Eleven
‘C ome and see, Emma, quick,’ Mattie called from the living room, where she was watching the morning news. Leaving the washing-up, Emma did as she was told. ‘What’s the …’ she began, but trailed off as she saw who was being interviewed on screen.
‘So, Monsieur Hugo,’ the reporter asked brightly, ‘what does it feel like to be appointed as the youngest director ever of Aurora International’s Paris office, the nerve centre of the company in Europe?’
‘It feels like an honour,’ said Marc-Antoine smoothly. ‘I am very grateful for the trust the board has put in me.’
‘Some people might say the board has taken a risk appointing someone so young to this important position. What do you say to that?’
‘I am hardly a teenager,’ said Marc-Antoine, with a humorous lift of an eyebrow. ‘Unless thirty-four is the new sixteen.’
Mattie chuckled. ‘He handled that silly question well,’ she said.
Emma nodded without comment, thinking that he probably had had more than enough practice at dodging questions.
‘Long before it was fashionable, Aurora International built an impressive reputation in the field of ethical investment,’ the reporter went on. ‘But now most financial institutions want to get in on the act. How will you ensure that Aurora International remains competitive?’
Marc-Antoine gave a faint smile. ‘You surely don’t expect me to give away our secrets. But let me assure you that we will remain ahead of the rest.’
‘This new appointment means you will now be based in Paris; will you regret leaving behind your life in the Big Apple ?’ The reporter said the last two words in English.
Marc-Antoine smiled. ‘I was born and lived for quite a lot of my childhood in Paris, I still have family here, and I love this city. I can hardly regret coming back here to live.’
‘Just one last question then, Monsieur Hugo. Most directors have an eye to their legacy. What do you hope yours to be?’
Marc-Antoine gave a little laugh. ‘It’s a bit soon to ask me that, don’t you think? I’m focused on getting the job done, with my team.’
The reporter thanked him, Marc-Antoine inclined his head somewhat regally, and then he and the journalist disappeared as another story came up.
‘Well,’ Mattie said, muting the TV, ‘I’m so glad for him. He’s worked so hard. Much too hard, sometimes,’ she added, ‘it seemed to take over his life in New York. I hope that now he’s back home in Paris, he can start to relax.’
‘I don’t think you can relax in his sort of position,’ Emma said. And he doesn’t look like the type anyway , she thought. Ambition was written all over him. Even his name conveyed it. A given name linking you back to an ancient Roman general, and the surname of one of the greatest French writers ever, Victor Hugo: clearly something to live up to. But she highly doubted his New York life was completely about work. He’d probably had a string of glamorous girlfriends, as polished as himself.
‘I suppose you’re right,’ Mattie said. She glanced at Emma. ‘Anyway, I’m going to call him to congratulate him and maybe, if you don’t mind, he could come to lunch or dinner today or tomorrow. I’ll cook.’
Emma saw the slightly anxious expression on her grandmother’s face and immediately felt a twinge of guilt. ‘Of course I don’t mind, Mattie,’ she said, squeezing her grandmother’s hand. ‘And I’m happy to cook, if you like.’ She winked. ‘I’m told I’m not too bad at it.’
‘That is absolutely true, darling,’ Mattie said. Emma had cooked dinner two or three times since she’d arrived: dishes from her repertoire that she knew would come out right, and which Mattie had enjoyed immensely. ‘But you’re working hard in the garden and you need to relax too. I’ll make something simple but sumptuous, the kind of thing I know Marc-Antoine loves.’ She beamed at Emma. ‘I’ll call him now.’
‘And I’ll go and finish washing up the breakfast things,’ said Emma.
Relaxing is the last thing I’ll be doing , she thought as she washed up, if I have to make small talk with that guy over a meal . Or worse still listen to him blathering on about his highly important job in an investment bank. Correction, ethical investment bank. Her lip curled. Was there really such a thing? Pulling out her phone, she googled Aurora International. After reading several news articles, she had to conclude that Aurora International did indeed appear to be that rare beast. She couldn’t find anything that even hinted at scandal. But it’s still a bank, making big fat profits presumably …
‘So Marc-Antoine is coming on Saturday for lunch,’ Mattie said from the doorway, without preamble, ‘because he’s about to leave for Berlin and won’t be back till Friday evening.’
So he’s going to take over our Saturday instead , Emma thought, with a twinge of spite. ‘Do you want me to start doing some shopping for you?’
‘No, no, it’s fine,’ Mattie said a little distractedly. ‘I’ve got to decide on a menu first. The shopping can be done tomorrow.’
‘All right. Well, I’m going to get dressed then head back into the garden.’
Mattie shook her head. ‘You are overworking yourself, my darling Emma. You’ve been at it every day since Monday’—it was now Thursday—‘and you must need a break. Why don’t you go and see a bit more of Paris this morning, instead? You can potter in the garden this afternoon, if you must.’
I don’t mind the work, I enjoy it , Emma wanted to say, but instead she found herself saying, ‘Maybe I do need a break. I might visit the flower market and see if that stand you told me about still exists.’
