“Ah, Marie!” said Monsieur Dior. “Thank you, ma petite. Bring it here.”
Claire’s mouth fell open. She looked to the doorway beyond Margot but there was no one else the couturier could have been addressing as Marie.
Maybe this gaunt, blond version of Margot wasn’t their friend at all, but a doppelgänger. Stranger things had happened, surely. But from the sales assistant’s aghast expression, and the tremor in the hands that held out the stole, Claire knew she wasn’t mistaken.
When the shock wore off, Claire was still frozen in place. She couldn’t decide whether she was more furious or delighted. She wanted to shake Margot until her teeth rattled and hug her very tightly at the same time.
Most of all, she wanted to ask why.
Why had Margot apparently been in Paris long enough to obtain a job at La Maison Dior and not come to see Claire? Why had she dyed her hair blond, of all things? Or was that a wig? Claire couldn’t tell. And why was Monsieur Dior calling her Marie?
Claire sent a wild, questioning look to Gina, but Gina was clearly as stunned as she was, although the subtle hardening of her features told Claire she felt no ambivalence about Margot’s sudden appearance in their midst.
The stole glistened with beading and gold thread. As their friend arranged the garment around Gina’s shoulders, Claire couldn’t help but notice that Margot’s shoulder blades were pronounced beneath the severe black dress she wore and that about her mouth and eyes there were signs of habitual strain.
Gina watched her in the mirror with queenly disdain. “Thank you . . . Marie, is it?” That devastating eyebrow was raised.
“Oui, mademoiselle.” The answer came out softly and there was a pause, a moment of communion between the two women.
Suddenly Gina’s face transformed, softening, and her hands stretched toward the other young woman, but with the slightest shake of her head, Margot stepped down from the dais. As Margot turned to leave, Claire received her second shock of the morning.
Margot didn’t look flustered or ashamed or even mischievous, as if this was all a joke she’d gleefully planned to play on them.
She looked terrified.
While Monsieur Dior discussed shoes with a distracted Gina, Claire slipped away and followed Margot. She saw her descending the elegant staircase and hurried down after her. “Margot, wait!”
Her friend stopped, then slowly turned around. With a resigned sigh, she replied, “Hello, Claire.”
“But what are you doing here?” Claire demanded.
Margot gave a faint smile at that. “I work here. Isn’t it obvious?”
“Since when? I—I don’t understand—”
“Mademoiselle Foulon, you are needed in the boutique.” Madame Vincent was coming up the stairs toward them. Clearly she was addressing Margot, and Margot’s eyes closed for a moment, as if to acknowledge that she’d been thoroughly exposed.
Claire stared at her friend. Was she working here under a false name? Why on earth would she do that?
“I have to go,” said Margot, turning away.
Claire grabbed her elbow. “Come to Le Chat tonight, when you get off work,” she begged. “Margot, please . . . We need to talk.”
Margot hesitated but seemed to sense that Claire wouldn’t let go until she agreed. “All right. All right.” Pulling herself free, she hurried off downstairs.
In a daze, Claire returned to the fitting room to find that Gina was behind the screen once more, getting changed. Monsieur Dior took his leave and Madame Vincent whisked the creation away for the final alterations. Gina’s earlier suggestion that Claire try on the gown seemed to have been forgotten, and Claire could only be grateful. She was too upset to enjoy the experience at that moment. She was too worried about Margot.
Why had she come to Paris without telling Claire? And why was she working at Dior? The shock, hurt, and anger Claire had felt upon first catching sight of Margot had now turned to worry. What on earth had put that look of fear on Margot’s face?
The second they set foot outside Dior, Gina exclaimed, “Did you see the way she looked at us? She genuinely did not want to run into us, did she?”
“Do you think that’s what it was?” asked Claire. “I don’t understand.”
Gina drew her gloves from her purse and put them on, frowning. “I don’t know. I mean, at first I thought she was just embarrassed at being caught working. I thought, maybe she’s in dire straits financially and didn’t want us to find out.” She made a wry face. “Something we have in common, if only she knew. But no . . . There was more to it than that, wasn’t there?”
“I think so, too,” said Claire. “She looked scared to death.”
“Well, now we know why she didn’t write. Who knows how long she’s been here in Paris, right under your nose.”
“There’s something else,” Claire said. “She’s using a false name.”
“You mean Monsieur Dior calling her Marie?” Gina shrugged. “I wouldn’t set any store by that. I understand he often gives people pet names.”
“But it’s her nom de famille that’s changed, too,” said Claire. “I heard Madame Vincent call her Mademoiselle Foulon.”
