The Lollipop Shoes (28 page)

I was still sitting there when Thierry came in. It was nine o’clock and still quite dark; outside I could hear the distant, dampened sounds of traffic and the chiming of the bells from the little church on Place du Tertre.

He sat down in silence opposite me; from his overcoat I could smell cigar-smoke and Paris fog. He sat there for thirty seconds in silence, then reached out a hand to cover mine.

‘I’m sorry about last night,’ he said.

I picked up my cup and looked inside. I must have let the milk boil; there was a puckered skin over the cold chocolate. Careless of me, I thought to myself.

‘Yanne,’ said Thierry.

I looked at him.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I was under stress. I wanted everything to be perfect for you. I was going to take us all out to lunch, then I was going to tell you about the flat, and how I’ve managed to get us a wedding slot – get this – at the very same church my parents were married in—’

‘What?’ I said.

He squeezed my hand. ‘Notre-Dame des Apôtres. Seven weeks’ time. There was a cancellation, and I know the priest – I did some work for him some time back—’

‘What are you talking about?’ I said. ‘You bully my children, you’re rude to my friend, you walk off without a word, and then you expect me to get all excited about flats and wedding arrangements?’

Thierry gave a rueful grin. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t mean to laugh, but – you really haven’t got used to that phone yet, have you?’

‘What?’ I said.

‘Just turn on your phone.’

I did, and found a new text message, sent by Thierry at eight-thirty the previous night.

Love you to distraction. My only excuse.

See you tomorrow at 9.

Thierry. xx

‘Oh,’ I said.

He took my hand. ‘I’m really sorry about last night. That friend of yours—’

‘Roux,’ I said.

He nodded. ‘I know how ridiculous it must sound. But seeing him with you and Annie – talking as if he’d known you for years – it reminded me of all the things I don’t know about you. All the people in your past, the men you’ve loved—’

I looked at him in some surprise. As far as my previous life is concerned, Thierry has always shown a remarkable lack of concern. It’s one of the things I’ve always liked about him. His lack of curiosity.

‘He’s sweet on you. Even I could tell that.’

I sighed. It always comes to this. The questions; the enquiries; kindly meant but laden with suspicion.

Where are you from? Where are you heading? Are you visiting relatives here?

Thierry and I had a deal, I thought. I don’t mention his divorce; he doesn’t talk about my past. It works – or it did, until yesterday.

Nice timing, Roux
, I thought bitterly. But then again, that’s what he’s like. And now his voice in my mind is like that of the wind.
Don’t fool yourself, Vianne. You can’t settle here. You think you’re safe in your little house. But like the wolf in the fairytale, I know better
.

I went into the kitchen to brew a fresh pot of chocolate. Thierry followed me, clumsy in his big overcoat among Zozie’s little tables and chairs.

‘You want to know about Roux?’ I said, grating chocolate into the pan. ‘Well, I knew him when I lived in the South. For a while I ran a
chocolaterie
in a village near the Garonne. He lived on a river-boat, moving between towns, doing casual work. Carpentry, roofing, picking fruit. He did a couple of jobs for me. I haven’t seen him for over four years. Satisfied?’

He looked abashed. ‘I’m sorry, Yanne. I’m ridiculous. And I certainly didn’t mean to interrogate you. I promise I won’t do it again.’

‘I never thought you’d be jealous,’ I said, adding a vanilla pod and a pinch of nutmeg to the hot chocolate.

‘I’m not,’ said Thierry. ‘And to prove it to you—’ He put both hands on my shoulders, forcing me to look at him. ‘Listen, Yanne. He’s a friend of yours. He obviously needs the cash. And given that I really want the flat finished by
Christmas, and you know how hard it is trying to get any one at this time of year, I’ve offered him the job.’

I stared at him. ‘You have?’

He smiled. ‘Call it a penance,’ he said. ‘My way of proving to you that the jealous guy you met last night isn’t the real me. And there’s something else.’ He reached into his overcoat pocket. ‘I got you a little something,’ he said. ‘It was going to be an engagement present, but . . .’

Thierry’s little somethings are always lavish. Four dozen roses at a time; jewellery from Bond Street; scarves from Hermès. A little too conventional, maybe – but that’s Thierry. Predictable to the core.

‘Well?’

