by Tessa Lunney
‘Not now—’
‘Why not?’
‘Tom, look at us.’
His hair was a mess, his tie askew, and somehow he’d lost a cufflink and a shoelace. My stockings were full of ladders, one suspender had broken and my hat was dented over my sweaty hair.
‘You need a bath, I need a bath, we both need rest. There are so many details . . . We need coffee and breakfast and some semblance of a clear head when we talk about this.’
‘But Button—’
‘We need some semblance of a stout heart to talk about this, and my heart . . . my heart is . . .’ but of course I couldn’t finish the sentence. I didn’t need to. He pulled me close and kissed my hair, my ears, my neck, my cheeks, he pulled me up and kissed me very gently on the lips. That blue gaze, it was home. I had to close my eyes and just breathe him in. We stood nose to nose; if I gave in I would just tumble down into him, out of Paris and freedom, his pull was magnetic, my pull for him was equally strong, he could neither put me down nor look away. It wasn’t a little promise between us, it was a big promise, bigger than I could hold in my body in this pearl-grey dawn.
I could tell he felt it too, and with a sigh of relief and disappointment he crushed me into an embrace.
‘Be back here at noon.’
‘Button.’ He kissed me chastely on the hand, pulled his hat down over his eyes and set off towards his hotel. I felt a small pain in my chest as I watched him lope over the cobblestones and out of sight.
11
Wang Wang Blues
I THOUGHT I WOULD PASS OUT as soon as my head hit the pillow. I thought sleep would overtake me like chloroform and I’d be dead until Tom-Tom knocked on my door. Instead I undressed and slowly washed, including my hair. I sat at my windowsill, bare legs dangling over the street, and smoked my last three cigarettes. My hair curled up and around the warming day. I watched the clouds part, the fog lift off the river, the grey give itself up into blue.
Tom-Tom had unsettled me. Those blue eyes, that changeable grin. His kiss on my wrist, his hand on my waist, that slight brush against my lips. The way he made me forget everything else made me dizzy and I wasn’t sure that I liked it. I could feel his passion with his pulse. I didn’t think I was lonely. But Maisie, then Harry, now Tom – perhaps I was and I just had no idea what lonely meant any more until I was overwhelmed by a desire for home. Not the physical place but my true home, the home I could only find in people. The kind of home that Fox could never provide.
Fox – there he was, intruding on my every thought. I sighed. I remembered that day in Amiens when he first revealed his smile, a real smile full of delight. It’s so addictive, to make a frosty face finally warm. Much better, by far, to stick to the work. Like the newspaper boy with the withered hand – he would report to Fox that I had recognised him, and I’d have a new watcher tomorrow.
The sky was a soft blue, the hawkers were out, I could smell bread from the boulangeries. I had no more cigarettes, my mouth felt fuzzy and my body felt poisoned with too much partying. If Tom-Tom was going to be here at lunchtime, demanding an explanation, I told myself that I at least had to rest. I crawled under the covers and sank straight into sleep.
HOW DID TOM MANAGE to look handsome when rough, unshaven and grumpy? His hair flopped over his face, he had dark circles under his eyes and his black stubble shaded halfway down his neck. He frowned and slumped in his chair, feet stuck out onto the footpath, the collar of his navy pea-coat turned up. He wore the striped shirt of the Breton sailors, comfortable morning-after wear, and only acceptable here in Montparnasse. He’d bought one for me too – workwear was the latest fashion, he’d been told – and it lay in its brown paper package in my lap. We weren’t thinking about that now, or the other presents he said he’d brought from home, or his train that afternoon. We were thinking about his handkerchief on the table, and Fox, and the return of the war.
‘You never told him anything?’
‘Never. Don’t you trust me, Tom-Tom?’
‘Tom-Tom.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m not that name any more, am I? Because of this.’ He picked up the hankie and flung it angrily back on the table. ‘Button, how could you let him back into your life?’
‘Let him! Do you think I had a choice?’
‘You always have a choice.’
