T Williams - To Provence, with Love

Over the centuries, window openings had been pierced in the walls and a fine entranceway built, opening out onto the terrace. This terrace extended along the front of the building, punctuated by green and yellow splashes of colour provided by lemon trees in ancient terracotta pots, and a mass of red and pink roses climbing the rugged walls. It was simply stunning.

Of course, Faye thought to herself, that was no surprise. She had been expecting something pretty imposing, after all. The owner of the house, the lady she was here to meet for the first time, was none other than Anabelle Beech, and she was genuine Hollywood royalty. No longer contemporary royalty, but definitely one of the all-time greats. Her name conjured up memories of iconic films of the post-war era, where she had appeared alongside such movie colossi as Humphrey Bogart, Gary Cooper, and James Stewart. Often compared to Grace Kelly as one of the most beautiful women in the world, there was no doubt she would have more than enough small change to buy even a fabulous place like this.

Faye glanced down at the rather short skirt she had chosen, beginning to regret not having dressed up a bit more formally for her first appearance before the great lady. Well , she told herself, it’s too late now .

As she opened the car door, she heard a cacophony of barking and came close to closing the door again and locking it. It sounded as if the Hound of the Baskervilles himself was in there, straining to get out. Cautiously, she made her way up the steps until she was level with the half-glazed front door that was visibly shaking. By this time, Faye was also close to shaking. The door, set into a carved stone surround, was made of sculpted oak and, thankfully, it looked solid, even though the upper half was made up of little square red, white, and blue stained-glass panels. Staring at her through the base of one of these, was the source of the noise.

A shiny black nose and an intimidating set of gleaming white teeth were very much in evidence, as were a pair of bright eyes that studied her approach. Then, as she and the dog made eye contact, the barking suddenly stopped, leaving Faye’s ears ringing. The dog dropped back to the floor, and in place of the barking, she heard low whines emanating from inside.

At that moment, the door was opened by a slim, grey-haired man in jeans and a crisp white T-shirt, his other hand firmly gripping the dog’s collar.

‘Good morning. You must be Faye. We’ve been looking forward to meeting you.’

He spoke in English, with a soft American accent, and he might have been seventy or so. He shot a glance down at the dog, who was wagging his tail so hard, the whole back half of his body was wiggling. ‘You must tell me your secret. I’ve never seen Marlon so pleased to see somebody before. I’ll let him go if you’re all right with dogs. He’ll probably try to jump up at you, but just push him down.’

Faye looked at the dog whose intentions were now unmistakably friendly and nodded her head. ‘Hello, yes, I’m Faye Carter. Do let him go. I’ll be fine.’

A split second later she found herself pinned back against the door by a pair of hefty, mercifully clean, paws – a big hairy Labrador head stretching upwards, a pink tongue trying unsuccessfully to reach her face. Marlon was definitely very, very pleased to see her. She recovered her balance, persuaded the dog to return to all fours, and bent down to stroke him. As if by magic, feeling her touch, he slid down onto the floor and rolled over, all four legs in the air, emitting an assortment of happy canine grunts. His tail was still wagging furiously, doing a very efficient job of sweeping the polished oak floor.

‘That’s quite amazing.’ The grey-haired man was still looking very surprised. ‘We normally have to shut him in the kitchen when somebody comes to the door.’ He stepped to one side and waved her in formally. ‘Anyway, welcome to St-Jean, Faye. My name’s Eddie Marshal. I’m Miss Beech’s PA.’

Faye walked in past him, trying not to trip over the dog. As she did so, she noticed a grey ponytail hanging down Eddie Marshal’s neck – not something normally to be found on an elderly gentleman. On closer inspection, there turned out to be a still-handsome face underneath the lines and wrinkles, and a definite sparkle visible in his pale blue eyes. She smiled back at him and held out her hand. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr Marshal, and did you say his name was Marlon?’

The man accepted her hand and shook it, before nodding towards the dog. ‘Named after the great man himself. Miss Beech knew Brando well and has always admired him. Now, if you’d like to come into the sitting room, I’ll go tell her you’ve arrived. She hasn’t been too well for the past couple of days and she has the nurse with her at the moment, so I’m afraid you might have to wait for a few minutes.’

He led Faye, closely accompanied by the dog, along the corridor, limping slightly as he walked. The walls were lined with paintings – not old masters, as one might have expected in a medieval environment such as this, but modern, abstract and impressionist paintings that, remarkably, sat very well in this antique setting.

At the end of the corridor they turned into a gorgeous high-ceilinged room, furnished with surprisingly modern leather sofas and armchairs. The ceiling was supported by hefty carved beams, the detail of the predominantly floral design picked out in red and gold against the dark wood. The floor was a stunning chequerboard of centuries-old pink and cream terracotta, worn down by the passage of countless feet. At the end of the room was a monumental stone fireplace, supported by sculpted pillars on either side. It was breathtaking.

‘Now, what can I get you?’ Mr Marshal was still standing by the door. ‘Over the years I’ve become pretty good at making cocktails. How about a Manhattan?’

Faye glanced at the time on an antique grandfather clock in one corner of the room. She had got up at the crack of dawn for her flight and it was still only just eleven o’clock, so although it might have helped to soothe her nerves, it was definitely too early for alcohol. She shook her head regretfully. ‘Thank you very much, but as I’m driving back to the airport again this afternoon, I’d better not.’

‘Of course. Well, a coffee maybe, or a cup of tea?’

‘A cup of tea would be lovely, thank you.’

‘Any special type of tea?’

‘Just bog-standard builders’ tea please, with a drop of milk.’

‘“Bog-standard builders’ tea …”’ She saw him smile, savouring the expression. ‘I’m sure we can find some of that. I’ll ask Claudette to bring you a cup.’

As Mr Marshal limped out of the room, leaving Faye vaguely wondering who Claudette might be, the dog trotted over to the fireplace and collapsed onto an exquisite, probably Persian, rug, clearly exhausted by the effusive greeting he had given Faye. Doing her best to control her sense of apprehension, she went over to one of the windows and peeked out onto a lovely, manicured ornamental garden filled with roses. Beyond it was what looked like a swimming pool flanked by lofty palm trees.

What a place, she thought to herself, as she turned back and wandered around the room, stopping to study a mass of photographs in frames that almost filled one wall. There was a clear theme to all of them: Anabelle Beech with John Wayne; Anabelle Beech with JFK; Anabelle Beech at various star-studded ceremonies, grasping a variety of awards, among them one that was unmistakably an Oscar. Every single photograph included Anabelle Beech, never twice wearing the same dress, and in every one, she looked stunning. Faye realized that, if she decided to take the job, she would have a lot of material in these photos right here in front of her.