Mike was on a journey of necessity and obligation - never in his life had he practised such deceit in his work or to his wife. He had managed to get two weeks’ holiday at short notice under the pretence that he had a sick relative in Kent - why he had chosen Kent he had no idea; he had just picked a place at random. He felt nervous - supposing someone from his office should bump into Emma and she in her ignorance dropped him in it. The plane would be landing at Toulouse Airport in about five minutes. He planned to hire a car and drive to the Retreat and he hoped that he would be able to book himself in on spec, pay by cash and give a false name. He felt like an undercover agent on an espionage mission.
As he drove into the winding gardens of the Retreat he thought what a pity it was that he could not have enjoyed the drive better, had Emma at his side, stopped off for a picnic and have pleasure from the normal things in life. Instead, he had to go and deal with the savage who had violated her.
He parked the car on a cobbled area to the side of the ancient farmhouse. A young girl sat behind the reception desk, probably a student on vacation.
‘I would like to book in for a few days, please.’ he said.
‘Ah, you are lucky, sir, we’ve had a cancellation today. Normally, our guests book in a few weeks in advance to avoid disappointment. Your name, sir?’
‘Paul Gibson.’
‘Your room is Number 12. Do you require help with your luggage?’
‘No, thanks, I can manage it myself.’
‘Monsieur and Madame Dabell will introduce themselves to you after dinner to give you a brief history of the Retreat and give you a rundown of the timetable, but it’s all pretty informal. This sheet has a map of the layout and will give you some information about the Retreat. The other sheet is a timetable of the painting sessions, meal times and the dates of the excursions. Enjoy your stay.’
The subterfuge so far seemed so simple; he would pay by cash on his departure. He had a plan in place but he was also prepared to think on his feet. He had given himself two weeks but he hoped it would all be over long before then. His mission was twofold, but the first part would be to track down Emma’s paintings.
Mike had a shortage of casual clothes; he had packed for a business trip and he took out the shirts that Emma had so carefully ironed to hang in the wardrobe to prevent further creasing. He changed into his only pair of jeans and teamed them with a green and navy striped polo shirt. A glance at his watch told him that dinner would soon be served but he was wary of dining with the other guests; he had gathered that there were only a few that were not in a party. They would all be familiar with each other, he supposed, and besides what could he talk about? He made up his mind to drive to the village to find a café; at least in the village he would feel like a tourist and not like a fraud.
Had he been in France under different circumstances he might have enjoyed the village with its chateaux, archways and pavement cafes surrounded by vineyards, poppies and sunflowers growing tall in the fields. Such obscure flowers, he always thought, fairy-tale like, almost seeming to smile as though they possessed a human quality. He found a café and ordered nothing more adventurous than a boeuf bourguignon and he allowed himself to drink a large glass of a red wine of the region that was excellent.
On his return to the Retreat, there were a scattering of people sitting at the tables on the veranda sipping wine. Mike made his way to the bar; he felt like a long cold beer to cool him down but he also needed more alcohol inside him because it would not be long until he would be approached by Pascal and Camille Dabell. In fact, he could see them him now. Emma had described him well; there was no mistake: that was him. Of Camille she had given no description but the woman at his side was at least ten years his senior. Why did that surprise him? She had what was called the French chic, from a certain age they all seemed similar to him - monotone. Olive-skinned, dressed in beige or khaki with a subtle makeup and unobtrusive silver earrings and necklace. Camille was petite, with well-cut greying hair, her face was thin and her features sharp.
Pascal extended his hand. ‘Good evening, are you Mr Gibson?’
‘Yes. Good evening.’
‘I am Pascal Dabell and this is my wife Camille. We were looking for you. Did you not eat here this evening?’
‘No. I popped out to the village; I wasn’t hungry, as I had an enormous lunch. I came to France on business and as I have some holiday owing to me, I’ve decided to stay for some relaxation. I’ve always wanted to try my hand at art. I doubt that I’ll be any good at it though.’
‘You never know, but the main thing is that you enjoy your stay. We don’t make judgments here. I’ll see you in the workshop tomorrow morning to let you choose some art materials.’
‘Thank you. I’ll look forward to that.’
‘Good night, Mr Gibson.’
The following day Mike found himself wandering around the gardens with a sketch book and pencils. He felt thoroughly confused and rather in awe of Emma. How did she manage to form her compositions? His mind’s eye could not formulate a picture; the scenery to him was a whole that he could not break down into a single composition. He felt incapable but he had to produce something to fool Pascal when he would come on his rounds later in the day. It was only eleven o’clock, two hours until lunch, and then Pascal probably wouldn’t appear until four or even five o’clock. There was nothing to confine him to the garden, he could go somewhere in his car until lunchtime and then do some sketches of the majestic-looking sunflowers he’d spotted against the wall on his return - perhaps he could manage that.
