Letter from a Stranger. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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had died when her mother was seven. She had idealized him. She had always been going on about Peter Hardwicke.
How odd that she had forgotten hearing her mother say that to Gran, and for so many years. Unexpectedly, it stood out in her mind now, perhaps because it informed her, told her something important: Trent Saunders had been more than her grandmother’s American lawyer, he had been a special friend, very special indeed. I hope he was, Justine thought, seeing her grandmother in her mind’s eye, the lovely looking blonde with blue eyes and a mischievous laugh, always so elegant and charming, and ever the lady, the genuine thing. A class act.
Anger flared in her. Anger with her mother. For a split second, she was again tempted to call her in China, but resisted. Why alert her to anything? Far better to confront her when she had accomplished what she had come here to do. And yet again she was positive her grandmother’s whereabouts would not be forthcoming. Her mother’s modus operandi was always to deny everything.
Glancing at her watch, Justine saw that it was nine thirty, and she went into the bedroom. Picking up the phone, she called room service, ordered a green salad, a plate of assorted cheeses and a pot of English breakfast tea with lemon. This done, she found the zapper, turned on the television, found CNN, and sat down to watch the latest news, wanting to connect to the rest of the world again.
Even as a child she had loved news, was always thrilled to know what was happening around the world, which was why she had become a journalist. She had been, and still was, a news buff.
She watched CNN, found herself glancing at the rolling text at the bottom of the screen, and switched to Sky News out of London. Nothing but bad news tonight, she thought, as she gazed at the screen and the unfolding events. The voice of her first news editor at the local Connecticut paper now reverberated in her brain. ‘Bad news sells newspapers,’ he had constantly told his reporters. ‘Don’t bother to bring me good news.’ Well, the world these days was one big bad news story on a global scale.
Wanting variety, she zapped again, found her own network, Cable News International, and sat glued to the screen until room service came.
The waiter eventually arrived at her door, wheeled the table into the middle of the room, and placed it so that it faced the television set. She thanked him as she signed the room service bill, and then sat down, continuing to watch as she picked at the salad.
Suddenly Justine stiffened. There was her own face. On the screen. And an announcer’s voice saying, ‘Famed documentary filmmaker Justine Nolan takes you into the private realm of the world’s greatest living artist, Jean-Marc Breton. Her filmed biography of the master, “Proof of Life”, will air on this network in September as a CNI documentary special.’
Images of Jean-Marc Breton – his homes in Provence and Spain and some of his paintings – flashed across the screen and then were gone. And so was her face. The news continued to roll. Business as usual.
Justine was taken aback. She now realized what Miranda Evans had meant when she had said, immediately after the screening, ‘We’ve got to maximize this, Justine. It’s a brilliant film, and it’s going to be a worldwide hit. I’m going to make sure of that. I’ll prepare a campaign immediately, do some promos.’
Miranda had said this on Tuesday. Today was Thursday. So Miranda had done the work yesterday, splicing a few key frames together, writing a couple of lines to go with them, and having Eric Froman, of the golden voice, do a voice-over. Just a few good words had been enough to accompany those vivid visuals. And voilà! Here was a promo on air tonight. Miranda Evans was moving swiftly, working well ahead of time. She was obviously convinced she really did have a potential hit on her hands. But then Miranda has always promoted her, backed her with a network right from the beginning.
Wow, oh wow! Justine was pleased, and went to find her cell phone, punched in Richard’s number, needing to share this with her brother.
When he answered, she said, ‘Rich, it’s me. Is this a bad time? Or can you talk?’
‘Hi. And it’s okay, I’m in my office. What’s happening?’
‘Well, listen to this! Miranda’s worked wonders already. I’ve just seen the first promo for “Proof of Life” on CNI. Imagine that. I saw it by accident, and obviously she had the promo made yesterday when I was flying here. I must admit, it took me by surprise.’
‘Hey, that’s great. I’ll keep a look out for it tonight. And she is a fast worker. How was your day?’
‘A bit disappointing, in one sense. Anita and Gran are not in the Istanbul phonebook. But I guess we knew that. Iffet is checking with the land registry office, to see if they’re listed there. They would be if they own homes here. Eddie hasn’t been able to find any trace of those companies Gran was involved with. You know, Exotic Lands and Faraway Places. As he put it, “there’s zilch in London”. He even suggested they might not have existed.’
‘He’s wrong. Gran talked about them to us, and she didn’t invent such things. She probably closed them down many years ago, and he hasn’t gone back far enough. Let’s hope Iffet finds something positive.’
‘I came up with a couple of other ideas. I thought Iffet could take me to see some dealers in carpets and ceramics. If I’m lucky we’ll find somebody who knew Gran, and knows where she lives today.’
‘Brilliant idea. I know you’re on the right track, so just keep going. Call me tomorrow. I will have to run now, Juju, I’ve got a meeting starting in a few minutes.’
‘It’s ten o’clock at night here, so I’m going to bed soon. I’ll call you tomorrow.’
They both clicked off, and Justine sat back, cut into a piece of cheese and placed it on a cracker. She had a brainwave. Interviews, she thought. I can do some interviews about “Proof of Life”. Explain I’m here to do research, may make a documentary about Istanbul. Television, newspapers.
She jumped up, went to get her notebook, looked at the list of names Joanne had given her, contacts in the media here. A brainwave indeed. If she couldn’t find Anita and Gran she would have them find her. The media was the key. I’ve got to put my face in front of Gran, she added to herself. It’s the only way.
NINE
They were in the middle of the teeming city in the heat. It was unusually warm for May, according to Iffet, and Justine was relieved she had chosen to wear white-cotton trousers, a white-cotton shirt with a turquoise vest top underneath, and very comfortable shoes.
For the moment the two women were cooling off in the leafy gardens in Sultanahmet Square. Having started out early on this Friday morning, they had already been to Topkapi Palace, once the resident of the Ottoman sultans, in the adjoining district. When they had first arrived in this square, they had visited the Blue Mosque and then the Haghia Sophia Church, which faced each other across the gardens.
Justine had been impressed by both of these ancient monuments. The Blue Mosque, famous for its Ottoman architecture, had six minarets, a number of golden domes with spires and 250 windows. Once inside, she had been captivated by the blue-and-white ancient Iznik tiles lining the walls. Immediately they had reminded her of the blue-and-white reproductions which her father and grandmother had sold at their showroom in Manhattan.
Justine knew from Iffet that the Haghia Sophia Church was one of the world’s greatest architectural achievements. It had been built by the Emperor Justinian in the Byzantine period. The enormous edifice seemed more like a cathedral to her.
Now turning to Iffet, Justine said, ‘Thank you for showing me these extraordinary places. I’ve really enjoyed our morning of sightseeing, but I’d like to take a rest now, wouldn’t you?’
‘I would. I think touring these two religious places, plus the Topkapi Palace, is enough to take in on one morning.’
‘I wouldn’t mind going to the Spice Market later. But shall we go somewhere for lunch first?’
Iffet nodded, pulled out her mobile phone, and