Chapter 2
Luc Moreau was on the terrace of his Draguignan apartment but he wasn’t looking at his favourite view of the Tour de l’Horloge on its hill as dawn broke and the ancient keep tower, with its distinctive iron cage over the bell, came to life.
No. He was pacing back and forth after a restless night, occasionally glaring at his phone that was lying beside his empty coffee cup, as he waited for what might be considered a reasonable time to wake somebody on a Saturday. It wasn’t helping that he was an hour ahead of London.
But reminding himself of the almost ten-year friendship with the only person left in the world that he genuinely trusted – and who knew him better than anyone else alive – was helping.
Because Luc knew that Paul, who also just happened to be his solicitor, wouldn’t hesitate to pick up the call no matter how early it was.
Paul had been the only person on his side in the darkest days of his life. He was also the only person who understood why this mattered so much.
‘Luc…’ Paul’s voice had the rasp of someone not quite awake. ‘Where are you?’
‘France.’
‘What’s up?’
‘The bank’s on my back. I picked up an email late last night.
They’ve seen the report on the dry rot and the subsequent escalation in the estimates and they’re starting to question my ability to meet the repayments for the mortgage I need for renovations.
I can’t blame them for being sceptical about the income potential for Moreish Photography.
Recipe book deals are notoriously competitive and restaurants and cafés are starting to put their own food photos up on social media these days. ’
‘So tell them how you’ve really made the money to buy that house.’
Luc gave a huff of laughter. ‘What do you think Banksy would say if someone asked him that? Half the attraction is in the mystique, isn’t it?’
‘The other half – the talent – is more important.’
Luc’s breath came out in a sigh this time.
‘I’m a lone wolf, as you well know. And I intend to keep my privacy intact.
Nobody gets to know why I’m doing this. That’s the whole reason we’ve set up this trust. Nobody ever has to know.
As far as the bank is concerned, I’m just someone crazy enough to be spending three million pounds on a nineteenth-century house in a London neighbourhood that’s close enough to a council estate to make it dodgy. ’
‘I can’t believe you’ve found a stand-alone Victorian property that’s not listed. Rare as hens’ teeth in something pre-1850.’
‘Yeah…’ Luc’s response was wry. ‘I’m lucky that the budget renovation that turned it into five flats damaged so many of the exceptional features.’
The outside still looked uncannily like the mansion in Dulwich that had become his real home, though. Enough to have brought a painful lump to his throat when he’d stood in front of it for the first time last week.
The house where Tom and Hannah had grown up.
But it was only a five-minute walk away from Camberwell Towers, the estate he’d grown up on, which made it feel like fate was pushing him into doing something about the dream he’d had for years.
Close enough for a youth centre to attract teenagers who might otherwise be getting into a lifestyle they would never be able to escape.
Like he’d been lucky enough to do.
Thanks to Tom Baxter.
Maybe it was the sudden ache in his heart that made his voice raw when he spoke again. Or maybe it was the passion he had for this dream.
‘I can’t lose this house, Paul.’
‘I’ll see what I can do. Maybe we can fast-forward setting up the charity, getting it registered and finding benefactors and/or starting a fundraising campaign.’
‘We can’t do that until we’ve secured the house.’
‘Have you got any shoots coming up? Those shoots? The ones where you get to sell the authenticated prints for silly money? Some extra cash like that landing in your account couldn’t hurt.’
‘I cleared my calendar for this week to focus on getting this sorted.’ Luc frowned as his phone beeped and an option to accept or decline an incoming call appeared on the screen.
Gregory Glasson? Why did that name ring a bell? It was on this phone so it was somebody he’d met in the last five years, which meant that it had to have something to do with the rekindled career in photography that had marked the end of years of aimless globetrotting.
And it felt like fate might be giving him another nudge.
‘I’ve got a call coming in,’ he told Paul. ‘Talk later, yeah?’
* * *
It was the glimpse of Zara’s wedding dress that did it.
Sophie only saw the Oscar de la Renta dress hanging on the back of the open bedroom door in the bridal suite because she was stepping aside to let both Raven and André get the angles they wanted for these candid, champagne breakfast shots.
She had to stay well out of shot because her working clothes for her busy day consisted of well-worn denim jeans, a tee shirt and sneakers.
