Книга - A Sudden Change of Heart

A Sudden Change of Heart
Barbara Taylor Bradford


In the blockbuster storytelling tradition that is Barbara Taylor Bradford’s hallmark, here is an extraordinary novel about a remarkable young woman who finds a new life when her old one shatters.Laura Valiant is a successful art historian, running her own company. She and her husband, Doug, a Wall Street lawyer, share an idyllic marriage. But Laura’s trust in her husband is shaken when she discovers he has a secret life apart from her – a life which will rock their love.Clare Benson is Laura’s childhood friend. They’ve been together through thick and thin, good and bad. When Clare asks Laura the biggest favour and greatest honour of all – to be guardian to her teenage daughter, Natasha – Laura discovers her personal and professional lives become dramatically intertwined. But in true Valiant style, Laura rises to the challenges ahead and, eventually, succeeds in achieving the happiness and fulfilment she craves.From the streets of Paris and London to the art galleries and art auctions of New York, A Sudden Change of Heart takes the reader on an unforgettable journey where secrets, survival, love and redemption mesmerize the reader from the first page to the last. This is Barbara Taylor Bradford’s fifteenth novel and it is told with the emotion and feeling readers have come to expect from one of the world’s most beloved authors.









A Sudden Change of Heart

Barbara Taylor Bradford









HarperCollins Publishers


For Bob, with my love




Table of Contents


Cover Page (#u8ce202c2-5277-5e33-9b3e-51ebfddf4d7e)

Title Page (#u4be75b7f-0df3-524e-8323-e3d842d548cc)

Dedication (#u664e96c2-dfb6-5761-b590-406c8d2cef8b)

Author Note (#ue2fe3920-6bd4-510f-a104-c0f18e463018)

Prologue (#ue6a89127-5cd7-5a2a-93b1-e09c7550b899)

Part One (#u9d25320a-059c-5612-b5d6-3aee23dea122)

1 (#u93c5ad1c-7ffd-54bc-8c9c-1beb0e018b46)

2 (#u37cfd643-7436-5df0-86e6-66de86e4faf8)

3 (#u5194c4aa-685a-5c29-8a60-2f7fcd10e82c)

4 (#u44dc192e-a659-517d-bf28-6f4587f1dcea)

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8 (#u6f9dcbaf-6c14-5fc7-a0f4-36bb9f2c10a2)

9 (#u73cae6da-d87a-5445-a518-142fda265648)

Part Two (#u2a8f81a5-67f9-5dd0-b2e7-ed9ff9db6710)

10 (#uacd0b556-0ba8-5be1-a557-9b9451a06eba)

11 (#u2a6a8371-4518-5469-8c41-93518db82f63)

12 (#ub5eb88a2-0285-577f-987e-8b19b86b0219)

13 (#uc95579e9-941e-5005-b0fe-aa78ba083e89)

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18 (#ub48f7a6a-08bd-58ae-8a93-6b97d08b7e7b)

19 (#u4468056c-1015-50f0-9523-9ad9a5ba9f4a)

Part Three (#ue68dbbe0-433a-591f-a08f-e5b080cb4f1e)

20 (#u4fdd3efb-d3d7-5cfb-9351-1f214581163f)

21 (#u6dc1572f-f50e-55d6-ab1a-e4f389d0d499)

22 (#u6f3cf799-e96e-5b07-8c9e-edfc02c11698)

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24 (#uc0aeb4d3-4712-57a8-a355-2a7c0d7c9cac)

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26 (#ud5356056-f59f-52b5-b277-331c4bff3414)

27 (#ucdda1f09-71ed-5454-b821-9cac2915a246)

Part Four (#u4de2ffd7-1c61-51e5-b6a9-bd4ad8dd32da)

28 (#u4625959c-fd5d-5565-9772-7b7a604f710d)

29 (#u060f5837-88e8-581c-8527-b4920292f84e)

30 (#u291ac3d4-480c-51b9-a25c-6d15274fd163)

31 (#u11fb0871-34ec-5e22-94df-6adba1b90c01)

About the author (#ue4b4176e-8292-5cf7-8fad-899bcf58394f)

By the same author (#u2b7ede29-af1f-537f-a2bc-8016d300a4c0)

Copyright (#u0c06409c-ea17-560a-bf95-439ba0403414)

About the Publisher (#ud221e77f-f308-50f4-9784-114bac9156f7)




AUTHOR NOTE (#ulink_55b5b6f3-7589-5a2f-b08a-7f7167064ec8)


Two paintings described in this novel do not exist in real life. Tahitian Dreams, by Paul Gauguin, is part of the imaginary collection of Sigmund and Ursula Westheim, fictional characters from my novel The Women in his Life, who were victims of the Holocaust in that novel. Sir Maximilian West, their son and heir, and claimant of the invented painting, is another fictional character from the same book. Moroccan Girl in a Red Caftan Holding A Mandolin, by Henri Matisse, is part of the imaginary collection of Maurice Duval, a fictional character in this novel. I took literary licence and invented the two paintings for the dramatic purpose of the story, and because I did not want to name real paintings by Gauguin and Matisse. I have no wish to make it appear that actual paintings by Paul Gauguin and Henri Matisse are under any kind of dispute, or in jeopardy.

Barbara Taylor Bradford

New York 1998




PROLOGUE (#ulink_32ecad7b-78e4-5bf7-946f-0fa896b8e477)


Summer

1972

The girl was tall for seven, dark haired, with vivid blue eyes in an alert, intelligent face. Thin, almost wiry, there was a tomboy look about her, perhaps because of her slimness, short hair, restless energy and the clothes she wore. They were her favourite pieces of clothing; her uniform, her grandmother said, but she loved her blue jeans, white T shirt and white sneakers. The sneakers and T shirt were her two vanities. They must always be pristine, whiter than white, and so they were constantly in the washing machine or being replaced.

The seven-year-old’s name was Laura Valiant, and she was dressed thus this morning as she slipped out of the white clapboard colonial house on the hill, raced across the lawns and down to the river flowing through her grandparents’ property. This was a long wide green valley surrounded by soaring hills near Kent, a small rural town in the northwestern corner of Connecticut. Her grandparents had come to America from Wales many years ago, in the 1920s, and after they had bought this wonderful verdant valley they had given it the Welsh name of Rhondda Fach…the little Rhondda, it meant.

