Letter from a Stranger

‘Naturally. Who’d pass up a chance to eat a meal cooked by you? You’re the best in the business.’

‘Flattery, flattery.’ Pearl laughed dismissively but looked pleased as she went back to the stove, stirred the apples in the pan and turned them off. She opened the oven door, glanced at the ham and nodded to herself, satisfied it was cooking nicely.

Justine walked across the floor and sat down at the big table. ‘Where’s Daisy?’

‘Tita took her up to her room to clean her teeth, wash up. She’ll be down soon to have her supper at six.’ As she spoke, Pearl stared at the kitchen clock, saw that it was five forty-five and hurried to the countertop under the window. She picked up a cottage pie in a glass casserole and carried the dish to the oven. ‘Got to get this brown,’ she muttered, more to herself than Justine.

‘Where’s Richard, do you know?’

‘He went up to his room. How about Parisian eggs to start?’

‘Gosh, Parisian eggs. I love them! We haven’t had them for ages. That’s a great idea.’

‘Good. Better check I’ve got anchovies and mayonnaise.’ Gliding over to the pantry, she went on talking. ‘Your grandmother taught me how to make Parisian eggs. She warned me …the eggs had to be boiled at the last minute. She used to say, “They must be really, really warm, Pearly Queen.”’

Pearl swung around, suddenly laughing. ‘Remember how she used to call me that, Justine? She said it was after the pearly kings and queens from that place in London.’

‘The East End, and the pearly kings and queens are always Cockneys.’ Memories flashed before her eyes unexpectedly: Gran in the kitchen here, teaching Pearl how to make cottage pie, steak-and-kidney pie, and fish and chips, as well as those hard-boiled eggs with mayonnaise and anchovies on top which they all enjoyed.

‘They wore clothes with pearls stitched on them,’ Pearl announced, closing the pantry door.

Justine slipped off the stool. ‘I’m going to get ready, but I’ll set the table first.’

‘No need, Tita did it,’ Pearl grinned. ‘It’s set for three.’

Justine laughed at the knowing expression on Pearl’s rosy-cheeked face, went out to the hall and up the stairs.

Richard’s door was ajar. She pushed it open and looked in. ‘Hi! I spoke to Jo. She’s coming over for dinner.’

He was at his desk. He turned around, nodded. ‘Good, it’ll be nice to see her.’

Justine came into his bedroom. ‘I did some research on Istanbul on the Internet,’ she said. ‘I remembered something all of a sudden, Rich. When Dad and Gran worked together at Dad’s showroom in the D & D Building on Third Avenue, they imported stuff from Turkey.’

Richard threw her a knowing look. ‘I thought of that myself. They had two companies, Exotic Places and Faraway Lands, and they bought furniture and accessories from China, Japan, Thailand and India. And Turkey, of course. Didn’t Gran used to go there from London? To Istanbul, I mean?’

‘I think she did with Uncle Trent,’ Justine said.

‘They were close friends,’ Richard murmured. ‘When he died thirteen years ago, Gran was very upset.’

‘Not long after Trent died, Gran went back to London… she said something about buying carpets to me,’ Justine said.

Instantly something occurred to Richard. ‘Hereke! That’s where the carpets are made. Dad showed me one when I was at the showroom with him on a Saturday; they’re made of silk, I think. Very beautiful, and expensive. The more I think about it, she knows Istanbul quite well – and you’re right, Juju, Gran’s more than likely there. It’s suddenly dawned on me that she had some special friends in Turkey.’

‘I want to leave next week, and as soon as I can,’ Justine announced. ‘Do you think you’ll be able to come?’

Looking across at her, he shook his head, his expression one of regret and concern. ‘No, I don’t. I’ve that big installation starting next week, and although I know Allen Fox is capable of overseeing it, Vincent Coulson will throw a fit if I’m not there. He’ll want me on the spot twenty-four/seven, and you know it.’

‘Yes, I do, and I will be all right, honestly. I can go it alone. I’ve done it before when I’ve been on foreign locations for my films. Don’t worry about me so much.’

‘How can I change after thirty-two years? I’ll always worry about you, Juju. But it’s not only that, I’m as concerned about Gran as you are, and I just feel I ought to be with you, helping to find her.’