‘Excellent idea,’ said Mattie. ‘And say hello to Monsieur Renan for me, if you see him.’
‘Would you like to come with me and tell him yourself?’ Emma offered, but Mattie shook her head. ‘Not today, darling. I’m going to sit down with my recipe books and decide on the menu for our Saturday lunch.’
An hour later, Emma emerged from the station just a few steps from the flower market. Glancing at the lovely old cast-iron fountains and displays of ready-to-plant small trees and bushes outside the charming pavilions, she was immediately enchanted. It felt as though she’d arrived in a bucolic old-world haven far away from the busy modern city. Entering the first pavilion, she wandered happily down the aisle, stopping here and there to take photos and noting everything with great delight: colourful rows of flowers in pots and bunches, some of which she knew, such as tulips, hyacinth, lilac, lily of the valley, and yes, hydrangea and peonies, but also many others whose names she had no idea of. There were also decorative baskets hanging from hooks, displays of elegant or kitschy garden ornaments, and lots of packets of seeds to rummage through. Some of the stalls really pushed the boat out when it came to decoration, with chandeliers and glass baubles and colourful paper lanterns hanging from the ceiling.
But she’d had no idea that there would be so many stands, and this was only the first of the pavilions! How was she going to find Monsieur Renan’s place? She’d forgotten to ask her grandmother exactly which pavilion it was in, if it even still existed, that is. She couldn’t phone Mattie because her grandmother would be having her sieste right now. Asking a stallholder would be the easiest. And if she bought something, they’d be more likely to answer questions.
Stopping at the closest stand, she selected a new pair of gardening gloves—the old ones were threadbare and would soon have holes. Taking them to the counter, she paid for them and said, ‘I wonder if you might know if Monsieur Auguste Renan still works here?’
The stallholder, a surly middle-aged man who had barely glanced up from his phone, now looked up and said, ‘Not so you’d notice.’
Emma was taken aback. ‘Oh. I see.’ She didn’t see but wasn’t sure how else to respond.
He shrugged. ‘The old man’s semi-retired and he’s got that Lunel woman doing all the work for him now. At least she’s supposed to do all the work, but I wonder if …’ He broke off, seeing Emma’s expression and added, grudgingly, ‘Renan’s stand is the last before the exit.’
‘Thank you.’ Emma gave him a weak smile and left, glad to escape from the man’s inexplicably spiteful manner. But she forgot all about him as she got to the Renan stand. There were many lovely displays in the market but this one had to be her favourite, resplendent with layered patterns of gloriously exuberant flowers, among which she recognised some truly magnificent pink peonies, whose sweet scent filled the air.
Standing watering the flowers with a long-necked plastic can was a woman with curly red hair. She saw Emma and smiled. ‘Bonjour.’
‘Bonjour,’ Emma echoed, liking the woman’s bright face and the quick intelligence in her eyes. ‘You really have the most beautiful stand in the market, Madame.’
The woman looked pleased. ‘Thank you.’ Setting down the watering can, she asked, ‘Is there something I can help you with?’
Emma explained about Alain visiting the stall and the woman, introducing herself as Arielle Lunel, Monsieur Renan’s manager, said she would ask him about it. ‘He has an excellent memory, and I’m sure he’d remember your grandfather, if he was a regular customer.’
‘Thank you,’ Emma said. ‘In fact, I’m trying to restore Pappy’s garden, and so far all I’ve done is clearing and weeding, but I do want to grow things too. Maybe you could advise me?’
A smile lit up Arielle’s face. ‘I’m no expert but I’d be very happy to make suggestions. What a lovely thing to do, restoring your beloved grandfather’s garden!’
It was Emma’s turn to beam. ‘Thank you. I thought maybe I could buy some seeds today. What would you suggest?’
‘Cosmos, nigella and rose campion,’ said Arielle, at once. ‘They are very pretty and easy to grow from seed. You’ll have a lovely display in a few weeks.’
‘That sounds perfect.’ Emma took out her phone and showed Arielle photos she’d taken of the plants she’d uncovered in the garden but hadn’t been able to identify. ‘None of them are flowering, and I can’t tell what they might be.’
Arielle looked at each in turn. ‘These are dahlia. That one’s heliotrope. And this one’—she pointed to a picture showing a couple of small-leaved clumped plants—‘they’re peonies.’
Emma was delighted. She’d known her grandfather had grown them but hadn’t thought they had survived. ‘Really?’
‘Absolutely. They may flower soon but it depends if they’ve been set back by being in the midst of weeds. They look healthy enough, so even if they don’t flower this year, they probably will next year. You know,’ she went on, ‘peonies are extraordinary plants. They can live for up to a hundred years.’
‘Wow! How old do you think these ones are?’
Arielle glanced at the photo. ‘I can’t be sure—how long ago did your grandfather start his garden?’
‘About fifty years ago, I think,’ Emma said. ‘If he planted peonies then—do you think these might be them?’ They might have been blooming when Maman was just a little girl , she thought, awed.