While her tee shirt and sneakers were both white, her pinafore apron with its lovely pockets – big enough to easily accommodate her phone and her tablet and other essentials – was a deep shade of gold with cream polka dots, which would have totally ruined the pure wedding vibe of this setting.
Zara and her bridesmaids were all wearing ivory-coloured, floor-length, mulberry silk bathrobes with shawl collars and long, wide sleeves, tied loosely enough to offer tantalising hints of perfect spray tans and lacy underwear.
Choosing eye-catching poses as they were about to put food into their mouths was apparently great fun and the sound of feminine laughter rippled across the room.
Sophie could still feel the genuine enjoyment of this scene that went a long way to making how meticulously choreographed it was acceptable.
The aromas of coffee and chocolate and truffles were clear enough to almost taste them but, suddenly, she wasn’t seeing the elegant satin strapless gown that frothed into a dramatic train at the back.
She was seeing the Disney Princess-style dress that she’d chosen for her own wedding, with the gorgeously beaded bodice, the puffed sleeves, a sweetheart neckline and hooped petticoats, hanging on the back of her door as she fled into her bedroom as if it might be possible to hide from reality.
She could smell the acrid dried blood on the clothes she was wearing and even on her hands, having just come back from the hospital where she’d been allowed time to hold the still-warm body of the man she’d been going to marry in a matter of hours.
And she could feel, overwhelmingly, a shaft of the grief that had come so close to destroying her.
Sophie squeezed her eyes shut and turned, so that when she opened them, she would not be looking at a wedding dress.
Flashes of this kind of pain were so rare these days she had forgotten how debilitating they could be but, thankfully, this one lasted no more than a heartbeat.
It morphed with surprising swiftness into a stab of resentment towards the person who was responsible for triggering it.
Raven Vale. He had his back to her as Sophie opened her eyes again, his head bent over the small screen of his camera.
She had dismissed his intrusive query earlier simply by saying it was not up for discussion, but the reminder had not been so easy to dismiss.
It was a heavy weight on her chest that she could feel whenever she took a breath.
‘Perfect, Zara.’ Raven’s tone suggested that he had moved on to something far more enjoyable.
‘No, don’t lick off those croissant flakes just yet.
Pick up your champagne. Now close your eyes and look as though you’re eating the most delicious thing in the universe.
Now you can lick your lips. Yah… that’s the shot… ’
‘Yeah…’ A young woman was using her phone to take photos of the same pose. ‘Hashtag Zara’s Big Day. Time to get this party started…’
‘Let me see,’ Zara demanded. ‘Nothing gets posted that I haven’t okayed.’ She moved to view what was on her social media content creator’s phone as well as Raven’s camera.
Sophie could move again but her resentment wasn’t fading as quickly as the flash of grief.
It was, in fact, deepening into something closer to anger, but that had always been a familiar aftermath of a flashback, hadn’t it?
She was confident it would dissipate with her next outward breath because the anger didn’t really have anything to do with this journalist.
Maybe it didn’t even have much to do with the man who’d actually been responsible for the destruction of life as she’d known it nearly ten years ago. Perhaps it needed to be directed inwards. For allowing herself to give him any headspace at all.
Luc. The man who’d been driving Tom home from the stag do. The man who’d been driving the car too fast that night. The man who’d had too much to drink to be behind the wheel of any vehicle, let alone the brand-new luxury sports car that had been Tom’s wedding present from his father.
Sophie blew out her next breath silently but deliberately. Why was it that the harder you tried to forget someone, the harder it seemed to become to achieve that goal?
The buzzing of the phone in her pocket was a welcome distraction. Especially when she saw Greg’s name on the screen.
‘Greg.’ She turned her back on the breakfast scene, walking towards the mullioned windows with the stunning view of the chateau’s vineyards and a paddock that was populated by a very picturesque herd of donkeys. ‘Where are you?’
‘Sophie…’ To her horror, Greg’s voice was rough enough to suggest that speaking was difficult. ‘I’m so sorry… I’m in hospital. In Nice. I’ve had a heart attack…’
‘What? Oh, my God, Greg… A heart attack? Are you okay? No…’ Sophie’s head was spinning. ‘Sorry… what a stupid thing to ask. Of course you’re not okay…’