The Paris Secret (33 page)

A battered hat.

She looked up and saw a CCTV camera on the wall, realized she was standing centre stage for it.

All became clear.

‘Well, that’s quite all right,’ she said, feeling her cheeks burn, the rejection sting. She reached for the handle and pulled the door open too hard, the bells jangling
noisily, for too long. ‘Goodbye.’

She flung the door closed behind her and strode down the street, trying to get out of sight of the gallery and its cameras as fast as she could. Attlee & Bergurren was finally open –
the lights inside telling her so – and she dived in, grateful for the refuge, aware of the irony that although she was the one running, she wasn’t the one hiding.

Bruno was heavily involved in a serious game of
pétanque
with a seventy-year-old local when she finally met up with her friends at the café. Flora was relieved to see they
were sitting in the shade, Ines chatting away merrily with the people at the next table.

Flora plonked her bag down and threw herself into the chair, sitting slumped as she watched Bruno throw the
boule
.

‘You look cross,’ Ines said, disentangling herself from the neighbouring conversation and pulling her chair round to face Flora.

‘Me? No,’ Flora said, pulling a nonplussed face, watching as the ball landed heavily on the ground, sending up a dust cloud. ‘I’m not cross.

‘Stressed then.’

Flora shook her head. ‘No.’

There was a short pause, Ines lighting up a cigarette and watching her friend suspiciously. ‘So how did you get on?’

The waiter came over and took her order for a glass of rosé.

‘So-so. I’ve got copies of all the acquisitions Von Taschelt made between 1938 and 1942. It doesn’t help me much for anything he bought after then, which is probably when he
acquired most of what we’ve found in the apartment, but it’s something to work with. I’ll cross-reference the descriptions against my own inventory and see if I get any hits.
It’ll be quicker than going to the
cat rais
of every-single-different-artist,’ she said, bouncing those lost words with a groan.

Ines looked back at her blankly. ‘Sorry, you’ve lost me. The
cat
what?’

‘Never mind,’ Flora said, shaking her head irritably, her eyes still on the game.

‘Well, so long as it wasn’t a wasted morning, because I
wish
you’d been with me earlier. I bought the most amazing dress in a boutique in Cannes. You’d have loved
it.’

Flora doubted that. She wasn’t interested in shopping right now. She sighed. ‘Let me see.’

Ines reached down and pulled out a long white silk jersey dress with a red abstract apple print and draped shoulders.

‘Gorgeous,’ Flora said listlessly, reaching out to touch the fabric. ‘I can totally see you in it.’

‘Yeah?’ Ines grinned as she folded it back into the bag. ‘What about you? See anything you liked? There’s a lot of rubbish in there, no?’

‘Yes, but there was some quality stuff as well.’

‘That is the thing – it’s either tourist rubbish or high, high-end for the Russians.’

‘Give me that,’ Flora said, reaching out for the cigarette suddenly.

Ines looked back in surprise. ‘But you don’t—’

‘Just – give,’ Flora demanded bossily, brooking no argument.

Ines handed it over, looking back at her in open bewilderment now. Flora took a drag, not even having to suppress the urge to cough; she was so keyed up, even her body was toeing the line. She
was quiet for a few moments, knowing she’d aroused Ines’s suspicions now with her uncharacteristic behaviour. ‘Have you ever heard of a sculptor called Yves Desmarais?’

She watched Ines’s features carefully for signs of recognition. Thanks to her family’s old-school connections and her crossover status in Paris’s cool bohemian-hipster scene,
she knew everyone and everything.

‘No. Never heard of him.’

‘No? He’s good. Excellent, in fact.’ Every word was like a staccato point.

Ines shrugged, not sure where Flora was going with this. ‘OK. Do you want to introduce me?’

‘Actually, you already know him.’

‘I do?’ Ines knew there was no point in reminding her she’d just said she’d never heard of him.

Flora cast her a sidelong glance. ‘It’s Xavier Vermeil.’

Ines’s mouth dropped open and Flora watched as incredulity morphed into bemusement. ‘Xavier Vermeil – work? Do me a favour!’ she laughed, smacking the table with her
hand.

‘It’s true. I saw his hat in the gallery.’

There was a beat. ‘His hat? You recognized his hat?’

