on the telephone as Celeste was being put on a drip for dehydration and a low heart rate.
‘They don’t like you because you’re too beautiful, like me. Women don’t like women like us, we’re a threat,’ Matilde had slurred down the phone.
So Celeste grew to view all women as the enemy, even her own mother.
She opened her eyes, as she heard the sound of birds stirring in the bougainvillea, scratching and fighting to wake first. I envy them, she thought, it must be easy being a bird. She looked out at the growing light in the distance, colours of sherbet orange filling the sky and, for a moment, her eyes pricked with tears for Grand-Mère. She said a little prayer for Camille to look after her when she arrived in the afterlife.
She was under no illusions though that her grandmother would have thought of her on her deathbed. The woman barely had time for Robert, let alone his daughter. All she cared about was her business.
Now Le Marche would belong to Robert, and he would sell it to the Japanese as soon as he could. She pulled the cotton blanket up to her chest and wondered about Sibylla.
Did she know? Who would tell her? Would she come to the funeral?
But Celeste had no idea how to contact her cousin in Australia.
God, that was so far away, she thought. She struggled even travelling to London. Everything she needed was in Paris, Paul was in Paris. With his family, playing the perfect husband and father. That would be all over tomorrow if the news got out about their affair.
But if that were true, she thought, why had she run to Nice?
There were too many thoughts to try to put into order, so, instead, she watched the sun rise like fire in the distance.
But her thoughts came back like the waves below the villa, crashing into the cliff.
Was Paul at home in his bed with his wife, while their children slept peacefully in their little beds? Was he watching the sunrise from his balcony? Would he think of her as he showered? Would he think of her undressing as he dressed?
Did he sip on his coffee and wonder if she was thinking of him also?
Did he love her like she loved him?
Tears burned so harshly, she squeezed her eyes shut, even though Grand-Mère had always told her to never line her face with anything other than a smile.
A half sun sat on the horizon now, and Celeste felt more at peace in the glow.
Darkness was her worst time. Nights like this were hard to bear alone.
Thirty years old and the mistress of a politician. Thirty years old with no discernible career, except as an occasional interior designer and stylist. Thirty years old and still taking an allowance from her father.
What a joke she was. She lived off her father’s meagre allowance and her lover’s gifts, and was given her mother’s apartment in Paris because Matilde didn’t know how to love her only surviving child properly, and the apartment went some way to absolving her guilt.
For a moment, she was envious of her father and his inheritance. He could do anything he wanted with Le Marche, but she knew he would sell it, as much to spite Daphné as to live off the proceeds.
As the sun rose, Celeste thought of Daphné and her life.
At twenty-one, her grandmother had had two children and, within ten years, she had turned a family business into a cosmetics empire.
Self-esteem hadn’t ever been a mantle that draped Celeste’s shoulders, and now, when she thought of her brilliant grandmother, her self-sufficient mother and even her estranged cousin, Sibylla, who was a scientist or something similar, according to her research online, she felt hopeless.
She kicked off the blanket, stood up and stretched, then walked to the edge of the balcony.
The waves crashed below her and she could see the white foam greedily lapping the edges of the rocks.
She put her hands on the edge of the iron balcony and peered down further, trying to hear the sounds of the sea, seeing how far down the rocks were, or how far up she was.
What was below? she wondered. She thought of Uncle Henri. Is this what he felt? Did he hear l’appel du vide? The call of the void?
That’s what her mother once said when she had asked how he had died.
Was it calling her now?
She couldn’t be sure, as she saw a gull dive into the foam and pull a writhing silver treasure from the water.
‘Well done,’ she said with a smile to the bird.
Tiredness draped its heavy arms around her now, and she let go of the iron railing and nodded to the sea below.
‘Not today,’ she said, and went inside to finally sleep.
* * *
When she woke, dusk was settling in the sky. She walked out of her room and saw her mother had left her a note on the wooden table.
Gone to drink with the Michels. Come and join us if you want.
Celeste had no idea who the Michels were, but she knew her mother would be drinking too much with people who saw too much sun, regaling them of stories and gossip of her ex-mother-in-law, as no doubt the news of Daphné’s death would be out now.
Celeste sighed and picked up a peach from the mosaic bowl her mother had made during one of her artistic retreats. Matilde was a frustrated artist with no particular talent, but she had tried every mode possible in which to express herself.
It seems the peach doesn’t fall far from the tree, Celeste mused, as she bit into the soft flesh of the fruit. As the skin brushed her tongue, she missed Paul’s touch and so she picked up her phone from the table and dialled his number.
He answered on the first ring. ‘Darling, where are you? What’s happened? Are you with your grand-mère?’
Hearing his voice, Celeste relaxed. She walked out onto the balcony.
‘No, I’m with my mother,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry I didn’t call you back, I’ve had some things in my head I needed to think about.’
She took another bite of the peach and then threw the rest over the edge, down into the void.
‘But I’m coming back to you now,’ she said and everything was back to how it was before, except it all felt so different and she couldn’t explain why.
* * *
Back in Paris, Paul was late, as usual. Celeste, feeling less restless than usual, thanks to a glass of wine and a few puffs on a cigarette, leafed through a copy of French Vogue.
Her phone rang.
‘Darling, I can’t get away,’ Paul complained.
Celeste took a gulp of wine.
‘But