Once she reached the river Laura slowed her pace as she usually did, meandering along the edge, walking under the branches of the weeping willows that dripped down over the water. She paused for a moment to watch the wildlife here. There were ducks circling around on the surface of the water; it was a whole family, with a mother duck nosing her ducklings along; and there were several Canada geese searching around for food on the edge of the lawn nearby. Laura scanned the river, her hand over her eyes shading the sun, as she sought out the blue heron. It was not here today, but it often came and strutted along the far bank, a proud bird. She couldn’t help laughing out loud as she watched the mother duck tending her babies. What a fuss the mother was making.

Moving on, Laura hoisted the string bag slung across her body, and made for the drystone wall and the copse where giant oaks and maples grew in abundance. Years before when he was a boy, her father and his siblings had built a tree house in one of the giant oaks. It had remained intact, and it was Laura’s favourite spot, just as it had been for other young Valiants before her.

Laura was a strong girl for her age, athletic, agile and full of boundless energy. Within seconds she had scrambled up the rope ladder which dropped down from the fork in the branches where the tree house was built.

Scrambling inside the little house, she made herself comfortable in her leafy lair, sat cross-legged, gazing out at the early morning sky. It was six o’clock on this bright and sunny July day and no one else was up, at least not in the house. Tom, the caretaker who ran the farm, was outside one of the red barns near his cottage cleaning a piece of farm machinery. She had seen him out of the corner of her eye as she had run across the lawns a few minutes earlier.

Laura sniffed. Tom had cut the lawns yesterday, and she loved the smell of the newly-mown grass and of new-mown hay. She loved everything about Rhondda Fach, much preferred it to New York, where she lived with her parents and her brother Dylan.

Imperceptibly, Laura’s young face changed as she thought of her parents. Richard, her father, was a well-known composer and conductor; he was usually travelling somewhere to conduct a symphony orchestra and her mother invariably went along with him. ‘Those two are inseparable,’ her grandmother would say, but she said it in such a way it sounded like a criticism; Laura understood that it was. And it was also true that they were hardly ever around. When her mother Maggie wasn’t travelling, she was painting her famous flower pictures in her studio on the West Side. ‘She gets good money for them,’ Grandfather Owen kept saying, making excuses for her mother because he was always kind to everyone.

And so it was that Laura and her brother Dylan, three years younger than she, were frequently left in the care of their grandparents. She loved being with them, they were her favourites, really; she loved her parents, and she was quite close to her father, when he was around to be close to, but most of the time her mother was distant, remote.

Laura thought of the rope ladder which dangled down to the ground, and she moved towards it, intending to pull it up the way her father had shown her, then changed her mind. Nobody was going to invade her private lair. Dylan was too young at four to get much farther than the first few rope rungs, and her friend Claire was afraid to climb up in case she fell. It was true that the ladder was a bit precarious, Laura knew that. She had often offered to help Claire climb up into the tree house, where Claire longed to be, but her friend never had the courage to go beyond the first few steps at the bottom.

Claire was scared of other things even though she was twelve and much more grown up than Laura. She was small, dainty, fragile, and very pretty, with deep green eyes and red hair. ‘A Dresden doll,’ Grandma Megan called her, and it was the most perfect description.

Laura loved Claire. They were the best of best friends even though they were so different. ‘Chalk and cheese,’ Grandpa Owen said about them; Laura didn’t know if she was the chalk or the cheese. Her grandfather encouraged her to be athletic and adventurous; he had taught her to ride a horse, taken her climbing in the hills, given her swimming lessons and instilled in her a confidence in herself. And he had taught her to be unafraid. ‘You must always be brave, Laura, strong of heart and courageous, and you must stand tall.’

The problem for Claire was that she wasn’t at all athletic and she shrank from most physical activity. She couldn’t swim and she was unable to ride, being afraid of water, afraid of horses. And yet they were best friends because they shared so many other things, and Claire, despite her physical fragility, had strong mothering instincts. She was warm and loving with Laura and Dylan, and this was especially meaningful to Laura.

Claire was a master storyteller, inventive and imaginative, always weaving yarns, telling them ghost stories and other fantastical tales. They played charades, wrote plays and acted in them, and they shared a love of films and music and clothes. In certain ways, Laura was in awe of Claire. After all, she was five years older and knew so much more than they did. Dylan, being only four, didn’t know much of anything, and he was very spoilt, in Laura’s opinion.

Pulling the strap of the string bag over her head, Laura fished inside for the plastic bottle of orange juice which Fenice, the housekeeper, left for her in the kitchen every morning. After taking a gulp or two, she put the bottle on a small ledge, took her diary from its secret hiding place and began to write her private thoughts, which she did every day.

Soon it began to grow warmer inside the tree house and several times Laura found her eyelids drooping; finally she put down her diary and pen, rested her head against the wall. And although she tried hard to stay awake, she began to doze.

Laura was not sure how long she had been asleep, but quite suddenly she opened her eyes and sat up with a start. Just now she had heard screams coming from somewhere in the distance. Had she been dreaming?

Then she heard it again, a faint scream, and an even fainter voice calling, ‘Help! Help!’

It had not been a dream; someone was in trouble. Crawling as fast as she could, Laura backed out of the tree house, bottom first, dangled over the edge until she found her footing on the ladder and climbed down swiftly. She was well practised in this descent and soon reached the ground.

The cries were increasingly fainter, and then they stopped altogether. But Laura knew they had emanated from that part of the river which was wide and deep, beyond the drystone wall, near the meadow where all kinds of wild flowers grew. Sensing it was Claire calling for help, Laura ran at breakneck speed, her long legs flying over the grass. It had to be Claire who was in trouble in the river, Laura was certain. Who else would be in the valley?

Coming to a stop when she saw the flower basket, Laura quickly pulled off her sneakers and jeans, and scrambled down the muddy bank just as Claire’s pale face bobbed up above the surface of the water.

‘I’m here, Claire!’ Laura shouted, dived in and swam towards her friend.

