Letter from a Stranger (5 page)

“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 hilariously. “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 Justine’s 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 my computer,” she said. “I remembered something all of a sudden, Rich. When Dad and Gran worked together at Dad’s showroom in the D and 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 to me about buying carpets,” 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 to be 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 since she’d opened the letter, 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, and 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. 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 colorful, 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, and 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, noncommunicative, 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,
and used
ad infinitum,
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?”

Justine’s face changed slightly and she remained silent, her blue eyes suddenly thoughtful, her face solemn.

Knowing her as well as she did, Joanne had the feeling she had accidentally stepped on dangerous ground. Taking a deep breath, she murmured, “I guess he’s a man with what is called ‘fatal charm.’ Isn’t that so? Did you succumb to it?”

“No, of course not, don’t be so silly,” Justine answered swiftly, her voice rising slightly.

Joanne nodded; she thought:
I don’t believe her.
She’s blushing. What is she hiding from me? Clearing her throat, Joanne murmured, “The whole world says he’s irresistible to women.”

“I resisted, take my word for it.”

Richard asked, “Resisted what, Juju?” He came strolling into the drawing room, went to hug and kiss Joanne, and then poured himself a glass of wine, joined her on the other sofa.

His sister said, “Jo was teasing me about Jean-Marc Breton, or rather about his reputation as a womanizer. I was just telling her I resisted his so-called charms.”

Richard knew that his twin was embarrassed for some reason, and, wanting to alleviate this, he said, “I thought he was truly a decent kind of guy when I met him, Jo. Fascinating to talk to, well informed about a lot of things, and it goes without saying that it was a great privilege to meet him in his home. And to be shown around his gallery by the maestro himself was an honor.” Richard took a swallow of wine. “He didn’t strike me as a man who went around pouncing on women.”

“I didn’t say he did!” Joanne cried, and then laughed. Focusing on Justine, she changed the subject. “When are you planning to go to Istanbul?”

“Next week, once I’ve shown the final cut to Miranda on Tuesday. I feel certain she’ll like the film, and when I get all the business with CNI out of the way, I’ll leave.”

“So are you going to do a documentary on Istanbul?” Joanne’s auburn brow lifted questioningly.

“I’m not sure. I have an idea I want to pursue, and if I think it’ll work, then yes, I might well be filming there later this year.”

“So what’s the idea then?”

“You know I’m superstitious, Jo,” she murmured, sidetracking her friend. “I never talk about an idea until I’ve developed it, and finally got it nailed.”

“I understand. I have a great friend there, and she’ll be extremely useful. First of all, she speaks perfect English. She’s actually a professor of archaeology. However, being smart, she knew she’d never make a proper living doing that, so she started a boutique travel business. She knows a lot of people, and everything there is to know about all of the ancient sites, ruins, palaces, and the history of the country from the Byzantine period through the Ottoman Empire up to today. Ask her anything. She’ll have the answer. I’ve already sent her an e-mail explaining that I will call her tomorrow.”

“What’s her name?” Richard asked.

“Iffet Özgönül, and her company is called Peten … Peten Travels, actually.” Opening her handbag, Joanne took out a sheaf of papers. “Here’s some information about her, and her background, which I pulled up on my computer. And also some pages about Istanbul.”

Justine took the papers eagerly.

*   *   *

Richard and Joanne started to talk about a barn on her property which she wanted to convert into a studio, and Justine buried her head in the sheaf of papers, the computer printout. It was a relief to have them.

She had suddenly grown apprehensive when Joanne had launched into a discussion about Jean-Marc Breton and his reputation as a lady-killer. So called. Making a documentary film about a great artist, his work and his life, had been problematic enough; things had grown much more complicated and complex when he had fallen for her. She had made a decision months ago not to discuss the making of the film with anyone, and she certainly had no intention of speaking about her relationship with him.

Brushing thoughts of the Frenchman aside, she went on reading about Iffet Özgönül, liking the sound of her. This was a person who could no doubt help her in a variety of different ways, and it was very likely that Iffet would be able to find Anita Lowe, who was the key to Gabriele’s whereabouts.

The sudden appearance of Tita in the doorway made Justine look up, and she raised a brow. “Do you want us to come to the table?”

“Please,
now,
Pearl says, for the eggs.”

“I’m famished,” Richard announced, standing up. “Come on, Jo, and bring your drink.”

Tita disappeared down the corridor and Richard led Joanne and his sister into the small cozy dining room next door, which had once been the breakfast room, full of sunny yellows and greens and glass furniture. Richard had redesigned it. Removing all of the glass pieces, except for two étagères on either side of the fireplace, he had used a color scheme of scarlet and black.… Scarlet on the walls, a black floor, plus mellow antiques made an enormous difference.

“This has been a terrific transformation,” Joanne remarked, as Richard pulled out a chair for her, then went to help Justine.

He whispered against his sister’s cheek, “Where’s the letter? I left it on my desk.”

“I have it in my pocket,” she murmured, and then looking across at Joanne, said, “I agree with you about this room, and although I was only half listening when you were discussing the barn, I think Rich has some great ideas for remodeling it.”

“He does. But then he’s the best,” Jo responded.

“I like Iffet before meeting her,” Justine murmured.

“Here’re the Parisian eggs,” Pearl announced, striding into the room with a tray of plates, followed by Tita, who handed one to each of them.

“Oh my, Parisian eggs like your grandmother used to make.… I just love them.” Joanne picked up her fork, and began to eat at once.

How weird it is that no one has mentioned Gran for ages, Justine thought. And now, today, her name’s on everyone’s lips. Anxiety about her grandmother edged into her mind, as it had done on and off all day. Where was she? Was she well? Did she need money? What did she think of them? Her and Rich? Did she think they were in on this crazy estrangement, something promulgated by their insane mother? She hoped, no prayed, this was not the case.
Her mother.
Deborah Nolan really was off her rocker, wasn’t she? Two husbands since their father had died; both had divorced her, or she them, Justine wasn’t sure which. What man would put up with
her
antics? She was skittish, silly, shallow, a spendthrift. Talented, tortured, tricky, troubled. Justine sighed under her breath. She could easily go through the alphabet, defining her mother, who had always been the absent mother, hadn’t she?