The Dress Thief (46 page)

Rosa watched her maid pour tea and, as it was nudging four o’clock, she broke the waxed seal over the contents of a tartan tin. ‘All the way from Edinburgh, Scotland. Go on, Toinette, take one. Lucky for me the franc’s so low. My annuity with the Prudential buys more shortbread here than it would in London. Only way I can afford you, dear.’

A knock at the door. Rosa said, ‘Answer it, but I’m not in unless he’s tall, dark and handsome.’

With the maid’s departure, her cheerful expression faded. Losing her job with Alix back in August still hurt. She’d stayed with Alix for seven days and nights following the police raid. Then Alix, who was inconsolable and, Rosa suspected, a little deranged from shock, had asked her to go. She needed
to be alone to think. Rosa had waited for a word, for the invitation to return to work. Not a squeak. Now it was the last Sunday in October and Rosa had no more illusions. She’d lost a job and a friend.

She didn’t blame Alix. After the raid, it had been panic. Half
the sewing girls had walked out and any number of customers had rung, cancelling their orders. The police hadn’t arrested Alix in
the end. The lawyer she’d been forced to hire reckoned there were insufficient grounds for a prosecution. But Alix had lost so much money, she’d only have kept her business going by cutting staff to a skeleton and doing fifty jobs herself.

‘Bloody world,’ Rosa sighed, biting into her biscuit. ‘Knocks us down, watches us stagger up, knocks us down again.’ Hearing voices in the hall, she swore
pithily. She didn’t want visitors. ‘What happened to tall, dark and handsome?’ she demanded as Toinette opened the door and stepped aside. ‘Blimey O’Riley,’ she exclaimed as she saw who stood there. ‘Where’ve you been and what the hell happened?

*

He’d only come for information, but there was something about Rosa that got you talking. Within an hour he’d unveiled more than he knew he was hiding.
The war – that part played by the International Brigades – was over, he told her. They were disbanded. Well, obviously, or he wouldn’t be here. They were all, officially, Heroes of Democracy.

After parading through Barcelona, three or four hundred Britons had embarked for home, but he’d crossed into France instead. He told Rosa that nothing in his life as a reporter had prepared him for the reality
of infantry warfare. ‘You become a machine. It’s the only way to survive.’

Rosa had Toinette fill the biggest teapot. She told him she’d
had four brothers who’d fought in the last rotten war, so nothing shocked her. So he told her about the women and children driven out of their villages by the Fascists and used as shields. ‘Mown down. Boys called up to fight for the government side, and shot
for running away. That’s when it struck me – soldiers have to fight for something. I don’t mean politics. What every soldier needs is salvation. His girl.’

Rosa pushed the tartan tin at him, followed by the sugar bowl, though she knew he didn’t take sugar. ‘I hope you’ve got one in reserve.’

‘Do I need a reserve, Rosa?’ He looked around for signs of Alix, but saw only Rosa’s possessions.

She
topped up his cup. ‘So – when you disappeared so suddenly, it was to fight the Fascists? Why d’you have to fight other buggers’ wars?’

‘Blood payment.’ The tea was stewed but Verrian didn’t mind. He doubted he’d ever quench his thirst. ‘I caused the deaths of two people in Spain. Of my wife, Maria-Pilar, and a friend, Miguel. I don’t expect you to understand, but I couldn’t rest until I offered
my blood in return for theirs.’

‘How does the tab stand?’

‘I’m alive, so perhaps I’m forgiven. Rosa, is Alix still here?’

‘No. Went ages ago. I’ve let her room to a Polish chap.’

What he’d feared. Call it survivor’s sensitivity, but he’d looked at the upstairs front window as he crossed the square and known there was no Alix behind it. ‘Where is she?’

‘I’d rather not say.’

‘Is Bonnet still
next door? He’ll tell me.’

‘He’s gone too. Law unto himself, Bonnet. Word to the wise: things changed for Alix after you left.’

The word ‘things’ felt like a drum roll, building to a climax he dreaded. ‘Where is she?’

‘She’ll be at work in her fashion house, cutting clothes or swanning around in them, or nagging her sewing girls. Those she’s got left.’

‘I see.’ Though he didn’t at all. ‘Is
there a man … anyone I should know about?’