‘Listen, Joanne’s been to Istanbul three times, twice on vacation and once on location for a movie she was handling. She’ll be helpful with contacts, and you know I’ll call you every day. And as soon as you can get away, you will.’

‘And I’ll bring Daisy.’ He jumped up. ‘Talking of Daisy, I said I’d sit with her while she has her supper. When’s Jo coming over?’

‘Seven o’clock. You’d better go down and be with your adorable daughter. I’m going to tidy up.’

FIVE

‘You look great,’ Joanne Brandon exclaimed, walking across the worn Persian carpet covering the drawing-room floor. ‘Hard work and no play agrees with you!’

Feeling more relaxed for the first time that day, Justine smiled and rushed to meet her closest friend. ‘You don’t look half bad yourself…’ She left her sentence unfinished as she grabbed hold of Joanne’s hands.

‘Come on, give me a hug,’ Jo said.

The two women embraced, then stepped away, gazed at each other for a long moment.

Justine said, ‘You’ve done something to yourself… it’s a new hairdo! Shorter, and I love it. Very chic.’

‘And you’re leaner, fitter, and your hair’s different, too. Longer, glossier. You glamour puss, you.’

The two of them broke into peals of laughter, both recalling how they always used to greet each other with comments like this… about their appearance. They had once again fallen into the old trap, on purpose, of course, since it had become something of a joke these days. When they were teenagers they had accused each other of being overly vain.

Joanna went and stood in front of the blazing fire as she usually did, enjoying the warmth, especially on this cool April evening. Justine walked over to the round table in the corner, where bottles of liquor and glasses stood, along with a white wine in a silver bucket. ‘Is this all right?’ Justine asked, her hand on the bottle. ‘It’s Sancerre.’

‘Couldn’t be better.’

After pouring the wine, Justine carried the crystal goblets over to the fireplace, handed one to Joanne. They clinked glasses.

‘So the picture went well, did it?’ Justine asked, sitting down opposite her friend.

‘The best I’ve worked on yet,’ Jo answered. ‘The stars were great, had no problem with my PR demands, knew their lines, no temperament or tantrums. And we came in on time and on budget. Thank God. I was glad to get back to New York, and Simon. Poor kid, he really missed me. But there was no way he could’ve been in Los Angeles when I was working. I didn’t want him to miss school either, and anyway his father wouldn’t have liked him to be out of New York.’

‘No, he wouldn’t. How’s he doing?’

‘Oh, the same as usual. Bad tempered, bossy, impatient. Nothing’s ever right. He’s a negative man, Malcolm Brandon is, and a trifle petty.’

‘But he can turn on the charm when he wants to.’

‘Don’t tell me. He does it now, even though we’re divorced. But how about you? How did your editing go in the end? You sounded worried sometimes.’

‘A heavy month, as I explained on the phone when you called. But the documentary came out great in the end. Jean-Marc Breton was a devil to work with, but ultimately he was brilliant and his art is just superb. Breathtaking really. His paintings are so vivid, so colourful, and Provence and Spain are wonderful places to film! I’m showing it to Miranda Evans on Tuesday afternoon. She saw some of the rushes when she came over to France, and she’s also seen the rough-cut. Even though I say it myself, the finished product is… perfect.’

‘Knowing you, it wouldn’t be anything else. What did she say about the new title?’

Justine made a moue. ‘At first she wasn’t sure about it… after all, “Proof of Life” means different things to people. Show me that the hostage is not dead, is one example. That’s what the police say to a kidnapper, or a fugitive holding someone against their will. To me it meant that if I could film the world’s greatest living artist, an extraordinary painter, who was a recluse, non-communicative, and an eccentric, then I had proof of life that he wasn’t dead, like so many people thought he was. He’s hardly ever seen in public these days, and there has been a lot of gossip and speculation about his well-being. And I’ve just proved he’s alive and kicking and as right as rain, to submerge myself in a bunch of clichés.’

‘Clichés are true, the truth, used frequently, which is why they are called clichés.’ Jo took a sip of wine and eyed Justine speculatively over the top of the glass. ‘Is he really the lady-killer he’s said to be, or is that all part of the myth and the legend, and all that jazz?’