In the hall, Alix hesitated by a console table dotted with family pictures. Among the framed portraits of Mémé’s long-dead parents and brother was the one Alix treasured most: her parents’ wedding photograph. She picked it up, smiling at the bride’s arrow-straight dress, thinking, That’s not so different from what I’m wearing. She kissed the cold glass. Wish me luck, mother.
*
Picking her up outside the Deux Magots café on Boulevard St-Germain, the comte handed her a posy of creamy narcissi tied with a blue ribbon.
‘Lavin blue!’ she exclaimed.
‘The only blue that perfectly complements yellow.’ As the comte opened the passenger door for her, Alix had a moment to appreciate the elegant cut of his grey suit. Studying him more closely as he got behind the wheel, she saw that his woven silk tie was charcoal flecked with yellow. She took that as a compliment; he’d once told her, ‘A gentleman should always wear grey, you know, because then he will never upstage the lady he is with.’
‘Unless she’s a nun,’ she’d retorted at the time, and he’d laughed and added, ‘In which case, she’ll forgive him.’
The comte drove fast, even faster in Paris than he had in London. They zipped across the Seine by the Pont de l’Alma, took Avenue Kléber and rocketed into the traffic swirling round Place de l’Etoile, lane-hopping to the sound of klaxons. Alix felt she was holding her breath all the way to Boulevard Haussmann!
‘My chauffeur Pépin used to drive a taxi,’ the comte explained, mistaking her excitement for fear. ‘He got me into bad habits, but I detest crawling in Paris traffic. Other motorists don’t respect you if you look at all apologetic.’
She didn’t feel remotely unsafe with this man, even when he went up on the pavements. ‘Where’s the Morgan?’ she asked. ‘I adored that car.’
‘Ah, alas, we had to split up. She stayed in London.’
Their journey ended in Boulevard de Courcelles, a long road that divided the 8th and 17th arrondissements, flattening the top of Parc Monceau. Tossing his key to a porter, the comte led Alix into a small hotel where he was obviously well known. The dining room overlooked the park and Alix fancied she saw the sheen of water and the ruined columns of the Naumachie beyond. M. Javier had told her he lived on Courcelles in a hotel suite. It might even be this hotel.
‘So …’ her host smiled as they took their seats at a beautifully laid table, ‘let’s get this confession out of the way. What have you done, Alix?’
She told him about the telephone exchange, glossing over Mlle Boussac’s contempt, embellishing her own noble act in putting through an unauthorised call. ‘Booted out on the spot. I hope you aren’t angry.’
‘Did you enjoy working there?’
‘I hated it.’
‘Then all’s well that ends well.’
‘But you got me the job.’
‘No, I suggested you to somebody I know, asked them to see you. You got yourself the job. What now?’
She told him about the offer from Javier, and meeting the great man himself.
The comte immediately invited the wine waiter to fill her glass, saying, ‘Let us toast your future. Now, this is a Riesling grand cru that they keep in the cellar for me. You approve? We have a duty to drink the wines of … of Alsace, you know.’
At ‘Alsace’ he had checked. So faintly she could easily have missed it. Why did the name worry him? Or was it that he’d forgotten she was grown up and felt he shouldn’t be encouraging her to drink? The Riesling was so fragrant, so perfectly chilled, she’d like to drink as much wine as Alsace could produce, and told him so.
‘Leave some for me,’ he laughed. ‘To M. Javier, a toast to his excellent good sense.’ After they’d clinked glasses, he flipped open a leather-bound menu. ‘May I choose for you? If you’d rather I didn’t, please say. But I know the chef and can find something that will please you. Is there anything you don’t like?’
‘No – well, I don’t eat boiled hockey boots because at school they tasted like pig’s liver and onion. I don’t eat turnip unless I have to. Oh, and bright-yellow custard. Everything else I love. I’m greedy.’
He laughed with real pleasure. ‘What perfection! A greedy girl with a hand-span waist. Well, Arnaud does the best Coquilles St-Jacques in Paris, so we’ll start with that. How is your grandmother? No more nightmares about Herr Hitler, I trust?’
