I’m not
drowning, but I’m certainly up to my eyeballs preparing for the release of my
new book, Tatya’s Return, as well as trying
to remain calm and keep everything in perspective. I’ve not even been on
Twitter for two whole days - which at 140 characters per tweet – says how busy
I’ve been. Remembering Armageddon won’t descend if I don’t reach my
self-imposed targets is important.
This
week I’m taking advice from several posts which advise putting the first chapter
of your novel on your blog, which accomplishes two goals at once: a post for
this week, and some e-marketing. (Has anybody seen my copy of E-book Marketing for Dummies?)
So for
your reading pleasure today, please enjoy (hopefully!) the first chapter of my
debut novel, One Summer in Montmartre.
The
blurb:
A
timeslip story where researching the past brings happiness to the present.
Anna is
curious when a love letter written by the artist of her favourite painting is
discovered. With her marriage in trouble, and still grieving from the sudden
death of her son, she decides to visit Paris to see if she can learn anything
about the mysterious Hélène to whom the letter is addressed. In Montmartre Anna
is thrown together with Francois, whose help becomes invaluable, and she finds
herself struggling to overcome her growing attraction to him.
Luc
Marteille is a volatile artist attracted to the new Impressionist movement.
Known as a devoted family man, he becomes obsessed with a young model, Hélène.
Despite being engaged, Hélène is flattered by Luc's attentions, and develops
feelings for him that could jeopardize her future.
Separate
in time, yet connected by an artist's painting, conflict between love and duty
weaves a common thread throughout these two tales.
One Summer in
Montmartre
Chapter One
Life is
unfathomable in its infinite variety. People come and go, loving, hating,
making babies, dying, laughing, crying their tears, caring and not caring as
they live their lives. On the whole, we view our own life as the most
important.
London - May 2007
Anna was
indifferent to the clamorous sounds of the city, focusing on the click of her
heels as she walked. She kept her head down and her attention fixed on the
pavement, diverted on occasion as a pair of flamboyant shoes flashed passed.
Even the smell of freshly ground coffee failed to tempt as it teased its way
through the air chasing a flirting drift of newly baked bread. From time to
time, she looked up to check her direction, trying at the same time to ignore
the hurrying passers-by. She avoided looking at shop windows – she did not want
to catch sight of herself.
Anna
did stop once, when a window display caught her eye. She was mesmerized by the
long swathes of pure white cloth, before noticing her reflection in an
oversized gilt edged mirror in the centre.
The
black jacket and skirt she wore did her no favours. Her hair, bright auburn in
her youth, now fading and tired, was scraped back in a bun, although several
strands had escaped and fluttered around her face. Her pallor, and the dark
shadows under her eyes, made her look wraithlike and ghostly. She wanted to
retreat into her inner world, away from the noisy bustle of pedestrian and
motor traffic. Anna had postponed this
trip after the sudden, shocking death of her son, Jeremy, in a car accident six
months ago, until she surrendered to the fatalistic realisation that each day
would be no different from any other.
Jeremy had loved
spring. A shame it
wasn’t raining, because then no one would have noticed a tear or two, but the fresh spring day with chubby white clouds scudding
across a blue sky and air that was apple crisp with promise meant she needed to work harder at the pretence of
normality.
The old
fashioned bell tinkled as she opened
the narrow door of the art restoration shop tucked away in a corner off Belmont
Mews. Sighing with relief, she gratefully
accepted the peaceful respite offered by the
dark comforting interior. She had come here
for a purpose. The world reconfigured itself back into an identifiable place where she could
function.
Mr. Bentonly
popped out from between the faded purple velvet curtains which separated
the front of the shop from his workspace. He adjusted
his glasses, his careworn face creasing
into a smile when he saw his customer.
‘Ah! Mrs.
Seeger. How good to see you! I hope you and the family are well?’
A sliver
of panic edged itself into her awareness. What should she say? The truth? She didn’t need to
hear the same respectfully polite phrases trotted out where they ran needle
like along well-worn grooves rasping at her grief. People were sometimes
uncomfortable when a truth they were unprepared for was laid out too bluntly.
