Chapter 38
Damien was finally free. And so was Sophie.
‘Ah, there you are.’ Sophie had waited for her sister by the entrance of Regent’s Park… It was 9 a.m. and Anna was late.
‘Sorry! Justin and I had a bit of a tiff.’
‘What about?’
‘Damien rang me this morning to ask whether I was interested in joining him for a literary weekend in Brighton this July mentoring young writers. I told Justin and he went crazy. He thinks I’ve still got a thing about him.’
‘Sounds interesting,’ Sophie said as they walked through the gate.
‘To be honest, I’m so busy in the next few months decorating our house that I didn’t want to commit.’
‘Or maybe it’s because you don’t trust yourself. Tell the truth: you’ve always had a thing about Damien, haven’t you?’
‘Come on, don’t start that one. He changed my life and for that…’
‘I know, you’re eternally grateful.’
They strolled past a tramp asleep on a park bench, swathed in a blanket of newspaper, a Jack Russell by his side who, like his master, looked perfectly at peace.
‘The old boy’s a regular,’ Anna said. ‘Never seen him beg for money and yet his dog always looks well fed and happy.’
‘Probably just likes the outdoor life,’ Sophie replied. ‘Did I tell you about the woman who slept in the Hyde Park subway when I was at ballet school in Park Lane? I passed her every day. She had snow-white hair, which she wore in a bun. It looked like a huge balloon. Apparently, legend has it, that’s where she hid her money, and when she ran out, she withdrew more cash from a bank account she had in the Mayfair branch of Barclays.’
Anna looked at her sister and burst out laughing. ‘Sophie, stop telling porkies and let’s talk about my book.’
The two women sat on a bench opposite the boating lake.
‘First let me say one thing about Nicholas,’ Sophie said.
‘If you must,’ Anna sighed, ‘but you said you’ve moved on, so why do you still want to talk about him?’
‘Well, the strange thing is that now it’s over, I miss the friendship.’ Sophie took a plastic bag of bread from her pocket and threw some crusts in the water. The ducks dipped and the lucky ones swam away with the crumbs in their beaks. ‘It’s a shame,’ she continued. ‘Sex got in the way. He was a terrific friend, very generous and we did have fun.’
‘Please, Sophie,’ Anna said, ‘I don’t want to hear about him any more. I’m much more interested to know whether you’ve started on my drawings?’
Sophie had been commissioned to illustrate her sister’s next book, Abba de Giggler , a sci-fi tale about a boy from Earth invited to join the annual laughter conference on Planet Ha Ha.
‘Not yet. Still reading the story. Don’t worry, I know the deadline’s end of July. It will all be done by then.’
‘Please don’t let me down. If your illustrations aren’t up to scratch I’ll be the one to blame.’ Anna jabbed Sophie’s chest with her index finger.
‘Okay, okay… Calm down,’ Sophie said, ‘or you’ll have a heart attack. I won’t disappoint you. It’s a great opportunity – thank you.’
Anna still wasn’t sure she’d made the right decision. ‘Tell you what, why don’t you come with me to the villa? You can do the work there.’ At least she could keep her sister focused.
‘What a great idea… Are you sure Justin won’t mind?’
‘Of course not,’ she replied. ‘Anyway, he has to be in London this coming week. He’s got a new client, Levi Stern, who lives in Vienna. He’s flying in on Wednesday with his family and Justin’s playing host.
‘He’s written an incredible biography, which I’ve read, about his father, Andrei Stern, who was in hiding in Nice during World War II and was arrested by the Gestapo who had occupied France. The people who ran the laundry where he took his washing had sold the names and addresses of their Jewish customers to the Gestapo for ￡2 per head.
‘Andrei was imprisoned at a hotel with many of the other Jews who were then sent off to the concentration camps.’
‘And Andrei? What happened to him?’ Sophie asked.
‘Luckily,’ Anna continued, ‘as he was waiting to be loaded into a lorry to be transported to a camp, the Allies bombed the road bridge crossing the river Var, just outside Nice, and the Jews were sent back to the hotel. Before the bridge could be rebuilt, Nice was liberated and Andrei had escaped death.’
‘What a story!’ Sophie said. ‘It was meant to be. Andrei was literally saved by a heartbeat. It wasn’t his time.’
If only it hadn’t been Daniel and Mikey’s , she thought to herself. ‘Well then, when shall we go?’
‘Tomorrow?’ Anna said.
***
The south of France in June. A perfect time to stay at La Maison de Rêve with its rose-painted walls and cool marble terrace stretching out across the lush garden.
In her mind’s eye, Sophie rises with the sun before her sister wakes and, taking out her inks, begins her first illustration.
Magenta and blue… A little boy in the dark looking out of the window at the night sky, holding his teddy… golden yellow.
An early morning swim in the pool, and later coffee and croissant on the terrace, a little more work, followed by lunch and a siesta. And then the day stretching into an evening aperitif on the terrace, heady scents of mimosa and jasmine wafting through the soft air like a beautiful woman leaving a trail of her perfume as she passes by.
Perhaps a delightful supper of a Nicoise salad, followed by fraises du bois and, afterwards, stargazing through a naval telescope inherited from Justin’s grandfather.
