April In Paris, 1921
Page 28
‘Which friend? I have so many.’
‘But with his record, it’s not amazing that he resists their Germanic rhetoric . . .’
I waited. I suspected he meant Raymond Chevallier, Maisie’s husband, but I wouldn’t name my friend in front of Fox. I would protect her as long as I could.
‘But he may not be able to resist a certain blond dandy’s love of cabaret.’ His voice held a smile, but I was confused. ‘Or should I say, a certain blond dandy knows Monsieur Chevallier’s weakness for the dark and exotic.’
Raymond was on Hausmann’s hit list.
‘And why would Hausmann need to know that?’
‘Because Chevallier knows – ah, but that’s for next time, Vixen.’
‘Next time?’
‘You didn’t think this was the end, did you?’
‘Hardly. If only because of Tom’s payment.’
‘Nice little letter, wasn’t it? “Bobsy” is such a good little soldier—’
‘Did “Bobsy” create that charge of treason?’
‘Vixen, what an accusation! Don’t you like what I gave Tom?’
‘What you gave him is a partial payment.’
‘The evidence I gave him is impartial.’
‘Fox, where does Tom need to take that letter?’
‘You’ll have to work for that information.’
‘If that’s the case, your payment isn’t just partial, it’s in a useless currency. You’ve paid me in doubloons.’
‘Doubloons are quite valuable to a collector.’
‘In shells, in beads, in a patronising gesture to the natives.’
‘What else should I do, in your estimable opinion?’
‘Get out of my territory.’
He laughed. ‘That’s rich, coming from a daughter of, what do you call it, the “squattocracy”. How did your forebears buy their farmland, with shells or with bullets?’
‘That’s not me—’
‘Is that why you’re in Europe? Are you “getting out of the territory”? Tell me, do you still use Daddy’s squattocratic money, or are my payments enough for the moment?’
‘My reporter income—’
‘Is hardly enough.’
‘But is enough.’
‘Stop being silly, Vixen. I did as you bid.’
‘Only literally.’
‘Then I suppose we must resort to cliché and say “Be careful what you wish for.”’
‘I never wished for you.’ I couldn’t keep the sadness from my voice.
‘More’s the pity,’ he said after a pause, his voice gentle.
‘Then why do you persist, Fox? It’s not the work—’
‘It’s always the work, Vixen. For this work, I need you.’
‘Give the job to another woman.’
‘There is no other woman.’ There was an edge in his voice that I wasn’t familiar with. Not a warning, exactly, but something raw. I couldn’t help but poke at it.
‘Then train another woman.’
‘Vixen, you deliberately misunderstand me.’ The edge in his voice intensified. ‘There is only you and you work for me until—’
‘Until?’
‘Until the work is done.’
‘And you’ll blackmail me, through Tom, to make me comply?’
I heard a lighter click, an inhale, a rush of smoke.
‘I’d rather not, it’s so grubby,’ his smooth tones had returned, ‘but if you won’t come willingly, what else can I do?’
‘Leave me be, perhaps?’
‘And would you leave me be, knowing that I can save your precious farm boy?’
What could I say to that?
‘Your silence, Vixen, is very eloquent. Here are some other things you might be silent about: you find this work exciting.’
Bastard.
‘You find me intriguing.’
Intriguing wasn’t the word, but that he used that word was intriguing. I kept silent to see where he went next.
‘You want to come to London to see me for yourself, perhaps to throw a drink in my face, or administer a passionate caress in the form of a slap, or perhaps just to search my desk drawers for evidence.’
I laughed then. What arrogance.
‘That’s better, Vixen. Just be grateful that you have some proper work.’
But that sentence properly silenced me. I couldn’t deny it – gossip reporting was utterly boring compared to the thrill of Fox’s mission. I hadn’t felt this alive in years. Or ever, if I was being completely frank. What a bastard that Fox knew it too.
‘So my next payment is . . . what, the name of a man who can help Tom?’
‘If you wish.’
‘Don’t I have to be careful what I wish for?’
‘If you desire, then.’ His voice jingled with charm. ‘I like to indulge your desires.’
‘But I don’t like to be indulged. I demand—’
‘Oh, demand – you can only demand in person.’
‘I’m staying in Paris—’
‘Shame. Then we’ll have to say, await my call. It will come.’
‘When?’
‘When indeed?’ and he hung up.
I stared at the receiver, the operator barking that the line was dead, the still tone of her cut-off. When indeed – would that be in a week, a month, a year? Would he wait another lifetime to swoop on me? Would I get a summons to London that I couldn’t refuse? That’s what I feared most of all, as I didn’t trust him or trust myself in his company. He must know that, or he wouldn’t tease me with it.
The office was still, the posters a modern history lesson. The café crowd, with its jazz and lipstick, its short hair and long cigarettes, its artistic revolution and modernist seduction, awaited me. There was nothing else to do but head out into it.
Henri greeted me at the door with a whisky, North waved to me with a bottle of champagne and I danced into the night. Whatever Fox said and did, this was my Paris, and here I was free.
Acknowledgements
MY GRATITUDE IS BOUNDLESS and my thanks are many and various.
Firstly, to my dedicatees, Hannah Ianniello and Bridie Lunney, who convinced me that Kiki was worth a read.
Secondly, to my Australian readers: my agent Sarah McKenzie, for her tireless work; Catherine Milne and Belinda Yuille at Harper Collins Australia, and the fabulous Julia Stiles; Carly Williams and Patty Brown for their work on Maisie; Tania Disney for her fashion and fruit-growing knowledge; and Martin Jones for checking my German, too rusty after almost 20 years of disuse.
Thirdly, to my American readers: Katie McGuire at Pegasus Books, to my excellent and precise editor, to Claiborne Hancock and everyone at Pegasus. The words ‘thank you’ merely gesture at my excitement.
Research for this book has been a long and winding, but entirely primrose-laden, path. The books are too numerous for this page, but I want to thank Virginia Nicholson and her book Among the Bohemians for beginning this journey into twentieth-century bohemia. The excellent Erik Lenaers drove me around the battlefields of southern Belgium and northern France, for in-the-field research so necessary for this book and the next. The Ritz Paris was also very prompt in answering my questions!
Finally, I would like to thank my precious Penny, for putting me in a Kiki mood, and my darling Dima, who makes everything possible.
About the Author
TESSA LUNNEY is a novelist and poet. In 2013, she graduated from the Western Sydney University with a Doctorate of Creative Arts that explored silence in Australian war fiction. In 2016 she won the prestigious Griffith University Josephine Ulrick Prize for Literature for ‘Chess and Dragonflies’ and the A Room Of Her Own Foundation Orlando Prize for Fiction for her story ‘Those Ebola Burners Them’. She was also the recipient of a Varuna Fellowship. In 2014 she was awarded an Australia Council ArtStart grant for literature. Her poetry, short fiction, and reviews have been published in Griffith Review, ABR, Southerly, and Cordite, among others. Tessa lives in Sydney.
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First published in Australia in 2018
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Copyright © Tessa Lunney 2018
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