September in Paris

by Andrea Blake

“Put some on,” Robert suggested, pleased with the success of his choice.

  Noelle did so, not daring to look at Ginette and hoping she would not be summoned downstairs while the pungent odour linger on her skin.

  “Such a pretty bottle, too. I’ll put it on my dressing table. Thank you very much, poppet.” She gave him another hug.

  Ginette’s present was a blue silk scarf and, knowing that the girl did not earn very much and gave part of her wages to her family, Noelle thanked her warmly.

  Nursery lunch was at noon so that Robert could have a rest before they went out for a walk. As she gave the baby her bottle, Noelle could hear him singing to himself and talking to his rabbit. She was gently rubbing Victoire’s back, lost in a day-dream, when there was a light tap at the door and Mark looked in.

  “Oh ... you’re back.” The surprise and eagerness in her tone was quite involuntary. For a fraction of a second, before she could recollect herself, a warm glow of relief spread through her.

  “How are you?”' He came into the room and stood looking down at her with that familiar half-smile that she could never quite read.

  “I ... we’re all very well, thank you.”

  “Uncle Mark! Uncle Mark!” Robert had heard his voice and came tumbling into the room.

  Mark caught him under the armpits and swung him high in the air.

  “Hello, old chap. How goes it?”

  “You must thank Uncle Mark for your merry-go-round,” Noelle reminded the child when their greetings were over. “He plays it all the time. It’s a roaring success,” she said, smiling.

  “Oh, good. I’ve brought you a present from London, Rob.” Mark fished in his pocket and produced a cellophane packet. “Run and get a glass of water and I’ll show you some magic.”

  Presently, when Robert was happily absorbed in dropping colored pellets into the glass and watching them grow into vivid water-flowers, Mark turned to Noelle.

  “You’re thinner,” he said abruptly.

  “Am I?” She laid Victoire on her lap and reached for a clean nappy. “I haven’t noticed it.”

  “It’s Noelle’s birthday today. I gave her a bottle of scent,” Robert said over his shoulder.

  Mark’s lips twitched. “I thought I could smell some rather exotic fragrance. What is it? Chanel No. 5?”

  Noelle gave him a warning glance. “It’s nice, isn’t it? Robert chose it himself,” she said hurriedly.

  “Very nice indeed,” Mark said gravely. “If I’d known it was an occasion, I’d have brought an offering myself.” There was a pause before he said, “Are you off duty this evening?”

  She nodded, her nerves suddenly taut.

  “Going out?” he asked.

  “I—I don’t think so. I’ve some dressmaking to finish.”

  “Not a very exciting way to spend a birthday. Would you care to go to the theatre?”

  “W-with you?” she stammered.

  “With me. I’ve tickets for the new play at the Capucines.”

  “Thank you very much,” she said uncertainly.

  “There’s only one snag. I’ll be tied up until fairly late. Would you mind meeting me there?”

  “No, of course not.” She wondered if he really was working late or if it was an excuse to avoid calling for her at the house.

  He rose. “Till tonight, then.”

  “Oh, Mr. Fielding—what do people usually wear at the theatre here.”

  “As it’s a first night, they’ll mainly be in evening kit. But we don’t have to dress if you’d rather not.”

  “Would a cocktail frock do?”

  “Sounds fine. I shall look forward to seeing you in it.”

  With another of those oddly provoking smiles, he said goodbye to Robert and left them.

  Later, as she dressed for the theatre, Noelle felt a mounting excitement. She didn’t know why Mark had asked her to go with him. She only knew that, just once, if never again, she wanted to make him look at her in the way that Alain had looked at her.

  The cocktail dress was of black lace mounted on a crisp poult slip. It was the only expensive dress she possessed, and had been given to her by her last employer, a pretty young socialite who had had it made at a London couture house and worn it only two or three times before her husband was posted to Rio de Janeiro. The Langleys had liked Noelle and wanted her to accompany them to Brazil, but she had set her heart on getting a post in Paris and had regretfully asked them to release her. Marguerite Langley had said that the lace dress would be too hot for a tropical climate, but Noelle suspected that this was an excuse to give it to her. At first she had demurred, but Mrs. Langley was heiress to an engineering fortune and rarely wore anything for more than one season, so finally Noelle had been persuaded to accept it.

