To Provence, with Love

Faye walked in past him, trying not to trip over the dog. As she did so, she noticed a grey ponytail hanging down Eddie Marshal’s neck – not something normally to be found on an elderly gentleman. On closer inspection, there turned out to be a still-handsome face underneath the lines and wrinkles, and a definite sparkle visible in his pale blue eyes. She smiled back at him and held out her hand. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr Marshal, and did you say his name was Marlon?’

The man accepted her hand and shook it, before nodding towards the dog. ‘Named after the great man himself. Miss Beech knew Brando well and has always admired him. Now, if you’d like to come into the sitting room, I’ll go tell her you’ve arrived. She hasn’t been too well for the past couple of days and she has the nurse with her at the moment, so I’m afraid you might have to wait for a few minutes.’

He led Faye, closely accompanied by the dog, along the corridor, limping slightly as he walked. The walls were lined with paintings – not old masters, as one might have expected in a medieval environment such as this, but modern, abstract and impressionist paintings that, remarkably, sat very well in this antique setting.

At the end of the corridor they turned into a gorgeous high-ceilinged room, furnished with surprisingly modern leather sofas and armchairs. The ceiling was supported by hefty carved beams, the detail of the predominantly floral design picked out in red and gold against the dark wood. The floor was a stunning chequerboard of centuries-old pink and cream terracotta, worn down by the passage of countless feet. At the end of the room was a monumental stone fireplace, supported by sculpted pillars on either side. It was breathtaking.

‘Now, what can I get you?’ Mr Marshal was still standing by the door. ‘Over the years I’ve become pretty good at making cocktails. How about a Manhattan?’

Faye glanced at the time on an antique grandfather clock in one corner of the room. She had got up at the crack of dawn for her flight and it was still only just eleven o’clock, so although it might have helped to soothe her nerves, it was definitely too early for alcohol. She shook her head regretfully. ‘Thank you very much, but as I’m driving back to the airport again this afternoon, I’d better not.’

‘Of course. Well, a coffee maybe, or a cup of tea?’

‘A cup of tea would be lovely, thank you.’

‘Any special type of tea?’

‘Just bog-standard builders’ tea please, with a drop of milk.’

‘“Bog-standard builders’ tea …”’ She saw him smile, savouring the expression. ‘I’m sure we can find some of that. I’ll ask Claudette to bring you a cup.’

As Mr Marshal limped out of the room, leaving Faye vaguely wondering who Claudette might be, the dog trotted over to the fireplace and collapsed onto an exquisite, probably Persian, rug, clearly exhausted by the effusive greeting he had given Faye. Doing her best to control her sense of apprehension, she went over to one of the windows and peeked out onto a lovely, manicured ornamental garden filled with roses. Beyond it was what looked like a swimming pool flanked by lofty palm trees.

What a place, she thought to herself, as she turned back and wandered around the room, stopping to study a mass of photographs in frames that almost filled one wall. There was a clear theme to all of them: Anabelle Beech with John Wayne; Anabelle Beech with JFK; Anabelle Beech at various star-studded ceremonies, grasping a variety of awards, among them one that was unmistakably an Oscar. Every single photograph included Anabelle Beech, never twice wearing the same dress, and in every one, she looked stunning. Faye realized that, if she decided to take the job, she would have a lot of material in these photos right here in front of her.

The letter from the lawyer had come at an opportune moment, barely a week ago. She had arrived back home that Friday night to the house in South London she shared with three other people, feeling physically and mentally drained after the week from hell. Some of the kids had been particularly bolshie, the red tape ever more complex and time-consuming, the parent-teacher evening a nightmare and Miss Dawes, the head teacher, even more objectionable than usual.

Although initially she had loved her job, since the arrival of the ineffectual and vindictive Miss Dawes, Faye had been feeling increasingly frustrated. The break-up with Didier had been the last straw and she had already started looking round for a change of scene, preferably away from the problems of the inner city. Sometimes she would lie in bed at night and dream of teaching a small class of polite, motivated, bright young pupils in a little old stone schoolhouse in the midst of the countryside. So far, that particular dream hadn’t come true.

The solicitor’s message had been brief and intriguing. Almost without preamble, his letter had informed Faye that she had been chosen to assist a famous celebrity in writing her autobiography. The job was likely to take in the region of six months and for her efforts, if she decided to take the job, she would receive the jaw-dropping sum of one hundred thousand pounds upon successful completion of the contract.

There was no explanation as to why she, of all people, had been chosen. All right, she taught English as well as French, and she had self-published her first book, a psychological thriller, a couple of months back. This was now slowly beginning to sell, but it was hardly a bestseller. To be offered such an inordinate amount of money to work with a celebrity was mind-blowing. How on earth had they even heard of her? It was baffling. Nevertheless, she had emailed straight back, indicating her interest, and asking to know more about the job and the celebrity in question.

‘Good morning, mademoiselle. Mr Marshal told me you were hungry. Are you happy to speak French?’ Faye raised her eyes to find a friendly looking lady at the door. She was short, fairly stout, and she was probably in her late fifties or early sixties. Faye nodded her head, noting that this lady’s French accent, like the reticent man with the Labrador she had seen back on the road, was definitely local. ‘My name’s Claudette and I’m the housekeeper. I brought you some tea and a few bits and pieces in case you were hungry.’ Faye’s eyes opened wide as she saw that Claudette was carrying a tray laden with food.

‘That’s ever so kind.’ She held out her hand. ‘My name’s Faye Carter.’

‘Pleased to meet you.’ After putting the tray down on a side table, Claudette shook hands with her. ‘You speak good French. Do you live over here?’

