by Rosie Clarke
‘What is this about?’ she demanded.
Betty opened her book, pointing to where the pages had been removed. ‘What happened to the drawings of three evening dresses I gave you?’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about,’ the woman said, looking angry. ‘Please do not waste any more of our time. Madame Vennier says you have no talent worth speaking of and should go home and find yourself a job as a typist or something more suited to your capabilities…’
Betty felt as if she’d been slapped in the face, but she knew there was no point in complaining further because they would only deny all knowledge of her designs. She’d been cheated and felt angry and dispirited as she walked away. What was the point of asking for work she wanted to do when everyone laughed at her and told her that only the French truly understood style?
So she’d started asking at the wine bars and cafés again, looking for work as a waitress, but no one seemed interested in taking her on other than for a few hours washing up; though more than one man had leered at her and made unpleasant suggestions.
Eventually, Betty had decided she would have one more try for a decent job and if she still couldn’t find anything, she would go back to England once she had enough money saved. Aunt Miriam would give her a bed for a while until she found the kind of work she wanted. She didn’t think she would ask anyone else if they were interested in her designs, because it hurt too much being told that she had no talent – but she could make hats, or she could trim them, and with a bit of help she could make a good life for herself. Ed had volunteered to teach her, but he’d told her she must ask her parents for permission first.
‘Lizzie would skin me alive if I took you on without her knowing,’ he’d told Betty with a laugh when she’d asked him for a holiday job the previous summer, but her mother had said she could go in a couple of days a week during her holiday if she liked and she did. Ed fussed over her as if she was his own and she loved him like the uncle she felt he was to her.
Yes, she would enjoy making hats for her a living and she would forget designing anything, because she was now convinced that she had no talent for drawing at all.
After another three days of walking all over Paris, asking at the various wine bars and cafés if there was work, Betty finally found a job serving coffee and wine in a café-bar on the Boulevard de Rochouart. It was a wide street with open-air cafés, shops, hotels and an area of leafy trees dividing one side from the other. Madame Rousseau was a plump, friendly woman who smiled as she took Betty on and asked her lots of questions about why she was in France and where she was living. Her English was better than Betty’s French, and she told her that she had been married to an Englishman when she was very young.
‘It very hard in Paris after the war,’ she told Betty as she showed her what her duties would be. ‘I go to live in London with my aunt who was seamstress and I meet my Andre and marry him. His name Andrew but I call him Andre; ’e was a kind, lovely man but older than me and ’e die too soon. Afterwards, I take what ’e left me and return to Paris and open my own café.’
Betty was happier once she started working at Madame Marie’s bar, as it was called, but since the pay wasn’t very much more than she’d been earning, she continued washing up for a week in the evenings until Madame Rousseau noticed her hands and made her give up the second job.
‘I can pay you no more,’ she said sorrowfully, ‘but I give you a room in my house and you pay nothing…’
So Betty accepted the offer. She’d settled in quickly, enjoying her life again now that she worked in a pleasant atmosphere. The cream that Madame Rousseau gave her was gradually taking the soreness from her hands and she was getting to know the customers and look forward to serving them. Now she discovered that most people were friendly and smiled at her when she brought their food to table, and several of the men left her generous tips. She soon found that she loved her work, because they got all sorts of people in the café; French girls on their way to work; tourists and businessmen, who flashed their money; and artists who came because Madame Marie let them sit for hours over a coffee and pastry – and sometimes offered them brandy just because she felt sympathy for them. Madame had a back room filled with paintings that the artists had given her to pay for their coffees and their brandy.
‘One day they become famous and I am rich,’ she’d told Betty, throwing up her hands in the air with a twinkle in her eyes and a little twist of her mouth. ‘What do you do, my little one? My nose, ’e tells me that you are more than just waitress… you not brought up to this work, this I know…’ she tapped the side of her nose.