  Now, fastening the tiny hooks which moulded the bodice to her slender waist, she, wondered if Mark would appreciate the dress. Probably not; but if they encountered any of his friends at least she would not look out of her element. As she screwed on the small pearl ear-drops which had belonged to her mother, and stepped into black silk slippers, her fingers trembled with excitement.

  The foyer of the Capucines was crowded with chattering groups of people, and to Noelle’s relief she had to wait only a few moments before Mark stepped out of a cab and came to her, side. They went straight into the theatre and were shown to their seats. All round them elegant women were slipping off sables and chinchillas, but the little satin tag inside her dress helped to give Noelle confidence as she took off her black silk cape.

  Mark handed her a program. “I hope this won’t bore you, but it’s a comedy, so the action should be fairly clear.”

  “I’m sure it won’t.” Evidently he still thought she did not understand French.

  A few minutes before the curtain was due to rise, she noticed that several people in front of them were looking up at one of the boxes. She turned her head to see what had attracted their interest and saw that a strikingly beautiful girl was standing at the front of the box. She was dressed in flame-colored chiffon under a stole of pure white fox furs and, as she slid the stole from her shoulders, there was a blaze of diamonds at her throat. Then, as Noelle watched, a man came forward to take the furs. It was Alain de Bressac.

  The lights over the auditorium began to dim, and latecomers hurried to their places. Noelle looked quickly away and glanced at Mark. But he was still reading his program and had not seen the occupants of the box.

  Half an hour later, the curtain came down on the first act and the laughter and applause slowly ebbed into a buzz of favorable comment.

  “What do you think of it so far?” Mark asked, close to her ear.

  Noelle turned a bright-eyed laughing face—and then her breath caught in her throat and her eager answer was lost in the moment of discovery. Blind to the faces around them, no longer a part of the great murmuring audience, she had only one thought: “I’m in love with him.”

  Mark’s eyebrows lifted. “What is it? You look startled.”

  “Oh ... no, it’s nothing. I enjoyed it very much. It’s very funny and ... and the dresses are wonderful.” She heard herself chattering on about the play, talking too much and too fast. But afterwards she could not remember a word of what she had said. All she could recall was the sudden and overwhelming certainty that she was in love with Mark Fielding, and that it was both wonderful and frightening and irrevocable.

  “How much of it could you follow?” Mark asked looking faintly surprised at her unusual loquacity.

  “All of it,” Noelle said, without thinking. Then, as his eyebrows went up, “I speak fairly good French.”

  “I see.” He had to stand up to allow some people to pass. “Shall we have a drink?”

  In the bar she was left alone for some minutes while he went to the counter. There were mirrors on the walls and she stared at her reflection, expecting to see some kind of physical change. But she was just the same: a slender russet-haired girl in a Stiebel dress, perhaps a little flushed and wid
e-eyed; but not markedly different from an hour ago.

  Mark brought their drinks and lit a cigarette. “You look very chic tonight, but I don’t smell Robert’s scent,” he said, smiling.

  Noelle laughed. “I thought it might be a little overpowering in a close atmosphere.”

  “What’s it called ... Nuit d’Amour ... Folies Bergere?”

  “Passionnement.”

  Mark’s laughter made several people glance their way, the women noting with interest his breadth of shoulder and the whiteness of his teeth, and the men wondering what the girl in black had said to amuse him.

  Suddenly, over Mark’s shoulder, Noelle saw a flash of scarlet at the entrance. The party from the box were coming in. She sipped her drink, hoping that Mark wouldn’t notice Alain. Presently they went back into the theatre, but for Noelle the play had lost its attraction. She was very conscious of Mark’s arm so close to her own, and she wanted to look at him, but was forced to keep her eyes on the stage. During the second interval they stayed in their seats, and Mark asked her to excuse him for a few moments while he went to speak to an elderly couple in the front row.

