Daughters of Paris Page 4

  ‘What could I write about?’

  ‘Anything you feel people should know,’ Pierre said. ‘The conditions for workers, perhaps. How the preparations for war are affecting morale in the upper classes. I bet they are only concerned they won’t be able to get fresh oysters flown in from the coast.’

  ‘I think you’re a little confused. I don’t live with royalty,’ Fleur retorted, which earned a wink from Sébastien that set her cheeks flaming with pride. She loved that he found her amusing.

  ‘I’ll have a think and if I come up with anything I’ll tell you,’ she promised Pierre. With no printing press or firm idea of how to go about starting a newspaper, she doubted it would come to pass.

  Wind and rain lashed at the bright-striped canopies outside the cafés as they emptied. Fleur shivered as she left Café Morlaix and pulled her collar up, wishing she had brought an umbrella. She picked her way through the puddles, trying her best not to slip on the smooth paving slabs.

  ‘Wait a moment, Fleur.’

  She looked over her shoulder to see Pierre waving and stopped.

  ‘All this talk of war gets the blood racing. We might be blown up before the month is finished,’ he murmured. He grasped her by the hand and pulled her into a kiss.

  Fleur was too dazed to resist and when it became clear she was not going to be released immediately, she closed her eyes and concentrated on the sensation. Pierre’s lips were full and his chin and cheeks stubbly, grazing her skin like sandpaper. It was quite pleasant in some ways. Cautiously she put her hands on his shoulders, knowing that this was giving tacit approval and moved her lips in a vague attempt to match his. Pierre stopped kissing her then and raised his brows.

  ‘Was that the first time anyone has done that to you?’

  She nodded, slightly taken aback and unsure whether admitting it would lessen her in his eyes.

  ‘Ah.’ He reached out and dabbed a fingertip on the end of her nose. ‘Sorry, ma belle, I didn’t realise. Were you hoping to hold out for Sébastien?’

  ‘No!’ Fleur exclaimed. Her insides shrivelled with embarrassment. Was she so easy to read?

  Pierre’s face twisted into an amused grin. ‘There is no need to look so shocked. No one would blame you if you were. In fact, half of us would turn green with envy. He is a complete dream after all.’

  Fleur’s eyes widened even further as the implication sunk in. Pierre’s grin widened.

  ‘Don’t be so shocked, little innocent. Yes, people have done that for centuries. Why, half the men and women in these clubs are in and out of bed with each other, irrespective of body parts. Don’t tell me you disapprove.’

  ‘I…’ Fleur bit her lip, still throbbing from the kiss.

  ‘I’m only teasing you, Fleur. Sébastien only likes women, more’s the pity. But be warned; if you do hope to get involved with him, be prepared for long evenings listening to him talk about art and how the world should change, and don’t expect him to offer marriage.’

  ‘Who says I am hoping to get involved with him?’ Fleury retorted.

  ‘You do.’ Pierre smirked. ‘Through your eyes and the way they go large like a calf’s whenever he talks to you.’

  A buzzing filled her ears. Of course she admired Sébastien. He was a very attractive man and he was inspiring. But Fleur would rather cut her tongue out then admit it to Pierre.

  ‘You’re talking nonsense. And, if that is the sort of metaphor you use in your poetry, it’s no wonder you haven’t yet been published.’

  Pierre erupted into laughter. He leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek. ‘You are too wonderful, and I would like to kiss you again, but the rain is stopping. I think I will chance going home. I can’t persuade you to come home with me, I suppose?’

  He didn’t wait for her to answer but unfurled an umbrella and snapped it open. ‘No, a first kiss is one thing but you don’t want to lose your virginity to me, do you?’

  ‘I don’t want to lose it to anyone yet,’ Fleur called after him.

  His laughter sounded over the raindrops as he walked away.

  Fleur stomped back to the Metro station, seething with annoyance. What was wrong with her liking Sébastien anyway? Of all the men she had encountered he appeared to be the hardest-working, and if he wasn’t the best-looking then he was certainly one of the most intriguing. If only she could find out whether he liked her too.

