The Confectioner's Tale (20 page)

‘The Left Bank,’ she said. ‘I’ve heard that there are women there who wear men’s suits.’ He could tell she was trying to sound nonchalant.

‘How shocking.’ He grinned, and some of her anxiety dropped away as she smiled in return.

Arm on arm they strolled towards Concorde. The night felt warmer than usual, a hint of spring to come, although most of the city remained steadfastly bleak and grey. They passed an older couple, out taking the air. Gui touched his hat to them in greeting.

The metro at Concorde was busy. Third class offered obscurity; sitting shoulder to shoulder on the narrow bench, they could have been anyone. There was a moment when the train jolted on its tracks, throwing them sideways. Gui found himself clasping a slim hand. In the flickering light of the tunnel, their eyes met. A hundred words and none passed between them, until Mademoiselle Clermont looked away.

They were still hand in hand when the train came to a stop at Châtelet. They hurried ahead of the departing crowd as best they could, although Mademoiselle was hindered by the narrowness of her skirts. More than once she had to stop and tug at the garment.

‘I chose the fabric,’ she told Gui breathlessly. In the lamplight, he caught a glimpse of satin, blue-black as a raven’s wing. ‘My aunt let me, so long as she settled on the design. She doesn’t know that I telephoned the seamstress and changed it.’

At the end of the street, the Seine spread itself to the left and right, its surface rippling with gas lamps. The bridge was dotted with people, couples, motor cars, late-night flower sellers offering blue paper roses and more besides. A taxi cab stood juddering at the edge of the pavement.

‘I’m not going past the bridge,’ the driver was saying stubbornly, pumping the starter handle. ‘You’ll have to find another cab over there. Or walk.’

A tall young man prowled by the door of the vehicle.

‘The journey has been paid for!’ he fumed. ‘Come now, boss, it will take you less than ten minutes.’

‘I
told
you,’ the driver said angrily, ‘I don’t deal with the Left Bank. Now move.’

‘You’ll have to run me down first!’

The taxi driver clambered up to his seat and began to steer the motor car around in a semicircle. Gui and Mademoiselle Clermont paused, alongside several other passers-by, to observe the scene. To their amazement, the young man planted himself in the path of the taxi.

‘
Avancez maintenant
, frog!’ he yelled to the approaching headlights.

The taxi trundled forward with increasing speed. At the last minute the man was forced to leap to one side; the motor car shot through a puddle, showering him with a spray of mud before rattling off into the night.

Spectacle over, the crowd began to disperse, leaving the young man to pick himself up from the ground.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Gui, although Mademoiselle Clermont gripped his arm to stop him.

‘Nothing damaged save for pride, all in a night’s work,’ said the stranger, extracting a handkerchief.

He had an odd accent; Gui guessed at English or Swiss. He was younger than he first appeared, and thin, like a pile of sticks wrapped in a suit. His clothes were finely made, although there were tell-tale patches of darning, worn elbows that spoke of long hours propped on a desk.

‘It would seem I lost my composure,’ the young man said, catching his breath. ‘If I had not, I might have succeeded in knocking that brute out of his little cab.’

‘Well, if you are sure you feel well …’ Gui turned away.

‘Determined to short change me is what he was.’ The young man had fallen into step beside them. Gui felt a pinch on his wrist and glanced at Mademoiselle Clermont.
Now look at what we must deal with
, her stare said. With an apologetic look, Gui turned back to the man’s conversation.

‘… is why one should never pay a taxi in advance. Of course, if they gave me enough cash this would never have happened, but no, it is all pre-approved expenses for staff these days.’

‘If you will excuse us,’ Mademoiselle Clermont interrupted, ‘we were enjoying a private conversation.’

Rather than flinch at the iciness of her tone, the young man coughed out a laugh behind a cheap cigarette.

‘Old manners prevail only as far as the end of the bridge, I’m afraid, miss. I’m Jim.’ He stuck out a hand. ‘Writer, hack, really. Been in Paris a few months. You?’

‘Guillaume du Frère. Apprentice chef. This is—’

‘You may call me Jeanne,’ Mademoiselle Clermont said quickly.

‘A pleasure to meet you both, Guillaume and Jeanne. How long have you two been married?’

‘A month.’

‘We are not—’

In unison, they gaped at each other. Gui cursed himself and Jeanne shot him an impenetrable look before wading into the mire of conversation.

