What the argument was about, Matilde never knew and she never asked, too caught up in her own pain to care.
Only a year later, Henri had died. The Le Marche family had lost two members in two years. It was the sort of thing that the gossipy society Matilde moved in thrived on.
So Matilde drank, and Robert slept with anything that had a heartbeat, and Celeste was ignored.
Matilde wasn’t proud of her mothering. Robert was always the better parent when they were small, but when Camille died, he stopped parenting and Celeste was left with no one.
So she and Robert separated and they sent Celeste away. Out of sight, out of mind, she had thought, but it wasn’t Camille she dreamed of; it was Celeste.
And when Celeste broke down about her unhappiness and had tried to kill herself, Daphné had stepped in.
Without Daphné, Matilde might have no living children, and she said a silent prayer for the woman under the roses.
She loved Celeste, she just didn’t know how to help her. When she had arrived in Nice last week, her face all tear-stained and so thin, Celeste had wanted to hug her and put her to bed and feed her soup and bread and watch her sleep, but the opportunity for her to be a mother had long gone.
Celeste had resisted hugs, and instead went out on the balcony and stared into the horizon. She refused to speak of her pain, even though Matilde knew it was that arrogant Paul Le Brun, and she glanced at him in the church. Handsome yes, but what good is handsome when you’re married to someone else.
Oh, Celeste, don’t choose a man like your father, she thought, looking at the back of Celeste’s blonde chignon at the front of the church.
So many times Matilde wished she had something wise to say to Celeste, or that Celeste would even listen, but she was scared of her daughter now.
Scared she would lose her like she lost Camille, scared of her temper and her biting tongue, and scared of her restlessness.
Matilde stayed in the past, as the service went on, and when it finished, she was one of the last to exit the church and that’s when she saw him.
A man, as handsome as any man she had ever met, in a navy suit, and silk tie, with a crisp white shirt, and a beautiful coat draped over his arm. He had dark, thick hair, cut close to his head, and slightly tanned skin, but it was natural, she could tell. He walked slightly beside her, and they stopped at the entrance of the church, waiting for the crowd to exit.
‘I am sorry for your loss,’ he said in her ear and she felt a ripple of something in her body—fear or lust, she wasn’t sure, but God knows, he was too young for her and too handsome to be good for any woman.
‘It is not my loss,’ she said firmly, turning to see eyes of lapis blue. ‘It is my daughter and ex-husband’s loss.’
‘But you were sad, non? I saw it in your face, you had many memories cover your face during the service.’
Matilde felt herself frown. Where had he been sitting? Why had he been watching her?
‘Who are you?’ she asked, narrowing her eyes. He was cunning, she thought, cunning was always hard to manage. Daphné was cunning.
‘Dominic Bertiull,’ he said, extending a hand that Matilde didn’t take.
She sniffed as though the name meant nothing to her, and she pushed her way into the crowd and away from the blue-eyed libertine, who still followed her, but Matilde knew everyone who mattered, that was her job in life.
‘It must be hard for Robert to have to take over the company when he has not really worked in it for a long time,’ said Dominic in a hushed whisper that smacked of false concern.
So the vultures have started to circle, she thought, and she wondered if she should tell Robert that Dominic Bertiull, the corporate raider and slash and burn CEO, was at his mother’s funeral.
And then she remembered Camille. Why should she care if Dominic took Le Marche from under Robert’s rule? He had lost Camille, now he could lose the company he had always desired to be at the helm of, and only then did Matilde feel that justice would be served.
‘I don’t know what Robert does and what he will do next. My only concern is for my daughter, please excuse me,’ Matilde said and, with a push, she forced her way through the crowd to Celeste’s side, where she took her daughter’s hand.
Glancing back to the steps of the church, she saw Dominic Bertiull staring at her and she wasn’t sure if she should feel flattered or scared, or a little of both.
Elisabeth, London, 1983
In London, 1983, the cultural landscape was shifting. Nothing was as it seemed and the roles that people were so familiar with were changing before people’s eyes.
Boy George was changing music with his gender-bending costumes and make-up, a film about a female welder and dancer was number one and Margaret Thatcher had just been re-elected for a second term as Prime Minister.
It was also the year Elisabeth Herod met Henri Le Marche.
As with the most extraordinary of relationships, their meeting was completely ordinary. Elisabeth worked at the bookstore, Hatchards in Piccadilly, and Henri had asked her opinion on The Name of the Rose. She had to admit to him that she hadn’t read the book, but she had heard only good things.
She decided that Henri had a look of a poet, taking in his rumpled suit but expensive silk tie and uncombed hair. His French accent was as delicious as a chocolate soufflé and she thought he would be the perfect man to lose her virginity to while she was in London.
He asked what was the last book she read, and she took him to the poetry corner and pulled out a slim volume and handed it to him.
Henri seemed as interested in her, which was lovely since her dark hair, dark eye combination seemed so uninteresting to English boys at the time. Samantha Fox was on Page Three of the Sun and the boys who were living in the hostel had images of her stuck to every bathroom wall.
Just seeing Ms Fox’s large breasts made Elisabeth feel uncomfortable, and she always glanced down at her own chest, lacking in everything compared to Samantha’s.
Henri turned the book over in his hands and then read aloud in French, ‘Louise Lévêque de Vilmorin—Poèmes.’ And then looked up at her. His blue eyes widened, and his dark hair fell over his face.
She quelled a desire to move it from his forehead so she could see his eyes again.
‘You speak French?’
‘Oui,’ she said, aware her Australian accent might ruin the romance of the moment.
‘And you read French poetry?’ he asked, a smile playing on his face.
‘Oui,’ she said again. Oh yes, she was definitely flirting now.
From the corner of her eye, Elisabeth could see her manager coming towards them and she snatched the book from him and put it back on the shelf.
‘Elisabeth, are you helping this gentleman?’ asked Bernard, the snivelling manager who reminded her of a court fop.
‘She is,’ said Henri, in an accent somewhat thicker than he had used with Elisabeth. ‘She is so knowledgeable and her taste is sublime, you are very lucky to have such a woman to work for you.’
Bernard almost bowed and then gave a rare, thin-lipped smile to Elisabeth. ‘She is a wonderful girl, who knew an Australian could be educated as well as she is. Please let me know if you need anything else.’
Bernard left them, walking