  Looking up at the box, Noelle saw that it was empty again and was glad they had not gone to the bar. She watched Mark standing in the aisle, then bending to catch something the woman was saying to him. She knew now that she must have been falling in love with him for a long time, perhaps from that day in the forest in Vincennes or even earlier. Deliberately, she avoided facing the future.

  “Noelle!”

  “Oh ... Alain!” It was an effort to hide her dismay when she saw the Frenchman beside her.

  “I saw you in the bar. Noelle, when can I see you again?” he said urgently.

  “I—I don’t know.” She flickered an anxious glance toward the front stalls. Mark was still talking, but at any moment he might come back.

  “I suppose you’ve wondered where I’ve been. I’ll explain when we meet. Tomorrow?” Alain asked urgently.

  “I can’t tomorrow. Look, Alain...” Her voice tailed off as Mark walked up the aisle.

  He had seen who was with her and already his expression had chilled.

  “Mark ... I think you know Monsieur de Bressac,” Noelle said uncomfortably.

  “Good evening.” Mark’s tone was barely civil, and Alain, too, looked annoyed at being interrupted.

  “I must get back,” he said stiffly. “I’ll be in touch with you, Noelle.”

  “I would have thought de Bressac would have been taking you out tonight,” Mark said coolly when he had gone.

  “I haven’t seen him for some time.”

  He gave her a speculative glance. “Did you bite off more than you could chew?”

  She did not answer. In that moment she almost hated Alain. As the curtain rose, her eyes were misted with tears, for she knew the evening was ruined.

  As the audience streamed out of the theatre to their cars and taxis Noelle expected Mark to take her home. She felt as tired and deflated as if she had been through a physical ordeal.

  His car was round the corner, and he put her into it and dropped a rug over her knees. Twenty minutes later, when he stopped the car in a street that she did not recognize, Noelle gave him a startled glance.

  The restaurant was small but luxurious. There were only half a dozen tables in a long narrow room behind a cocktail bar, and only one of those was empty.

  “Ah, M’sieur Fielding. Madame.” An elderly woman in black came towards them, beckoning a waiter.

  The table was drawn out to allow Noelle to reach the banquette, two chilled martinis on tiny silver trays were placed before them and leather-bound menus offered.

  Like Alain at the Crillon, Mark ordered without consulting Noelle. Then he leaned back against the dark leather and gave her a quizzical smile.

  “Do you think it will be a hit?”

  “The play? Oh, yes, I’m sure it will.”

  “I had the impression you found the last act disappointing.”

  “Not at all, I thought it was very amusing,” she said stiffly.

  “You have very pretty shoulders.” The words, and the fact that he had suddenly switched to French, took her breath away.

  She gave him a wide, astonished glance, then colored vividly.

  “Hasn’t de Bressac told you that?”

  “He—he doesn’t say things like that.”

  “You amaze me,” he said dryly.

  “Only because you see him as an arch-philanderer. He doesn’t go in for flattery,” she retorted.

  “I’m not flattering you. They are charming. You’re a very attractive girl.” There was a glint of devilment in his eyes that both excited and alarmed her.

  During the meal he discussed the play and the actors, but every time she looked at him Noelle saw that challenging glint in his smile and was oddly afraid.

  When the coffee arrived she said, “I ought not to be too late, Mr. Fielding. I’m usually back by eleven.”

  “Ginette won’t mind waiting up for you. Isn’t it time we advanced to Christian names?”

  “Oh, yes ... if you like.”

  “Since I presume I’m to be allowed the same privileges as de Bressac, it hardly seems necessary to keep up the formalities.”

  For a second the implication didn’t register. Then—and it was like a douche of cold water—she understood what he meant. Instinctively, she struggled to get to her feet. Below the level of the table Mark’s hand snapped over her wrist and held her down.

  He smiled at her, and signalled to the waiter. In all her life Noelle had never felt such a surge of impotent fury as he calmly paid the bill and forced her to sit with him.