Betty shook her head, because she knew she had no talent and it would only make Madame feel pity for her if she told her sorry tale of the stolen sketches. However, ten days after she moved into her employer’s home, Madame found her sketchbook while changing the sheets of her bed, and brought it to her, pointing to one of the dresses Betty had illustrated.
‘This charming,’ she said. ‘Now I know why you come to Paris – but no one buys your designs, no? They pigs… do these imbeciles not know talent, ma petite?’
‘Madame, you are too kind,’ Betty said and flushed, trying to take the book away, but somehow she found herself telling the tale of the stolen designs and Madame shook her head sadly.
‘She cheat you, Betty,’ she said. ‘I feel anger and sadness that my countrywoman did this thing to you… but you have no proof that she take them. Even if you ’ave copy you can never prove that she took your sketches…’
‘She said I have no talent,’ Betty said and Madame threw her hands in the air and shouted rude things in French so rapidly that Betty could only guess at their meaning.
‘You make a dress for me, yes?’ she asked. ‘I buy the materials and I pay for your time – and I wear it when I go to visit my cousin. Will you do this for me, ma enfant?’
‘Yes, of course, but I will take no payment for the work,’ Betty said firmly. ‘You’ve been so kind to me, Madame, and I should like to do this for you.’
‘Bon, we are both ’appy,’ Madame said and smiled, ‘and now you will call me Marie, yes?’
‘Of course, Marie,’ Betty said and hugged her. ‘You are so kind… I am glad I came here for work…’
‘You like daughter to me,’ Marie said and hugged her back so tightly that Betty could hardly breathe for the fumes of garlic, coffee and brandy that wafted from her.
Marie thought she had talent, but that was because she was fond of her. Neither of her husbands had given her children and Betty sensed Marie was lonely. She’d taken Betty to her heart and for the first time since Pierre had turned against her, Betty felt truly at home and comfortable…
Sometimes she thought wistfully of her home in London and all her friends and her mother, and then it was hard not to cry, but she couldn’t go back… even if she wanted to, she would be too ashamed…
Chapter 8
Francie felt guilty as she walked into the kitchen and saw Aunt Miriam preparing a tray of tea. She’d telephoned to say she was on her way and her father’s tone when he demanded to know where she’d been since Friday had been ominous.
‘Your mother is ill and she needs you,’ he’d growled. ‘Just get here and be prepared to stay with her for a while… I’ll square it with the college…’
‘How is Mum?’ Francie asked her throat tight with fear now. ‘Can I go up please?’
‘Your mother is resting and of course you can see her,’ Aunt Miriam said and presented her cheek for a kiss. ‘Are you feeling better now? Did you have that tummy bug that’s going around?’
‘Just a bilious attack after a dodgy meal out,’ Francie lied, beginning to feel awful and understand why Jilly had refused to lie for her. ‘I want to see Mum…’
She ran out of the room and up the stairs, wanting to escape before her great-aunt pried too deeply. The door to her mother’s room was open and she could see her sitting propped up against a pile of pillows. Her eyes were closed and
she looked very pale.
‘Mum…’ Francie moved forward anxiously, unaware that her father was standing by the windowsill until he turned and looked at her.
‘Francie, my darling,’ her mother said and smiled as she opened her eyes and looked at her. She held out her hands and Francie went to her, bent to kiss her cheek and hold her hands as she sat on the edge of the bed. ‘Are you all right? We got your note to say you had a little bug and wouldn’t come home until you were sure you were not infectious. You are all right now?’
