‘Present,’ said Noel.
Helen smiled stiffly. ‘Why don’t you have it? It would keep you warm when you’re pontificating about Proust in a clump of ferns.’
Noel giggled. ‘It’s not a bobble hat! Would I be seen dead in a bobble hat? No, sweetie, it’s a tea cosy. You don’t seem to have one.’
Looking at him shaking with laughter, Helen thought,you’re getting jowly. Next stop for you, matey boy, is the plastic surgeon. She made a mental note, after the operation, to send him some flowers. Blue and yellow, the exact colour of his bruises.
Chapter Four
‘Friday.
‘Do you remember ages ago you asked about a guy called Rory McEwen? Well Megan met him on the beach. She reports that he has a lovely Border Collie puppy called Tweed. Anyway Megan was chattering on to the poor sap about her birthday and that she’d had a card with a French stamp and she showed him the envelope and it had your return address on it and the upshot is – and I don’t quite get this – something to do with his shirts? Megan says he wants you to send his shirts but she’s probably got that wrong. She wants me to do “scary” food for her party. Honestly, the way she carries on, I’m surprised she’s got any friends at all. I’m doing toad in the hole, pigs in blankets and a truly disgusting sweet of crushed Maltesers all slurried up with chocolate ice cream.
‘Did you know mum wants to move to a mobile home? Less maintenance. Olly is against it. With his job, he gets around more than me and he says mobile homes, camper vans and flat pack palaces are all called the same as coffins. The Balmoral. The Sandringham. The Executive. Anyway, mum has been to inspect a site and it was rubbish day and she noted how tidily all the inmates – sorry, residents – were putting out their stuff (segregated, naturally, into compost, paper etc) but what really got her were all the bottles. You’d have thought sherry but she says no, it was mainly wine. And very good quality.
‘Must fly. Have to wheel Dragon to her drama group.’
Helene rushed to the bureau and scrabbled in the drawer. She called it her useful drawer, where she put anything she either needed to keep or didn’t know what else to do with. She hoped she hadn’t thrown out the laundry ticket– oh good, there it was with his note. Helene was just thinking what attractive flowing handwriting he had when she turned it over and saw a list. Names and phone numbers:
Véronique, Marie-Claire, Odile, VTR. There was no phone number for VTR.
First thing the following morning, the City of Light was black with rain. Scurrying along the road, Helene’s mind was on Rory McEwen’s shirts. Shirts! Didn’t artists wear smocks? And didn’t shirts involve the nuisance of cufflinks? Entering the laundry, and busy dealing with her sopping umbrella, Helene tripped over an excited West Highland White terrier and fell to the floor.
Immediate consternation. ‘Pauvre Nanette!’ screeched the laundry lady, rushing to remove the dog to a place of safety behind her ironing board. Meanwhile a dark-haired woman helped Helene get up. She was wearing something Helene had never before seen, or believed possible: an elegant plastic mac, white, with pockets zipped in silver.
‘Are you hurt?’ She spoke in English.
Why, wondered Helene, did people always know she was English?
‘I’m okay thanks.’
‘That stupid dog. Nanette. It needs more exercise.’
‘Well I’m looking for a job, but I think I’ll pass on that one.’
The owner returned, and the dark-haired woman insisted Helene go first. ‘C’est bon, Valerie.’
Valerie. Helene smiled. She was Valerie Laverie!
As Valerie spoke no English, the Parisienne stepped in to interpret. At the mention of Rory McEwen, Valerie was all girly smiles.
Bien sur! Of course she remembered Monsieur Rory. Yes, she had his shirts and it would be her pleasure to take charge personally of packing them up and posting them to him. No, it was no trouble. No trouble at all.
‘I’m surprised she didn’t offer to take them to England herself,’ the Parisienne said, as she and Helene left the shop.
Helene was struggling to manage her umbrella and most of the woman’s cellophane-wrapped dry cleaning, which she’d offered to carry. Her companion had no umbrella, but the chic raincoat was styled with an effective hood.
Her name was Angeline Ardoise, and she was about thirty, Helene calculated. She lived in a block not far from Valerie Laverie and when they got there, Helene was surprised to be invited in.
