Kate Forster - The Last Will And Testament Of Daphné Le Marche

She paused, as her long, thin fingers clutched the edge of the sheets.

She remembered her mother tucking her into bed when she was sick, the smell of lavender on the sheets, the sound of a fire in the bedroom lulling her to sleep.

When I die, I will go downstairs and my mother will be upstairs , she thought, and at that moment Daphné regretted the choices she had made in life, for only her mother was enough to cause a woman like Daphné Le Marche penitence.

Edward waited patiently for her decision to be revealed.

‘Is the formula safe?’ she asked, and Edward nodded.

‘It’s in the bank vault,’ he said.

‘And the journals?’

‘Locked in the drawer in London,’ he answered.

Daphné sighed. There was no point postponing it any longer. She knew what she had to do.

‘The girls, I leave it all to the girls,’ she said finally.

Edward blinked a few times, as though trying to process her ruling.

‘And Robert?’ He asked of her only surviving child.

‘He made his decision years ago,’ she said and Edward was silent.

The Le Marche family history was enough to fill scandal sheets for years to come, but he knew her decision to overlook her only son and heir was not made lightly.

‘They must be here in London; they must work at Le Marche for a year before they can sell and they must always have two signatures on every decision. They are each other’s conscience.’

Edward wrote notes on the iPad as she spoke, her hands now running along the edging of the top sheet. Back and forth, like practising scales on the piano as a child.

She thought of her business and she wished she could stay. Nothing was as good as working, she once told her sons. What a shame neither of them had her work ethic.

‘And the formula?’ he asked.

‘They receive it after they have worked together for one year and one day.’

Edward made a note and snapped the cover on the iPad closed as though it was an audible full stop on the moment.

‘Where are the girls now?’ she asked, tiredness creeping up on her.

‘Celeste is mostly in Paris, but is sometimes with her mother in Nice, and Sibylla is in Melbourne—she lives alone but spends a lot of time with Elisabeth.’

Daphné felt her eyes hurt again at the thought of lovely Elisabeth. How she had suffered, in some ways more than Daphné, at the loss of Henri.

‘Mothering isn’t easy, that’s why I worked,’ she said almost to herself.

Edward was silent.

He was understanding company, she thought, wishing he would come again, but she knew she wouldn’t see him again after tonight.

‘A year. I give them a year to work together, and one cannot sell without the other. If one sells, they both sell.’

‘They can’t buy each other out?’ Edward’s face was now frowning.

‘Don’t frown, it gives you lines,’ said Daphné automatically.

Edward tried to smooth his face but failed.

‘They can’t sell the company to each other?’ he asked again.

‘No,’ said Daphné. ‘I want this family to rest its quarrels. The only chance we have now is with the girls.’

‘But they haven’t seen each other since they were children,’ Edward said.

‘You’re frowning again,’ she reminded him.

The fire spat in annoyance, and he glanced at it and then back to Daphné who was speaking again.

‘I am not concerned about petty reasons of an obstacle, such as separation. They’re family, they don’t need reintroductions. They have more in common than they think.’

Edward wrote quickly and then handed the papers to Daphné, who lifted her hand.

‘Where do I sign?’ she asked with a tired sigh. Dying was exhausting, she thought. No wonder people only did it once in their lifetime.

Edward picked up a book from her bedside table for her rest the paper on.

‘ The Book of Perfumes ,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘Still working, are you?’

‘I am always working,’ she said tiredly, as the door opened and the nurse came into the room. ‘Even on my deathbed, I am working.’

‘Can you witness this, please?’ Edward asked the woman, in a tone Daphné admired. He had grown into a confident man and she trusted him, which was as rare in business as it was in love.

The nurse watched as Daphné signed her hand and then Edward and the nurse added their signatures to the document.

‘It is done,’ said Edward, in a deferential tone, after the nurse left the room.

‘I don’t envy you,’ she said, a small smile creeping onto her face.

‘Why is that?’ he asked, as he packed his papers into his satchel.

‘What is about to come, I am sure I don’t pay you enough.’ She laughed a little, happy at the thought she could still create waves, even after her death.

‘I am capable of handling anything, I’ve been taught by the best,’ said Edward, reaching down and touching her hand.

Her skin was cold, but her grasp firm, as she held his hand.

‘Thank you,’ she said, meaning it deeply. Edward had been her greatest support over the last years and she hoped he could be the same for the girls.

‘Look after my petites-filles ,’ she said, so tired now.

‘I will, and I will be back to see you again,’ he said, his thumb stroking the back of her hand.

She nodded, but she knew he wouldn’t be back while she was alive. If there was one thing Daphné Le Marche knew how to keep it was a schedule.

After Edward had gone, and the fire was dying in the grate, she saw the colour she had been chasing her entire life.

Dernières lueurs —the perfect afterglow.

And she cursed God that she could never replicate it in her lifetime. All she had ever wanted was to create a product that gave women the glow as though they had just fallen in love or made love or even both. She touched her own cheek with her hand and tried to remember when she last had that glow.

It was too long ago, she thought sadly, and she closed her eyes and slept, and between the hours of two and four, just as she had suspected she always would, Daphné Hélène Le Marche née Amyx died. She had never been late to a meeting before, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to be late for this one.

Sometimes Celeste Le Marche wondered if she should have died instead of Camille.

If she had gone to the dance lesson with Camille instead of having a tantrum at home because she didn’t get new ballet shoes like her sister, then they would have argued over who got the front seat, and Celeste, being the more aggressive of the sisters, even though she was younger, would have won.

Camille would have been relegated to the back seat behind Papa, because that was the only seat belt in the back of the Audi that worked and it would have been Celeste that died instantly when the truck hit the car.

Then Camille would have gone to the hellhole school that was Allemagne and Celeste would have gone to heaven with Uncle Henri and Pépère, and everything would be as it should be.

She used to wonder what it was like in heaven. Every imagining changed according to her age. One year it was bowls filled with sweets on pretty little tables and talking goldfish that swam in ponds, then it was filled with every fabulous item of clothing she could imagine, and then it was champagne and cocaine and dancing without ever needing to sleep.

Now, as she wandered through the dark villa belonging to her mother, she wondered if heaven was actually being able to sleep through the night.

She could hear the sounds of the waves on the rocks below and she wondered about her uncle for a moment, and then pushed the thoughts from her head.