“That is strange. Although maybe it’s because ‘MacFarlane’ is too hard to say?” Gina glanced up at the store window into which they had gazed so many times in the past. “You know, I thought I was imagining things when I thought I saw her the other day in the window. I guess I really did.”
“Come on,” said Claire. “I’ve asked her to visit us at Le Chat tonight. Let’s plan our strategy. I think she needs our help. But first we need to get her to tell us what’s wrong.”
“If she shows,” said Gina.
“At least we know where to find her if she doesn’t,” said Claire. “I’m not giving up, even if I have to drag her out of La Maison Dior kicking and screaming.”
Gina jutted out her chin. “I’m so mad at her, I could spit. She owes us an explanation, and I’m going to get it.”
Claire wondered who would come out the victor in this encounter. Gina, with her habit of drilling down to the crux of the matter, or Margot, who danced lightly around the truth and could be as elusive as French perfume when it suited her. Claire, ever the peacemaker between them, expected to have her work cut out for her tonight.
Margot couldn’t stop trembling. Sheer delight at seeing her friends again had quickly switched to anguish. She would have to go to Le Chat tonight as Claire had demanded, but she needed to slip in unnoticed. And she needed to make it clear to Gina and Claire that she couldn’t resume their friendship, no matter how much she wished she might.
The sight of Gina standing there resplendent in a Dior gown evoked so many wonderful memories of their time together in Paris, back when Margot had been clean and whole and the world was her oyster. If only she’d stayed. If only she’d chosen independence, like Gina and Claire.
She never should have come back to Paris—it was a fairly obvious bolt-hole to those who knew her history. But in London, she hadn’t felt quite safe. Paris, at least, was unfamiliar to the man who was looking for her, the language a barrier for him but not for her. And even if she couldn’t go back to her old friends and her old haunts, at least Paris felt like her second home.
Of course she had expected to run into acquaintances at Dior, but she’d managed to dodge anyone she knew well so far. She tried to stay in the background, replenishing stock, arranging displays, serving customers in the boutique only when she couldn’t avoid it. Wearing a blond wig helped somewhat. And the fact that wealthy clients rarely took a second look at the help. Add to that a new name—Marie Foulon—and an address where no one asked questions and no one would think to look, and she felt safe. Or as safe as could be expected when one resided in the Pigalle, the famous red-light district of Paris.
“Mademoiselle, a word?” Madame Vincent crooked a finger. “Follow me.”
Up in the fitting room, a gentleman turned as they approached. He was, she judged, in his late twenties, early thirties, perhaps. He was tall and strikingly handsome, as pale and patrician as a vampire. Dark eyes glittered beneath the black fringe waving over his brow and his cheekbones were prominent in his lean face. She might be imagining it but she thought his mouth held a hint of cruelty. Only a pair of broad shoulders seemed at odds with the aristocratic visage. He seemed to size her up, as if he were a self-appointed judge of the physical attributes of every young woman he came across.
Margot bristled. This fellow had “lady-killer” written all over him, and her natural inclination was to take him down a peg, as the Australians would say. However, she prided herself on being professional, so she wouldn’t utter any of the rudely deflating things that came to mind.
The gentleman didn’t seem to be accompanied by a lady. Was he looking for one of Le Patron’s silk ties, perhaps? Then why had Madame brought him up here?
“Mr. Mountbatten, this is Marie. She will assist you,” said Madame in English, gesturing to the rack of sample garments that stood beside the dressing screen.
Margot eyed the row of five women’s suits, then returned her gaze to their male guest. In French, she said, “But I don’t think any of these will fit Monsieur.”
Madame Vincent looked aghast, but their client laughed, and his dark eyes crinkled attractively at the corners. Oh, drat, Margot thought. When he laughed, he became another person entirely. A person she could like.
So Mountbatten understood French, did he? Then she would continue to speak it. He was British. Of course he was, with that name. Like any other girl in Australia, ever since Margot could remember, she’d followed avidly everything the British princesses, Elizabeth and Margaret, did. Queen Elizabeth had married Prince Philip, whose adopted surname was Mountbatten. Was this man a relation? She thought he might be.
He tilted his head, as if regarding her with new interest. “The clothes are not for me, you understand,” he answered her in excellent, if formal, French. “Forgive me. I must seem rude, but I saw you in the boutique downstairs and you reminded me of someone. I took the liberty of asking Madame if you might model a selection of these garments for me. It’s a gift,” he explained, perhaps seeing that she was still puzzled. “For my sister,” he added, as if he felt the need to explain himself to her.
She wasn’t sure she believed that last part. Instinct urged her to get away from him, to tell him firmly that Dior had house models to show clothes, that it was not appropriate for her to do the honors. But she was certain Madame had already made similar representations to him and he looked like a man who habitually got what he wanted. It wasn’t Margot’s place to object.