Claire’s head went under again, and Laura took several gulps of air and dived once more. At once, she spotted Claire floating underwater.

Swimming to her, Laura grabbed her under the arms and swam them both up to the surface as best she could. She was tall and strong for her age, and she managed somehow. But then when she started swimming them both towards the bank Laura was pulled back along with Claire who was clinging to her.

‘It’s my foot,’ Claire managed to splutter. ‘It’s caught on something.’ Terror etched her stark white face and her eyes were wide with panic.

Laura could only nod. The girl glanced around frantically, wondering what to do. She had to get Claire’s foot free from whatever was holding it underwater. Yet she could not let go of Claire, who would sink if she released her. Laura spotted the branch of a tree a short distance away from them. It was a large limb, half on the bank, half in the water, and she was smart enough to know it was probably too heavy for her to lift. But she decided she must attempt to swivel the part which was in the water towards them. If she was successful, Claire could hang onto it, use it as a raft.

Staring at Claire she said, ‘I’ve got to let go of you, Claire, so that –’

‘No, no, don’t! I’m scared!’ Claire gasped.

‘I’ve got to. I’m going to get that branch over there, so that you can hang onto it. Then I’ll get your foot loose. When I let go of you, start flapping your arms in the water and keep moving your free leg. You’ll stay afloat, you’ll be okay.’

Claire was unable to speak. She was terrified.

Laura let go of her, shouted, ‘Flap your arms! Move your leg!’ Once Claire started to do this, Laura swam upstream in the direction of the branch. It rested on top of the water, and after a bit of tugging and pulling it began to move; unexpectedly, the other end came away from the bank. It flopped into the river with a splash. Grasping the leafy part of the branch, Laura tugged and tugged for a bit longer until it began to float alongside her. Dragging it with her with one hand, she struck out, heading for Claire.

Although she had gone under several times, Claire had kept on moving her arms and leg in the water and had managed to hold her own. As soon as Laura pulled the branch nearer to her, Claire grabbed for it and hung on tightly.

So did Laura, who needed to catch her breath and rest for a few minutes. When she had recouped, she dived underwater, went down to the bottom of the river bed and slowly came up, swam closer to Claire to see what had happened.

Laura was frightened when she saw that Claire’s foot was caught in a roll of wire netting, part of which had unravelled. Claire’s sneaker was wedged in, entangled with the loose part of the netting. Laura attempted to free her foot, but she could not; nor could she get the sneaker off, try though she did. She floated up to the surface, took several big gulps of air and rested her arms on the branch.

Peering into Claire’s worried face, she said, ‘I’ll have to go and get Tom to help me.’

‘Don’t leave me,’ Claire whispered tremulously, sounding more nervous than ever.

‘I have to. Just don’t let go of that branch,’ Laura instructed and swam across to the river bank.

After hauling herself up out of the water, the girl pulled on her jeans and sneakers, and set off across the meadow. She ran at a good speed, heading for the farm’s compound of buildings in search of Tom. When he was nowhere to be found, and knowing there was no time to waste, Laura dashed into his tool shed, found a pair of garden scissors and headed back to the river. After undressing once more, Laura dived into the river, and swam over to Claire who still clung to the tree branch, looking scared.

Showing Claire the garden scissors, Laura explained, ‘I can’t find Tom. I’m going down, I’m going to cut your sneaker off.’

Claire nodded. She was shaking uncontrollably and goose bumps had sprung up all over her body from being too long in the cold water. Laura dived down into the river, but it was hard for her to reach Claire’s foot at first, and she had to try from various angles. Finally, she managed to manoeuvre her right hand and the garden scissors underneath the wire netting. Her first attempt to release the trapped foot was to cut up the front of the laces. She succeeded, but Claire’s foot would not come out of the sneaker; after struggling for a few seconds longer Laura had to rise to the surface to breathe in air.

Within minutes she dived down again. This time she cut each side of the sneaker, tugged at Claire’s ankle and finally freed her foot. Filled with relief, Laura swam up, flopped against the tree branch, holding onto it and resting, breathing in large gulps of air.

‘I’m sorry,’ Claire whispered. ‘Are you all right, Laura?’

Nodding, Laura continued to rest for a minute or two. Then reaching for Claire, she towed her back to the bank and dragged her up onto the grassy slope.

Both girls were dripping wet and shaking with cold. Although Laura was exhausted, she wasted no time, pulling on her jeans and sneakers swiftly. Supporting each other they made their way back to the house.

Once they reached the back door which led into the kitchen, Laura stopped, and stared at Claire intently. ‘Before we go in tell me what happened. How did you get in the river?’

Claire nodded and pushed back her wet hair. Her freckles stood out like dark blotches on her ashen face. ‘I was picking wild flowers and got too near the edge of the river, Laura. I suddenly slipped and rolled down the bank into the water. I was scared and I panicked, floundered. I just don’t know how I drifted into the middle of the river.’

‘Gran says that part of the river is dangerous because there’s some sort of current out there. But come on, you’re shaking.’

‘So are you,’ Claire said, her teeth chattering.

Fenice was the first person they saw as they stepped into the big family kitchen.

The housekeeper, tall, red-haired and colourful in her white Austrian blouse and floral dirndl skirt, swung around from the stove as they entered. She gasped out loud at the sight of them.

‘Good Lord! What happened to you two?’ she cried rushing towards them. ‘A couple of drowned rats, that’s how you both look!’ She saw they were cold and shaking, most especially Claire, and drew her closer to the big kitchen stove where she was cooking breakfast. Glancing at Laura, Fenice added, ‘Get some big towels out of the linen press in the back hall, please, Laura. I’m afraid Claire’s a bit worse off than you.’

‘Yes, I know she is,’ Laura said and ran and did as Fenice asked. She returned with an armful of large towels.

‘Come on, Claire, wrap yourself in this and let’s get you upstairs. You too, Laura. What you both need is a hot shower immediately.’

‘What happened? What’s going on?’ Megan Valiant asked from the doorway of the dining room which led directly into the kitchen.

‘Claire was picking flowers and she fell into the deep part of the river near the meadow,’ Laura explained quickly.

‘I would have drowned if Laura hadn’t fished me out,’ Claire interjected. ‘I’m sorry, Grandma Megan, for making trouble.’