This time Alix gasped out loud. How could the comte know about Mémé’s fears? Her grandmother was back to her scalpel-sharp self, but it had been a frightening episode, shared with nobody.
Alix was aware that the man now discussing the merits of duck breast over salt-marsh lamb with the head waiter was the only uninterrupted male presence in her life. He had educated her. His care, his notice, was the cornerstone of her self-belief. The visit he’d made to her school during her last term was a seminal moment of her existence – prior to her meetings with Bonnet and Javier, anyway. He’d come to watch her perform in a concert for which she had designed the costumes. As she made her bow at the end, his smile had told her that she was a credit. A success. That smile had made years of humiliation seem unimportant.
But did he also keep an eye on her and her grandmother here in Paris? Hire spies? She told herself not to be ridiculous. Why would he? If he kept an eye on Mémé, it was out of kindness.
Turning to her, the comte clearly realised he’d said something wrong. ‘Alix?’
‘You asked about my grandmother … you mentioned Hitler.’
He groaned. ‘A name that falls off the tongue too readily these days. I agree with you, one shouldn’t speak lightly about such things. I simply want to know if Mme Lutzman is well.’
‘She’s well, thank you.’
And that was that. During their first course they talked fashion, and the comte told her what he knew about Javier. A lot, it seemed, and perhaps not gleaned just from his wife, but also from other women of his acquaintance.
‘Javier began his career at the House of Worth, but was too radical. Then he went to Paul Poiret – clash of temperament. When he left there, the feeling was that he would fade. But he proved a sticker. Spanish and Jewish, he had to fight to be allowed to join the Syndicat.’
‘You like him, Monsieur?’
‘He makes women look adorable and he’s one of the best tailors in the world.’
Alix recalled the tape measure over the shoulder and smiled. The ‘best tailor in the world’ had praised her skill. As they waited for their lamb, she asked, ‘Monsieur, why have you been so kind to me all my life?’
The comte answered lightly. ‘You know the story, how your father and I fought together. One day he walked into enemy fire to pull me away from certain death. One does not forget that. When he died leaving an orphaned child, I offered help. I paid for the sort of schooling I hoped would give you a chance in life. Your grandmother accepted very reluctantly – but she believed your parents would have wanted it.’
Alix nodded, lifting the glass that had refilled by magic. ‘My mother would have chosen that sort of school for me, I know she would. “Mathilda was always halfway out of the door,” people said. She wouldn’t stick at her books, or be told what to do. But parents always want children to make up for their mistakes. Did you know, the moment war was declared, she enrolled as a nurse? Badgered the authorities until they took her.’
The comte smiled, but said nothing.
‘She met my father feeding ducks in a London park … I’m not sure which one. She was in her nurse’s uniform. He was in uniform too because he was waiting to be shipped off to fight. They fell in love instantly.’ Unlike Mathilda, who was a creature of Alix’s imagination, John Gower inhabited her real memory. Tall as a giant to her infant self, he’d smelled of engine oil, because after the war he worked for the railways. Alix remembered him coming home from work, his collar blackened, his face creased with exhaustion but always with a little present in his pocket for her.
She could still sing ‘Guide me, O Thou Great Redeemer’
, which he’d taught her, and she had a clear picture of him singing it at the kitchen sink. No, not singing. Huffing it between coughing fits, the wheezing tap joining in so he sounded like one of the trains pulling out of Clapham Junction station. He’d tap his chest and say, ‘Feathers in my lungs.’
What else … ? She remembered his watch on the draining board next to a bar of green soap, and his braces hanging by his side as he washed. She remembered the excitement of him swinging her in the air, high as the lampshade. Once he’d accidentally cracked her head on the door frame. She could still hear her own squalling distress, his desperate soothing and Mémé’s reproaches. Guilt marbled that memory. John Gower had come back from war whole and had died in 1921, when Alix was five, from a lung disease caught in a military hospital.
