by Elaine Young
* * *
Without warning, Libby heard a deep French-accented voice behind her. ‘Ello, Penny.’ It sounded like Penee. She started, as she hadn’t heard anyone coming. Then as she refocused, she saw a man reflected in the window pane and she looked over her shoulder with a friendly smile.
‘I’m not Penny, I’m Elizabeth Wentworth.’ She turned around to face the tall man who stood there. She was surprised to see it was the man who had arrived a few minutes ago and had been collared by Hugh. Close up, she could see that he was about forty, and well built. Libby was above medium height and she only came to his chin. She smiled across at him politely. She liked what she saw; longish greying hair that looked rather untidy, as though he frequently ran his fingers through it, and a lopsided smile that creased his face. He wasn’t handsome in the accepted sense; he had a small scar on his cheek that stood out whitely against his tan and his nose was slightly skew as though it had been broken, but she liked the way his eyes smiled, even when his lips didn’t. He looked like he smiled a lot, judging by the permanent crinkles around his eyes.
‘I’m not mistaken,’ he said, ‘I must explain . . . I think that you look like a bright new Penny with that copper hair! Or is it golden? Maybe I should call you Blessed Damozel instead. Here, I brought you a fresh glass of champagne. I am Michel Gaillard, by the way. May I call you Elizabeth?’ he said as he took her empty glass.
She was so taken with his chat-up line that she couldn’t say anything. Then they both started to say something at the same moment and they laughed. He had a pleasant laugh too, she thought. She caught a gleam of gold on his ring finger.
‘Penny I understand. I was called Copper at school! But why Blessed Damozel?’
‘Have you never seen Dante Rossetti’s paintings of his wife, who was also Elizabeth? She was his muse. She was a very eye-catching woman with glorious red hair.’
Libby laughed heartily at this. ‘If it’s the one I remember from my History of Art course, she didn’t have freckles!’
‘Well then, freckles are an added bonus!’ he grinned down at her.
‘Well then!’ she echoed, smiling, ‘on the strength of that approval, you may call me Libby. All my friends call me Libby.’ With the ice broken, she took the proffered glass and they spoke pleasantries for a while, commented on the view from the window, the warm weather. Behind them, the roar of people enjoying themselves formed a counterpoint to their quiet conversation. They sipped champagne in a companionable way.
‘Where do you fit into all this, Libby Wentworth?’ he gestured at the room, ‘You don’t seem to be mingling in the proper diplomatic manner.’
His eyes met hers and held them. She felt herself drawn into their depths and she turned her head to look out of the window, suddenly breathless. Must be too much champagne! My knees feel a bit funny . . . She gathered her thoughts,
‘Gillian Tilden is one of my oldest friends, have you met her? She’s over there in the red dress.’ She gestured with her champagne glass. ‘We go way back to school days. We met as anxious little girls on our first day at boarding school when we were about eight years old and we’ve remained friends ever since.’
‘I hated boarding school, but my Grandmère said it would be good for me! I’m sure she did that to get me out of her hair. I was quite a strong-willed young man even at twelve years old. She was looking after my little brother as well. So off I went to school. It certainly made me independent.’
‘I hated it too, at first, but my parents were abroad so there wasn’t any argument. Daddy worked for an airline and he was always posted everywhere but England . . . they thought I’d benefit from staying in one place in order to get any education at all, while they junketed all over the world together. School became my home. The teachers were kind and I made good friends. We, my brother Ted and I, used to travel in the long holidays to visit Mummy and Daddy wherever they were.’
‘Are they still overseas?’
‘No. Daddy retired recently and they have settled down in England. They do go to South Africa from time to time, to visit my grandfather who is getting really old now, but they’ve had enough of travelling they say. I’m happy; I’ve been able to get to know them again. Ted went to live in South Africa with my grandfather when he was about eighteen and he has taken over Granddad’s racehorse stud. It suited Granddad very well because he didn’t have any sons.’
‘That is a different kind of lifestyle. Your parents are South African?’
‘Just Mummy. Daddy is as British as Yorkshire pud! They met in Switzerland, a year or so before the war . . . ’
‘I’ve always wanted to see Africa. Maybe one day I’ll go. More champagne? No? How about some snacks?’ He hijacked a tray as a waiter came twirling past. He nodded dismissal to the young man with a ‘We’ll look after this, thank you!’ and held out the tray to Libby who scooped up a pile of snacks onto a plate. She realised she was feeling quite lightheaded and needed something other than champagne in her stomach.
‘Are you planning a long stay in Paris?’
‘I’m just passing through at the moment,’ she said carefully around a mouthful of smoked salmon and caviar. ‘I adore Paris and I have an open invitation to stay any time. I was intending to go on to Venice sometime soon, but I have just been offered a temporary job at the Sorbonne. This evening as a matter of fact.’
