The Woman from Paris Read online

  “Let me see,” said Tom.

  “No.” She dropped it into her bag. “It’s a horrible photograph. Now, I need a cup of coffee. Shall we go through and find a nice café on the other side?”

  The three of them walked through the airport. David felt uneasy. If Phaedra was a year younger than him, then her mother must have been sleeping with his father during his marriage to Antoinette, which would mean that his father had been unfaithful right at the very start of his marriage. Had Phaedra lied to protect him? Had she lied to protect them? He took a deep breath and tried to brush it off: after all, it had all happened twenty-eight years ago, and his parents had been very happy since. He considered his mother and how devastated she’d be if she knew the truth. He resolved to try to forget it.

  14

  Chalet Marmot was as picturesque as a traditional Swiss chalet could possibly be. It was built high up on the meadows above the village, its wide balconies surveying the magnificent Gotchna Mountain opposite and the Prättigau Valley gently falling away to the right. The chalet had a pretty snow-capped roof, wooden walls darkened to a rich brown, and red shutters into which large hearts had been skillfully carved.

  It was four in the afternoon when they arrived. The sky was a deep, startling blue, and the sunlight was dazzling, causing the snow crystals to glitter like pavé diamonds. David carried the bags inside while Tom paced up and down outside with his iPhone clamped to his ear and a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. Phaedra stepped into the hall and inhaled the reassuring smell of pine. She swept her eyes over the interior, her delight growing as she walked on through into the sitting room, where a traditional Swiss fireplace dominated the far wall, already prepared with a neat pile of logs. The walls and ceilings were paneled in antique pine stripped from Prättigau farmhouses two or three hundred years old, and carved in the Swiss tradition with flowers and italic inscriptions. Impressionist paintings hung alongside old masters, and the sofas were big and inviting and scattered with cushions. Outside it was white and snowy, but inside the wood paneling and enormous red Persian rug gave it a cozy feel.

  “Your mother has extremely good taste,” she said, wandering through an archway into the dining room. “She has a good eye for fabrics. Blues and reds look really good in the mountains.”

  “I don’t know.” David shrugged. “It’s certainly comfortable.”

  “She should have been an interior decorator. She has such style.”

  He followed her into the dining room, where old pewter beer mugs were lined across the windowsills, and pine walls and beams gave the room the feel of a traditional farmhouse. “Maybe she would have been, had she not married my father,” he said.

  “She’s still young.”

  “Hard to start something new at her age,” David argued.

  “Perhaps she’ll give Fairfield an overhaul.”

  “Dad never let her touch a thing, except the bedrooms.”

  “You know, it could do with the odd lick of paint here and there. Now George isn’t around to stop her . . .”

  “I agree with you. A house should be a home. But I think she’s too aware of the heritage to mess around with it. And my grandmother is still ever-present to keep a beady eye on what goes on in there.”

  “I think she should do as she pleases. She’s spent the last thirty years of her life pleasing other people. Don’t you think it’s time she pleased herself? Perhaps she should travel.”

  “She’d never go on her own, and Aunt Rosamunde would drive her mad pretty quickly.”

  “She needs to get out of the house and out of her head. When we’re in familiar surroundings, we dwell in our minds, with all those rubbishy thoughts we don’t really need. When we go abroad, we live in our senses, taking in all the new and wonderful sights, smells, and sounds. We rise above the useless prattle of our thoughts and fully exist in the present, like I’m doing now. I’m taking in these marvelous new sights, and I feel so uplifted.” She grinned diffidently, aware of sounding quaint. “It was such a good idea of yours to come out. I feel better already.”

  It was clear from David’s affectionate gaze that he didn’t think her at all quaint. “So do I,” he agreed. “But then the very sight of you is enough to make me feel uplifted!” She turned away, embarrassed. His flirtatious comment had taken her by surprise. He laughed it off, as it had taken him by surprise, too, and he was regretting having said it. “Come, let me show you where you’re going to sleep.”

