Letter from a Stranger. Barbara Taylor Bradford

her happiest times had been spent here at Indian Ridge, especially when her father was still alive. She and her twin had adored him.

      She was glad her mother had kept the house, and that she and her brother Richard could continue to use it at weekends, as well as for long stretches in the summer. It was their mutual escape hatch, a safe haven and a place where they could relax from their busy schedules in New York.

      For the past month Justine had stayed in Manhattan, working on the last stage of her newest documentary about Jean-Marc Breton, the world’s greatest living artist, supervising the cutting with the director and the film’s editor. It had been arduous – long days and nights of work; hours and hours and hours filled with tension, stress, anxiety, good and bad surprises, friction at times, and some disappointments. But when they had viewed the final cut, and not without some trepidation, they had been jubilant. The film, which they had considered to be problematical right from the first day of shooting because of the temperament and dictatorial attitude of their subject, had turned out to be good. Very, very good, in fact, much to their collective relief.

      Now Justine prayed that the network would feel the same when she screened it for them next week. Miranda Evans, the head of documentaries for Cable News International, would view it with total detachment, which always pleased Justine and her team. Miranda brought no prejudices or preconceived ideas into the screening room, which was why Justine trusted her judgement. That impartiality was a rare quality. Miranda had believed in her right from the start, and had funded most of the Blood Diamonds documentary, another tough subject.

      Suddenly, worry edged into her mind. She took a deep breath and pushed it away. The film was excellent, and it was the final cut. And that was that.

      She shook her head, grimaced to herself, wished she could let go of a project the moment it was at an end. But she couldn’t; it always took her time to move on. And then she automatically went into a different mode, was filled with deflation, anxiety and a sense of loss.

      She had mentioned this to Richard last night, and he had started to laugh, understanding exactly what she meant. Her twin and she were very much alike. He had pointed out that she was going up to the house to mentally and physically replenish herself, and fresh and exciting ideas would soon pop into her head when she was completely rested. And with that he had ended their phone call on a somewhat teasing note.

      He’s right, of course, she decided, as she went out of her bedroom and down the stairs. Nobody knows me like he does, just as I know him inside out. She felt a small trickle of sadness running through her when she thought of Richard’s wife, Pamela, who had died two years ago of cancer.

      To the outside world Richard was calm, strong and stoical, in control, but she knew how heartbroken he was inside. He kept up a good front, and ploughed on doggedly, because of his five-year-old daughter Daisy. She planned to look after them both this weekend: mothering one, and being a loving companion to the other.

      At the bottom of the staircase Justine turned right, walked towards the small sitting room overlooking the lawn, which she also used as an office, mostly to do the household accounts and bookkeeping.

      She had settled Daisy in there when they had arrived from New York half an hour ago, and her niece was still sitting at the desk with her box of crayons and colouring book spread out before her.

      Kim, the nanny, had the weekend off, and Tita, one of the housekeepers, was hovering over her, encouraging her to use as many crayons as she wanted. ‘All the colours of the rainbow,’ Tita was saying, her voice loving.

      Afternoon sunshine was streaming into the room and Daisy’s pale blonde curls shimmered in the light. What a lovely child she is, Justine thought, adorable in a variety of different ways, and it’s so hard not to spoil her.

      Justine couldn’t help smiling to herself as she watched Tita being so attentive to Daisy, helping her. Tita and her sister Pearl loved Daisy as if she were their own, and, in a sense, she was. The two women had lived and worked at Indian Ridge for years and were part of the family by now.

      She and Richard had grown up with them, and they appreciated everything the two of them did to keep the house, the gallery and their work studios in tiptop shape. They considered themselves blessed to have Tita and Pearl; Richard deemed them to be the salt of the earth.

      Stepping into the room, Justine said, ‘What are you colouring, Daisy?’

      Daisy and Tita both turned around on hearing Justine’s voice, and Daisy explained, ‘It’s a vase of flowers, Auntie Juju.’

      ‘She takes after her father,’ Tita grinned. ‘She’s got that talent he’s had since he was a boy.’

      A small smile struck Justine’s face, and then she laughed. ‘Unlike the two of us! We weren’t very good painters, were we? Mine were a series of giant blotches.’

      Tita joined in her laughter. ‘And mine, too, and there was more paint on me than the canvas.’

      Daisy, staring intently at her aunt, said, ‘How much does it cost to go there?’

      ‘To go where, darling?’

      ‘To Heaven. I want to take my painting to Mommy. I’m doing it for her. I’ve got a lot of quarters in my piggy bank. Maybe ten dollars. It’s a big pig.’

      Justine was unable to speak for a moment. Her throat was suddenly constricted. Swallowing several times, she finally managed to say, ‘It’s a bit more than that, I think.’

      ‘Oh.’ Daisy nodded, pursed her lips. ‘I’ll have to get some more quarters then. I’ll keep the painting for Mommy, and take it to her later. When I’ve saved up.’

      ‘That’s right.’ Justine’s low voice sounded hoarse. To her relief Daisy turned back to her colouring book, her blonde head bent over it once more in concentration.

      The two women exchanged glances.

      Tita was on the verge of tears, her dark eyes stricken. She was biting her bottom lip, struggling for control.

      Clearing her throat, Justine said, ‘Come on, Tita, let’s go and plan the picnic for tomorrow.’

      ‘A picnic!’ The five-year-old swung her head, her bright blue eyes suddenly sparkling. ‘In the gazeboat?’

      ‘Gazebo, darling,’ Justine corrected gently. ‘And yes, it will be there, weather permitting. And guess what, Auntie Jo is coming with Simon.’

      ‘Oh goody! Simon’s my bestest friend.’

      ‘We’ll be in the kitchen if you need us for anything, Daisy.’ Justine beckoned to Tita, who almost ran out of the room ahead of her; she followed in concern.

      Tita was clutching the sink, hunched over into herself, still fighting the tears.

      Crossing the kitchen quickly, understanding exactly how she felt, Justine put her arms around Tita and held her close. ‘I know, I know, it’s hard. Some of the things she comes out with take my breath away, tear me apart, and Richard too. But suddenly she brightens up – you know that, Tita. Especially if she’s distracted. And she does forget.’

      ‘Yes… but I suffer for her. I can’t help it.’

      ‘We’ve got to keep her busy, Tita. Look how she reacted when I mentioned the picnic and Simon. And I’ve learned a lot from Kim, who packs her days with activities, keeps her very busy when she’s not at school. We’ve got to do that this weekend, as we’ve been doing for the last two years, actually.’

      ‘I know, I know…’ Tita cut herself off, blew out air, pulled herself together, and said, ‘I’ll put the kettle on. Let’s have a cup of tea.’

      ‘Good idea.’ Justine smiled at Tita, squeezed her arm. ‘She’ll be all right.’

      Tita nodded and went to fill the kettle.

      Justine walked over to the fire and stood in front of it, glancing around. The kitchen was a comforting room, warm, inviting, and one of her favourites