Letter from a Stranger. Barbara Taylor Bradford

Coulson will throw a fit if I’m not there. He’ll want me on the spot twenty-four/seven, and you know it.’

      ‘Yes, I do, and I will be all right, honestly. I can go it alone. I’ve done it before when I’ve been on foreign locations for my films. Don’t worry about me so much.’

      ‘How can I change after thirty-two years? I’ll always worry about you, Juju. But it’s not only that, I’m as concerned about Gran as you are, and I just feel I ought to be with you, helping to find her.’

      ‘Listen, Joanne’s been to Istanbul three times, twice on vacation and once on location for a movie she was handling. She’ll be helpful with contacts, and you know I’ll call you every day. And as soon as you can get away, you will.’

      ‘And I’ll bring Daisy.’ He jumped up. ‘Talking of Daisy, I said I’d sit with her while she has her supper. When’s Jo coming over?’

      ‘Seven o’clock. You’d better go down and be with your adorable daughter. I’m going to tidy up.’

      FIVE

      ‘You look great,’ Joanne Brandon exclaimed, walking across the worn Persian carpet covering the drawing-room floor. ‘Hard work and no play agrees with you!’

      Feeling more relaxed for the first time that day, Justine smiled and rushed to meet her closest friend. ‘You don’t look half bad yourself…’ She left her sentence unfinished as she grabbed hold of Joanne’s hands.

      ‘Come on, give me a hug,’ Jo said.

      The two women embraced, then stepped away, gazed at each other for a long moment.

      Justine said, ‘You’ve done something to yourself… it’s a new hairdo! Shorter, and I love it. Very chic.’

      ‘And you’re leaner, fitter, and your hair’s different, too. Longer, glossier. You glamour puss, you.’

      The two of them broke into peals of laughter, both recalling how they always used to greet each other with comments like this… about their appearance. They had once again fallen into the old trap, on purpose, of course, since it had become something of a joke these days. When they were teenagers they had accused each other of being overly vain.

      Joanna went and stood in front of the blazing fire as she usually did, enjoying the warmth, especially on this cool April evening. Justine walked over to the round table in the corner, where bottles of liquor and glasses stood, along with a white wine in a silver bucket. ‘Is this all right?’ Justine asked, her hand on the bottle. ‘It’s Sancerre.’

      ‘Couldn’t be better.’

      After pouring the wine, Justine carried the crystal goblets over to the fireplace, handed one to Joanne. They clinked glasses.

      ‘So the picture went well, did it?’ Justine asked, sitting down opposite her friend.

      ‘The best I’ve worked on yet,’ Jo answered. ‘The stars were great, had no problem with my PR demands, knew their lines, no temperament or tantrums. And we came in on time and on budget. Thank God. I was glad to get back to New York, and Simon. Poor kid, he really missed me. But there was no way he could’ve been in Los Angeles when I was working. I didn’t want him to miss school either, and anyway his father wouldn’t have liked him to be out of New York.’

      ‘No, he wouldn’t. How’s he doing?’

      ‘Oh, the same as usual. Bad tempered, bossy, impatient. Nothing’s ever right. He’s a negative man, Malcolm Brandon is, and a trifle petty.’

      ‘But he can turn on the charm when he wants to.’

      ‘Don’t tell me. He does it now, even though we’re divorced. But how about you? How did your editing go in the end? You sounded worried sometimes.’

      ‘A heavy month, as I explained on the phone when you called. But the documentary came out great in the end. Jean-Marc Breton was a devil to work with, but ultimately he was brilliant and his art is just superb. Breathtaking really. His paintings are so vivid, so colourful, and Provence and Spain are wonderful places to film! I’m showing it to Miranda Evans on Tuesday afternoon. She saw some of the rushes when she came over to France, and she’s also seen the rough-cut. Even though I say it myself, the finished product is… perfect.’

      ‘Knowing you, it wouldn’t be anything else. What did she say about the new title?’

      Justine made a moue. ‘At first she wasn’t sure about it… after all, “Proof of Life” means different things to people. Show me that the hostage is not dead, is one example. That’s what the police say to a kidnapper, or a fugitive holding someone against their will. To me it meant that if I could film the world’s greatest living artist, an extraordinary painter, who was a recluse, non-communicative, and an eccentric, then I had proof of life that he wasn’t dead, like so many people thought he was. He’s hardly ever seen in public these days, and there has been a lot of gossip and speculation about his well-being. And I’ve just proved he’s alive and kicking and as right as rain, to submerge myself in a bunch of clichés.’

      ‘Clichés are true, the truth, used frequently, which is why they are called clichés.’ Jo took a sip of wine and eyed Justine speculatively over the top of the glass. ‘Is he really the lady-killer he’s said to be, or is that all part of the myth and the legend, and all that jazz?’

      Justine’s face changed slightly and she remained silent, her blue eyes suddenly thoughtful, her face solemn.

      Knowing her as well as she did, Joanne had the feeling she had accidentally stepped on dangerous ground. Taking a deep breath, she murmured, ‘I guess he’s a man with what is called fatal charm. Isn’t that so? Did you succumb to it?’

      ‘No, of course not, don’t be so silly,’ Justine answered swiftly, her voice rising slightly.

      Joanne nodded; she thought: I don’t believe her. She’s blushing. What is she hiding from me? Clearing her throat, Joanne murmured, ‘The whole world says he’s irresistible to women.’

      ‘I resisted, take my word for it.’

      Richard asked, ‘Resisted what, Juju?’ He came strolling into the drawing room, went to hug and kiss Joanne, and then poured himself a glass of wine, joined her on the other sofa.

      His sister said, ‘Jo was teasing me about Jean-Marc Breton, or rather about his reputation as a womanizer. I was just telling her that I resisted his so-called charms.’

      Richard knew that his twin was embarrassed for some reason, and wanting to alleviate this, he said, ‘I thought he was truly a decent kind of guy when I met him, Jo. Fascinating to talk to, well informed about a lot of things, and it goes without saying that it was a great privilege to meet him in his home. And to be shown around his gallery by the maestro himself was an honour.’ Richard took a swallow of wine. ‘He didn’t strike me as a man who went around pouncing on women.’

      ‘I didn’t say he did!’ Joanne cried, and then laughed. Focusing on Justine, she changed the subject. ‘When are you planning to go to Istanbul?’

      ‘Next week, once I’ve shown the final cut to Miranda on Tuesday. I feel certain she’ll like the film, and when I get all the business with CNI out of the way, I’ll be on my way.’

      ‘So are you going to do a documentary on Istanbul?’ Joanne’s auburn brow lifted questioningly.

      ‘I’m not sure. I have an idea I want to pursue, and if I think it’ll work, then yes, I might well be filming there later this year.’

      ‘So what’s the idea then?’

      ‘You know I’m superstitious, Jo,’ she murmured, sidetracking her friend. ‘I never talk about an idea until I’ve developed it and finally got it nailed.’

      ‘I understand. I have a great friend there, and she’ll be extremely useful. First of all, she speaks perfect English. She’s actually a professor