A Sudden Change of Heart

Claire burst out laughing. ‘Good old Grandma Megan! I must admit, I do miss her pithiness, and her forthrightness. She comes out with some marvellous lines.’

‘She told me the other day that her great age gives her licence to say anything she wants. And to anybody, too.’

‘Old people are a bit like that. I guess they get to the stage where they don’t care anymore. And their bluntness can be amusing.’ She punched Laura’s arm lightly. ‘Hey, do you remember what we used to say when we were growing up? That when we were old ladies and had finished with men and all that nonsense, we’d live together on the French Riviera and sit on the beach wearing large picture hats and caftans, having our toenails painted purple by beautiful young gigolos.’

Laura nodded, her face lighting up. ‘Sure I do. We were a fanciful pair in those days.’

‘We might still do it, you know,’ Claire said, grinning. ‘When we’re old enough.’ She took a sip of her gin martini and said, ‘I can’t wait for you to see Natasha. I told you, she’s sprouted lately, and since you saw her in the summer her face has changed. She’s sleeker looking, has lost some of the puppy fat, and it helps. She’s just become very, very pretty.’

‘Like mother like daughter.’

Claire merely smiled. ‘She’s a very special child, Laura, even though she’s mine and I shouldn’t say it. Nonetheless, she is special, sort of…well, magical.’

‘You may have lived on a battlefield, but you got something out of it, after all, didn’t you now?’

‘Yes, I certainly did. Natasha has made it all worthwhile…the spoils of war are veritable spoils indeed. She’s a jewel, and I love her dearly.’ Claire’s voice changed, became extremely tender, as she continued, ‘I don’t know what it’s all about, this world we live in, this life of mine, but whatever it’s about, my child has given my life whatever meaning it has. And she’s the best part of me. I thank God every day that I had her, and that I have her with me. She’s very caring of me, in a funny sort of way. Sometimes she behaves like the mother, treats me as if I’m the child.’

‘I’ve always thought she was an old soul,’ Laura murmured, and then ventured softly, ‘Does her father ever see her?’

‘No.’ Claire shook her head and grimaced. ‘Well, not very often. She doesn’t care anymore. She used to, of course, but she’s adjusted now.’ A small sigh escaped, and Claire added, ‘But I can’t fault him on the money. His cheques come every month, and he’s never missed a payment.’

‘I always thought he loved her,’ Laura murmured, and stopped abruptly when she saw Claire’s expression.

‘Mmmm.’ Claire twisted her martini glass by its delicate stem, the reflective look in place in her green eyes again. She gazed into her drink.

Laura decided not to say anything else about Natasha’s father and his feelings for their child. It had always been a sore subject with Claire.

A moment later, the room-service waiter materialized at the door. Laura went to let him in, and clearing her throat, remarked, ‘Here’s our dinner, Claire. Oh, should I order some wine?’

Claire said, ‘I’ll have a glass of white wine with the fish, that’ll be nice, Laura, thanks.’

After ordering the wine, Laura sat down at the table and turned her attention to the salad. The two friends ate in silence for a moment or two, until Laura said, ‘Did Hercule give you any idea about the price of his friend’s Renoir? Or rather, what she wanted?’

‘No, he didn’t, and to be truthful I’m not sure that he even knows.’

‘It won’t be cheap,’ Laura muttered, raising her eyes from her plate, staring at Claire. ‘A Renoir is a Renoir is a Renoir, to paraphrase Gertrude Stein.’

‘Well put. Listen, Hercule could be a good source for you. Many of his clients are art-collectors, and they might well have something they want to sell: that’s of interest to you, I mean, such as a Matisse or a Bonnard. You said your client craves these two artists.’

‘That’s right, and I have another who always says he’d give his right arm for a Gauguin, at least that’s the way he put it to me.’

‘Well, you know Hercule’s the great expert on Gauguin, so if there’s anything knocking around, he’d know. We should talk to him about it. Over the weekend. I’ll invite him to dinner one night.’

‘I like Hercule, and I enjoy talking to him about art. About anything for that matter. He’s very interesting.’

‘Great, I’ll ask him to come to dinner on Saturday.’ Claire put her fork down and leaned back. ‘I forgot to tell you, I saw Dylan a couple of weeks ago.’

‘Oh, and how is my baby brother?’ Laura asked, sounding surprised.

‘Recalcitrant, as usual, even a bit contentious, to be honest. He took me to dinner at Espadon. He was staying at the Ritz, and he seemed determined to pick a fight with one of the waiters. I felt a bit uncomfortable at first, but then he finally calmed down after I’d kicked him on the shin under the table, and punched his arm. I hate it when he picks on people who can’t answer back.’

