Barbara Taylor Bradford - Letter from a Stranger

He whispered against his sister’s cheek, ‘Where’s the letter? I left it on my desk.’

‘I have it in my pocket,’ she murmured, and then, looking across at Joanne, said, ‘I agree with you about this room, and although I was only half listening when you were discussing the barn, I think Rich has some great ideas for remodelling it.’

‘He does. But then he’s the best,’ Jo responded.

‘I like Iffet before meeting her,’ Justine murmured.

‘Here’re the Parisian eggs,’ Pearl announced, striding into the room with a tray of plates, followed by Tita, who handed one to each of them.

‘Oh my, Parisian eggs like your grandmother used to make …I just love them.’ Joanne picked up her fork, and began to eat at once.

How weird it is that no one has mentioned Gran for ages, Justine thought. And now, today, her name’s on everyone’s lips. Anxiety about her grandmother edged into her mind, as it had done on and off all day. Where was she? Was she well? Did she need money? What did she think of them? Her and Rich? Did she think they were in on this crazy estrangement, something promulgated by their insane mother? She hoped, no prayed, this was not the case.

Her mother. Deborah Nolan really was off her rocker, wasn’t she? Two husbands since their father had died; both had divorced her – or she them, Justine wasn’t sure which. What man would put up with her antics? She was skittish, silly, shallow, a spendthrift. Talented, tortured, tricky, troubled. Justine sighed under her breath. She could easily go through the alphabet, defining her mother, who had always been the absent mother, hadn’t she?

‘Penny for your thoughts,’ Richard said, sitting back in the chair, gazing at his sister, worrying about her and their grandmother.

‘Nothing much to tell you,’ Justine replied. ‘The eggs are good.’ She grinned at him.

‘And how. I’ve demolished them already. Great idea on your part.’

‘It was Pearl’s actually. By the way, I saw Carlos and Ricardo carrying some big planks of wood over to your building project this afternoon. How’s it coming along?’

‘They’re doing a great job, and it’ll be finished by the summer. But it’s really just a simple bungalow, Juju, not a stately home.’

She began to chuckle. ‘Simple? Don’t be silly, it’s beginning to look like something rather splendid, in my opinion.’

Joanne said, ‘I can’t wait to see it. When am I going to get the tour?’

‘Nothing to tour, as you call it, Jo – not yet. But I’ll show you around tomorrow before tea in the gazebo.’ He smiled lovingly at Joanne. ‘I heard all about tea from Daisy. She’s so excited that you and Simon are coming.’

‘So am I, so’s he,’ Jo murmured. She wanted to add that Justine and Richard were the only family they had, and that they loved them very much; that she and Simon were dependent on them in so many ways. But she refrained.

She stole a look at Richard, surreptitiously, as she had been doing for as long as she could remember. She had loved him all of her life, had hero-worshipped him, but he had never shown much interest in her, at least not romantically. And then one day she had been swept off her feet by the sweet-talking, fast-talking, aggressive Malcolm Brandon, who had turned out to be a glib dud. And Richard had married Pamela. Who had died. And Jo had divorced the glib monster of Wall Street fame.

As she sat eating cottage pie and savouring this favourite, it suddenly struck Jo that Richard did not seem so full of grief tonight. Distracted, yes. Preoccupied, yes. And worried. He was worrying about something.

She was suddenly absolutely certain he was not pining for Pamela at this moment. There was a difference in his demeanour; he appeared jumpy, on edge, and worry clouded those wonderfully blue eyes. He was thinking hard; she knew when he was doing that, had been aware of this even when they were kids.

Jo let her gaze rest on Justine, thinking that she was also different tonight, had retreated into herself after her comments about Jean-Marc. And yet… well, there was something else bothering her best friend. Was it a problem with their mother?

Deborah, the darling of every man who met her, that’s how Jo thought of her, and had since she was old enough to think about sex. The Sexpot. That’s what some people called Deborah Nolan. The sexiest sexpot on two legs. How old was she now? In her fifties? Yes. Fifty-three or thereabouts. But no doubt as beautiful as ever, with her sculpted face, flowing dark hair and liquid grey eyes. Come-to-bed eyes, that was the way Malcolm had described them, looking as if he fancied her. He fancied a lot of women and had a lot of women and that’s why they were divorced. And she was glad they were.

Clearing her throat, Joanne said, ‘There’s something wrong, Rich. I know there is, Juju.’ She fixed her eyes on them.

They stared back at her and said nothing.

‘Look, I’ve known the two of you since we were little kids, and we have a shared past. You can’t pretend with me. You’re both preoccupied and worried.’

Justine turned to her twin, her expression quizzical as she looked at him.

Richard pursed his lips, frowned. He said, ‘There is a problem, Jo, you’re correct. But I don’t want to talk about it now. Not here. Let’s finish dinner; Tita and Pearl have been working so hard in the kitchen. We can talk about it over coffee. Fair enough?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Jo answered, wondering what could be wrong.

Tita brought coffee to the drawing room, and then disappeared.

Once they were alone, Justine took the letter out of her jacket pocket; leaning forward, she handed it to Joanne sitting on the sofa opposite them. ‘The reason Richard and I are upset, worried, is because of this and what it reveals.’

Taking the letter from her, Joanne began to read, and as she did so she visibly stiffened. Finally, when she lifted her head and looked at them, her eyes were full of shock. ‘Why?’ she asked, her voice shaking. ‘Why did your mother tell you Gabriele was dead? Why did she lie to you?’

‘We don’t know,’ Richard answered quietly. ‘And we’ve no idea what this estrangement is about either. We’re as mystified as you are.’

‘But this is just horrible… that’s not even a strong enough word to use… it’s horrendous. And just think of your poor grandmother. Oh, God, I can’t bear it. How upset she must have been all of these years. What an appalling thing… to be dismissed in that way, to be kept away from you.’ Tears welled in Joanne’s light-green eyes, and she blinked several times before continuing, ‘She must have missed you both. Longed to see you. Gabriele must have suffered in the worst way.’

‘We think so, and we totally believe Anita’s letter, don’t we, Richard?’ Justine looked at her brother, and he nodded.

She sighed. ‘Obviously Gran’s not doing too well, and we need to find her as fast as we can.’

‘That’s the real reason you’re going to Istanbul, isn’t it? You genuinely believe she’s there,’ Joanne now asserted, staring at Justine pointedly.

‘Yes, I do.’

‘We both do,’ Richard interjected.

‘Couldn’t she be in London, though? After all, she is English, and she had a house there. I know she said she was selling it years ago, but surely she took an apartment…’ Joanne’s voice trailed off when she saw the negative expression settling on Justine’s face.

Richard said slowly, thoughtfully, ‘I’ve read the letter several times now, and I honestly think that she is with Anita. There’s every indication of that, reading between the lines.’

‘I’m going to call Eddie Grange first thing tomorrow,’ Justine announced. ‘He was my line producer on this last documentary, and I need him to check a few things out for me.’