‘We are not married yet,’ she corrected. ‘Engaged for a month, is what he means.’

Jim was not troubled by the confusion, merely took another drag on his cigarette.

‘If you insist.’

‘What does that mean?’ she demanded.

‘It means, Mademoiselle, that we have reached the Left Bank. Now the world is whatever we make it.’ Their new acquaintance stopped in the middle of the street and spread his arms. ‘Where are you two lovebirds heading? Do you have a place in mind or can I pass on an honest recommendation, as a resident of these fair streets?’

‘What do you say, Mam’selle?’ whispered Gui. ‘We are for an adventure, after all?’

He squeezed her hand, and her wariness thawed, just a little.

‘Very well,’ she answered after some consideration. ‘We will accept your recommendation, so long as the place is reputable.’

‘Of course!’ cried Jim. ‘What do you take me for? I may be an immigrant but I know a few things about propriety.’

‘Where are you from, Jim?’ Gui asked as they strolled away from the river. ‘You said you had only been here for a few months?’

‘England.’ The young man swung an imaginary golf-stroke. ‘Surrey, to be precise.’

‘Your French is excellent,’ Jeanne said hesitantly.

‘Studied the language in my student days. Learned it from my nursemaid as a child, too. Sylvie. She was from Paris, or Belleville, if you call that Paris. Atrocious accent. Used to get the penny song-sheets sent over to her, and teach them to me during playtime.’

Linking his hands under his chin, Jim bounded forward into the road and began to sing in a high-pitched warble.

‘
Tu tressailles sous ma caresse, de si voluptueux frissons, que pour avoir pareille ivresse, rebrouillons-nous, recommençons!
’

A group of passing men and women broke into applause. Jim curtsied and fluttered his hand, and even Jeanne could not keep herself from laughing. Their newfound friend was delighted with the attention and kept up a constant stream of chatter as they walked. Turning a corner, they were confronted by manic fizzing as a tram rolled past. Sparks shot from the wire on the roof as it slid to a halt.

‘
Allons-y
!’ hissed Jim, sidling up to the back step and leaping on in a crouch to avoid the conductor.

‘We’ll walk,’ Gui announced. ‘Mademoiselle can’t jump on in her gown.’

But Jeanne was already gone, hoisting her skirt to allow herself an inch or two of movement. Jim handed her up to the step. The tram sparked again and there was nothing for Gui to do but hop on after them and hope for the best.

They hung from the back railing, all in a row, breath misting in the chill March air. Glancing at his companions, happiness rose in Gui’s chest and he let out a whoop as the tram gathered speed. The conductor caught sight of them and rolled his eyes. Minutes later they tumbled off in the heart of Montparnasse.

‘This is the place!’ Jim proclaimed outside a café where, despite the season, tables spilled out onto the streets. Men in evening jackets and ratty waistcoats stood with glasses in hand. Women, too, in loose, printed dresses and furs, trailing cigarettes.

‘La Rotonde.’ He guided them beneath a flickering electric sign towards an empty table and signalled for a waiter. ‘Homes may come and go, but with a few centimes, or shillings in your pocket, you’ll find your way from here.’

‘What if we aren’t lost?’ Jeanne smiled, unpinning her hat.

Jim’s answer was lost on Gui as he stared. Jeanne’s hair was cut short. For the first time it was not hidden beneath flowers and veils. It was dark and smooth and curled simply beneath her earlobes, held back on one side by an ebony pin. A collar still encased her neck, lace rising from the deep blue satin.

‘You look …’ Gui choked on his own words.

Jim raised his glass a fraction, unexpected interest in his eyes. ‘I think my new friend intended to pay you a compliment, Mademoiselle,’ he said. ‘You do indeed look striking. Truly à la mode.’

‘Thank you,’ Jeanne murmured, her lips quirking into a smile as she accepted a glass of anisette.

Gui scowled at Jim, but any rivalry was soon forgotten in lively conversation. A dark-haired pianist sidled into the corner, along with a tall cello player. They launched into a swaying melody.

‘Would Mademoiselle care …?’ Jim started.

‘I believe I promised the first dance of the evening to Monsieur du Frère, thank you,’ Jeanne said as she stood.

