Secrets from the Past. Barbara Taylor Bradford

mother. But I also do know a situation developed between you and Mom that day.’

      I remained silent, angry with myself for not being able to remember this incident. I felt like a fool. Maybe my sister was right, I’d blocked it out, obviously because I couldn’t bear to have anything mar my memories of my relationship with Mom. We had been so close. ‘Two peas in a pod,’ Dad used to call us.

      As if reading my mind, Jessica said, ‘I’d like to tell you about that particular day, so that you understand. I don’t want your happy memories of Mom to be overshadowed. So can I?’

      ‘Yes,’ I answered. ‘Go ahead.’

      Jessica did not speak, sat staring at me. It struck me that there was a flicker of apprehension in her eyes.

      ‘Go on, tell me, Jess. If you recall an incident between Mom and me, then obviously it happened. I know you wouldn’t make something up, you silly thing!’

      ‘Of course I wouldn’t!’ she exclaimed, horrified at the thought. ‘I’ve always told you the truth, and Cara too. Although sometimes, in the past, she hasn’t been honest with us, has she?’

      ‘She’s never lied, but she has omitted to tell us things. But she doesn’t do that now. Or does she?’

      ‘No, she doesn’t. Quite the opposite,’ Jessica responded and laughed. She took a deep breath, and began. ‘The incident took place at the end of September in 1999, the year you’re so curious about. We’d spent most of the year in Nice, with Dad and Harry coming and going from battle zones. Do you remember that?’

      ‘Yes, I do. Granny and Aunt Dora were travelling in Europe, and came for a visit. Dad and Harry went to Kosovo. The war had finally ended in June. They went back at the beginning of September to photograph the aftermath of the war. You were in the middle of your divorce. Cara was building her orchid business, finishing the second large greenhouse. And I was photographing her activities for Dad, doing a picture story. Like the one he’d shot of you the year before.’

      ‘You know a lot,’ my sister exclaimed, sounding pleased. ‘Anything else?’

      ‘I did speak to Dad on the phone, and it was a Saturday, I just remembered. I told him the shoot with Cara was going well. And that’s about it. Oh, wait, there was one other thing. I did say that I wanted to come with him and Harry the next time they covered a war.’

      Jessica nodded. ‘That was it. Your comment to Dad. You hung up, and Mom asked you what you’d meant about covering a war. You told her that you had definitely made your mind up to become a war photographer, and wanted to work with Dad and Harry. To be on the front lines with them. She sort of went crazy, and she was really angry. She said she wouldn’t permit it. That she had worried about Dad’s safety all of their married life; that she wasn’t going to go through hell again, worrying about her youngest daughter getting killed.’

      I had paid attention to every word Jessica had just uttered, and I really did not recall this outburst. Finally, I said, ‘I just don’t remember that conversation.’

      Jessica picked up her cup, didn’t say anything for a while.

      I poured myself more coffee, and glanced out of the window. The sky was beginning to darken over the East River. It looked as if it would be a beautiful night … a cold clear sky which undoubtedly would be filled with stars.

      At last Jessica broke the silence. She said, ‘What did you do for the rest of that Saturday, Serena?’ She stared at me intently.

      I shrugged. ‘I don’t know, probably went on taking pictures of Cara doing her stuff with the orchids.’

      ‘I can fill you in,’ Jess offered. ‘I was with you and Mom that morning, on the terrace. Dad rang from Kosovo. I spoke to him, passed the phone to Mom, and she gave it to you, after she’d finished speaking with him. I was working on my notes, for a catalogue I was preparing, when all of a sudden holy hell broke loose. Mom was becoming rather agitated for her. You burst into tears and fled.’ Jessica paused. ‘Don’t you have any recollection of this?’

      ‘No, I don’t. What happened then?’

      ‘You didn’t come back for lunch. Later it began to rain hard and there was a thunderstorm. Mom was getting anxious about you, because Cara said she’d seen you on the drive when she was returning from the greenhouses.’

      ‘I don’t think I left the grounds,’ I muttered.

      ‘Mom decided to go and look for you. She found you in your room, and spent the afternoon with you.’

      ‘I see. When was everything all right between us?’ I asked quietly.

      ‘That same evening. Mom took the three of us out to dinner, and all was tranquil. It was as if nothing had happened.’

      ‘I see. I must admit, it really bothers me that I can’t remember any of this.’ I got up, went to sit next to Jessica on the sofa. ‘You must be right. I guess I did block it out.’

      ‘I think so, Pidge.’ She squeezed my hand. ‘Well, Mom did eventually relent, didn’t she? She let you go off with Dad and Harry to cover a war. You were twenty-one by then.’

      ‘We went to Afghanistan. And one day, some years later, again in Kabul, I missed a plane and didn’t get back to Nice in time to see Dad before he died.’ Unexpectedly, tears came into my eyes. I blinked them away, took control of my emotions. Naturally Jessica noticed. She had never missed a trick in her life.

      She put her arms around me, consoled me, stroked my hair. But after a few minutes she jumped up, pulled me to my feet, and said briskly, ‘I bet there’s a fresh chicken in the fridge for the weekend, following Stone family tradition.’

      I laughed. ‘Of course, there is.’

      ‘Then let’s go and make poulet grand-père, the way Lulu taught us. If you’ve got all the ingredients.’

      ‘I do. Except some of them will have to come out of cans.’

      Lulu, the housekeeper at Jardin des Fleurs, had taught Jessica to cook, and when I was old enough I was allowed to go into the kitchen with her, also to be taught the art of French cooking.

      Cara never joined us. She was busy in the gardens, which she loved. In fact she was addicted to flowers, plants and nature. Eventually she became a brilliant horticulturist, and when she was older she specialized in growing orchids.

      For the last ten years she had supplied her fantastic, exotic orchids to hotels, restaurants and private clients on the Côte d’Azur, and was renowned.

      And so when I was growing up it was just Jessica and I who stood next to Lulu in the big old-fashioned kitchen. Over the years, the jovial Frenchwoman taught us the basics of French cooking and helped us to hone our skills.

      And we learned to prepare many of her specialities, poulet grand-père being one of them. It was a simple dish composed of a chicken roasted in a pan in the oven, reclining on a bed of sliced potatoes and chopped carrots, along with mushrooms and tomatoes.

      Picking up the tray I followed Jessica out of my office. Once we were in the kitchen, I opened cupboard doors and looked inside. ‘Canned tomatoes and mushrooms,’ I announced. ‘And I know Mrs Watledge bought potatoes and chicken broth the other day.’

      ‘Then we’ll be fine.’ Jessica glanced at her watch. ‘It’s already five, so let’s have a glass of wine, shall we?’

      ‘Why not? There’s a bottle of Sancerre in the fridge.’ As I spoke I went to get it, and also took out the chicken, carrying both over to the island in the middle of the kitchen.

      Jessica opened the wine, and I prepared the chicken, smearing butter all over it and placing half a lemon in the cavity. At one moment I said, ‘We’ve been so busy talking about the past, you never told me about your trip to Boston. Do you have a new client?’

      ‘Yes, I do,’ she replied, and filled two