Peach (3 page)

Jim Jamieson watched Leonie making her way along the chalky path that curved around the headland, her step quickening as she drew nearer, heading like a homing pigeon for her beloved villa. From a distance she looked no more than a girl, tall and slender with that long, smooth, cat-like stride that had marked her progress across the starry stages of the world. Even close-up it seemed as though time were reluctant to mar the surface of her smooth skin; there were just the lines of laughter around her eyes when she smiled, or a sad haunted look to her face. He had observed her occasionally, searching in the mirror for some sign of events in her life that Leonie told him she felt sure should be written there, wondering that its tragedies and joys should have left her so unscarred.

Leonie was fifty-six years old and they had been married for seventeen years. Jim still treasured the memory of her as the young midnight-hours poker player, sleeves rolled to
elbows, scooping up her winnings with a laugh and leaving the half-dozen passengers who had been able to survive the transatlantic liner’s stormy crossing, admiring but broke. Leonie had been the only woman on the voyage to New York to leave her cabin—but only at night when she joined the men in their game. Later she’d confessed that she had been afraid to go to sleep in case the ship went down, but at the time he’d been dazzled by her bravery, her poker playing—and her beauty. It had seemed a simple sort of beauty as she’d walked towards him across the darkened saloon that first night, and only later had he learned that she had the ability to be two people—
his
Leonie Bahri, the half-French, half-Egyptian girl and “Leonie”, the great star of the stage who, in bizarre and wonderful make-up and her clinging gold Fortuny gowns, a black panther docile at her feet on its chain, had prowled the stages of Paris and London and New York mesmerizing her audiences with songs of passion. And Leonie still had the same mystery and the same allure for him that he had always felt.

The little brown cat frisked around Leonie’s feet and then dashed on ahead to the gate, waiting imperiously for it to be opened. There was always a little brown cat with Leonie—the ancient Egyptians had believed in their immortality, she’d told him with a smile. Despite his attempts to disprove it, Leonie clung to the belief in the Egyptian goddess Sekhmet’s mysterious powers. Hadn’t the goddess proved her power? Monsieur was dead. She still kept Sekhmet’s statue, on its tall marble plinth, in their room, lit softly so that it seemed to glow in the dark. Of course she agreed when he said that surely she could no longer believe that Sekhmet ruled her life, but her eyes avoided his and her expression would grow remote.

Shrugging aside the past, Jim walked down the path to meet her. There were enough family problems without
bringing up the dead. Should he, or should he not, tell Leonie about her granddaughter? Leonie’s great friend, Caro Montalva had telephoned from Paris only an hour ago to say that something had better be done before Lais caused as big a scandal in the de Courmont family as Leonie had done forty years ago.

Leonie’s garden never failed to give her pleasure, it was so full of memories. The reflecting pool with its fountains shimmered in the twilight and beside it was the bench placed so that she could watch the sunset over the sea. And there was the flowering oleander that she had planted in remembrance of Bébé, her very first and most beloved cat. Terraced steps led to the curve of beach, tucked between the tangled green headlands that framed the blue and jade and aquamarine bay.

The villa itself had been just a small foursquare white building when it first became hers, but now it had sprawled and expanded with arches and terraces and terracotta tiled floors, cool and white and green-shuttered. Her home and her refuge. The place she loved most in the world.
Her life had begun here
. And it was here she had finally come to terms with who she was.

Old Madame Frénard was pottering around the dining room setting out Leonie’s favourite blue plates and the big blue lustre jug full of bright summer flowers. Madame Frénard had been with her grandmother ever since Leonore could remember. “Bonsoir, Madame,” she called loudly to combat the old lady’s increasing deafness.

“Bonsoir, Mademoiselle Leonore. What news of your little sister Peach?”

Leonore laughed. Three-month-old Peach was the centre of all interest at the villa. “I have some photographs to show you later, Madame Frénard,” she called.

On the long terrace with its view of the bay a silver icebucket beaded with chilly drops held a bottle of champagne. Leonore waved as Jim and her grandmother walked up the steps to the terrace. They made a handsome couple, Jim tall, clean-cut and all-American, and Grand-mère, who managed to look French and glamorous even in a simple shirt and skirt. She wondered nervously whether she should tell them the rumours about Lais.

