Lizzie’s Daughters

by Rosie Clarke

  Chapter 10

  Francie stood at the easel her father had bought her when she was thirteen and he’d realised that she was serious about her art. She’d stretched her canvas and prepared it with a light colour-wash and now she was ready to start, but her head was empty of ideas. At college it was better, because the lectures gave the students an idea of what they were supposed to be working on and everyone worked in little groups, which meant it was easy to get into the mood – and of course there was wonderful scenery to inspire you. She looked out at the garden, which she loved in spring and summer when it was filled with blossom and pretty flowers. A few roses were clinging to their stems despite the drop in temperature of late but they looked forlorn and straggly, and moisture was dripping from the bushes, making the whole scenario dank and dismal. For a moment she felt so miserable and worried about her sister…where was she and was she all right?

  Suddenly, she was filled with inspiration and she turned the easel so that she could look into the garden. Now she saw the dark mystery of a winter garden and she mentally placed the girl in the photograph in that scene… there would be something piquant and appealing in setting that pose in a drenched garden. The girl would wear a thin almost transparent dress that clung to her legs, concealing as much as it revealed, because just a glimpse was better than naked flesh. Of course the face would not be hers but a face dragged from somewhere in the deep recesses of her mind… a sad, mysterious face that cried out for love and understanding. Something rather like the Lady of Shallot perhaps in a Renaissance painting, with red long hair… but the face would be in shadow so that you could only really guess at her identity, although Francie knew that she was aware of the identity of the beauty she wanted to paint.

  She mustn’t make it too obviously Betty, of course, because her parents wouldn’t approve… but she would catch the sadness she’d sometimes seen and wondered at in her sister’s face… as if she was looking for love.

  Francie frowned. How could the sister she’d always looked up to and admired not know how much she was loved? Francie would make the picture her tribute to Betty… and perhaps one day, when she came home, because she must come back to them, mustn’t she? – Betty would understand how much they all cared for her.

  *

  Betty stood looking out over the River Seine. It looked dark and mysterious as evening descended and the bobbing lights came from the boats that still plied their trade up and down, past the cafés with their insides blazing with light and the sound of music and delicious smells tantalising as you drifted by.

  She sighed, knowing that she felt lonely and confused. It was the reason she was standing here wearing her new dress and looking longingly at the lights of the cafés, wanting to be a part of it all again. Marie was kind and generous, but she wasn’t young, and Betty wanted to have fun, as she had when she first came to Paris.

  Perhaps it was just that she was missing home and her sister in particular. It was Francie’s birthday and Betty had a gift for her, but she hadn’t sent it, though she’d popped a card in the post to her sister’s college. She was torn between a longing to go home and make it up with her family and her desire to make something of herself first. If she’d found a good job in a fashion house she could have popped home and told them all how well she was doing…

  Oh, what was the matter with her? Of course she couldn’t just breeze in and expect everything to be fine. Her father was never going to forgive her – and yet she did miss being with Francie and her friends. A wave of loneliness swept her and she felt the tears on her cheeks.

  It was because she’d seen Pierre again, of course. That meeting had unsettled her and made her wish she’d agreed to let him take her out – if he’d been alone she was sure her decision would’ve been different. Did she dare go to their favourite café alone? She was almost certain to meet friends, people she knew and missed. Perhaps Helene or Veronique or Jacques would be there and she could join them for a drink and listen to gossip and music coming from a wireless. Or one of the musicians who sometimes came to play if it was a cabaret night…

  Crossing the road, she hesitated, turned back and began to walk off as her courage left her, then she stopped and made herself go back and enter the busy café. It was packed with chattering customers enjoying themselves; every table was occupied and she could hear someone singing, a rich deep female voice that sent shivers up her spine. Betty let her gaze travel round the room and saw that Veronique and Helene were both there together with Jacques. There was no sign of Pierre and Betty wasn’t sure if she was sorry or pleased. She’d loved him at the start, but he hadn’t treated her well…

  ‘May I join you for a drink?’ she asked hesitantly, and Veronique looked up and gave a genuine cry of pleasure.

