‘Curtain up in ten, m’selle,’ the stagehand said from the doorway as Flora sat at the dressing table, having her make-up applied. She looked composed, but she had already finished two glasses of champagne and was on her third, her nerves friable.
After Bonner’s ambush she had paced in her room, deeply unsettled, trying to calm herself. What did they really have to pin on her? So she had disliked Mathieson? That didn’t make her a killer. They couldn’t make her guilty by association, either. Instead she had come to a fragile conclusion that her new, starry profile was an opportunity for the ambitious reporter to provoke further interest in his big break case. Glamour and murder went well together, and he wanted headlines.
Even so, she couldn’t be sure of exactly what he knew – and her feeling of paranoia, the sense that she was being watched, had only deepened. A small crowd had gathered on the Place Vendôme to see her walk the short distance from the sanctuary of the hotel door to her waiting car this evening, and every stare upon her had felt loaded. She knew she had to tell George what had happened; he had managed her reputation with a sniper’s precision until now, and there was simply no way a report in The Times linking her to a sensational murder could be transformed into good publicity.
She took another sip of champagne and shifted distractedly in her seat, her leg brushing against a bag at her feet. The nightgown was inside, wrapped in layers of tissue and tied with a ribbon. She couldn’t even look at it – how would she be able to meet Edward’s eye at dinner, knowing what he intended? Pepperly had been right; she had been naive. She remembered now all the smirks and verbal slips that had passed her by the previous night; the innuendos that had occasionally slunk past the men’s manners as their glasses were steadily refilled.
Maxim’s: where women are seen, but never ladies. Nor gentlemen either.
She turned her hands over in her lap as the red lipstick was applied to her mouth, regarding her reflection dispassionately. The woman staring back at her in the mirror wasn’t her: not a daughter, sister, friend. Mother. She was a fantasy, one of the sirens Edward had referenced that first day on the beach as he grasped for anything and everything that would make her his.
And now she so nearly was.
‘Voilà,’ the make-up girl smiled, setting down the powder brush and looking satisfied. ‘Tout fini.’
‘Merci, Estelle.’ Flora rose as the girl began to pack up, walking over to the rail and reaching for her first costume: ropes of pearls covering a brassiere, looping down over her bare torso towards a sash that girdled her hips, covering the very bare minimum.
She stepped into it carefully, taking care not to catch one of the ropes. One pull, and hundreds of beads would scatter everywhere.
‘Vous êtes prêt, M’selle?’ Marie asked, walking in with the gown sent over by Pepperly for her to wear tonight: emerald silk with straps that criss-crossed in front. The sable already lay, opulent, across the chaise, ready to be grabbed on the way out the door.
Marie set down tonight’s jewellery box on the dressing table and came over to fasten the hooks on the back of Flora’s costume. Flora stood patiently as she tugged and pulled the one-piece, making sure it sat exactly right.
‘Alors, bien,’ she said at last, satisfied, and wandered out again as the five-minute call was shouted down the corridor. Flora heard the stampede of feet exiting the other dressing rooms, the troupe getting into their positions as the orchestra finished its fine tuning.
She checked her reflection one last time, taking another sip of champagne to calm her nerves. As she turned away to join the others, her eyes fell to the jewellery box Marie had delivered. Usually the boxes were long and narrow, for bracelets, or broad for necklaces – but this one was as small as a robin.
Curiosity got the better of her, and she opened it.
She fell back, the box toppling onto its side, the sapphire engagement ring it held clearly on display.
How . . . how could this be here? Blood rushed through her head as she tried to understand what she was seeing. It just didn’t make sense!
Until it did.
Slowly, she stepped forward, picking it up again.
George. He had been there when she’d sold it. He had been there because he was settling a friend’s debt. A Good Samaritan, she had taunted, but it had been true. This . . . this was just another kindness, on what he knew was going to be a difficult night.
How long had he had it, she wondered, rubbing her fingers over the stones? Had he bought it immediately after she’d left the shop – or had he gone back for it, held onto it for all this time? Had he only understood just how precious it had been to her when she told him her full, awful truth this morning?
She slipped it onto her finger and immediately felt something of James’s memory come back to her, as if the gold encircling her finger could be his arms around her once more. After losing everything that had connected them, she had something of him back again, and it emboldened her. She could still reclaim something even greater of him – of them – too.
She just had to be brave.
She kissed the ring, feeling something inside her lift again for the first time in months. Like sap rising after a bleak winter, it was the first stirring of life – of hope returning – and she ran from the dressing room, towards the bright, dazzling lights.
