Barbara Taylor Bradford - A Sudden Change of Heart

The world of art was her world, and it had been for as long as she could remember. She had inherited her love of art from her mother Maggie Valiant, a well-known American painter who had studied at the Royal College of Art in London and the École des Beaux Arts in Paris.

But Laura was the first to admit she lacked her mother’s talent and vision as a painter, and when she was in her early teens painting became an avocation rather than her vocation. Nonetheless, she had decided she wanted to work with art once she had finished her studies, and after her graduation from the Sorbonne she did stints with several galleries in Paris before returning home to the States. Once back in New York, she did gallery work again, and then completed a rewarding four years at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

One of her superiors at the museum, impressed by her unerring eye, superb taste, and knowledge of art, encouraged her to become an art-adviser. And so three years ago, at the age of twenty-eight, she and Alison Maynard, a colleague at the Metropolitan, had started their own company. The two of them had made a great success of this venture, which they had named Art Acquisitions. She and Alison bought art for a number of wealthy clients, and helped them to create collections of some significance. Laura loved her career; it was the most important thing in her life, except for her husband Doug, and the Valiants.

A few days ago she had flown to Paris from New York, hoping to find paintings for one of their important clients, a Canadian newspaper magnate. Unfortunately, she had not found anything of importance so far, and she and Alison had agreed on the phone that she would stay on a bit longer to continue her search. She had a number of appointments, and she was hopeful she would find something of interest and value in the coming week.

Increasing her pace, Laura soon found herself turning onto the rue de Bellechasse, where the Musée d’Orsay was located not far from the Eiffel Tower and Les Invalides. She had made it from the hotel faster than she had expected, and as she went into the museum she experienced a little spurt of excitement. Inside were some of her favourite works of art.

The museum was deserted and this pleased Laura; she disliked crowds when she was looking at paintings. It was really dead this afternoon, so quiet you could hear a pin drop. The only sound was the click of her heels on the floor; her footsteps echoed loudly as she walked towards the hall where the Renoirs hung.

She stood for a long time in front of Nude in Sunlight. Renoir had painted it in 1875, and yet it looked so fresh, as if he had created it only yesterday. How beautiful it was; she never tired of looking at it. The pearly tints and pink-blush tones of the model’s skin were incomparable, set off by the pale, faintly blue shadows on her shoulders which seemed to emanate from the foliage surrounding her.

What a master Renoir had been. The painting was suffused with light – shimmering light. But then to her, Renoir’s canvases always looked as though his brush had been dipped in sunlight. Lover of life, lover of women, Renoir had been the most sensual of painters, and his paintings reflected this, were full of vivid, pulsating life.

Laura moved on, stopped to gaze at a much larger painting, Dancing at the Moulin de la Galette. It represented gaiety and young love, and there was so much to see in it – the faces of the dancers, merry, sparkling with happiness, the handsome young men, their arms encircling the beautiful girls; how perfectly Renoir had captured their joie de vivre. His use of colour was superb: the blues and greens in the trees, the blues and creams and pinks in the girls’ dresses, the soft, clear yellow of the men’s straw boaters, and the…

‘Hello, Laura.’

Believing herself to be alone with the Renoirs, Laura jumped when she heard her name. Startled, she swung around. Surprise registered on her face, and she froze.

The man who stood a few feet away from her, went on, ‘It’s Philippe, Laura. Philippe Lavillard.’ He smiled, took a step towards her.

Laura recoiled imperceptibly. Dislike and a flick of anger curdled inside her.

The man was thrusting out his hand, still smiling warmly.

Reluctantly, Laura took it, touching her fingers quickly to his and then pulling them away. This man had always spelled disaster and trouble. She could hardly believe he had run into her like this.

‘I thought you were in Zaire,’ she managed to say at last, wondering how to get rid of him. There was a slight pause before she added, ‘Claire told me you were…living in Africa.’

‘I am. I arrived in Paris a couple of days ago. Actually, I’m en route to the States. I’m going to see the head of the CDC.’

‘The CDC?’ she repeated, sounding puzzled.

‘The Center for Disease Control. In Atlanta. I have some meetings there.’

‘Claire mentioned you were working on Ebola in Zaire.’

‘And other hot viruses.’

Laura nodded, tried to edge away.

He said, ‘Are you staying in Paris long, Laura?’

‘No.’

‘How’s the famous Doug?’

‘He’s well, thanks.’

‘This is one of my favourites,’ Philippe Lavillard began, looking intently at Dancing at the Moulin de la Galette, then gesturing towards it. ‘I think I favour it because it’s so positive. There’s so much life in it, such happiness, don’t you think, such hope and expectation in their faces, and a sort of quiet exuberance, even innocence –’ Abruptly he cut himself off, and glanced to his right.

Laura followed his gaze, saw a woman approaching. As she drew closer, Laura realized, with a sudden flash of recognition, that it was Philippe’s mother: a dumpy middle-aged woman in a maroon wool dress, with a black coat flung over her shoulders. She was carrying a handbag on one arm and holding a Galeries Lafayette shopping bag in her hand. She moved at a measured pace.

A second later, Rosa Lavillard was standing next to her son, staring at Laura with undisguised curiosity.

Philippe said, ‘You remember Laura Valiant, don’t you, Mother?’

‘Oh yes, of course,’ Rosa Lavillard responded in a cool tone. ‘Good afternoon.’ Rosa’s lined face was impassive, impenetrable; her pale eyes were frosty, and there was a degree of hostility in her manner.

‘Hello, Mrs Lavillard, it’s been a long time,’ Laura answered, recalling the last time she had seen her. At the wedding. Trying to be polite, she added, ‘I hope you’re well.’

‘I am, thanks. Are you here on vacation?’ Rosa asked.

‘No, this is a business trip.’

‘Laura’s an art-adviser, Mother,’ Philippe explained, glancing down at Rosa and then across at Laura. ‘She helps people to select and buy paintings.’

‘I see. You like Renoir, do you?’ Rosa murmured.

‘Very much. He’s a great favourite, and I try to come here whenever I’m in Paris,’ Laura replied.

‘Such beauty,’ Rosa remarked, looking about her. ‘All these Renoirs…they nourish the soul, calm the heart. And they are reassuring…these paintings tell us there is something else besides ugliness out there. Yes, such beauty…it helps to baffle the clamour of cruelty.’ She waved a hand in the air almost absently, peered at Laura and asked, ‘Do you like Van Gogh?’

‘Oh yes, and Degas and Cézanne, and Gauguin, he’s another favourite.’

‘His primitives are deceptive. They appear simple yet they are not, they are complex. Like people.’ Rosa nodded her head. ‘It’s obvious the Impressionists appeal to you.’

‘Yes, that’s my area of expertise. The Post Impressionists, as well.’

‘I like them myself. If I had a lot of money that’s what I would do, how I would spend my life. I would collect paintings from the Impressionist school. But I am just a poor woman, and so I must make do with going to museums.’