Barbara Taylor Bradford - Letter from a Stranger

After pouring the wine, Justine carried the crystal goblets over to the fireplace, handed one to Joanne. They clinked glasses.

‘So the picture went well, did it?’ Justine asked, sitting down opposite her friend.

‘The best I’ve worked on yet,’ Jo answered. ‘The stars were great, had no problem with my PR demands, knew their lines, no temperament or tantrums. And we came in on time and on budget. Thank God. I was glad to get back to New York, and Simon. Poor kid, he really missed me. But there was no way he could’ve been in Los Angeles when I was working. I didn’t want him to miss school either, and anyway his father wouldn’t have liked him to be out of New York.’

‘No, he wouldn’t. How’s he doing?’

‘Oh, the same as usual. Bad tempered, bossy, impatient. Nothing’s ever right. He’s a negative man, Malcolm Brandon is, and a trifle petty.’

‘But he can turn on the charm when he wants to.’

‘Don’t tell me. He does it now, even though we’re divorced. But how about you? How did your editing go in the end? You sounded worried sometimes.’

‘A heavy month, as I explained on the phone when you called. But the documentary came out great in the end. Jean-Marc Breton was a devil to work with, but ultimately he was brilliant and his art is just superb. Breathtaking really. His paintings are so vivid, so colourful, and Provence and Spain are wonderful places to film! I’m showing it to Miranda Evans on Tuesday afternoon. She saw some of the rushes when she came over to France, and she’s also seen the rough-cut. Even though I say it myself, the finished product is… perfect.’

‘Knowing you, it wouldn’t be anything else. What did she say about the new title?’

Justine made a moue. ‘At first she wasn’t sure about it… after all, “Proof of Life” means different things to people. Show me that the hostage is not dead, is one example. That’s what the police say to a kidnapper, or a fugitive holding someone against their will. To me it meant that if I could film the world’s greatest living artist, an extraordinary painter, who was a recluse, non-communicative, and an eccentric, then I had proof of life that he wasn’t dead, like so many people thought he was. He’s hardly ever seen in public these days, and there has been a lot of gossip and speculation about his well-being. And I’ve just proved he’s alive and kicking and as right as rain, to submerge myself in a bunch of clichés.’

‘Clichés are true, the truth, used frequently, which is why they are called clichés.’ Jo took a sip of wine and eyed Justine speculatively over the top of the glass. ‘Is he really the lady-killer he’s said to be, or is that all part of the myth and the legend, and all that jazz?’

Justine’s face changed slightly and she remained silent, her blue eyes suddenly thoughtful, her face solemn.

Knowing her as well as she did, Joanne had the feeling she had accidentally stepped on dangerous ground. Taking a deep breath, she murmured, ‘I guess he’s a man with what is called fatal charm. Isn’t that so? Did you succumb to it?’

‘No, of course not, don’t be so silly,’ Justine answered swiftly, her voice rising slightly.

Joanne nodded; she thought: I don’t believe her. She’s blushing. What is she hiding from me? Clearing her throat, Joanne murmured, ‘The whole world says he’s irresistible to women.’

‘I resisted, take my word for it.’

Richard asked, ‘Resisted what, Juju?’ He came strolling into the drawing room, went to hug and kiss Joanne, and then poured himself a glass of wine, joined her on the other sofa.

His sister said, ‘Jo was teasing me about Jean-Marc Breton, or rather about his reputation as a womanizer. I was just telling her that I resisted his so-called charms.’

Richard knew that his twin was embarrassed for some reason, and wanting to alleviate this, he said, ‘I thought he was truly a decent kind of guy when I met him, Jo. Fascinating to talk to, well informed about a lot of things, and it goes without saying that it was a great privilege to meet him in his home. And to be shown around his gallery by the maestro himself was an honour.’ Richard took a swallow of wine. ‘He didn’t strike me as a man who went around pouncing on women.’

‘I didn’t say he did!’ Joanne cried, and then laughed. Focusing on Justine, she changed the subject. ‘When are you planning to go to Istanbul?’

‘Next week, once I’ve shown the final cut to Miranda on Tuesday. I feel certain she’ll like the film, and when I get all the business with CNI out of the way, I’ll be on my way.’

‘So are you going to do a documentary on Istanbul?’ Joanne’s auburn brow lifted questioningly.

‘I’m not sure. I have an idea I want to pursue, and if I think it’ll work, then yes, I might well be filming there later this year.’

‘So what’s the idea then?’

‘You know I’m superstitious, Jo,’ she murmured, sidetracking her friend. ‘I never talk about an idea until I’ve developed it and finally got it nailed.’

‘I understand. I have a great friend there, and she’ll be extremely useful. First of all, she speaks perfect English. She’s actually a professor of archaeology. However, being smart, she knew she’d never make a proper living doing that, so she started a boutique travel business. She knows a lot of people, and everything there is to know about all of the ancient sites, ruins, palaces, and the history of the country from the Byzantine period through the Ottoman Empire up to today. Ask her anything. She’ll have the answer. I’ve already sent her an e-mail explaining that I will call her tomorrow.’

‘What’s her name?’ Richard asked.

‘Iffet Özgönül, and her company is called Peten – Peten Travels, actually.’ Opening her handbag, Joanne took out a sheaf of papers. ‘Here’s some information I pulled up on my computer about her and her background. And also some pages about Istanbul.’

Justine took the papers eagerly.

Richard and Joanne started to talk about a barn on her property which she wanted to convert into a studio, and Justine buried her head in the sheaf of papers, the computer printout. It was a relief to have them.

She had suddenly grown apprehensive when Joanne had launched into a discussion about Jean-Marc Breton and his reputation as a lady-killer. So called. Making a documentary film about a great artist, his work and his life had been problematic enough; things had grown much more complicated and complex when he had fallen for her. She had made a decision months ago not to discuss the making of the film with anyone, and she certainly had no intention of speaking about her relationship with him.

Brushing thoughts of the Frenchman aside, she went on reading about Iffet Özgönül, liking the sound of her. This was a person who could no doubt help her in a variety of different ways, and it was very likely that Iffet would be able to find Anita Lowe, who was the key to Gabriele’s whereabouts.

The sudden appearance of Tita in the doorway made Justine look up, and she raised a brow. ‘Do you want us to come to the table?’

‘Please, now Pearl says, for the eggs.’

‘I’m famished,’ Richard announced, standing up. ‘Come on, Jo, and bring your drink.’

Tita disappeared down the corridor and Richard led Joanne and his sister into the small cosy dining room next door, which had once been the breakfast room, full of sunny yellows and greens and glass furniture. Richard had redesigned it. Removing all of the glass pieces, except for two étagères on either side of the fireplace, he had used a colour scheme of scarlet and black …scarlet on the walls, a black floor plus mellow antiques made an enormous difference.

‘This has been a terrific transformation,’ Joanne remarked, as Richard pulled out a chair for her, then went to help Justine.