‘It’s certainly possible.’
‘And if I wanted to plant more, could I do that now?’ Emma asked.
‘No. You have to wait till autumn. And they take a few years to flower. Four or five, sometimes.’ Arielle smiled. ‘So you have to be patient.’
‘I’m getting the idea that gardening is not something you expect results from in a hurry!’
Arielle laughed. ‘Very true.’
Emma could see a group of people approaching the stand. ‘I won’t hold you up much longer,’ she said, ‘but as well as the seeds, could I buy some flowers too? A mixed bunch of the flowers you identified for me, at least those you have here—and hydrangea too, because that’s another one I rescued.’
That beautiful smile lit up Arielle’s face again. ‘I don’t have heliotrope at the moment, but yes.’
As Emma left the market, clutching the gorgeous bunch Arielle had put together—pastel-blue hydrangea, creamy-white dahlia, and a few of those gorgeous pink peonies—she felt buoyed by the encounter. It was great to know she had someone she could go to for advice, especially someone as sympa as Arielle.
At that moment, she felt her phone vibrating in her pocket. The call was from a number she didn’t recognise, and she let it ring out. If it wasn’t a scammer, then whoever it was would leave a voicemail. Sure enough, instants later came the buzz announcing a voicemail, and Emma clicked through to listen.
Hello , a woman’s voice said, in French. My name is Charlotte Marigny. I believe you telephoned my aunt. Can you call me back on this number?
The voice sounded brisk, assured and Emma’s pulse quickened. It had been two days since she’d tracked down Juliette Marigny’s number. Juliette had become a travel writer after leaving the diplomatic service and there were several reviews of her books, and a couple of magazine interviews but no mention of a niece called Charlotte—until Emma had hit on something buried in the social pages of a magazine. It wasn’t an article but rather a photo that showed a cheerful group of people raising glasses against a background of greenery. The caption read: Well-known writer Madame Juliette Marigny’s superb garden in the 16th arrondissement was the setting for an unusual launch this week, as the prestigious Paris Cooking School announced its latest venture, a bespoke catering service. Pictured from left to right are Sylvie Morel, owner of the Paris Cooking School; Damien Arty and Kate Evans, assistants to Madame Morel; and on the far right, Juliette Marigny and her niece Charlotte, who designed the garden . And that had given her the final clue she needed to work out which of the listed numbers in the directory for ‘Marigny, J’ was the right one.
She took a deep breath, hit the number that had called her, and waited. After the first couple of rings, the brisk voice answered. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m Emma Taylor, daughter of—’
‘I know who you are,’ Charlotte Marigny said, not rudely, but clearly wanting to cut to the chase. ‘You’re Corinne’s daughter.’
‘Yes. My mother—Corinne—died six weeks ago. Cancer.’ Emma swallowed, the words still hard to say out loud. ‘She had cancer and had been very ill for months.’
‘I am so very sorry,’ Charlotte Marigny said, her tone quite changed. The French adjective she’d used, désolée , seemed so much stronger to Emma than its equivalent in English, ‘sorry’, even though she knew that like sorry it could be used on a sliding scale of emotion, from mere politeness to heartfelt sympathy. ‘What a very sad time for you,’ Charlotte went on, softly. ‘Cancer is so cruel.’
Tears sprang into Emma’s eyes, and she couldn’t speak. Then Charlotte said gently, ‘Are you still there, Emma?’
‘Yes. I—excuse me,’ she said. ‘Thank you so much for your kind words, Madame Marigny. And also for getting back to me.’
‘Charlotte, please. Excuse me for not calling before now, but things have been rather busy. I’m in Paris on business and have had a lot of appointments.’
‘I understand,’ Emma said. Taking a deep breath, she went on, ‘This might sound strange, but I know practically nothing of my mother’s life before she went to Australia. She never talked about it. My grandmother has filled me in on a few things but she told me that you and my mother had been good friends, and I thought, maybe you might know more and could tell me about it.’ She trailed off, a little spooked by the silence at the other end, then added, hurriedly, ‘But I completely understand if you don’t want to.’
‘It’s quite okay, Emma,’ Charlotte said. ‘I’m happy to talk. But perhaps it would be better if we met in person.’
Relief flooded over Emma. ‘That would be great.’
‘How about tomorrow, three o’clock at the Jardin du Luxembourg, near the Grand Bassin, where children sail toy yachts—do you know it?’
‘I certainly do,’ said Emma. ‘That’s perfect.’
‘Then it’s settled. I’ll be wearing a red jacket.’
‘Great. I’ll … well, I’m not sure what I’ll be wearing, but I will look out for you. And I look forward very much to meeting you.’
At last , Emma thought, with a surge of relief and excitement. At last she was going to speak to someone who might be able to shed some light on her mother’s secrets. She thought of the silver peony and the actual peonies still there in her grandfather’s garden. Her mother’s favourite flower back then … A tingle went up her spine. It felt like the jigsaw pieces were starting to fall into place.