However, he found transferring the image before his eyes onto a two-dimensional sheet of paper practically impossible. It gave him a renewed respect for Emma’s artistic ability. This feeling of inadequacy was foreign to him, his first attempts were laughable but he persevered. The hours passed and Pascal stood behind Mike. Mike sat with the sketchpad on his lap; the sketch he’d finally made of the sunflowers was a reasonable attempt in terms of a draughtsman but he lacked the sensitive touch of an artist.
‘The shapes are accurate, Mr Gibson. Perhaps you could try to use paint tomorrow. I would recommend acrylics. You might enjoy that.’
‘Yes, I’ll have a go. My friend was here last year - she is a very good artist. She told me that you had found a buyer for the painting she did while she was here. In fact he liked it so much, he commissioned another one.’
Pascal appeared to be slightly ill at ease.
‘Your friend’s name. What is it?’
‘Emma Morgan. Does that ring any bells?’ Mike was speaking very casually and keeping his cool.
‘Emma. Oh yes. Yes, there was a buyer.’
‘Apparently, Pascal, she said she never received a payment for the paintings. Do you know what happened? Does the buyer have the paintings? Perhaps I could contact him now I’m here. Emma said it was Monsieur Chamberlain. Is that correct? Emma’s husband is thinking of coming to France to track them down. I would like to save him the trouble as I’m here.’
Pascal’s face had noticeably coloured.
‘Monsieur Chamberlain does not have the paintings - he changed his mind. The paintings are in my studio. I didn’t have Mrs Morgan’s address and I think she might have changed her mobile number because when I tried to phone, it was unavailable. I wanted to purchase them myself - I’m sure I can find a buyer but I needed her permission.’ He was floundering.
‘Strange she hasn’t contacted you then, isn’t it? Can we go to your studio? Perhaps I could arrange to have them shipped back to England.’
Mike followed Pascal round to a door at the side of the house. Pascal turned the two paintings round that were leaning against the wall of the studio.
‘Yes, those are Emma’s paintings,’ Mike said, feeling a great wave of affection towards his wife’s accomplishment.
‘I’ll make a payment for the paintings,’ Pascal said, producing his cheque book from his pocket an expression of optimism on his face.
He clearly had not fooled Pascal. Mike was sure the man knew exactly who he was. He made no comment - he was interested to see what payment Pascal would make. The cheque he handed him was for £5000.00. Mike knew these paintings were not worth that in market value. The paintings were good but Emma was an unknown artist. ‘No, thank you. I’ll return the paintings to my wife.’ Mike picked up both canvases and with some difficulty began walking towards the door.
‘Where are you going, Mr Morgan?’ Pascal was flapping his cheque book.
‘Put that away. I’m going to find Camille and tell her what you’ve done. So you might as well pack your bags Pascal.’
‘Wait. Tell me what have I done? I explained about the paintings’.
Mike rested them against the wall.
‘Oh. The paintings. Why do you think it is that Emma hasn’t contacted you then? Eh. Eh?’
Pascal changed his tactics.
‘I’m not sure - perhaps she’s humiliated. I think she thought I wanted an affair - but I’m devoted to Camille. I was only interested in your wife as an artist.’
Mike was neither an aggressive nor a violent man but Pascal had driven him over the edge. He grabbed Pascal’s shirt and pulled it tight into his neck and pushed him hard into the wall of the studio, glaring straight into his eyes.
‘You despicable bastard. Do you really think I’m going to believe your version over my wife’s? Do you think that I don’t know every detail of the act you performed? You’re an animal. I saw the bruises you left her with, not to mention the mental scars.’
Pascal began to gasp for breath and Mike released him.
Mike made another attempt to leave the studio, holding tight onto the paintings.
Pascal was flapping his cheque book again.
Mike looked at the cheque book.
‘Well, it is tempting. Perhaps ten thousand pounds?’
Pascal started writing immediately.
‘By the way, my name is not Morgan, it is Paul Gibson. Emma uses her maiden name sometimes. Make the cheque payable to Paul Gibson.’
Pascal handed him the cheque which, as Mike suspected, indicated that he and Camille held a joint bank account. He was using her money to buy his silence.
‘So, Pascal. How are going to explain this to Camille?’ He was pointing to her name printed below Pascal’s signature on the cheque.
‘You underestimate me, Mr Gibson. Do you think I don’t have the brain to account for the money?’
Mike wanted to wipe the smug expression off Pascal’s face but instead he headed for his car. Pascal followed Mike and watched him place the paintings in the back of the car lodged on the floor between the front and back seats. Mike then locked the door and calmly made his way to the Reception desk and asked for directions to Camille’s office. Pascal stood behind him looking helpless as Mike mouthed to him: ‘Pack your bags.’
