The Paris Secret

by Karen Swan

  Flora relaxed, realizing she blended in better than she had anticipated, and let Ines direct the conversation as her eyes drifted over the bucolic scene, feeling almost assaulted by the intense fragrance that showered down like a burst storm cloud above their select grouping. She half-expected to see bluebirds in the trees, or at least snow-white doves, and for a moment it felt possible to forget the ugliness, the black fog that had crept without sound or warning around the periphery of her life and was creeping ever closer . . .

  Ines had made eye contact with an old acquaintance, who was now gliding over as though on castors, and introduced them both. ‘Flora, Claudia.’ They had known each other at Aiglon College in Switzerland and the woman boasted the distinctive polish of the international rich – chiselled bones and tight skin, swept-back bronde hair, a putty-coloured shahtoosh draped over one shoulder. Her BCBG look was in startling contrast to Ines’s rebellious ‘bohemian princess’ vibe – did Claudia know that Ines sold cupless bras for a living? Flora was sure she would look scandalized by the idea – and Flora listened with feigned interest as they discussed a mutual friend’s wedding in Toulouse, forcing herself to laugh politely at the requisite intervals.

  Other people joined them – a man who knew Claudia’s husband from INSEAD, a friend of Ines’s cousin, then a contact of Stefan based in Boston, a gallerist from Berlin – and their group divided and then subdivided again, Flora becoming detached from Ines as her own small cluster organically revolved around the lawn in a conversational waltz so that within forty minutes, and by the time a gentleman in buff linen clapped his hands for attention, she had spoken to at least half the guests there.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began in a French accent that was refined even to her ear. ‘Thank you for joining us here tonight, to celebrate the launch of a project that is very close to our hearts . . .’

  Flora absent-mindedly smoothed her skirt over her hips, trying mentally to count how many of her business cards she had handed out this evening. Angus was going to love her – coming here had proved to be a networker’s dream and it was like shooting fish in a barrel whenever her line of work became the topic of discussion, everyone on this rarefied patch of lawn being cultured, rich and interested in art.

  ‘. . . Our little garden here remains one of the best-kept secrets in the city and it is our great pleasure to be able to share it with you all tonight. Of course, it did not always look as magnificent as this. The garden itself was originally planted during the Nazi Occupation when food supplies were scarce and self-sufficiency became vital. We grew potatoes, beans, carrots here—’

  Some people tittered, amused by the thought of potatoes on this roof. Others nodded their heads sombrely at the atrocity that had necessitated it.

  ‘Only when the crisis had passed could we turn our minds to beauty once more and these very trees casting dappled shade on us this evening were planted then. I consider myself one of the most fortunate men in all of Paris to be able to take my lunch here and sit in quiet solitude, surrounded throughout the year by the delicate scents of jasmine, magnolia, pear and—’

  The sound of a glass smashing on the stone floor made everyone turn in surprise, all seeming equally shocked that the pastoral perfection of the setting could be undermined in any way, but the offender – a woman – was obscured from clear view by the splay of camellia leaves, and their host continued talking after only the barest of hesitations. Accidents happened, after all, and it wouldn’t do to make a fuss.

  ‘Of course, we realize that it is simply not possible to open the gardens to the public but an idea began to form that a new parfum, inspired by this very garden, could make its experience accessible to all—’

  ‘Get your hands off me!’

  This time the silence that followed was heavy and protracted, everyone leaning and craning to see who, who, was sabotaging this pristine moment. The culprits were standing on the elevated pathway that created a border between the garden’s lush verdancy and the hard, stone encroachment of the city it sat in; Flora craned her neck to see flashes of bare flesh moving behind the leaves, hear voices being lowered to whispered hisses, the stinging sound of skin slapping skin.

  An audible gasp whistled round the space before a man suddenly emerged, one cheek noticeably redder than the other beneath his shades. He tried to hide his face as he strode down the three steps to the lawn, murmuring an apology of sorts to the hosts before he pushed through the crowd and disappeared into the lift. Flora, looking around to see Ines’s reaction, only just caught sight of the back of another man who was running up the steps opposite and disappeared behind the same shrubbery.