‘Is this the first time you’ll have been there, to Venice, I mean, not the Sorbonne?’ His dark green eyes smiled.
‘Yes. I travelled quite a bit in Europe as a student but I never got as far as Venice. I did see some of Florence though, before my friends decided they’d had enough and we went home. They were quite an un-cultured bunch, more comfortable in Blackpool or somewhere!’
‘And what have you been doing since those schooldays with Gillian?’
‘I’ve been working in the same bookshop for almost nine years; as the manager for the last three, and I’m tired of it. Now I’ve taken a sabbatical to try and write a book. I’m tired of working a nine-to-five job and I decided I could write better than a lot of the rubbish that is already on the shelves.’
‘And tell me what you do when you’re not writing novels and working in bookshops? Have you always lived in London?’ She looked at him from under her lashes trying to detect some polite hypocrisy, but he seemed genuinely interested in her.
‘No. I was born near Biggin Hill just after the war, before Daddy was demobbed. When I’d finished school, I went on to Cambridge intending to read English Lit., but that didn’t work for me. After one awful year, I gave up and moved to London; I tried all kinds of odd things, like working in a ladies dress shop. Big mistake! Then I went to work at Benton’s Bookshop in Notting Hill and I’ve been there ever since . . .’ her voice trailed off.
‘And what about a man in your life? Surely, if there is someone he wouldn’t be so crazy as to let you go off on your own?’ he smiled. Her mind wafted back to Donald. No, she thought, there isn’t anyone anymore. She shook her head.
‘I see you’re married. Is your wife here?’
‘She’s dead,’ he said simply. Changing the subject abruptly, he went on before she could utter a trite word of regret, ‘Have you started writing your story?’
‘Yes, I began writing just for fun, setting it in Venice. I have written quite a bit, but as I got further I hit a wall and then I realised that I needed to see Venice for myself. I have to absorb the atmosphere and see how things work and not just use other people’s stories and travel guides for background. And if I go a bit later in the year, out of season, it will probably be better. Fewer tourists and cheaper hotel rates, that kind of thing.’
‘Have you got somewhere to stay in Venice?’
‘I thought I’d book a room in a cheap hotel for the first few days, so that I can look around for even cheaper digs if I can find them. Once I get my bearings, I’ll be fine. But hey, that’s quite enough about me. All these questions! Now it’s my turn!’ she grinned up at him.
‘Tell me what you are doing here?’
‘All right then . . . Hugh Tilden is one of my oldest friends. We go way back, not quite to schooldays; we met at Oxford. He’s not wearing a red dress!’ he added, mimicking her earlier remark. ‘It’s true!’ he said with raised eyebrows in mock dismay at her gurgle of laughter. ‘I’m in Paris to interview a witness and when I called Hugh on another matter, he invited me to come this evening. The first thing I did when I arrived was to ask him about the beautiful girl standing by the window; he wanted to introduce us, but I told him I could manage quite well on my own, thank you very much! And as far as all the questions go, I just had to know all about you! I nearly didn’t come to this party, but I am so glad I did,’ he finished softly. She felt the intensity of his gaze almost as a caress on her cheek and she had to gulp at the unexpected emotion that rose in her chest.
He was interrupted suddenly by the arrival at his elbow of the most stunning woman in a spectacular outfit of crimson silk. Libby had noticed her earlier across the room; she had been in the group that had arrived when Michel did, although they didn’t appear to be together. Striking and vivacious, she seemed to know several people in the crowd. Now at Michel’s side she placed a possessive hand on his arm. Libby was quick to notice the flash of a large diamond on the woman’s left hand and she became aware of her own lack of sophistication; the few excess pounds crammed into her one and only black cocktail dress, her shabby silver evening shoes, her nibbled fingernails. The vision said something in rapid Italian.
‘I’m sorry; I have to take Elvira back to the hotel. She has a migraine,’ he said to Libby. Certainly a frown was marring her exquisite features. She nodded vaguely at Libby and turned away, fully expecting Michel to follow. He stood there looking at Libby for a charged moment, dark jade eyes and pansy-blue ones meeting and holding; he seemed torn between staying with Libby and obeying the imperious summons. He took her hand in his warm one and kissed it before reluctantly letting it go.
‘I must go. But I hope we’ll meet again soon, Penny.’ Then he was gone.
Libby turned slowly back to the window feeling foolish. Down in the street she saw Michel hail a taxi and help his lovely companion into it. He looked up at the window and waved before climbing in himself. Then the taxi disappeared down the road.
Penny, indeed! And kissing my hand like that. Flirting even when he has such a sexy woman in tow. . . For a moment there, she had felt as though she was on the edge of something new and exciting. She felt her cheeks burning with embarrassment and indignation as she turned back to the smoky room.
