VILLA SANARY‚ PRESENT DAY
Evie sat at the kitchen table working while Madame Laurent chopped apricots for stewing.
‘Here, try one of these.’ The housekeeper handed one to Evie. ‘Had to stop the young lad from eating them all. Headed for a bellyache, he was.’
‘I hear you. That kid could eat for his country.’ She bit into the apricot and juice dribbled onto her chin; she wiped it off with her sleeve.
‘How are you getting on with the exhibition, then?’ asked Madame Laurent, still chopping. ‘How was Paris?’
‘Good.’ She tried to hold her voice steadier than she felt. Avoided looking at Madame Laurent. Instead, she recalled her fingers in Clément’s hair, her hands touching his cheeks, his arms about her as he hugged her goodbye and jumped in the taxi.
It was just a kiss. She’d definitely wanted more, and so had Clément, judging by the way he’d held her tight. But it was complicated. There was Hugo, the exhibition, different cities … Plus, they’d both been a bit tipsy. Clearly, she should not day-drink. It wouldn’t happen again. Would it? Part of her would kiss him again in a flash—most of her, in fact.
‘We had some good meetings,’ she said lightly.
She also hadn’t told Madame Laurent about Maxime’s older brother, Gabriel, handing over the letter that had helped convict Margot Bisset. Evie was conscious of what the housekeeper had said about her husband: He still shakes his head and goes quiet when it comes up on the rare occasion. You’d think it was his fault the murdering maid went to gaol. Hopefully she and Clément would find something to shed more light on the matter before the note went on display at the exhibition.
At least there was something she could tell Madame Laurent. ‘The publishers are sending through some of their notes and correspondence with Joséphine. She was always published with the one company, Mallory.’
‘Loyal to the end, that one,’ said Madame Laurent. ‘Doesn’t surprise me.’
‘Actually, I got an email from the publisher this morning with a scanned letter that they had on file, squished up the front under her first few contracts. It’s the rejection letter for her first manuscript, The French Gift. Nobody there can remember what it was about.’ Evie scratched her head. ‘We’ve looked everywhere. She must have destroyed it.’
‘Sounds like Joséphine. If she thought it wasn’t good enough … I’m sorry, love.’ Madame Laurent frowned as she tipped the apricots into a large copper pot. ‘I know how hard you and Dr Tazi searched for it. What it would mean for your Foundation.’
Evie’s face grew hot at the mention of Clément, and she hoped Madame Laurent wouldn’t notice. ‘One good thing has come from this search. We met with the journalist who wrote that first feature piece on Joséphine. He was in the Resistance too. An old acquaintance of hers, though they only met just the once after the war.’
‘That’s our recluse!’ Madame Laurent chuckled as she poured sugar over the fruit and dabbed it about with a wooden spoon. She tapped the spoon on the lip of the pot and let it rest there before walking over to where Evie sat and pulling up a chair. ‘So, go on then, show me this rejection letter. Joséphine didn’t much like being disagreed with, so I can imagine she kept this to herself. Just another of her funny little secrets, or quirks, if you like.’
Evie took a gulp of water and opened her email as the sunny scent of sticky apricots filled the kitchen.
16 September 1948
Mallory Press
Paris
Dear Mlle Murant,
I wish to thank you for sending us your manuscript ‘The French Gift’ for consideration.
Please understand that we are not so large a publishing house that we can take a risk on an incomplete work, and I must admit to finding some of the plot implausible. Should you see fit to include the pieces of missing evidence and provide a satisfactory revelation for the ending, we may be persuaded to look at this manuscript again.
If you will permit me to make a personal observation, this fiction is quite a departure from the style for which you established your by-line as a journalist. The topic you have chosen is perhaps too complex for a first-time novelist, and too severe for writers and readers of the fairer sex. However, your fiction has a charming turn of phrase and a jolie voice, and I would encourage you to develop your hand.
I would be happy to consider any subsequent (finished) manuscripts.
Yours sincerely,
Jean Mallory III
(Manuscript enclosed)
Madame Laurent tutted. ‘Manuscript enclosed. Well! You’re right, she must’ve got rid of it at some point. Good thing she kept so much of her other work.’
‘Clément Tazi is certainly grateful for your excellent organisation.’
‘He’s a good egg, that one.’ Madame Laurent touched Evie’s hand. ‘Forgive me if I’m overstepping, love, but he does seem to fancy you. I know you miss Raph—we all do. He was a good egg too.’
Evie couldn’t help laughing, even as her eyes filled.
‘Sorry! My dear, I know you have Hugo, and it’s a business getting them into the world—believe me, I understand that much.’ The older woman rolled her eyes. ‘But you’ve done a good job. Monsieur Laurent doesn’t stop talking about the lad, who apparently spouts philosophy and talks biology as he helps in the garden. Hugo has a big heart, like his dad. Like you.’
Evie nodded, swallowing back tears, and Madame Laurent patted her hand.
‘Anyway, I’m talking too much.’ She pushed the chair back and returned to the stove, where she picked up her wooden spoon and started to stir. ‘You know, Joséphine was all about second chances, Evie. Look at her—such a tough life, in Fresnes Prison, Anrath. She even had time for that murderer, Margot Bisset. Though for the life of me I can’t think why.’