‘He presented me with this.’ I copied his action with the hankie. ‘You know as well as I do, it means “Follow me or I let him hang.” Is that what I should have done? Left you to skulk around the gallows for the rest of your life? When I might have a chance to—’
‘I can save my own skin,’ he leant forward and growled at me, ‘but Fox – you promised me – never again, you said, never under any circumstances—’
‘And you would have preferred that?’
‘Infinitely—’
‘Than that I save you? You hypocrite—’
‘Save me! Oh please. All I need saving from is your hero complex. And I’m not the hypocrite! You’re the one who breaks her—’
The waiter came to clear our coffees away and it put a stop to our squabble. I ordered more coffee and a midday breakfast. There were enough Americans who came to this hotel that they would serve baguettes with jam, or bowls of fresh fruit, at any time of day. However old Parisians might grumble, I would always be glad of the American tourist for that.
Tom smoked, not looking at me, not looking at anything. I shivered into my Chinese-style coat; its burgundy brocade was too thin for his cold shoulder. Not even its gold peonies, so perfectly matched to my new dress, could brighten this moment. I hated his moods, I always had. They weren’t brooding or dark, they showed no hidden depths – they were just selfish and grumpy. I took one of his cigarettes and lit it myself.
‘You promised me, Button.’ His voice was small.
‘I promised myself. But your life was more important.’
He looked at me then. Stormy waters – his blue eyes held such turmoil. He knew all about Fox. One night in Paris, just before he went AWOL, he’d had to hold me as I’d shaken, whimpered, cried and moaned. He’d had to feed me and nurse me for his full day of leave. Fox’s mission had left me bruised, inside and out. He’d placed me in a frontline brothel. Madame Rouge was an informer for the Germans, using the girls to send messages. I was only meant to usher men in, to give them drinks and sexy small talk. To avoid the real business, I pretended to be only fourteen, a good seven years younger than I really was. But there were so many men that Madame Rouge converted the broom closet under the stairs and put me to work. Fox’s watchers watched it happen; they were my first customers, but they wouldn’t sneak me out. I made a lot of money and my information led to three arrests, instead of just the one we had been aiming for. I never forgave Fox. Neither, it seemed, had Tom.
He held out his hand, a peace offering, and when I took it he held my hand tightly. I’d done the same for him, nursed him when he turned up in Paris shaky and skinny after his escape. I’d procured him the forged ID and passage home – through Fox’s contacts, of course – yet another reason why Tom couldn’t forgive Fox. Which was why Tom wanted us to have nothing to do with him – Fox had too much power over us already.
‘What else could I do, my Tom-Tom?’
He kept hold of my hand as the waiter brought out our bread, jam, orange juice and coffee, our arms a link over the circular table in the spring sunshine as the lunchtime life of Paris clipped neatly by. The coffee steamed, rich and creamy; the citrus tang of the juice mixed with the subtle scent of very fresh bread. My stomach growled, but I didn’t want to let go of his hand. If any of this was going to be worth the effort, then I needed Tom to be on my side. I needed him to forgive me.
He sighed and stubbed out his cigarette. The stormy-waters look had gone, and the grumpy frown, and all the horrid moodiness. I almost wanted it all back when I saw the sad, defeated look that had replaced them. I squeezed his hand hard.
‘All right, Button—’
‘We’ll fix it toget
her—’
‘Whatever you need—’
‘I need you, Tom.’ His name caught in my throat. I hadn’t realised it until I’d said it, but it was true, it was too desperately true. He stroked my cheek. His open look asked, ‘Really? You really need me?’ and read the truth of my words in my face.
‘You have me, Button. Always,’ he said softly, ‘as I need you.’ Suddenly he flashed me his dingo grin. ‘But perhaps not quite as much as I need this breakfast.’
‘Mon Dieu! I’m so hungry, Tom, I thought I’d faint before you mentioned it.’
He laughed then, his head tilted back. All the worry fled in that moment. We were a team. We’d clear his name and clear Fox from my life.
I had to hold on to the platform lamppost to stop myself from running after his train. It was so much worse than when Bertie left – perhaps it was made worse because Bertie had left only yesterday. I clung to the lamppost as I clung to our plan. Tom was off to Berlin to join his senior reporter, before they travelled around Germany reporting on the political turmoil. He’d send me regular updates that hopefully would help with this mission from Fox. But even if they did not, it meant that Tom would call often and telegram oftener; it meant that he would be back in Paris before long.