  ‘Betty,’ she cried. ‘We wondered where you were. Pierre thought you’d gone back to England…’

  ‘No, I’ve been working hard to earn a living since…’ Betty’s last words were lost as all three of her friends jumped up and embraced her, kissing her cheeks and exclaiming at how lovely she looked.

  ‘I thought you beautiful before, but now – you are manifique!’ Jacques told her and rolled his eyes. ‘You have the new lover – he has done this for you? Tell me at once. I am jealous…’

  Betty laughed as they drew out a chair for her and filled a glass with some of the red wine from their jug. It was a cheap house wine, but tasted of ripe fruit warm from the sun and she drank it carefully, knowing how easily such wine could go to her head.

  ‘There’s no man,’ she said and smiled at him. ‘I thought I was in love with Pierre – and now I am alone…’

  ‘Pouff!’ Helene made a rude noise and an even ruder gesture. ‘Pierre is the fool. He ’ad a treasure in you but ’e could not see it…’ Her gaze went hungrily over Betty. ‘Your ’air is enchanting – and where you buy such a dress? I love it and must ’ave one… they make in red?’

  Betty laughed, already drunk with the excitement of being with people who seemed to genuinely like her and welcome her company. It was their warmth and witty conversation that she’d missed since the breakup with Pierre. ‘It is available in any colour you want – if you buy the material and let me measure you, I can make it just as you wish…’

  ‘So now you work for a great fashion house… it must be Dior,’ Veronique said and clapped her hands. ‘Who designed this, Betty?’

  ‘I did…’ Betty laughed as they made her get up and do a little twirl. ‘I work in a café serving drinks and coffee… I designed the dress and made it myself on Marie’s sewing machine. I made a dress for her too – but not this one…’

  ‘You will make one for me,’ Veronique demanded. ‘I love this… but can you design something just for me?’

  ‘Yes, if you don’t mind waiting for a while. I’ll have to think about what would be best for you… what is your favourite colour?’

  Veronique was about to reply when they were interrupted. For a moment everyone went quiet and the back of Betty’s neck prickled. She glanced up and saw Pierre standing very close, smiling at her in the way that had always made her melt inside, and she knew that a part of her had been subconsciously waiting for him to arrive.

  ‘Betty, you came back to us,’ he said and the warm chocolate tones of his voice made her melt inside. ‘I am so ’appy… you don’t know how much I miss you, darling. I make a mistake terrible and I am so sorry…’ he rolled his r’s, his accent very soft and French, making her tingle with remembered pleasure.

  Betty didn’t answer: she couldn’t because her emotions were all over the place. This was what she’d longed for on so many lonely nights – to be with her friends and Pierre and to see that look in his eyes. A part of her was still angry with him, and yet she could feel herself dissolving in the warmth of his smile.

  ‘Do not listen to him, Betty,’ Veronique warned in a whisper and captured her attention.

  While they spoke, she was aware of Pierre sitting down and ordering her favourite white
wine, less dry and rough than the red; she’d often drunk too much of it when Pierre was in the mood for splashing out – but it didn’t do to mix the two and so when he offered her a glass she shook her head.

  ‘I’ll stick to the red,’ she said and Pierre shrugged, but as soon as her attention was drawn back by the two girls he filled her glass with more of the house wine. Betty ignored it until Pierre lifted his to toast her return and then the friends followed suit with toasts to her hair and her dress and then to anything that came into their heads. Betty merely sipped, though her friends were drinking heavily.

  Pierre topped up her glass, but when he left the table to speak to someone, Betty swapped her full one for Jacques’ empty glass. He grinned and sipped it and then winked, kissing his fingers to her.

  ‘As wise as she is clever,’ he murmured softly.

  After that, Jacques obliged her by drinking most of the wine Pierre placed in front of her, leaving Betty to sip occasionally, while he got steadily drunker.