Then, too, trying on beautiful clothes, even if she could never afford such luxury again herself, would be a pleasure. The admiration in the gentleman’s gaze, though . . . She didn’t want it. Contrary to appearances, he seemed charming and perfectly respectful, but somehow, he made her feel anxious rather than flattered. A sorry end for a girl who once had been the most accomplished flirt in Paris.
Madame hovered, for which Margot was grateful. It made her feel safe. She hadn’t willingly been alone with a man in months, except for Monsieur Dior when they read their horoscope together.
“Which suit would you like me to try on first?” she asked, trying to sound businesslike. She chose a suit at random. “This?”
Mountbatten surveyed the garment she held up with a slight frown between his flyaway brows. “Is this the one you like best?”
She hesitated. Her mind had been awash with worry about Gina and Claire, and now she must cope with the unsettling undercurrent from this rather disturbingly charismatic individual before her. She hadn’t truly looked at the garments until now. “Uh, well . . .” Ordinarily when a customer asked her this question, she preferred whatever was most expensive. But something about this man made her answer honestly. “This is my favorite.”
The suit was one of the A-line dress and jacket combinations that Monsieur Dior had designed for the spring–summer season. The black dress was short-sleeved and gently skimmed the body, culminating in a calf-length skirt that had a satisfying swing to it. The jacket was double-breasted with shiny black buttons.
Madame Vincent’s brow puckered, and she was about to speak when Madame Bricard called her away. With an apology to Mountbatten and a promise to return, Madame left them alone.
Suddenly the air felt thin. As unobtrusively as she could, Margot took several deep breaths to steady herself. It helped. A little.
“Why don’t you try that one on for me and I’ll be able to judge better,” Mountbatten suggested, indicating the suit she’d recommended.
She went behind the screen to change. As she undressed, she tried to force her mind to be practical, but it felt oddly intimate and frightening that there was only a screen between this disturbing man and her unclad body. Of course, she wore underwear and her slip covered everything, but still . . . The circumstances evoked the intimacy of marriage, or more likely, an illicit liaison. Her hands shook so much, she had trouble doing up the buttons on the jacket.
A cold inner voice cut through her agitation. He’s not interested in you. He’s buying this for his sister or his mistress or his wife—and it’s absolutely no business of yours who it’s for, anyway. Just smile and pose and walk to and fro and sell this outfit so you don’t have to try on anymore. You are nothing to him. He’ll forget you the second he leaves.
You’re not Somebody anymore. You never were.
Stop it! The longer Margot had been away from home, the better she’d become at noticing that the voice in her head that criticized and undermined her confidence at every turn was his voice and not her own. If only she could banish it, once and for all.
Still, she was not going to flirt with Mountbatten or allow him to see how he affected her. She’d had quite enough of men for the foreseeable future. Anyway, it was never wise to encourage a client to become too familiar.
Lifting her chin, Margot arranged her features in a remote expression and stepped out from behind the screen. Taking care not to meet Mountbatten’s gaze, she walked forward and executed an elegant twirl, just as she’d seen mannequins like Anna and Yvette do. Then she unbuttoned the coat, her trembling fingers making the process take a little longer than strictly necessary, shrugged it from her shoulders, and let it fall to the floor. She walked another couple of steps forward, turned, and put her hands on her hips.
Silence. It stretched for so long that in spite of herself, her gaze went in search of the man sitting in the chair watching her.
A jolt went through her the second their eyes met. She felt herself flush.
“Tell me,” he said. “Do you like yourself in this costume?”
Do you like yourself? What a question to ask her. No, she wanted to answer. I have not liked myself for a very long time. Undoubtedly it was his slightly imperfect French that made it sound more personal than the question needed to be.
“I—it is not up to me,” she said.
“Still, you have an opinion,” he insisted. “Let’s hear it. Or perhaps you’d prefer to try on the others before you decide.”
“No! I mean, I . . . I love this one, monsieur. It is by no means the grandest of the selection, but it is so modern and chic. The fabric is exquisite and I feel . . . very feminine in it, but also powerful, somehow.”
“Powerful?” He leaned forward. “How?”
“It’s the skirt, you know, and the lightness and lack of constriction about the waist. It has this movement when I walk that makes me feel . . . spirited and free.” If only she could feel like that always, but even the magic of Dior couldn’t lift the lead weight from her heart.
He was watching her intently. Had she said too much? She probably had. Why could she never seem to remember that people did not appreciate it when the old Margot peeked through the cracks in the shopgirl façade?
She tilted her head. “Does Monsieur wish me to try on something else?”
He took a moment to answer. Then he let out a breath. “No need. I’ll take this one.”
