Rachael's Gift (13 page)

Rupert and Francine threw strangers’ names across the table, falling into ‘deal’ speak, referring to us in the third person. Rachael and I exchanged bewildered looks; a buzz was radiating from her core – she was loving this.

‘What about starting with a mentorship, Francie?’ He squeezed Rachael’s hand, ‘What about that fellow – the one with the show at Lambert’s, I heard he gives lessons in exchange for work as his assistant. She could do that, couldn’t she? Right.’ He pushed back his chair. ‘Who’s for a
digestif
?’

He meant Lucien, I thought.

‘Paints for the president nowadays,’ said Rupert, taking glasses and a decanter out of the cabinet. ‘Perhaps if she has his backing too?’

‘He’s probably too busy,’ I said. ‘I’m not sure it’s appropriate –’

‘Camille.’ Rachael glared at me then turned back to Rupert and Francine. ‘Would you really arrange that for me?’

Francine touched my hand. ‘It would be a pleasure.’

Something shifted inside me. Trusting these people again was not an option. This was not what we had come here for. ‘Rach, I think we need to talk about this first.’

Rupert patted the top of my head as he placed a brandy before me. ‘Don’t you worry, dear – people do things for Francie. You should know that. Drink up, this stuff is older than me.’

*

A room of chandeliers sparkle like the champagne in the glasses suspended between fingers. A girl with a camera drifts through an exhibition; she tries to pinpoint the important people, the ones who ‘know talent’, by the way they dress, the flurry surrounding them, and their self-conscious gestures. The men are in tuxedos and the women in silk dresses. They peruse a collective installation entitled
Désirer
. She sees a life-size sculpture of a half-melted telephone, a bucket of fake (she hopes) excrement and several paintings of a single black line and wonders what all the fuss is about, but then this is a François Pinault affair and nobody, she is told, questions him.

Francine glides through the circus, the sheaths of her pastel-coloured chiffon floating.

Was Yvon Lambert here? The girl has heard he can spot genius a mile away. She feels ready to show them her work and is preparing herself, researching, making contacts. Except that she stands in a corner for most of the evening. After a few drinks she begins to take random photos in the hope that a conversation will begin. They smile for the camera, a trace of puzzlement in the aftermath of the flash – just another social photographer. The girl notices a fuss around one young man; he is nondescript except for a pair of piercing blue eyes. She moves within earshot. He speaks in English about his first show, a collection of new artists, including a particularly exciting unknown Brit, who wants to display suicide victims in formaldehyde. He sees her hovering and she gives him an awkward smile. He poses beside two stalks of women and she takes his photograph. She is walking off when the man calls,
You’ll want my name for your paper – it’s Emmanuel Perrotin
. She mentally stores it and moves on, heady with this encouragement, looking for others. Until one man, older and greying, does not turn and smile, and instead whispers to a large man in a black suit beside him. This man makes his way over to the girl. Francine notices and intercepts him. They speak in French, too quickly for the girl to understand, but Francine smiles, the man nods, and they relieve her of her camera, slipping the film out and exposing it to the light. The film falls into a black pocket.

You can’t go around taking photos of people you don’t know
, says Francine.

Who was that?
the girl asks, stung.

Someone who does not want his picture taken
.

An hour later, the girl has found an empty anteroom and sinks into the red velvet pillows on a sofa. The language barrier is too much for her. She waits for Francine to take her home, but the wait is interminable. She stares at the remaining shoulders of a marble statue whose head is missing and can’t work out if it has been accidentally broken off or if it was made like that. She takes her camera out and puts in another roll of film.

A photo of her painting falls out of her bag. She has made several copies to show to people, just in case. Her painting is of the moon: a purple and golden depiction of the view from her window at her grandparents’ house. She is obsessed with framed views: windows, doors, arches. She dreams of the loggias in the Italian villas, built precisely to frame a view, and thinks trompe l’oeils are full of irony. There is one being painted at her grandparents’ now. Perhaps her work is a little too young, but there’s definitely something in it, she’s sure; after all, if they can go nuts over a bucket of shit . . . Even Francine had surprised her with a gift of a gilt-edged frame. Her grandfather had been less enthusiastic, but Francine had said,
Art is just a matter of taste. Don’t let him worry you
.

