A man and woman entered. The man wore a sloping beret, a cigarette between his lips. He was talking fast with big, self-reverential gestures. The man’s companion, a tall girl way out of his league, was ignoring him. Verrian watched, amused, until he realised who she was. Then he stood up so clumsily he knocked his newspaper to the floor. A waiter picked it up, standing in his way long enough for him to master his confusion and say her name.
This was not the girl who’d scrambled out of a window into his arms. Nor the one he’d rescued in Place du Tertre. In a purple dress whose nipped-in middle gave her an hourglass figure, this was a fantasy he might have created out of the raw fabric of Alix Gower. Her hair was a cloud of curls under a devastatingly chic hat. She wasn’t seventeen or eighteen, he realised. She was about twenty, and that made him feel a lot better.
She reached to shake his hand with a grace that drew stares. The man in the beret gave a Latin shrug and plodded back to his outdoor table. She asked, ‘I hope I haven’t kept you waiting?’
You have, and I expect you meant to. ‘Teatime is fluid in Paris. Thank you for coming. I’d told myself you wouldn’t. Please sit down.’
She sipped water while she waited for her coffee. He discussed the weather, the April showers, the tourists crowding the métro. ‘You’re looking beautiful today. May I say that?’
‘You mean, I looked a ragbag yesterday.’ A smile softened the reproach. ‘They were my work clothes. This is something I bought because I liked the colour.’ She gestured towards the dress – its neckline was nun-like, but black, Indian-file buttons insisted the eye follow the contours of her body down to her midriff.
Verrian gulped water. ‘I’m one up on you then, having bought something entirely new to impress you.’
‘I noticed.’ She gave his lapels and shoulder line a tilted inspection. ‘It’s a good suit and I hope you keep Mme Konstantiva’s cat away from it.’ Two fresh coffees arrived. He noticed that she stirred a lot of sugar into hers. Kept stirring longer than necessary.
‘How are you,’ he asked, ‘after your ordeal?’
‘Leaping out of a window? I was very angry with my colleagues this morning because I know they locked me in. I should have risen above it, but I put pins on their chairs instead.’
‘Sharp side up?’
‘Of course. Only one each,’ she added when he raised an eyebrow.
‘Actually, I meant your ordeal on Place du Tertre. You never really told me who hurt you that day or why.’
She shrugged. ‘I don’t remember what I said to you – I expect I burbled a lot of nonsense. I’m all right now, except where he cut my hair –’ she indicated a curl over her left ear. ‘It wants to stick out like a turnip top.’
Verrian was glad she could laugh at herself, a rare commodity in attractive women, but he didn’t believe that shrug or her claim of forgetfulness. ‘In the car you said your attacker had demanded a lot of money. Doesn’t that mean he’ll come back?’
‘I don’t know. No, I don’t think so. Everything’s sorted.’
‘You mentioned needing to “find the comte”. May I ask who that is? Your father?’
‘No, just a family friend. Well, a sort of neighbour. Well, a kind of guardian. In Alsace, long ago, the Comte de Charembourg and my grandmother …’
He leaned forward. ‘This is gripping.’
She laughed. ‘They lived in the same town. The comte owned the castle and all the land.’
Now he saw the fellow as a music-hall villain, complete with black cloak and curling moustache. ‘How is the mysterious Comte de Charembourg connected with your being scalped in Place du Tertre?’
She frowned slightly and he supposed he’d pushed too far. It was early to be demanding the identities of other men, but he’d had a flash of jealousy at the first mention of the name. ‘I’m a journalist,’ he explained. ‘I live in a sea of questions, and if they’re not quickly answered, I get a twitch. I want to know why a young woman, apparently sober and well-bred, should be threatened by a thug on a Montmartre staircase. I’ve no right to know,’ he added, taking her hand because she’d begun stirring her coffee needlessly, ‘but I’m good at discretion. I’m also quite good at thumping people, if I think they need it. What I’m saying, Mademoiselle, is if you want to confide in someone, I’m a good bet.’
‘Call me Alix.’
‘Well, Alix, I’m willing to help or just listen. I owe you a favour.’
‘Do you? But I owe you … for rescuing me twice?’