Mirrored walls magnified Flora’s image around the room as she was led to the table where George, Edward, Robert Kinney and Charlie Buck were already waiting, the men all rising to greet her like an old friend – although only one of them really was. Kisses were planted familiarly on her cheek but she kept her gaze demurely averted as she settled into her seat, aware of the stares penetrating her skin as her coat was taken from her and her gown revealed. The hubbub of conversation dipped and then rose in a crescendo throughout the room as her presence was noted by the patrons, her name carried through the room as if on a wave.
‘Congratulations on another stellar performance, Flora,’ Charlie said, toasting her as their champagne was poured. ‘I wasn’t sure it was possible but I would say tonight’s show was even better than last.’
‘Thank you. We ironed out some kinks in rehearsal today,’ she smiled, her eyes bright as the lie slid from her tongue, echoing Pepperly’s own words last night. But it was true: the show had been even better tonight. His gift had revitalized her in her hour of need, bringing a dynamic edge she hadn’t been able to find before. She had seen James in every face in the crowd – he was everywhere and nowhere at once – and, for the first time since leaving St Kilda, her smile had reached her eyes as the memory of him flickered inside her, an intermittent shadow she could glimpse in the lights.
‘You most certainly did. You practically left scorch marks on the stage!’ Edward said, catching her gaze and holding it with the same provocative stare of their first ever meeting.
As then, she didn’t look away, even though he repelled her now. Last night, at the dinner table, she had mistaken his manner for nostalgic sentiment, but now she saw everything clearly: in his eyes was not affection, but anticipation. Long-delayed and exquisitely drawn out, his victory – over her, over James – would be all the sweeter when he finally got his reward. Knowing that he was the power behind her throne, that he had been waiting for this night for months, made her feel like prey in green silk. Served up to him – meat on a plate. Everything was on his terms now.
But she would take what she wanted from him too. He served a purpose he couldn’t even guess at.
He looked away first, with a smile – as if he had read something of her surrender in her eyes – and leaned forward to tap his cigarette ash into the ashtray. He looked handsome in his dinner suit and she remembered something Effie had cautioned that very first day on the beach: a dimple on the chin, the devil within. True, after all.
She closed her eyes briefly at the memory of her dear, fierce friend, always so plain-spoken; always so brave. She missed her – all of them: Mhairi and Molly too – with an intensity she had never foreseen. Theirs had been an age of innocence. That couldn’t be said of her situation now.
‘I must say that dress looks sensational on you, Flora,’ Kinney said. ‘The colour’s perfect for you.’
She brought herself back to Paris, opening her eyes again and regarding the businessman with a cool gaze. ‘Thank you. Although it’s not mine, of course, just borrowed, like everything else,’ she demurred. ‘Sometimes I think I’m just a walking shop display.’
‘Ooh, does that mean you’re for sale, then?’ Kinney laughed, attempting to flirt. ‘Because I’d most definitely buy!’
The others laughed, but it was Edward who laughed longest and loudest. Pepperly shifted position in his chair, looking awkward.
‘I say – what’s that?’ Charlie Buck leaned forward suddenly, reaching for her left hand as he caught sight of the ring. He looked at her with a less-than-pleased expression. ‘Have you been snapped up?’
Kinney inhaled sharply. ‘That could be a problem,’ he murmured, leaning back as he looked across at Pepperly beside him. ‘The studios aren’t fond of . . . baggage.’
‘Actually, it’s just a gift,’ Flora said, smiling as she openly gazed upon it, admiring her splayed hand. ‘Pepper got it for me.’ She looked over at him with gratitude. Could he see what it meant to her? She hadn’t yet had a chance to thank him; he had left his car outside the Casino for her tonight, travelling over with Kinney and Buck instead as they discussed business after the performance.
‘But it’s on your ring finger,’ Buck pointed out.
‘Yes. It holds sentimental value, that’s all.’
She saw Edward glance between the two of them; he too seemed less than happy, though he passed no comment. For a moment she wondered whether he had recognized James’s late mother’s ring; but if it had been in a vault in London for so many years, that seemed unlikely.
Pepperly, beside her, was looking uneasy.
‘I heard a rumour Duke Ellington’s coming out later,’ Kinney said, changing the subject as the jazz band fell into a new song.
‘Really?’ Pepperly tried to look interested.
‘You hadn’t heard? I thought you knew him?’
