‘They used to be in the library,’ Payne said.
‘I mustn’t drop ash in the saucer – why doesn’t someone tell me off? Provost hates it when I do. Where’s the damned ashtray?’ Lady Grylls peered round in an abstracted manner.
She seemed reluctant to divulge the true whereabouts of her scrapbooks. Emphatically vague, Antonia decided – and she wondered as to the reason.
Payne said, ‘Corinne was badly affected by her parents’ death, wasn’t she?’
‘She was… terribly affected. Poor thing. She was twelve when it happened. They tried to keep her in the dark but it slipped out somehow. She’d gone to live with her grandmother. Madame Coreille came into a lot of money about that time and she opened her own clinic. I don’t think she gambled. Some kind of inheritance. Rory was of the opinion that the bloody Frenchwoman would only succeed in messing the gel up completely.’
‘How bad was the trauma?’ Antonia asked – though what she really wanted to know was the exact provenance of Madame Coreille’s good fortune.
‘Bad enough… Corinne read the story of her parents’ death in some ghastly gossip rag – Ici Paris, I think. A magazine. Isn’t it odd that the French have no tabloid papers, only gossip magazines? Eaten Alive. Some such ghastly headline. The shock was so severe that Corinne lost her power of speech. She stopped eating – became extremely withdrawn. That went on for some time. Corinne didn’t seem to respond to any kind of treatment. Madame Coreille had tried analysis – she was at her wits’ end. Then, one day, something very strange happened. Can you -’
‘Corinne started singing?’
‘You are a dangerous woman, Antonia – nothing ever escapes you! Yes. Corinne started singing. Madame Coreille thought at first it was somebody on the wireless. She imagined it was Piaf or somebody. You see, Corinne had never sung before. She’d never shown any particular interest in music either. It was an extraordinary voice. Pure and light – like a bell. Puissant, I think was the word Madame Coreille used. She phoned me that same evening. A couple of days later I flew to Paris. I knew what she meant the moment Corinne opened her mouth. It was quite extraordinary.’
‘I believe I’ve heard the story before,’ Payne said. ‘You thought she sang like an angel. It made you blub.’
‘Don’t scoff, Hughie. You sound like Peverel when you do. Corinne did sing like an angel. And I did blub. Yes. It was a very special kind of voice… The more she sang the more her health improved. Madame Coreille hired a private music tutor for her, who was astounded and predicted that before long Corinne would have toute la France at her feet. Well, it happened seven years later. I was in Paris, sitting in the TV studio, next to Madame Coreille, watching Corinne appear on Jeu de la Chance.’
‘What game of chance is that?’ Antonia asked.
‘The show that discovers and promotes new singing talent. I think they still have it. I am sure you are familiar with the kind of thing? Fame Academy – Pop Idol. Don’t you watch them?’ Lady Grylls breathed incredulously as Antonia’s face remained blank.
‘My wife’s viewing habits are uncompromisingly intellectual,’ Payne said. ‘She rarely watches the box and when she does, it’s only carefully selected programmes.’
‘Really? How very interesting. My dear Antonia, you don’t know what you’ve been missing. I wonder if it’s to do with you -’ Lady Grylls broke off. ‘What they have on Pop Idol is a lot of singularly talentless young people wearing extraordinary clothes, posturing and squawking in the most incredible manner. When they lose, they start crying. Such fun!’
Antonia found herself puzzling over what her aunt by marriage had been going to say. I wonder if it’s to do with you – What? Being middle class?
‘Of course Corinne was a completely different kettle of fish. There was a collective gasp the moment she opened her mouth,’ Lady Grylls went on. ‘She sang two little-known Piaf songs. “La Fille de Joie” and “L’Homme Qui…” something or other. The man who – no, can’t remember.’
‘Qui m’aime?’ Payne suggested. ‘Qui m’assassine?’
‘Don’t be silly, Hughie. Anyhow. That launched her singi ng career. She was an instant hit. Never looked back. The whole of France voted for her. She got every single vote. They said General de Gaulle was one of the callers. Mr Lark took the next plane from America. He had watched the show on TV. He offered his services, was accepted and took control of Corinne’s career. He made sure Corinne was showered with offers. Olympia – Carnegie Hall. The rest, as they say, is history.’
There was a pause. ‘Was there ever a man in her life?’ Antonia asked.
‘No. I don’t think so. I don’t think she’s ever had a romance.’ Lady Grylls sighed. ‘Poor gel.’
‘No boyfriends?’
‘No. Nothing serious at any rate. She was too busy singing.’
‘Mr Lark. I seem to remember a rumour,’ Payne said. ‘Wasn’t there something between them?’
‘I may be wrong,’ Lady Grylls said, ‘but I don’t think she’s ever had an intimate relationship with a man. No, no girlfriends either. Out of the question. One simply doesn’t think of Corinne in those terms. Isn’t that extraordinary?’
‘Oh, but you are wrong. A lot of people do think of Corinne in those terms,’ a man’s voice said. ‘You’d be amazed.’
7
Sleep and His Brother
Eleanor didn’t know how much time had passed. She was sure she hadn’t been asleep, not quite, only floating in some self-induced trance-like daze.
She had been thinking of that golden September day twelve years previously, when Griff and she had taken a leisurely drive up the coast from Los Angeles to Santa Barbara. It had been extremely hot to start with but then, just south of Ventura, there came that magical instant when the air cooled and the ocean appeared without warning in a blaze of reflected sunlight, a sudden flash of infinite sky and dazzling cobalt blue, waves breaking on reefs like lace on a glass table. The beauty had been so great, so overpowering, it rendered them speechless. It had felt like receiving an unexpected draught of some clarifying narcotic. ‘If only we could stay here for ever,’ Griff had said.
Eleanor felt confused and disoriented. Her heart was beating like a drum. For a couple of moments she had no idea where she was. Was this a train? She never travelled by train – never! She’d always had a beautiful chauffeur-driven car at her disposal – her 1954 Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith Six Light Saloon. Trains made her feel ill. She needed to get out – she felt a panic attack approaching – where was the emergency button? Gasping, she half rose from her seat.
‘Would you like more tea, madame?’ The waiter had come up to her. She saw him look at the heap on the table as though he disapproved, then back at her.
‘I don’t want anything, thank you very much,’ Eleanor managed to say.
‘Is there anything wrong?’
‘No – nothing wrong!’ Eleanor snapped. She felt annoyed, which was a good sign for it meant that she had recovered. She resumed her seat. The waiter lingered and stared… Arrogant puppy! Sleek raven-black hair. Beetle brows. Melodramatically flaring nostrils. Buffed up through regular workouts. Very male, impossibly macho – oh so full of himself!
‘Not long until we arrive at Waterloo,’ the waiter said.
‘Have you heard of Corinne Coreille?’ Eleanor asked on an impulse, making it sound like an insult.
‘Who?’ He appeared startled. He was no more than twenty-eight or nine.
‘Corinne Coreille.’
‘Oh. She was a singer, no? Very old?’
‘She is not very old,’ Eleanor bristled.
‘No? She is dead?’
‘She is not dead. She is in England.’
‘In England? I thought she was dead.’
Eleanor watched him swagger down the aisle. Why couldn’t she have had a son like him? Somebody who thought Corinne Coreille was dead and shrugged his shoulders with eloquent indifference when told she wasn’t.