‘You broke the rules to get me a line to London. It was important, that call. Hang on … you’re working for Javier. Does that mean you’re no longer employed at the telephone exchange?’
‘We parted company.’
‘I hope it wasn’t my fault.’
She made a ‘maybe’ grimace. ‘What happened to your friend?’
‘Miguel? On his way to a safe Latin American country and I may never hear from him again. War does that to people. It creates and erases friendships. I’ll find out more when I return to Spain.’ Studying her hand, he thought what an exquisite colour her skin was, emerging from an amethyst cuff. Then he looked up to find her expression that of a child who’s seen the cake taken off the table. Did she mind that he was leaving? ‘I’ll be around for a while still,’ he added, and thought, Is that true? Have I just changed my plans for this woman?
‘Were you in Spain covering the fighting or doing the fighting? Your boots were like a soldier’s.’
‘Covering it. I am – was – the Monitor’s Madrid correspondent.’
‘That’s very impressive.’
‘Not really. I washed up there. Eighteen months ago I was in Abyssinia when the Italians invaded. I was the nearest man when Franco’s Fascists landed in Spain from North Africa some months later. I signed on with the Republican Party as an accredited correspondent.’ He was telling her what side he was on – raising his colours over the table – and she was staring back, impassive. Was he speaking of things that were over her head? Almost certainly. Catalans, Basques and Castilians argued endlessly about the causes of their country’s conflict and he often lost the thread too. Why should she understand?
Anyone who approaches this civil war believing in black and white, right and wrong, hasn’t seen enough. His own words. Driving to the front every day from Madrid – until the front came so close he could sit at a café table on the Paseo del Pintor Rosales and watch it – he’d seen men reaped like summer corn. Spanish Fascists, Italians and North African mercenaries had behaved like medieval bandits. Of course, the Republican side had committed its atrocities too. The war he’d quitted was not good versus evil, it was an olla podrida of human depravity.
He told her, ‘I was in my hotel room in Madrid, and a note came inviting me to meet with one of the government’s propaganda men. I thought I was getting a scoop.’ He was hoping she’d yawn so he could stop, but she looked at him, waiting. ‘Instead I was marched to a room at the back of a windowless building where a man called Miguel was shot in front of me.’ He felt her shock at that. ‘Not killed. A punishment maiming, because his bosses thought he’d turned a blind eye to a piece I’d written. Actually I hadn’t written the bit they objected to, but that came later. Two fingers were shot from his hand and he was dragged away half-conscious. I was arrested but got away.’
‘How?’
‘I stamped on a policeman’s foot, on the top, where it hurts most, rolled him down a short stairwell and ran. I eventually made it to Albacete aerodrome, where a friend of mine was taking off for Paris. He flew me out, but I couldn’t stop thinking about Miguel. That’s why your help meant so much.’
‘And you want to go back to Spain? I wouldn’t.’
‘I feel that by leaving, I betrayed a cause.’
‘I don’t often read newspapers,’ she said, ‘so I hadn’t heard of you.’
He traced a little circle between her thumb and index finger and raised her hand to his lips. ‘I’m rather glad of that.’ H
e was about to discover if her skin tasted of the almond cream it resembled when a sharp, ‘Verrian, really!’ made him jerk back.
*
It was Lucy who apologised. ‘Bother, now I’m being a goose-berry. I really didn’t … honestly, I just assumed …’
That I was meeting a male friend, he filled in silently. Disengaging his hand, he stood and said, ‘Lucy, allow me to introduce you to Mlle Gower. Alix, this is my sister, Lucinda Haviland.’
Alix extended her hand. Lucy, over-anticipating the gesture, grabbed air then managed to get hold of Alix’s wrist. ‘Gosh, sorry.’ Then her handbag fell down her arm with a clunk that broke the handshake. ‘Oh Lord.’
‘Coffee?’ Verrian pulled out a chair, reckoning they’d all be safer seated.
‘Righto, though I need a dram. Shopping in Paris is murder. The saleswomen are without mercy. Honestly, as soon as I entered the changing room I remembered the state of my underwear.’ Lucy’s eyes strayed to Alix, to the moulded dress, and she sighed. ‘My unmentionables only just pass in the ladies’ department of Grindle & Whiteleather. That’s our shop in Heronhurst,’ she explained to Alix. ‘Everybody buys their clothes there.’