Megan Morgan Valiant held herself very still, remembering…remembering another child, her grandson…Mervyn, who had drowned in the lake in Connecticut. She felt a chill run through her. But at once she pushed aside her memories, and stared at Claire. She was puzzled by the girl’s apology and by the way in which she seemed to cower next to Laura, as if seeking protection.

Hurrying across to the two girls huddled together near the big range, Megan looked them over quickly and said in a brisk tone, ‘Neither of you seem to be too much the worse for wear, but you’d better go upstairs and have a shower, as Fenice suggested. And Fenice, please put the kettle on, I think the girls need something hot to drink. Grandpa Owen’s miner’s tea, that’ll do the trick.’

‘No sooner said than done, Mrs V.’ Fenice went to get the kettle, filled it with water at the sink and put it on the stove.

‘Come on, Claire,’ Laura said, shepherding her friend out of the kitchen.

Megan followed the two young girls, still pondering Claire’s demeanour. No wonder she seems frightened, Megan thought, she’s had a terrible scare. Falling into the river must have terrified her, since she can’t swim. It struck Megan that Claire might well be suffering from shock, and she wondered whether to call the doctor. Perhaps Claire ought to be taken over there to see him. Laura also looked pale, and she was shivering, but otherwise there didn’t seem to be too much wrong with her granddaughter.

Climbing the stairs behind them, Megan remarked, ‘I see you lost a sneaker, Claire.’

‘It’s in the river, Gran,’ Laura said, glancing over her shoulder.

‘I see. Never mind, we’ll drive over to Kent later and buy you another pair, Claire.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Claire answered rapidly. ‘I have my sandals with me.’

‘Sneakers are useful in the country, comfortable, and they’ll be a gift from me,’ Megan told her as they reached the landing at the top of the stairs. ‘Now, girls, into the shower both of you.’

Claire hurried off to the blue-and-white bedroom where she always stayed, and Laura went into hers.

Megan followed her granddaughter, and once she had closed the door behind them she said, ‘Out of those wet clothes at once and into the shower, Laura. Later you can tell me exactly what happened.’

‘But I have told you, Gran.’

‘Claire could be suffering from shock,’ Megan said. ‘I think I ought to drive you both over to Dr Tomkins.’

‘We’re both okay, Gran,’ Laura protested.

‘I’m going to pop along to Claire’s room, I want to see how she’s feeling.’

‘Yes, Gran,’ Laura said and went into the bathroom.

Megan knocked on the door of Claire’s room and when there was no answer she went in. From the bathroom she could hear the sound of water running in the shower. Turning, she caught sight of herself in the mirror hanging on the wall above the antique French chest.

Pausing for a moment, Megan smoothed her hand over her dark chestnut hair and then straightened the collar of her pale blue shirt. Leaning closer, she stared at herself. How white her face was. But that was no surprise. Claire’s misadventure had upset her greatly, even though she had not let the girls see this. Laura had not yet given her the details of the accident, but obviously they had been in a precarious situation. And Laura had put herself at risk because she had run to Claire’s rescue. The wide part of the river was dangerous, and the outcome might have been very different. Megan shivered and goose bumps flew up her arms as she realized how terrible the consequences might have been. Little Mervyn…he hadn’t been so lucky when he had fallen into the lake…

She walked across the floor, stood gazing out of the window for a moment, waiting for Claire to emerge. At sixty-seven, Megan Morgan Valiant was a beautiful woman. Tall and slender, she held herself erect, and in her carriage and deportment she was very much the great Broadway musical star. Although the colour of her rich chestnut hair needed help from her hairdresser these days, it was, nevertheless, thick and luxuriant; her face was relatively free of wrinkles and had remained youthful. Her eyes were her most arresting feature. They were a deep vivid blue, large and set wide apart. Her granddaughter had inherited them, as well as her height and colouring. Lithe and full of energy, Megan was a woman who had remained young in spirit. Her career in the theatre was somewhat curtailed these days, through choice, but her popularity as a star had never waned.

‘Oh, it’s you, Grandma Megan,’ Claire said, sounding surprised as she stepped into the bedroom wrapped in a towel. ‘I’m feeling better after my shower. And warmer.’

Megan nodded. ‘But perhaps we should go and see the doctor in Kent –’

‘No, no, I don’t need a doctor,’ Claire interrupted. ‘I’m fine, honestly I am.’

‘What happened? Why did you venture into the river when you can’t swim, Claire dear?’

‘I didn’t. I fell in. I was picking flowers and slipped. I rolled down the bank. And I somehow got swept into the middle, into the deep part of the river.’

‘There’s some sort of strange current there,’ Megan explained. ‘And it is very dangerous. We’ve been aware of it for years. You’re very lucky Laura was with you.’

‘Oh but she wasn’t! I was alone. She must’ve heard me shouting for help. She dived in, but at first she couldn’t get me out of the water. My foot was caught in a roll of wire netting. She had to cut my sneaker off.’

‘My God, it’s worse than I thought! You were very lucky indeed!’

‘Yes, I was. I’d better go and dry my hair.’ Swinging around, Claire headed back into the bathroom. As she did the towel slipped down at one side, revealing part of her body.

‘Claire, whatever happened to your back?’ Megan exclaimed, staring at the yellow bruises under her shoulder blade.

‘I must have hurt myself when I fell into the river,’ Claire muttered, pulling the towel around herself swiftly.

‘Claire, those are old bruises,’ Megan answered, her voice gentle but concerned.

‘I fell off my bicycle in Central Park,’ Claire replied, and disappeared into the bathroom.

A few minutes later Megan found her husband in the dining room, where he was breakfasting on boiled eggs, thin buttered toast and his famous miner’s tea, which was very strong and sweet.

‘I heard all about it,’ Owen said as Megan hurried into the room. ‘Fenice told me, and from what she said they’re both all right, aren’t they, Megan?’

She nodded. ‘They are, but it could have been fatal for Claire,’ she replied, and then went on to explain what had happened to her.