The block was a grander affair than Helene’s. A marbled lobby, a concierge, a lift. Mlle Ardoise lived in a one-bedroom apartment that was resolutely minimalist. Wooden floors, a glass-topped dining table neatly piled with French language books, two black leather dining chairs placed by a tiny café table at the window. And the walls were lined in what looked to Helene like red leather.
‘It hides the damp.’ Angeline Ardoise was making coffee. ‘Now come and sit down. I want to talk to you.’
*
In the restaurant, Helene carefully guaged Jean-Paul’s mood. Seemed okay. He was laughing at two Englishmen at the bar. One of them was asking, in public-school French, for glasses of red wine.
‘Comment?’ said the waitress.
‘Deux verres de vin rouge.’ He spoke slowly and clearly, but his accent was excruciating.
‘Quoi?’
Finally, the waitress relented and as she went to fetch the drinks, the guy turned to his companion, and proclaimed, indignantly, ‘I don’t think she’s French at all. She couldn’t understand a word I said!’
Helene was timing it carefully, waiting until Jean-Paul was full of entrecote steak and his favourite claret.
Okay. Deep breath. Go for it.
‘I’ve got a job.’
Jean-Paul’s face flooded with anger. ‘A job! But chérie. There is no need for you to work. We agreed.’
‘I know, but –‘
‘You need more funds? Your allowance isn’t enough? I’ll give you more.’
‘It isn’t the money, Jean-Paul. I just need something to do.’
‘And what exactly will you be doing? Typing? No, your business French wouldn’t be good enough. So what is it, this job?’
When she told him, she realised her good sense in staging this announcement at the dinner table. He would never cause a scene in a restaurant. If they’d been at home sitting on her sofa, he might have hit her.
‘Cleaning! You want to go cleaning for this woman? I forbid it, Helene. I absolutely forbid it!’
Helene tried to explain. She wanted to do something different. Something easy, mindless, involving no real responsibility, just some reliable dosh at the end of the morning. Mlle Ardoise wouldn’t be in residence, so Helene could have a coffee when she wanted, and work at her own pace. What a relief to have no boy aspirant barrister bursting in with another sheaf of documents needing to be typed up to be presented in court ‘AT TWO PM. HAVE YOU GOT THAT, WHATEVER YOUR NAME IS?’
Helene remembered the way he’d slammed the door, the way she made herself keep a grip. At least, she told herself, you’ve had training as a legal secretary. Most temps, they’re regarded as the lowest form of pond life, given the shittiest jobs and never invited to the Christmas party.
And heaven help you if the loo was two floors and five corridors down, none of the regulars would be bothered to show you the way.
‘Helene, I will find you something else. You are not to do cleaning!’
‘It’s not grotty cleaning. She’s very refined, very particular in her ways. I can’t let her down now,’ Helene said calmly. ‘Anyway. I started work yesterday morning.’
*
Angeline Ardoise had been precise about her requirements. Top of the list was that she did not wish to set eyes on her cleaner. She did not wish to listen, thankyou, to a litany of Miss Brook’s knee troubles, boyfriend troubles, money troubles. She would communicate with Miss Brook through notes.
Miss Brook was to arrive prompt at eight-thirty after her employer had le
ft for the college where in the mornings she taught English. In the afternoons she had private students arriving for French lessons, which was why it was vital that the apartment looked immaculate.
‘I cannot have washing drying or piles of unironed clothes. You must take everything to Valerie and then bring it all back and put it away.’
‘Can I prepare some lunch for you?’ Helene suggested. ‘Some soup-’
‘Soup!’ shrieked Angeline Ardoise. ‘Soup smells. I cannot have cooking smells. I never cook here. Never.’
‘What about Sundays? Sunday lunch.’ It had crossed Helene’s mind that perhaps Mlle Ardoise would like to come and have lunch with her.
But the Frenchwoman replied, ‘Sundays I go to my mother.’
‘Oh. Does she live in the country?’
Angeline Ardoise looked affronted. ‘No. She lives by the Luxembourg Gardens.’
‘You’re not going to believe this. I’ve joined the Women’s Fellowship!!!!!!Well I have to wheel the Nightmare up to the hall anyway and I was surprised to discover it’s not all competitions for the best decorated bar of soap. Olly has taken Megan go-karting so I suppose he’ll come home covered in bruises while she looks smug.
