Remember. Barbara Taylor Bradford

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      It was Cézanne country, Van Gogh country, so Clee had told her, and he had been correct.

      Colours from the artists’ palettes were the colours of the day, the colours of the Provencal earth and sky: rich russet browns and burnt sienna, terracotta bleeding into orange and apricot, pink and peach tints balanced by acid yellow and vibrant marigold, and a gamut of brilliant blues and greens so sharp and shiny they resembled glazed enamel. And all were enhanced by a soft golden glow as if they had been liberally soaked in the hot Provencal sunshine.

      From the moment she had arrived in Provence, Nicky had been entranced by the beauty of the countryside which surrounded the old mas, or farmhouse, which Clee owned. A day did not pass without her catching her breath in surprise and delight at one thing or another. In an infinite number of small and grand ways, nature in all its glory was constantly revealing itself to her in this fabled southeastern corner of France.

      On this sun-filled afternoon, as she sat near the white stone-flagged swimming pool under the shade of a plane tree, sipping a citron pressé and daydreaming, she almost laughed out loud at herself. She had been so reluctant to come here, but now she realized she would not have missed this brief respite from the business of reporting catastrophes for anything in the world.

      And she was grateful to Clee for so generously giving her the use of his home, his very private retreat into which few were ever admitted. But then that was Clee. He was always thinking of her well-being, and this latest gesture was only one of his many kindnesses. He was such a good friend, and very dear to her.

      The idea of her coming to Provence had begun in Hong Kong almost three weeks ago, when she and Clee were finishing dinner at the Mandarin Hotel. Out of the blue, Clee had suddenly said to her, ‘Go to my farm, Nick. It’ll do you good to be there. It’ll take your mind off things, be restorative for you.’

      She had shaken her head vehemently, balking at the mere idea of it. At this moment in time, France did not particularly appeal to her, even though she had always loved it and felt at home there in the past. Unfortunately, it was now associated with pain and hurt in her mind.

      Almost three years ago she had gone there with her fiancé, Charles Devereaux, a man with whom she had been very much in love, and whom she had been about to marry. Unexpectedly, without any kind of forewarning, or hint of trouble between them, he had terminated their relationship in the most brutal of ways. No explanations or reasons were given, and it had happened only a couple of months after the idyllic trip to the Côte d’Azur.

      She had not set eyes on Charles Devereaux ever again.

      Naturally she did not want to upset herself further by visiting a place where they had spent their last few days together. There were moments when she still felt savaged by him, was filled with a fulminating anger, and this was enough for her to cope with, without having additional, unwelcome memories thrust upon her.

      Of course Clee had no way of knowing any of this, and so he had been extremely persistent, using every argument he could. She had remained adamant.

      Just before leaving Hong Kong for Paris, he had offered her the farm once again. ‘I’m afraid I can’t be there, Nicky, but my housekeeper will be, and she’ll look after you very well.’ A smile had flashed on his boyish face, and he had added, ‘She’ll spoil you to death, and I guarantee you’ll fall in love with her. Amelia’s a doll. Listen, babe, the farm’s in beautiful country, artists’ country - Cézanne and Van Gogh both painted in the area, and I know you’ll enjoy it. Please go. You need to do something special for yourself, to have a few weeks of peace after the horror of Beijing. Be good to yourself, Nick.’

      Touched by his thoughtfulness, she had thanked him profusely, and, relenting slightly, she had told him she would think about it. And back in New York she had done exactly that. Much to her continuing astonishment, thoughts of Clee’s farmhouse in France and a summer vacation had flitted in and out of her head, with surprising frequency.

      In the few spare moments she had between filming and editing a special on Tiananmen Square and its aftermath, she had pondered whether to take the trip or not. She had continued to be oddly ambivalent, could not make up her mind to buy an airline ticket, pack her bags and go.

      Unknowingly, it was Arch who had finally helped her come to a decision. Once the special was in the can he had told her she looked more exhausted than he had ever seen her. ‘Done in,’ was the way he had put it. ‘We have no other specials coming up until later in the year, and a bit of R and R wouldn’t do you any harm,’ he had pointed out. ‘Take a break while you can - you really need it, Nick.’

      When she had muttered that she did not want to have a vacation at this time, in case something world shaking occurred, Arch had laughed, had said he would fly her back from wherever she was if a war broke out somewhere.

      She had laughed with him, had then protested, ‘But I know I don’t look quite as bad as you say I do, Arch. You’re exaggerating, as usual!’

      His answer had been pithy and to the point. ‘Lousy, that’s the way you look, kiddo, take my word for it.’

      Later, she had looked at herself in a mirror, and had had to admit that Arch had spoken the truth. She had examined her face minutely, with objectivity, and had decided that he had actually understated the facts. She looked positively ill; her face was unusually pale, even haggard, she had dark rings, and her hair was lifeless. Much to her alarm, her eyes, always so clear and vividly blue, had seemed dull, faded almost, as if they were losing their colour, if such a thing were possible.

      Nicky СКАЧАТЬ