‘Laura’s a plucky one, and strong for her age,’ Owen exclaimed. ‘And thank God she had the presence of mind to jump in and help Claire, rather than running back here for me or Tom. You say Claire’s foot got caught in a roll of wire netting. God knows how that came to be in the river. I’ll talk to Tom later, and he can lift it out.’ Owen gave Megan a pointed look and added, ‘But I’m afraid I’m going to insist Claire learns to swim. Laura and I will give her lessons in the swimming pool.’

‘That’s a good idea…’ Megan paused, leaned back in her chair and looked off into the distance.

Owen, watching her closely, said slowly, ‘I know, I know, my darling, this mishap has brought back bad memories for you…you’ve been thinking of poor little Mervyn.’

‘Yes, I have,’ Megan answered, her voice as quiet as his. Sitting up straighter, finding a smile, Megan went on, ‘I think I’ll have a cup of tea. I need it after all this.’ As she spoke she reached for the teapot and poured herself a cup.

Owen said, ‘I’m glad I helped Laura to become an athlete. It’s served her well, and will in the future.’

‘Laura’s always been brave, Owen, even when she was a small child. And quick thinking, as well.’

‘She idolizes Claire,’ Owen remarked, thinking out loud. ‘She’ll always rush to her rescue whatever the circumstances.’

‘I know.’ Megan sighed and looked across at Owen.

‘What is it?’ he asked, frowning. ‘You look troubled.’

‘Claire’s back is covered with old bruises.’

‘What?’ He sounded startled.

‘I saw them when she came out of the shower. She said she’d fallen off her bicycle in the park,’ Megan explained. ‘But you don’t believe her?’ ‘I don’t know whether I do or not.’

‘I’ve always thought the Bensons were a bit odd,’ Owen said, bringing his hand up to his generous mouth. He rubbed it thoughtfully, his dark eyes narrowing. ‘She could have fallen, you know.’

‘Yes…’ Megan was silent, but eventually she said, ‘I hope you and I live a long time, Owen, so that we can look after Laura and Claire, be there for them.’

Reaching out, he put his hand over hers and smiled at her lovingly. ‘So do I. But remember this…those two will always be there for each other.’




PART ONE (#ulink_57c3dcea-b260-54e7-ac79-fb5bc0bce08f)


Winter

1996




1 (#ulink_72562b45-124f-598f-8319-28b9616bf196)


Whenever she was in Paris on business and had an hour or two to spare, Laura Valiant inevitably headed for the Musée d’Orsay in the seventh arrondissement on the Left Bank.

Today was such a day. The moment her lunch with two prominent art-dealers from the Galerie Theoni was over, she thanked them, promised to be in touch about the Matisse, and said her goodbyes.

Leaving the Relais Plaza, she crossed the lobby of the Plaza Athénée Hotel and stepped out onto the avenue Montaigne.

There were no cabs on the rank in front of the hotel and none in sight, so she decided to walk. It was a cold December day with a hint of rain in the air. She shivered and shrugged further into her black overcoat.

Laura was dressed entirely in black, from the topcoat to her smart woollen suit underneath and soft leather boots that stopped just short of the knee. Her jet-black hair, styled in a short, sleek cut, accentuated both her pale face and her eyes of a blue so brilliant they seemed supernatural. A slender tall young woman, she looked much younger than her thirty-one years.

Laura was a striking figure as she hurried along; many a male head turned. But she did not notice those admiring glances, so intent was she in her purpose.

She lifted her head and looked up at the sky. It was leaden and grey this afternoon; a watery sun was trying to push through the clouds without much success. But the weather was irrelevant here. To Laura, Paris was a city full of nostalgia and memories, memories happy and sad…so much had happened to her here.

First love – oh, how she had loved him and willingly lost her virginity at eighteen – and first heartbreak, when he had said it was over and had left her with such sudden abruptness that she had been stunned. And oh, the terrible jealousy when she had gone to see him a few days later and found him in bed with another girl. But there was more self-love than love in jealousy, de la Rochefoucauld had written long ago; she had taken those wise words to heart on that awful day and made them her own personal motto over the years. And she had fallen in love again, more than once, even though she had believed she never would. Miraculously, or so it had seemed to her at the time, she had eventually recovered from her broken heart to discover that there were other attractive young men in the world, and many were available.

It was her mother who had first brought her to Paris when she was twelve, and she had been captivated. At the age of eighteen she had returned to study art history and literature at the Sorbonne. In the two years she had lived in Paris as a student she had come to know it as well as she knew New York, where she had been born and raised. Whether shrouded in spring rain, wrapped in the airless heat of summer or coated with winter snow, Paris was the most beautiful of cities.

City of Light, City of Lovers, City of Gaiety, City of Artists…it had so many names. But no matter what people chose to call it, Paris was a truly magical place. She had never lost her fascination with it, and whenever she came back she immediately fell under its spell once again.

Mostly, Laura thought of Paris as the City of Artists, for had they not all worked and lived here at one time or another, those great painters of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries? Whatever their origins and from wherever they sprang, they had eventually come here, armed with their palettes and brushes and paints, and their soaring talent. Gauguin, Van Gogh, Renoir, Manet, Monet, Matisse, Cézanne, Vuillard, Degas, Sisley and Seurat. The Impressionist and Post-Impressionist painters she most admired, and in whose work she was an expert, had all converged on Paris to make it their home, if only for a short while.

The world of art was her world, and it had been for as long as she could remember. She had inherited her love of art from her mother Maggie Valiant, a well-known American painter who had studied at the Royal College of Art in London and the École des Beaux Arts in Paris.

But Laura was the first to admit she lacked her mother’s talent and vision as a painter, and when she was in her early teens painting became an avocation rather than her vocation. Nonetheless, she had decided she wanted to work with art once she had finished her studies, and after her graduation from the Sorbonne she did stints with several galleries in Paris before returning home to the States. Once back in New York, she did gallery work again, and then completed a rewarding four years at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

One of her superiors at the museum, impressed by her unerring eye, superb taste, and knowledge of art, encouraged her to become an art-adviser. And so three years ago, at the age of twenty-eight, she and Alison Maynard, a colleague at the Metropolitan, had started their own company. The two of them had made a great success of this venture, which they had named Art Acquisitions. She and Alison bought art for a number of wealthy clients, and helped them to create collections of some significance. Laura loved her career; it was the most important thing in her life, except for her husband Doug, and the Valiants.

