‘Of course it is.’ Sophie’s agreement was genuine, despite the depth of dismay that was flooding her body. ‘That’s the best place for you to be. I’ll miss you, though.Somuch…’ A knot of tears was caught in her throat.
‘Goes both ways, love. And I hate to be leaving you in the lurch like this. You’ve got two weddings almost back-to-back and that second one’s nearly as big as Zara’s. I’ll help you find someone good to fill the gap.’
They both knew how impossible an ask that was. Photographers with the kind of reputation that inspired confidence in clients were generally booked up eighteen months in advance, but Sophie wasn’t going to let Greg shoulder guilt any more than stress.
‘I’ll sort it,’ she told him, with a certainty that she knew perfectly well was no more than wishful thinking. ‘No offence, but I’ve got someone in mind already. You just focus on your recovery. And having some quality family time with those adorable grandchildren of yours.’
There was a moment’s silence. When Greg broke it, she knew she’d failed to convince him that she wasn’t sinking under the chaos. Or that she wasn’t terrified that she might be about to lose everything that mattered to her.
‘Call Phoenix,’ he said quietly. ‘He’ll help you.’
* * *
The keys were old-fashioned.
Heavy.
The weight of the task he’d taken on was a lot heavier, however. Luc could feel it pressing down on him as he unlocked the front door of the dilapidated mansion he had just purchased.
The contracts had been exchanged yesterday after a last-minute change of heart from his bank – largely thanks to the healthy injection of cash via his shell company from covering Zara Beaumont’s wedding. Or, rather, from the sale of authenticated, limited edition, Le Phénix prints of the bridal couple.
The sale and purchase of this grand old house was now legally binding. He’d paid the 10 per cent deposit. The vendor had agreed to an early access agreement to allow for contractors to be taken through the house to provide quotes for the work needed, although it would be weeks before the sale completed and any work could actually start.
The amount of work needed was daunting, to say the least. Luc entered the foyer with its peeling plasterwork, stained floorboards and the spray-painted graffiti left behind by squatters. His gaze went to a faded symbol on a door behind the staircase which he knew led to the kitchens.CW33, with the threes mirroring each other, back-to-back. If you knew, you knew. Camberwell Ward, Block Thirty Three – the most desirable gang to belong to on that estate. When he’d entered this house for the first time and had spotted that amongst all the rubbish and filth the walls were covered in, he’d taken it as a sign that this was the place.
He’d been standing at an intersection of his own two worlds. A house that could have been a twisted nightmare of Tom’s house, and the symbol representing kids whose lives had been lacking so much that a brotherhood of crime and violence offered more.
He’d been standing in a place where he could potentially make a life-changing difference. To the new generation of those kids.
And to himself.
Luc let himself into the one-bedroom apartment that had once been a huge reception room. A ballroom even? A drunken chandelier, with big gaps in its strings of crystals, hung from the crumbling plaster of an ornate ceiling rose. Faded velvet curtains had hems that looked like they’d been chewed by rats. Taps dripped in a bathroom with a broken toilet and tendrils of ivy were pushing through gaps in a boarded-up sash window. There was a smell of decay that might have been black mould or dry rot or maybe something that hadn’t survived a fall between the walls or down a chimney.
The amount of work required to get anywhere near his vision was more than anyone else had been prepared to consider. It would be some time before even an estimate of the time involved could be made. Hazards had to be removed and unsafe utilities disconnected before the first contractors could be allowed in and there would be a queue, starting with the structural engineers who would detail everything from the integrity of the roof to any subsidence of the foundations and all the damage and deterioration between so that a scope of works could be drawn up. It might be a year or more before they could start stripping the house back to its original floorplan so they could start again and create the spaces a youth centre would need. And they might need that long to get planning permission.
There were so many unknowns. Perhaps the most worrying was how much it was all going to cost. Luc had made more money in the last eighteen months than he’d ever dreamt of earning from his art, but who knew how long that kind of income could last? Maybe he needed to stop indulging himself with dystopian fantasy and put more energy into building something reliable. Moreish Photography was already a solid business but it could be about a lot more than food. He had built up a network amongst caterers. It would only be a logical sidestep to move into visual content for the events those caterers were covering.
Like weddings?Realweddings like the ones Gregory Glasson had spent his career recording? Like the one he’d just done in Provence.
The kind of romantic destination dream weddings that Marry Me in Provence specialised in?
Pfft…
Luc turned on his heel and headed for the door of this room, moving fast, as if he wanted to leave both the room and that thought behind.
He was almost at the front door of the house, the keys in his hand to lock up again, when his phone buzzed.
It was an unknown number.
A French number.
Very few people had this number. Had the property manager of his building in Draguignan changed his phone, perhaps? Was there a problem with his apartment?
He answered the call. Politely but just a little cautiously.
‘Allô, oui?’
‘Luc?’
