Twelve
C harlotte had not been sure at first that she would respond to Emma’s message. She was meant to be thinking about her future, not taking an irrelevant detour into the past. Sure, it had been weird, getting that message on the very day when she’d thought of Corinne for the first time in many years. But it was only a coincidence, life was full of them. In the end, however, she’d decided that a distraction might be just what she needed in her present situation, her subconscious mind having stubbornly refused so far to give her any help whatsoever.
She was genuinely sorry to learn that Corinne Lenoir was dead, and now the memories came flooding back.
After that first chat in the Versailles garden when they’d escaped from the boring guide, the girls had begun hanging out, talking a lot, listening to music and going to parties. They even holidayed together once, when Charlotte’s parents had invited Corinne to the place they’d rented in the remote Morvan hills in Burgundy. The girls were very different—Charlotte was outgoing and sociable and Corinne was reserved and sometimes intense—but they enjoyed each other’s company. Corinne was a one-off in many ways—aloof but not shy, with a sharp, even unforgiving intelligence that saw her hold her own at school. Even the troublemakers and macho sexists never dared to bother her. She was also strikingly beautiful, yet neither flaunted nor denied it. Charlotte’s brother, Nicolas, when he was still trying to persuade himself that he was straight, had said that she had an ‘ air de Joconde ’—a Mona Lisa aura—which fascinated boys, and quite likely a few girls too. But Corinne didn’t seem to be fascinated back.
Not until she met Pascal on that holiday. And though Charlotte could have told her it would end in tears, Corinne wouldn’t have listened. She was an all or nothing kind of girl, and once she decided on something, she stuck to it, no matter what. Not only about Pascal, but other things too. Such as the idea that her parents were uniquely, embarrassingly annoying and inadequate, when to Charlotte, they seemed rather cool, unlike hers. Most teenagers thought their parents were awful or boring, or both, but Corinne took it to another level.
Charlotte winced, remembering the last time they’d talked. Although talked was not the right word, a blazing row was much more like it. It was the year after they left school and, though it had started from a silly insensitive remark, it had escalated quickly because, away from the bubble of school, the difference in the girls’ personalities had become more pronounced. Charlotte had become fed up with Corinne’s trenchant, take-no-prisoners nature and Corinne couldn’t cope anymore with Charlotte’s easy-come-easy-go attitude. But it wasn’t Corinne who’d blown up; it had been Charlotte.
Charlotte had chosen to meet Emma at the Luxembourg Garden because, even though she hadn’t been there for some years, she’d always liked it as a child, and her own children had too, when the family was on holiday in Paris. It was a real pleasure garden of the classic sort, with something for everyone, from gorgeous flowers to pony rides, lovely water features to tennis courts and a host of statues. It always made Charlotte feel relaxed.
She had just reached the central square when a voice called her name. Turning, she saw a young woman of around thirty, dressed in a loose flowery top, blue jeans and sneakers. She had an appealing face, fresh and naturally smiley, though there was more nervousness than pleasure in the smile. Corinne’s daughter was definitely pretty, but she did not look much like her mother or have her startling beauty: that rippling mass of wavy dark hair, those long-lashed brown eyes and full pink lips, and most of all, that indefinable air which hung about her.
‘My red jacket did its work then,’ Charlotte said, in English, holding out a hand. ‘Emma, I presume?’
‘Yes, it’s me,’ Emma replied, sounding nervous, as they shook hands.
This young woman was definitely not like Corinne, Charlotte thought. At least, not the Corinne she remembered, who never got flustered.
As they began a slow circuit around the square, Charlotte said, ‘So, why did your grandmother tell you about me?’ It wasn’t exactly what she’d planned to open with, but it would do.
‘Two things.’ Emma stopped, fumbled in her jeans pocket and brought out something which flashed in the sun. ‘I was working in Mattie’s garden—that’s my grandmother—and I found this.’ She handed it to Charlotte. ‘When I showed it to Mattie, she said you had one too, that you had bought it at a market when you were on holiday with Mum, and that you were best friends as teenagers. But before that I had never heard …’ She hesitated, but Charlotte filled in the blanks for her. ‘You had never heard of me, because Corinne didn’t tell you,’ she said flatly, turning the silver peony around in her palm.
‘Mum wasn’t really a talker,’ Emma said, sounding defensive. ‘Not about the past, anyway.’
