Hothouse Flower (58 page)

The two of them stood awkwardly by passport control. There were things Julia wanted to say to Kit, like how wonderful he’d been, how happy
she’d
been, and how much she thought she loved – yes,
loved
– him. But she couldn’t quite find the words. So, rather than saying the wrong thing, she remained silent.

Eventually, Kit threw his arms round her and hugged her to him. ‘I’ll miss you so much, darling,’ he whispered in her ear.

‘I will too,’ she managed feebly.

He stepped back and pushed a lock of her hair from her face. ‘Please try to take care of yourself. I know how bad you are at that. And, remember, if you need me, I’m here. And I’ll be waiting for you, however long it takes.’

Julia nodded, close to tears. ‘Thank you.’

‘I love you, darling,’ he murmured.

‘Yes,’ Julia said, too choked to say any more. Then she turned away from him, gave a small wave and walked through the barrier.

Sitting on the plane as it prepared to land at Toulon airport, Julia was surprised to find she was thinking less of what she now had to face, than she was of leaving Kit. Having spent three hours without him, and with no idea how long it might be before she saw him again, she felt … bereft. The intensity with which she missed him had taken her completely by surprise.

When she smelt the sweet, familiar, pine-scented air, a large part of her wanted to turn tail, step back on the plane and return to the comfort of Kit and Wharton Park. By the time she had collected her rental car and was heading along the scenic coastal route to her home, Julia understood it was hardly surprising she wanted to run back into Kit’s arms: what she must face in less than an hour terrified her.

But the sooner it was done, the sooner she could return to him.

She had to say goodbye. And say it alone.

The traffic along the coast road was heavy with holidaymakers. Julia wound her way patiently through the pretty resorts of Bormes-les-Mimosa, Lavandou and Rayol Canadel, watching families spilling off the beaches and into the busy bars and cafés. The whole of France moved south during August and there was little point in trying to get anywhere in a hurry.

The winding road began to climb upward, affording wonderful views of the azure sea below. After the hardy baldness of the Norfolk landscape, which Julia appreciated had its own raw beauty, the Côte d’Azur offered spectacular, colourful intricacy. It was rather like comparing a rough diamond to an exquisitely fashioned and polished sapphire, yet they both had their own unique charms.

At La Croix Valmer, Julia took the steep, narrow road up to the hilltop town of Ramatuelle. As she approached the village, adrenalin began to pump through her. She rarely felt the need for a drink, but she wished she could have one now.

As usual, the roads in the village were packed with tourists, and Julia had to park some distance from her house. She took her holdall from the boot of the car and walked along the narrow path to her home, which stood just off the main square. Ramatuelle was a maze of narrow streets and hidden alleys, full of picturesque, ancient stone houses, with bougainvillea tumbling in fat, purple blossoms over the walls.

The village was only ten minutes from the smart beaches of Pampelonne and the resort of St Tropez, so it was more sophisticated than most, with an array of expensive restaurants attracting a chic clientele. Julia loved it best in the winter, when the village was returned to its inhabitants.

She stopped by the wrought-iron gates that opened on to the short path which led to her front door. She dug deep, garnering strength to open the gates, walk up that path and put the key in the lock …

Any moment now, the door will open. Gabriel will know I am coming and will be waiting at the window with Agnes, ready to run down the steps and into my arms.

I will hold him close to me, smelling his wonderful scent, made up of Xavier and myself, and something of Gabriel’s own. I will caress his freshly washed dark hair, too long by far for a boy, but I cannot bear to cut it and see the soft ringlets fall from his head.

‘Tu es rentrée. Je t’aime, Maman,’ he will say, as he hangs on to me like a small monkey and we go up the steps together. Agnes will be there, smiling to see us reunited, and I will sit Gabriel on my lap at the kitchen table as they tell me what they have been up to since I’ve been gone.

He will climb off my lap and shyly bring me a painting he has done for me. The paper is stiff under the weight of the clumsily applied paint, but he is proud of it, and knows I will be happy to receive it.

We will take a walk outside and Gabriel will hop on to his small tricycle, which he will pedal manically around the terrace, showing off his skills to me. Then he will tire and clamber back on to my knee, thumb in his mouth. He will settle down against my breast and I will feel his heart beating against mine. As he grows drowsy, I will lift him up in my arms and carry him to his cot to lie him down gently. I will lean over and kiss his forehead, loving the feel of his soft skin against my lips. I will stroke his head, murmuring to him of my love, and all the wonderful things we will do together now I am home. As he slips into sleep, he will open one eye to check I am still there.

I am … and will be, always.

Julia opened the door to the silent house and prepared to step back into the past. And the pain.

She stood in the shadowy hallway, struck by the distinctive smell that pervades all old houses unlived in for a long period. The fact the smell was unfamiliar helped her, and she walked to the back of the house and into the kitchen. The shutters were closed against the harsh glare of high summer, so the room was in semi-darkness. Julia walked towards the long French-oak table, where a note was balanced against a bowl of fresh fruit.

Dear Madame Julia,

I hope you find the house as you would like it. I have stocked the fridge, and there is a casserole on top of the stove. I will be in tomorrow, as usual, at ten o’clock. If you need anything before this, please call.

Welcome home, Madame,

Agnes

Julia plucked a ripe peach from the bowl, bit into its velvety skin and walked towards the door which led to the terrace. The old house lay in a crowded, narrow street, yet she was now standing on a hilltop. The magnificent view below was uninterrupted by other houses, the hillside covered in pine trees, olives and firs, and sweeping down, hundreds of yards beneath her, to the line of shimmering blue that was the sea.

