Barbara Taylor Bradford - A Sudden Change of Heart

‘I didn’t. I fell in. I was picking flowers and slipped. I rolled down the bank. And I somehow got swept into the middle, into the deep part of the river.’

‘There’s some sort of strange current there,’ Megan explained. ‘And it is very dangerous. We’ve been aware of it for years. You’re very lucky Laura was with you.’

‘Oh but she wasn’t! I was alone. She must’ve heard me shouting for help. She dived in, but at first she couldn’t get me out of the water. My foot was caught in a roll of wire netting. She had to cut my sneaker off.’

‘My God, it’s worse than I thought! You were very lucky indeed!’

‘Yes, I was. I’d better go and dry my hair.’ Swinging around, Claire headed back into the bathroom. As she did the towel slipped down at one side, revealing part of her body.

‘Claire, whatever happened to your back?’ Megan exclaimed, staring at the yellow bruises under her shoulder blade.

‘I must have hurt myself when I fell into the river,’ Claire muttered, pulling the towel around herself swiftly.

‘Claire, those are old bruises,’ Megan answered, her voice gentle but concerned.

‘I fell off my bicycle in Central Park,’ Claire replied, and disappeared into the bathroom.

A few minutes later Megan found her husband in the dining room, where he was breakfasting on boiled eggs, thin buttered toast and his famous miner’s tea, which was very strong and sweet.

‘I heard all about it,’ Owen said as Megan hurried into the room. ‘Fenice told me, and from what she said they’re both all right, aren’t they, Megan?’

She nodded. ‘They are, but it could have been fatal for Claire,’ she replied, and then went on to explain what had happened to her.

‘Laura’s a plucky one, and strong for her age,’ Owen exclaimed. ‘And thank God she had the presence of mind to jump in and help Claire, rather than running back here for me or Tom. You say Claire’s foot got caught in a roll of wire netting. God knows how that came to be in the river. I’ll talk to Tom later, and he can lift it out.’ Owen gave Megan a pointed look and added, ‘But I’m afraid I’m going to insist Claire learns to swim. Laura and I will give her lessons in the swimming pool.’

‘That’s a good idea…’ Megan paused, leaned back in her chair and looked off into the distance.

Owen, watching her closely, said slowly, ‘I know, I know, my darling, this mishap has brought back bad memories for you…you’ve been thinking of poor little Mervyn.’

‘Yes, I have,’ Megan answered, her voice as quiet as his. Sitting up straighter, finding a smile, Megan went on, ‘I think I’ll have a cup of tea. I need it after all this.’ As she spoke she reached for the teapot and poured herself a cup.

Owen said, ‘I’m glad I helped Laura to become an athlete. It’s served her well, and will in the future.’

‘Laura’s always been brave, Owen, even when she was a small child. And quick thinking, as well.’

‘She idolizes Claire,’ Owen remarked, thinking out loud. ‘She’ll always rush to her rescue whatever the circumstances.’

‘I know.’ Megan sighed and looked across at Owen.

‘What is it?’ he asked, frowning. ‘You look troubled.’

‘Claire’s back is covered with old bruises.’

‘What?’ He sounded startled.

‘I saw them when she came out of the shower. She said she’d fallen off her bicycle in the park,’ Megan explained. ‘But you don’t believe her?’ ‘I don’t know whether I do or not.’

‘I’ve always thought the Bensons were a bit odd,’ Owen said, bringing his hand up to his generous mouth. He rubbed it thoughtfully, his dark eyes narrowing. ‘She could have fallen, you know.’

‘Yes…’ Megan was silent, but eventually she said, ‘I hope you and I live a long time, Owen, so that we can look after Laura and Claire, be there for them.’

Reaching out, he put his hand over hers and smiled at her lovingly. ‘So do I. But remember this…those two will always be there for each other.’

Winter

1996

Whenever she was in Paris on business and had an hour or two to spare, Laura Valiant inevitably headed for the Musée d’Orsay in the seventh arrondissement on the Left Bank.

Today was such a day. The moment her lunch with two prominent art-dealers from the Galerie Theoni was over, she thanked them, promised to be in touch about the Matisse, and said her goodbyes.

Leaving the Relais Plaza, she crossed the lobby of the Plaza Athénée Hotel and stepped out onto the avenue Montaigne.

There were no cabs on the rank in front of the hotel and none in sight, so she decided to walk. It was a cold December day with a hint of rain in the air. She shivered and shrugged further into her black overcoat.

Laura was dressed entirely in black, from the topcoat to her smart woollen suit underneath and soft leather boots that stopped just short of the knee. Her jet-black hair, styled in a short, sleek cut, accentuated both her pale face and her eyes of a blue so brilliant they seemed supernatural. A slender tall young woman, she looked much younger than her thirty-one years.

Laura was a striking figure as she hurried along; many a male head turned. But she did not notice those admiring glances, so intent was she in her purpose.

She lifted her head and looked up at the sky. It was leaden and grey this afternoon; a watery sun was trying to push through the clouds without much success. But the weather was irrelevant here. To Laura, Paris was a city full of nostalgia and memories, memories happy and sad…so much had happened to her here.

First love – oh, how she had loved him and willingly lost her virginity at eighteen – and first heartbreak, when he had said it was over and had left her with such sudden abruptness that she had been stunned. And oh, the terrible jealousy when she had gone to see him a few days later and found him in bed with another girl. But there was more self-love than love in jealousy, de la Rochefoucauld had written long ago; she had taken those wise words to heart on that awful day and made them her own personal motto over the years. And she had fallen in love again, more than once, even though she had believed she never would. Miraculously, or so it had seemed to her at the time, she had eventually recovered from her broken heart to discover that there were other attractive young men in the world, and many were available.

It was her mother who had first brought her to Paris when she was twelve, and she had been captivated. At the age of eighteen she had returned to study art history and literature at the Sorbonne. In the two years she had lived in Paris as a student she had come to know it as well as she knew New York, where she had been born and raised. Whether shrouded in spring rain, wrapped in the airless heat of summer or coated with winter snow, Paris was the most beautiful of cities.

City of Light, City of Lovers, City of Gaiety, City of Artists…it had so many names. But no matter what people chose to call it, Paris was a truly magical place. She had never lost her fascination with it, and whenever she came back she immediately fell under its spell once again.

Mostly, Laura thought of Paris as the City of Artists, for had they not all worked and lived here at one time or another, those great painters of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries? Whatever their origins and from wherever they sprang, they had eventually come here, armed with their palettes and brushes and paints, and their soaring talent. Gauguin, Van Gogh, Renoir, Manet, Monet, Matisse, Cézanne, Vuillard, Degas, Sisley and Seurat. The Impressionist and Post-Impressionist painters she most admired, and in whose work she was an expert, had all converged on Paris to make it their home, if only for a short while.