy came out. Immediately, like children caught in a pillow fight, everyone stopped talking.

  ‘Well, we’ve practically finished for the day.’ In the evening light, Captain Praud looked softer. P
erhaps he’s human after all. Or not – when Sophie caught his eye, he still seemed moderately eager to shoot her.

  The silence swelled as the two gendarmes surveyed what should have been a relaxed, convivial dinner in Provence. ‘Practically,’ Praud said again. ‘But not quite.’ He took a step forward. ‘Could you come with us, please?’

  For an awful moment, Sophie thought he was addressing her. But his eyes were directed at her neighbour.

  ‘Me?’ Claire’s finger went to her chest.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt your meal, but we’d like a few minutes, if we may.’

  Claire’s cheeks flushed red; without a word, she rose and followed the gendarmes into the house.

  ‘Well, well.’ Eddy was the first to react. ‘What’s all that about, then?’

  ‘But I thought...?’ Isadora began.

  Penelope demanded, ‘Thought what?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘It was all tied up?’ The normally meek Penelope seemed on the verge of leaping over the table and grabbing Isadora’s neck. But given the difference in body mass, she must have seen it wouldn’t be a good idea. You could fit two Penelopes into Isadora.

  ‘They must be checking on a detail,’ Isadora said airily.

  The moment passed, though Penelope continued to bristle with indignation. Clearly, when it came to dealing with the weight of suspicion upon them, she didn’t have the same resilience as Martin. Shapes. If they played another round of Punchy Portrait, that’s what she’d make him – a boxer’s punching ball. You could pummel all you liked, he swung back into place, heavy and solid and unyielding. Only by slitting it open could you reach the truth, his innards spilling out in a full confession. ‘So you had a good story cooking, I bet.’ His sweeping gesture took in the whole company. ‘You’ve got your bestseller, Eddy. “The furious husband stormed next door, grabbed a garden fork and with one deadly blow, pierced the old man’s throat.” Ok, maybe work on the details but Gareth will help you with that.’

  ‘I very much doubt it. But hey, it’s a start.’ He leant back, arm outstretched on the table. ‘You’ve only given us half your story, though. What’s the rest? If it wasn’t you, who was it? Surely not that pretty young thing they’re talking to now?’

  ‘Oh, I’m no writer. Aspiring at the most.’ Martin refused to be drawn. ‘Unless you count the day job. Eviscerating the classics for English language learners.’

  ‘How do you set about that?’ Gareth, worried perhaps that this would lead to another fracas, tried to steer the talk onto safer ground. ‘It must be quite a challenge.’

  ‘One thing I do know’ – Martin ignored the cue to elaborate – ‘the mystery goes on. Me? I’m just the red herring. Far too obvious for Poirot.’

  ‘What rot!’ Isadora’s eyes were lit with anger, as brief as it was fierce. She went back to her food, muttering something which Sophie didn’t catch.

  ‘I suggest we just let Captain Praud get on with his job.’ Adeline’s plea came across as a little desperate. ‘The atmosphere’s difficult enough as it is. Let’s not forget that Henri is dead. There’s nothing entertaining about that. Not all of us want to hear about closed circles or whatever. Least of all Claire. She came down here for a change of air. She lost her mother not long ago and I think we should all respect that.’

  A corner of paradise. The Forsters must be wishing they’d never started. Even without a murder, a closed circle of artists was an invitation for egos to run wild. Fortunately, Lyle took it upon himself to forestall further discord by treating them all to his views on emotional truth in writing, the placid tone of his voice having almost achieved group hypnosis when Claire Bourane reappeared. He continued speaking a few seconds more; then his voice faded away.

  Lips forced into a smile, Claire sat down and ate a mouthful of aubergine.

  ‘I’ll heat that up for you.’ Adeline jumped to her feet and took the plate.

  Claire was battling to keep her composure. Sophie tried to think of something to say, a continuation of Lyle’s talk, but the topic of emotional truth didn’t seem appropriate, while everything else was trite.

  ‘Claire,’ said Martin with exaggerated tenderness. ‘Adeline thinks we shouldn’t talk about murder. I quite agree. It doesn’t make for the pleasantest of dinner table chats, especially such an excellent dinner as this. But the fact is, everyone here assumes I’m the sort to stick a garden fork through someone’s neck. Just in the heat of the moment, you understand – I don’t make a habit of it. So if it’s not too difficult for you, perhaps you could tell us what they wanted?’

  Claire opened her mouth to speak but no sound came. She burst into tears.

