So, how did she feel? Nothing poetic offered itself, so she found images. She felt as light as beaten egg white, and weak as spinach dropped in boiling water. ‘I couldn’t walk from here to the window.’
‘I will take that as a compliment. You know that between five and seven in the evening half of Paris is in bed together? It is the time set aside for love.’
‘Is that why the chambermaids never come tapping at the door?’
‘They may well be in bed themselves.’
‘I hope the cook isn’t. I’m starving again. That’s why I keep imagining myself as food.’
Dietrich sank his teeth gently into her shoulder. ‘You are ice-cream and honey, with a skim of salt.’
‘That’s nice . . . I was thinking of myself as some kind of omelette. Can we eat early?’
‘You may order room service for yourself as I have to go out tonight.’
‘Oh, Dietrich, why?’
‘Business.’
‘Can I come too?’
A little silence. ‘Stay here and rest. Today you seemed tired.’
‘I’ve got things on my mind. Things I have to tell you. See, I’m not exactly what you think I am.’ There, she’d said it.
Another silence. The same? Colder? Longer? ‘Go on.’
‘I’m not really a milliner. I pretended I was, but I’m—’
‘Playing at it.’ He placed her hand on his belly so she felt the rise and fall of his breathing. ‘Like Ottilia, who bought La Passerinette because she found herself in Paris, bored, and decided a hat shop would be the thing.’
‘Wait, La Passerinette belongs to Ottilia?’
‘Entirely. And listen to this: once she decided she would be a concert pianist so the most expensive piano in Berlin was delivered to her house. Three lessons later, she gave up. Why be a milliner, Coralie, when very ordinary girls can do it better?’
She let out an exasperated breath. Ottilia was like a bad dose of measles, all over her and up her nose. And if she never got a clear run at a confession, she’d never do it. She couldn’t go on letting Dietrich think that she was a rich London girl, playing at a career, free of family ties, when the reality was so different. Sordid, even. ‘Dietrich . . .’ his breathing was growing shallower ‘. . . I want to tell you about . . . ’
‘Mm?’
She’d been going to say, ‘Cora Masson,’ but her courage ran out. She asked instead, ‘What do you know of Lorienne Royer?’
‘Too much, certainly, for her good.’
‘That girl of hers – Violaine, was that her name? I’m damn sure she gets knocked about.’
‘That’s quite an allegation. What makes you say it?’
‘I know the signs. There’s a kind of posture you – people adopt after they’ve been clumped a few times. They know where the fist or boot comes from, but not when, so they’re always in fear. I’d love to give the poor girl tips on how to fight back. Grabbing hold of somebody’s eyelids stops a whole bunch of trouble, in my experience.’ She was astonished to hear laughter.
‘Take the fight to the enemy? But, Coralie, if Violaine is twenty-nine, she isn’t a girl. She can fight her own battles.’
‘I’m not so sure. I don’t like Lorienne. D’you mind me saying?’
‘Do I sound as if I do?’
‘La Passerinette’s your favourite hat shop, so I supposed you and she must be friends.’
‘My love, I go to one tailor in Berlin, to another in Zürich, and always to Henry Poole in London. I don’t necessarily like the gentlemen who measure me up.’
‘But you wouldn’t want me to punch them.’
‘No – or to hang on to their eyelids.’
‘I’d punch Lorienne if I caught her swiping at that poor girl. I hate bullies.’
Dietrich wound his fingers through hers. ‘Let me stop being obtuse. I thoroughly dislike Lorienne Royer, though I hardly know her. She turns out lovely hats, and as it is Ottilia’s shop, I take friends there when I can. Happy?’
‘I suppose “obtuse” means being a clever-clogs,’ she said crossly. How many ‘friends’ did he take hat-shopping? ‘How can you dislike somebody without knowing them?’
‘Do you like Sir Oswald Mosley?’
The question bewildered her. What had that got to do with Lorienne? ‘Mosley the Fascist? I hate Fascists. They’re ignorant. Once, we ran out of silk ribbon at Pettrew’s because those daft sods burned down the warehouse supplying it because it was owned by Jews. Three weeks we were laid off—’ she ended, on an intake of breath. God help her, she’d just accidentally spat out that she was a factory girl.
‘So you don’t like Oswald Mosley, even though you don’t know him, which proves that disliking a stranger is sometimes more than unexamined prejudice.’
She waited for Dietrich to catch up with her error but he went on, ‘Lorienne Royer was Ottilia’s lady’s maid before the present one. Lorienne wanted to go on to better things and Ottilia handed La Passerinette to her to run. They are supposed to share the profits fifty-fifty. Mademoiselle Royer is efficient, but I don’t consider her particularly talented.’
‘No,’ Coralie rushed in. ‘Violaine’s got all the skill. The way she twisted a simple piece of felt into something beautiful . . . What makes her stay?’
‘I have no idea. However, I am certain that Ottilia gets nowhere near fifty per cent of the profits. So, I go in occasionally to remind Lorienne that I am around and have a sharp eye. She knows I’m in constant touch with Ottilia.’
