“Superstition,” Margot’s father, who was a physician and a scientist, had always said, “is born of ignorance.”
But her father had not been brought up among a phalanx of crazy great-aunts, the way Margot had, and in a house that was part museum, part mausoleum into the bargain. They’d all lived together on the cusp of the most colorful, sinful part of Sydney, Kings Cross. Margot had seen and heard things for which there was no apparent, logical explanation. She was willing to believe in . . . something beyond the physical realm.
When she heard of Christian Dior’s strong metaphysical leanings, Margot was intrigued. She was agnostic when it came to the spiritual, but willing to be convinced, and always curious to learn more.
Monsieur Dior went to a clairvoyant who, it was whispered, had predicted correctly that his sister Catherine, a heroine of the Resistance, would return alive from her ordeal in the German concentration camps. It had been an unlikely eventuality, although her father would have said any charlatan would guess they had a 50 percent chance of being right, and probably would not have wished to foretell the opposite in case such an eminent client withdrew his custom.
Be that as it may, when Monsieur Dior told her he’d arranged for her to visit Madame Delahaye, Margot had jumped at the chance. She was about to leave Dior for her appointment when she nearly collided with Charlotte Mountbatten in the foyer.
“Oh, it’s you!” Charlie gripped Margot’s shoulders and leaned in to kiss her cheeks in the French way. “I’ve just had my final fitting. Where are you off to?”
There was something so disarming about Charlie’s friendliness, that despite her wish to keep her distance from the Mountbattens, Margot found herself explaining her mission.
“Oh, that sounds like fun. Can I come?” Without waiting for an answer, Charlie linked arms with Margot. “En avant!”
Margot laughed and found herself accepting Charlie’s company. “Don’t you have a lunch date?” Young women like Charlie always had a full social calendar.
“I have now. With you and Madame Delahaye,” Charlie responded. “Come on!”
Madame’s lair was in the fashionable 16th arrondissement. “Madame is doing well for herself, I see,” Charlie observed with a waggle of her eyebrows. “Bilking the innocent public of their hard-earned centimes.”
“If you’re a skeptic, you’d best stay out of the consultation,” said Margot. “You’ll ruin the . . .” She waved a hand. “I don’t know what it’s called. The vibrations? Something like that.”
Charlie eyed her quizzically. “D’you mean you believe in that tommyrot? You are a funny one, aren’t you, Marie? I never would have guessed.”
“Let’s say I am open to possibility,” said Margot. Desperate, more like.
“Well, all right. I will stay outside if you’d prefer,” said Charlie. “I’d probably start giggling in the middle of things and end up getting cursed or something.”
They climbed the winding staircase to the fortune teller’s apartment. A housekeeper admitted them and they were asked to wait in an anteroom.
Charlie cast a glance about her. “I have to say, I’m disappointed. I expected something more exotic.”
“Me, too,” whispered Margot. The fortune tellers she’d come across before had festooned their dens in gaudy, floating materials and cluttered the space with symbols of the occult. This apartment was decorated tastefully in muted, neutral tones. She couldn’t decide if the ambience made Madame seem more or less legitimate.
After a short wait, Margot was conducted inside.
“Good luck!” Charlie called after her, crossing her fingers and nodding encouragingly.
The room where Madame’s reading took place was no more remarkable than the rest of her apartment. Margot recognized the influence of Dior’s taste and noted several decorative items that had come from his Grande Boutique.
Madame herself was a commanding presence, with eyes that were at first dark and penetrating, then seemed to release their grip. “Come, my dear. Sit down,” she said, gesturing to the seat opposite her. The table between them was covered with a cloth of rich crimson velvet, the only touch of color in the buff-toned room.
“I am grateful to you for agreeing to see me, Madame,” said Margot.
The older woman waved away her thanks. “Monsieur Dior would not rest until you came,” she said. “He’s highly sensitive, you know, and attuned to the mystical. He believes you are some sort of a lucky charm.” She spread the cards out before her. “Your situation troubles him.”
Margot had wondered why Monsieur Dior would go to such lengths on her behalf, even paying Madame Delahaye for the reading. Now she understood. Maybe he wanted Madame Delahaye to tell him whether he was right to give Margot a promotion.
She held herself at the ready to choose three cards, the way she’d been asked to do back in Sydney. But the clairvoyant did not invite her to do so. Instead, she stared deep into Margot’s eyes, and drew a series of cards without looking, put them face down on the table, and swept the remainder of the fanned cards up and set the deck aside.
There were ten cards in total, five set out like a Maltese cross with a sixth placed diagonally over the middle card of the cross. Then to Madame’s right, another four cards were placed in a vertical line beside the cross.
Margot waited, holding her breath, while Madame Delahaye turned each card over. Her hands fluttered over the tarot and she mumbled to herself, “King of Cups. But then there’s the Devil, right there . . .”
Suddenly Margot wondered if this had been a very bad idea. If the clairvoyant concluded that her future did not turn out well, did she want to know? Was her future set in stone or might she take action and change it?
She made the supreme effort to remain quiet while all of this cogitating went on. At last, the clairvoyant sat back, as if exhausted by the reading she’d just done. “Bien,” she said. “You may go.”
Margot stared. “That’s it?”
Madame said, “The reading was for Monsieur Dior, not for you, my dear. But I shall tell you this: You are not meant to stay at the House of Dior. Your destiny is closer than you think.”
Margot came away from the reading confused and worried. Would Monsieur Dior fire her on Madame’s say-so? That would be a disaster. She wished she’d never agreed to come.