  Nobody spoke. Sophie put her arm round Claire’s shoulder and held her close. Then Adeline came out with her plate and Claire wiped her eyes with her napkin and began to eat. After a couple of mouthfuls, she put down her fork and held up her hands, fingers tensed into claws. Then she reached for her glass, took a great gulp of wine, and ran from the table, howling.

  Several seconds of shocked silence. Casting an irate glance at Martin, Sophie rose and went in after her.

  ‘Claire?’ She gave a soft tap on the bedroom door. ‘Are you all right? They didn’t mistreat you, did they?’

  After a while, the answer came. ‘I’m fine. Thank you.’

  ‘Would you like me to bring up your food? If you’d rather stay up here.’

  ‘No, it’s all right. I’m not hungry.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes! Go away!’ And she added less forcefully, ‘Please.’

  ‘I’m going to bed too. I’m in Muguet if you want to –’

  Claire opened the door, her face redder than ever, anger and shame colliding in a patchwork of blotches. ‘If you must know, they think I killed my father. Now piss off!’

  Chapter 25 A Shitty Life

  It was one of those nights when no one gets any sleep. Dorian woke three times instead of the usual once, Chloé had a nightmare, and Sophie, as she’d suspected, had a fever coming on. At 7.15, bleary-eyed and bilious, she was crawling back into bed when there came a knock on the door. ‘Am I disturbing? It’s Claire. I just wanted to say I’m sorry.’

  ‘What for?’ Sophie let her in. ‘You didn’t do anything wrong.’

  ‘No, just told you to piss off. That’s unforgivable.’

  Sophie waved it away. ‘I asked for it. I was the one disturbing.’

  ‘No, it was dreadfully rude of me. You were trying to be nice and I just... I woke in the night and felt terrible.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. As long as you’re feeling better now. What did they –’ Sophie stopped herself. ‘No, you don’t have to tell me. It’s none of my business.’

  ‘No, I want to, it’s why I came. It’ll come out anyway, so I’d rather it was you. The others are so...’ Either the word she wanted didn’t exist or she didn’t want to say it. Instead, she took a deep breath and said, ‘They’re accusing me.’

  ‘Of what? Last night you said... killing your father? I don’t follow. When? And what’s it got to do with Henri Seibel?’

  ‘They’re saying Henri Seibel was my father.’

  ‘Seibel?’ Sophie’s jaw dropped. ‘Is that true?’

  Luc emitted a barely audible sigh. Unnoticed by Claire, it reached Sophie clearly, both in sound and meaning: when his wife wasn’t actively hunting for clues, they knocked on her door uninvited, caring not a whit that she might be at death’s door herself.

  ‘Should bring the fever down,’ he said as he placed a glass of water and a Doliprane next to Sophie. ‘There’s a doctor in Saint Abel. I’ll see if I can get an appointment for today. They’ll have to let us out for that.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t need that, it’s only a touch of –’

  ‘In the meantime’ – he glared at them both as he tucked Dorian into the baby carrier – ‘I’ll leave you to it. Take this little man out for a stroll before it gets too hot.’

  You would have thought that Claire, an
xious as she was to be of no bother to anyone, would at least ask what the matter was, but she carried on as if she hadn’t heard. ‘Of course it’s not! But it’s what they claim. And they said Maman told me before she died that he raped her and I... I came down here now to get revenge.’ A tremor came into her voice, but she managed not to cry again, and said more firmly, ‘It’s rubbish! They invented. Or somebody told them. “A source of information.” But they wouldn’t say who, they just...’ She let out a snort of rage. ‘At first I was so upset, I didn’t want to come back out last night. But it was so ridiculous, I thought, I’m not going to let them rattle me. I don’t know what they’re trying to do. My mother’s just died and all they can think of... But the thing is, she never told me that! She never said it. They made it up!’

  ‘But why...’ Sophie couldn’t get her head round it, perhaps because her head right then wasn’t up to getting round anything, but even the brightest head, she thought, could make no sense of this. ‘They invented some cock and bull story to accuse you of murder?’

  ‘They grilled me about my movements, every minute. To prove there was time unaccounted for. You saw me come down for breakfast – what time was it then?’

  ‘I don’t know. Five past, maybe?’

  ‘But it’s not even the point! I didn’t do it!’ Her eyes became moist again. ‘I don’t understand. Why are they making it up? Why me? At least they could get their facts right.’

  ‘Facts?’ Her head was at least clear enough to zoom in straightaway. ‘You mean there’s something to it but the facts are different?’