Coralie laid her head on Dietrich’s chest. Every conversation led to another woman. She remembered the key in Dietrich’s hand. Whose door did it open? ‘Who are you meeting tonight?’
‘Business connections from Berlin. They’re here to see the Exposition—’
‘You promised to take me!’
‘And I shall, but tonight it’s just men. We will be speaking German and you would feel left out as we outbid each other in vulgar arrogance, as men invariably do at a business dinner.’
She drew shapes on his chest, waiting for the shortening of his breath. This new power might come in handy. ‘Dietrich, what exactly is it you do for a living?’
‘I effect the transfer of items from Person A to Person B, taking a commission.’
That was clear as mud. ‘What items?’
‘Art. Jewellery, sometimes, or rare books. Oriental antiques. Even old instruments and musical scores. If somebody has something rare or beautiful and is willing to sell it, I will transact the exchange.’
‘You’re a dealer.’
‘I prefer to call myself a middle-man.’
‘It’s not very romantic.’
‘You’d rather I were a handsome prince?’
‘Yes.’ She laughed, because it sounded as if he’d forgiven her. But still she wasn’t at ease. A wife in Germany she could deal with, but not rivals in Paris. And already he was shifting away, immune to her caress.
After putting on his clothes, he leaned over and kissed her. ‘I’m going up to my suite to take a bath. Shall I start yours running?’
‘I don’t want a bath yet.’ She belted her arms around his waist, feeling the grain of his jacket, finding the flap of a pocket. ‘Why don’t you stay?’
He kissed her nose. ‘No, and don’t you go back to sleep.’
The door closed behind him. She waited a minute then opened her hand. Bit devious, picking a man’s pocket as he kissed her, but his secretive ways were driving her mad.
Chapter Five
The key was like the one to the coal-shed at Barnham Street, though less rusty. The tag read, ‘Von Silberstrom, Flat no. 1’.
‘Von Silberstrom’ sounded German. She sniffed the tag, in case some identifiable perfume clung to it. Then, feeling stupid, she flumped back on her pillows. Now she had to get the blasted key back into Diet
rich’s pocket without him knowing.
She could intercept him on his way out, though if he’d changed his jacket, and his manservant had hung it away, she’d be in trouble. She hadn’t a key to his suite and could hardly ask sniffy Mr Brownlow to let her in. She closed her eyes, thinking she might just put the key on the floor of the lift to make Dietrich think he’d dropped it.
*
She woke, as from drugged sleep. Someone was calling her name.
Cora, get up! On your feet! Behind her eyelids, a face formed. A face framed with yellow-grey hair, a shaggy moustache obscuring the top lip. Opening her eyes, she saw the same face staring down. ‘Dad,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t hurt me. Marry Sheila if you want. I won’t say anything to anybody.’
‘Wake up, Liebchen. You did not order dinner.’
Her vision cleared. ‘Dietrich?’
‘Who else would be leaning over your bed?’
‘What did I just say?’
The mattress dipped as he sat beside her. ‘You said, “Cora, get up,” and mistook me for your father.’
‘He calls me Cora. Called, I mean. He’s—’
‘Dead. You told me on the train that you are an orphan, that you have nobody in the world. Do you often recall your father to life in your dreams?’
He knew she’d lied to him. It was in his voice, but she tried to duck the inevitable. ‘Did your meeting go well?’
‘Perfectly well. But I had intended to call somewhere beforehand, only when I looked for the key to get in, it was missing from my pocket. Have you seen it?’
‘I expect it dropped out of your jacket.’
It was Dietrich who found it, nestled between her arm and her side. ‘To know it was in my jacket suggests that you took it. Am I right?’
She thought of denying it but, in the end, nodded. ‘I was curious.’
‘To know my private affairs, where I go, whom I see? If I wished to share such things, I would do so. Don’t you understand that, Cora?’
‘Don’t call me that. I’m Coralie.’
‘Since we are playing the game of truth, you are Cora Masson from a place called Bermondsey. You came to Paris with me to escape a cruel situation.’
Her breath scraped. ‘How do you know?’
‘You took my manservant’s seat on the train. You recall me having a conversation with Brownlow, just before the train left Victoria? I was instructing him to make enquiries about you.’
‘That’s beastly!’
‘It was good sense. You had no luggage, you looked as though you had spent all night being chased by bloodhounds. I wanted to know who I was travelling with. Before becoming a gentleman’s gentleman, Brownlow was a London police officer.’
She groaned. A bloody copper. No wonder the man gave her that bring-out-the-handcuffs look every time they bumped into each other.
‘When you ran up to me at Victoria Station, calling at the top of your voice, it was your true accent everybody heard. Brownlow used to walk the beat in Greenwich, which I believe is a little way downriver from Bermondsey. A few telephone calls unearthed the name “de Lirac” because it seems your father always gave – should I say “gives”? – that name when arrested for being drunk and disorderly.’
‘Why didn’t you say this before?’
‘I’ve been waiting for you to tell me. To warn me that I have abducted the daughter of a violent man.’
‘Oh, he won’t follow me here, no chance of that.’
‘You misunderstand. I am not afraid of your father. Rather, I object to being . . . what’s the word? . . . hoodwinked.’