Leonie regarded her granddaughter with a critical eye as she kissed her. “I do wish you would wear something less severe,” she said. “You’re too young to look so … buttoned up!”

They laughed at her description but it fitted. Leonore did give the impression that she was buttoning away her youth and femininity behind her business façade.

“You may feel glad about that,” Jim said, pouring the champagne, “when you hear what Caro had to say about your other granddaughter.”

“Lais? Why, what is it this time?”

“I’m afraid I heard the rumours too,” admitted Leonore.

“All right,” said Leonie with a sigh, “you’d better tell me the worst.”

“The worst,” said Jim, “is twenty years older than Lais and was disowned by his family for his bad ways. He claims to be a Russian aristocrat who is the only member of his family to survive the Revolution. He also claims their money and possessions went with them, confiscated by the Bolsheviks. Over the years he’s been a cab-driver, a singer in various nightclubs and, Caro says, a procurer. Currently he’s living with—and off—your granddaughter—apparently with various little sidelines that Lais may, or may not, be aware of.”

Leonie sighed. “Such as?”

“Supplying drugs, women—anything he can put a price on—to those who need them.”

Leonie’s face looked set with anger. “And what did you hear, Leonore?”

Leonore stared at the terracotta tiles at her feet. “Must I tell you, Grand-mère?”

“You must.”

“There are wild parties. The police are called often because of the noise, it’s causing quite a scandal.” She stared at the floor, reluctant to say any more.

“There have been enough scandals in the de Courmont family,” said Leonie abruptly, “I shall go to Paris tomorrow and see Lais.”

Jim noticed that her hand shook a little as she held her champagne glass and he wondered whether it was anger she felt for Lais, or shame.

Leonie could never enter Monsieur’s house without a flicker of fear, though she had never set foot in it when Gilles de Courmont was alive. In the years they were together, they had lived on his great yacht or at their house on the Place St Georges, or her little villa at St Jean Cap Ferrat. It was only after her daughter Amelie had married Monsieur’s son Gerard that she had been invited here. But she felt his presence all the time, his dark, sternly handsome face looked at her from generations of de Courmont family portraits, and the lofty rooms still held his secrets.

The maid who had answered the door led her to the drawing room and Leonie looked around in dismay. Dust bloomed thickly on tables and mirrors and long-dead flowers drooped in crystal containers half-full of greenish water. Glasses and plates littered every surface and there were ominous dark stains upon the beautiful old carpets. Broken glass crunched under her feet as she walked towards the
windows and, as she bent to pick up the remains of a once-beautiful Lalique wine glass, she gazed angrily at the sluttish-looking little maid, waiting indifferently by the door.

“And
where
is Bennet?” demanded Leonie. The English butler had been with the de Courmont family for decades and ran the house like clockwork. He must be getting senile to let the place get into this state.

“Bennet’s gone, Madame.” The girl’s head drooped tiredly and Leonie noticed that her apron, like the carpet, was stained.

“You mean Bennet has left?”

“Two weeks ago. He said he wasn’t coming back neither. They’ve all left, except me and Jeanne. And we’re off at the end of this week—when she pays us our wages, that is. Or
if
she pays our wages, more like.”

Leonie’s jaw tightened angrily. “Exactly where is my granddaughter?”

The little maid avoided her glance. “I think she’s still sleeping, Madame.”

The gilt hands of the pretty porcelain clock on the marble mantel pointed to two o’clock. “Which is her room?” Leonie made purposefully for the door.

“Wait, wait Madame, please.” The girl made an attempt to bar the door, “Madame, she’s sleeping. I don’t think you should. Oh dear,” she wailed as Leonie mounted the stairs determinedly.

Leonie took in at a glance Lais’s littered sitting room. The silk curtains were half-drawn and trailing from their hooks. A brandy decanter, one-third full, sat on an inlaid satinwood table stained with sticky circles where glasses had been carelessly spilt. The room smelled of cigarettes and brandy and wrinkling her nose Leonie flung open the windows, letting in the fresh breeze.

“Jeanne is that you?” Lais’s voice came sleepily from the
darkened bedroom. “Bring some coffee, will you. Lots of it. And make sure it’s hot this time.”