Alix said, ‘Vendeuses see fifty sets of undergarments a day. Don’t take it to heart.’
‘Are you wearing a corset?’
‘Lucy,’ Verrian shot back, ‘three minutes’ acquaintance doesn’t allow that.’
‘Sorry,’ Lucy mumbled.
‘I am not,’ Alix replied, unperturbed. ‘I also find vendeuses terrifying, and they mean us to.’
‘Your English is terribly good,’ Lucy told her.
‘I am English … mostly … I was at school in Hampshire.’
‘Which school? Was it Roman Catholic? I know a few RC girls.’
‘Lucy.’ Verrian meant, Shut up.
‘No,’ Alix said simply.
‘C of E?’
‘How was your shopping?’ Verrian interrupted, meaning, One more gaffe and I’ll put you on the pavement. ‘I don’t see any bandboxes.’
‘Mummy took them to the hotel in a taxi. She needed a lie-down, having bought a black evening dress with lace sleeves identical to the one she bought last year. I got two suits – one grey, one grey with a grey stripe. Heartbreaking. There was a check I loved, but mother thought it looked like bus-seat upholstery and the saleswoman conspired.’
‘Grey will suit your colouring,’ Alix said. ‘In my view, grey is the only colour that goes perfectly in spring and autumn.’
Alix’s voice had changed, Verrian noticed. It was more reflective.
‘But I wore grey every day at school.’
‘Then add a neck scarf.’
‘I could … red maybe, or your colour, mauve.’
‘Mmm.’ Alix studied Lucy’s face. She did it without staring, just let her focus soften. ‘I would choose spice colours: ginger, burnt orange, perhaps with some slate blue. If you have time to go to Hermès, they have something there that would suit you.’ Reaching for her handbag, she took out a wand of coloured pencils and a small sketchbook. Verrian watched her fast strokes, saw how she changed colours, feeding her vision from the pile of pencils. She ripped out the page and handed it to Lucy who said, ‘Gosh, are you an artist? Carrying crayons in your bag feels jolly professional.’
‘I don’t consider myself an artist, but my grandfather was.’
‘Oh, will we have heard of him?’
‘I don’t know. His name was Lutzman. He died before he created his best work.’
‘How can you know that?’
Alix’s silence told Verrian that Lucy had finally offended. ‘By studying the progress of his art, Lucy,’ he said, ‘and making a judgement.’
‘Yes, but we still don’t know who he was.’
‘His name was Alfred Lutzman,’ Alix repeated.
‘Isn’t that a Ger—’ Lucy felt her brother’s eyes on her face and blushed. She scanned Alix’s drawing, then handed it to Verrian.
The stylised fashion sketch captured the lower part of Lucy’s face, continuing down to the hip, slimming her considerably. Alix had drawn an elegant town suit and captured the shape of Lucy’s jaw perfectly. To the side she’d scribbled a chart of colours she presumably thought would complement Lucy’s complexion. Rather over Verrian’s head, but he wouldn’t argue with her choices.
‘Frightfully clever,’ Lucy breathed.
‘You’re welcome, and perhaps Grindle & Whiteleather will search out accessories in those colours for you.’ As she spoke, Alix bundled up her crayons and held out her hand to Verrian. ‘Thank you for the coffee, but I must go now.’
He felt absurdly robbed. And so irritated with Lucy that the angry pulse came back. ‘Must you?’ She must, it seemed. ‘I’ll get you a taxi.’
‘No, no. I’m so close to home, I’ll walk. Goodbye, Miss Havi-land.’
‘Lucy, please.’
Verrian followed her out, knowing from the way she walked that she wanted to get away. He caught up with her. ‘I have an idea we’ve upset you. I’m sorry.’
‘On my mother’s side, I’m Jewish,’ she said.
He blinked. Where had that come from?
‘Your sister was fishing. Tell her that “Lutzman” is Jewish. I think she minds about that sort of thing – as did many of the girls I went to school with. I’d imagined, in Paris, I could stop explaining myself.’
‘Don’t walk off. If you do, we won’t know how to see each other again.’ He held out his hand until she gave him hers. ‘And you don’t ever have to explain yourself to me.’