  Her opportunity came one Saturday afternoon when Fleur called in after leaving the bookshop. Instead of sitting with Pierre and the others, Sébastien was at a separate table in the corner, his nose buried in a book. Fleur walked over to him, trying to remember how Colette had behaved when she wanted to show a man she liked him.

  ‘You work so hard,’ she commented.

  He rolled his shoulders back. ‘I have to study hard if I want to be a success, and I have to work if I want to eat.’

  ‘But you look so tired.’ Hesitantly she put her hand on his arm. ‘Can I help?’

  ‘You could fetch me a vin rouge. Only a small one.’

  She obliged and handed it to him. His fingers touched hers and she felt a jolt like the spark of electricity. The colour rose to her cheeks and she hastily whipped her hand away. Sébastien looked into her eyes and as he held her gaze Fleur held her breath, unable to do anything until she saw a sign. He smiled and touched her cheek.

  ‘I forget how young you are sometimes, Fleur. One day, a man will fall in love with you and be completely lost in how fortunate he is. Now, if you excuse me, chérie, I really must read this chapter.’

  It was the kindest dismissal and the gentlest refusal he could have given her, but Fleur’s throat seized with humiliation. She turned away, feeling her legs growing wobbly. She heard Odile calling her name but only waved a hand and hurried on.

  When Fleur returned home, she hoped to avoid speaking to anyone, but Tante Agnes was upstairs in Colette’s room, and called her name as Fleur passed. The windows were wide open, letting in a blast of chilly wind. Agnes paused her task of attacking the carpet with a stiff brush.

  ‘Mademoiselle Colette is coming home. Madame and Monsieur would like her back in France before she is unable to return so she’ll likely be back very soon. Won’t that be nice?’

  Fleur smiled faintly. Colette home after so long would be nice, she supposed, though the circumstances necessitating her return filled Fleur with an even greater sense of foreboding.

  Chapter Four

  April 1939

  ‘Colette, darling! Pay attention!’ Delphine snapped. ‘Madame Tourval was telling you about her trip to Alsace last month.’

  Colette blinked and focused her attention on the elderly woman dressed in a sea of peach tulle.

  ‘I am, Mère, I had a sudden headache. Please forgive me, Madame Tourval, I’d love to hear more about your trip. Are the Alsatians concerned about what the German Chancellor is proposing?’

  Madame Tourval’s eyes narrowed. Colette could tell that such a topic was both unexpected and unwelcome.

  ‘I am sure I have no idea. My husband and I made a tour of the ancient churches and I also spent time at Baden-Baden and Niederbronn-les-Bains. I have nothing to do with politics, and the sight of the ugly concrete slabs along the Maginot Line are an abomination to the senses.’

  Madame Tourval waved a hand dismissively and the rings she wore on each finger glinted in the afternoon sunlight. Colette dipped her head deferentially, implying that she too had little care for the subject of politics. The thought of concrete bunkers guarding the borders to France was chilling. Hitler’s determination to remilitarise Germany had been the talk of nearly every home she had visited in England, and as a Frenchwoman she had been asked the same questions repeatedly.

  What will France do? How has the civil war in Spain affected relations between your country and theirs? Are the Jews in France worried about the restrictions in place in Germany?

  Colette couldn’t answer any of the questions. How could she, when she had barely any contact with her home country beyond the monthly letter from her parents? She probably knew less about the situation in Europe than anyone in the room.

  ‘I visited some beautiful churches in England, as well as a number of health resorts,’ she remarked.

  ‘Nevertheless, we were discussing my experience,’ Madame Tourval said coldly.

  Delphine gave a discreet cough. A hush descended over the salon.

  ‘My friends, we are here to welcome my daughter home from England.’

  Tante Agnes entered the room just then with a tray of champagne coupes. When everyone had a glass in hand, Delphine raised her glass and smiled fondly at Colette. Her eyes were uncharacteristically clear, given that it was already three in the afternoon, and Colette supposed she should feel honoured that her mother had held off indulging in a cocktail or three until the official reception.

  ‘Welcome back, my darling. I do hope that your time in England has not completely removed France, and Paris in particular, from your heart.’