His early death had robbed them of a thousand conversations. He’d left nothing about himself – no letters, no diaries, just a few fuzzy photographs. Mémé said he was a Londoner, with roots elsewhere, maybe Ireland or Wales, and her tone was never warm when she spoke about him. She seemed to consider him more like her lodger than her son-in-law. And he was not Jewish; categorically not. He and Mathilda had married in the winter of 1915 at the Methodist chapel in South Norwood … or was it Streatham? Whichever, it was a gloomy place. End of story.
The comte could tell her about her father’s war service, Alix knew, but she didn’t know how to ask. Men who’d suffered the horrors of the trenches hated to speak of it. Well, except Bonnet. He told you even the things you didn’t want to hear. So she asked a different question.
‘Did you meet my mother, Monsieur?’
‘Danielle’s daughter …’ Alix heard the hesitation in his voice. ‘I sent a card of congratulation for the wedding but couldn’t make the ceremony. Soon after, it was too late. What a sad subject, Alix. Finish your wine. We’re having Pinot Gris with the lamb.’
‘Did you ever meet my grandfather? I’m sorry, it’s just I’ve a lifetime of questions stored up because Mémé can never remember things. You don’t mind?’
‘Of course you want to know about your family. Which grandfather – John Gower’s father?’
‘My Alsace one. Alfred Lutzman. I know you and he and Mémé lived in the same town and you were the most important person there.’ She added the last bit in case he thought she was imagining they’d had picnics together.
‘I don’t know about the most important – the mayor and the chief of police would argue that one. Our paths didn’t cross much though, of course, I was aware of Lutz – of your grandfather. A superb artist. The way he captured faces was breathtaking, and as a colourist I consider him without equal.’ His eye rested on the flowers beside Alix’s plate, tender yellow with their bold ribbon. ‘My mother was an early collector of his paintings, some of which I inherited, and I was lucky enough to obtain one or two.’
‘I knew you had some! How many? Oh, monsieur, when may I see them?’
‘Some day. I’ve tried to acquire more down the years, without much success.’
Waiters circled, bearing silver domes that they lifted in a choreographed flourish. As they were being served, Jean-Yves told Alix about Arnaud, the hotel’s chef, who came from the Auvergne, a remote place where men were hunters. ‘One day, we’ll come here for the wild boar. Sauce for you? Tell me when.’
It dawned on Alix that the comte was trying to change the subject. Politeness told her she should let him, but she couldn’t waste this rare opportunity. ‘Monsieur, why did you fight for England during the war? Because really, you were German, were you not?’
Something stern came into her companion’s face. ‘I am a Frenchman. My mother was born in Paris and my father’s lineage was French. The invasion by Germany of Alsace in the 1870s trapped us in a new nationality. My father chose German rule rather than abandon his estates, but I assure you it was always a technicality. I studied in England, took work there and when war broke out joined an English regiment. Not to fight ‘for England’. To fight for freedom. But enough questions, my dear. Please understand, I have come to the age where my wife and daughters ignore me. To be face to face with a beautiful young woman who finds me interesting –’ a smile crinkled his eyes – ‘is a little overwhelming.’
Alix blushed.
‘May I say something? It is not a criticism, but you have an intensity …’
‘I stare?’
‘Your eyes have the power to unsettle. Some men will be knocked off their feet. Use that power wisely.’
She really was blushing now.
He tapped the edge of her plate. ‘Come on. I want to see proof of this greed of yours because I can’t believe it. You’re slender as a conductor’s baton.’
‘One more question. Just one? Please?’ It had just revealed itself, this last need. She looked at him through her lashes. ‘If my father could see me –’ she pointed to herself – ‘not clever, not always good, sacked from the telephone exchange, what would he think? You’re the only person who really knew him. Mémé is always bad-tempered about the whole thing. I think she was cross that my mother … well, you know, had to marry him. If they’d left it any longer, she wouldn’t have fitted into her wedding dress. Monsieur, do you think he would like me?’
Jean-Yves took her hand in his. ‘I knew John Gower as a soldier, not as a father. But I’ll try to answer. Looking at you, he would be rather shocked – you’re so modern and self-sufficient. Remember, he was born when Queen Victoria ruled the globe and ladies wore corsets that made their waists smaller than the crowns of their husband’s top hats. Your spirit would remind him of Mathilda—’
‘So you did meet my mother?’