‘I do, but I didn’t know he was in town,’ Pepperly shrugged. ‘I can introduce you afterwards if you like. He’s a great fellow.’
‘Blast. That’s a real shame, Pepper, I’d have liked to meet him; but we’ll have to shoot straight after dinner,’ Edward said, his gaze coming to settle directly on Flora. She felt a shift in his energy – as if the ring had provoked him in some way.
Kinney frowned. ‘Not running out early on us, are you?’
‘I’m afraid so. Flora and I have made plans.’
This statement was met with a short silence.
‘Actually, about that,’ Pepperly said, looking apologetic. ‘I think it might be best if Flora had an early night. She’s been working non-stop and I need to keep my brightest star shining. We’ve a full performance schedule to get through, so until she’s used to how tiring that can be, it’s best if we pace things.’
‘That would be . . . exceedingly unfortunate, Pepper,’ Edward said after a long moment. ‘I’d been hoping to run some lines with her. I’ve arranged a screen test here in Paris for the day after tomorrow, you see. I’ve been speaking to David Humber at MGM. They’re about to greenlight a project and I’ve persuaded them that Flora fits the bill. They were excited to see what she’s got. But if you think she’s not up to anything . . . extracurricular to the show, I’ll let him know.’
Pepperly didn’t respond immediately, and Flora felt her heart begin to pound. She understood perfectly well what was happening; they all did, Buck and Kinney staring into their drinks as the ultimatum dangled.
Slowly, she reached over and covered his hand with hers. His rescue efforts could only extend so far. As he had warned her over breakfast, he could limit her interactions with Edward, but he couldn’t prevent them altogether. She must be her own white knight. ‘You’re sweet to worry about me, Pepper, but I feel perfectly well,’ she told him, communicating with her eyes.
‘. . . Well, if you’re sure.’ Pepperly’s voice was thin; he was no actor either. ‘It does sound like too good an opportunity to turn down.’ He looked at Rushton, his paymaster. ‘Can you give us a clue about what the project is?’
‘Not yet.’ Edward shrugged, a finger tapping the side of his glass. ‘They’re keeping it under wraps until the leading man’s firmed up. You know how it is. Standard stuff.’
‘Of course.’
Pepperly reached for his drink and took a long gulp. Flora watched the bubbles disappear along with her last hope as Edward’s gaze settled upon her once again; any subtlety of intention was gone and she could feel his lust like a heat. He had been deterred first by James and then, last night, by George. She knew he wouldn’t be denied a third time.
‘I’ll try not to keep her too long, Pepper,’ he smiled, reaching for his drink. ‘But I can make no promises.’
The Bentley drew up outside a pale limestone townhouse in the seventh arrondissement. Streetlights dotted the night with golden pools, the boulevard wide, although there were few people about at this hour. Flora glanced around at the buildings topped with grey mansard roofs and trellised balconies and knew it was a moneyed district. Safe – from some dangers.
‘Come,’ Edward said, almost gallantly, squeezing her hand as the driver opened the car door for her. He had been talkative, almost garrulous, the whole journey over here, his hand settling upon her every few moments as he recounted a story or pointed out a landmark, as if she had just arrived in the city this morning instead of six weeks ago.
Flora followed him inside the building, her narrow heels tap-tapping across a marbled lobby, the bag swinging in her grasp.
‘You live here?’ she asked him as he pressed a button for the lift. She had expected a hotel.
‘After a fashion. We don’t own the apartment, but my parents took a long lease thirty or so years ago. If ever we come to the city, this is where we stay. We prefer it to staying in a hotel. More intimate. It’s a home away from home, you might say.’
The lift arrived at the lobby – it was like a cage – and he stepped back for her to enter. Playing the gentleman. He was a terrific actor, she realized.
‘What exactly have you got in there?’ he asked her, pulling the grilled door across and looking down curiously at the bag.
She stared out at the floors speeding past as they travelled up. She was caged again; a songbird unable to fly away, even through an open door. ‘. . . Something appropriate. I’m told.’
The bold comment stripped away his mannered pretence that this was a seduction and not a business transaction, and he fell silent for the rest of the journey to the eighth floor.
He led her wordlessly along a narrow corridor and she watched his key slide into the lock, knowing this was her last chance to run. Once she stepped into that apartment and the door closed behind her, there would be no rescue.
She didn’t stir.
‘Well, here we are. Chez moi,’ he said, as they stepped into a tall-ceilinged apartment. The walls were peppermint green with violet borders, a large mirror splayed with angular sunrays above a curved marble fireplace. Against the far wall, a striking bronze statue of a woman holding a ball stood on an onyx plinth between a pair of French doors that led onto a balcony.
