Truth was, she was frightened of disappointing him and it all ending. Dietrich wanted to be ‘first’ with her, but he was going to find out sooner or later that he’d been pipped to the post. How to tell him? In her world, girls didn’t talk about such things. Not to men, at any rate. Either they kept themselves virginal for their wedding day, or they got their fellas drunk first time so they didn’t notice. She couldn’t see herself getting Dietrich drunk, not if he didn’t want to be.
Did it even matter? She wasn’t so stupid as to think there was a future for the two of them. Even without a wife back in Germany, marriage was unimaginable. He wasn’t just wealthy and part of the international set, he was titled. Dietrich August Graf von Elbing. ‘Graf’ meant ‘Count’, he had told her. It was why the waiters and doormen at the Duet called him ‘Monsieur le Comte’. They were never going to call her ‘Madame la Comtesse’. In France, they called girls like her ‘irrégulières’.
‘“Can’t get away to marry you today, my wife won’t let me!”’ she trilled, to cover her nerves, as she turned on the taps at the bathroom basin. He’d said he was ten minutes away but she reckoned about fifteen, Paris traffic and all that. In front of the mirror, she combed her curls into the sleek shape the stylist had designed for her.
She was brushing her teeth when a finger-tap came at the door. Surely not? Rushing out of the bathroom, she found herself face to face with Dietrich. Through peppermint froth, she accused him, ‘That was never fifteen minutes.’
‘Nine, I think.’ Dietrich threw his jacket on to a chair, then took off his tie and threw that too. Looking shockingly wide-awake in shirtsleeves and a buttoned waistcoat, he indicated her toothbrush. ‘You look like the Statue of Liberty, if with a somewhat reduced torch. Good morning. Shall we go to bed?’
Unseated by the direct question, she seized the first excuse that came to mind – Dietrich must have spent hours on a train so didn’t he want a proper, hot bath first? Not waiting for an answer, Coralie rushed back into the bathroom and turned on the taps. Then she rinsed her mouth and checked herself in the mirror, which was so steamy, she looked like a ripe peach. Returning to the bedroom, she asked, ‘Cup of tea?’
‘Tea? Good God. Coffee, if you must. I shall drink it in the bath.’
She called room service, then busied herself rearranging the china on her breakfast tray, because Dietrich looked as if he meant to take her in his arms. He looked edgier than usual, though that was probably because he’d travelled through the night. She wished she could act like women in films, slink and say ‘dahling’, but she’d had no practice. Nobody had ever tried to seduce her. Actually, she’d never made love inside a building. Southwark Park for her. ‘You can’t drink coffee in that bath. It’s a monster tub. It sucks you down.’
‘Then you must sit with me, keep me from danger.’
‘Don’t suppose you’d fit down the plughole.’
‘Coralie?’ His eyes were tolerant, his smile too, but she sensed his frustration. ‘You’re pelting me with nonsense.’
She dashed away to turn off the bath water and he followed her. She felt him absorbing her shape. Her first two days in Paris, she’d been unable to eat or sleep. Every time she’d closed her eyes, she’d seen her father advancing on her, Sheila smiling in collusion. Dietrich had acquired sleeping grains, which he’d given her with strict instructions not to overdo it.
‘Something happened to you, to do with this.’ He’d gently touched her black eye, which was going through its rainbow stage. ‘As I know you have run away, can I presume that it was more like an escape?’
She’d nodded, chasing down the veronal with gulps of water.
‘Whatever is in your mind, throw it behind you. Before you know it, you will have the habit of happiness again.’
She’d tried that, and since then at least the desire to eat had returned. As her choppy reflection in the bath water proved, three good meals a day had already erased traces of childhood hunger. Dietrich’s shadow suddenly overlapped hers.
‘They’re a long time with that coffee. I’ll phone again,’ she rambled nervously.
Dietrich began to unbutton his shirt. ‘Tell them strong and no milk. A quarter-teaspoon of sugar.’
