The Dress Thief Page 14

  ‘You aren’t listening,’ Lucy chided. ‘I said – tell her I shall take her sketch to Whiteleather’s.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘And Mrs Whiteleather will open the ladies’ scarf drawer and say, “That’s all we have, dear. Have a rummage.” Oh, I’m going to have to say it … Jack and Moira are engaged.’ She blurted it out, as if it had been stuck on her tongue all day.

  He didn’t answer at once. He had to ask himself if he was shocked. If he minded. Back in the summer of 1935, Verrian and Moira Durslop, daughter of Sir Chester Durslop MP, his parents’ Sussex neighbour, had become engaged. Neither of their families had rejoiced. As far as Moira’s parents were concerned, a younger son who worked as a journalist was far beneath their daughter’s deserts. His own father, who didn’t think much of him, declared he wasn’t ready for marriage. His mother, whose opinion, in Verrian’s view, was tinted by maternal blindness, thought Moira too silly and vain for her boy.

  To some degree, both his parents had been right. It had been a flimsy affection, tested to breaking point when, in October 1935, Verrian went to Abyssinia to cover the Italian invasion. Moira’s love for him died when, instead of coming home for the Season of ’36, he’d gone from Abyssinia to Spain to report on the Fascist invasion. She’d written telling him that if he wanted his engagement ring back, he’d find it at the bottom of her father’s fishing lake. She considered herself free to find a husband who wasn’t addicted to other people’s wars.

  ‘She and Jack will do very well,’ he said slowly. ‘They’re suited. I just wish he’d told me himself.’

  ‘Jack’s terrified you’ll come home and thump him. That’s why he’s so desperate for you to stay in Paris. Doesn’t want a big black eye. Sir Chester wants him to take his parliamentary seat when he retires next year.’

  ‘Jack, an MP?’ He thought about it. ‘Why not? He was born for the role.’

  ‘And getting worse. He stands with his thumbs tucked into his waistcoat and gives speeches to his wardrobe. They don’t want you to return to Spain either. When Moira heard you had a Spanish girlfriend, she started saying the most awful things about “foreign floozies”. She’s jealous,’ Lucy said sagely, ‘and scared that if you bring such a person home, everyone will say, “Poor Verrian, on the rebound because Moira threw him over to get her claws into the elder son.”’

  ‘I’d say she has.’

  ‘I wish you could hear Father ranting at Mother every time you go somewhere dangerous, or have a fling. It’s why she’s lost weight. She’s sensitive, you know, under that galvanised exterior. So please don’t get too keen on your Alix – I mean, if you were drifting that way. Can you imagine how Father would react?’

  He took Lucy back to the Hôtel Polonaise, keeping the taxi, and went on to Laurentin’s place, where he ordered a triple cognac at the bar. He took a photograph from his wallet and propped it against his drink. It had been taken in a bomb-damaged square in Madrid. A dark-haired girl squinted at the camera, one side of her face shadowed by a beret. Not a fashionable beret, a military one. It was the only picture he had of Maria-Pilar. The only reminder of their cruelly brief union. Lucy was right – it would be insane to grow fond of anyone new. He must put a halt to it. He must leave Paris.

  Chapter Thirteen

  When Alix had handed her first Javier wage packet to Mémé, her grandmother had counted the money and reminded her that the telephone company had paid her a third as much again. The one she presented on 16th April received the same response.

  ‘And if the job is so wonderful, Aliki, why are you moping?’

  ‘I’m tired.’

  ‘You call this tired? You wait till you’ve hemmed your way around the coast of France, then you’ll know tired.’

  The job was tough, but Alix’s low spirits had other origins. Verrian Haviland had not called since they had shaken hands outside the Deux Magots nearly a week ago.

  *

  She worked on Saturday, but on Sunday, her day off, she went to see Bonnet. Her first visit to his studio since she’d been attacked. She’d written to him about that incident, promising to sit for him again when she felt ready and he’d replied with a short note: ‘My door is always open.’

  She walked fast from the métro, on the watch for anyone shadowing her. She allowed herself a moment in front of Verrian’s lodgings to wonder if the room top front with the green shutters was his. Outside the Deux Magots he’d seemed so eager to see her again. She’d waited. And waited. Turning her back on the green shutters, she thrust open Bonnet’s door and clattered upstairs shouting his name.