Behind plush drapes, French doors overlook arches on the Rue de Rivoli, headlights moving like glow-worms along the street. She holds her camera up and takes a photo, but has no way of knowing, until the film has been processed, that all she has captured is her reflection in the glass.

When they get home, Francine’s mood is tense. She pours herself a large brandy.

Did you get a chance to mention me to anyone?

The glass makes a clink on the bench top, the shadows beneath her eyes are prominent, and the lines around her lips are drawn. She suddenly appears old. There’s a glitter in her eye and her body sways slightly as she says,
But of course. They’re dying to see your work.

*

After dinner Rachael showed Rupert her portfolio and I retreated to our room to be alone. I began folding Rachael’s discarded clothes. The steak sat heavy and lumpy in my belly, just like the dinner conversation. Lucien mentoring Rachael. Bile surged in my throat. They were going too far – doing too much. What could they possibly gain from us? Did they really want to help? Or was it an unsubtle way of rubbing the past in my face? This family never did anything unless it served their own ends. But maybe, just maybe, they truly believed in Rachael? After all, Francine did discover new talent.

It wasn’t long before Rachael stormed into the bedroom, lightheaded from the alcohol she’d drunk and ablaze with fighting words: ‘Don’t you think I’m good enough?’

I should have seen this coming. ‘It’s not that,’ I stammered, searching for the right thing to say. ‘We don’t want to owe them anything, that’s all.’

‘You know it would give me an edge.’

I had to admit that I did. Lucien Moreau mentoring Rachael would be a real coup – so why did I have a rock in my stomach? ‘I don’t want to be in debt to these people.’

‘But they’re family.’

‘There’ll be a price.’

‘I can handle it,’ she said obstinately and then, after a pause, ‘This is because you knew him, isn’t it?’ She came closer. ‘Because you used to sleep with him?’

‘Rachael!’

She backed off. ‘Well, that’s just charming. So I miss out on lessons from one of the greatest artists of our time, because you once fucked the guy.’

‘Christ . . . Don’t start with me.’

‘That’s real good, Mum. Is that what I should tell them? Perhaps I should tell Dad too?’

I took a deep breath and said very calmly, ‘I know you don’t really mean that. You’re just angry right now. You’ve been under a lot of stress.’

She pouted her lips angrily at me.

‘What with everything that’s happened with the teacher. It’s no wonder.’

Her lips relaxed then and she looked almost fearful; my heart went out to her. She opened her mouth to say something but then backed away, holding her head in her hands.

A pain began to pulsate behind my left eye. I found some aspirin in my handbag and swallowed two. If I was honest with myself, this was not about Francine and Rupert. The truth, I knew, was much more complex than that. Lucien and I had been together so many years ago. Surely it was all in the past? But the rock in my stomach grew harder. The truth was, the idea of Rachael spending day after day with Lucien made me feel uncomfortable.

‘But this is what
we
want,’ she said, pitifully.

I looked at the messy curls of her dark hair and felt a pang of guilt. It was true, this was an amazing opportunity. Lucien’s backing could be just the thing to seal the Beaux-Arts application. I couldn’t let my feelings get in the way of her success.

‘I’m sorry, Rach. You’re right. You should have the lessons.’

She hesitated. ‘Do you really mean that?’

I nodded, exhausted. What had I felt moments before? Jealousy? Fear? Whatever it was, I was doing the right thing.

She picked at her fingernails with her thumb. ‘I promise, okay?’ She swallowed. ‘I won’t let you down.’ She flicked her hair back off her face and climbed onto her bed. ‘This jetlag’s a fucker.’ She yawned and crawled under the covers.

*

I sat on the sill in the dark and turned my phone on. Wolfe had called again. My thumb hovered over the call button, but I was still not ready to speak to him.

The cool air wafted into the apartment. My daughter, my baby – not so babyish anymore – had flaked out on her bed. She was, after all, still my baby. That her school had suggested she was a liar was outrageous. So she had made some mistakes – didn’t we all? A gifted child was always going to be a challenge. I thought of Wolfe’s determination to get Rach to a psychologist. Always trying to set things right – he couldn’t help himself. Was this teacher incident going to drive him crazy too? He had been a broken man after Clippo and things between him and Rachael had not been the same since.

