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The Last Will And Testament Of Daphné Le Marche
KATE FORSTER lives in Melbourne, Australia with her husband, two children and two dogs, and can be found nursing a laptop, surrounded by magazines and watching trash TV or French films.
For my mother Joan, the ultimate Francophile.
Contents
Cover
About the Author
Title
Dedication
Prologue
Part 1: Spring
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Part Two: Summer
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Part 3: Autumn/Winter
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Epilogue
Copyright
Prologue
London, 2016
The ornate marble fireplace glowed from the fire that hissed and danced within it, as though in celebration of what was to come for Daphné Le Marche and, as she watched the flames, she imagined her final descent into hell.
Was it Mark Twain who said that you should go to heaven for the climate and hell for the company?
Daphné would always take the excellent company over a sunny day; besides, the state of the weather had never bothered her. She lived so much in her head that she often failed to notice the black clouds building on the horizon.
That was often the problem in her eighty years on Earth, she mused, as she watched the cremation dance in the distance of her bedroom.
The nurse had said it was too warm for a fire in this mild July summer, and the doctor said the smoke wasn’t good for her heart, but he had said it half-heartedly, she thought, and she smiled at her own pun.
What did they know about her frozen bones and broken heart? What did they know about being housed in an eighty-year-old body with a thirty-year-old mind?
Of course, the fire was lit as requested, and a new nurse was employed; one who didn’t sigh, and blow her fringe up with her breath when she entered Daphné’s bedroom.
She looked around her bedroom with her tired eyes. It was splendid; everything in her world was splendid. Her bedroom was perfectly appointed in every way, from the pale apricot silk curtains to the antique furniture, but the only items that gave her pleasure at that moment were her mother’s linen sheets which she lay upon, given to her on her wedding day sixty years ago.
How she wished for her mother now, tears burning her tired eyes, as the heavy oak door to her bedroom opened.
Edward Badger entered the room, standing awkwardly in the entrance, holding a leather satchel and an iPad.
‘Madame Le Marche,’ he said in a deferential yet somewhat embarrassed tone. He had probably never seen her so vulnerable and looking so old, she thought, and she took a little pleasure in still making those around her feel uncomfortable. She liked people to not feel too familiar with her. Just because they knew the stories, they didn’t know the woman, she often told those nearby, a boastful warning of who they were dealing with.
For twelve years, Edward had worked for Daphné Le Marche as her personal solicitor, starting as a junior and then working his way to her side. He was the most loyal person she had ever known, or the most stupid—she could never quite decide—but at least he stayed when everyone else had left.
‘Edward, please, sit.’ She motioned to the uncomfortable Queen Anne style chair, placed by her bedside for visitors. She had deliberately asked for this chair to be used, discouraging long stays.
Not that any of the visitors who had sat by her failing side had offered her any comfort. Who could offer her comfort now, besides the doctor and his heavy leather bag of medicines?
Edward looked handsome with the fire behind him, and Daphné wondered if he had left a woman’s bed to be in another woman’s bedroom at nearly midnight. Edward never spoke of his love life, although she was sure he wasn’t gay. Perhaps if she were younger, she might have helped him in some way to find his lover or she might have kept him for herself. She smiled to herself at the thought of her younger self in seduction mode.
‘I have decided,’ she said finally, feeling her heart beat in random triplets.
Edward nodded and sat down as she instructed. He then opened the satchel and took out a thick sheaf of papers.
‘Do you believe in heaven and hell?’ she asked.
To his credit, Edward didn’t seem perturbed by her question even though Madame Le Marche had never really engaged in small talk with him, but then again conversations about the afterlife could not be construed as small talk.
‘No,’ he answered as he shuffled the papers, finding the one page he needed to record her final wishes.
‘You seem so sure, have you already had a preview of what’s to come?’ She laughed a little.
He looked up at the old woman and smiled. ‘I deal in facts and there isn’t any evidence to suggest that such places exist outside this life.’
His eyes were kind and his voice steady and she wondered if he was as good to his own mother as he was to her.
‘Are you suggesting there exists a place within this life? That heaven is here on earth?’
Edward raised his broad shoulders and shrugged. ‘Perhaps.’
Daphné felt a rare stir of interest. Age makes you not only weary but also bored, she often said.
‘Go on,’ she demanded.
Edward smiled, almost to himself, she noticed. ‘Do you know those days that are perfect? Where everything makes sense and who you are with, or your own company, feels like destiny, when everything is flowing your way, that is heavenly, isn’t it?’