Pascal disappeared and Mike was shown to Camille’s office. He knocked on the door.
‘Come in, Mr Gibson. How may I help you?’ …………….
As he drove into the winding gardens of the Retreat he thought what a pity it was that he could not have enjoyed the drive better, had Emma at his side, stopped off for a picnic and have pleasure from the normal things in life. Instead, he had to go and deal with the savage who had violated her.
He parked the car on a cobbled area to the side of the ancient farmhouse. A young girl sat behind the reception desk, probably a student on vacation.
‘I would like to book in for a few days, please.’ he said.
‘Ah, you are lucky, sir, we’ve had a cancellation today. Normally, our guests book in a few weeks in advance to avoid disappointment. Your name, sir?’
‘Paul Gibson.’
‘Your room is Number 12. Do you require help with your luggage?’
‘No, thanks, I can manage it myself.’
‘Monsieur and Madame Dabell will introduce themselves to you after dinner to give you a brief history of the Retreat and give you a rundown of the timetable, but it’s all pretty informal. This sheet has a map of the layout and will give you some information about the Retreat. The other sheet is a timetable of the painting sessions, meal times and the dates of the excursions. Enjoy your stay.’
The subterfuge so far seemed so simple; he would pay by cash on his departure. He had a plan in place but he was also prepared to think on his feet. He had given himself two weeks but he hoped it would all be over long before then. His mission was twofold, but the first part would be to track down Emma’s paintings.
Mike had a shortage of casual clothes; he had packed for a business trip and he took out the shirts that Emma had so carefully ironed to hang in the wardrobe to prevent further creasing. He changed into his only pair of jeans and teamed them with a green and navy striped polo shirt. A glance at his watch told him that dinner would soon be served but he was wary of dining with the other guests; he had gathered that there were only a few that were not in a party. They would all be familiar with each other, he supposed, and besides what could he talk about? He made up his mind to drive to the village to find a café; at least in the village he would feel like a tourist and not like a fraud.
Had he been in France under different circumstances he might have enjoyed the village with its chateaux, archways and pavement cafes surrounded by vineyards, poppies and sunflowers growing tall in the fields. Such obscure flowers, he always thought, fairy-tale like, almost seeming to smile as though they possessed a human quality. He found a café and ordered nothing more adventurous than a boeuf bourguignon and he allowed himself to drink a large glass of a red wine of the region that was excellent.
On his return to the Retreat, there were a scattering of people sitting at the tables on the veranda sipping wine. Mike made his way to the bar; he felt like a long cold beer to cool him down but he also needed more alcohol inside him because it would not be long until he would be approached by Pascal and Camille Dabell. In fact, he could see them him now. Emma had described him well; there was no mistake: that was him. Of Camille she had given no description but the woman at his side was at least ten years his senior. Why did that surprise him? She had what was called the French chic, from a certain age they all seemed similar to him - monotone. Olive-skinned, dressed in beige or khaki with a subtle makeup and unobtrusive silver earrings and necklace. Camille was petite, with well-cut greying hair, her face was thin and her features sharp.
Pascal extended his hand. ‘Good evening, are you Mr Gibson?’
‘Yes. Good evening.’
‘I am Pascal Dabell and this is my wife Camille. We were looking for you. Did you not eat here this evening?’
‘No. I popped out to the village; I wasn’t hungry, as I had an enormous lunch. I came to France on business and as I have some holiday owing to me, I’ve decided to stay for some relaxation. I’ve always wanted to try my hand at art. I doubt that I’ll be any good at it though.’
‘You never know, but the main thing is that you enjoy your stay. We don’t make judgments here. I’ll see you in the workshop tomorrow morning to let you choose some art materials.’
‘Thank you. I’ll look forward to that.’
‘Good night, Mr Gibson.’
The following day Mike found himself wandering around the gardens with a sketch book and pencils. He felt thoroughly confused and rather in awe of Emma. How did she manage to form her compositions? His mind’s eye could not formulate a picture; the scenery to him was a whole that he could not break down into a single composition. He felt incapable but he had to produce something to fool Pascal when he would come on his rounds later in the day. It was only eleven o’clock, two hours until lunch, and then Pascal probably wouldn’t appear until four or even five o’clock. There was nothing to confine him to the garden, he could go somewhere in his car until lunchtime and then do some sketches of the majestic-looking sunflowers he’d spotted against the wall on his return - perhaps he could manage that.