‘Yes, I wouldn’t have come to you if I’d been infectious,’ Francie said. ‘What about you, Mum? Dad said you were ill and needed me with you for a while. You know I’ve only got until Monday… there are exams coming up soon and I have to do well…’
‘Francie, think of us for once,’ her father said, sounding angry. She looked at him, feeling puzzled, because he never used that kind of tone to her or her sister. He must be very worried about her mother. ‘I have to go somewhere and I want you here with your mother until I get back… you can do your work here. I’ll speak to your principal and she’ll allow you a little leeway I’m sure…’
Francie nodded but didn’t answer. She could see that her father had made up his mind and knew that on the rare occasions he put his foot down there was no point in arguing, even if her mother was shaking her head at him. If Miss Honiton told him she was thinking of rescinding Francie’s scholarship because her work wasn’t up to standard – and if she told him why… he would be so angry. She didn’t like the way he was looking at her now and he’d be even worse if she were expelled from Art College, which she might be… because Kathy was putting pressure on her to do more and more work for the magazine. Only it wasn’t just for them now. She was doing shoots for all sorts of magazines and she was booked for a fashion show in Birmingham next month. Kathy was acting as her agent, taking on work without consulting her and keeping fifty per cent of the fees Francie was earning. The cheques she was getting were mounting up in the bank, but she had the feeling that she was being taken advantage of, although she loved the fun and excitement.
Robbie, the grip, as they called him, who looked after all the travel arrangements, including her train tickets, met her with a car, fixed up her hotel and generally did all the odd jobs for the magazine when they were on location, had told her that she was being ripped off.
‘They should pay you at least seventy-five per cent of all fees,’ he’d told Francie when she’d asked him about things she didn’t understand in the contracts she was asked to sign. ‘All these extra fees are just rip-offs, Francie. You want to get yourself a lawyer – or an agent.’
‘Kathy says she is my agent. It’s in the contract I signed on the day of the fashion show. I didn’t know what it was, but it authorises her to handle all my work and to take a twenty-five per cent fee – and the other twenty-five per cent goes to the magazine, because they discovered me… at least that’s what she said…’
‘She took advantage of your innocence,’ Robbie said, shaking his head. ‘It can’t be legal, Francie. I wouldn’t put up with it if I were you.’
Francie knew he was right but she was frightened of all the legal jargon in the contract. Kathy said the magazine would sue her for lost fees if she refused to work and that could amount to a lot of money. Francie didn’t have the money to pay and she couldn’t ask her father for it, especially at a time like this…
‘Your father thinks you should be here,’ Lizzie said breaking her thoughts. ‘I’ll be fine if you need to be at college, my love…’
‘Of course I’ll stay if you need me. What’s wrong with you, Mum?’ she asked, fighting her tears. It hurt to see her mother looking so ill and to have her father angry with her. He thought she was selfish and uncaring and it wasn’t true. Of course she wanted to be with her mother when she was ill, but she was already being pulled two ways and she didn’t know what to do. ‘It’s not something horrid, is it?’
‘Of course it isn’t,’ her mother said and squeezed her hand. ‘I’m just having a baby and it’s making me very tired. The doctor says I have to stop in bed and… your father wants you to be here, because he has to go to Paris to fetch Betty home…’
‘A baby?’ Francie was shocked and then laughed and clapped her hands. ‘That’s wonderful – isn’t it? I thought you might be really ill when Miriam told me…’
‘Yes, it is wonderful,’ Lizzie said and touched her hand. ‘But I’m thirty-nine and that’s a little old for having babies so I’ve got to rest and be careful…’
‘You’re not old,’ Francie declared stoutly. ‘You don’t look much more than twenty-eight or thirty at most. My friends always think you’re my sister.’
‘Thank you, darling…’ Lizzie laughed softly. ‘I certainly don’t feel old.’
‘Your mother still has to take care and this business of Betty running off to Paris has upset her,’ her father said.
‘Betty is in Paris?’ Francie stared at him in surprise, because her mother’s news had driven everything else from her mind. ‘What is she doing there?’
‘We had an argument,’ Francie’s father said, looking stern. ‘It was my fault, Francie – but Betty ran off without waiting for me to make it right…’
‘And you didn’t tell me?’ Francie looked at him and then her mother in disbelief. ‘How could you not tell me? Is she all right? Where is she staying?’
