The Pleasures of Autumn

by Evie Hunter

  His eyes narrowed. ‘I’m an investigator, Sinead. Let me do my job.’

  ‘Nobody knows you. They’re not going to talk to you, but they will talk to me.’

  Niall shook his head. ‘That’s out of the question. It’s too dangerous.’

  ‘So is prison. But that’s where I’m headed if we can’t find the stone.’ It was maddening. Why couldn’t he see what was so obvious? ‘Let me make one phone call and you’ll see that I’m right.’

  Reluctantly, he handed over the phone. Sinead wished that she had her notebook, but it was buried somewhere in Gabriel’s apartment. There was one person in Paris she could call but she didn’t know his number. Her phone was dead until she bought a new charger for it.

  Leaning across Niall, she did a quick search on his laptop for Parisian antique shops. She tapped the number into the phone and waited. She had almost given up when the phone was answered. ‘Maurice Verdon, ici.’

  Sinead almost cried with relief. ‘Maurice, it’s Sinead O’Sullivan. I need to talk to you.’

  Maurice was willing to talk, but not over the telephone. He invited her to his shop and settled a time. When she finished the call, she was on a high until she looked down at the bathrobe. ‘I don’t have anything to wear.’

  ‘And the problem with that is?’

  The prospect of more naked time with him was tempting, but they had work to do. Sinead rolled her eyes. ‘Idiot. I can’t go out dressed like this.’

  ‘I’ve some T-shirts I could lend you and you could –’ His voice trailed off when he saw her expression.

  ‘Not a chance. This is Paris.’

  Damn, she was right. He couldn’t take her out in Paris dressed in his T-shirt and a pair of workout pants rolled up to stop her tripping over them. She would stick out a mile. He mentally flipped through the clothes he had here, but while he loved the idea of her dressed in one of his shirts and nothing else, he knew she needed clothes.

  He braced himself. ‘I’ll buy you something. What size do you wear?’

  She gave him the sort of look usually reserved for people who tortured kittens. ‘I’m not telling you something like that.’

  ‘Why not? How can I shop for you if you don’t tell me?’

  ‘Because it’s personal, that’s why. I don’t go around telling people what size I take. Let me at your computer. I’ll see if I can find a store that will deliver clothes today.’

  ‘No. Not happening.’

  She crossed her arms over her chest, daring him to argue, and also pushing her breasts up in a display that made him lose his train of thought. Her breasts were bare under his T-shirt. Lucky T-shirt. ‘What size bra do you take?’

  Sinead narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Are you trying to be difficult? I’m not telling you that either.’ He opened his mouth and she went on. ‘And I’m not telling you my height or weight either. So don’t bother asking.’

  He held onto his patience with an effort. ‘Unless you want to go out dressed like that, you’ll tell me.’

  She snorted. ‘In your dreams. I’m not having a man pick clothes for me. Give me the password for your computer, let me order my own and we’ll be sorted.’

  ‘Yeah, right. Do you really want a credit card trail leading here?’ And she would order more of those hideous suits she wore. ‘Nothing doing. You stay here, babe, and I’ll shop for you.’

  He headed for the door, but was still able to hear her repeat, ‘Babe? Babe? Is he crazy?’

  Once he was outside in the street, Niall realized that he’d had so much fun aggravating Sinead that he might have outfoxed himself for once. He had no idea where to shop for clothes for a woman. He intended to dash in, pick up a few essentials, pay and get out, the way he shopped for himself, but he was pretty sure she wouldn’t be impressed by jeans and a T-shirt from Tati.

  When in doubt, consult an expert. And luckily he had one on the end of his phone. No one knew Paris shops like his sister.

  ‘Hey Alison, I need a bit of help here. I’ve got to buy some clothes for a woman. What do you suggest?’

  He held the phone away from his ear while Alison shrieked at him. ‘You haven’t called me for weeks, and now you want help with a woman?’

  ‘Take it easy, Allie, it’s not like that. I just need to buy her some clothes.’

  ‘An evening dress? Something for the opera?’ Alison asked. ‘Is it for a date?’

  ‘No, nothing like that, just clothes.’