‘Perhaps,’ she said, slightly imitating him.
He went on, ignoring her dusting of scorn. ‘And those days or nights, yes it’s usually night-time, when you wonder how it all could have gone so incredibly wrong, why the person you love is in pain, or how can a baby have cancer? How can people suffer so much? I think that is hell. It’s usually between the hours of two and four in the morning that the worst of those thoughts occur.’
‘Hell has a schedule? A timetable?’ She laughed again, but it sounded hollow to her ears.
She knew those hours. She knew that hell.
Edward was silent, as though he had said too much, but she didn’t have time for his guilt. She had her own to deal with.
She paused, as her long, thin fingers clutched the edge of the sheets.
She remembered her mother tucking her into bed when she was sick, the smell of lavender on the sheets, the sound of a fire in the bedroom lulling her to sleep.
When I die, I will go downstairs and my mother will be upstairs, she thought, and at that moment Daphné regretted the choices she had made in life, for only her mother was enough to cause a woman like Daphné Le Marche penitence.
Edward waited patiently for her decision to be revealed.
‘Is the formula safe?’ she asked, and Edward nodded.
‘It’s in the bank vault,’ he said.
‘And the journals?’
‘Locked in the drawer in London,’ he answered.
Daphné sighed. There was no point postponing it any longer. She knew what she had to do.
‘The girls, I leave it all to the girls,’ she said finally.
Edward blinked a few times, as though trying to process her ruling.
‘And Robert?’ He asked of her only surviving child.
‘He made his decision years ago,’ she said and Edward was silent.
The Le Marche family history was enough to fill scandal sheets for years to come, but he knew her decision to overlook her only son and heir was not made lightly.
‘They must be here in London; they must work at Le Marche for a year before they can sell and they must always have two signatures on every decision. They are each other’s conscience.’
Edward wrote notes on the iPad as she spoke, her hands now running along the edging of the top sheet. Back and forth, like practising scales on the piano as a child.
She thought of her business and she wished she could stay. Nothing was as good as working, she once told her sons. What a shame neither of them had her work ethic.
‘And the formula?’ he asked.
‘They receive it after they have worked together for one year and one day.’
Edward made a note and snapped the cover on the iPad closed as though it was an audible full stop on the moment.
‘Where are the girls now?’ she asked, tiredness creeping up on her.
‘Celeste is mostly in Paris, but is sometimes with her mother in Nice, and Sibylla is in Melbourne—she lives alone but spends a lot of time with Elisabeth.’
Daphné felt her eyes hurt again at the thought of lovely Elisabeth. How she had suffered, in some ways more than Daphné, at the loss of Henri.
‘Mothering isn’t easy, that’s why I worked,’ she said almost to herself.
Edward was silent.
He was understanding company, she thought, wishing he would come again, but she knew she wouldn’t see him again after tonight.
‘A year. I give them a year to work together, and one cannot sell without the other. If one sells, they both sell.’
‘They can’t buy each other out?’ Edward’s face was now frowning.
‘Don’t frown, it gives you lines,’ said Daphné automatically.
Edward tried to smooth his face but failed.
‘They can’t sell the company to each other?’ he asked again.
‘No,’ said Daphné. ‘I want this family to rest its quarrels. The only chance we have now is with the girls.’
‘But they haven’t seen each other since they were children,’ Edward said.
‘You’re frowning again,’ she reminded him.
The fire spat in annoyance, and he glanced at it and then back to Daphné who was speaking again.
‘I am not concerned about petty reasons of an obstacle, such as separation. They’re family, they don’t need reintroductions. They have more in common than they think.’
Edward wrote quickly and then handed the papers to Daphné, who lifted her hand.
‘Where do I sign?’ she asked with a tired sigh. Dying was exhausting, she thought. No wonder people only did it once in their lifetime.
Edward picked up a book from her bedside table for her rest the paper on.
‘The Book of Perfumes,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘Still working, are you?’
‘I am always working,’ she said tiredly, as the door opened and the nurse came into the room. ‘Even on my deathbed, I am working.’
‘Can you witness this, please?’ Edward asked the woman, in a tone Daphné admired. He had grown into a confident man and she trusted him, which was as rare in business as it was in love.
The nurse watched as Daphné signed her hand and then Edward and the nurse added their signatures to the document.
‘It is done,’ said Edward, in a deferential tone, after the nurse left the room.
‘I don’t envy you,’ she said, a small smile creeping onto her face.