  If the downstairs had delighted her, the upstairs would please her even more. Her bedroom was decorated entirely in battened blue toile de Jouy with a bed so high she’d have to climb to get into it. She walked over to the window and gazed down into the valley. No wonder George had loved Murenburg so much; it had the charm of an Advent calendar.

  The boys didn’t give Phaedra time to unpack. They were keen for her to hire skis and boots so that they could set off early the following morning. They drove down to the village in George’s Jeep and parked opposite the Co-op to buy supplies. Phaedra relished the thought of cooking in that beautiful chalet, but David and Tom both insisted that they’d be going out every night for dinner at the Wynegg and Chesa Grischuna.

  She hired an impressive pair of Core skis at Gotschna Sport, and David made sure she got a bleeper for skiing off piste. The staff offered their sincere condolences. George had been a much loved and ubiquitous figure in Murenburg. Ever since his death the village residents had talked of little else and mourned him as one of their own.

  David secured her skis onto the roof rack, and they drove slowly through the village, pointing out the sights and waving at the locals, who recognized the car and greeted them enthusiastically.

  Phaedra was enchanted. Murenburg had the air of a lost age of elegance and the charm of a box of Lindt chocolates. Two Bernese mountain dogs enthusiastically greeted their fur-coated mistress as she emerged from the gift shop; a pair of horses harnessed to a sleigh outside the Alpina Hotel set their bells ringing every time they tossed their heads; and the driver, in his traditional blue embroidered smock, smoked a pipe, cheerily chatting to passersby as they stopped to stroke the animals. Opposite, on the station platform, a weather-beaten local in a beret sold hot chestnuts behind a stand as he had for the past forty years, his voice resounding across the street as he cried: “Heisse maroni, heisse maroni.” The primrose-colored Hotel Vereina gleamed in the sunshine with palatial grandeur, while the more discreet Chesa, a little farther down the street, exuded an old-world allure.

  Tom pointed out the only nightclub, the Casa Antica, then elaborated with a few stories of his adventures there. David drew up outside the bread shop, where only a few remaining plaited loaves lingered on the shelves. Phaedra accompanied him inside and listened as he chatted good-naturedly in broken Swiss-German to the old lady behind the counter. “I’m afraid I’m not a linguist,” he said to Phaedra as the shopkeeper lifted a loaf with a pair of tongs and dropped it into a paper bag.

  “You did well, from what I heard,” she replied.

  “What you heard is about all I can say.”

  “The whole point of speaking another language is to communicate, isn’t it? In which case you achieved your aim.”

  “Tom speaks far better than me. He spent a year working here after he left school.” David looked out of the window to see his brother striding around the car talking on his iPhone. “Languages come easily to Tom.”

  “I suspect he’s one of those gifted people who is rather lazy. Am I right?”

  David laughed. “Got it in one. He could turn his hand to anything he wants, but he chooses to run a nightclub.”

  “Nothing wrong with that, so long as he’s happy.”

  “I’m not sure that he is.” David frowned. “He’s an avoider . . .”

  The old lady put out her hand, and David delved into his pocket of loose change to pay her. Phaedra watched Tom as he guffawed into his telephone and wondered whether he had really mourned his father’s death, or
whether, as David suggested, he had simply pushed the pain to one side. She realized that while this trip was important for her and David, it was very important for Tom.

  That evening the three of them dined at the Chesa, where David and Tom were greeted like family. They seemed to know most people there, and it took a while to get to their table through the enthusiastic hand shaking and chatting. David introduced Phaedra to everyone, but he never mentioned that she was his half sister. Phaedra was relieved. She didn’t feel ready to share her story with strangers. It would be better for them all if it remained a family secret.

  As she was made a great fuss of, it dawned on her that people assumed she was David’s girlfriend. They looked from her to David and smiled in that knowing way, and it was clear from their admiring glances that they considered them a good match. David put his hand on the small of Phaedra’s back and ushered her to their table in the corner. But she could feel people watching them and talking about them in low voices. To her surprise, she liked the way it made her feel; she liked being linked to David.