A few days ago she had flown to Paris from New York, hoping to find paintings for one of their important clients, a Canadian newspaper magnate. Unfortunately, she had not found anything of importance so far, and she and Alison had agreed on the phone that she would stay on a bit longer to continue her search. She had a number of appointments, and she was hopeful she would find something of interest and value in the coming week.

Increasing her pace, Laura soon found herself turning onto the rue de Bellechasse, where the Musée d’Orsay was located not far from the Eiffel Tower and Les Invalides. She had made it from the hotel faster than she had expected, and as she went into the museum she experienced a little spurt of excitement. Inside were some of her favourite works of art.

The museum was deserted and this pleased Laura; she disliked crowds when she was looking at paintings. It was really dead this afternoon, so quiet you could hear a pin drop. The only sound was the click of her heels on the floor; her footsteps echoed loudly as she walked towards the hall where the Renoirs hung.

She stood for a long time in front of Nude in Sunlight. Renoir had painted it in 1875, and yet it looked so fresh, as if he had created it only yesterday. How beautiful it was; she never tired of looking at it. The pearly tints and pink-blush tones of the model’s skin were incomparable, set off by the pale, faintly blue shadows on her shoulders which seemed to emanate from the foliage surrounding her.

What a master Renoir had been. The painting was suffused with light – shimmering light. But then to her, Renoir’s canvases always looked as though his brush had been dipped in sunlight. Lover of life, lover of women, Renoir had been the most sensual of painters, and his paintings reflected this, were full of vivid, pulsating life.

Laura moved on, stopped to gaze at a much larger painting, Dancing at the Moulin de la Galette. It represented gaiety and young love, and there was so much to see in it – the faces of the dancers, merry, sparkling with happiness, the handsome young men, their arms encircling the beautiful girls; how perfectly Renoir had captured their joie de vivre. His use of colour was superb: the blues and greens in the trees, the blues and creams and pinks in the girls’ dresses, the soft, clear yellow of the men’s straw boaters, and the…

‘Hello, Laura.’

Believing herself to be alone with the Renoirs, Laura jumped when she heard her name. Startled, she swung around. Surprise registered on her face, and she froze.

The man who stood a few feet away from her, went on, ‘It’s Philippe, Laura. Philippe Lavillard.’ He smiled, took a step towards her.

Laura recoiled imperceptibly. Dislike and a flick of anger curdled inside her.

The man was thrusting out his hand, still smiling warmly.

Reluctantly, Laura took it, touching her fingers quickly to his and then pulling them away. This man had always spelled disaster and trouble. She could hardly believe he had run into her like this.

‘I thought you were in Zaire,’ she managed to say at last, wondering how to get rid of him. There was a slight pause before she added, ‘Claire told me you were…living in Africa.’

‘I am. I arrived in Paris a couple of days ago. Actually, I’m en route to the States. I’m going to see the head of the CDC.’

‘The CDC?’ she repeated, sounding puzzled.

‘The Center for Disease Control. In Atlanta. I have some meetings there.’

‘Claire mentioned you were working on Ebola in Zaire.’

‘And other hot viruses.’

Laura nodded, tried to edge away.

He said, ‘Are you staying in Paris long, Laura?’

‘No.’

‘How’s the famous Doug?’

‘He’s well, thanks.’

‘This is one of my favourites,’ Philippe Lavillard began, looking intently at Dancing at the Moulin de la Galette, then gesturing towards it. ‘I think I favour it because it’s so positive. There’s so much life in it, such happiness, don’t you think, such hope and expectation in their faces, and a sort of quiet exuberance, even innocence –’ Abruptly he cut himself off, and glanced to his right.

Laura followed his gaze, saw a woman approaching. As she drew closer, Laura realized, with a sudden flash of recognition, that it was Philippe’s mother: a dumpy middle-aged woman in a maroon wool dress, with a black coat flung over her shoulders. She was carrying a handbag on one arm and holding a Galeries Lafayette shopping bag in her hand. She moved at a measured pace.

A second later, Rosa Lavillard was standing next to her son, staring at Laura with undisguised curiosity.

Philippe said, ‘You remember Laura Valiant, don’t you, Mother?’

‘Oh yes, of course,’ Rosa Lavillard responded in a cool tone. ‘Good afternoon.’ Rosa’s lined face was impassive, impenetrable; her pale eyes were frosty, and there was a degree of hostility in her manner.

‘Hello, Mrs Lavillard, it’s been a long time,’ Laura answered, recalling the last time she had seen her. At the wedding. Trying to be polite, she added, ‘I hope you’re well.’

‘I am, thanks. Are you here on vacation?’ Rosa asked.

‘No, this is a business trip.’

‘Laura’s an art-adviser, Mother,’ Philippe explained, glancing down at Rosa and then across at Laura. ‘She helps people to select and buy paintings.’

‘I see. You like Renoir, do you?’ Rosa murmured.

‘Very much. He’s a great favourite, and I try to come here whenever I’m in Paris,’ Laura replied.

‘Such beauty,’ Rosa remarked, looking about her. ‘All these Renoirs…they nourish the soul, calm the heart. And they are reassuring…these paintings tell us there is something else besides ugliness out there. Yes, such beauty…it helps to baffle the clamour of cruelty.’ She waved a hand in the air almost absently, peered at Laura and asked, ‘Do you like Van Gogh?’

‘Oh yes, and Degas and Cézanne, and Gauguin, he’s another favourite.’

‘His primitives are deceptive. They appear simple yet they are not, they are complex. Like people.’ Rosa nodded her head. ‘It’s obvious the Impressionists appeal to you.’

‘Yes, that’s my area of expertise. The Post Impressionists, as well.’

‘I like them myself. If I had a lot of money that’s what I would do, how I would spend my life. I would collect paintings from the Impressionist school. But I am just a poor woman, and so I must make do with going to museums.’

‘Like most other people, Mother,’ Philippe pointed out gently.

‘That’s true,’ Rosa agreed, and turning, she began to walk away, saying over her shoulder, ‘Enjoy the Renoirs.’ ‘I will,’ Laura said. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Lavillard.’ Rosa made no response.