  Bonnet was at work and spun round, spattering paint. Seeing her distress, he opened his arms. ‘Bear hug awaits. Explanations can follow.’

  *

  ‘Haviland …’ Bonnet studied Verrian’s card. She’d asked his advice. Should she swallow her pride, go next door and ask to see Verrian? Or put him from her mind?

  ‘Not the family that manufactures the aeroplanes, wrong spelling. Should you chase after him? Newspaperman … hmm. Inky fingers and lunchtime drinking.’

  ‘You should talk, Bonnet.’ Alix took the business card back and discovered a blue thumbprint on it.

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘I don’t know precisely,’ she confessed. ‘Twenty-eight … thirty … He’s very gentlemanly.’

  ‘As a gentleman, he’ll realise you’re only seventeen. Hmm?’

  ‘Bonnet, I’m nearly twenty-one. How many times?’

  ‘Pardon. Your innocence misleads. But has he called? Sent a note? Flowers?’

  When Alix shook her head, Bonnet slung an arm round her. ‘My first – and only – wife told me, if a man calls you next day, he’s too eager. If he leaves it more than three, forget him. How many days?’

  She counted on her fingers. ‘Eight, if you include Sundays.’

  ‘Sundays are included, I think.’

  ‘Bonnet …’ though the weather was mild, the studio was freezing, ‘must we work today?’

  ‘Course not. By the way, if you came hoping to be paid for last time, I’m a bit short.’

  ‘That’s all right.’

  ‘A fellow was going to buy my views over St-Martin canal, supposed to come yesterday.’ Bonnet pointed to twin impressions of reflected trees and a bow-shaped bridge, then finished his story in one sigh. ‘Next week I’ll be better placed. Fancy a drink?’

  ‘I’ve only got the coins in my pocket.’

  ‘We’ll go to Mother Richelieu’s. She puts it on a slate for me.’

  Over a glass of wine, Alix asked Bonnet a question that had been troubling her since the day of her attack. ‘That thug … do you think he followed me across Paris?’

  ‘It’s possible. Or perhaps he saw a pretty girl go into a shuttered house and decided … you know? On a whim.’

  ‘No, he knew me, and why I was there. And he knows the Comte de Charembourg, and that the comte cares for me. It’s why he picked on me, as a way of making the comte pay him. It makes me ill, thinking that some revolting stranger knows about my life. Secret things. Who could it be?’

  Bonnet shrugged. He’d downed his first glass of wine in one and was trying to attract a refill. ‘Mother Richelieu, attention, empty glass over here!’ He watched the patronne pour him more wine. ‘To the top, Madame, I don’t pay you for empty air.’

  ‘You don’t pay me at all, Bonnet.’

  He laughed delightedly, smacking the woman’s bottom, then said to Alix, ‘You’d better hope nobody ever comes after you to pay my bills.’

  ‘That isn’t funny. Bonnet, how did you get tangled up with my family? I know you were my grandfather’s apprentice, but after his death why didn’t you find another master to learn from and move on? Why have you kept in touch with my grandmother all these years? You’re such a mismatched pair.’

  He pinched her cheek. ‘Mismatches are often the best. But the truth? After your grandfather died, somebody had to get Danielle and Mathilda out of Kirchwiller. The place had
become a graveyard for your grandmother. She couldn’t sleep, eat … there were those who blamed her for your grandfather’s death.’

  ‘Why? You told me that thieves killed him.’

  Bonnet brushed the question aside. ‘It was felt she should leave Alsace, get right away, to another country. I suggested London because Alfred had studied there in his youth. Somebody contacted his former tutor in London – the old Comtesse de Charembourg wrote the letter, I think. A reply came, offering Danielle and Mathilda a home. Money was raised for their journey, of which at least half came from the comte and his mother.’

  ‘Why so generous?’

  ‘They were the big fish in Kirchwiller. Back then, they owned streets of houses, including the one your grandparents lived in. I expect they felt a sense of noblesse oblige. The only question remained, how would Danielle and Mathilda make that long trip? They couldn’t go alone, so I volunteered to take them. Or was volunteered, I’m not sure which. Have I answered your question?’

  ‘A bit. I know where the story starts, and where it ends. Here in Paris. But what about the bit in the middle? I know the comte and my father joined the same regiment when war broke out, but why was the comte living in London? And how was it he never met my mother?’