‘Not even to your father?’ Charlotte asked. God, she had completely forgotten about the peony pendants. Where had hers gone? Lost somewhere in her many moves.
‘No. At least, I don’t know. Well, he’s my stepfather actually. So, was Mattie right? Did you have one of these too?’
Charlotte nodded. ‘Corinne and I bought them from a market stand when we were on holiday with my family in the Morvan, in Burgundy. It was when we were both seventeen, the summer before we took the bac .’ The bac, or baccalauréat , is the French school leaving exam. ‘I wasn’t all that keen on the pendants, but Corinne persuaded me to get one. I think she wanted to please Pascal.’ She caught Emma’s expression. ‘Your grandmother wouldn’t have told you about him because she wouldn’t have known. A boy called Pascal Lamartine was looking after the stand where we bought the pendants. He was a few months older than us and a local, or rather, he’d been living there since his parents had uprooted the whole family and moved to the area a couple of years before. The Morvan is very rural but also quite wild, with massive native forests and remote hills. It has a few smallholdings run by people fleeing the city to try to live a simple country life.’
‘We call them tree-changers in Australia,’ Emma said, nodding.
Charlotte smiled. ‘That’s a great term. I must remember it. The Lamartines were like that. They lived on a smallholding just outside a village called St Jean de la Forêt. They raised goats and chickens and had a market stand to sell eggs and cheese and the jewellery Pascal’s dad made. Pascal was expected to help out, with the animals and the market stand.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘He wasn’t too keen on that! He was a real city boy, itching to get back to the bright lights.’
‘And Mum fell for him?’
‘Big time. But he fell for her too. They were pretty much inseparable. That summer, the three of us hung out together, sometimes joined by one of Pascal’s mates from the village, a local lad called Eric. He was nothing like Pascal, kind of weedy and quiet, but it turned out we had a shared interest in nature, so we talked about that. And though he and I didn’t click romantically, we got on okay. It went on like that for a while, and then the holiday ended. We went back to Paris. Corinne couldn’t call Pascal because the Lamartines didn’t have a house phone. And it was in the days before everyone had mobile phones. So she sent him a letter. She waited ages, but there was no answer. She thought it had maybe gone astray so she wrote again. Still he didn’t answer. And that was that.’
‘Are you sure?’
There was an intent expression on Emma’s face that suddenly reminded Charlotte of Corinne. ‘Absolutely sure,’ she said. ‘She stopped talking about him, and when I told her that she was much better off without him, that there were plenty more interesting guys out there— ouf , did I get the blackest look! I had vaguely thought of getting in touch with Eric, to ask him if he knew what was going on, but I knew to leave well enough alone after that.’ She handed the peony back to Emma. ‘She lost this not long after we got back to Paris, before the whole thing fizzled out. She was very upset about mislaying it.’
‘That’s what Mattie said,’ Emma said. ‘But she didn’t know about Pascal.’
‘I was the only one who knew, apart from Eric. I don’t think Pascal’s parents knew or cared—they weren’t really focused on their kids—and my parents didn’t know, either. My brother, Nic, was already at university and had gone away with his own friends that holiday. Corinne and I did pretty much what we wanted, as long as we were back by evening. And, as you know, all teenagers keep things from their parents. I didn’t find it strange that she didn’t tell them.’
‘You said you told her she was better off without him. So you didn’t like him?’
‘He was okay. And very good-looking.’ She shrugged. ‘But a bit of a show-off. Immature, I guess. I no doubt thought I was so mature back then, when I wasn’t really either. But for someone as intense and single-minded as Corinne, I felt instinctively that he was a bad match.’
‘And you’re sure they never saw each other again?’
‘Not that I know of. She never mentioned him again, anyway.’ She looked at Emma, suddenly remembering what the other woman had said at the beginning of their conversation. ‘Two things, you said. The peony’s one. What’s the other?’
Emma blinked. ‘What? Oh, yes. This.’ She brought out her phone, fiddled with it then handed it to Charlotte. ‘I have the original at home. It was taken somewhere in France, when she was on holiday. She left it for me but I’d never seen it before. Have you? Was it taken by you or someone else during that holiday when she met Pascal?’