It was a slim package, barely thicker than a padded envelope. I opened it, and found a leather travel wallet containing four first-class plane tickets to New York, dated 28th December.

I stared at them.

‘You’ll love it,’ he said. ‘It’s the only place to bring in the New Year. I’ve booked us into a great hotel – the kids’ll love it – there’ll be snow – music – fireworks . . .’ He gave me an exuberant hug. ‘Oh, Yanne, I can’t
wait
to show you New York.’

As a matter of fact, I’ve been there before. My mother died there, on a busy street, in front of an Italian deli on Independence Day. It was hot and sunny then. In December it will be cold. People die of the cold in New York in December.

‘But I don’t have a passport,’ I said slowly. ‘At least, I did – but—’

‘Out of date? I’ll see to that.’

Well, in fact it’s more than out of date. It’s in the wrong
name
– that of Vianne Rocher – and how could I tell him that, I thought, that the woman he loves is someone else?

But how could I hide it now? Last night’s scene has taught me this; that Thierry is not quite as predictable as I had assumed. Deceit is an invasive weed, which if not dealt with early enough, forces its tendrils into everything, gnawing, spreading, stifling until at last there’s nothing left but a tangle of lies—

He was standing very close, his blue eyes bright – with anxiety, perhaps. He smelt of something vaguely comforting, like cut grass or old books or pine sap or bread. He came a little closer, and now his arms were around me, my head on his shoulder (though where was that little hollow, I thought, that seemed to be made for me alone?) and it felt so familiar, so very
safe
– and yet this time there was a tension, too. I could feel it, like live wires about to touch—

His lips found mine. That charge again. Like static between us, half-pleasure, half-not. I found myself thinking of Roux.
Damn you. Not now.
That lingering kiss. I pulled away.

‘Listen, Thierry. I need to explain.’

He looked at me. ‘Explain what?’

‘The name on my passport – the name I’ll have to give at the registry office—’ I took a breath. ‘It’s not the name I’m using now. I changed it. It’s a long story. I should have told you before, but—’

Thierry interrupted me. ‘It doesn’t matter. No need to explain. We all have things we’d rather not talk about. What do I care if you changed your name? It’s who you
are
that interests me, not whether you’re a Francine or a Marie-Claude or even, God help us, even a Cunégonde.’

I smiled. ‘You don’t mind?’

He shook his head. ‘I promised I wouldn’t interrogate you. The past is the past. I don’t need to know. Unless you’re about to tell me you used to be a man, or something . . .’

I laughed at that. ‘You’re safe enough.’

‘I suppose I could check. Just to be sure.’ His hands locked in the small of my back. His kiss was harder, more demanding. Thierry never makes demands. His old-fashioned courtesy is one of the things that has always appealed to me, but today he is slightly different – there’s a hint of passions long contained; impatience; a thirst for something more. For a moment I am submerged in it; his hands move to my waist, my breasts. There is something almost childishly greedy in the way he kisses my mouth, my face, as if he’s trying to lay claim to as much of me as possible, and all the time he is whispering –
I love you, Yanne, I want you, Yanne
. . .

Half laughing, I came up for air. ‘Not here. It’s past nine-thirty—’

He gave a comic bear’s growl. ‘You think I’m going to wait seven weeks?’ And now his arms were bearish too, holding me in a close lock, and he smelt of musk sweat and stale cigars, and all at once and for the first time in our long friendship I could imagine us making love, naked and sweating between the sheets, and I felt a jolt of sudden surprise at the sense of revolt the thought provoked—

I pushed my hands against his chest. ‘Thierry, please—’

He showed his teeth.

‘Zozie’s going to be here in a minute—’

‘Then let’s go upstairs before she does.’

Already I was gasping for breath. The reek of sweat intensified, mingled with the scent of cold coffee, raw wool and last night’s beer. No longer such a comforting scent, it calls up images of crowded bars and narrow escapes and drunken strangers in the night. Thierry’s hands are slablike and eager, spattered with age spots, tufted with hair.

I found myself thinking of Roux’s hands. His deft pickpocket’s fingers; machine oil under the fingernails.

‘Come
on
, Yanne.’

He was pulling me across the room. His eyes were bright with anticipation. Suddenly I wanted to protest, but it’s too late. I’ve made my choice. There can be no going back, I thought. I followed him towards the stairs—

A lightbulb blew with a sound like a firecracker going off.