Philippe inclined his head, gave her a faint half-smile, as if he were embarrassed. ‘Nice to see you again, Laura. So long.’ Laura nodded, but said nothing.

He stared at her for a moment, then he swung on his heels and followed his mother out of the hall.

Laura stood watching the Lavillards depart, and finally went back to her contemplation of the Renoirs. But the Lavillards had ruined her mood. Their intrusion on her privacy had brought too many memories rushing back, and most of them bad memories. Suddenly she felt nervous, unsettled, unable to concentrate on the paintings. But she didn’t want to leave the museum just yet; she might not have another chance to come back during this trip to Paris.

Glancing around, Laura spotted a small bench placed against the far wall, and she went and sat down, still thinking about the Lavillards. What a strange woman Rosa Lavillard was. She remembered a few things Claire had told her years ago, mainly that Rosa was unpredictable, a sick woman who had been hospitalized for long periods. Hadn’t Claire said she had once been in a mental institution?

From what Laura now remembered hearing, Rosa had led a troubled life…there had been a painful childhood in France, growing up during the war, the loss of her family in the Allied bombing raids, later a volatile marriage to Pierre Lavillard, then emigration to the States in the 1950s, where Philippe was born. Their only child. The doctor. The prize-winning virologist whom the medical world called a genius.

Claire had once said in a moment of anger that Rosa was a crazy woman, and should have been kept in the mental hospital. She had been very vehement about it at the time.

Laura closed her eyes, her thoughts settling on Claire Benson: her best friend and confidante, the elder sister she had never had, her role model. Claire had been living in Paris for a number of years, which was one of the reasons she liked to come here, to spend time with Claire.

Opening her eyes, Laura stood up. She began to stroll down the long gallery, determinedly pushing aside all thoughts of the Lavillards, mother and son. Within seconds she had forgotten them, once more enjoying the Renoirs hanging there. Soon she was lost in the paintings, soothed by their beauty.

And then once again she was no longer alone. Unexpectedly, there was Claire standing by her side, taking hold of her arm.

‘What are you doing here?’ Laura exclaimed, startled to see her friend, filling with a rush of anxiety. Oh God, had Claire run into the Lavillards? She hoped not; they usually upset her. She searched Claire’s face, looking for signs.

Claire explained, ‘You told me you were coming to the museum after your lunch, so I thought I’d join you.’ She peered at Laura. ‘What’s wrong? You look odd.’

‘Nothing, I’m fine,’ Laura answered. ‘You took me by surprise, that’s all.’ She was relieved to see that Claire was calm; obviously she had missed the Lavillards. But probably only by a few moments. Forcing a smile, she went on, ‘So, come on then, let’s walk around together.’

Claire tucked her arm through Laura’s. ‘I like seeing paintings through your eyes. Somehow I get much more pleasure from them when I’m with you.’

Laura nodded, and they moved on, gazing at the masterpieces on the walls, not speaking for a short while. At one moment, Laura lingered in front of a painting of a mother and child, frowning slightly.

Claire, always tuned into her best friend, said, ‘Why are you looking so puzzled?’

Shaking her head, Laura replied, ‘I’ve often wondered lately if any of these paintings are stolen –’

‘Stolen! What do you mean?’ Claire asked.

‘Thousands and thousands of paintings were stolen by the Nazis during the war, and that art, looted by them, hangs on museum walls all over the world. It’s from some of the world’s greatest collectors, such as the Rothschilds, the Kanns, and Paul Rosenberg, who once owned one of the most prestigious galleries in Paris, to name only a few.’

‘I read something about that recently. I guess it’s hard for the heirs of the original owners to get their paintings back if they don’t have proof of ownership.’

‘That’s it exactly. And so many records were lost during the war. Or were purposely destroyed by the Nazis in order to blur provenance.’ Laura grimaced, and said, ‘A lot of museums are fully aware of the real owners, because many of the paintings are coded on the back of the canvases. It all stinks. It’s morally wrong, but try and get a museum to give a painting up, give it back. They just won’t…At least, most of them won’t…Some are starting to get nervous, though.’

‘Can’t any of the original owners sue the museums?’ Claire asked.

‘I suppose they could,’ Laura answered. ‘But only if they have proof a painting is theirs. And even then it’s dubious that they’d ever get it.’

Claire nodded, ‘I remember now, Hercule knows something about this…He mentioned it only recently. I believe he has a client who is the heir to art stolen by the Nazis from his family in 1938.’

‘Oh, who is it?’

‘I don’t know…He didn’t say.’

‘A great deal of the looted art is in private hands, and try and get them to give it back. They never will, not when they’ve paid millions for it. There’s going to be a lot of trouble in the next few years, now that it’s all coming to light. You’ll see.’

Claire said, ‘You’re repeating what Hercule was telling me not long ago. Maybe you should talk to him about it.’

‘I’d like that.’

‘Maybe we can get together with him this weekend. Anyway, do you represent someone with a claim to stolen art?’ Claire asked curiously.

‘Not at the moment, but I may well do so in the not too distant future.’

They fell silent as they continued to stroll around the museum, at ease with each other. Laura, forever worried about Claire, stole a quick look at her. In her years of living in Paris Claire had acquired a certain kind of chic that was uniquely French. This afternoon she wore a dark purple wool coat, calf length and tightly belted, over matching pants and a turtleneck sweater. The purple enhanced Claire’s large green eyes and auburn halo of curls. Big gold hoop earrings and a dark red shoulder bag were her only accessories, and she looked stylish, well put together. Laura admired Claire’s style, which seemed so natural and uncontrived.

Glancing at Laura, Claire came to a halt and said, ‘I’m glad you’re in Paris for a while, Laura, I miss you.’

‘I miss you too,’ Laura answered swiftly.

Looking at her watch, Claire went on, ‘I think I’d better be getting back to the photographic studio. I’m doing a shoot for the magazine, as you know, and Hercule’s coming over later. I need his advice about one of my sets.’

‘He’s turned out to be a good friend,’ Laura said. ‘Hasn’t he?’

‘Yes. But not my best friend. That’s you, Laura Valiant. Nobody could take your place.’