She used the time to put a robe on over her nightdress. When the coffee arrived and she took his cup in to him, he was basking with his arms draped over the rim, his hair like a halo. The bath really was a monster – he could lie full-length. How muscular he was. The thought was out before she censored her gaze. She’d never properly seen an adult male body before. In Southwark Park, she’d made love under the stars. In films, only women took baths and they stepped into the water swathed in towels before disappearing under a snowdrift of bubbles. She’d never seen how water made a man’s chest hair darken and straighten, or turned fair skin bronze. Damn, she was blushing. ‘I’ll leave you to your, um, washings.’ Washings? Oh, God.
‘But you haven’t given me my coffee. Sit down and talk.’
She chose the bath’s edge and fixed her eyes on the expanse of muscle between Dietrich’s chin and navel.
He sat up, palming water from his face before taking his coffee. ‘Why have you put on an outdoor coat?’
‘It’s my dressing-gown.’
‘But the intention is the same. Did you think it would rain in here?’ He flicked water. ‘Or were you afraid you would get cold? It is easily eighty degrees Fahrenheit.’
‘Only eighty?’ And look how steam was moulding slipper-satin to her curves.
He was looking. ‘Take it off. I want to see your arms. And your throat and shoulders. You have a heroic shape, Coralie, which I saw even before I noticed your poor eye the first time we met. Don’t hide from me.’
‘I’m not hiding.’ She removed the dressing-gown.
‘Closer.’ Dietrich reached with the hand not holding his cup, and curled it around her waist, drawing her towards him. She could feel his sodden handprint as his eyes closed. When he cupped a breast through the satin, she gave a soft cry. Eyes opened lazily and she felt he was smiling, though his mouth didn’t move. So grave, so perfect, she wanted to lean forward and trace his lips with hers.
‘Take this cup.’
She reached for it, lowering her lashes because otherwise she would see his arousal. That was the sort of reality you dealt with by steps, first in the dark, then in demi-light. As she took the cup, the coffee aroma hit her. Blood rushed from her head and from far away she heard the shatter of china and tasted soap. Then, red-tinted nothingness.
*
When she came to, she was warm, naked and steady breathing filled her ears. So. Dried like a child then put to bed like a drunk, having landed head first in Dietrich’s groin. If she was going to faint every time she smelt coffee, Paris would finish her off.
She couldn’t resist checking that Dietrich was in one piece. Flying coffee might have scalded him, or broken china could have stuck in his eye. He seemed all right, his features almost boyish in repose. She fitted herself closer and his arm came around her, drawing her against him. The Hôtel Duet’s soap smelt of spring hyacinths.
‘Coralie.’ He woke more with each syllable and then there were two arms around her and his lips were on hers, explorative, then urgent as desire took him over. Coralie let him lead, glad that he wanted nothing imaginative from her this first time. He was a man who would take the lead in everything, drawing her along . . . and why not? Letting go and trusting, her body cried out in delighted relief. If he noticed she wasn’t a virgin, he didn’t comment. Or seem to care. So that worry slipped away and love crept into the bed.
Sneaking in when her eyes were closed.
Chapter Four
She’d won a pot of honey once, in a charity raffle. The carpet in Maison Javier’s salon was the same colour. Its pile encroached over the toes of her shoes. They were about to watch the afternoon parade and Coralie felt as fri
ghtened as an under-rehearsed soloist.
Dietrich led the way to a cream leather banquette, and sat with one arm along its back. Coralie tried to copy his posture, but it was difficult in a dress and she ended up sitting like somebody waiting for a job interview. He’d brought her here, to rue de la Trémoille, after taking her for lunch on the nearby Champs-Élysées, explaining that he’d selected this house because Roland Javier was Spanish. As a Spaniard, Javier revered womanhood. He never sought to dress his clients as little girls, or surreal sideshows or, indeed, as boys. ‘Also, most of his mannequins are very tall. There is no point showing you haute couture worn by pocket Venuses.’
Wrapped in the afterglow of more lovemaking, Coralie had smiled and nodded. In bed with him, she’d stepped into womanhood, learning to look without blushing, to touch and be touched. Finding herself in the salon of an elite couturier sent her back a few paces.
Dietrich raised her hand to his lips. ‘You are allowed to enjoy this, you know. Did you never go to Molyneux in London, or Stiebel or Norman Hartnell?’