  A low murmur of disapproving exchanges rose up like a bee swarm and Flora felt Ines’s warm hand on her arm, her excited breath in her ear.

  ‘My God, you know who that was, don’t you?’ she whispered, her eyes too on the woman still hiding behind the bush.

  ‘Should I?’

  ‘The Interior Minister.’

  ‘Oh. That’s awkward.’

  ‘It will be if the woman behind there turns out not to be his wife,’ Ines murmured, loving the scandal. ‘Come on, come on – she can’t stay there all night.’

  As if agreeing the same, the mysterious woman began to move, the pin-tap of her heels sounding out on the path, and moments later there was a collective tut as Natascha Vermeil, rail-thin and conspicuous in a short red playsuit, emerged with a defiant sneer.

  ‘Oh, why am I not surprised?’ Ines asked rhetorically.

  ‘What are you all looking at?’ Natascha demanded, staring everyone back down even though no one could tear their gaze from her mascara-clotted eyes and the smear of lipstick against her jaw, which had been unsuccessfully rubbed out. Her brother was only two steps behind her, muttering something beneath his breath as he took her by the elbow and steered her down the steps, Natascha continuing her tirade. ‘Huh? I asked you?’ she sneered, suddenly lunging forwards, pushing her face against that of a woman who had to recoil to get away. ‘You think you’re better than me?’

  ‘. . . she drunk?’ Flora heard someone murmur.

  ‘High, more like,’ another voice returned.

  ‘This is what they do. They’re like a double act,’ Ines continued murmuring to Flora. ‘Every time I’ve ever been in the same place as them, something like this happens. They’re addicted to the chaos, I reckon.’

  Xavier, looking even angrier as he heard the dissent, whipped his own glare up to meet the crowd, defying them to crow their taunts and show their disgust to his face. Flora watched, thunderstruck, as the siblings’ gazes swung over them all like a spotlight. And then he spotted her. He stopped walking, the astonishment plain as day on his face to see her, here. Flora didn’t doubt he was wondering how she’d been invited – the guest list being small, select and very French – but there was no time for him to ponder it. In the next instant, Natascha, troubled by her brother’s sudden freeze, had spotted her too. ‘You!’ she cried, pointing at Flora.

  Xavier was startled back into the moment and he gripped Natascha tighter around the arm, herding her straight to the lifts. ‘We’re leaving.’

  ‘No! I’m not standing for that!’ Natascha argued, vehemently trying to wrestle her way free. ‘Did you see the way she was looking at me? At us, Xav? Did you see her—?’

  Xavier said nothing but Flora could see he was struggling to contain her. The crowd parted for them like a sea, open expressions of disdain and even contempt on their faces, as Xavier pushed through.

  ‘. . . Like she thinks she’s better than us!’

  Flora felt her cheeks flame to have been drawn into their scene. Ines’s hand squeezed her shoulder.

  The lift doors were already open, a security guard waiting politely to escort them downstairs and off the premises, but even as the doors closed, Natascha could still be heard shouting, swearing, screaming.

  The garden was suddenly buzzing with excited conversation.

  ‘That was odd,’ Flora mu
ttered under her breath, aware of the guests staring at her now and intrigued as to why she’d been singled out. She wondered what they’d say if she told them it had started with a fight over an ostrich.

  ‘Well,’ Ines said brightly as the party reset itself. ‘Maybe you haven’t been forgotten after all.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ Flora lied, feeling shaken. ‘She isn’t important to me.’

  ‘It wasn’t her I was talking about,’ Ines said, sipping her drink and looking at Flora from beneath curled lashes. ‘What did you do to make him look at you like that?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Well, he looked like he wanted to either kill you or . . .’

  But their host was clapping his hands again. The buzz died down and a new mood of subdued restraint – so elegant and appropriate in the wake of those raffish Vermeils – blanketed them all, and whatever Ines had been intending to say was lost in the excitement of top notes, heritage and floral bouquets.

