‘Is it true?’ he asked quietly, his tone now even more intense. ‘That you lostyourfiancé in a tragic accident on the actual eve of your own wedding?’
2
Luc Moreau was on the terrace of his Draguignan apartment but he wasn’t looking at his favourite view of the Tour de l’Horloge on its hill as dawn broke and the ancient keep tower, with its distinctive iron cage over the bell, came to life.
No. He was pacing back and forth after a restless night, occasionally glaring at his phone that was lying beside his empty coffee cup, as he waited for what might be considered a reasonable time to wake somebody on a Saturday. It wasn’t helping that he was an hour ahead of London.
But reminding himself of the almost ten-year friendship with the only person left in the world that he genuinely trusted – and who knew him better than anyone else alive –washelping. Because Luc knew that Paul, who also just happened to be his solicitor, wouldn’t hesitate to pick up the call no matter how early it was.
Paul had been the only person on his side in the darkest days of his life. He was also the only person who understood why this mattered so much.
‘Luc…’ Paul’s voice had the rasp of someone not quite awake. ‘Where are you?’
‘France.’
‘What’s up?’
‘The bank’s on my back. I picked up an email late last night. They’ve seen the report on the dry rot and the subsequent escalation in the estimates and they’re starting to question my ability to meet the repayments for the mortgage I need for renovations. I can’t blame them for being sceptical about the income potential for Moreish Photography. Recipe book deals are notoriously competitive and restaurants and cafés are starting to put their own food photos up on social media these days.’
‘So tell them how you’ve really made the money to buy that house.’
Luc gave a huff of laughter. ‘What do you think Banksy would say if someone askedhimthat? Half the attraction is in the mystique, isn’t it?’
‘The other half – the talent – is more important.’
Luc’s breath came out in a sigh this time. ‘I’m a lone wolf, as you well know. And I intend to keep my privacy intact. Nobody gets to know why I’m doing this. That’s the whole reason we’ve set up this trust. Nobody ever has to know. As far as the bank is concerned, I’m just someone crazy enough to be spending three million pounds on a nineteenth-century house in a London neighbourhood that’s close enough to a council estate to make it dodgy.’
‘I can’t believe you’ve found a stand-alone Victorian property that’s not listed. Rare as hens’ teeth in something pre-1850.’
‘Yeah…’ Luc’s response was wry. ‘I’m lucky that the budget renovation that turned it into five flats damaged so many of the exceptional features.’
The outside still looked uncannily like the mansion in Dulwich that had become his real home, though. Enough to have brought a painful lump to his throat when he’d stood in front of it for the first time last week.
The house where Tom and Hannah had grown up.
But it was only a five-minute walk away from Camberwell Towers, the estatehe’dgrown up on, which made it feel like fate was pushing him into doing something about the dream he’d had for years. Close enough for a youth centre to attract teenagers who might otherwise be getting into a lifestyle they would never be able to escape.
Like he’d been lucky enough to do.
Thanks to Tom Baxter.
Maybe it was the sudden ache in his heart that made his voice raw when he spoke again. Or maybe it was the passion he had for this dream.
‘I can’t lose this house, Paul.’
‘I’ll see what I can do. Maybe we can fast-forward setting up the charity, getting it registered and finding benefactors and/or starting a fundraising campaign.’
‘We can’t do that until we’ve secured the house.’
‘Have you got any shoots coming up?Thoseshoots? The ones where you get to sell the authenticated prints for silly money? Some extra cash like that landing in your account couldn’t hurt.’
‘I cleared my calendar for this week to focus on getting this sorted.’ Luc frowned as his phone beeped and an option to accept or decline an incoming call appeared on the screen.
Gregory Glasson? Why did that name ring a bell? It was on this phone so it was somebody he’d met in the last five years, which meant that it had to have something to do with the rekindled career in photography that had marked the end of years of aimless globetrotting.
And it felt like fate might be giving him another nudge.
‘I’ve got a call coming in,’ he told Paul. ‘Talk later, yeah?’