‘He was ahead of me in the crowd when I was on my way to his grandmother’s gallery. I assumed he was going there too.’

Ines snorted again, reaching for her cigarettes. Flora went to offer hers back but Ines shook her head. ‘Keep it. Looks like you need it.’

She lit up again and watched Flora closely, Flora keeping her attention on Bruno’s match; he was being thoroughly whipped by the older man. ‘So when you say you saw Xavier in the
crowd, you didn’t try to walk with him? Have a chat, be friendly with your client’s son . . .’

‘No, he was ahead of me.’

‘You just followed him.’

‘Yeah.’ Flora didn’t need to look at Ines to know she had the devil’s imp on her shoulder.

‘Well, that’s a normal thing to do.’

Flora took another drag, ignored her friend’s sarcasm, pushed the information out with minimal emotional output, maximum efficiency. ‘I saw his work in the window of another gallery.
Didn’t know it was his. The owner invited me to meet him but he refused to come out and speak to me.’

Ines leaned in, her elbows splayed on the table. ‘He actually refused?’

‘Hid in the back,’ Flora said, taking another deep drag and jerking her chin in the air.

There was a pause as Ines mulled it over. ‘Well, perhaps he’s pissed because you made him crash his car.’

‘I didn’t make him do anything.’

‘You cycled past him in a bikini. He crashed his car. Go figure.’ Ines threw her head back and laughed, stabbing her cigarette in the air. ‘I knew it! I knew something was off
between you. I saw it that night at the Hermès party.’

‘Saw what?’

‘His face. He looked like he didn’t know whether to throw you off the roof or slam you against the wall and ravish you.’

Flora looked away, her heart pounding.

‘Say it,’ Ines said, watching her closely. ‘He’s gorgeous.’

Flora didn’t pause. ‘He’s gorgeous.’

‘Oh, shit!’ said Ines, panicking now that her bluff had been called. ‘Listen to me, I’ve told you from the start, he’s trouble. Not right for you at all. He’s
chaos and danger and darkness, and you’re calm and light and serenity. You are completely wrong for each other. He is everything you’ve ever said you
don’t
want. The
further you stay away from him, the better.’

‘Don’t worry, I fully intend to,’ Flora said, viciously grinding the cigarette into the ashtray and scanning the menu, hating the way her stomach twisted at the thought of
following her friend’s kindly advice. She changed the subject. ‘D’you recommend anything in particular here?’

Ines watched her for a long moment before answering. ‘. . . Go for the
moules
. Amazing.’ Her family had been coming to the town for generations. It went without saying that
she knew all the best places to eat.

Bruno came over, kissing his girlfriend square on the lips and ruffling Flora’s hair as he sat down. ‘Have you ordered yet? I’m starving.’

‘You’re just in time, baby,’ Ines smiled. ‘Were you humiliated?’

‘Completely,’ he grinned back. ‘Don’t mess with these old boys.’ He picked up one of the menus, saw that it had burgers and dropped it down on the table again.
‘Did you hear the town ball’s on tonight?’

‘Yeah. It’s always fun.’

Bruno tore off a hunk of bread from the bread basket. ‘Fancy it?’ he asked Flora. ‘You can both be my dates and I get to look like a player.’

‘Ha! You wish!’ Ines snorted at the suggestion.

‘No, thanks, Bruno,’ Flora muttered.

‘Why not?’

‘Flora would make a very sour gooseberry at the moment, isn’t that right?’

Flora narrowed her eyes in warning. She wasn’t in the mood for being teased right now.

Bruno shook his head, not understanding. ‘Listen, you’d like it. It’s not grand – why do you think
I’m
going? It’s open to everyone – you just
eat wherever you want at long benches and the dancing is some old folk dances and a disco.’

Flora pulled a sarcastic face. ‘Love to but I’ve got nothing to wear.’

Ines reached over for some bread too. ‘That’s OK. We’ll go back to that boutique. I already saw a dress that would be great on you.’

‘Ines, I’m not going,’ Flora said sharply.

‘Flora! Yes, you are!’ Ines grinned, matching her tone. ‘You’re being a cow. If you’re not going to get laid, you need to get dancing. Your choice,
mon
amie
.’