‘Why is that?’ he asked, as he packed his papers into his satchel.
‘What is about to come, I am sure I don’t pay you enough.’ She laughed a little, happy at the thought she could still create waves, even after her death.
‘I am capable of handling anything, I’ve been taught by the best,’ said Edward, reaching down and touching her hand.
Her skin was cold, but her grasp firm, as she held his hand.
‘Thank you,’ she said, meaning it deeply. Edward had been her greatest support over the last years and she hoped he could be the same for the girls.
‘Look after my petites-filles,’ she said, so tired now.
‘I will, and I will be back to see you again,’ he said, his thumb stroking the back of her hand.
She nodded, but she knew he wouldn’t be back while she was alive. If there was one thing Daphné Le Marche knew how to keep it was a schedule.
After Edward had gone, and the fire was dying in the grate, she saw the colour she had been chasing her entire life.
Dernières lueurs—the perfect afterglow.
And she cursed God that she could never replicate it in her lifetime. All she had ever wanted was to create a product that gave women the glow as though they had just fallen in love or made love or even both. She touched her own cheek with her hand and tried to remember when she last had that glow.
It was too long ago, she thought sadly, and she closed her eyes and slept, and between the hours of two and four, just as she had suspected she always would, Daphné Hélène Le Marche née Amyx died. She had never been late to a meeting before, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to be late for this one.
Chapter 1
Celeste
Sometimes Celeste Le Marche wondered if she should have died instead of Camille.
If she had gone to the dance lesson with Camille instead of having a tantrum at home because she didn’t get new ballet shoes like her sister, then they would have argued over who got the front seat, and Celeste, being the more aggressive of the sisters, even though she was younger, would have won.
Camille would have been relegated to the back seat behind Papa, because that was the only seat belt in the back of the Audi that worked and it would have been Celeste that died instantly when the truck hit the car.
Then Camille would have gone to the hellhole school that was Allemagne and Celeste would have gone to heaven with Uncle Henri and Pépère, and everything would be as it should be.
She used to wonder what it was like in heaven. Every imagining changed according to her age. One year it was bowls filled with sweets on pretty little tables and talking goldfish that swam in ponds, then it was filled with every fabulous item of clothing she could imagine, and then it was champagne and cocaine and dancing without ever needing to sleep.
Now, as she wandered through the dark villa belonging to her mother, she wondered if heaven was actually being able to sleep through the night.
She could hear the sounds of the waves on the rocks below and she wondered about her uncle for a moment, and then pushed the thoughts from her head.
Why did the darkest thoughts always come when there was so little light?
She checked her phone and saw the missed messages from Paul in Paris.
Instead, there were over twenty messages from the press. News of her affair with the Minister of Trade had just been leaked by someone, probably that little shit who worked for him, she thought. He was always flouncing around wearing too much cologne and his pants too tight. Now it would be in the news tomorrow, unless Paul tried to put a stop to it by offering something in return.
A text came through from him as she peered at her phone.
Celeste, we need to talk. Now!
She snorted at her phone. He had a night free from the confines of the family home and he thought her worthy enough to give her his company, except she was in Nice and he wasn’t happy about it all, judging by the tone of his text.
He could wait for a change, she thought, as she sat on the cane chaise and covered her long legs with the cotton blanket her mother had left at the end of the lounge. The sun must be nearly up, she thought, as she peered into the darkness. On the horizon, a light glimmered, and Celeste was thankful the night was nearly over.
Matilde was so thoughtful to her guests, thought Celeste, as she straightened out the blanket. It was just her daughter she forgot about. The only time she had been nurtured by Matilde was when she had her tonsils out when she was six, the year before Camille died. Matilde had put her daughter into clean sheets and rubbed lavender onto her temples when she had a headache. Camille had sat at the end of the bed and had read her Babar, and Papa had bought her little honey sweets to soothe her throat.
Her mother certainly hadn’t been in this mood when Celeste arrived unannounced from Paris the day before.
‘Celeste, what are you doing here?’ she had asked, surprise showing in her blue eyes. At fifty-five years old, Matilde Le Marche had retained her figure, her married name, and her love of socialising.
‘I needed to get away from Paris,’ was all Celeste had said, pushing through the door of the villa.
‘Married men make women crazy and women make married men crazy. It is better to be single,’ said Matilde as she’d picked up her tennis racquet, which was next to the front door. ‘Look at me.’
Celeste knew better than to open the door to the conversation that would start if she commented on her mother’s statement. The only thing Matilde liked to do more than gossip was to complain about the affairs her father had had while they were still married.