Laura squeezed Claire’s arm. ‘Or yours,’ she said.

Laura heard the phone ringing above the sound of the water pouring into the bath, and she reached for the receiver on the wall.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi, sweetie.’

‘Doug! Hello, darling.’ She sat down on the small bathroom stool near the make-up table, and glanced at her watch. It was six here. Noon in New York.

Her husband said, ‘I called you earlier but you weren’t there. I’m off to lunch with a client in a few minutes, and I wanted to catch you before you went out again.’

‘It’s such a clear line, you sound as if you’re around the corner!’ she exclaimed warmly, happy to hear his voice.

‘I wish I were.’

‘So do I. Listen, I’ve got a great idea! Why don’t you come in for the weekend? Tomorrow’s Friday, couldn’t you take it off and fly over? It would be lovely, Doug.’

‘Wish I could, but I can’t,’ he answered, his voice changing slightly, growing suddenly brisk, businesslike. ‘That’s another reason I’m calling you, I have to fly to the coast tomorrow. Meetings with the Aaronson lawyers. The merger’s on, after all.’

‘Oh. It’s unexpected, isn’t it?’

‘Yep, it sure is. But what can I do, I’m needed out there.’

‘Never mind. But it would have been nice to have you in Paris if only for a couple of days.’

‘Sorry, darling, it can’t be helped. When do you think you’ll be back?’

‘I have appointments set up for the early part of next week, Doug, so I’ll probably leave for New York on Thursday or Friday.’

‘Great! You’ll be here next weekend, and so will I. This is probably going to be a quick trip to LA. In and out.’

‘Where are you staying?’

‘Er, the Peninsula, in Beverly Hills, as usual.’

‘Doug?’

‘Yes?’

‘I’ve really missed you this week.’

‘I’ve missed you too, darling. But we’ll make up for it, and you know what they say, absence makes the heart grow fonder.’

She laughed. ‘I guess it does…the way I’m feeling right now, I wish you were here…’ She laughed again, a light, infectious laugh.

He laughed with her. ‘Got to go, sweetie.’

‘When are you leaving tomorrow?’

‘My flight’s at nine in the morning, and I’m going straight into meetings once I’ve dropped my luggage off. I’ll call you.’

‘’Bye, darling.’

‘’Bye, Laura. And a big kiss,’ he said, before hanging up.

Laura sat soaking in the bath longer than usual. There had been no cabs on the street when she and Claire had left the museum earlier; they had walked all the way back to the hotel where Claire had finally found a cab.

The water was helping Laura to thaw out and to relax, and she luxuriated in the hot bubble bath for a while, thinking of Doug. She had married Douglas Casson when she was twenty-five and he was twenty-seven. They were a perfect fit, compatible, attuned to each other in the best of ways. But lately he worked too hard. She smiled at this thought. Didn’t he say the same thing about her?

To his way of thinking, they were both workaholics, and he seemed to relish announcing this. It was true, of course, but she didn’t like that particular word. It smacked of obsessiveness, and she was quite sure neither of them was that. Not exactly.

Anyway, Claire had always said that the ability to work hard for long hours was the most important thing of all, and that this was what separated the women from the girls.

But Laura thought that love was important, too. Hadn’t Colette, her favourite writer, once written that love and work were the only things of consequence in life. Certainly she believed this to be so. But Claire didn’t – at least not the love part, not anymore. Claire had been burnt. ‘And they were third-degree burns, at that,’ Claire had said. Those burns had taken a long time to heal. ‘Now I have built a carapace around me, and I’ll never get burnt again. Or hurt in any way. My shell protects me. Nothing, no one, can ever inflict pain on me.’

Laura loved Claire. She also had enormous compassion for her, because of all the bad things that had happened to her. Laura was well aware that Claire was raw inside; still, she couldn’t help wishing her friend would open herself up to love again instead of retreating into her shell the way she did. There was something oddly sterile about a woman’s life, if she did not have love in it, if she didn’t have a man to cherish and to love.

These days, whenever she broached this subject, Claire only laughed hollowly, and responded swiftly, ‘I have Natasha, and she’s all that matters. She’s my life now, I don’t need a man around.’

But a fourteen-year-old daughter wasn’t enough, was it? Laura wondered. Surely not for a loving, passionate, intelligent woman like Claire.

Claire. The dearest friend she had ever had. And still her best friend, the one she loved the most, even though they lived so far away from each other now. Claire and she went back a long way. Almost all of their lives, really.

She had been five years old when Claire and her parents, Jack and Nancy Benson, had come to live in the apartment opposite theirs in the lovely old building on Park Avenue at Eighty-Sixth Street. She had instantly fallen in love with her in the way a little girl of five falls in love with a very grown-up ten-year-old. She had worshipped Claire from the start, had emulated her. Once their two families had become acquainted, Claire had taken Laura and Dylan under her wing, had been baby-sitter, pal, and confidante.

Cissy, the Valiant nanny, had had her hands full with Dylan, who was then only two and very naughty. So Claire had been a welcome addition to the Valiant household. An only child, Claire had loved being part of this extended family, especially since Laura’s grandparents, Owen and Megan Valiant, were very much in evidence. They all helped to make Claire feel like a very special member of their family.

Because Claire attended Miss Hewitt’s School, Laura went there as well. And there came a time when the five years difference in their ages suddenly seemed negligible. As teenagers and young women they were as inseparable as they had been as children, bonded together as sisters in soul and spirit, if not blood.

Claire had married young, at twenty-one, and her daughter Natasha had been born a year later. Two years after that she had moved to Paris with her husband and child. But nothing, not distance, husband or child, had ever come between them or changed the nature of their friendship. Very simply, they loved each other, and, as Claire was wont to say, they would always be sisters under the skin, no matter what.

The sad part was that Claire’s life had gone horribly wrong seven years ago. Her marriage had foundered and she had divorced; her parents had died within a few weeks of each other, not long after this, and then Natasha had been in a car crash and had suffered serious injuries. But thanks to Claire’s nursing, the girl had made an amazing recovery.

Laura roused herself, pushing herself up in the bath. Here she was daydreaming about the past when she should be getting dressed.

No time to dawdle now.





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