‘It’s very chic,’ she said, surprised. From what she remembered of his mother, she wouldn’t have put her down as an art deco sophisticate.
‘Only recently completed. My parents gave it to Sophia to update. They thought it would be a good project to occupy her.’
Flora glanced at him, inferring that his sister had needed distracting from her broken heart, but Edward was crossing the room, turning on table lamps. All the furniture was slope-edged and sitting low to the floor; a thick rug covered older parquet floors.
She looked around her. Several doors led off the living room, and she wondered which were bedrooms – which was his. She let the bag drop beside an armchair and slipped off the sable, waiting. Now that she was here, just let it be done.
‘A drink?’ he asked, turning back with a smile that grew as he saw her in just the gown. He had forgotten, it seemed, her hostility in the lift; he had convinced himself of his own hospitality. In his mind, at least, he was a gentleman and this was real.
‘All right.’
He faltered a little, as if noticing how she stood – still, limp – in the middle of the room. She knew she had always unnerved him somehow.
‘And some music, I think.’
He walked over to the gramophone; the sound horn bloomed into the room like a giant silver flower. ‘Perhaps some Duke, seeing as we’re missing out on the real thing?’ he asked, his fingers tripping over a thick collection of vinyls.
‘If you like.’
‘No, I know – how about some Adelaide Hall?’ He looked up at her expectantly.
She nodded. There was a stilted silence as he shuffled the vinyl from its sleeve and set it on the turntable, a loud scratch booming as the stylus dropped down. The room filled with a caramel voice. If velvet could be a sound, this is what it would sound like, Flora thought, mesmerized.
There was a faint crackle in the background that served to smother the blistering silence as Edward wandered over to the drinks trolley and began mixing them something strong.
A golden light fell in past the lace curtains at the French doors, and Flora wandered over with a dull curiosity. Was it a full moon? She had lost track of the lunar wanderings in the night sky. It had been something she had taken for granted back home. There, the North Star, the Plough, Venus were all the villagers’ companions, everyone always outside far more than they were ever in. But it was the opposite here – life was led indoors and, even if she ever was outdoors late, the sky was dim here, with no sign of star-studded canopies above.
She put a hand to the curtain and looked out . . .
‘Oh!’ she gasped, her jaw dropping down as she was met with a wholly unexpected sight.
Edward looked pleased by her reaction, her froideur forgotten in a moment. ‘You see why I had to bring you here?’ he grinned.
She looked back at him. ‘It’s . . . so beautiful!’
‘Go out!’ he said excitedly. ‘Have a better look. I’ll finish mixing these and meet you out there.’
Flora turned the handle and stepped onto the balcony, awed by the sight of the Eiffel Tower, maybe half a mile away, shimmering in its lights. She had passed it many times by day, but had somehow never caught it at night. And from this vantage point . . .
She stared, transfixed. In a curious way, something about it reminded her of the yachts at night on Village Bay – strung with lights in otherwise pristine darkness, they were a faint echo of this dazzling display. Pale imitations, perhaps, and yet . . . She felt something on the breeze, her past reaching for her.
She startled, turning around suddenly. There it was again – that feeling of eyes upon her back; it was like a warmth on her skin, a breeze in her sleep. She stared around at the neighbouring buildings, lights on in some of the rooms, deserted balconies . . . A cat prowled on the wall of one, flicking its tail as it walked before leaping effortlessly onto a higher ledge.
She willed herself to remain calm. She didn’t think The Times would have a budget that extended to covering Bonner’s expenses in an area like this. Besides, he couldn’t possibly know she was here; no one could. That was precisely Edward’s intention.
‘This was why we couldn’t stay for Duke to play,’ the man himself said, stepping through the open door and handing her her drink. ‘They switch them off at one.’
As if that had been his reason, she thought with disgust. It had merely provided him with an excuse.
Lightly, he toasted her with his glass. ‘To reunion.’
‘. . . Reunion,’ she murmured, pointedly not taking a sip of her drink but turning back again to the light display.
He stood closer behind her and she felt his hand rest upon her hip, lightly at first; his breath against her hair. She heard his breathing deepen as he inhaled her scent, the pressure in his fingertips increasing as the seconds ticked by. She felt his head move against her as he began to nuzzle and she closed her eyes, knowing it had begun . . .