Jubilant and relieved, Margot did not entirely forget her sales technique. “Oh, and I must not forget the hat!” She went to the shelf where she had set out the accessories she had chosen for each ensemble. Taking a wickedly sharp hatpin and a smart white pillbox hat with black trim, she looked in the mirror and pinned it on. “A pearl choker, like this . . .” She clasped the faux pearls around her throat. “White gloves.” She put on the pair of short white gauntlet gloves with the slightest flare to them that she’d chosen to finish the outfit and turned back to show the completed look.
Staring beyond him at her reflection in the mirror that spanned the opposite wall, Margot almost felt like her old self, and she nearly smiled in delighted recognition. But it was a fleeting sensation. She returned her attention to Mountbatten. No. She would not think of him by name. She would think of him only as “the client,” nothing more.
She turned around again, feeling even more self-conscious, and a little clumsy, as if her feet had decided to rebel against the messages from her brain. She cleared her throat but her voice came out in a husky murmur. “Do you think you’ve seen enough, monsieur?”
She hadn’t meant it to sound suggestive, but her words hung on the air like a sultry perfume. Heat flooded her cheeks. She hoped her flush wasn’t apparent to him.
But either he didn’t catch the double entendre or was too gentlemanly to give any sign that he had. “Yes, thank you,” he answered. “I’ll take it. And the rest of the ensemble as well.”
Grateful to have the matter settled with such expediency, Margot went back behind the screen, making herself move with slow, deliberate steps instead of fleeing, as she dearly wished to do. Hurriedly, she changed and hung up the suit, which was a model that had been worn in a recent show and not for sale.
When she emerged, she saw that Madame still had not returned. The client was standing, waiting for her. “Mademoiselle will need to make an appointment for a fitting,” said Margot.
“Of course,” said the client, and she made herself ignore the glitter of anticipation in his eyes. “She was supposed to accompany me today but something came up. Shall I make the next appointment with you, or . . . ?”
“Please. If you will accompany me to her office, Madame Vincent will accommodate you.”
Margot led him to Madame Vincent’s office. As she turned to leave, he said, “Thank you, Mademoiselle . . . ?”
“Foulon,” she supplied. Somehow her mouth had trouble forming the false surname. She had never liked lying but she rarely felt this guilty about it.
The client tilted his head as if considering whether it suited her. “Foulon,” he repeated, and the way he said it made her wonder, Was he committing it to memory? Did he mean to ask for her next time? It was clear that he intended to accompany his sister for her fitting.
If the woman really is his sister. How many brothers bought couture for their sisters, after all? Though usually it was older, married men who claimed kinship with women who were, in fact, their mistresses. And in that case, usually they called the young women their nieces.
“I shall look forward to seeing you next time,” he said, putting on his hat, tipping the brim, and giving her a smile that would have melted the polar ice caps.
There won’t be a next time, said a voice in her head. I’ll make sure of that.
When closing time came finally and Margot had replenished stock, dusted the vitrines and display cases, and generally restored order in the boutique, she retrieved her hat and coat and purse and set off for Le Chat.
What a day! Not only had she been caught out hiding from her two dearest friends but she’d met easily the most handsome man she’d ever seen in her life—and the most unsettling one. She must not let herself be swayed, however, or dwell on his dark attractions. Men like Mountbatten never meant anything by it when they toyed with shopgirls like her. Monsieur Dior protected his “petites filles” from the more predatory of the men who tended to try their luck, but it was very French to flirt, and even the older sales assistants indulged in sophisticated banter with male clients when required. They all knew, however, that it was usually the woman who was blamed for going beyond flirtation. If a sales assistant got herself a reputation for stealing the husbands and lovers of Dior clients, she was likely to be dismissed.
Regardless, Margot wasn’t interested in Mr. Mountbatten. She’d sworn off men forever.
The defiance in that thought gave her some pep in her step, as Gina might have said. But the ache in her heart returned as she thought of Gina and Claire and the fun they used to have. She’d never found another friendship like it—not that she’d been granted the opportunity. Once upon a time she’d thought she made friends easily but experience had shown her that the only true friends she possessed were the ones she must not see.
How to explain it to them without explaining it at all? No matter how close the three of them had been once, Margot was a different person now. She couldn’t bear for Gina and Claire to know the truth of what she had become. She was only going to Le Chat for two reasons: One, because if she didn’t, she knew those two would be back at Dior the very next morning, demanding to know why. The second reason . . . She had to beg them both to stop seeking her out, to pretend they’d never seen her at all.