  Bonnet stopped his glass halfway to his mouth. ‘What d’you mean, never met your mother?’

  ‘He never knew her. He told me.’

  Bonnet made a rude noise. ‘Then he’s being discreet, or forgetful. I escorted your grandmother and mother to London in the winter of 1904, right? I meant to settle them in with their new friends and go back to Alsace, but I discovered I liked England. I was invited to remain, given a room and studio and stayed for many months, long enough to be there when the Comte de Charembourg came to Oxford, which is not very far from London.’

  Alix nodded. ‘He studied at Oxford University. I remember him telling me.’

  ‘Now, you see, Danielle had been taken in by the painter Martin Fressenden and his wife, Magdalen. They ran an art school from their home by the River Thames. Danielle arrived exhausted, but after she recovered she planted herself in the kitchen as cook-housekeeper. She was happier there. She felt awkward in the drawing room, all those merry people shouting at each other in English. Not so little Mathilda, who learned the language in a month and became everyone’s pet. De Charembourg would visit from Oxford once a month or so, and grew very fond of her. He’d bring her presents: dolls, chocolates, a kitten once. He was like a big brother and she adored him. A big brother … until she grew up and met him in his uniform. Then you can be sure she looked upon him differently.’

  ‘They met …’

  ‘At the front in the early months of the war, I believe. He a captain, she a nurse.’

  ‘So …’ Alix’s lips felt stiff, afraid to form the question, ‘why would he pretend not to know her?’

  ‘God knows. Perhaps he’s wiped the past from his mind. We all do to some extent—’ Bonnet broke off as two men sauntered in. ‘Didiot, Ambrose, hey! Come drink with us. My pretty friend and I are talking about life and other sad events.’

  Knowing he would soon have a noisy coterie around him, Alix put a question to him that she’d struggled to ask for months. ‘Bonnet, will you tell me more about how my grandfather died? What did those thieves do to him?’

  She got the story of Alfred’s death, but it was the same one as before, and this time peppered with so many asides and interruptions even Bonnet lost the thread. And by the time he’d emptied several jugs of wine, the tears were falling. When he started calling for cognac, Alix gave up. Heading home, she got off the train a few stops early, walking to clear her head and review what Bonnet had told her.

  So the Comte de Charembourg and her mother had met. First as brother-figure and little girl, then in the midst of war when Mathilda was just a little older than Alix was now. Had they strayed into forbidden love? When war broke out 1914 the comte had been married and – Alix drew on her limited knowledge of his domestic circumstances – father of at least one daughter. Was that what everyone was avoiding telling her? It would explain so much …

  Alix was crossing Place St-Sulpice, head bowed in thought, when she heard her name being called. A bicycle pulled up in a screech of brakes.

  ‘Paul –’ In the sunshine, he seemed almost brutally solid. And he was scowling. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’ve been waiting ages. It’s Suzy, she’s ill. Your fat concierge-woman told me you were out. Have you been drinking?’

  ‘I’ve been with Bonnet – what d’you think?’ It came out sharply and she immediately put out her hand. What she’d thought was a scowl was fatigue. ‘What’s the matter with Suzy?’

  ‘Croup. She was so bad yesterday, seizing for breath, I took her to a doctor. He pretty much told me our living conditions were to blame, and if she didn’t get better soon, he’d intervene. He means an orphanage.’

  ‘We’ve got honey at home. Shall I get it? Or I could come and sit with Suzy to give you a break?’

  ‘Not with drink on your breath.’ Paul added a half-apologetic shrug. ‘Somebody already gave me some honey, and Suzy’s too unwell to leave with anybody. Alix, I need money. My great-aunt will help with the girls – if I pay her, and I need to refit the boat this summer. Are you doing what you promised? Mme Shone is like a cat on hot bricks and I keep making excuses. I said you needed time to settle into Javier before giving us the copies, but it’ll be the end of April before we know it. She says New York’s on the telephone every day. Have you thrown us over?’

  ‘Course not.’ In some ways, Paul was right. Alix needed money too, but for all her new job was hard, her colleagues spiteful, she’d fallen in love with Maison Javier. She didn’t want to be a thief, even though she knew it was only a matter of time. ‘Let’s go to a café, talk it over.’

  But Paul had to go. ‘Come and see me soon, Alix. Promise.’

  She promised.

  A further surprise awaited in her courtyard: Mme Rey swabbing the flagstones with a wide-headed broom, steam rising from a canister of hot water.