  The table was in the perfect position to survey the room. The restaurant was almost full, and the waitresses wove between the tables wearing pretty dirndls with tidy white aprons. Phaedra ran her eyes over the alpine designs carved into the wooden beams, absorbed the warm atmosphere of the room, and sighed with pleasure. She was pleased that Julius had persuaded her to accept David’s original invitation to stay at Fairfield. She now felt part of their family—and she hadn’t ever felt part of a real family.

  They drank wine, ate the delicious dishes, and laughed at Tom’s stories. Then when Tom went out to smoke a cigarette, David and Phaedra were left together, and once again the electricity between them quivered with such force that Phaedra was certain the whole dining room would notice. David smiled across the table. He was unable to hide his feelings. They were growing so fast he wasn’t sure he’d be able to control them, and were it not for the word sibling that hung between them like prison bars, it would have been the most natural thing in the world to have held her hand.

  David paid the bill—Phaedra noticed that Tom didn’t even offer—then they drove back up the narrow lane to Chalet Marmot. The sky glittered with stars, and the moon lit up the mountains in a phosphorescent silver light so that every tree and rock on the Gotchna could be seen with clarity.

  “It’s magnificent, isn’t it?” asked Phaedra, as she and David stood on the balcony a little later, hugging mugs of hot chocolate. “The mountain really leaps out at you, and the sky looks so deep. So very far away.” She watched her breath turn to mist on the cold air.

  “It’s hard to imagine that Dad died up there,” said David, his face creasing into a frown.

  “From here it looks so benign.”

  “Terrible to think that something so beautiful can cause so much harm.”

  “It was written in the Book of Life, David.”

  “I know.”

  “It was his destiny to go.”

  “Still, it’s tough on all of us.” He took a swig of hot chocolate and swallowed hard.

  “It’s those left behind who suffer the most. Your father probably knew very little about it when the avalanche hit him. He probably didn’t feel any pain at all. But we feel it constantly.”

  David put his arm around her shoulders and drew her close. “I’m glad you’re here, Phaedra.”

  “So am I,” she replied, blinking away tears. “We’re in this together, and it makes it so much easier to bear.”

  David wanted to ask her why she had lied about her age. The question dangled on the tip of his tongue. But fear overcame his curiosity, and he managed to restrain himself. He didn’t want to risk losing her trust by admitting that he’d snooped, or that he had caught her lying. It was obvious that she had lied only to protect them all from the truth: that his father had been unfaithful right at the start of his marriage. Surely he didn’t really need to ask. However, it bothered him like an unsightly plastic bag left lying in a beautiful woodland. As long as he knew it was there, he was unable wholly to enjoy the view. In the end he would have to ask her—but not while she rested against him.

  Later, when he lay in bed, he thought about his parents’ marriage. As far as he could see they had been very happy. His mother had worshipped his father in a kind of childlike way, never questioning his actions and allowing him to dominate with the submissive acceptance of a geisha. George, in turn, had always treated her with the greatest respect and defended her with the ferocity of a lion if anyone had ever hurt her. They had never argued or fought, and he remembered tender moments between them, when his father had held her hand or bent down to kiss her cheek. The loving look on his mother’s face was an image he had never forgotten. So if his father had been unfaithful, did it matter? As far as David knew, it hadn’t affected their marriage. It was morally wrong, but it hadn’t harmed anyone. What the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve for, which was a cliché because it was true. He rolled over and closed his eyes. He knew one thing for sure: if his father had gone to such great lengths to avoid hurting Antoinette, then so would he.

  The following morning they breakfasted early and were up at the top of the Gotchna by nine. The air was crisp and cold, the sky a bright, enthusiastic blue, against which the mountain shone brightly. However, the mood among the three of them was somber. Today they’d visit the place where George had died. The anticipation hung over them like a thundercloud.