  ‘What sort of clothes?’ He could hear Alison’s two year old screaming ‘Piggy! Piggy!’ in the background. Alison had no trouble ignoring her.

  ‘Clothes. She has nothing to wear. Literally.’

  ‘And why are you buying them for her? Who is she?’ Alison demanded. ‘Hold on, is she a real woman?’

  Niall switched his phone to his other ear as an open-topped bus full of tourists went past. ‘Of course she’s a real woman. What other sort of woman is there?’

  ‘As long as she’s not one of your charity cases. You’ve got to stop doing that.’

  He took a breath. Now he remembered why he didn’t ring Alison all the time. She could piss him off quicker than any of his sisters. ‘I don’t have “charity cases”, as you call it,’ he said tightly.

  ‘Does this one need to be rescued? To be looked after?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘Charity case. Duh!’ Her voice became muffled for a moment. ‘Mommy’s talking, we’ll do piggy soon.’ Then it became all too clear. ‘You have to let Dr Burns go.’

  ‘She was killed under my command. I can’t let that go.’ Fuck it, why did Alison always rake this up?

  ‘She disobeyed your orders and took a stupid risk. Could you have stopped her?’

  ‘No, but –’ He shoved his hand through his hair. He had replayed that night in Afghanistan thousands of times in his mind, trying to work out how he could have saved the doctor.

  ‘Then get over it. Not every woman is a charity case.’

  ‘This one is a client, not a charity case, and she needs clothes. Just give me the name of a couple of good shops.’ A thought struck him. ‘And if you tell Mam, you’re dead.’

  ‘You and whose army?’ It was funny that all 5'2" of Alison wasn’t in the least afraid of him, while half the operators of Europe backed down when they saw him coming. ‘Okay, try Agnès B or Le Bon Marché.’

  He thanked her, and set off.

  The shop was discreetly lit, with several assistants and an artistic window display. From the street, it was hard to see what sort of clothes it sold. This was a new kind of battle. He took a breath and went in.

  ‘Can I help you, Monsieur?’ The smiling assistant looked like a fashion model, skinny and polished and flat-chested. Not like the curves of Sinead, made for a man’s hands. But she was offering to help.

  ‘Yes, I need to buy clothes for my friend. A couple of dresses, skirts, tops, lingerie, you know what I mean.’

  Her eyes gleamed. ‘Certainly. For casual wear? Business? An evening of pleasure?’

  Oh god, he would like to see Sinead dressed for an evening of pleasure. What could he dress her in? Pearls and a smile sounded good. Later. ‘Business. But business in Paris. Clothes that make her look beautiful.’

  She looked affronted. ‘Of course, Monsieur. We do not sell ugly clothes.’ She gave him time to apologize, before asking, ‘What size is she?’

  The question he dreaded. ‘I don’t know.’ He didn’t need to see the expression on the assistant Yvette’s face to know this was the wrong answer. ‘But she’s a little taller than you.’ Another assistant, this one behind the cash desk, snorted as she tried not to laugh.

  Niall looked around. There were half a dozen assistants listening to him, all openly amused. He had an idea. ‘If you could all line up, I’ll know which one of you is closest to her shape. We can find out that way, yes?’

  He tried not to listen to their laughter as they obeyed, having clearly decided that the tall Irishman was the day’s entert
ainment. He walked up and down along the row of chic French women, comparing them to Sinead.

  ‘She’s the same height as you,’ he told one. ‘And I think her waist is the same size as yours,’ he said to another. ‘May I feel?’ The feel of Sinead’s slender waist was burnt into his hands. The assistant nodded, and he put his big hands around her waist. ‘A centimetre smaller. Write that down,’ he told Yvette.

  Another woman had hips around the same size, but none of them had breasts like hers. The more he looked at other women, the more of a crime it was that she concealed hers. The assistants told him he had to pick one of them, but none were the right shape. A shopper came in, allowing her leather jacket to open. She had an hourglass figure and knew it. ‘Madame, may I ask your bra size?’

  By now, the atmosphere in the shop resembled a party. The assistants cheered and assured the woman that the mad Irishman was shopping for his wife.