Pulverized glass showered us.

A sound from upstairs. Rosette was awake. Relief made me tremble.

Thierry swore.

‘I have to see to Rosette,’ I said.

He made a sound that was not quite laughter. A final kiss – but the moment had passed. From the corner of my eye I could see a golden something gleaming in the shadows – sunlight, perhaps, or some kind of reflection—

‘I have to see to Rosette, Thierry.’

‘I love you,’ he said.

I know you do.

It was ten o’clock and Thierry had just left when Zozie came in, wrapped up in an overcoat, wearing purple platform boots and carrying a large cardboard box in both
hands. It looked heavy, and Zozie was a little flushed as she put it down carefully on the floor.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ she said. ‘This stuff is heavy.’

‘What is it?’ I said.

Zozie grinned. She went to the window display and took out the red shoes that had been sitting there for the past couple of weeks.

‘I’ve been thinking we’re due for a bit of a change. How about a new display? I mean, this was never meant to be a permanent thing, and to be honest, I miss these shoes.’

I smiled at that. ‘Of course,’ I said.

‘So I picked up this stuff from the
marché aux puces
.’ She indicated the cardboard box. ‘I’ve got an idea I’d like to try out.’

I looked at the box, then at Zozie. Still reeling from Thierry’s visit, Roux’s reappearance and the complications that I knew it would bring, the unexpected kindness of the simple gesture left me suddenly close to tears.

‘You didn’t have to do that, Zozie.’

‘Don’t be silly. I like it.’ She looked at me closely. ‘Is anything wrong?’

‘Oh, it’s Thierry.’ I tried to smile. ‘He’s been acting strangely these past few days.’

She shrugged. ‘I’m not surprised,’ she said. ‘You’re doing well. Business is good. At last things are looking up for you.’

I frowned at her. ‘What do you mean?’

‘What I mean,’ said Zozie patiently, ‘is that Thierry still wants to be Santa Claus and Prince Charming and Good King Wenceslas all rolled into one. It was fine while you were struggling – he bought you dinner, dressed you up, showered you with presents – but you’re different now.
You don’t need saving any more. Someone took away his Cinderella doll and put a real live girl there instead, and he’s having trouble coping with it.’

‘Thierry’s not like that,’ I said.

‘
Isn’t
he?’

‘Well . . .’ I grinned. ‘Maybe a bit.’

She laughed at that, and I laughed with her, though I couldn’t help feeling a little abashed. Zozie is very observant, of course. But shouldn’t I have seen those things myself?

Zozie opened the cardboard box.

‘Why not take it easy today? Have a lie-down. Play with Rosette. Don’t worry. If he comes, I’ll call.’

That startled me. ‘If who comes?’ I said.

‘Oh, really, Vianne—’

‘Don’t call me that!’

She grinned. ‘Well, Roux, of course. Who did you think I meant, the Pope?’

I gave a wan smile. ‘He won’t come today.’

‘What makes you so sure?’

So I told her what Thierry had said: about the flat, and how determined he was to see us there by Christmas, and about the plane tickets to New York, and how he’d offered Roux a job at Rue de la Croix—

Zozie looked surprised at that. ‘He has?’ she said. ‘Well, if Roux takes it, he must need the money. I can’t see him doing it for love.’

I shook my head. ‘What a mess,’ I said. ‘Why didn’t he say he was coming here? I would have handled it differently. At least I would have been prepared—’

Zozie sat down at the kitchen table. ‘He’s Rosette’s father, isn’t he?’

I didn’t say anything, but turned to switch on the ovens. I was planning a batch of gingerbread biscuits, the sort you hang on the Christmas tree; gilded and iced and tied with coloured ribbon—

‘Of course, it’s your business,’ Zozie went on. ‘Does Annie know?’

I shook my head.

‘Does anyone know? Does
Roux
know?’

Suddenly my strength had gone, and I sat down quickly in one of the chairs, feeling as if she had cut my strings, leaving me in a sudden tangle, voiceless, helpless and still.

‘I can’t tell him now,’ I whispered at last.

‘Well, he’s no fool. He’ll work it out.’

Silently I shook my head. It’s the first time that I have had any cause to feel grateful for Rosette’s differences – but at nearly four years old she still looks and behaves like a child of two and a half, and who would believe the impossible?