  In the street, she said icily. “Will you please get me a taxi?”

  “Don’t be silly.” He propelled her towards the car.

  If there had been any sign of a cab she would have wrenched free and made a dash for it. But the street was deserted.

  As he slid behind the wheel she said, “I think you are the rudest, most insufferable egocentric I have ever met.”

  “Because I give you fair warning?” He had the effrontery to laugh. “My trouble is that I’m not the smooth French type.”

  “Will you stop going, on about Alain! It’s none of your business,” she flared angrily.

  “I didn’t mention him.”

  “Oh.” Noelle drew in a breath of helpless exasperation and drew herself into the farthest corner of the wide bench seat.

  She wondered if he was only tormenting her and, oddly, this enraged her even more. The worst of it was that, deep down, under the veneer of emancipated self-sufficiency, a weaker and more primitive side of her was aching to be kissed by Mark. “But not in this mood,” she thought, with a queer pang. “Not without love, without tenderness.” As the car drew up to the house she reached for the door handle. But he must have pressed the locking device when he put her into it, and by the time she got it open he was, standing in the road to help her out.

  “I’ll see you through the courtyard.” His hand slid under her elbow.

  The garage—once a coach-house—was empty, and there was no light in the housekeeper’s room.

  Noelle could only hope, that no one was looking out from the upper windows although, as the yard was mostly in shadow except for a small lamp above the steps, they, would probably not have been able to distinguish Mark’s features. Just short of the range of the lamplight his fingers tightened and he stopped.

  “Goodnight. It was good of you to take me,” Noelle said frigidly.

  She attempted to pull away, but his hand caught her other arm and she was held where she was.

  “Oh, please—”

  Her final half-whispered appeal broke off as he bent his head. But when his lips touched her cheek it was in the briefest and coolest of caresses.

  “Not such an ordeal as you imagined?” His voice was lazy and amused. “In you go now. Sleep tight.”

  She stood in the dimness, watching him walk away. Out in the lighted
street he looked back and waved a hand, and she heard him whistling some jingle as he went back to the car. Then a door slammed, the engine started up and he was gone.

  Noelle touched the cheek that he had kissed. She had a sick, cold feeling inside—like the beginning of heartbreak.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The morning after Noelle’s birthday Anne-Marie du Val was taking her leisurely bath when her telephone rang. Immersed in pale green foam that was scented with Lanvin’s Pretexte, her dark hair protected by a bandeau, the French girl stretched out an arm to reach to the extension close beside, her. The caller was a girl named Luce St. Clair. They had been at finishing school together and were still close friends. As they made arrangements to meet for lunch, Anne-Marie studied her other hand. She knew that her hands were pretty, and she took great pains to keep them white, always using a frosted bronze lacquer on her long tapering nails and wearing a square-cut topaz which drew attention to their delicate soft-fleshed structure. But yesterday, passing an exclusive jeweller’s in the Place Vendome, she had seen another ring, a magnificent aquamarine. Standing outside the window, gazing at the crystal of blue-green brilliance, she had been determined to possess it—as an engagement ring from Mark!

  She was thinking of the ring and of the man as she listened to Luce’s chatter, so it was curious that her friend should say suddenly, “By the way, cherie, are you still interested in that tall Englishman—Mark Something-or-other?”

  “Mark Fielding?' What makes you ask?” Anne-Marie asked cautiously.

  “I saw him at the theatre last night. If you’re serious in that direction you seem to have competition.”

  “I wouldn’t say I was serious,” Anne-Marie said lightly. Luce was her friend, but she was also an inveterate tattler. There were some matters on which Anne-Marie preferred to keep her own confidence. “Who was he with,” she asked, but very casually.

  “No one we know—at least I don’t. All I can tell you is that she was beautifully dressed. Black lace and very simple, but obviously couture, Not much make-up, but then Englishmen like that natural look, don’t they? I tell you, cherie, I was quite rabid with curiosity. We were near them in the bar and I strained my ears like anything, but they were speaking in English all the time.”