‘What a pity he hasn’t outgrown that nasty little habit yet. Anyway, how’s he doing? Really? Mom constantly says he’s behaving himself at last, and that things are working out for him, but he’s always managed to pull the wool over her eyes, as you know.’

‘I think he is doing well, Laura, as surprising as that might sound to you. In a funny way, living in England has…what’s the phrase I’m looking for? It’s settled him down, yes, that’s it, and it’s sorted him out. I think he’s come into his own. He says he loves working on Time, and I believe him.’

‘That’s good to hear. But I bet his personal life’s a mess.’

Claire grinned. ‘He says it’s a full-blown calamity, and I’m using his words. He told me his girlfriend Minerva has split, and he’s worried that she might be pregnant and is depriving him of his child. And his former girlfriend Nina is stalking him, he insists. He’s just met a new young woman, Inga, a Swede, and he was thinking of having her move in with him. Oh, and he’s bought a farm in Wales.’

‘Par for the course, all this,’ Laura said, and she couldn’t help laughing. ‘We were right, you and I, when we gave up on Dylan years ago. He’s just a bad boy, as Gran’s forever announcing. And you know the way he feels about us. He resents us and our friendship, yours and mine. He’s never forgiven us for sending him away when he was a little boy, cutting him out of our fun and games. Don’t forget that, and his tantrums. He’s all mixed up, that brother of mine.’

‘Aren’t we all?’ Claire eyed Laura carefully.

‘I guess so. The Valiants are probably as dysfunctional as any other family.’

‘Better not let Grandma Megan hear you say that, or she’ll have –’

‘My guts for garters, to quote dear old Gran,’ Laura said.

‘I’m glad you let me be part of it, though.’

Laura gazed at Claire, her eyes quizzical. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Part of that dysfunctional, crazy, wonderful family of yours. Without the Valiants I might have turned out to be quite different.’

‘Sane for one thing.’

‘No, ordinary and dull.’

‘You ordinary and dull, never! You were born special, Claire, take my word for it. And I’m glad you were part of it, are part of it, part of us. You’ve brought a lot of wonderful stuff to the Valiants. And to me especially.’

Laura awakened with a start.

She was bathed in a cold sweat, and her nightgown was clinging to her body. Struggling up into a sitting position, she threw back the bedclothes and swung her feet to the floor, turning on the bedside lamp as she did.

She could not help wondering, as she made her way to the bathroom, if she were coming down with something. To be perspiring like this was not normal; she hoped she was not in for a bout of the flu, or at the least a bad cold. She couldn’t afford to get sick; she had far too much work to do, and Christmas was only a few weeks away.

After taking off her nightgown and drying herself, Laura put on a terrycloth robe and padded back to the bedroom. Wide awake, she punched up the pillows and got onto the bed.

Zapping on the television, she found CNN, and sat drinking the glass of carbonated water which she had put on the bedside table earlier but had not touched until now. Leaning back against the pillows, she stared at the set, grateful for the continuing stream of news out of Atlanta. At least it gave her something decent to watch in the early hours of the morning.

Laura put the glass down with a clatter, and sat up a bit straighter, suddenly remembering her weird dream…She had dreamed about Rosa Lavillard. The dream had been frightening, oppressive. She had been with Rosa in a vast building in some unknown city, and they had been lost within its maze-like corridors which seemed to lead nowhere. The corridors were endless, and there were many, many doors. Every time they opened one a startled occupant would look up, stare at them, and tell them, in answer to their question, that the way out was at the far end of the corridor. But it never was. Another door led only to another corridor. Nervous and distraught, she had begun to panic, but Rosa Lavillard had not. The older woman had remained calm.

‘There is always a way out,’ Rosa kept repeating, and yet they could not find the door that would lead them to the outside…and freedom.

It had become hotter and hotter in the windowless corridors, and she had grown overheated, tired. But Rosa was stalwart, stoical, forever promising she would get them out of this maze, no matter what. The final door opened onto a slide; Rosa had pushed her onto it, and she had slid farther and farther down into terrifying blackness. And as she had slipped into this bottomless pit she could hear Rosa singing in French, but she couldn’t make out the words exactly…Suddenly Rosa herself was on the slide, hurtling down behind her, singing for all she was worth.

And then she had woken up. Bathed in sweat, and with good reason. She had been afraid in the dream.