Faye shook her head. ‘No, I live in London, but I teach French and English.’ She could have added that she had also had a French boyfriend until a few months ago, but decided to leave Didier, the unfaithful womanizer, out of it. In fact, if she had been able to wipe Didier right out of her life and her memory for ever, that would have been even better, but that, she knew, would never be possible.

Suppressing a sigh, she let her eyes flit down to the table and she could hardly believe the quantity of biscuits and cake Claudette had brought in. There was a movement by her feet and the Labrador appeared as if by magic and positioned himself close by, nostrils flaring. Claudette looked down at him. ‘Don’t worry about Marlon. He won’t steal food from the table, but I’d advise you not to give him any bits or he’ll never let you alone. Always hungry, he is …’

‘Merci, Claudette.’ Mr Marshal materialized at the door so silently that even the dog jumped at the sound of his voice. ‘Faye, is there anything else you require?’

‘No, goodness, no. This is amazing. Thank you so much.’

He nodded and turned to Claudette, addressing her in fluent French. ‘Then we’re fine, thank you, Claudette.’

‘Just call if you need anything else. See you later, mademoiselle.’ Claudette gave Faye a brief smile and scuttled off.

Mr Marshal walked slowly across the room until he adopted a relaxed position with his back to the fireplace, leaning against the stone pillar at the side for support. ‘So, you and Miss Beech are going to write a book?’

Faye made her way over to the table and nodded. ‘That’s right – if she wants me.’ She risked a direct question. ‘I don’t suppose you know why she picked me, do you?’

There was a momentary hesitation before Mr Marshal shook his head. ‘She knows lots of people – important people. I imagine somebody must have recommended you.’

This shot even more uncertainty into Faye’s head. Anabelle Beech might well know lots of important people, but Faye was pretty sure she, herself, didn’t. But there was no chance to enquire further as a uniformed nurse appeared at the door, a bag in her hand.

‘Monsieur Marshal, I’ve finished. Miss Beech says for her visitor to go right up.’ Her eyes strayed to the table full of food and Faye saw Mr Marshal’s face crack into a hint of a smile.

‘Do come in and help yourself to a cup of tea or coffee, while I show Faye up to Miss Beech’s room.’ He turned to Faye. ‘Now, Faye, if you’d like to follow me, I’ll take you up to see Miss Beech.’

Faye gave the nurse a smile as they crossed paths and she followed Mr Marshal out into the hall and over to the imposing stone stairway. On either side of the stairs were suits of shining armour, standing there like soldiers on guard.

‘Convincing, aren’t they? These are props from one of Miss Beech’s historical romances.’ Mr Marshal reached out and tapped one as they passed. Instead of a metallic clang, there was just a hollow clunk. Faye followed suit and found herself grinning.

‘Totally convincing. I was expecting you to tell me they’d been made for a medieval knight by the royal armoury.’

‘Nothing so exotic, I’m afraid. As I remember, these were made by a firm in Long Beach, California, who normally made surfboards.’

‘Long Beach, California, sounds pretty exotic to me.’ As did this whole place.

Mr Marshal climbed the steps slowly, taking them one at a time, his legs clearly giving him trouble. Once they finally reached the first floor landing, he led her down a wood-panelled corridor a short way to a bedroom door. When they got there, he paused briefly, gave a little tap on the door and, without waiting for a reply, ushered Faye inside.

‘Here’s Faye come to see you, Anabelle.’ At that moment, Faye felt a warm body slip past her legs and head over to the bed. ‘And Marlon’s come too.’

‘Well I never. Fancy Marlon leaving his favourite rug.’ The voice came from the bed.

‘He seems to have taken a real shine to Faye.’ Mr Marshal indicated a chair set beside the bed. ‘Do, please, take a seat, Faye. Claudette will be up shortly with some more tea. Anabelle, can I get you anything?’

‘No, thank you, Eddie. I’m fine.’ As he left the room, Miss Beech beckoned to Faye. ‘Come over and sit by me, Faye. Please.’

As Faye walked across the room towards the bed, she did her best to process the impressions she was receiving. The room was huge, with a high ceiling, and there was what looked like an old tapestry covering one wall. She couldn’t see very well as the louvred shutters were closed against the heat of the sun, and the light that filtered through cast geometric stripes across the floor as far as the bed. This was a quite magnificent four-poster and in the bed was a little figure, propped up against three or four crisp white pillows. The voice was low, but clear, and the accent unmistakably English.

As for Miss Beech herself, as Faye drew nearer, she saw that the beautiful, alluring young girl of the photos downstairs had now morphed into an old lady. A few hours spent on the internet earlier in the week had told her that Miss Beech was now in her early eighties, but even so, in spite of her advanced years, she was still a very good-looking woman. Her blonde hair was now silver, but had been pinned up on her head in a style recognizable from the photographs. She was even wearing diamond studs in her ears. More importantly, she was smiling. This came as a considerable relief to Faye, whose biggest worry had been that she might find herself having to deal with a spoilt, irascible diva.

‘Do sit down, my dear.’ Far from irascible, Miss Beech sounded warm and agreeable as she waved Faye into the chair beside her bed, nodding approvingly as she took a better look at her. ‘You’re such a very pretty girl, Faye. I love your hair. Is that your natural colour?’

Faye had had blonde hair as a little girl and it was still a very light brown now. She nodded. ‘Yes, this is the real me.’

‘And how old are you?’

‘I’m twenty-eight.’

Miss Beech gave a little sigh. ‘Ah, how I’d love to be twenty-eight again.’

Faye didn’t give her time to become nostalgic. Remembering how the housekeeper and the PA had referred to their employer, Faye summoned her most enthusiastic voice. ‘Miss Beech, I’m most terribly excited to meet you. I’d already seen a number of your films and since I heard you wanted to interview me, I’ve downloaded some more and watched them. I loved them all, particularly Faded Heart. Seeing you now is like being in one of the films.’