  The concierge stopped mid-stroke. ‘See how I look after you people? The stink of piss was making me ill. And they –’ she jerked her head at the laundry house – ‘wouldn’t know which end of a mop is which. One of your boyfriends called earlier.’

  ‘Paul. I met him.’

  ‘And a parcel came. Hand-delivered.’ The concierge dug inside her bib pocket and drew out a small box. ‘Not your birthday, is it?’

  ‘Not till June. Thank you, Madame.’ Alix went upstairs, tearing the wrapping as she went. She found a pale-blue box containing a pair of silver embroidery scissors and a note:

  My dear Alix, please accept this in token of my affection and admiration. I hope they will help you in your new profession as they are the finest Sheffield steel, very sharp!

  From one who prays – and knows – that you will now sleep easy,

  Jean-Yves de Charembourg

  ‘Sleep easy’ – he was telling her that he’d paid her attacker and she need not fear any more. But why not state plainly what he meant? Everybody bamboozled her with half-facts, or gave her a truth so diluted it wasn’t worth having. Or disappeared, like Verrian. Only Bonnet treated her as an adult with a brain. Crossly she dug into her handbag for her door-key. It wasn’t there. She tipped the bag’s contents on to the floor and felt the lining. Definitely not there. She’d put her bag down at Mother Richelieu’s, which one should never do as Montmartre was notorious for bag-snatchers. Her purse was there, so maybe the key had just fallen out. She knocked and Mémé let her in, giving her granddaughter a disgruntled look, telling her to sit down while she made black coffee.

  It was much later when Alix got round to writing the comte a short thank-you, which she addressed to Rue du Sentier. She signed it ‘Mathilda’, a gesture she knew was both provocative and childish.

  *

  Monday arrived and, with still no word from Verrian, Alix accepted that Bonn
et was right. Verrian Haviland was an experienced man for whom a kiss in the rain meant nothing. But when, eleven days after their parting outside the Deux Magots, Pauline Frankel came to her workbench and said, ‘Alix, take off your smock and come to the salon, somebody wishes to speak with you,’ her heart still bucked like a spring lamb. It could only be Verrian.

  Why hadn’t he warned her? Disaster! She was wearing her dowdiest skirt and ugh! flat shoes. Mme Frankel showed her into one of the trying-on rooms off the salon, telling her to wait. ‘You may not appear in the salon itself, you understand?’

  Alix perched on a sofa, bubbles popping inside her. Would Verrian bring flowers? Use that sexy, amused voice? Would he want to kiss her? On balance she’d rather he didn’t, not while she was wearing these clothes. She’d rather be kissed in a cabaret, wearing her favourite evening gown. Well, her only evening gown.

  The door opened and Alix leaped up. It wasn’t Verrian who entered, but a woman whose hourglass shape came wrapped in a beige suit. A white cone hat was pinned to her blonde hair. Pale fur swathed one shoulder. Good God – it was the American from Hermès, the one who’d given her six out of ten. Alix sagged. No sexy smile, no flowers. But something was about to happen. A telling-off, maybe?

  Mme Frankel made introductions. ‘Mme Kilpin, this is Alix Gower. Alix, Mme Kilpin called into my office the other day, expressing a desire to meet the girl who sews so neatly and fast. I was delighted to agree as it’s always the salesgirls and the fitters who get the praise when an order is delivered on time. Seam-stresses are the poor cousins. I should know; I was one once. Mme Kilpin, do please sit. Ah, good, tea has arrived. You will take refreshment?’

  As Alix tried to make sense of the woman arranging herself on a sofa of cream damask, a junior saleswoman laid out fine china and slices of lemon on a salver. Mme Frankel poured. Mme Kilpin stared at Alix.

  ‘Recognise the skirt, kiddo?’

  ‘The trellis silk, Madame. I sewed it for you.’

  ‘It arrived two hours before my husband did, and I wore it to meet him at the airport. He didn’t notice. I might have been wearing a grain sack to him, but the point is, I was wearing an ensemble I’d put together in my mind, so I was happy. I like my plans to work.’ Mme Kilpin’s French was riddled with errors and her accent was a crime, but Alix guessed she didn’t care. Why should she? ‘Madame’ had no need to please anybody. But still, Alix couldn’t fathom this meeting – no lady ever thanked her dressmaker.