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.
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