  Colette smiled genuinely. She put her hand over her heart. ‘Mère, nothing could erase Paris from my heart or soul.’

  The women all sighed and raised their glasses. Colette felt a frisson of relief at their approval. After such a long absence she needed to be accepted back into Delphine’s circle. As Colette smiled around the room at the brightly dressed women, she tried not to think of an aviary filled with middle-aged birds. With immaculately made-up faces, chic hats with feathers and net, and rings and necklaces in a variety of stones set into gold and silver, the women of Paris were stylish in a way English women could only hope to emulate. But their average age must be fifty at least and they were all her mother’s friends or acquaintances. None of Colette’s friends were present at the party to welcome her home.

&n
bsp; Apparently, she didn’t have any as not one of the girls she had known from school or outside it had written to her while she was in England.

  ‘Your continued good health, my dear,’ Delphine said.

  Colette received the toast and looked around, smiling at each of the women in turn.

  Delphine rang a bell and Agnes appeared again, carrying two towering cake stands laden with pastries and cakes, glossy with icing and fruits. Colette’s mouth began to water.

  ‘England cannot compete with Paris when it comes to pastries,’ she said.

  ‘Be careful, chérie,’ said Madame Brassai; a woman whose face was so wrinkled and folded with fat she resembled a bullfrog. ‘If you eat too many you will never fit into your new gown. I remember you looking quite puffy-faced when I last saw you, but I suppose that was long ago and you are no longer an adolescent.’

  Colette turned on the spot, posing to show off her dress and biting back a response. Her dress was cornflower blue with a billowy blouse and flared skirt and fitted her perfectly. She had a curvaceous figure with high, full breasts but a shapely waist and, most importantly to Colette, a flat stomach.

  ‘It would take more than a mille-feuille to make me fat,’ she quipped, to general laughter.

  As the women began to nibble at the delights on offer, two of the youngest joined Colette at the window overlooking the garden.

  Sophie and Josette Lucienne. Both blonde and pretty. They were twins, two years older than Colette, and daughters of a hotelier who had fought with her father in the Great War. Colette knew them by sight but not intimately. Mind you, as she had not been in Paris for nearly a year, there was no one she did know intimately.

  ‘Tell us about England,’ Sophie urged. ‘Do they think there will be a war?’

  Colette thought for a moment. The younger women seemed a little less vacuous than the older generation. ‘The prime minister said not. He signed a peace pact with Germany last year.’

  ‘Good. Papa is dispirited at the thought that if there is a war no one will come to stay in the hotel.’ Sophie sighed. ‘It is a worry.’

  ‘We heard you had been devastated by the end of a romance with a German and your nerves were too fragile to stay in France,’ Josette said.

  Colette’s mouth dropped open. Delphine and Louis had sworn that, if anyone asked, they would say Colette had gone abroad to widen her mind.

  Josette continued unabashed. ‘Just imagine if you had married a German. We might have been enemies soon!’

  Sophie nudged her sister and spoke quickly. ‘Tell us about the English men.’

  What was there to tell? Colette had stayed closely within Edith’s circle and rarely had the opportunity to speak to any young men, much less alone. Not wanting to admit the truth, she smiled and lowered her eyelashes.

  ‘Oh English men are the best in the world. Such gentlemen, but rather dull at times. They all seem to know the same poetry and quote it at any opportunity. Or they know nothing and spend all of their time hunting or shooting things.’

  ‘That sounds dull,’ Josette said. ‘Did you meet any royalty? Did you have any wild romances with dukes or earls?’

  ‘I’m afraid not,’ Colette admitted, relieved at the change of subject. ‘I was staying mostly with my old governess and unfortunately she did not move in quite those circles.’

  Despite Edith being an ‘honourable’, as she had tried to explain to Colette, she had married for love to a music teacher and was now plain Mrs Colin Gregg. They lived in a modest house provided by Colin’s boarding school on the east coast, and their idea of a good day out involved walking in all weathers along the cliffs. No wonder she had returned home slim.

  Sophie pressed her hand against Colette’s. ‘I know where to find the most exciting men in Paris. Come with us one night and we will show you.’