Trying to avoid focusing on the forthcoming confrontation, Margot made herself live in each moment, observe acutely the beauty of Paris that surrounded her. It was a trick her father had taught her once, a way of letting worries fall away by living in the present. Worry was all about the future, after all. The practice had saved her sanity time and again. In fact, she wasn’t completely certain she was sane, but at least she was strong enough to carry on with life, such as it was, and to keep her wilder, more self-destructive thoughts contained.
In this moment, what do you see? she imagined her father saying to her, his voice deep and comforting.
In this moment, I see a street vendor packing up his wagon, a small boy selling Le Monde newspapers, belting out the headlines, a calico cat slinking behind a dustbin.
What do you hear?
I hear the clock tower somewhere nearby chiming the hour. I hear the coo of pigeons, the honk of a car horn, and the rev of an engine.
What do you feel?
I feel the soft texture of my kid leather gloves, the humidity inside them from my nervous perspiration. I taste the wind off the Seine on my tongue.
Or was that the sour tang of fear?
Banishing the stray thought, on she went, across the Alexandre III bridge, over to the Left Bank, past Les Invalides and the Assemblée Nationale. By this time, she was regretting having decided to walk in favor of the Métro, but doggedly, she went on, until she came to the familiar streets of Saint-Germain-des-Prés.
Darkness had fallen, and Paris had lit up, sprung to life, but by the time she reached Le Chat, Margot was weary. As the noise and movement and the aromas from the brasserie reached her, she felt almost faint with hunger, but then nervous tension gripped her vitals and she knew she couldn’t eat a bite. Not even of Claire’s delicious cooking.
Avoiding the main door of the restaurant in case she saw someone she knew, Margot entered the lobby of the building. She was about to make her way to the restaurant’s side entrance when a voice said, “Margot?”
Gina was coming down the stairs, presumably from the apartment above. Madame Vaughn’s apartment—at least, it had been Madame’s years ago.
Margot swallowed. No turning back now. “I—can we please go to the office?” She felt a fool for asking. “I don’t want anyone to know I’m here.”
Gina gave her a strange look, then shrugged. “We were going to bring you upstairs anyway.”
Margot glanced up. “Oh, but . . . I don’t want to see Madame Vaughn.”
Gina regarded her for a long, sober moment. Then she said, “You won’t. Follow me.”
As often as she’d visited Le Chat in years gone by, Margot had never been to Madame’s apartment before. She liked Deidre Vaughn but she hadn’t known her as well as Claire and Gina had.
“Madame’s gone away for a while,” Gina explained, as they crossed the landing. “Claire and I are taking care of her apartment.”
That was excellent news. Margot counted on Gina and Claire to keep her secret but she wasn’t so sure about letting anyone else into the circle of trust.
“You’re living here?” Margot exclaimed when she’d followed Gina inside. “It’s a palace!”
“We like it,” said Gina with a slight smile.
It certainly was a palace compared with the cramped room Margot had found in a boardinghouse in the seedy part of town. The advantages of living there were that the landlady had not cared to ask Margot for identification of any kind, it was cheap, and the residents kept themselves to themselves.
Claire emerged from what appeared to be a small kitchen, untying her apron. Her apple cheeks were flushed and rosy, which made her eyes a brilliant blue. She reminded Margot of a Pre-Raphaelite painting. All she needed was to let that glorious red hair come tumbling down.
“Come here and let me hug you,” said Claire, opening her arms wide.
The relief of such a warm welcome after years of estrangement made Margot throw herself into Claire’s embrace. For good measure, she reached out an arm and hooked a reluctant Gina into the hug as well. Gina hadn’t warmed to her yet, she could tell, but Margot would simply make her, that was all. Claire’s greeting had given her just enough confidence to try to talk Gina around. Then maybe they’d remember her fondly instead of resenting her when she was gone.
“How I’ve missed you both!” Her voice cracked in the middle of the sentence. If she could have let herself, she would have shed a few tears then. But these days a few tears were enough to start a tidal wave.
“You’re just in time for cocktails,” said Gina, slipping free and crossing to a stylish chrome drinks cart. She picked up the cocktail shaker and looked back at Margot, quirking an eyebrow. “The usual?”
“Please.” She’d almost forgotten what her usual had been back in those heady days in Paris.
Claire brought out a tray of canapés—tiny, perfect vols-au-vent, little pastry cups with a creamy filling redolent of mushroom and truffle, and prunes with a bacon and thyme stuffing. Not that Margot could eat a bite of anything. Her stomach kept tying itself into knots.
When Gina had distributed the drinks, she sat down on a couch, kicked off her shoes, and, knees together, tucked her legs sideways beneath her. She looked like a movie star or a mannequin at a fashion shoot, effortlessly glamorous.