‘Sort of.’ Rosa gave an uneasy shrug. ‘She got mixed up with this fellow after you left. I warned her … bad lot. She left him in the end but I’m told she’s since gone back. She had a horrible upset, see, and sort of lost the will. She pruned off all her friends and let nobody near her. Except
him
. No – don’t ask.’

‘That’s rather a tall order.’

Rosa
peeled the knitted cosy off the teapot and peered inside. She muttered about ‘making fresh’ but Verrian stopped her from getting up.

‘Where can I find her?’ He kept his gaze on her until she broke.

‘All right. I’m fond of both of you and don’t see nothing but trouble. But all right … If she asks, I didn’t tell you.’

And then she told him.

*

‘Wake up, Miss Gower.’ Jolyan Ferryman pitched his
voice over the mesh of laughter and scraping chairs. ‘Glaze over any more, somebody will call for a window cleaner.’

Alix realised that everyone was getting up to dance. Serge had sacked Roistering Rex and secured a mellifluous six-piece from New Orleans with a lead trumpeter who, in his own words, could swing a cat just by looking at it. Dulcie L’Amour’s baby voice was so overwhelmed by a tight
brass section, she was more stage decoration than singer. Nobody noticed. People came for the swing, they came for the chef Serge had tempted away from a top restaurant. They came because the Rose Noire was the place to be seen even on a damp Monday night.

A waiter served champagne and she watched its mist climb her glass. Watched the warring bubbles, felt them enter her nose as a brut flow hit
the back of her mouth.

Jolyan spoke right into her ear. ‘Why did you come back to Serge, Miss Gower?’

She answered without thinking. ‘I needed to look at something worse than failure.’

‘
She
didn’t cheer.’ Jolyan bucked his cigarette holder in the direction of Dulcie L’Amour, who was singing ‘Chick, Chick, Chick, Chick, Chicken’. ‘Yours was the last face she wanted to see back again. God, she’ll
lay an egg if she pushes any harder.’

‘Serge tells me he likes blondes, that I’m too dark and thin.’

Jolyan snorted. ‘Doesn’t mean he doesn’t want you. There’s a rumour flying around that you’re starving him of affection.’

‘Don’t listen to rumours.’

‘Actually he told me himself. He confides in me, you see. After you walked out on him, he picked me out as his new best friend. He would unburden
himself – “himself” being his favourite subject – and because I don’t speak French fast enough to interrupt him, he had a silent audience. An unhappy Serge is rotten company, so any chance of loosening the screws – as he so charmingly puts it – tonight?’

‘No. Not until he confesses what he did to Solange. I need him to tell me he didn’t hurt her.’

‘Ah, feminine logic. Naturally, his silence
cannot imply innocence, because you’ve already convicted him in your mind.’

‘I know he isn’t innocent.’

‘Then why wait all these weeks for an answer you have already?’ Jolyan rolled his eyes in mock exasperation. ‘Let me put you out of your misery. Men like Serge always hurt their women when they feel out of control. Of course he hurt what’s-her-name. He’ll go for you ’ere long.’

She waited
for a break in the music, then said harshly, ‘Why don’t you go and annoy Rhona de Charembourg? You’re in her pay, or her lover’s. Why should I be saddled with you?’

‘I’m Rhona’s social eyes and ears, not her companion. I ring ahead and reserve her the best tables. I check her furs into cloakrooms, ensure the same ones are given back. I order her taxis. That’s all.’

‘Does the Comte de Charembourg
know what you do?’

‘Naturally. He approves. These days he’s rarely away from his place of business. He’s taken over as Chairman of FTM, which involves travel to Alsace. He likes being busy. When he’s at home, he prefers to work or read in his study.’

‘Does he know you sit and chat with me?’

Jolyan eyed her in amusement. ‘Do we chat? I sit here because it’s a good table for people-watching.
Also, Mme de Charembourg likes me to keep an eye on you. We often have breakfast together, she and I, where I report everything I’ve heard you say … every gauche confession, every acid remark. She laps up your naiveties, but I doubt she bores her husband by repeating them.’

‘You are a fox. No, a polecat. Light me a cigarette.’

‘Hashish joint or ordinary?’ Jolyan asked, opening his cigarette
case.

‘Ordinary. You do it so well.’

He laughed. ‘Touché. I like you better since you got raided. It kicked your smug little rear.’