Charlotte stared at the lovely black-and-white image of a young Corinne, and a sharp pang of real sorrow struck her. ‘What a beautiful portrait! I did have a camera back then, but I didn’t take this, and I’ve never seen it before. I suppose it could have been taken in the Morvan, though it’s hard to tell. I’m certain it wasn’t taken that summer though. Corinne’s hair was down to her waist back then, but her hair is shoulder-length in this picture, like yours. Didn’t she say anything about it?’
A spasm of pain crossed Emma’s face. ‘She never got the chance. She died before she could explain it.’
Gently, Charlotte said, ‘Is there anything written on the back of the photo by any chance?’
‘Just this,’ Emma said, swiping to the next photo, and Charlotte saw the scrawled words. Un jour de printemps .
‘Do you recognise the handwriting?’ Emma asked, a hopeful look on her face. ‘It isn’t Mum’s, I’m sure of that.’
Charlotte looked closely at it, then shook her head. ‘Sorry, no.’
‘Could it be Pascal’s?’
‘I never saw his handwriting. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s okay.’ She looked at Charlotte. ‘Did you stay in touch with my mother after school?’
It was the question Charlotte had been dreading, but she knew she had to answer as honestly as she could. ‘We did, for a while. But then one day we had a big blow-up—my fault, I’m afraid—and the friendship ended.’ She saw the question in Emma’s eyes and explained, ‘It started stupidly over a cutting remark Corinne made to me about a guy I was seeing. I was used to her harsh judgements of people, but this time I was really furious. After all, I had kept my thoughts about Pascal to myself when she was seeing him. The whole thing escalated pretty quickly.’ She sighed. ‘Afterwards, I regretted it and tried to make amends—she heard me out, but then said it was better we didn’t see each other anymore. And that was it.’
There was a pause, then Emma said, ‘That must have been hard.’
A lump came into Charlotte’s throat. ‘It was. But also—and this sounds awful—I was kind of relieved. Our friendship had run its course.’ She looked at Emma. ‘I do remember your mother fondly, and I regret that our friendship ended the way it did. But we had different dreams, different ways of looking at life. For a time, that didn’t seem to matter. And then, it did.’
‘I understand,’ said Emma. She gave a faint smile. ‘Mum clearly just accelerated the process; she wouldn’t have tolerated anything half-hearted.’
Charlotte smiled back, ruefully. ‘You’re right.’ On an impulse, she added, ‘Look, Emma, if there’s anything more you’d like to know, I’d be happy to talk again. How long are you here for?’
‘I’ll be here for a few months. It’s really nice, staying with Mattie and getting to know her properly at last …’ Charlotte saw a shadow pass over Emma’s face as she spoke. She could see there was a world of regret there, but all she said was, ‘I only met your grandmother a couple of times but I thought she was lovely. And your grandfather—he had such a beautiful garden! I’m a garden designer now you know, and I still remember how well he’d used the space.’
Emma’s eyes lit up. ‘Actually, I’m working a lot in his garden. Pappy passed away two and a half years ago, and Mattie has found it hard to keep it up. It’s rather overgrown and I’m trying to clean it up and maybe get it back to what it was.’ She hesitated. ‘I know you’re very busy, but would you like to come and see it some time? I’m sure Mattie would like to see you as she remembered hearing about your dashing aunt.’
Charlotte laughed. ‘We were all so proud of Aunt Juliette. She led such a glamorous and exciting life, although she told me later that it was nowhere near as fun as I’d imagined. Anyway, I’d love to pop in and say hello. Would this weekend work?’
Yes, it would indeed, Mattie said, when Emma called her, and so they arranged for Charlotte to come for lunch the next day, with Elise, who would be with her by then. Emma said there would also be a family friend present, but she didn’t elaborate, other than to say his name was Marc-Antoine.
As they parted company, Emma said, ‘I am very glad to have met you, and to know a little more about my mother. It means so much to me.’
Charlotte was touched. ‘Then I am glad as well,’ she said simply. As Emma walked away, Charlotte watched her go, thinking of when she and Corinne had been friends. It was such a long time ago but regret about the manner of their parting filled her again. She and Corinne would never have the chance to reconnect, however remote an outcome that might have been. But she’d been handed the possibility of helping Emma, and that might provide some kind of closure. For herself, as well as for Emma. And , a cynical voice deep inside her whispered, it will handily distract you from thinking about your own problems .