But that didn’t help right now, with the great gaping hole left by the train, the air full of smoke and regret. Paris, my beloved city of light, felt cold and grey, even with the chestnut blossoms littering the holiday tables with fallen petals. It was just after lunch and a sleepiness hung over the platforms and taxi ranks. I needed some work to help me get my Paris feeling back again. I needed a distraction.
I GAZED AT THE CRACKS in Manuelle’s ceiling, half dressed and completely undone, as she hummed in satisfaction beside me. When I had turned up, she’d been washing her hair, clad only in a dressing gown of ruby satin and deliciously short. It took some time, and a number of kisses, a good glass of madeira and two cigarettes, before we could think of getting back to her hair. Water warmed in a kettle on a gas ring on the floor. She leant over me in the late afternoon light and placed a pair of scissors on my bare chest.
‘Like your hair,’ she said, still naked, her olive skin gleaming in the sunlight from the window. ‘I want a kangaroo cut and I can only get that from you.’
Apparently a kangaroo cut was a straight bob that stopped at the jaw, as mine did.
‘And it’s so modern, Kiki! I want to declare how modern I am with my haircut!’
‘Are you ready?’ I said. ‘Here’s the first chop.’ I snipped off a foot of her hair and handed it to her.
She gasped, stared, and burst out laughing. ‘Yes! Chop it all off! Freedom for women!’
Each snip earned a portion of her life history in sweet, bubbly phrases. She’d moved to Paris during the war to escape the local pimp, her soft curves and free spirit making it easy to settle into the life of a Montparnasse model. She liked the Brits, put up with the Americans, thought the Spanish were dreadful, ‘except for Pablo, but then, Pablo’s Pablo’, but loved the Russians. ‘So handsome and strong and soulful – except for Olga, of course, she must be the most venal Russian this side of the Danube – but Osip and Igor and Michel . . . most of the time they just want to drink with me and lament their lost homeland.’ They toasted her eyes, she said; they wrote stanzas to her bum, they got too drunk and wobbled home to their wives. They came from all over the Empire; a stream in 1918 but now, with Russia gripped by civil war, there was a flood. Not all of them were big-hearted musicians: many of them were ‘tight-fisted aristocrats who want the world to go back to kings and slaves – or the next best thing’. But she couldn’t say what that was except for some confused sentences about Honour, Pride, Nation and Mother Russia.
‘They hate the Bolsheviks.’
‘Of course.’
‘They’ll do anything, join anyone, to oust them – I’ve heard Olga and her cronies say so.’
‘Which cronies?’
‘Oh, you know, the ones who hang around Pablo all the time and try to steal his sketches – Arkady? Is that his name? Tall man who thinks he’s God’s gift. He’s some distant cousin of Olga’s. He’s boasted that he has contacts, men with money, but he never names them. Yet he turns up every so often and buys a little sketch of Pablo’s or Fujita’s. Where does the money come from?’
‘Where indeed?’
‘Who knows? Who cares? Is my hair done yet?’
‘I’m just going to give you a few little layers, Manuelle, as it’ll be easier to look after with your wavy hair . . .’
‘You can call me Mimi,’ she said, her dimples deepening.
‘Mimi,’ I kissed her neck, ‘where would I find this Arkady, if I wanted to?’
‘Those Russians drink tea on the Right Bank. There’s a teahouse there.’ She knew it only as the Russian Tea Room.
12
I’m a Jazz Vampire
IT WAS THE END OF SUNSET by the time I left Manuelle. The empty feeling, the gnawing feeling of absence, nipped at my heels. I had to keep working, keep going, find more distractions until it completely calmed. Until Paris was mine again.
I leant against a street lamp and lit a cigarette. I loved watching the lamps flick on one by one, their puddles of light on the footpath, making golden the fishermen and street walkers who passed through them. The windows of the apartments were an Easter celebration, bright squares with their shadow-puppet plays inside them. There was a mother calming one child as she scolded another. A young man leant through the window frame and smoked. An old woman twitched her curtain corner as she surveyed the street. The streets quivered with a thousand stories.