I checked my emails. There was one from the archivist at the Pompidou Centre asking for more information regarding
La Baigneuse
, but I replied requesting permission to visit instead. There was also a message from Sally – Wolfe had called her and she was asking questions. I didn’t want him harassing all and sundry. I typed a short message.

W – Please understand – you weren’t being reasonable. I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Cx

I pressed send and the knot tightened – why didn’t I feel better?

The opening bars to Sinatra’s ‘My Way’ sounded through the apartment, followed by a deep voice. I found Rupert in his study with his feet up on the desk, a microphone in hand, leaning all the way back in his chair, his hand on his chest and his mouth open wide, singing. A bottle of red wine stood beside him.

He swallowed a few mouthfuls of wine then caught sight of me by the door. ‘Ssstrange to be back, Ms Morgan?’

I nodded. ‘It’s Larkin now.’

‘Good for you.’

The song on the karaoke machine switched to ‘The Lady is a Tramp’. ‘Drink?’ He waved the bottle at me. ‘’S good stuff this.’ He poured me a glass. ‘Bought it at auction. Got a crate of it. Go on – have some.’

I took the proffered glass. The wine ran down the back of my throat, warm and rich.

Half singing and half drinking, he got up from his chair. I tensed as he came closer, waiting to feel his hand on my shoulder, but instead he drew close to a black-and-white picture hanging on the wall of a group of men, which included my grandfather, and then turned to me. ‘I wondered if we’d ever see you here again.’

‘Really? I didn’t think you would have thought of me at all.’

‘True. True. Well, there was an impression.’ His voice echoed into the microphone. ‘A rather lasting one.’

What an old lush, I thought, disgusted.

‘Thasss whyyy the ladeee is a tramp.’

*

‘You can come get your things,’ the British voice blares down the phone. ‘It’s safe. Francine’s out.’

The girl sighs in relief that Francine did not carry out her threat to burn all her things.

She enters the apartment carrying rolled-up bin liners, and walks down the hall to her room. Her clothes are strewn all over the bed, all over the floor. Her suitcase has been upended and all her letters and diaries are scattered. She feels a stab of pain in her chest. Some of them have been torn in half. The pages of her diary have been ripped out, scrunched up and thrown across the room. Her eyes well up and she tries to swallow them back. She has a job to do and only half an hour in which to do it; there is no time for tears.

She gathers up the pages of blue airmail paper, letters from her mother. The words catch her eye.
My David Austin roses are in bloom. Gloria says they’re prize-winners. That’s just like her, everything over the top. Perhaps you will catch the last of them when you are home in the summer?
Now she will get to see the roses.

Next she collects the pages of her diary. What had she written in them? The fanciful words of a silly girl. How lonely she had felt. Lucien. How she was in love. Intimate details. How they were liars. She cringes. Her secret inner life. No one was supposed to read them.

She tries not to think of all the unanswered phone messages she has left for Lucien as she puts all the papers into the zippered pocket of her suitcase. She shoves her clothes and her shoes in until it is overflowing and she has to sit on the case to close it. She tugs at the zipper so hard, her fingers hurt. Stupid fucking thing! She hits the canvas with her fist. Then she stops, defeated. Tears roll down her cheeks, unchecked. She crams the rest of her things into the bin liners.

She carries her suitcase all the way to his studio and rings the doorbell, but instead of the door buzzing open, a stranger greets her. A woman. Tall. Blonde. She holds out a note and says,
He asked me to give you this
. The woman looks at her, shrugs and says,
Sorry
.

A message bleeped on the answer phone: ‘
Camille, Avery Spencer here, Lucy’s mother, are you coming to the RPA tonight? Something’s going on at the school – it’s pretty big. Won’t go into it now – we want to get as many parents there as possible. Can you make it? Let me know. Ciao
.’

The red light of the answer machine stopped flashing; the woman’s cicada voice left a brewing silence. RPA? Was that the Rutherford Parents’ Association? She wasn’t referring to the teacher, was she? Nah, couldn’t be. How could they know? We were told the investigation was completely confidential.