‘Are you seriously going to be a char? Wouldn’t you get more money doing secretarial?’
‘Hi Hilly, yes I would but I’m sick of secretarial and anyway a French keyboard is different to an English one so I wouldn’t be as fast.’
‘Couldn’t you get work in a shop? Love Mum.’
I’m not good enough at French numbers. And I don’t want a job where I have to be nice to people all the time, Helen told herself as she let herself into Mlle Ardoise’s apartment.
She was thinking about the call she had made, just to fill in time, last Saturday. She’d phoned all her London friends, but none of them were in. Drunk at lunch she assumed. Noel would be at the hospital. Hilly was there, in a fearful rush to get the washing in out of the rain. So just on spec, Helene had dug out his card. It simply gave his name - Alexis Tate – and mobile number. Like everyone else, Helene was irritated by mobiles as it obliged you to ask where people were, and if they were on a train…
‘It’s Helene. Do you remember me?’
‘Of course. I never forget any of my wives. You’re the red haired one.’
Darling, he’d said. There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere!
‘You said you might be coming to Paris.’
‘I’m coming right now. I’m on a train. Borrowed an apartment.’
‘Which side?’
‘Left.’
‘Great.’
‘You could teach me French.’
‘I couldn’t, but I know a woman who could.’
‘She any good?’
‘Don’t know. I just work for her. But I warn you, she’s likely to be very strict.’
‘Strict? Oh goody!’
When will I ever learn, thought Helene as she pushed open Mlle Ardoise’s kitchen door, never to make any mention of discipline to a man. They all just get off on it.
Today’s note from the boss, in her pointy handwriting, asked Helene to call in at Elodie on the rue Jacob to change the time of her Saturday afternoon facial appointment. Helene had been impressed by the Frenchwoman’s unlined complexion, and made a mental note to try Elodie herself.
Helene stripped the bed (Mlle Ardoise preferred her sheets to be changed every other day) shined up all the surfaces, swept the sitting room parquet, and mopped the hall, kitchen and bathroom. Then to Valerie Laverie and the usual tussle with the dog.
At Elodie, the owner was just seeing a soignée customer out. Elodie was about forty, sturdy, with thickly streaked blonde hair and a kind face. To Helene’s relief she spoke English.
‘But of course,’ smiled Elodie. ‘I was trained in London. Then Paris, naturally. I’m afraid the French don’t believe British diplomas are worth anything.’
Helene made an appointment for a Friday massage. Mlle Ardoise did not require the presence of her cleaner on Fridays, which suited Helene as it meant she could have a lie-in if dinner with Jean-Paul had gone on late.
Returning to to her place of employment, she put away Mlle Ardoise’s lingerie and hung up three blouses and a skirt. When new to the job she’d been curious that the boss’s wardrobe contained not a single pair of trousers. Helene had left a note. Were they, perhaps, in a cupboard she couldn’t locate?
Mlle Ardoise’s reply was snippy:
‘Of course I never wear trousers. My legs are my best feature!’
Helene made a cup of coffee and sat down at the glass-topped dining table. As usual, it featured neat piles of French language course books, which Helene had already carefully dusted. Over the weeks, she had made a thorough investigation of the course books and decided that the BBC’s ‘A Vous La France!’ was the best for her.
She would rather have gone to language school, but Jean-Paul was against it and she dared not aggravate him. But she was getting on well with ‘A Vous La France!’ and had completed Voici Biarritz – Expressing likes and dislikes, Comparing one thing with another. Today’s chapter took her to L’Auvergne – Saying where a place is situated, Talking about distances and directions, Describing where you live.
Helene finished the lesson, wiped the finger-marks from the table, washed her coffee cup and put it away. Her final check that everything was in place was interrupted by a furious buzzing on the entryphone.
Helene hesitated. The boss had not left word that a parcel was expected. And the boss was adamant that no one was to be admitted without her permission.
Leaving the apartment, and locking the door, Helene remembered it was pointless wondering why the concierge wasn’t on front door duty. ‘The woman’s useless,’ Mlle Ardoise had said. ‘She’s a communist. Always rushing off to join a demonstration against something. So unprofessional.’