  ‘I shall see you ’ome, Betty,’ Pierre said as she got up and swayed slightly. Betty wasn’t drunk, but she knew Pierre had intended her to be. ‘You not safe to walk ’ome alone…’

  Veronique leaned towards her, whispering, ‘Be careful, my friend. He is not to be trusted…’

  ‘I know, but I’m curious how far he will go…’

  ‘What are you two whispering about?’ Pierre demanded.

  ‘I want Betty to make me a dress. She is so talented and clever,’ Veronique said quickly. ‘You do not deserve her, Pierre.’

  ‘Betty knows I adore her,’ he replied smoothly. ‘You’ve drunk enough, Betty. Come, we go…’

  She went with him docilely, not sure why she didn’t just walk off. Yet a part of her wanted him to love her; she craved real affection and she’d believed Pierre when he’d told he loved her. But then he’d thrown her out because it no longer suited him to have her around. Now, he seemed to want her back – why?

  Betty was sober but she needed to know for sure whether Pierre loved her – or whether he had always been using her.

  Veronique’s warning had rung bells in her mind and Betty knew that she must let Pierre believe she was as drunk as she would’ve been had she drunk all the wine he’d poured for her – but Jacques had gone along with her masquerade. It seemed that he and the girls were her friends… and that thought made her stronger inside.

  She swayed against Pierre slightly as they strolled through the quiet lanes, and he put his arm about her, kissing her neck. ‘You don’t want to go ’ome, do you, my darling?’ he murmured against her ear. ‘You’d prefer come ’ome with me, no?’

  ‘Go to my home…’ Betty said in a slurred voice, but his grip just tightened on her.

  ‘No, I’m not letting you go in this state,’ he said. ‘I take care of you, Betty. We ’ave fun like always – but this time it will be even better…’

  ‘No, I don’t want to,’ she said, introducing a slightly truculent note into her voice, as she had sometimes in the past. She knew they were almost there, the lanes here were ill lit and deserted apart from two men singing loudly as they lurched their way back to their lodgings. He was taking her to his apartment; she knew it but allowed it recklessly because she wanted to be sure how he truly felt about her. If Pierre loved her, he would tell her how sorry he was for what he’d done and beg her to forgive him. She would allow him to think she was drunk just until she knew what he intended.

  ‘Look, we’re ’ere,’ Pierre said and Betty knew it was what he’d intended all along. ‘I give you good wine, better than you ’ad this evening… and then we have fun. You see ’ow sweet it taste…’

  Betty stumbled at the first stair and Pierre swung her up in his arms, carrying her up the wooden steps. Once inside, he carried her straight to the bed and dumped her down on the crumpled sheets. Betty gave a little moan and held out her arms to him, willing him to come to her and confess how much he loved her and wanted her.

  ‘Do you love me?’ she asked. ‘Do you want it to be as it used to be?’

  ‘Foolish little one,’ he murmured, and she could smell the wine and cigarettes on his breath. ‘I want you amenable… you no refuse me tonight, Betty. This is important… a matter of life and death… I ’ave to keep him sweet and he wants you… it’s the only way I can pay…besides, you owe me for what your friend did…’

  Betty had no idea what he meant. All that registered was that he hadn’t brought her here because he loved her! He was going to use her – to give her to that man she’d met in the park. She’d been a stupid fool to think that he’d wanted to make amends.

  Betty’s nerve ends prickled and it was all she could do to lie still and not jump up and run, but she knew it was too late for that now. Veronique had known what she was talking about when she’d told her not to trust him. She’d been a fool to come with him, but a part of her had hoped that he truly missed and loved her. Betty lay back against the pillows with her eyes shut as he moved away from her, hoping he would just go and leave her alone if he thought she’d fallen asleep, but then she opened them cautiously, watching him, sensing that he had something planned. Pierre was pouring wine into two glasses, but he slipped a powdery substance into one of them and stirred it with his finger, and Betty’s instinct told her that was the glass meant for her. Pierre wanted to make sure that Betty couldn’t resist what he was planning to do to her…

  She lay tense, fearful, yet alert and tingling with suspense as he brought the glasses back and placed them on the little table, pushing hers close to her, and then he put his arm about her and sat her up against the pillows.