And whereas she and Greg had used this particular framing
shop for many
years, this was a
business relationship.
‘We’re fine,
thank you.’ She hoped her clipped tone would discourage conversation.
‘And the
children? I expect they’re grown up and
flown the nest?’ His mild politeness hurt.
‘Oh yes, off
doing their own thing.’
She pushed down
on the emotional wave swelling in her gut. For a second she
was back in the church, standing at the end of the pew next to Jeremy’s wreath
covered coffin. She’d been so medicated she hardly managed to stand - Greg’s
hand under her elbow held her upright - and the one image impossible to
eradicate was of Jeremy’s broken remains inside the coffin. Her prayer, then
and ever since, was that his guardian angel had taken away his pain and eased
the last few minutes of his life.
Please God, she
begged, no more questions.
‘Does the frame do justice to the painting?’
Mr. Bentonly gave no indication that her change of
topic came as a rebuttal. Remorse flitted
briefly across her mind. He’d never been anything else other than courteousness
personified.
‘Please, come through. You
can check for yourself and if the work is
satisfactory, we’ll arrange a delivery date.’
Mr. Bentonly led
the way, cautiously threading a path through stacks of frames of various shape and size on one side and paintings in stages
of re-framing on the other. Anna’s painting, illuminated by
glistening shafts of sunlight, stood at the rear
of the crammed workshop. He stood attentively to one side as Anna
examined the frame. The doorbell chimed.
‘Take your time,
Mrs. Seeger.’ Mr. Bentonly left to attend to his
customer.
Anna turned from
her scrutiny of the frame to the
picture itself which depicted a large bunch of
flowers in a vase on a windowsill.
A few strokes and dabs of paint indicated a rural
landscape outside the window. But the flowers drew the eye in, dominating
the picture; a glorious riot of chrysanthemums, forget-me-nots, cornflowers,
daisies, poppies, lilies and roses with every line, shape and shade giving
visual delight.
The
years melted away, and she could hear Greg’s voice dizzyingly full with eagerness and love.
‘No,’ Greg insisted, laughing. ‘I’m carrying my beautiful
adorable bride over this threshold too!’
He’d lifted her up, and doing his best
to ignore the
abundant creamy white silk and chiffon tangling round his legs,
staggered across the room until
they collapsed on the bed, arms and legs flailing wildly in the air and
laughing hysterically.
‘I love you,’ he
said, his blue eyes dancing with happiness. The ebullient
mixture of champagne and youth meant it didn’t take Greg long to shed his
wedding apparel, while Anna struggled to extricate the
elaborate pearl and gold clips out of her thick copper hair.
When the mass of curls tumbled down her
back, he’d paused for a moment, his breath
caught in his throat and, overawed with the beauty of her, he hardly dared speak.
But they’d
fallen back into hysterics as Greg struggled with the thirty tiny silver hooks
tucked behind a seam at the back of her dress, cursing the fact his fingers were blunt
spades and unsuitable for such tasks. When at last she escaped her wedding finery, they made urgent,
passionate love.
They were ready to leave with the taxi waiting outside to take them to the airport for their honeymoon in
Monaco, when Anna spotted a big, rectangular
object wrapped in brown paper leaning against the wall. Curiosity took
precedence and she’d imperiously made him wait, a humble servitor, as she
searched for a scissors and cut the string binding the paper in place.
‘I bet it’s a
mirror, with a gorgeously elaborate frame,’ she speculated aloud,
ignoring Greg’s playfully piteous pleas about times and
aeroplanes.
Tearing the
covering off, she’d been silenced by the blaze of colour leaping out from the painting, and
startled at the generosity of such a gift.
‘Oh Greg, It’s
beautiful. I adore it.’ She ran her fingers along the intricately carved
border. ‘Gold leaf,’ she murmured. ‘The
frame’s a work of art too.’
Turning to Greg, she reached up impulsively planting a carmine kiss on his
cheek.