*
That evening Verrian joined his mother and Lucy in the restaurant of the Hôtel Polonaise on Place Vendôme where they were staying. His anger towards Lucy had cooled but his mother poked the embers by saying, ‘Lucy tells me she interrupted your tête-à-tête with a Jewish girl.’
‘Her name is Alix Gower. She’s Anglo-Jewish, if that matters.’
‘Of course it matters. Where did you pick her up?’
‘That is insulting and unworthy.’
Lucy touched his arm. ‘This is all my fault.’
‘At what point, Lucy, were you taught to interrogate people on their religion?’ He kept his eye on his mother because he knew perfectly well where Lucy derived her bulldog chauvinism. ‘You’ve not met Alix, Mother, but are still prepared to speak disparagingly of her, doubtless because she isn’t a Grosvenor Square debutante. Are you turning into Father?’
‘Really!’ Peggy Haviland fluttered her napkin about her mouth. ‘Below the belt. I didn’t mean to attack your friend, Verrian, but when Lucy said she’d interrupted you canoodling, when you’d led us to believe you were meeting work colleagues—’
‘I said no such thing. You heard what you wanted to hear.’
‘Another girl we know nothing about, so soon after rumours of the last one.’
‘What rumours?’ From his tone, both women realised they’d begun something dangerous.
‘Simply –’ Peggy Haviland dabbed her lips again – ‘that you had a “fling” with a Spanish girl. We worried you might bring her home.’
‘Inflict a Papist on Heronhurst? How would you explain that to the Rowley and Heronbridge Women’s Institute?’
‘Don’t mock me, Verrian.’
‘Then don’t be a bloody prig.’
‘Please don’t swear.’
He counted silently. ‘I apologise. Let me assure you,’ he said, as evenly as he could, ‘there’s not the slightest chance of any Spanish girl coming to England with me. That’s all I will say.’
‘I am relieved, dear. I feel as if I’ve lost you to a world I don’t understand.’ His mother fumbled in her quilted evening purse and Verrian feared she was looking for a handkerchief. But she took out her reading glasses and picked up her menu. ‘I swear, the spaces between words get smaller every day.’
A well-worn joke, but Verrian laid his hand over hers and the flag of truce flew.
*
Their mot
her was ready for bed by ten. Lucy wasn’t, so Verrian whisked her off to a cabaret near Place du Tertre, one recommended as suitable for one’s sister. In a corner niche, cognac in front of him, crème de menthe in front of her, he said, ‘Scrap – one of us has to tell Mother that I won’t turn into the man who takes the morning train to Waterloo.’
Lucy tasted her drink, making a face. ‘It’s like cough medicine but rather intriguing. Actually, I should have asked for sherry. No, don’t wave to the waiter, I’ll soldier on. You’re going back to Spain? But Jack says the Republicans will shoot you.’
‘Dear Jack. Always the silver lining.’
‘He says that if the Republicans don’t, the Fascists will think you’re a spy, and if they capture you, they’ll torture and shoot you.’ She stared at him through fair lashes that were suspiciously wet as if a tear had sprung. ‘I’m sorry I was rude about Alix, but please don’t go to Spain just to get away from me. I know I’m tiresome.’
‘Don’t, Scrap.’
‘Coming to Paris went to my head. I cycled to Grindle & Whiteleather specially to buy a new outfit. I thought I looked swish, but when I saw her …’
‘Alix has been born with a spectacular set of bones and that’s her luck.’
‘I suppose she’s really very nice?’
‘I don’t know much about her.’
‘Golly –’ Lucy dropped her voice – ‘is that a tramp?’
A man was shambling past and Verrian’s attention sharpened as he recognised the bearded profile. No tramp. It was Bonnet, who lived next door to him. Verrian watched the man go to the cashier’s window and pull a roll of notes from his pocket, exchanging it for a bag of gambling chips, then walk unsteadily to a roulette table where a croupier was inviting bets. He pushed a stack of chips on to a single number. The wheel spun, the ball clacked like a loose nut. Raphael Bonnet clasped his hands and Verrian had the impression of a man praying to an unlucky god.
The Dress Thief Page 13