  Chapter Ten

  ‘. . . So you see, a gap such as this in the provenance can cause very real problems in terms of both valuation and ability to sell. It is imperative that we are able to establish how the painting came to be in your parents-in-law’s apartment. There must be, somewhere, a receipt or a bill of sale – something that shows from whom your family purchased it,’ Flora smiled.

  She was pleased that she had managed to get through the conversation without mentioning Von Taschelt by name. She was also pleased to have made the mid-morning post; She had spoken to the gallery in Saint-Paul-de-Vence yesterday afternoon but they were old school, insisting on her request being put in writing, and although she’d branded the letter with her red URGENT stamp, she had a feeling it wasn’t going to be a speedy process, hence her meeting here now. Whatever she could do to expedite the provenance research, she’d do. ‘Perhaps if I could speak to your mother-in-law? She might remember a conversation or a name—’

  ‘That is impossible, I am afraid,’ Lilian said firmly, cutting her off. ‘As I said before, my husband’s mother is very displeased about this business. She feels we have gone against her husband’s wishes and she refuses to have any part in it.’ Lilian looked briefly at her ringed hands, a pearl bracelet clasped around one narrow wrist.

  ‘Well, in which case, might the notaries have anything we could examine? They may well have been entrusted with the paperwork for such a valuable artwork.’

  ‘You would have to ask them.’

  ‘I’m afraid they won’t release any information to me, madame, not without your explicit permission.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ Lilian nodded. ‘I will contact Monsieur Travers and ask him to give you full disclosure.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Flora took another sip of her tea. A thought occurred to her. ‘Oh, another thing that could help – are there any photographs?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Does your mother-in-law have any photograph albums from early in her marriage, something that may show the painting hanging on the apartment walls? That can often be helpful in the absence of paperwork. It’s not conclusive, of course – it doesn’t mean what’s seen hanging on the wall was authentic – but it can help build the case.’

  ‘There are no photographs that I have ever seen. In fact, I’m not sure there’s anything from before Jacques was born – no wedding photographs, no baby photographs. When his parents fled Paris during the war, they had to leave everything behind.’ She gave a small smile at the irony. ‘As you know.’

  Flora was quiet for a moment. If everything had been left behind in the apartment and now they had everything that was in there . . . ‘So then perhaps the evidence is still in the apartment,’ she murmured, feeling a tiny flutter of hope. She remembered the library, the walls lined with shelves and thick, leather-bound books; she remembered the way her eyes had flicked over them uninterestedly, more intent on discovering lost art treasures than exploring the personal history of the family who had lived there – but she should have known: when you’re dealing with art at this level, they’re one and the same, inextricably linked.

  ‘I should go over there now,’ she said, replacing her cup on its saucer.

  Lilian rose and led her to the door. They walked through the mirrored hall together. ‘Well, thank you for coming. It is so fascinating to see how the project is unfolding.’

  The butler was already at the front door, hand poised to open it at precisely the right moment.

  ‘I’ll keep you informed of how I get on. And you’re sure you don’t mind asking Monsieur Travers to give me full disclosure?’ It didn’t hurt to remind her.

  ‘Bien sûr. We are all working towards the same goal.’

  The two women shook hands and the butler opened the door.

  ‘Merci,’ Flora smiled, glancing at him politely as she stepped out – and was immediately sent flying by a slight, but seemingly furious, woman rushing into the house. She cried out, feeling herself begin to fall back but a pair of hands caught her and righted her to standing again. It all happened so quickly, it might not have happened at all, except that when she looked up, disorientated and grateful, she found she was looking up into the impassive face of Xavier Vermeil. In a flash, last night’s events rushed through her mind as she remembered his anger, humiliation, embarrassment, defiance – all aimed at her.

  Except, standing here, it appeared he didn’t have time to retrieve that special contempt, for it wasn’t disgust that she saw in his eyes – not this time – and when in the next instant he released her, wordlessly sidestepping around her and disappearing into the building too, she could have sworn a sudden polar wind barrelled down the boulevard.