‘I’ve been trying to confess for days but the words sort of get stuck.’ Coralie lay waiting for judgement. Liars were not lovable. Liars only got away with it by being sly, using their power. She wouldn’t do that. No eyelash-fluttering, no persuasive caresses.
‘Do you wish to tell me now?’
Yes. It would be a relief, actually. ‘But you have to promise not to interrupt. Even if I can’t find the words.’
Dietrich fetched her robe and held it for her as she got out of bed. ‘You will talk and I will listen. When morning comes, there will be no more secrets between us.’
So Coralie told him everything about Pettrews, Donal and Mid-day sun, though when she got to the part about confronting her father and Sheila, her voice almost gave out. ‘So now you know. I ran away because I’m scared witless of my dad.’
‘You still think he might hurt you badly?’
‘More than a black eye?’ She gave a dry laugh. ‘I’ll say. The bricks on the floor in the shed where he works, he’s dug them up and re-laid them. Something’s buried and I’m afraid . . . terrified . . . it’s my mum. I’ve always wondered why she didn’t come back.’
She waited for soothing words, for an acknowledgement of her uncanny intuition or, better still, an expression of utter disbelief. But Dietrich said the worst thing possible: ‘Then we should return to London and ask questions.’
‘No! What if I learned that I’m right?’
‘Surely that’s better than not knowing.’
She dragged at her hair. ‘I can’t go back. Whatever’s under those bricks, my father will do anything to keep it secret. Kill me, if he needs to. He’s killed before, he boasts about it. “The first time is always the hardest,” he used to say. “After that, it’s easy.”’
‘It is not easy, Coralie. Forgive me, but you don’t know what you are talking about.’
She tried a different argument, wanting to smother any notion of returning to London. ‘I’d be homeless and jobless. Pettrew’s wouldn’t have me, not after I left without giving notice, and they wouldn’t give me a reference. And once my dad’s known to be walking out with a policewoman, I’d get the cold shoulder from all sides. People don’t trust coppers where I come from. In Paris, at least, I have a chance of making new friends.’
Dietrich came and put his hands on her arms. She was shivering, though the open window let in a caressing southern breeze. ‘Friends are not so easy to make in a strange city, and the French are quite introverted. Family-oriented,’ he explained, seeing that the word was new to her. ‘Don’t expect to be drawn into a warm circle very quickly.’
‘Being lonely among strangers beats being lonely among old friends. I can invent a new life here, a different me. I can imagine my mother living happily in New York, with a new family, still thinking about me from time to time. That way, there’s hope.’
He sighed, accepting her arguments though clearly without sharing her logic. ‘If you intend to change identity for ever, you must begin right away and be serious about it. You must destroy everything that refers to your past.’
She knew he was right. She couldn’t play at being Coralie de Lirac. She had to be Coralie de Lirac. ‘I threw away the clothes I travelled in. They reminded me too much of what I’d escaped.’
‘You must eject every memory of that old life – even the memory of those you still care for.’ Dietrich pulled her tight against him, absorbing the unexpected burst of weeping his words had provoked. He helped her to the bed and they lay side by side, Coralie’s hiccuping the only sound.
Eventually, she said, ‘So you won’t make me go back?’
He kissed her. ‘Not if you are completely certain about staying here.’ Reaching for the bedside telephone, he called down to room service, ordering a light supper and two brandies. Minutes later, she was propped up against the pillows, marvelling at the way the liquor snaked like fire down her throat. ‘I want to stay. I can’t explain why, but I feel anything is possible in Paris.’
Dietrich took her glass from her so he could kiss her again. ‘And I like having you here with me. It’s a good feeling to be needed. We need each other.’
Chapter Six
As June gave way to July, Dietrich went often to the Paris Expo but always alone, explaini
ng that his compatriots had flocked there to buy artworks and were congregating at the German pavilion. During his trip to England, he had acquired paintings of a kind that were very popular in Germany, and was set to make a year’s income in a matter of weeks. ‘The less reassuring the real world becomes, the more my fellow Germans want rustic vistas and cosy family scenes.’ He had snapped up crate-loads almost for nothing, he told her, which would be auctioned in Paris. He was busy whipping up interest.
He couldn’t take Coralie to these meetings because his contacts knew his wife in some degree or other. ‘It would be disrespectful to Hiltrud,’ he explained.
‘Dietrich, do you and your wife live completely apart?’
‘Emotionally – yes. But I imagine our neighbours think us a conventional family, for all I’m absent much of the time. We have to consider the children’s feelings.’
His personal apartment was just off Potsdamer Platz in the middle of Berlin, he told her. As for his wife, she rarely stirred from their townhouse in Hohen Neuendorf, a short train journey north of the city. Claudia, who was twelve, was spending summer at home with her mother. Waldo, fifteen, was at a summer camp with a lot of other boys, and Coralie sensed that Dietrich had reservations about this. The boy was not strong, owing to a heart problem that affected his breathing. Coralie remembered her first weeks at Granny Flynn’s, also aged fourteen. Nobody had given a damn about her lungs.
The Girl Who Dreamed of Paris Page 9