Draining his glass, Gui followed her onto the floor, trying desperately to remember whether he knew anything about dancing. He couldn’t make out whether the music was a waltz or a two-step, or something entirely unfamiliar. As soon as he closed one hand around Jeanne’s waist, he found that he didn’t care.

‘You do look wonderful,’ he managed to say with an embarrassed smile. ‘I am sorry I didn’t say so earlier. I mean, about your hair.’

‘My aunt will never let me wear it like this in public. I know it must look strange.’

‘I like it.’ Her eyes were an even brighter blue, up close, and he remembered the electric jolt that had passed through him the first time she had touched his face in the freezing alleyway. ‘It’s different. You are different.’

‘I am not sure I intend to be.’

‘What do you mean?’

More couples were joining the dance floor, the crowd shielding them from everything outside, from everything that shunned, that disapproved.

‘I did not cut my hair by choice.’ She was studying a spot on his lapel with great concentration. ‘I cannot grow it any longer. There is scar tissue and the doctor advises against it.’

He was silent as she dropped his hand, and with something like resentment, pulled her high collar down an inch. The skin beneath was angry, stretched and puckered into uneven ridges. Up close, he could see that it reached into her hairline, towards the base of her skull. The bodies of the other dancers were packed in so closely, no one noticed that they had stopped moving.

‘What happened?’ he whispered.

The fabric at Jeanne’s throat beat with her pulse.

‘I was in the kitchens with Father,’ she said, ‘when I was small. One of the chefs forgot about a pan of boiling sugar. I smelled it burning and tried to get Father’s attention but he wouldn’t listen. I thought I would be able to reach …’

Tears were gathering in her eyes, threatening to spill over as she raised a protective palm to her neck.

‘I know it’s horrible, but I had to show you.’

She turned away, but Gui leaned forward and caught her face in his hands.

‘Jeanne Clermont,’ he whispered recklessly beneath the music, ‘you are the most beautiful girl I have ever seen—’

Then her lips were on his. He felt the heat of her mouth, one of her hands grazing his face. The band drew out its final note.

The dancers drifted apart and he stepped back with difficulty, his whole body trembling. They returned to the table hand in hand, eyes bright and faces flushed, where Jim waited with another round of drinks.

‘Brava,’ he saluted them, ‘to the soon-to-be happy couple.’

The evening grew louder. Jim introduced them to all manner of people with strange names and even stranger accents. They even had their likeness taken by a friend of his with a portable photographic camera. At eleven, they made their farewells. Gui loosed a breath of happiness as they stepped into the brisk night.

‘Gui! Jeanne!’ came a shout from behind them. Jim was leaning out the door, tie loosened, empty glass in hand. ‘Where am I to contact you should the occasion arise?’

‘Pâtisserie Clermont,’ Gui shouted back, already wondering when he could catch another moment with Jeanne. ‘Yourself?’

‘Here, they’ll know where to find me, just ask for Jim Stevenson.’

Chapter Twenty-Nine

May 1988

The phone rings and rings; I imagine it shrilling into the chaos of Whyke’s office. Finally, it clatters into life.

‘Hello?’ he answers breathlessly. He sounds like he’s been running.

‘Professor, it’s Petra,’ I shout. The phone box I’m using is ancient and the line is bad.

‘Where are you?’ his voice crackles.

‘Penzance station. I’ve just come from seeing Mr Lefevre. They asked me to stay last night. It was too late for the train after we’d finished talking.’

‘And?’ Whyke sounds as impatient as I feel.

‘I read the letter,’ I rush, ‘it
was
from my grandfather. And it explains some of what happened, but not all—’ The phone starts beeping urgently. I fumble in my pocket for more change. ‘I can’t talk for much longer, but I have the letter, the real one. Lefevre gave it to me. I’ll show you when I get back.’

‘Where are you going now?’

‘London, to read the article.’

‘I’ll phone ahead and make sure it’s reserved for you.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Thank me later,’ he says hurriedly. ‘I’ve managed to convince Kaufmann that you’ve gone home for a “family emergency”, but she’s suspicious.’

‘I only need a few more days.’

‘That’s all you have. Do you realise what Monday is?’

I don’t need to reply.

‘If you don’t attend the review, you’ll lose your place,’ he tells me. ‘Are you sure—’

The phone cuts off before I can answer, lapsing into a single tone.

I begin the long journey back to London. In my bag is the letter from my grandfather. Lefevre allowed me to keep it, saying that it was only right.