‘We’ve got the rest of our lives to gaze at it when we get back, but we have a plane to catch. Come on!’
He grabbed her hand, pulling her out of the room
and down the stairs.
Their
youth and passion had made them invincible; they were confident and secure in their exacting demand of
joyous fulfilment from life. Somehow, in
that time and in that place, they’d been
untouchable.
The gilded
memory receded, and Anna moved further back to view the painting, momentarily
lost in delight. Lucas
Marteille, an artist associated with the French
Impressionist movement, had painted the picture, and
it was, without doubt, one of his finer works. Gregory’s
father had inherited it, and he, in
turn, had given it to them
as a wedding present twenty-five years ago. The
painting with its vivid colours encapsulated life itself, and
she’d placed it in their bedroom, wanting to contemplate
it at her leisure.
Some time ago, she’d noticed the gold leaf on the frame flaking off around the edges and contacted the framer for his services, but hadn’t
been ready to come and view the new frame until today. Seeing the
painting once more, she recognized
how much it meant to her.
‘Is everything
satisfactory, Mrs. Seeger?’ Mr. Bentonly
inquired softly at her shoulder.
‘It’s perfect. How soon can you have it delivered? I’ve missed
this painting. It really is my favourite possession.’
Back out at the
counter, Anna paid and made arrangements for delivery.
‘Ah, I have one more thing.’ Mr. Bentonly’s
voice wobbled with a faint tremor. ‘This.’
He took out a faded envelope from under the counter. ‘We came
across this attached to the inside back of the frame.’ He handed
her it to her.
Anna took the thin yellowed envelope, turning
it over and inspecting the back. She opened
the unsealed flap with care removing one sheet of folded paper.
‘I believe you’re the first one to open that letter since it was placed
there.’
She
paused momentarily as her heart skipped a beat. A
fleeting presentiment flickered into life but
fled before she grasped its intent. She read the letter before passing it to
Bentonly, who waited with
patient interest. He
glanced at the page but ruefully returned it.
‘I’m afraid,
Mrs. Seeger, I don’t speak French. Would you be so kind ... ?’
‘I’ll try.’
She knew a
little French and was proficient in the little she remembered, but her vocabulary was limited. She scanned the letter.
‘The signature says Luc Marteille but I need a French
dictionary to translate the whole thing. I’ll
read you what I can, if that’s alright?’
‘Oh, more
than satisfactory,’ Mr. Bentonly replied. Anna cleared her throat.
‘My dear
Hélène, ... we have parted ... remember this ... shall keep ... I
know you love me ... ’
She broke off and stopped reading.
‘I’m sorry but
there are too many words here I don’t know.
What I’ll do is I’ll send you a copy after I complete a translation.
Would that be okay?’
‘Oh, yes. That’s very considerate of you. A fascinating find
don’t you think?’ he said as Anna replaced the letter in the
envelope, where it had lain cocooned
for over a century, before slipping
it
into in her handbag.
‘Yes,
indeed, and my thanks for
this intriguing letter, and of course,
for the work on the frame. It’s a
pleasure doing business with you. I’ll be in touch.’
‘Goodbye Mrs.
Seeger.’ The doorbell
tinkled as she left.
Taking a deep
breath and plunging into the pulsing streets, Anna encountered
the strangest of feelings. The unforeseen discovery of
the artist’s letter, and knowing her painting would soon be home, offered space for a gleam of hope to slip in, lifting the despondency of her earlier mood.
Walking briskly back through the lunch time crowd,
she realised she was experiencing anticipation and something else recently absent from her life, optimism.
****
If you
enjoyed this extract, the book is available on Amazon – or pop over to Wattpad
and read any of my posted stories ... just click on the links to the right.
Join me on
Twitter at: teagankearney@modhaiku
Thanks for
visiting my blog, and please do leave a comment.
To all story
lovers out there, good reading, and to those of you who write, good writing.
P.S. I'm still at a loss to know why Google changes the line spacing changes mid-text when I upload, no matter what font/size I try to adopt. My apologies, but after 20 minutes of fiddling back and forth, I give up!