This was where Julia spent most of her time here, sitting under the pergola, draped with bulbous purple grapes, listening to the cicadas, to Xavier practising and Gabriel squealing with delight from the swimming pool.

Now there were only the cicadas here, and she was alone. And there was no hiding from the memories. Julia’s legs began to give way and she slumped on to a wrought-iron chair.

Only a year ago … it felt like a lifetime.

And that day – that dreadful, earth-shattering, life-changing day – had started so simply, like any other. There had been no forewarning, no inkling of what was to come.

A hot Sunday in July …

Julia had been catching the mid-morning flight to Paris to perform a recital at La Salle Pleyel with L’Orchestre de Paris
.
She was playing Rachmaninov’s Concerto No. 2, her favourite piece
.
She remembered taking her bags downstairs to wait for the taxi and being happy it was only an overnight stay: she would be back in time for tea with Gabriel tomorrow evening. She always dreaded saying goodbye to him, but comforted herself that it was a good opportunity for her ‘boys’ to spend some time together. When he was at home, Xavier would lock himself away with the piano, becoming irritated if Gabriel disturbed him. So Gabriel had learnt not to do so. Julia knew he was wary of his father, whose volatile artistic temperament made him unpredictable.

As it was a Sunday, Agnes was not there to take care of Gabriel, so Xavier was in charge. A conductor friend of Xavier’s had invited the two of them for swimming and a late afternoon barbecue just along the coast. There would be other children there for Gabriel to play with, and it would be good for father and son to spend the day together.

‘
Maman
,’ Gabriel said, throwing his arms about her neck. ‘
Je t’aime.
Come back soon. I miss you.’

‘And I you,
petit ange
,’ she replied, as she drew in the smell of him to keep with her whilst she was away. ‘Have a lovely time at the party and be a good boy for Papa
.
’

‘We are driving there in Papa’s new sports car. It goes so fast,
Maman.
’ Gabriel wriggled out of Julia’s arms and zoomed round the hall making car noises.

‘
A bientôt, chérie
,’ Xavier said. ‘Play well, as you always do. I will long for your return.’ He hugged Julia to him and kissed her.

‘
Je t’aime, chéri.
Take care of Gabriel for me,’ Julia added as she walked down the front steps.

‘I hope he will take care of me,’ Xavier laughed. Gabriel came to stand by his father and took his hand as they waved her off in her taxi.

In her dressing room in Paris, Julia had rung Xavier on his mobile just before the recital. It was on answer-phone, but this was not unusual. They were probably not back from the barbecue yet. She would try again in the interval. Hearing her two-minute call, Julia had switched off her mobile and made her way to the wings.

The faintest glimmer of nerves had flooded through her as she walked on to the platform and took the applause from the audience. Then, when she sat down on the stool and looked down at the keys that would transport her and her audience on to another plane, the fear had left her. Her fingers touched the keys, and the first haunting notes of the concerto filled the hall.

When she had finished playing, she’d known the rendition she had just given was the best she had ever played. The audience seemed to think so too, and gave her a standing ovation. Clutching a blood-red bouquet of roses, Julia had walked from the stage, elated. People clustered round her, as they always did, congratulating her, showering her with praise, wanting to bask in her unique talent.

‘Madame Forrester.’

She had heard the manager’s voice from behind the group of well-wishers, and looked up. His grave face was in stark contrast to the animated smiles around her. He pushed his way through to her.

‘Madame Forrester, can you come with me, please?’

He had led her to his office and closed the door behind him.

‘What is it? Is something wrong?’

Julia remembered the pounding of her heart as he explained there had been a call for her from the
Gendarmerie
in St Tropez. He had the number and the Inspector he had spoken to wanted her to call him back immediately.

‘Do you know why?’ Julia had asked as the manager dialled the number for her and she’d taken the receiver with shaking hands.

‘Madame, I … do not know the details. I will leave you alone to talk with him.’

He’d left her there, in the office. She had asked to speak to the Inspector whose name was on the piece of paper in front of her. He’d answered immediately. And told her what had happened, ending her world.

The car veering off the road on a narrow bend, tumbling down the steep hillside then bursting into flames, setting light to the tinder-dry hillside around it.

And somewhere, in the charred, blackened landscape, lay the remains of her husband and son.

It was a week later, by which time Julia was back in England, that the French authorities informed her that they had found some remains near the site: the bones of a child aged about two, discovered on the hillside above what was left of the car. Which, the Inspector had explained, meant Gabriel had probably been thrown out as the car tumbled down the hillside.

There were other, adult bones nearer the car. The Inspector told her that, because fire removed any trace of DNA, it was impossible to officially identify either of them.

Julia could barely remember what had happened after that first, dreadful call at La Salle Pleyel in Paris. Alicia had arrived – she didn’t know when – and had taken her home to England.

After two days in Alicia’s spare room, Julia had known she could not bear the screams and laughter of Alicia’s children. So she’d moved into the tiny cottage in Blakeney, preferring silence to the unbearable sound of what she had just lost.

Julia roused herself, bringing herself back to the present and wiping the tears from her eyes. She knew she was on very dangerous territory. She must not allow herself to sink back down by remembering. There were practical things she had to do here in France – the sooner she did them, the sooner she could leave.

She went back into the kitchen and, adhering to Kit’s advice to make sure she ate, warmed some casserole from the stove, then sat down at the table with a glass of wine and forced the food down her throat.