“Lais. Kindly put on some clothes and come out here at once.”

A muffled shriek emerged from the bedroom. “
Grandmère!
Go away. Oh go away,
please
.”

Removing a pile of flimsy undergarments from the chair, Leonie took a seat. “I’m waiting until you come out, Lais. And please hurry yourself.”

“Grand-mère,
please
, I’ll meet you in half an hour—wherever you say.”

“I’m
waiting here
, Lais.”

“What’s going on?” The heavily accented voice was deep and booming. “Keep quiet for once, you stupid girl.”

Lais shushed the masculine voice. “Don’t
whisper
to me for God’s sake when you’ve been
shouting
for the last ten minutes. I told you I wanted to sleep … 
Your grandmother?
What’s she doing here? Interfering, I’ve no doubt. Let me take care of her!”

Lais’s whispered voice was imploring. “No, no, please Nikolai, please. Wait here. I’ll speak with her. Just wait.”

Leonie stood, her back straight, chin up, the way she always reacted when she was a little afraid, as Nikolai swaggered into the room, wrapping a paisley silk robe around his nakedness. He stood well over six feet with massive shoulders and chest and his dark eyes glowered at Leonie from beneath bushy eyebrows.

“And to what do we owe this sudden visit?” he demanded, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his robe, looming over her threateningly.

“I am here to speak to my granddaughter,” answered Leonie stiffly. “Be so kind as to tell her that.”

“We want you to leave.
Now!
” Nikolai’s finger pointed
towards the open door where the little maid lurked outside, listening agog to what was being said.

“And exactly
who
are
you?
” Leonie’s back was even straighter as she held her ground.

“I am Count Nikolai Oblakoff, former officer in the Tsar’s army, and a son of one of Russia’s noblest families.” He pulled himself to his full, impressive height.

“In that case there is no need for you to be living off my granddaughter!”

“Oh Grand-mère!” Lais pushed in front of Nikolai. Her blonde hair was dishevelled and there were the remains of the previous night’s make-up on her pale face. Her pink silk nightdress barely concealed her slender body and with a pang Leonie noticed the puffy eyelids and the pink-violet shadows beneath her eyes. Excess never aided the cause of beauty.

“Please, Grand-mère. Wait downstairs for me,” begged Lais. “We can talk then. Alone.”

“This isn’t your grandmother’s house,” stormed Nikolai. “You are not spending her money. And who cares about her anyway?”

“Nikolai, wait, please, just let me talk to Grand’mère alone. Everything will be all right, I promise you.”

“This has gone far enough,” cried Leonie angrily. “
Just look at you, Lais. Look at this house!
Have you no
shame?
This is your father’s home—it’s
his
roof you are sleeping under with this—this impostor!”

With a bellow of rage Nikolai shook Leonie by the shoulders. Lais leapt at him, screaming, clawing his face with her long scarlet nails. “You bastard. Don’t you dare touch her.”

Nikolai put his hands to his face, then gazed at the blood on his fingers. Raising his arm he struck Lais a stinging blow, sending her reeling to the floor. “That is the way we
treat whores in my country,” he said to Leonie, straightening his robe.

“I hear that there are certain things about your life that would be of great interest to the police,” said Leonie, picking up the telephone. “I’m calling them to have you evicted from this house, and if necessary I will obtain a court order to prevent you from ever seeing Lais again. If you should dare to come near her or this house ever again,
Count
Nikolai, you will find yourself behind bars.”

“I have no intention of staying here a moment longer than necessary,” said Nikolai, recognising defeat when it stared him in the face. “This place is a pigsty.” Kicking an empty bottle from his path, he walked towards the bedroom. “She’s not only a whore—but a slut too.”

“Nikolai,” wailed Lais, “wait, please … wait.”

“Lais!” Leonie’s voice had an edge of ice. “Come with me. I want you to take a look at yourself in the mirror.”

They walked together towards the great carved overmantel. “Now tell me what you see.”

Lais peered through her swollen and bruised eye at her reflected image. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth mingling with the smudges of red lipstick, and the left side of her face looked puffed and angry. Her blonde hair was tangled and her crumpled nightdress stained with blood.