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It was a subject he continued over lunch, stopping off at a little auberge that he liked to go to when he wanted to get away from his usual plush lifestyle.
‘He invited everyone who was anyone—painters, ex-pat Americans, film-makers, novelists.’
‘It sounds very glamorous.’ Tara smiled as he regaled her with stories.
‘My grandfather was much quieter in temperament—and my father too. When I was a boy we spent the summers here. Hans and his first wife and their children were often visitors, before my parents were killed—’
He broke off, aware that he was touching on something he did not usually talk about to the women in his life. But Tara was looking at him, the light of sympathy in her eyes.
‘Killed?’ she echoed.
‘They both died in a helicopter crash when I was twenty-three,’ he said starkly.
Her expression of sympathy deepened. ‘That must have been so hard for you.’
His mouth tightened. ‘Yes,’ was all he said. All he could say.
He watched her take a slow forkful of food, then she looked at him again. ‘It can’t compare, I know, but I have some idea of what you went through.’ She paused. ‘My parents are both in the army, and part of me is always waiting to hear that...well, that they aren’t going to come home again. That kind of fear is always there, at some level.’
It came to him that he knew very little about this woman. He only knew the surface, that fabulous beauty of hers that so took his breath away.
‘Did you—what is that old-fashioned phrase in English?—“follow the drum”?’ he heard himself asking.
She shook her head. ‘No, I was sent to boarding school at eight, and spent most of my holidays with my grandparents. Oh, I flew out to see my parents from time to time, and they came home on leave sometimes, but I didn’t see a great deal of them when I was growing up. I still don’t, really. We get on perfectly well, but I guess we’re quite remote from one another in a way.’
He took a mouthful of wine. It was only a vin de table, made from the landlord’s own grapes, but it went well with the simple fare they were eating. He found himself wondering whether Tara would have preferred a more expensive restaurant, but she seemed
content enough.
She was relaxing more all the time, he could tell. It was strange to be with her on her own, without Celine and Hans to distort things. Strange and...
Good. It’s good to be here with her. Getting to know her.
And why not? She came from a different world, and that was refreshing in itself. But it was about himself that he heard himself speaking next.
‘I was very close to my parents,’ he said. ‘Which made it so hard when—’ He broke off. Took another mouthful of wine. ‘Hans was very kind—he stepped in, got me through it. He stood by me and his wife did too. I was...shell-shocked.’ He frowned, not looking at her, but back into that nightmare time all those years ago. ‘Hans helped me with the bank too. Not everyone on the board thought I could cope at so young an age. He guided me, advised me—made sure I took control of everything.’
‘No wonder,’ she said carefully, ‘you’re so loyal to him now.’
His eyes went to hers. ‘Yes,’ he said simply.
She smiled. ‘Well, I hope his life will soon be a lot happier.’ Her expression changed, softened. ‘He’s such a lovely man—it’s so sad that he was widowed. Do you think he’ll marry again eventually? I mean, someone not like Celine!’
‘It would be good for him, I think,’ Marc agreed. ‘But, as I said to you, the trouble is he can be too kind-hearted for his own good—easy for him to be taken advantage of by an ambitious female.’
‘Yes...’ She nodded. ‘He needs someone much nicer than Celine! Someone,’ she mused, ‘who really values him. And...’ she gave a wry smile ‘...who enjoys German romantic poetry!’
Marc pushed his empty plate aside, wanting to change the subject. Of course he was glad for Hans that he’d freed himself from Celine’s talons, but right now the only person he wanted to think about was Tara.
She had already finished her plat du jour, and she smiled at him as she reached for a crusty slice of baguette from the woven basket sitting on the chequered tablecloth.
‘You’ve no idea how good it is to simply eat French bread!’ she told him feelingly. ‘Or that croissant I had at breakfast! So many models are on starvation diets—it’s horrendous!’
He watched her busy herself, mopping up the last of the delicious homemade sauce on her empty plate, disposing of it with relish.
‘Won’t you have to starve extra to atone for this now?’ he posed, a smile in his voice.
She shook her head. ‘Nope. I’m going to be chucking in the modelling lark. It’s been good to me, I can’t deny that, but I haven’t done anything since university that qualifies me for any other particular career—not that I want to work nine-to-five anyway. I’ve got other plans. In fact,’ she added, ‘it’s thanks to being out here that I can make them real now.’