‘We don’t know; she hasn’t been in touch, though she may have tried to phone us once. Aunt Miriam had a card with a Paris scene and a French stamp, so your father is going to look for her,’ Francie’s mother said and looked anxiously at her. ‘Please don’t be cross with us, darling. We thought she would come back and we didn’t want to upset you for nothing… we knew this term was very important for your college work…’
‘I’m not a child, even though you both seem to think I am,’ Francie said, feeling hurt and angry. ‘I should’ve been told that Betty had disappeared… she could be ill or… How long has she been missing?’
‘Since late August, when you were staying with Jilly…’
‘So that’s why she hasn’t phoned, or written to me, for ages; there was one call to the school for me in mid-September, the day before her birthday, but she didn’t leave a name and I wasn’t there…’ Francie felt cold all over. ‘I think it was Betty, Mum…’ She bit her lip. ‘I sent her card and present here, but of course she didn’t get them. It’s my birthday this week. I wonder if she’ll try to get in touch with me?’
‘She might try to ring you again at college… perhaps they will tell her you’re not there and she’ll ring here…’ Lizzie said hopefully.
‘You haven’t heard a word from her –not even a phone call…?’
Her mother looked sad. ‘Aunt Miriam’s card came recently, but that’s all… Betty says she’s all right…’
Francie’s mother held her hand tightly and looked so upset that Francie’s anger faded, leaving her close to tears. ‘Oh, Mum,’ she said and the tears wouldn’t be held, dripping down her cheeks as she hung her head. All this time she’d been so stupid, thinking it was clever to be the centre of attention as the lights flashed and cameras rolled, knowing that her behaviour would shock and upset her parents – and they already had so much to worry them.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said and leaned forward to hug her mother gently. ‘I know how upset you are, Mum. I love you so much – and I want you to be well, and I think it’s lovely that we’re having a baby.’ She looked up at her father. ‘I’ll stop here while you go and look for Betty, Dad. When you find her, tell her I love her and I want her to come home to us…’
‘Yes, I will,’ her father said gruffly. ‘Perhaps she’ll come for you – but I have to find her first and that could take a while. I’ll square it with your principal, Francie.’
‘Yes…’ Francie took a deep breath, then, ‘Can I talk to you first, Dad – before you telephone Miss Honiton?’
‘Fire away…’ His
gaze narrowed as she glanced at her mother anxiously. ‘Ah, it’s confidential is it? You don’t want to upset your mum?’
‘I’m in a bit of trouble with my work,’ Francie said. ‘It’s nothing for you to worry about, Mum, but Dad needs to know before he telephones Miss Honiton.’
‘As you wish, darling…’ Francie saw her mother’s gaze go to her father and he nodded. He would give her his version of events afterwards.
‘I need to show you something. I’ll bring it down to your study, Dad.
Francie left her mother’s room, her heart racing wildly. She felt as if the world were about to impact about her, because when she showed her father the magazine with the pictures taken at the fashion show he would be displeased, but if he saw the more recent ones he’d forbid her to leave the house!
*
‘Francie! My God, what did you think you were doing?’ Sebastian looked upset as he turned the pages of the fashion magazine, shaking his head over the more provocative pictures of his youngest daughter looking back over her shoulder and pouting. ‘I don’t know what your mother and I have done to deserve this – Betty running off and worrying us to death and you keeping this from us…’
‘I’m sorry, Dad. It was just a bit of fun and it got out of hand. That expression – I didn’t know what it would look like…’
‘Well, I suppose it would be all right if you were older…but you’re my little girl, Francie. I don’t want you to grow up too fast…’
‘I know. Kathy told me to stop and smile and I did… I didn’t realise how sexy it would look in a photograph…’
‘How many more shoots have you done for these people?’
‘About three for Styled and half a dozen for other people, including the first fashion show in Manchester… they want me to go abroad for a Christmas shoot, but I wasn’t sure if I could fly…’
‘If you’re over twelve, you can fly provided you’re accompanied by an adult of sixteen or over who is willing to sign for you, under that and you would need my permission as well as an escort… but that isn’t the point.’ As always he answered with honesty and simplicity. ‘You’ve been lying to us, Francie…’