  His wife? Where had that come from? But he didn’t argue.

  ‘90D,’ the woman told him.

  Now he had the measurements, the serious shopping began. Every woman in the shop had an opinion about what he should buy, and Niall himself had ideas too. He vetoed a few suggestions as being too dowdy, and his eye was caught by a deceptively simple blue dress. It would bring out her eyes while highlighting her tiny waist.

  That was wrapped up, along with everything else. ‘Is that all, Monsieur?’

  He snapped his fingers. ‘Shoes.’

  ‘Let me guess,’ Yvette said. ‘You don’t know what size she takes?’ One more line up, this time in stocking feet, for him to decide whose feet were the closest in size to his lady’s. He picked out two pairs of elegant high-heeled shoes for her, and waited while the bill was rung up.

  ‘That will be €5,345, please.’

  He gripped his credit card. ‘How much?’ That had to be a mistake.

  ‘You have an eye for quality, Monsieur. And quality costs.’

  Reluctantly, he handed it over and tapped in his pin number. Sinead had better like his choices.

  Sinead had been trying to watch the television, but was constantly distracted by worry about Gabriel and Hall and her sister. When the door opened, she gave up and switched it off. Niall had returned, laden with bags. She raised an eyebrow when she saw some of the store names.

  ‘I don’t know why women enjoy shopping. I’d rather run thirty miles in full kit.’

  He dropped the bags on the couch. ‘I’m going to hit the shower. Get dressed. We don’t have much time if we’re meeting Maurice at three.’

  She picked them up and hurried to the bedroom. God knows what he had bought, but she would have to wear some of it, whether it fitted her or not.

  Undies first. The pink striped box was tied with a black ribbon. She untied it and pulled back the layers of tissue paper. A rose-coloured silk bra and panties greeted her. Nice. They were proper French knickers too, not the teeny tiny thongs that she wore on stage. Two more lace-trimmed sets were individually wrapped beneath the first; one black and one the colour of old gold. A supply of stockings and matching suspender belts were wrapped together.

  She checked the size – 34D, perfect. What else had he bought? The dress was deceptively plain but beautifully cut. The top of it would fit her like a second skin and the skirt flared out, ending just above the knee. Another bag revealed two close-fitting skirts and a selection of long-sleeved tops in different colours. She searched the other bags and discovered a dark leather jacket, butter soft and expensive. She inhaled its scent. Where were the trousers, or the jeans and T-shirts? And there wasn’t a baggy sweater in sight.

  The shoe boxes were another revelation. She whistled when she saw the label on a pair of black heels. Even Lottie would have hesitated before spending that amount of money on a pair of shoes, but they were beautiful. She kicked off the borrowed woollen socks and slipped the shoes onto her feet.

  It had been a while since she had worn heels. She wore sensible shoes at the museum. She hadn’t had a date since she had moved to Geneva, so there didn’t seem to be any point in dressing up. Heels really did something for a girl.

  She pivoted on one foot and struck a Lottie pose. She had missed her so much. Standing before the mirror, a thought struck her. She had never gone on a date as her glamorous alter ego. Lottie existed only under the spotlight. When the performance was over, she always vanished. Maybe it was time to let her out to play again.

  Sinead carefully removed the labels from the wispy pieces of silk and put on the underwear. She drew on the stockings and smoothed them over her legs, glancing in the mirror to make sure that the seams were straight. She fingered the dress. It seemed a shame not to wear it. This time next week she could be in a Swiss prison. She pulled the dress over her head and zipped it up. It flared delightfully around her legs. She almost looked like … Lottie.

  Sinead pulled a face at the mirror. Well, not exactly like Lottie. Without the elaborate stage make-up, coloured contacts and raven wig, she looked like a glamorous version of herself – except for the bruise. The bathroom cabinet contained a half-finished tube of concealer. Not her shade but she needed something to cover the bruise on her face. She took a step back. It wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t as noticeable as before.

  Niall’s silence said more than a dozen compliments. She was used to that kind of reaction from fans of Lottie but not for Sinead O’Sullivan. He had changed into a dark suit that looked as if it had been made for him. Given the size of his broad shoulders, it probably had. His shirt was pristine and the tie was an understated grey silk that matched his eyes and had probably cost a packet.