Claire plumped down beside Margot. “Now. Tell us everything. How do you come to be in Paris and why didn’t you tell us you were here?”
Margot took a deep sip of her drink and nearly choked. Gina had made it a double. Ah, that’s right. Margot had never actually enjoyed martinis but she’d thought them the height of sophistication, so that’s what she’d always ordered, back when she first hit Paris. Funny how things like that didn’t matter anymore.
Nervously Margot tried to smile. “I know. I owe you an apology. I—I had good reasons not to see you. Please believe me, it wasn’t at all what I wanted. It’s just . . .” And suddenly she couldn’t tell them the elaborate lies she’d concocted. They were too dear to her and this time with them was too precious. So she made herself smile brightly and hoped she could be convincing. “Things have been so busy ever since I arrived.” The excuse sounded feeble, even to her own ears.
“But how long have you been here in Paris?” demanded Gina. “And why are you using a false name?”
Margot stirred her drink with the toothpick-spiked olive. “So many questions!” she said with a little laugh. “You certainly found your calling as a journalist. You are still a journalist, aren’t you, Gina?”
If she just spent the evening with them, asked them not to tell anyone where she was or what she was calling herself these days, she would leave it there. They might think her a snob or a false friend, or whatever. She couldn’t help that. She simply couldn’t go into it. If there was one thing she loathed, it was people feeling sorry for her.
“Yes, I am a journalist,” answered Gina. “Which is why I can tell when someone’s deflecting attention and not answering my question.”
“Gina, stop.” Claire’s voice was quiet but commanding and Gina subsided, glowering. Claire turned to Margot and slipped her hand into hers. “Are you in some sort of trouble, Margot? You can tell us anything. You know that, don’t you?” Claire’s genuine compassion tugged at Margot’s resolve.
“Do you mind awfully if we don’t talk about it?” Margot said with a quick smile. “I don’t want to spoil the evening.”
Claire stared into her eyes, as if to divine whether that was truly what Margot wanted. Disappointment clouding her face, she answered, “Of course. If that’s what you’d prefer.”
Gina said, “No, Claire. I think we are owed an explanation.” She fixed her gaze on Margot. “You didn’t write us for ages and ignored our letters. We started to think something terrible had happened to you. We were worried and hurt, Margot. And now we find you in Paris, working at Dior, of all places! Why can’t you at least tell us the reason?”
“Hush, Gina!” Claire squeezed Margot’s hand. “Can’t you see it’s upsetting her? She doesn’t want to talk about it right now. Leave her be.”
So they had written, thought Margot. She knew it! And clearly her letters hadn’t reached them. She shook her head. “No. Really, it’s all right, Claire. I understand. I’ve been a bad friend and you are confused and angry.” She tried to smile. “Please believe that it was unavoidable, and that I’ll explain it. I just . . . can’t right now.”
The brring of a timer from the kitchen made Claire jump up. “Dinner in ten minutes. I’ll leave you two to talk. Be nice!” she admonished Gina, who made a scoffing sound and sipped at her drink.
“So . . . What brings you to Paris, Gina?” asked Margot.
“Oh, so now I’m supposed to tell you everything,” Gina replied. “Well, if you must know, I’m here because my family lost all our money and I broke off my engagement. I came to Paris for a fresh start. Been here nearly a month now.”
The hard way Gina spoke was one Margot recognized. She knew when Gina’s attitude masked deep pain. In the past, Gina had spoken of her mother’s death in exactly that tone. Still, Margot also knew it was Gina’s way of saying I have it this bad, how could you have it worse? Well, that was a matter of opinion, of course, and Margot wasn’t interested in competing. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said. “But you’re a smart, independent woman with an established career. You’ll be back on your feet in no time.” She hesitated. “Are you still writing that novel?”
“You mean the one from back then? Goodness, no. That was trash,” Gina said. “But I’m sending out freelance articles and getting some bites. And I’m working on a new book. This one is set here in Paris.”
Knowing that Claire was bustling to and from the kitchen but would reject any offer of help, Margot asked Gina all about the novel. She watched with pride and envy as her friend lit up the way she always did when she spoke about her work.
What would it be like to have such a fierce passion? True, at Dior, Margot felt privileged even to exist among the most exquisite couture in the world, and there was satisfaction in putting together the perfect ensemble, but she’d lost her passion for just about anything long ago. She’d always loved reading, but it was a form of comfort and escape—an obsession more than a passion. The youngest of her siblings by many years, growing up in a house full of eccentric adults who forgot about her for long stretches of time, Margot had always found solace in reading. And books had saved her when things were at their bleakest later on.
“Tell me,” Gina said, changing the subject. “What’s it like to work for Christian Dior?”