Dream on, Sophie, dream on…
***
And Damien?
Writing in the Sand was ready to roll. The director Marc Castle had asked him to meet the actress Ariana Bianchi, whom he’d cast as Sandra, Samuel’s mistress.
She had a lovely voice and wanted Damien to write the words to a song she’d composed on the guitar.
‘Angus, I’m a hardcore thriller writer, not a lyricist.’
‘So what,’ his agent said. ‘Surely it would make a change from sweating over a novel for months on end.’
‘Not if it doesn’t work. Writing lyrics is a huge skill. Look at Don Black. You think it’s easy writing Bond themes? Who can forget “Diamonds Are Forever”?’ He swung his swivel chair round and sang the first verse in his deep, throaty voice. ‘Why don’t Netflix ask him?’
Angus sat behind the large desk, enthroned in a wingback leather Chesterfield. ‘Never knew you could sing… and now I know you can’t.’
I agree , said the Voice. Come on, show you have a sense of humour.
Damien gave a dry laugh.
The office was more like a gentleman’s study. There was a rosewood cabinet of golf trophies next to a library case of his clients’ books and, on the mahogany desk, party invitations and a display of silver-framed family photos. One in particular caught Damien’s eye. Angus was standing in a field of heather wearing a kilt, with a whisky flask in one hand and a gun in the other. In the background was a misty image of a large estate.
‘Ah! The Laird of the Manor. Do you realise we’ve known each other twenty years and you’ve never invited me to a shoot?’
‘I don’t believe in mixing business with pleasure,’ his agent replied.
Good thinking , said the Voice. Don’t want to get too friendly. Especially if I leave you one day.
Damien picked up a crystal paperweight and squinted at a blue admiral butterfly captured in the centre.
‘This is how I feel – trapped. Why should I write a song? It’s not in my contract.’
‘Why not?’ Angus said. ‘I would have thought you’d be delighted to try your hands at something new… and think of the royalties.’
There was a timid knock at the door.
‘Come in,’ Angus said crisply.
Damien flicked a glance at the pretty young woman who placed two cups of fresh coffee and some shortbread biscuits on the desk.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I haven’t seen you before. You must be new. What’s your name?’
He gave her that look. The one that could tease a habit off a nun.
She flushed and averted her eyes.
‘Claire,’ she replied. ‘I started last week.’
‘Well, Claire,’ he said. ‘Angus here usually keeps a stash of my favourite biscuits… He’s obviously not informed you.’
‘No problem, Damien,’ his agent said. ‘Claire, why don’t you pop round the corner and get some custard creams for Mr Spur?’
‘Thank you, Angus. Must say it’s not like you to humour me.’
‘Look, I know you’re a creature of habit and I just want this to be a happy and productive meeting.’
***
Damien answered the door. On the front step stood Marc Castle, tall and elegant beside a diminutive young woman with a Spanish guitar casually slung across her shoulder.
Marc smiled at Damien. ‘Good to see you again. This is Ariana, our leading actress.’
Damien felt that familiar stirring.
Just his type. Glamorous without trying. A real beauty.
‘Hi Damien, what a pleasure to meet you.’ She shook his hand. ‘Well, gentlemen,’ she said brushing past him, ‘let’s not waste time. Where are we going to work?’
‘Up the stairs, first on your left; the living room.’
‘Got it.’ And off she flew.
Wow! She’s some hot chilli pepper , said the Voice. A Brazilian chick who kicks ass.
***
Ariana sat on an antique mahogany piano stool with the guitar on her lap.
‘I am going to play you the theme tune I’ve composed.’
Damien liked her style. ‘Fire ahead.’
Marc laughed. ‘Theme tune, Ariana? Hold on. I thought you just wanted to play your song in the last scene.’
‘Yes. Sandra could strum it on the beach to Samuel before she vanishes but it should also play out the end of the movie. A lasting memory of his great love… and we can use variations of the melody through the whole movie.’
She lifted her arms up above her head making a large arc and then brought them to rest. She gave a deep sigh.
‘It’s a sad composition. Just the guitar. No orchestration. Listen.’
As she strummed the minor chords, lifting the sound to a poignant crescendo, Damien’s breath rose with the wave of melodic intensity. His thoughts swept away into the past. He could see his father in his mind’s eye. At first playing with him on the carpet and then the funeral, sad notes.
Next, Laura appeared with her furrowed brow and sad brown eyes gazing at him as if to say “What has become of us?”. His loved ones back from the dead like magic. Damien blinked back his tears.
Don’t be ashamed , he heard his father say. It’s good to cry. If you can’t cry, you can’t feel .
Damien didn’t hide his tears.
When the music ceased, for a moment nobody spoke.
Ariana laughed and broke the spell. She glanced at Damien’s tear-filled eyes. ‘Ah! Always a good sign when you move the writer.’ She took out a tissue from her bag and gave it to him.
He dabbed his eyes. ‘Thank you, Ariana. I think you’ve passed my litmus test.’ He turned to the director. ‘So, Marc…’ he said, ‘I think the theme tune is hers… But of course,’ he added giving him a sanguine glance, ‘you’re the director and you have the last word.’
‘Yes, I think it works.’