Spell in France

S. Clary M.

Description

When Trevor suggests a vacation in the South of France, his young wife Sylvie is thrilled, and sees it as a chance for the two of them to re-invigorate their marriage. He has become distant, her step-daughter Harriet's hostility has proved a divisive force, and Sylvie hopes that a spell together in Nice will bring excitement and romance back into their relationship. However, shortly after their arrival she is faced with the possibility that Trevor has not been truthful about his reasons for the trip. The vacation turns into a nightmare when he vanishes in mysterious circumstances.... Following the investigation and its aftermath, Sylvie makes a fresh start in London, and romance beckons. However, the past keeps intruding, and eventually erupts back into her life with shocking revelations. She is confronted with the pain of betrayal and forced to re-examine her marriage. She wonders if the past will ever go away, and if she will ever embrace the happiness she longs for

Sujets

• Psychological thriller
• Thriller
• France

Informations

• Publié par: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Date de parution: 16 janvier 2017
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781788035002
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

A SPELL IN FRANCE




M. S. CLARY
Copyright © 2017 M. S. Clary
www.msclary.t15.org

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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Contents
PART 1
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

PART 2
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 23

PART 3
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
PART 1
NICE
I believe I lost my husband outside the Church of Miracles. I know he had been there at the time in the gardens, which were dark green and dismal after rain. I was trying to use up the end of a long roll of film and called out to him. He looked back at me and I think he smiled. But when the photographs came back from the developer, he was no longer there. You could just about make out some distant shape, almost a shadow at the end of the avenue of cypresses, but it no longer resembled a person.
CHAPTER 1
The drive to Nice had taken nearly ten hours. Before we set out, Trevor was confident we would do it in six. I used to believe that if we hadn’t chosen to stop, things might have turned out differently. But I no longer think that. It would have altered nothing.
“What time are we expected?” His voice sounded hoarse and rather curt, which I put down to fatigue.
“I said we’d call when we were nearly there.”
“Yes. Give them time to chill a decent bottle,” he replied.
We had been sight-seeing for a few days and I had read about it in the guide- book. Trevor hadn’t been keen, but I insisted.

The Church turned out to be much larger than expected for such a remote place, its dark interior illuminated by soft amber lights and many candles.
My eye was drawn to hundreds of plaques packed tightly together on the stone walls. Along-side hung a number of elaborate bows frozen into glass frames, carefully embroidered and ornately tied. No doubt once a perfect shade of white, now tinged pale brown like paper left too long in the sun. The wording was always the same. Merci, a date, and some initials. A tribute to the dead or to the living? It wasn’t clear. But the sight of them made me shiver.

I fumbled for a euro, picked up a candle and moved towards the flickering lights in the little side chapel where the Madonna was displayed. My way was awkwardly barred by two elderly women sitting totally still, one looking straight ahead, the other with her head in her hands. Not wanting to push past, I placed my candle on a ledge and sat down on one of the pews. Did the lighting of a single candle allow for just one wish, or prayer? I wasn’t sure. Maybe I was asking for too much. I wondered if I should light another candle and reached for my bag, then remembered I didn’t have any more change. I turned round and caught a glimpse of Trevor walking away down the aisle towards the door. He had no time for such symbolic gestures and would pull a face, as if questioning my intentions. I used to explain away the candle business as a form of donation. Someone has to pay for the cleaning, I’d say. And the candles, he would reply.

Wherever else my thoughts drifted away to that afternoon, I had no fore-warning of the changes that lay ahead for us, and it would be a very long time before I set foot in any church again.
The two women had left the side chapel and I was now alone, I lit my candle with a taper and placed it with the others before bobbing my head hastily as I had seen others do. Then I walked swiftly away down the aisle and out through the heavy door to join Trevor.

“I’d like to take a photo” I called out to him.
“Why do you always carry that heavy thing,” he’d said. “I said you should get yourself something more up to date.”
It’s true, it was heavy, but I liked my old Olympus, the one my mother had given me years ago when I was still at school.
“It won’t take a second.”
“Hurry up, then. We’ll never get there at this rate” he replied, striding away down the avenue of cypresses.

Our detour had cost us time, and it took a while to get back onto the main auto-route. We were well past Sete when I realised I hadn’t thought to bring anything for Caroline. This was to be our first meeting, and I so wanted her to like me. I wish I’d remembered to bring some English tea, something all ex-pats seem to welcome.
“We’ve got those bottles of Blanquette, that’ll be enough,” said Trevor.
“No. We should stop in the next town and I’ll see if I can find some flowers.”
“It’s really not necessary you know.”
“For you maybe, but for me it is.”
We exchanged no further words on the subject.
It was mid afternoon before we reached the next village. The local shops were still shut, except for a small Spar where all I could find was a fresh tarte-aux-pommes. At least it was something. I could see Trevor wasn’t too impressed, though he said nothing.
We drove swiftly on, past a hundred miles of sloping vineyards, grateful for the air-conditioned comfort that cocooned us against the heat of the day. Anticipation grew as the road would suddenly swerve, offering up its tantalising views of the ocean and the coastline beyond. I remember my first thrill of excitement as the spectacular curve of the Baie des Anges came into view. We finally reached the city’s outskirts, and slowed to join the stream of cars on the Corniche. The ocean sparkled in the late afternoon sunshine.
“I’ll call them now, shall I?” I took special care, slowly keying in their number, but there was no answer.
“Are you sure you’ve got the right number?”
“I’ve only got the one you gave me. It must be their land line. Perhaps they’re out on their balcony.”
“Started the aperitifs early, I should think.”
“Is that all you ever think about?” I said, trying to keep my tone light.
The rental car came to a sudden stop as we narrowly avoided hitting the car in front. I was flung hard against the seatbelt, and the apple tart spilled out of its box and upended in a sodden yellow mess over my skirt and under our feet.
“Well, that was a brilliant idea of yours, wasn’t it.”
Trevor’s face had turned a dark, blotchy red, and I decided it would be pointless to respond. The ripe smell of squashed pastry was clinging to our nostrils, and I knew he would be wondering how he could wriggle out of the excess the rental company would charge for the stain on the car seat. We drove on in silence after that until at last we reached the edge of the Old Town, and saw arrows directing us towards the entrance to an underground car-park.
“Try them again, will you?” said Trevor, his voice weary. “Perhaps Tom will come down and give us a hand with the bags.”
I tried again, carefully taking my time, and double checking the numbers. Still no reply.
“They’re not answering.”
“That’s odd.”
“You did let them know we were coming today?” Trevor ignored this, then said, “We’ll go on up anyway. They’ve probably been delayed somewhere.”
We left the car, and made our way towards the exit. The lift was broken and we had to walk up a number of steep, urine-stained concrete steps, before finding ourselves out on the street. There was an oppressive low layer of cloud and it felt clammy and airless. I could see the back of Trevor’s shirt was dark with sweat. My clothes were crumpled and sticking to me. Remnants of apple tart stuck to my trainers and I was longing for a shower. Pulling our overnight cases behind us, we trundled our way through the narrow alleys of the Old Town until we reached 9 rue D’Antibes. There was a sudden crack of thunder from above, and a few large spots of rain fell, then just as suddenly stopped. We rang the bell, and waited.
“There must have been a misunderstanding,” Trevor said at last. He sounded exhausted. his shoulders hunched. “I think we should make some other arrangements for tonight.”
“We could go and eat somewhere and try them later.”
“There’s no point in leaving it any later.” Trevor was already consulting the guidebook. “If we’re not careful, we’ll end up sleeping on the beach.”
“Will we find anything decent