o’clock, so although it might have helped to soothe her nerves, it was definitely too early for alcohol. She shook her head regretfully. ‘Thank you very much, but as I’m driving back to the airport again this afternoon, I’d better not.’
‘Of course. Well, a coffee maybe, or a cup of tea?’
‘A cup of tea would be lovely, thank you.’
‘Any special type of tea?’
‘Just bog-standard builders’ tea please, with a drop of milk.’
‘“Bog-standard builders’ tea …”’ She saw him smile, savouring the expression. ‘I’m sure we can find some of that. I’ll ask Claudette to bring you a cup.’
As Mr Marshal limped out of the room, leaving Faye vaguely wondering who Claudette might be, the dog trotted over to the fireplace and collapsed onto an exquisite, probably Persian, rug, clearly exhausted by the effusive greeting he had given Faye. Doing her best to control her sense of apprehension, she went over to one of the windows and peeked out onto a lovely, manicured ornamental garden filled with roses. Beyond it was what looked like a swimming pool flanked by lofty palm trees.
What a place, she thought to herself, as she turned back and wandered around the room, stopping to study a mass of photographs in frames that almost filled one wall. There was a clear theme to all of them: Anabelle Beech with John Wayne; Anabelle Beech with JFK; Anabelle Beech at various star-studded ceremonies, grasping a variety of awards, among them one that was unmistakably an Oscar. Every single photograph included Anabelle Beech, never twice wearing the same dress, and in every one, she looked stunning. Faye realized that, if she decided to take the job, she would have a lot of material in these photos right here in front of her.
The letter from the lawyer had come at an opportune moment, barely a week ago. She had arrived back home that Friday night to the house in South London she shared with three other people, feeling physically and mentally drained after the week from hell. Some of the kids had been particularly bolshie, the red tape ever more complex and time-consuming, the parent-teacher evening a nightmare and Miss Dawes, the head teacher, even more objectionable than usual.
Although initially she had loved her job, since the arrival of the ineffectual and vindictive Miss Dawes, Faye had been feeling increasingly frustrated. The break-up with Didier had been the last straw and she had already started looking round for a change of scene, preferably away from the problems of the inner city. Sometimes she would lie in bed at night and dream of teaching a small class of polite, motivated, bright young pupils in a little old stone schoolhouse in the midst of the countryside. So far, that particular dream hadn’t come true.
The solicitor’s message had been brief and intriguing. Almost without preamble, his letter had informed Faye that she had been chosen to assist a famous celebrity in writing her autobiography. The job was likely to take in the region of six months and for her efforts, if she decided to take the job, she would receive the jaw-dropping sum of one hundred thousand pounds upon successful completion of the contract.
There was no explanation as to why she, of all people, had been chosen. All right, she taught English as well as French, and she had self-published her first book, a psychological thriller, a couple of months back. This was now slowly beginning to sell, but it was hardly a bestseller. To be offered such an inordinate amount of money to work with a celebrity was mind-blowing. How on earth had they even heard of her? It was baffling. Nevertheless, she had emailed straight back, indicating her interest, and asking to know more about the job and the celebrity in question.
‘Good morning, mademoiselle. Mr Marshal told me you were hungry. Are you happy to speak French?’ Faye raised her eyes to find a friendly looking lady at the door. She was short, fairly stout, and she was probably in her late fifties or early sixties. Faye nodded her head, noting that this lady’s French accent, like the reticent man with the Labrador she had seen back on the road, was definitely local. ‘My name’s Claudette and I’m the housekeeper. I brought you some tea and a few bits and pieces in case you were hungry.’ Faye’s eyes opened wide as she saw that Claudette was carrying a tray laden with food.
‘That’s ever so kind.’ She held out her hand. ‘My name’s Faye Carter.’
‘Pleased to meet you.’ After putting the tray down on a side table, Claudette shook hands with her. ‘You speak good French. Do you live over here?’
Faye shook her head. ‘No, I live in London, but I teach French and English.’ She could have added that she had also had a French boyfriend until a few months ago, but decided to leave Didier, the unfaithful womanizer, out of it. In fact, if she had been able to wipe Didier right out of her life and her memory for ever, that would have been even better, but that, she knew, would never be possible.
Suppressing a sigh, she let her eyes flit down to the table and she could hardly believe the quantity of biscuits and cake Claudette had brought in. There was a movement by her feet and the Labrador appeared as if by magic and positioned himself close by, nostrils flaring. Claudette looked down at him. ‘Don’t worry about Marlon. He won’t steal food from the table, but I’d advise you not to give him any bits or he’ll never let you alone. Always hungry, he is …’
‘Merci, Claudette.’ Mr Marshal materialized at the door so silently that even the dog jumped at the sound of his voice. ‘Faye, is there anything else you require?’
‘No, goodness, no. This is amazing. Thank you so much.’
He nodded and turned to Claudette, addressing her in fluent French. ‘Then we’re fine, thank you, Claudette.’
‘Just call if you need anything else. See you later, mademoiselle.’ Claudette gave Faye a brief smile and scuttled off.
Mr Marshal walked slowly across the room until he adopted a relaxed position with his back to the fireplace, leaning against the stone pillar at the side for support. ‘So, you and Miss Beech are going to write a book?’
Faye made her way over to the table and nodded. ‘That’s right – if she wants me.’ She risked a direct question. ‘I don’t suppose you know why she picked me, do you?’
There was a momentary hesitation before Mr Marshal shook his head. ‘She knows lots of people – important people. I imagine somebody must have recommended you.’
This shot even more uncertainty into Faye’s head. Anabelle Beech might well know lots of important people, but Faye was pretty sure she, herself, didn’t. But there was no chance to enquire further as a uniformed nurse appeared at the door, a bag in her hand.
‘Monsieur Marshal, I’ve finished. Miss Beech says for her visitor to go right up.’ Her eyes strayed to the table full of food and Faye saw Mr Marshal’s face crack into a hint of a smile.
‘Do come in and help yourself to a cup of tea or coffee, while I show Faye up to Miss Beech’s room.’ He turned to Faye. ‘Now, Faye, if you’d like to follow me, I’ll take you up to see Miss Beech.’
Faye gave the nurse a smile as they crossed paths and she followed Mr Marshal out into the hall and over to the imposing stone stairway. On either side of the stairs were suits of shining armour, standing there like soldiers on guard.
‘Convincing, aren’t they? These are props from one of Miss Beech’s historical romances.’ Mr Marshal reached out and tapped one as they passed. Instead of a metallic clang, there was just a hollow clunk. Faye followed suit and found herself grinning.
‘Totally convincing.
