Because Claire attended Miss Hewitt’s School, Laura went there as well. And there came a time when the five years difference in their ages suddenly seemed negligible. As teenagers and young women they were as inseparable as they had been as children, bonded together as sisters in soul and spirit, if not blood.
Claire had married young, at twenty-one, and her daughter Natasha had been born a year later. Two years after that she had moved to Paris with her husband and child. But nothing, not distance, husband or child, had ever come between them or changed the nature of their friendship. Very simply, they loved each other, and, as Claire was wont to say, they would always be sisters under the skin, no matter what.
The sad part was that Claire’s life had gone horribly wrong seven years ago. Her marriage had foundered and she had divorced; her parents had died within a few weeks of each other, not long after this, and then Natasha had been in a car crash and had suffered serious injuries. But thanks to Claire’s nursing, the girl had made an amazing recovery.
Laura roused herself, pushing herself up in the bath. Here she was daydreaming about the past when she should be getting dressed.
No time to dawdle now.
‘Don’t you like the room, Hercule?’ Claire Benson asked, pausing near the grouping of Louis XVth chairs, resting a hand on the back of one of them. ‘Is it the chairs? Do you think they’re inappropriate? Don’t they work?’ She shot these questions at him as she glanced down at the silver-leafed wood frame under her hand, and then at the silver-grey upholstery. ‘Yes, it is the chairs, isn’t it?’ she asserted. ‘Maybe they’re totally wrong for the setting.’ She looked across at him questioningly.
The Frenchman chuckled. ‘Ah, Claire, so many questions you fire, rat-a-tat, and you make the jest, n’est-ce pas?’
‘No, I’m being serious.’
‘The room is superb. Formidable, oui. You have the wonderful taste. The furniture, the fabrics you have chosen, this Aubusson rug, everything is perfection. But –’
‘But what?’ she cut in before he could complete his sentence.
‘The room is incomplete, my dear. A room is never finished until it has –’
‘Art,’ she supplied, and then immediately laughed when she saw the amusement in his face, the twinkle in his eye. ‘I need paintings on these walls, Hercule, I know that. But what kind of paintings? That’s one of the reasons I wanted you to see the setting, to help me make some decisions about art. Shall I use a Picasso? Or a Gauguin? Or go for a modern work, such as Larry Rivers? A Van Gogh? A Renoir, maybe? On the other hand, I could look for something really old, like a pair of Canalettos.’
‘A Van Gogh or a Gauguin would give the room strength, but I do not think it is a strength you require here, Claire. And Canalettos would be wrong. A soft painting would be the ideal choice, something in the pastel tones. It would underscore the stillness, the sense of…quietude you have created. Also, this space has a light look. Airy. A Renoir, most definitely. Oui. Parfait.’
‘Perfect, yes, I agree. But where am I going to find one? And who would lend me one for the photography? People don’t normally let their Renoirs out of their sight.’
Hercule Junot smiled. ‘There is a possibility that I might be able to find one for you. A few months ago, I was shown a Renoir which was for sale –’ He paused, shrugged lightly, raised his hands. ‘Well, I do not know, chérie, perhaps it has been sold.’
‘If it hasn’t, do you think the owner would agree to lend it to me?’ she asked, her face eager.
‘Mais oui. The owner is a friend, a former client…I am happy to speak with her. If she still has it, she will allow me to borrow it. For a few hours. If that is enough time for you, Claire. Because of its great value, she would not want to leave the painting here in the studio overnight.’
‘And I wouldn’t want it to be here overnight! Not unless I slept with it. I wouldn’t want the responsibility, although we will insure it, of course, even if it’s here for only a few hours. Too risky not to.’ Claire stepped out of the set, went to join Hercule Junot, who was standing on the studio floor. ‘When can you speak to your friend?’
‘I shall be happy to telephone her this evening.’
Claire said, ‘My lead time is three to four months, as you know, and I’m shooting this for the March issue. It’s going to be the cover shot.’
‘If she has not sold it, that might be an inducement for her to lend the Renoir. Having the exposure in the magazine could serve a purpose.’
Claire nodded. ‘Good thought. What’s the painting like?’ She grinned. ‘Although who needs to know that, a Renoir’s a Renoir.’
Hercule’s face had lit up at the thought of the painting, and he beamed at her. ‘It is beautiful, bien sûr, a semi-nude, a bather sitting on a rock. But this is not a large painting, Claire. It would only be suitable to hang over the fireplace or above the console. You will need a larger one…for the wall where the sofa is placed.’
‘I’m pretty sure I have one already. My assistant found a Seurat at one of the galleries, and they’re prepared to lend it to us.’
‘That is good. A Seurat will be compatible. It will sit well with the Renoir. I shall telephone you tomorrow, after I’ve spoken with my friend.’ He picked up his dark overcoat, which was thrown over the back of a wooden chair. ‘I must return to my bureau, Claire. Will you come with me? Can I take you to the magazine? Or are you staying here at the studio?’
‘No, I’m not, Hercule. I’ve finished for today. I’ll just have a word with my staff who are still working on another set, and then I’ll come with you. I’d love a lift to the Plaza Athénée, if that’s not out of your way.’
‘Ce n’est pas un problème, Claire.’
Claire had known Hercule Junot for twelve years, having met him when she first came to live in Paris as a young bride. They had been seated next to one another at a posh dinner party, and the renowned older man and the unimportant young woman had taken to each other at once. He had found her irreverent, saucy, provocative, and challenging, and her knowledge of art and antiques, coupled with her journalistic flair for telling a good story, had been impressive. She had been the most interesting and entertaining dinner companion he had had in many a year, a sheer delight to be with.
Hercule Junot, who was now seventy-six years old, was one of the most famous interior designers in the world, on a par with his peers Stéphane Boudin, a fellow Parisian, and the Italian, Renzo Mongiardino. Renowned for his elegant and glamorous formal interiors, he had great taste, immense flair, a discerning and critical eye, and was considered to be one of the foremost experts on Fine French Furniture. Another area of his formidable expertise was Impressionism, most especially the paintings of Van Gogh and Gauguin, the latter a great personal favourite.
Rather than lessening as he grew older, his business seemed to be flourishing even more than ever, and he was in constant demand by those who appreciated his extraordinary gift for creating tasteful but eyecatching interiors full of style, wit and comfort; those who had the vast amounts of money required to pay for the antiques and art of the highest pedigree and quality which he favoured in his designs.
Claire had been at a crossroads in her career when they had met. She wanted to continue working as a journalist, but she felt more drawn than ever to the world of visual and decorative arts.
At that first meeting over dinner she had found herself confiding her concerns about her career and the route it should take, and Hercule had made up his mind that he must somehow help her.
The