  ‘Xavier!’ his mother barked. ‘Pardon,’ she said after a moment, looking embarrassed when he didn’t come back.

  ‘It’s quite all right,’ Flora said quickly, smoothing her hair primly and hoping she didn’t look as ruffled as she felt. ‘I . . . I should have looked where I was going.’

  ‘That was my son Xavier and his girlfriend. They are always arguing.’ She tutted. ‘Too passionate, that is the problem.’

  ‘Oh.’ She wasn’t quite sure what to say to that. She had the opposite problem herself. ‘Well, goodbye. I’ll be in touch.’

  Flora walked down the steps onto the pavement and looked up and down the street for a cab. She could see one with its light on, further up the road, but it was caught by roadworks and indicating left.

  No, no, no! She needed to get on.

  She waved her arm in the air, trying to get the driver’s attention, but he didn’t appear to have seen her. She waved again, giving a little jump too, but her dress was just a bit too short and full-skirted for that, she realized, when a man wolf-whistled as he drove past.

  There was nothing else for it. Putting her thumb and forefinger in her mouth as Freddie had taught her to when she was eleven, she gave an almighty whistle that screamed up the street. The driver heard, sticking his head out of the window, and she waved her arm at him again. This time, he saw her and gave her a wave back, turning off the indicator.

  Flora breathed a sigh of relief, just as she heard someone laugh. She turned but there was no one there on the street. She looked back up at the Vermeils’ imposing town house. All of the windows were open on the upper levels but this side of the street was in shadow and she couldn’t see into the tall, deep rooms. She bit her lip – had someone in there seen her whistle like a barrow-boy? (Freddie had said if she couldn’t be a boy, she could at least behave like one.)

  The cab pulled up alongside her and she gave the driver the address in Montparnasse before hurriedly jumping in the back. She looked up at the house again as they pulled away and for a second she thought she saw a dark figure half-hidden at the window. But she couldn’t be sure and within a minute, the cab had rounded the corner and she was back in the Paris light.

  Walking back into the apartment, now that it had been emptied of the artworks and decorative antiques, was a strange experience. Flora could tell th
at life had invaded the space in the intervening days since she and Angus had first stepped in. It was as though the very molecules in the air had shifted position and resettled at a different density – it felt easier to see, to breathe, and the floor looked like a patchwork rug now that the paintings had been removed, the boards chequered with the large, bright areas that had been protected from the dust for so long.

  She did a quick recce of the apartment. Nothing had been touched in the kitchen as there had been no art haul in there; the dining room looked strangely naked now that the table and chairs – bare of their loot – were left standing at odd angles and isolated from one another in the middle of the room, as though a game of musical chairs had been interrupted, the children scattered in hidden corners. To her relief, Gertie was still there and, after a quick check, it seemed she was undamaged from Natascha’s joyride.

  Flora turned and stood beside the bird for a moment, one hand on its back, staring at the doorway, remembering Natasha’s almost violent defiance, her outrageous behaviour verging on the manic; and by contrast, her brother’s brooding silence, his black look and contemptuous scorn.

  She shook him from her thoughts and walked through to the library, stopping in the doorway, her eyes scanning the walls lined with books. Flora walked in, trying to read the titles on the spines but they were faded from where the sun had hit. Most were French but some appeared to be in English and German too and she glossed over them quickly, not sure exactly what she was looking for. She pulled a couple from the shelves, flicking open pages that were sticky with spider’s webs, the curled husks of long-dead beetles punctuating the wooden runs.

  She turned her attention to the desk and sat carefully on the chair, checking it first for loose joints. The room looked different from her seated position and she could see how it might once have felt to work from there – the street view from the window on her left; the dramatic, showy curtains that set a socially ambitious tone as guests entered the apartment, the insulation of all the books making the space feel sequestered and private. Her hands rested on the smooth desk, swirls and knots in the wood grain as beautiful as if they’d been painted in—