  ‘Open your eyes, Betty. I ’ave something special for you – once you taste it you beg me for more. I knew you were valuable when I found you, but you needed breaking in and Marcus, ’e told me ’ow to do it. He knows all about such things, special things that bring erotic pleasure… and you ’ave a wonderful time.’ He laughed nastily, sending chills down her spine.

  Betty shuddered inwardly as she guessed what kind of a life was being planned for her. Pierre thought her an innocent fool and she had been stupid to believe in him and trust him, but now she was well aware of the danger she was in.

  He put the glass in her hand and then his phone rang in the studio. Pierre swore and allowed her to relax back against the pillows.

  ‘Drink it all, Betty and then I’ll be back – and I promise you never see things the same again… my little prude…’

  Betty lay as if frozen until he left to answer the phone; the realisation of what he intended for her flooded through her and then, jerked into action, she swapped glasses, placing her glass where his stood on the little bedside chest and taking his. She sipped it so that the taste and smell would be on her lips, then leaned over the bed and emptied the contents onto the floor beneath and then lay back, letting the last remnants of the drugged wine spill on to the bed. Now she was alert, fearful of his next move and trying to work out how she could escape the fate he intended for her, and praying he didn’t notice the spilled wine. If he drank the wine he’d intended for her it might render him incapable and was her best chance of escape. He was evil, merciless, and she knew him now for the devil he was and she could only pray her ruse would work as she lay with closed eyes and waited for his return…

  ‘He’s coming…’ the hateful voice, a voice she’d thought she loved, said close to her ear, ‘and then ’e give me what I want, my precious fool. He like the ménage à trois so we share you and then each other… is time you learned what it’s all about, my little English prude, and the drug I’ve given you will make sure you can’t resist. Marcus gave it to me; ’e told me it’s specially designed for girls like you, to bring you under control. You cannot resist but you know what’s happening…’

  Even though the revulsion and fear trailed through her, she made no protest as he partially undressed her, touching her breasts intimately, and laughing as she gave a faint moan, and then he left her abruptly. She heard him pic
k up his wine glass and knew with a sense of expectation and glee that he was drinking the wine he’d meant for her. He had no suspicion that she’d managed to switch the glasses when he answered his phone and he must have drunk it all just as he thought she had, because she heard him swear and then felt his weight as he suddenly slumped on the bed next to her. Pushing his weight away from her, she scrambled over his body and out of the bed. He made an attempt to grab her ankle, cursing in a blurred voice as he couldn’t hold her; it told her clearly what effect that foul drug would’ve had on her if she’d drunk from the glass he’d intended for her.

  ‘Damn you,’ Pierre muttered thickly. ‘Marcus kill me if he no get you… Betty… ’elp me… payment for the debt…’

  ‘I hope he does…’ Betty muttered. ‘I loved you, but you’re evil…’

  Evading his grasp as he fell back useless against the pillows, she’d grabbed the clothes he’d taken from her, and fled, down the wooden staircase to the alley below, knowing that she must be gone before Marcus arrived. She’d tricked Pierre, but his friend would grab her and make her a prisoner if he caught her. She hid in the shadows and hurriedly pulled on her dress as she saw the man who had paid for her walking eagerly towards the wooden steps that zig-zagged up the outside of the wall to the small garret studio. A sense of revulsion swept over her as she realised how close she’d come to a life of shame and despair. How could she have become involved with men like these? But she must get away – far away before someone came looking for her…

  As soon as he opened the door and went in, she ran and ran… the fear of being caught, imprisoned and forced to serve whatever man was brought to her, making her unaware that her feet were bare on the sharp cobbles until she paused for breath, believing that she was safe for now, though for the moment lost in the maze of dark alleys. Not far away were the seedy nightclubs of Montmartre and the café where she’d spent happy evenings with her friends. She’d walked these streets so often in daylight, and she could find her way now if she took a deep breath and started to think calmly.