“He is a dear man,” said Margot, relieved to be talking about neutral topics. “Exacting and a perfectionist but so very kind to us all.” Then she glowered. “It’s the dragons who work under him you have to watch out for. My boss . . .” She shuddered. “I try very hard never to get on her bad side.”
Claire called to them from the dining table. “À table, s’il vous plait!”
Usually they spoke English when the three of them were alone together because Claire had insisted she needed the practice, but Gina and Margot had made a rule that at dinner, they always spoke in French.
“If only I’d brought champagne,” murmured Margot. If only she could afford it! “Oh, this looks absolutely divine, Claire! Thank you a thousand times.”
Claire beamed at her and Gina like a mother whose children have all come home for the holidays. “Bon appétit!”
They managed to stick to uncontroversial topics over dinner but Claire watched Margot carefully the entire time. She hadn’t liked Margot’s pallor when she’d arrived at the apartment, nor the haunted look in her eyes. And her gorgeous, glossy black hair . . . Why on earth had she dyed it blond and styled it so plainly? Or was it a wig? If it was, it was certainly a good one.
Then Margot chortled and slapped the table at one of Gina’s quips and for a few moments, she was their dear friend of old, sparkling and free, her cheeks flushed from the wine. But Claire was still worried about her. Despite her praise of Claire’s cooking, Margot had eaten little. Gina had been refilling Margot’s glass often, perhaps with a stratagem in mind. Like most Australians Claire had come across, Margot had always possessed a hard head for liquor, but she’d become quite tipsy by the end of the meal.
Gina cleared the dishes after dinner, saying, “Now I must love you and leave you, dear ones. I have an article to finish before I go to bed tonight.” She winked. “Our Claire has me on a strict schedule.”
Margot sent her a darkling glance. “You’re just avoiding the washing up. Besides, how can you write after all that wine?”
“I’m a journalist,” said Gina. “I write best when I’m drunk.” She made a face. “The hangover in the morning, however . . .”
But as Claire watched Gina’s retreating back, she knew Gina wasn’t intoxicated, and she wasn’t leaving the two of them alone because she didn’t want to do the washing up. Gina had taken the wrong approach with Margot and she knew it. She was allowing Claire some time with her to try a different tack.
“My word,” murmured Margot as she took in the disaster zone that was the small galley kitchen. Claire stared around her guiltily. If she had one failing as a cook it was that she was very messy. In the brasserie there was always someone else to clean up after her.
“Come on. Hand me the gloves,” said Margot with a reckless air. “I’ll be plongeur.”
They scraped off all of the plates and set some of the pots and pans to soak in hot water.
The galley kitchen was quite cramped with the two of them in it but they managed. Margot washed while Claire dried and put away. As they worked, Margot said, “I’m so sorry about your mum, Claire. It must have been hard to come back to work at Le Chat with her gone.”
“Yes.” Claire changed dish towels as hers had become too wet to continue. “I suppose it was. But keeping busy helped, I think. And I had to be strong for Papa. It got me through.” She sighed. “Now Papa is retiring and moving to the Riviera with Vo-Vo.”
Margo smiled. “Dear Vo-Vo. And your papa—he is such a lovely man. I’m sorry I won’t be able to—” Margot broke off. Then she gave a small shake of the head, as if to rid herself of emotion. “I expect this is a weight off your shoulders, in a way. Will you go back to Le Meurice?”
So Margot remembered. It had been a long time since Claire was an apprentice at one of the city’s finest hotels. She wouldn’t tell Margot she’d been fired from that job.
“No, my skills have advanced since those days, but they will still see me as an apprentice if I go back there,” said Claire. “Best go somewhere new, I think.”
Margot looked sideways at her as she scrubbed a saucepan. “You don’t sound too keen about it.”
“‘Keen’?” Claire tilted her head.
“Happy. Excited. Enthusiastic,” explained Margot.
“Ah. Well, a lot has happened lately,” said Claire, though it sounded like a lame excuse even to her own ears. “Le Chat is busier than ever.” And why was she the one on the defensive when her intention had been to weasel Margot’s secrets out of her? This wasn’t going the way she’d planned.
“Hmm,” said Margot. She rinsed the clean saucepan of suds and put it in the drying rack. “Now tell me what you’re afraid of.”
“Listen,” said Claire, putting her hands on her hips. “If we’re talking of fear, why didn’t you come to see me the second you set foot in Paris?”
“Now you are trying to deflect attention from the issue,” said Margot. “But I’ll let it pass for now.” The very fact she could get that sentence out meant that she’d sobered up since dinner. Or that she had only been acting tipsy. “Please don’t be hurt about my not coming to see you. I—I didn’t get any letters from either of you for so long, I thought you’d forgotten about me. I didn’t know if I’d be welcome.”