  Colette’s heart leaped. This was more like it. ‘I don’t particularly want a man, but will there be dancing?’

  ‘Oh yes. Dancing and music and drinking. Smoking, too, if you’re daring enough.’

  Colette wrinkled her nose. She had tried smoking at Gunther’s suggestion, but the thought of it now turned her stomach.

  ‘Dancing sounds exciting,’ Colette said.

  Sophie gave her a wide smile. ‘Come on Saturday this week. Take the Metro to Abbesses to arrive at eight and we will meet you there.’

  For the rest of the afternoon Colette was bright and sociable with all of her mother’s friends. They drank cocktails and talked of fashion and films and she felt invigorated, despite the long journey home. The company Colette had kept in England had been more sedate and serious, and towards the end of her stay every conversation had inevitably turned to the situation in Germany and the Chancellor’s ambition in Europe, which Colette had found insufferably tedious. Who were the British, on an island safe across the sea, to worry about land disputes in Europe? This salon with its gaily dressed women exemplified the best of Paris and, consequently, the best of France.

  After the guests had departed amid effusive kisses and promises to attend cocktail parties and make visits to couturiers and galleries, Delphine called Colette back.

  ‘Ring for a fresh carafe of water, Colette. It’s too stuffy in here and I have a headache.’

  Both women knew Delphine’s bad head was less due to the air and entirely a result of the number of cocktails she had consumed, but Colette went along with the pretence.

  ‘I’ll order some coffee too,’ she suggested. ‘I’m still tired from travelling.’

  The coffee arrived with a plate of finger-size madeleines decorated with glace icing flowers. Colette ate one enthusiastically. Delphine narrowed her eyes.

  ‘I see your appetite is large. That’s good as I would hate to see you falling prey to any more bouts of sickness. We do not want any more illness, do we, Colette?’

  Colette felt a creeping sense of disdain. Her mother’s voice was uncharacteristically full of steel but, despite that, Delphine talked in vague hints and euphemisms.

  There had been no ‘illness’.

  There had been a pregnancy and an undignified banishment across la Manche so that Colette’s shame would never be known among Louis and Delphine’s circle. Delphine would never mention Colette’s unfortunate condition by name, nor refer to the circumstances under which she had been exiled to England. Colette wondered how any rumours of the disastrous end to her love affair had breached the walls of the house. Gunther had ended the relationship in the same conversation Colette had told him about her condition. Her stomach writhed with fury at the memory.

  ‘No, there will be no more bouts of illness.’

  ‘Good.’ Delphine reached out of hand and briefly stroked Colette’s forearm. ‘I regretted sending you away, but you know it had to be done. I’m so glad you’re home now and safe. There won’t be a war. There won’t be. But if there was, I couldn’t bear to think you were across the sea from me.’

  A chill rippled down Colette’s back.

  Delphine’s cheeks dimpled. ‘Now, we must make plans. We need to have you fitted for some new clothes. The English fashions are so sensible. Nothing I would let you wear. I think lunch at Le Procope on Tuesday. A walk through the Jardin du Luxembourg on Wednesday morning. A charity event at the Luciennes’ hotel to help those poor, displaced Czechoslovakian women who have taken refuge in Paris. On Friday evening we’ll dine with Madame Pirolle and her son Georges – he’s been married once but his wife died of pleurisy so he is once again looking for a wife. On Saturday—’

  ‘On Saturday,’ Colette interrupted, slightly awed by the schedule proposed. ‘I am meeting with Josette and Sophie for an evening visit to go dancing.’

  Delphine looked approving. ‘Excellent. The hotel has a lovely terrace. I believe Josette even entertained the thought of marriage to a count from Brittany until she decided the climate by the sea would not agree with her complexion.’

  She reached out and seized Colette’s wrist, her fingernails digging into Colette’s flesh. Five red talons. Colette looked up in shock. The movement had been smooth and speedy and totally unexpected.

  ‘Find a good husband, Colette. Your father is rich enough and well respected enough that you could attract a higher calibre than a would-be film actor, especially now relations with Germany are turning hostile. Take advantage of that.’