‘What is it?’ he asked, as she began to take off her gloves.
‘What, something you don’t know, Monsieur Guide?’ she teased. ‘It is a blood orange, all the way from Italy.’
She showed him how to peel the fruit, and together they stood, near a brazier at the edge of the vast place, sucking at the ruby flesh and laughing at the juice that escaped. The girl’s eyes shone, and abruptly, the boy felt a wave of sorrow. In the morning, she would be in her world once again, elegant and poised, perhaps eating these same oranges for her breakfast with silver utensils, one thin slice at a time.
She must have sensed the change in him. ‘Please,’ she whispered, stepping close, her breath citrus sweet upon his cheek, ‘this time is for you and I, no one else. Tomorrow does not happen here.’
The firelight painted her pale skin, made the colour ebb from her blue eyes until he thought he might drown in them.
A burst of shouting made him jump back, and they flattened themselves to a wall as a screaming gaggle of chickens made their escape from a broken basket, dander and feathers flying. A woman was swearing, snatching at the fowl as they ran through her skirts.
They plunged deeper into the market, down a dark stairwell into the tunnels and underground passages below, lit by gas and fizzing electric bulbs. In a tiled hallway, the girl’s foot skidded. The boy caught her as she fell, barely managing to keep his own balance on the wet ground. Fleetingly, she was in his arms, half-laughing, half-stunned, her hat over her eye, and it took all of his restraint to not hold her closer.
They edged their way around the slippery puddle. It was dripping from a fishmonger’s barrow, laden with huge, silvery beasts, the stench of sea and river rising from the mess of guts on the floor.
‘Are you hungry?’ the boy asked, his eyes on a bucket where piles of rock creatures waited, sealed and silent.
‘Ravenous,’ the girl replied. ‘Are we to eat oysters?’
Digging in his pocket for the meagre change there, the boy handed over a couple of coins. The fishmonger pulled out six of the things, shucked them with a little knife, and wrapped them in newspaper.
Emerging into the cleaner air once more, they found a baker’s cart, stacked high with dark loaves of bread. They bought one, and wove their way towards a bar, where spindly tables and chairs were crammed between the cold night and the heady market.
Squeezed into a corner, elbow to elbow, they drank cheap red wine and feasted on bread and oysters, straight from the paper. The food was glorious; it was as if the essence of the world had been captured and infused into this one meal, for this one hour, in this one square of Paris. The boy wondered why it had never tasted this good before. Watching the girl drain her glass, he realized he already knew the answer.
Tomorrow does not happen here, she had said. But he knew better. Tomorrow would come, and with it, the truth that neither of them wanted to acknowledge. Outside, the pensive bells of Saint-Eustache began to toll eleven.
Damn tomorrow, he thought, and reached for her hand.
Chapter One
Cambridge, March 1988
I burst through the gates of King’s College just as the chapel bells mark the hour. I’m late, and of all the appointments I could be late for, this is the worst.
A group of anorak-wearing tourists are blocking the road. I weave through them, checking my watch. I had hoped to arrive in plenty of time, to find an inconspicuous seat at the back of the room, not to barge through the doors sweaty and dishevelled.
I take the courtyard at a run and a set of damp stone stairs two at a time. My reflection flashes past in a window: rain-soaked, ratty blond fringe dripping into my eyes. I push it back and hurry towards a pair of huge oak doors.
15th March, 11.00 a.m., reads a piece of paper tacked to the noticeboard outside: Unmasking a Legend: biographer Simon Hall on the late historian, author and critic J. G. Stevenson.
I quickly rearrange the scowl that has risen to my face into a grimace of apology at the woman minding the entrance. She sniffs disapprovingly but lets me pass. Bracing myself, I ease open the heavy door. The room is packed; students and academics alike are crammed into chairs, their breath fogging up the windows. Despite my efforts, the door creaks loudly on its hinges, and the man on the podium falters, looking my way. I keep my head lowered and edge along the back row to a spare seat.
‘As I was saying,’ the speaker continues, ‘we all know what happens when a well-known person dies: they get an obituary in The Times, a new commemorative volume of work and retrospectives in journals left, right and centre.’
Some of the younger members of the audience titter, eager to show their appreciation for the lecturer’s offhand manner.
I eye him carefully. Simon Hall, the current darling of the history scene. Whenever comment is needed, on the radio or in newspaper articles, there he is. He’s not as young as his pictures suggest, I decide. True, his curly hair and open face make him look youthful, but there are creases at the corners of his eyes and the hint of a paunch developing. I slump down a little further in my seat and try to pay attention.
‘There is nothing wrong with paying homage to a great,’ he says, ‘and no one can deny that J. G. Stevenson was a talented historian. But how much do we truly know about him? Who was the man behind the books?’
He pauses for effect, looks around the room.
‘As a biographer, it is my job to answer these questions, and that means delving into a person’s past, discovering the things they might have preferred to keep to themselves. And, ladies and gentlemen, what I have discovered is that J. G. Stevenson was no saint.’
He leans forward on the lectern, intent, inviting every person there into his confidence.
‘Recently, I was granted access to Stevenson’s private correspondence, and there I found a letter. Written to him when he was a young man in Paris, it places him firmly at the centre of a scandal, one that he kept hidden even from his own family. I will discover the truth behind this mystery, and show you all the real J. G. Stevenson.’
When it is time for questions, I fidget and try to keep my arm wedged by my side, even though I’m simmering with anger. I listen to inane comments and sharp words, until finally, at the very end, I can’t stop my hand from shooting into the air.
‘I’m rather afraid we have no more time,’ the academic in charge of the event tells me. ‘Perhaps you could—’
‘So, it’s your intention to vilify a man just to be fashionable?’ I challenge Hall. ‘Or are you taking liberties with the dead, digging through private possessions in order to get more publicity?’
A hundred plastic chairs creak as people turn to look. I feel myself flush under their scrutiny, but keep my eyes fixed on Hall. He is smiling in a puzzled way as he peers through the crowd.
‘A bold question, Miss …?’
‘Stevenson.’
A volley of whispers sweeps the audience. The academic on stage is leaning forward to whisper something in Hall’s ear. I see the shape of my name on his lips and fight to keep my expression neutral. Hall, meanwhile, is surveying me with newfound interest.
‘I understand your indignation, Miss Stevenson, but you can’t deny your grandfather had his secrets.’
About the Author
After a childhood spent acting professionally and training at a theatre school, Laura Madeleine changed her mind and went to study English Literature at Newnham College, Cambridge. She now writes fiction, as well as recipes, and was formerly the resident cake baker for Domestic Sluttery. She lives in Bristol, but can often be found visiting her family in Devon, eating cheese and getting up to mischief with her sister, fantasy author Lucy Hounsom.
You can find her on Twitter @esthercrumpet
Also by Laura Madeleine
The Confectioner’s Tale
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First published in Great Britain in 2017 by Black Swan
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Copyright © Laura Hounsom 2017
Extract from The Confectioner’s Tale © Laura Hounsom 2015
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