  He caught her glance and adjusted the knot again. ‘Damn things, I hate wearing them.’

  ‘Here, let me.’ She re-tied it, tucked it inside his jacket and rested her hands on the lapels. The heels gave her an added height advantage. She was tall enough to kiss him and she gave in to temptation, brushing her mouth lightly against his. ‘You polish up well.’

  ‘I was about to say the same to you.’ He rested his hands on her waist and hunger flared in his eyes. If they didn’t get out of here soon, they were never going to make their appointment.

  Regretfully, she stepped out of his arms. ‘Come on, we have to go. We can call the hospital about Gabriel on the way.’

  13

  Niall parked in a side street around the corner from the antique store. Sinead had been quiet since she heard that Gabriel was out of surgery. The surgeon was confident that he would make a full recovery, but there would be scarring.

  ‘Are you sure you want to do this?’ Niall asked.

  ‘Don’t be stupid. Of course I’m going to do it. I’m fine. I’ve known Maurice for years. Stop fussing.’

  He kept his hand on the small of her back as they crossed the street and stopped outside the antique shop. Among the replicas and tourist tat were two nice watercolours; overpriced of course, but saleable. She paused at the display of jewellery.

  Sinead couldn’t be sure when she had first developed a fascination for jewellery. Her mother hadn’t left any, and Granny O’Sullivan’s collection was pure paste. But there was something about a ruby. The cold purity of the fire within always set her heart racing.

  Lottie had a few nice pieces she wore mainly for photo shoots, but they were stored in a safe deposit box in London.

  She caught a glimpse of their reflection in the window. They might have been a couple ready to make a very special purchase.

  Niall fingered the collar of his shirt. ‘Stop looking at the engagement rings, Sinead. You’re making me nervous.’

  She threw back her head and laughed. ‘You’d be lucky.’

  He held the door open and the bell jangled as they stepped into the store. A middle-aged female stepped forwards, dressed entirely in black. A small cameo brooch at her throat was her only embellishment. Her attention focused on Niall, taking in the bespoke suit and polished shoes, measuring his worth.

  ‘Monsieur.’ She inclined her head in
welcome.

  The woman had probably already adjusted the prices upwards by 20 per cent. Sinead was tempted to throw him to the wolves but they didn’t have the time. ‘We’re here to see Maurice,’ she announced. ‘I’m Sinead O’Sullivan. He’s expecting us.’

  Concealed behind an embroidered screen was a panelled door that led to a narrow staircase. On the second landing the woman rapped on an unmarked door. They heard a key being turned and a bolt being drawn back. Niall shot a dark look at Sinead. He didn’t like this one little bit.

  The Frenchman was barely 5'7". A brocade waistcoat covered a belly that was testament to his love of good food. Sinead kissed him on both cheeks and received an enthusiastic hug in return. ‘Maurice, so good to see you.’ She gestured to Niall. ‘This is Niall Moore, my associate.’

  ‘Come in, come in.’ He motioned them into the room and locked the door after them. ‘I’ve made coffee.’

  ‘That would be lovely.’

  She glanced around the room. The dark mahogany display cases came from another century, as did many of the pieces contained within. Necklaces, rings and tiaras glittered under the light and Sinead itched for a closer look. Maybe later.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Terrible.’ Maurice shook his head as he poured three cups of coffee and offered one to her. He gestured to the cases. ‘You see how it is. Since the crash, everybody wants to sell. No one wants to buy.’

  She nodded sympathetically as she sipped her coffee. Things were always terrible with Maurice. He hadn’t had a good day for a decade.

  ‘And the rent.’ He sighed. ‘They must think I’m made of money. You saw the shop downstairs. Full of stock.’

  Full of tat more likely. Sinead knew that most of his ‘antiques’ were made by his brother in Lyon. Even sold as replicas, they were vastly overpriced.

  ‘You might have noticed the nice little pair in the window. I bought them from a dealer in Brittany. No provenance, but they’re a steal at four thousand, don’t you think?’