A note had been slipped under the cottage door by the time Bruno and Ines dropped her back. She picked it up and read it, leaning with her back against the door.

An heir? That was quick, she thought, dropping the note on the coffee table and padding over to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. She switched the kettle on, then wandered
through to the bathroom, stripping off and turning on the shower, deploring Ines’s obstinacy.

She was about to step in when her phone rang in her bag and she had to make a dash to get to it before it switched to voicemail.

‘Hello?’ she asked breathlessly.

‘Floss, it’s me.’

Her stomach tightened. ‘Freds! How are you?’ She sank onto the side of the sofa, her eyes falling to the tight stretch of water in the pool outside, just visible through the
shutter’s slats. There wasn’t so much as a breath of breeze to ruck the surface today and the temptation to dive in was almost overwhelming. She loved swimming naked but clearly that
wasn’t going to be an option with the number of CCTV cameras on the estate.

‘Well, the CPS is pushing on with it. They’ve set a date for the preliminary hearing at the Crown Court,’ he said tightly.

Oh God. She closed her eyes, devastated and berating herself for even being surprised. She had set herself up for this fall; by the time of that weekend at Little Foxes, he had already been held
and questioned, charged, hauled in front of the Magistrate for a first hearing and bailed – but something in her had dared to hope it would all still go away.

She took a deep breath, as though bracing herself for a body blow. ‘When?’

‘September the twenty-sixth.’

Five weeks from now. Shit! She rubbed her temples, feeling the pressure building up in her. ‘. . . Are you OK?’

‘Bearing up.’

Flora doubted that. ‘And you’ve spoken to Mum and Dad, obviously.’

‘Obviously.’

‘Are they still in London?’

‘Just gone back to Little Foxes – the pavements here are bad for Bolly’s arthritis.’

‘I wish you’d go back to Little Foxes too.’

‘No. I think it’s probably better if I stay here. They need a rest from looking after me before the trial. Mum’s going to run herself into the ground and even Dad’s
reached his limit on shepherd’s pies at the Antelope. There’s only so many fatherly chats he can give – he’s run out of ways to put an optimistic spin on it. It just is what
it is.’

She looked around the plush cottage. What the hell was she doing here? ‘Freds, I’ll catch the next flight home. We should all be together at a time like this.’

‘No,’ he said, a little too quickly. ‘. . . Sorry, Bats. I just mean, it’s actually easier for me this way. There’s no point in us huddling around and crying. It
won’t change anything. This is still happening.’

Yes, it was. The flatness in his voice told her that.

‘Look, I’m gonna go. Talking . . . sucks. I just wanted to let you know.’

‘Sure,’ she said quietly.

‘I’ll give you a call in a few days, OK? Honestly, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.’

He kept saying that.

He hung up, Flora sliding sideways off the arm onto the sofa, her body inert. Had anyone walked into the room just then, they would have thought her catatonic, but inside, she was a maelstrom,
despair and fury whirling and roiling inside her like an electrical storm.

She’d never been one to ‘make a fuss’. Her entire family was famously understated, even her mother – when Freddie had fallen out of the crab-apple tree behind the
kitchen, she had calmly rounded off the phone conversation she’d been having with the line, ‘Must go, Jill. Freddie’s broken his arm.’ Flora was cut from the same cloth,
always calm in a crisis, even when she didn’t feel it, even when others called her a ‘cold fish’ for not showing more panic / angst / vulnerability (delete as appropriate). But
there was no handbook on how to get through a situation like this. What were you supposed to do when lies tore through your life like flames, reducing your world to ashes? Just watch? Let it
happen?

He had been right that day on the roof. It was as though a bomb had been dropped on their small square of green-carpeted England, leaving a crater where their home had once stood, obliterating
in an instant all the carefully chosen antiques and worn-in decors, the unshowy vintage sports cars and dusty fine wines that had defined who they were and presented their family’s game face
to the world.

Instead, they were stripped back, raw and vulnerable in the face of the accusation, bitter, white-cold winds of shock and disbelief howling around them. In an instant they were reduced to
nothing but this lie and although she knew that was what it was, other people wouldn’t; they couldn’t be certain the way that she could, they’d say there was ‘no smoke
without fire’. This would always follow him, it would be on his records, it would be the added whisper after every introduction when he turned his back.