‘Not really.’ She presumed he was naming dress designers, but wasn’t sure so she avoided his eye by searching in her handbag, a neat little rectangle of the softest leather, from Hermès. A gift from Dietrich. Just to say something, she scolded, ‘You shouldn’t be spending all this money on me.’
‘And who should I spend it on?’
The name ‘Ottilia’ bounced into her mind, followed by ‘Your wife?’ but instead she answered, ‘Yourself, of course.’
‘There are only so many black, grey or French-navy suits one man can own, and since I’m always on the move, I cannot collect cars or horses.’
‘Why are you always on the move?’ In her experience, men who shifted around a lot were escaping from the police or from debt collectors.
‘I have restless feet. But for all that, I take no pleasure in buying shoes. Would you admire a man who owned forty pairs?’
She got the feeling that he’d just shuffled off a difficult question but she let the subject drop, because Josette, the vendeuse assigned to her, was setting down glasses of chilled wine and wafer biscuits sprinkled with almonds. How indulgent – alcohol at three in the afternoon. No sooner had she released the thought than another took its place, that of her father heading down Shand Street for his lunchtime pint. She breathed deeply until the image went away. She might be her father’s daughter in some respects, but not when it came to the demon drink.
Music filled the salon, waterfall strings seeping from a proscenium arch flanked with flowers. Shallow steps led down to a walkway ending in front of the banquette. ‘Catwalk’, Dietrich called it. Ten or so other ladies shared their banquette, which must have been thirty feet long. Some undoubtedly were mothers and daughters, and they all shared an effortless posture, legs sloping to the side. All wore suits or smart town dresses. Coralie felt that – without even shifting their profiles – they’d evaluated her flowered pink cotton, with its neck flounces and pussy-cat bow, and marked her down. She loved the dress she was in, insisting on it even when that first vendeuse at Printemps had tried to dissuade her: ‘It is too fussy for Mademoiselle and rose does not flatter such fair skin.’
Too bad. Pink was her favourite colour. In fact, she liked it so much, she’d bought another dress in carnation, and one of dark madder. But, to judge from the glances she was getting, pink wasn’t considered smart daywear at Javier. Why hadn’t Dietrich said anything?
She was wondering if he’d let them leave, when a girl in black fastened back the proscenium curtains. A middle-aged woman, whom Josette whispered was the directrice, announced that the afternoon parade was about to begin.
Coralie settled down, intrigued in spite of herself. All she had to do was pick out a couple of dresses, and Dietrich would buy them. Everybody happy.
The first mannequin had golden hair. She sauntered past them while the directrice, whose name was Mademoiselle Liliane, described her ensemble.
‘Heloïse wears number one, Esprit. Fashioned in lustrous cotton, this simple dress is perfect for afternoon tea, a visit to a museum, even a stroll in the woods. Mesdames, Monsieur, appreciate the narrow pleats, which flare as Heloïse moves. Esprit drapes when still, swings as she walks, a symphony of line and movement.’
After ten minutes’ similar commentary, Coralie’s head spun. How were you meant to remember so many different names? Esprit, Élan, Eldorado, Elderberry. Actually, there hadn’t been an Elderberry, but all the same . . . and whoever made these clothes – Javier, was that his name? – was wedded to white. White everything, worn by long-necked girls with dancer’s arms. It was like watching a flock of storks. No patterns, spots or stripes. It was all so drab.
So, instead of watching the clothes, she concentrated on the girls. Two were petite brunettes, Nelly and Zinaida. They laughed, and were what Mademoiselle Deveau would call ‘animée’. The tall ones shared a gravitas, as if extra inches meant they couldn’t smile. Some were statuesque, others slender as reeds. Their complexions were flawless, and there must have been a resident hairdresser round the back somewhere. Coralie had been happy with her body an hour ago. Now all she could think of was the fat she’d put on her bottom, and the shoulder muscles that were a legacy of ironing at Granny Flynn’s. As each girl wafted away through the arch, another took her place in tempo with Mademoiselle Liliane’s commentary. There must be a mad paddle to get them into the next costume, the next hat. No sign of it, though, as they came out, calm and majestic as swans.
‘Lovely, yes?’ Dietrich asked.
‘They could have come straight out of Hollywood.’
‘I mean the clothes.’