“Forgotten about you?” Incredulous, Claire stared at her. “But we both wrote and wrote. It was you who stopped writing.”
Margot’s attention seemed absorbed in her work. “That’s not true,” she said quietly. “I never stopped writing even after your letters didn’t come.”
“But why, then . . . ?” Claire couldn’t understand it.
A long pause. “Never mind why,” said Margot. “Just . . . please believe me.” She looked up. “I was always your friend and always will be. Even if I can’t see you as often as I would like.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” asked Claire. She took a pot from Margot and set it down on the counter, then gripped Margot’s shoulders and turned her so that she could stare her dead in the eye. “Are you in some kind of trouble, mon amie?”
Those big brown eyes stared into Claire’s, and that haunted look was back in them again. Margot exhaled a long breath. “Someone, maybe more than one person, is looking for me. When they come to Paris—if they come to Paris—one of the first places they will look for me is at Le Chat.” She blew out a long breath. “I can’t be here. I can’t be around the two of you. It’s the reason I changed my name, Claire. I don’t want them to find me.”
“But—but why? What happened to you?” It sounded like the trouble Margot was in was far more serious than she’d thought. “Did you—” She put her hand to her mouth. “Have you committed a crime? Is that it?”
With a broken laugh, Margot said, “No, no! Why would you think that?” Then she sobered. “Don’t ask me any more about it. Just accept that I can’t come back here again. And please don’t ever tell anyone you saw me, or where I am, or that I am in Paris at all.”
“Of course,” said Claire. “If that’s what you want. And I’ll make Gina promise, too. But, Margot, one thing I can’t agree to, and that’s not seeing you. Maybe we don’t meet here, if you think that’s best, but we must be allowed to meet. I can’t let you go through whatever this is on your own.”
Margot’s lips pressed together and her eyes filled with tears. She wrapped Claire in a tight, hard hug, wet rubber-gloved hands and all. “Thank you, my dear, dearest friend. I’m so very lucky to have you. I shouldn’t accept, but yes, I will, because I’ve missed you both so terribly!”
Claire made her write down her address and the telephone number of the boardinghouse where she was staying. Claire stared at the address. A place like that would make Gina’s maid’s room seem like a suite at the Ritz. “But, Margot, the Pigalle! This is one of the worst parts of Paris. You can’t live there.”
“Well, I don’t spend a lot of time at home,” Margot said. “And I lived right on the edge of Kings Cross in Sydney, you know. I’m used to that kind of place.”
Claire knew all about Doc MacFarlane’s eccentricities, that the surgery at their family home had seen a colorful procession of people, from the cream of society to nightclub entertainers to kingpins of organized crime. She also knew that the physician had kept a loaded pistol in the drawer of his desk.
“No,” Claire said. “I utterly forbid you to stay there.”
Margot gave a startled laugh. “Forbid it? You’ve always been so bossy, Claire.”
“I am when I know what’s good for people.” Claire folded her arms. “If you don’t move in with us tomorrow, I’m going to tell the people at Dior you’re using a false name.”
Margot gasped. “You wouldn’t! I’d be out of a job.”
“I’ll find you another.” Claire smiled grimly. “We could use another plongeur at Le Chat.”
“But I can’t live here, Claire,” said Margot, her voice rising. “I just told you I can’t be anywhere they might find me.”
Claire threw out a hand. “That place you’re in now, you’re more likely to be found knifed in an alley or robbed of all your possessions. We can keep your presence here secret, don’t worry. You don’t ever have to come into Le Chat. There’s a separate entrance. You can come and go that way.”
She could tell Margot was wavering, but then she set her jaw. “I—I can’t. You don’t know how much I’d love to, really love to live here with you both. I simply can’t.”
“We’ll see about that,” said Claire.
Eyes flashing with anger, Margot cried, “For goodness’ sake, Claire. Will you jolly well let me be?” She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, as if trying to get her emotions under control. In a more moderate tone, she added, “Now. I have to get back. Thank you for a lovely dinner.”
As she left the kitchen, Gina emerged from her room. “I see that went well,” she remarked as Margot snatched up her hat, coat, and purse.
“Goodbye, Gina.” Margot crossed to Gina and gave her a quick hug. “I’m sorry.”
A hug to Claire, then she left the apartment.
“We can’t let her go like that, can we?” said Gina. “What happened?”
Claire relayed the conversation she’d just had with Margot in the kitchen. “She’s adamant she won’t live here with us,” she said finally. “But I’m not giving up.”
“I’m going to do some digging,” said Gina. “We need to find out exactly what Margot’s hiding from us and why.”