  Phaedra was nervous. Only her gloves prevented her from biting her nails. Apart from a couple of lame jokes in the cable car, Tom was very quiet. David masked his anxiety with efficiency, telling Phaedra the plan for the day and pointing out the famous Wang, which was one of the steepest slopes in Murenburg. “With every turn you fall a few feet,” he explained. “Beautiful in powder but also phenomenally dangerous.” Phaedra looked down at the wide avenue of burgeoning trees that cut through the forest below and realized that this was prime avalanche territory.

  Once at the top, Tom smoked a quick cigarette as they clicked into their skis and surveyed the magnificent view of the valley and south-facing Madrisa Mountain opposite, bathed in sunshine. Phaedra wore a pair of white trousers and a navy jacket that emphasized her small waist and feminine hips. She shivered, not from the cold, and watched Tom throw his cigarette butt into the snow. They caught eyes, and for the first time she could see the apprehension on his face. She smiled with empathy, and Tom did his best to smile back. He looked like a boy, and she wanted to rush up and wrap her arms around him. All of a sudden the gravity of what they were about to do hit them like a gust of cold wind. After that, they said nothing. David pushed off, and Phaedra followed, her heart heavy with sorrow, for George must have skied this mountain a thousand times.

  That first run together should have filled them with pleasure because they all skied fast and skillfully. David was impressed with Phaedra’s ability as she carved her turns like a racer, nimbly shifting her weight from side to side, her skis slicing the snow with sharp whooshing sounds. She was elegant and powerful, but above all she was speedy, and the Framptons were well known for being fast. However, they were all too aware of their purpose to give way to the fun, and George’s death remained at the forefront of their minds.

  Tom took the T-bar alone, leaving David and Phaedra to go up together. “He’s quiet,” said Phaedra.

  “Tom’s an avoider, but there’s no avoiding Dad here.”

  “It’s hitting him, isn’t it?”

  “It was always going to hit him sooner or later.”

  “Poor Tom,” she sighed sympathetically.

  “He looks tough—”

  “No, he doesn’t,” Phaedra interrupted.

  “Resilient, then.”

  “No, David, he looks like an avoider.”

  “He’s used to drowning his issues in alcohol. Now he’s got nowhere to hide.”

  “Which is healthier. He’ll grieve, then let it go and get on with his life. That’s what we all ha
ve to do.”

  David looked down at her. “You ski well, Phaedra.”

  She grinned up at him. “So do you, David.”

  “Where did you learn to ski like that?”

  “I grew up in Vancouver, remember.”

  “I don’t know many women who can ski as fast as you.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment, not as a chauvinistic comment.”

  “I’m stating a fact, not being provocative. Most women I know aren’t as brave as you. Are you as good off the piste as you are on it?”

  “Sure.” She shrugged modestly. “I’ll take anything I’m given.”

  “You’re going to be tested. Dad died extreme skiing. It’s what he loved to do, pushing the boundaries. He always skied like that, and most of the time he got away with it. I think he was just unlucky.”

  “We’ll go carefully.”

  “I doubt bad luck will strike twice.”

  Phaedra shook her head. “Never say never. I can be reckless, too, but George has made me rein myself in a little.”

  “You’ve turned on your bleeper?” he asked, referring to the electronic device used to find one another in the event of an avalanche.

  “Of course. Please tell me you know how to use it!”

  David grew serious and looked up at the sharp peaks of the Weissfluhgipfel. “I do. But let’s hope I don’t need to.”

  They regrouped at the top of the Mahder lift then set off to the Furka, from where they traversed into the Gaudergrat then clicked out of their skis to climb Alp Duranna for the rest of the morning. The sun grew hotter, and Phaedra tied her jacket and helmet around her waist and climbed with her sweater rolled up to her elbows and the zip pulled down to expose her chest. The snow sparkled around her, and the mountains rose into jagged peaks and sheer precipices.

  At last they reached the top. They stuck their skis into the snow and sat down to share a bar of chocolate and David’s hip flask of sloe gin. “This is stunning,” Phaedra enthused, gazing at the sea of pale-blue peaks.