‘Oh, they’re really nice too. It’s just there’s a lot of, you know, white.’
‘This is a spring–summer collection. Ah.’ Dietrich nodded at a girl in a raw silk tailor-made. ‘Black. Happy now? Be sure to take the number of any items you like.’ He gave her the pad and a pencil Josette had left on their table. Coralie had assumed it was for noting down the drinks’ tab.
‘To be honest, Dietrich, they aren’t really me.’
Did his eye halt for an instant on her flounces, on the pussy-cat bow? ‘Do you imagine I have brought you here by mistake? Javier is not for women who like their clothes to shout to the rafters. Ottilia wears Javier.’
Bugger. Ottilia. Obvious, really, when she recalled the woman’s Derby Day outfit. Coralie sketched a jealous zigzag with her pencil then wrote ‘Esprit’ because that was the only name she could remember. When Mademoiselle Liliane named the black crêpe tailor-made ‘Envie’, she wrote that down too.
Sighing, Dietrich beckoned to a mannequin. ‘Mademoiselle, if you please?’ The girl assumed a languid pose beside them. ‘Coralie, look properly. See? A plain dress, perhaps, but take your eyes for a walk. This sleeve?’
Obediently, she followed his pointing finger. Silk in a shade of blue that reminded her of prayer books left in a cupboard too long.
‘Take in the detail.’
She peered, as if reading the label on a very small tin. The sleeve ended in a turned-back cuff with tiny mushroom buttons pushed through loops without a wrinkle. A pattern of rose briars had been worked in thread exactly the same shade as the dress. Every stitch was of identical length, and that she could appreciate. It had taken two years’ training to reach the standard required for Pettrew & Lofthouse, every stitch precisely one sixteenth of an inch. ‘I’d have made the embroidery jollier.’
‘You are still missing the point.’
To her relief, out came azure blue day dresses, after which the mannequins appeared in beachwear, then in skimpy tennis dresses. At last, some jazzy fabrics. The evening gowns that finished the parade were muted but their shapes were sexy and the girls wore big costume jewellery. Coralie put down a couple more names and Dietrich smiled. He picked up her hand and his smile turned confidential.
‘Have
you had enough?’ she asked, meaning, Shall we go back to the hotel?
‘Coralie, we haven’t even started.’
She strangled a groan.
As the final ripple of white disappeared through the arch, her vendeuse returned. ‘You are a little overcome, Mademoiselle de Lirac? It is a long show. Monsieur Javier could not decide which of his models to choose and, in the end, allowed nearly sixty. But you are pleased?’
Coralie nodded, rather too vigorously. ‘Lovely, Josette, thank you. Only I don’t think I want to try anything on today.’
Josette returned a perplexed frown. ‘Indeed, no, that would not be at all possible.’
Coralie knew she’d put her foot in it, but wasn’t quite sure why.
*
The following day, climbing into a taxi the Duet’s commissionaire had ordered for them, she heard Dietrich instruct, ‘Boulevard de la Madeleine.’ As they drove off, he said, ‘We’re going to our favourite hat shop.’
‘And I thought we only had fair hair in common.’
He gave a piercing look. ‘More than that, surely. If there was racing today, I would take you to Longchamps and let you bet on the winner. Then our affair would have come full circle.’
Our affair. As the cab sped down boulevard Malesherbes, Coralie turned the word over. ‘Affair’ meant adultery. Affairs were sordid, and usually short. Yet there was nothing sordid in the way she felt about Dietrich. His face in profile, his voice on the telephone, calling down to invite her to lunch or lovemaking. Or the hot knife that ran across her stomach when he put his hand to the small of her back or took her arm. That felt as pure as a church candle, though she supposed the world saw it differently. She wanted Dietrich to feel the same reverence for her.
As the taxi swung into place de la Madeleine, a cliff-face of sacred columns took her mind off her fears. She was still craning round for a last view of the church of St Mary Magdalene as the taxi pulled up behind a highly polished Talbot, with a chauffeur at the wheel. This was boulevard de la Madeleine, she supposed. The moment Dietrich opened her door, Coralie was out, rushing up to a window filled with hats on metal stalks.
The Girl Who Dreamed of Paris Page 7