However, he found transferring the image before his eyes onto a two-dimensional sheet of paper practically impossible. It gave him a renewed respect for Emma’s artistic ability. This feeling of inadequacy was foreign to him, his first attempts were laughable but he persevered. The hours passed and Pascal stood behind Mike. Mike sat with the sketchpad on his lap; the sketch he’d finally made of the sunflowers was a reasonable attempt in terms of a draughtsman but he lacked the sensitive touch of an artist.
‘The shapes are accurate, Mr Gibson. Perhaps you could try to use paint tomorrow. I would recommend acrylics. You might enjoy that.’
‘Yes, I’ll have a go. My friend was here last year - she is a very good artist. She told me that you had found a buyer for the painting she did while she was here. In fact he liked it so much, he commissioned another one.’
Pascal appeared to be slightly ill at ease.
‘Your friend’s name. What is it?’
‘Emma Morgan. Does that ring any bells?’ Mike was speaking very casually and keeping his cool.
‘Emma. Oh yes. Yes, there was a buyer.’
‘Apparently, Pascal, she said she never received a payment for the paintings. Do you know what happened? Does the buyer have the paintings? Perhaps I could contact him now I’m here. Emma said it was Monsieur Chamberlain. Is that correct? Emma’s husband is thinking of coming to France to track them down. I would like to save him the trouble as I’m here.’
Pascal’s face had noticeably coloured.
‘Monsieur Chamberlain does not have the paintings - he changed his mind. The paintings are in my studio. I didn’t have Mrs Morgan’s address and I think she might have changed her mobile number because when I tried to phone, it was unavailable. I wanted to purchase them myself - I’m sure I can find a buyer but I needed her permission.’ He was floundering.
‘Strange she hasn’t contacted you then, isn’t it? Can we go to your studio? Perhaps I could arrange to have them shipped back to England.’
Mike followed Pascal round to a door at the side of the house. Pascal turned the two paintings round that were leaning against the wall of the studio.
‘Yes, those are Emma’s paintings,’ Mike said, feeling a great wave of affection towards his wife’s accomplishment.
‘I’ll make a payment for the paintings,’ Pascal said, producing his cheque book from his pocket an expression of optimism on his face.
He clearly had not fooled Pascal. Mike was sure the man knew exactly who he was. He made no comment - he was interested to see what payment Pascal would make. The cheque he handed him was for £5000.00. Mike knew these paintings were not worth that in market value. The paintings were good but Emma was an unknown artist. ‘No, thank you. I’ll return the paintings to my wife.’ Mike picked up both canvases and with some difficulty began walking towards the door.
‘Where are you going, Mr Morgan?’ Pascal was flapping his cheque book.
‘Put that away. I’m going to find Camille and tell her what you’ve done. So you might as well pack your bags Pascal.’
‘Wait. Tell me what have I done? I explained about the paintings’.
Mike rested them against the wall.
‘Oh. The paintings. Why do you think it is that Emma hasn’t contacted you then? Eh. Eh?’
Pascal changed his tactics.
‘I’m not sure - perhaps she’s humiliated. I think she thought I wanted an affair - but I’m devoted to Camille. I was only interested in your wife as an artist.’
Mike was neither an aggressive nor a violent man but Pascal had driven him over the edge. He grabbed Pascal’s shirt and pulled it tight into his neck and pushed him hard into the wall of the studio, glaring straight into his eyes.
‘You despicable bastard. Do you really think I’m going to believe your version over my wife’s? Do you think that I don’t know every detail of the act you performed? You’re an animal. I saw the bruises you left her with, not to mention the mental scars.’
Pascal began to gasp for breath and Mike released him.
Mike made another attempt to leave the studio, holding tight onto the paintings.
Pascal was flapping his cheque book again.
Mike looked at the cheque book.
‘Well, it is tempting. Perhaps ten thousand pounds?’
Pascal started writing immediately.
‘By the way, my name is not Morgan, it is Paul Gibson. Emma uses her maiden name sometimes. Make the cheque payable to Paul Gibson.’
Pascal handed him the cheque which, as Mike suspected, indicated that he and Camille held a joint bank account. He was using her money to buy his silence.
‘So, Pascal. How are going to explain this to Camille?’ He was pointing to her name printed below Pascal’s signature on the cheque.
‘You underestimate me, Mr Gibson. Do you think I don’t have the brain to account for the money?’
Mike wanted to wipe the smug expression off Pascal’s face but instead he headed for his car. Pascal followed Mike and watched him place the paintings in the back of the car lodged on the floor between the front and back seats. Mike then locked the door and calmly made his way to the Reception desk and asked for directions to Camille’s office. Pascal stood behind him looking helpless as Mike mouthed to him: ‘Pack your bags.’
Pascal disappeared and Mike was shown to Camille’s office. He knocked on the door.
‘Come in, Mr Gibson. How may I help you?’ …………….