‘What do you know about that?’ Alix flashed back.

‘Not a lot and care less. Oh, look, Rhona and Maurice are dancing. Admit it – they are a superb couple. What colour would you call Madame’s dress?’

‘Mud,’ Alix grunted, though privately ‘coffee-cream’ came to
mind. Hard to judge its precise colour under artificial light. It was slinky, made of synthetic fibre, judging from its sheen, and rimmed with silk fringe. As Rhona turned in Ralsberg’s arms,
Alix got a full view of the back and her mouth dropped. It was her own failed No. 10. She staggered to her feet, yelping, ‘That’s my dress! The one I couldn’t … good God. How on earth—’

Jolyan grabbed her
hand. ‘Come on, let’s dance.’ A song, ‘Tipi Tipi Tin’, had burned like a brush fire all that summer and the band had just struck up the opening bars. Alix let herself be pulled on to the dance floor because she wanted a proper look at Rhona and the back of that dress.

‘Tipi Tipi Tin’ went like a train. No chance of manoeuvring Jolyan, who seemed to guess her motives and was steering her ever
further from Rhona and Ralsberg, a sly smile on his lips. Then the band slewed into ‘Glad Rag Doll’. The tempo slowed, dancers moving like whipped cream. Damn – Rhona and her partner were leaving the floor, heading for their table in one of the club’s niches. Alix almost throttled Jolyan as she lunged sideways to get a last glimpse of Rhona. Frustratingly, Maurice Ralsberg placed his hand in the small
of Rhona’s back, and Alix gave up. It could be No. 10. Or it could be somebody else’s creation entirely. As Javier had once pointed out, ‘Very little in this world is truly original.’

And now she was stuck with Jolyan Ferryman, which felt like one of those dreams where you find yourself slow-dancing with your old chemistry teacher or a toad-faced bellboy. Jolyan obviously felt the same as he
said, ‘Don’t loll. I don’t like breathing somebody else’s air.’

‘Maybe you’re not interested in girls, Jolyan.’

‘I’m not interested in girls, correct. I like women. Your milksop gropings for a sexual identity don’t hit the spot.’

‘I’ll ask you to sleep with me when I’m as old as Rhona de Charembourg. Is she going to divorce the comte, or is Ralsberg simply amusing himself while he’s in Paris?’

She expected Ferryman to show some offence, but he replied placidly, ‘Ralsberg is head over heels. In love with love. Nobody falls harder than a mature man whose life is money, money and money. It’s like watching a native tribesman coming into contact with European smallpox. Straighten up.’ He tapped the exposed skin of Alix’s back with his knuckle. ‘I know it’s “Glad Rag Doll”, but don’t flop
at the knees. Ah – the Relief of Mafeking, Serge is coming. He can prop you up.’

Serge took Alix in his arms. ‘You’ll come upstairs with me tonight? I’m still waiting for you to sweep up that blue glass.’

She stared deep into Serge’s eyes and thought,
At least with Jolyan you feel there’s a personality inside, even if it’s horrid. Here I am, gazing into a void. Serge has no character. He’s a
manufacture of my fantasies and his lies
. ‘I don’t like stairs any more, Serge. Why did you tell me Solange lived on Corsica when she lives at Le Havre?’

‘I don’t know where she lives.’

‘Liar. You went to her and hurt her. I know it.’

‘What is it with you women, always peering into your souls? What was Jolyan Ferryman telling you?’

‘That you’d hurt me badly in time, but I don’t think you
have the guts. Once you tried – braking so hard I slammed into the dashboard? There wasn’t a stray deer on the road that night. I’d asked you to behave like a man, so you behaved like a brat.’

Serge’s pupils flickered a warning, which she ignored. She’d come back to him because she’d been in despair, imagining the world was riddled with enemies hunting her to death. Serge, alcohol and hashish
had offered a refuge and she’d stumbled back into the trap. Now that she was clear-headed again, she’d just have to climb out.

As if he heard her thoughts, Serge pulled her against him and dug his thumb into the curve of her neck. She shifted but the pressure moved with her.

‘Serge, that hurts!’

He didn’t reply, nor did he ease off. The band segued into a new tune. Their leader held his trumpet
against his leg and began to croon, ‘Vous, qui passez sans me voir’ – a song about a man seeing the love of his life walk by without a glance.