He squeezed her hand and continued. ‘I’m sure your father would adore you.’ He raised his glass. ‘To your future at Javier. May you burn a comet’s trail. But leave some of us standing, wicked little Alix.’
*
Stopping beside St-Lazare Métro station, the comte opened the car door for her and waited for her to step out. ‘Got your flowers?’
‘Of course.’ She’d cradled them in her lap so they wouldn’t bruise.
‘It’s been a lovely afternoon, Alix. Thank you.’ He presented her with a card. ‘This is my office in Rue du Sentier. Contact me there any time you want. Are you sure you don’t want me to take you to Montmartre? I can get the car most of the way there.’
She told him it was no trouble. She’d take the Métro to Abbesses. In truth, she didn’t want the comte to see the Place du Tertre side of her life. She’d promised to pose this afternoon for Bonnet, but she wished she hadn’t, because she was slightly drunk and also didn’t fancy taking her crêpe dress into Bonnet’s den. But then she couldn’t let her friend down either. And as Bonnet only ever talked to himself when he painted, it would be a good opportunity to mull over everything the comte had told her.
*
Bonnet’s shutters were closed. Alix paused, thinking that he was unlikely be sleeping on such a warm spring day. Perhaps he’d gone out to paint by the canal. Without much expectation of finding him, she climbed the stairs to his studio. There was just enough light in the stairwell for her to read the note pinned to his studio door:
‘Bonnet absents himself’ was written in messy capitals. He’d drawn a cartoon of a bearded buffoon asleep in a wine glass. How like him to forget their appointment. Bonnet never locked up, and his studio door opened with a push. Wrinkling her nose at the mess – empty bottles, the remnants of strong coffee and that vile rabbit glue – she scribbled a note, pinned it on his easel and was just closing the door behind her when she heard a creak from the stairs below. Then, a moment to realise that a figure was pounding up towards her before she was grabbed and pushed against the studio door – the air knocked out of her.
*
She tried to scream but nothing came out because whoever he was he was pressing the back of her neck with his forearm. She felt scratchy wool through the silk of her dress and smelled its oily heat. One of her hands was trapped between her ribca
ge and the door panel. It was the hand holding the flowers, their scent invading her nostrils. Something icy touched the side of her neck – a blade so sharp she could feel it splitting her skin without pressure.
A voice growled, ‘Listen to me and no noise. Understood?’
She whispered, ‘Yes,’ into the door.
‘I warned your stuck-up friend the comte that I’d hurt someone he loves if he didn’t pay up, and I reckon he loves you, doesn’t he?’
‘I – I don’t know.’
‘Oh, he does. I was letting him off lightly, asking for only five hundred thousand francs. Well, the price has gone up: one million francs, because he cheated. He pays it, and you won’t get hurt. Got it?’
‘One million … and I won’t get hurt.’
‘He’ll get a letter saying when to leave the cash. If he doesn’t –’ the knife blade moved to the flesh beneath her eye. ‘Such a shame if my knife slipped. You understand?’
‘Yes,’ she cried, then felt a rough pressure on her scalp … he was cutting her hair.
It was over in an instant. ‘Close your eyes and count to fifty,’ he snarled. ‘Don’t look round or I’ll make sure nobody will want to paint you again.’
When the pressure on her neck was eased, she collapsed on to her knees. She heard boots thumping downstairs and the front door slam shut. If she ran to the studio window she’d see her attacker in the square, but she didn’t dare. Her lips moved in shocked bursts. ‘One … two … three …’ she kept counting even while she was sobbing. ‘Twenty-seven, twenty-eight …’
On forty-nine she stumbled downstairs, opened the street door and ran … straight into a person walking past.
*
Somebody was reaching to help her up. ‘Are you all right?’
A man. Anxious, curious – when all she wanted to do was curl like a shrimp and be sick. ‘Leave me alone. I have to find the comte,’ she moaned.
‘I see.’ Though clearly he didn’t. ‘You’re crying.’
The Dress Thief Page 9