Of course, Matilde had learned of Celeste’s affair with Paul Le Brun from the nephew of a friend, whose ex-boyfriend was in love with Paul.
Too many visits under the guise of decorating his office had brought attention to their relationship, and since then Paul had been retreating from seeing Celeste as often.
Was it just her, or was the sex a little less intense also, or was that because he was nearing fifty?
What if he died while they were making love? She had heard of such stories, and the idea of Paul dead on top of her while still inside her made her shudder.
Celeste tried to shake her morbidity and closed her eyes, the cool air caressing her face. Her phone chimed again and she rushed to turn it down and saw a text message from her father.
Grand-Mère passed last night
So much death in this family, she thought, as she read the message.
Her father Robert was not one for extreme displays of emotion and the news of Grand-Mère Daphné’s passing was handled in his usual taciturn way.
She thought about messaging him back, but what could she say to ease her father’s relationship with his mother?
She had enough problems with Matilde. The idea of her mother was far nicer than the reality. It was the same with Grand-Mère Daphné. She was always frightening to her as a child and she hadn’t seen her in a year, not since Daphné’s heart went into failure and she had gone into hiding.
‘I’m surprised she has a heart to fail,’ her father had quipped over their quarterly lunch at La Tour d’Argent, which Celeste loathed but knew it was vital to attend if she were to keep her measly allowance from Papa.
Daphné Le Marche was never a warm person to Celeste or anyone else, but she had rescued her granddaughter from her time at the Allemagne school and that alone was worth a moment’s silence for the old woman.
She would organise the funeral, she thought. It would be an elegant event, like Daphné. God knows what it would turn into if her father was left to manage the details. If he had his way, her grandmother would be shipped out to sea in a cardboard coffin, and not even a prayer offered.
Perhaps she should have said more to her grandmother over the years, especially after that telephone call from Allemagne, made to Daphné when she was sixteen, which saved her life. Robert and Matilde were so immersed in their own grief and self-destruction that they didn’t see their surviving daughter was dying at boarding school.
It was the only time in her childhood that Celeste had had a champion. It was Daphné who had told Robert that Celeste was anorexic, and a victim of extreme bullying and that she had tried to overdose on painkillers. It was Daphné who had told Matilde to step up and be a mother or she would lose both children. It was Daphné who had organised Celeste to attend hospital and finish her final classes at home with a tutor.
And it was Daphné who had ruined the school’s reputation with Europe’s elite when it refused to acknowledge any wrongdoing and turned a blind eye to the beatings of Celeste, the urine-soaked bed, courtesy of the girls in her dormitory, which Celeste was forced to sleep in most nights, and the ostracising of her from every meal and every social event.
What were once rumours of a culture of bullying at the school soon became absolute truth once Daphné made calls to certain important families. Soon there was a removal of some of the most elite students by their families and the school never quite regained its footing among the upper classes again.
Celeste never knew why it was her who had been chosen as the victim of the bullying. Was she too tall? Too thin? Too blonde? Too something?
The only time it had been discussed was when Matilde had called her on the telephone as Celeste was being put on a drip for dehydration and a low heart rate.
‘They don’t like you because you’re too beautiful, like me. Women don’t like women like us, we’re a threat,’ Matilde had slurred down the phone.
So Celeste grew to view all women as the enemy, even her own mother.
She opened her eyes, as she heard the sound of birds stirring in the bougainvillea, scratching and fighting to wake first. I envy them, she thought, it must be easy being a bird. She looked out at the growing light in the distance, colours of sherbet orange filling the sky and, for a moment, her eyes pricked with tears for Grand-Mère. She said a little prayer for Camille to look after her when she arrived in the afterlife.
She was under no illusions though that her grandmother would have thought of her on her deathbed. The woman barely had time for Robert, let alone his daughter. All she cared about was her business.
Now Le Marche would belong to Robert, and he would sell it to the Japanese as soon as he could. She pulled the cotton blanket up to her chest and wondered about Sibylla.
Did she know? Who would tell her? Would she come to the funeral?
But Celeste had no idea how to contact her cousin in Australia.
God, that was so far away, she thought. She struggled even travelling to London. Everything she needed was in Paris, Paul was in Paris. With his family, playing the perfect husband and father. That would be all over tomorrow if the news got out about their affair.
But if that were true, she thought, why had she run to Nice?
There were too many thoughts to try to put into order, so, instead, she watched the sun rise like fire in the distance.