She shuddered. It was an instinct she couldn’t control and he pulled back with a frown.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked, in an offended tone.
She took a steadying breath. Don’t run. He’ll only chase harder. She forced a smile. ‘. . . Just a little chilly.’
‘Oh. Well, here – let me give you my jacket.’
‘No, I . . .’ She swallowed. ‘I might just go and change into . . . something more comfortable instead.’ She looked back at him and saw the way his eyes lidded at her words, his lips parting. She could see how much he wanted to kiss her, to claim her body.
‘Now that sounds a fine idea.’
‘Where should I . . .?’
‘First door on the left.’
She nodded, handing him her drink, and slipped past, back into the apartment. Adelaide Hall enveloped her again like a fur coat but there was no comfort to be found here. She took the bag and stepped into the room he had indicated. It was a bathroom – marble clad with a mirrored wall, perfumed toiletries stored in lidded glass jars.
She put the bag on the counter and pulled out the tissue bundles. The négligée slipped free of its ribboned trusses, formless and slippery in her hands. She unbuttoned the straps of her gown and let it puddle at her feet before pushing her silk French knickers down over her hips. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, her eye falling to the single tiger stripe on her lower tummy.
She pressed a finger to it, feeling a surge of love at the idea that she had been branded by her baby after all. Something of him remained on her body, if not within.
She pulled the négligée over her head and stared at her reflection again, now that she was dressed to be undressed. When she had lain with James, they had only cared about taking their clothes off; the desperation to put their bodies together had been a primal urge that had overwhelmed them both. There had been no charade, and she had never been more herself than in those moments.
This, though – this was all an elaborate, empty farce. Motions and artifice. A dead dance.
She could hear Edward moving about in the next room, awaiting her: the tinkle of glasses, the light clatter of silver tongs on ice, the record being changed over. He was humming . . .
She reached for the smaller tissue-wrapped packet in the bag. She opened up the rattle and pressed it hard against her palm, feeling its ridges and edges and trying to imprint it into her skin as if it was something she could wear. An invisible tattoo, reminding her of who she really was . . . why she was doing this.
She opened the bathroom door and stood in the doorway, letting him absorb the sight of her in flimsy primrose silk and ribbons.
‘Flora,’ he said, his voice thick. He had taken off his jacket and unfastened his bow tie so that it dangled at his neck, the top button undone. ‘Come here.’
It was a command, as if he was reminding them both who held the ultimate power here, but she wasn’t so sure it lay with him. She could see from the rise and fall of his chest that he wouldn’t have control of himself for long. His fingers flexed as he savoured at last the sight he had been imagining for so long.
She moved towards him, feeling the hem of the gown trail on the rug and find resistance there so that it dragged a little, pressing the silk against her body. She stopped when they were toe to toe, looking at him, waiting.
She felt almost as if she had left her own body and was watching herself from the ceiling. He reached an arm forward and cupped the back of her head; with the other, he splayed his hand across her throat so that her head was tipped back slightly – he held her there for several moments, staring into her eyes, before running his hand slowly down her body: between her breasts, over her stomach, his fingers curling as he got to the mound at the top of her legs. He held them there, establishing ownership.
Her own fingers pressed against the grooves on the fleshy pad below her thumb, the rattle’s indentations holding firm, like a fossil. She would not lose shape. She would not lose herself.
He leaned forward, his mouth falling upon the saddle of her neck, and she closed her eyes. Let him have you.
His hand, lower down, began to move, pressing against her more insistently, and she felt his breathing become more ragged—
There was a knock at the door.
Edward pulled back in surprise, as if such a thing had never happened before. He looked at her, his cheeks flushed, his eyes burning. ‘Who’s that?’
‘I have no idea,’ she replied, just as bewildered.
His eyes narrowed. ‘Did you tell Pepper to do this? To come after you?’
‘Of course not. How could I have done? I had no idea where you were taking me. I still don’t know where I am.’ Much to her own dismay, it was the truth.
He considered this for a moment as another knock came, this one more insistent.
‘Well, hadn’t you better answer it?’ she asked him. ‘It might be important.’
‘How?’
She shrugged. ‘The building could be on fire?’
He groaned but pulled away from her, rearranging his trousers and running a hand through his hair as he strode angrily over to the door.
‘Yes?’ he demanded curtly as he threw it open. Flora saw his hand drop from the door jamb and he took a stunned step back. ‘What in blazes . . .?’
‘Edward? . . . Who is it?’ she asked, just as a fist sailed through the doorway and her question was answered.