On the doorstep, still with his finger on the buzzer, she found someone she recognised. He had fair hair and lively turquoise eyes the same colour as his zip-up sweater.
‘Oh. I didn’t know if you’d still be here,’ said Alexis. ‘The thing is, I’ve got a French lesson, but I can’t remember what time, and I’ve mislaid her phone number.’
Helene didn’t believe most of this. She’d told him she always went home at mid-day, and Mlle Ardoise would have told him most precisely that his lesson would start prompt at two.
‘Look, Helene, could I buy you a beer? It was very good of you letting me jump the queue at St Pancras.’
So, he was a chancer. So what? Helene took him to La Palette and over dry white wine, with smoked salmon tartines, he related his life story and she gave him edited highlights of hers.
Alexis was born to a Russian mother and British father. He went to an English public school and at twenty five was in the City, immersed in hedge funds.
‘I hated it. All that pressure. But I thought, stick it out for ten years, make a packet, get out. So here I am.’
As he spoke his eyes were assessing, in a not lascivious, just an interested way, the faces and figures of every woman in the bistrot.
‘So here you are, Alexis. And are you alone, or is one of your wives with you?’
‘No. Ruth wasn’t that type. No marriage. Just shacked up together.’
Helene could imagine Ruth, all glossy high heels and aggressive legs, striding into a loft apartment.
‘Thing is, I’m buying a vineyard, with a chum. Ruth doesn’t like the idea, and she doesn’t like him.’
Helene drew a mental cartoon of Ruth with a wavy frown and a downturned mouth.
Alexis asked, ‘Are you married?’
‘No. But I have a married boyfriend.’
‘So you get time off at weekends. Can I borrow you Friday?’
*
‘Can I borrow you Friday! What sort of invitation is that?’
Helene was sitting on Jean-Paul’s lap. ‘No different to someone asking to borrow my newspaper on the pretext they haven’t had tim
e to buy one.’
Jean-Paul laughed. ‘Where’s the vineyard?’
‘Corbières. When he’s got his French up to scratch he’s going to do a winemaking course.’
She was wearing an ivory silk peignoir. Jean-Paul slipped it down and, slowly, began to stroke her smooth back.
‘Will you sleep with him?’
She pressed her breasts against his chest and thought, too right I’m going to sleep with him. That was a pleasure in store, but mustn’t think about that now. Concentrate on the man you’re with.
With her increased experience, Helene was expanding her Most Kissed Mistress List. She was particularly interested in finding ways she could give something unexpected, but subtly right-on-the-money to this man who was so generous to her.
What she tried to do, from time to time, was give him something to take home, conversationally, to Madame. The Cordiers had known one another from childhood. They lived, and obviously were content with, a life of comforting and comfortable routine. Helene found it relaxing thinking herself into other people’s lives. She imagined, with those two, that the word ‘usual’ would crop up again and again.
‘You’re going to market tomorrow, as usual?’
‘You’ll be back in time to do the wine, as usual?’
Helene no longer wore scent. Jean-Paul couldn’t go home smelling of his mistress. And she tried to give him something to take home – a joke, an anecdote, something he could have read or heard in the street, something that would amuse his wife.
‘Why, why?’ Helene could hear Noel. But he operated, as she had done in her Life of Crime, on a here-today-gone-tomorrow basis. With Jean-Paul, she felt a certain sense of responsibility.
Rule One for Jean-Paul was Don’t Get Found Out. Helene was aware that Frenchwomen were far more sanguine than their British counterparts about the extra-marital affair. But that didn’t mean the French wanted it chucked in their faces. Mais non!
Helene appreciated that for Madame, presiding over her two impressive homes, this marriage was a deal. As long as he walked through the door on time, she would have fresh food on the table on time, with provisions she had shopped for, and meticulously selected. She would control their son, the cleaner, the woman who made the curtains, the window-cleaner, Wednesday’s dinner party, the concierge and the man coming to fix the dishwasher. All Jean-Paul had to do was run his business, pour the wine and keep his mistress discreetly under wraps.
The Price of Love Page 5