On my third proposition I knew I had to move on or else start my new life as a prostitute. I checked my silver watch in my handbag – 6 pm, and Michel Martin would no longer be at his desk at Le Figaro. But it was only 5 pm in London, with this new British Summer Time, and Bertie would most likely still be at work. I walked into the nearest hotel and asked to use their telephone.
‘Put me through to The Star, London.’
‘One moment, mademoiselle.’
I had another six hours before Fox would call Café Rotonde. I had to keep working or I’d drink myself into a stupor.
‘The Star, Browne speaking.’
‘Bertie darling, you sound so professional!’
‘Kiki! Don’t tell me you’re in London?’
‘I won’t, because I’m not.’
‘Oh—’
‘I’m in a scungy hotel foyer, sweaty and slightly sticky after a long, erotic afternoon with Picasso’s model.’
‘Mmm . . . Is this advance notice of your column?’
I had almost forgotten – my deadline was noon tomorrow. Thank goodness the phone wouldn’t register my surprise.
‘No, it’s just a tidbit for you. What I need now is the name of a bar.’
‘Aren’t there more than enough to choose from? Just find the nearest one, walk up to the juiciest man and—’
‘I need the bar where the Figaro reporters go for their after-work aperitifs. I’m hunting down a particular man before Fox calls tonight.’
‘I see! Well, from what I know, they go to the bar at the foot of their building, it’s called something obvious like Le Journal or Le Journaliste.’
‘That should be easy to find.’
‘Either that, or they wander into Montmartre to dirty their conservative souls.’
‘Bertie, you’re a star.’
‘The star of The Star, eh?’
‘A guiding star. Come back soon.’
Le Journal was dark and smoky. The smell of salty frites and beer mixed with sweat and news ink and pipe tobacco. Men lined the bar under the low lamps, chatting earnestly in pairs or threes, or frowning into their solitary drinks. I saw no other women. Every eye turned to me as I made my way to the bar. I slid in next to a young loner, who nursed his beer like an Englishman, and ordered a beer of my own. Only when I took my first sip did the chatter start up again.
> The young loner glared at me. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘What does it look like?’
‘It looks like you’re plying a trade, but whether you’re a whore or a spy, I couldn’t say.’
‘I could but I won’t. I’m looking for Michel Martin. Is he here?’
‘What, does he owe you money?’
‘I need something from him.’
‘What’s it worth to you?’ His eyes, dark in the shadows, became hard, and a nasty smile curled his lip. I took note of that smile: if he quoted Keats or Byron, I’d have to find out his name. I cursed Fox yet again. Wherever he sent me, my body ended up as barter.
‘Martin?’ A plump boozer leant over and put his beery moustache in my face. ‘Martin’s just back from Germany so of course he legged it to be with his bohemian mistress. Skirt above her knees and eyes like an enchantment. I told him, take me with you to those cafés, all the girls are easy, but he said I wouldn’t like it.’ He burped loudly and it smelt of yesterday.
‘No, you wouldn’t,’ I rejoined.
‘He calls her Justine, you know, after the de Sade novel.’
‘Not her real name, then.’
‘He told me her real name,’ the lone wolf said, ‘but information doesn’t come cheaply.’
‘Oh, is this one up for sale?’ the boozer breathed. ‘We could tell her Paulette’s real name when she . . . oh.’ His face fell as the lone wolf growled at him. I wanted more information – what did Martin look like, how long had he been in Germany – but I felt it would be safer if I slipped away before the lone wolf could grab me.
Martin had a bohemian mistress called Paulette, who most likely lived in either Montparnasse or Montmartre. Someone would know her, especially if she brought her conservative lover with her to the cafés. I just had to ask the right questions.
But the right questions eluded me. No one at the Rotonde had seen a Paulette with a reporter from Le Figaro. I asked as discreetly as I could, but Henri was too busy, North was too interested in the gossip from home, and the rest were not regulars. I’d have to keep my questions for tomorrow, as in a few hours I had to receive more instructions from Fox – and then find the best place to obliterate his influence. Dread and loneliness nipped at my fingers and toes – where was Bertie, or Tom-Tom, or Maisie or Harry when I needed them?