“I’m famished!” Charlotte announced when Margot rejoined her. She checked her watch. “Let’s go to a little place I know. It’s not far. My treat.”
“Why not?” Margot shrugged, happy to go along with Charlotte. “I don’t have to be back at Dior this afternoon.” A meal in Charlotte’s company might take her mind off the fact that she was likely to be unemployed soon. She sent a dark look up at the clairvoyant’s window as they left the apartment building.
“You seem put out,” said Charlie. “Didn’t the reading go very well?”
“The reading wasn’t actually for me, as it turned out,” said Margot. “It was for Monsieur Dior.”
“Bit strange, isn’t it?” said Charlie. “Well, don’t worry. It’s all a load of rot, anyway.”
“Perhaps, but it happens to be rot Monsieur Dior believes implicitly,” said Margot. “I might be out of a job tomorrow.” Maybe Hervé would employ her in the brasserie. She made quite a decent plongeur, if she did say so herself.
“Well, lunch will cheer you up,” said Charlie. “I know a place with the best bouillabaisse in town.” She hailed a taxi and directed the driver to a quiet, unassuming restaurant near Dior. It was more intimate than Le Chat, with low ceilings and small, cozy booths. The air was redolent of garlic and fine cheeses, with a faint hint of truffle. Margot’s stomach growled. She’d skipped breakfast that morning, as usual.
Charlie was craning her neck to scan the crowd. “Ah!” She grabbed Margot’s wrist. “There is my brother. Come on.”
“What?” Margot planted her feet, resisting the pull of Charlie’s hand. She’d assumed the restaurant had been a random choice on Charlie’s part, not an appointed rendezvous with Mr. Mountbatten. “Goodness, is that the time? I really ought to head back.”
“You just said Monsieur Dior gave you the afternoon off,” Charlie pointed out with a grin. “Don’t be a cowardy custard, Marie. Come on. He’s seen us now.” She waved enthusiastically at Andrew Mountbatten, who was sitting in one of the booths, a newspaper and an empty coffee cup before him, as if he’d been waiting for some time. At the sight of them, he smiled and rose to his feet.
Charlie started forward, then looked back at Margot. “Come on,” she repeated. “He won’t bite.”
Margot followed Charlie to the booth. She ought to be annoyed with the other girl but she couldn’t help the small flutter of gladness that she felt at seeing Mountbatten again. And what harm could a lunch in this out-of-the-way place do, after all?
“Look who I have here, Andy!” said Charlotte.
“Bonjour, monsieur,” said Margot with a smile. She continued in English. “I hope I am not imposing.”
“On the contrary,” he replied. “I cannot tell you how delighted I am to see you, Mademoiselle Foulon.” The warmth in his gaze made her believe him to be sincere. “We missed you at dinner the other evening. I do hope next time you’ll accept.”
Charlotte put out her hand and gripped Margot’s wrist. “Yes! Do come. You absolutely must. We’ll set another date before we leave today.” She picked up the carte du jour and perused it intently.
“I don’t know why you bother to look at the menu,” remarked her brother. “You always order the same thing.” In an aside to Margot, he added, “Watercress salad. And then she makes me order the bouillabaisse and eats half of mine.”
“How else am I to keep my figure?” Charlotte grinned back at him. “Stolen calories don’t count.” She turned to Margot. “You must try some, too. Even the broth is divine.”
“Oh!” Margot laughed, inwardly balking at the idea of sharing a bowl with Andrew Mountbatten. “The poor man will have none for himself.”
“I wouldn’t mind,” he said mildly.
“I know!” said Margot. “Let’s order several dishes and share them among the three of us.”
“Share?” said Charlotte.
“Yes, the way they do in some other cultures.” The closest Margot had come to these other cultures was eating out in Chinatown back home, but she’d always loved the variety and informality of the way the meals were served there. As a child, she’d been fascinated by the massive lazy Susans, revolving round platforms on top of each table that one could spin to bring dishes closer. “I’ll do the ordering, shall I?” Margot perused the menu, then rattled off the orders to the waiter, along with instructions to bring extra utensils and plates.
The waiter looked down his nose at her and said coldly, “Mademoiselle, this is not how we do things in France.”
Margot replied, “Yes, but today, it is the way we do things in France.” She smiled winningly up at him. “Won’t you please let us have our little bit of fun?”
Thawing a little, the waiter bowed and said he would see what he could do.
When he had left, Margot sat back, satisfied. Then she noticed that brother and sister were regarding her with curiosity and surprise. Oh, dear. Somehow the old Margot had taken over, the one who always made a party out of the simplest gatherings and a picnic out of the most formal ones.
Always have to make yourself the center of attention, don’t you? Again, that voice in her head, reminding her that she wasn’t the one footing the bill for this meal, that she hardly knew the Mountbattens, that she was only a shopgirl from Dior. Margot felt the heat rise to her cheeks. “Oh, gosh, I’m so sorry! I’ve overstepped. I shouldn’t—”
“If we are staring, it’s because we are in awe,” said Andrew Mountbatten, his dark eyes alight with amusement and, perhaps, she thought, with admiration?
“Yes, that was masterly!” Charlotte picked up the wine list and held it out to her. “Now do it with the wine.”
“Not such a good idea to mix and match those.” Andrew intercepted the printed card. “If I may?”
“Please,” said Margot, only slightly reassured by their acceptance of her boldness.
He decided on a light pinot noir, which would best complement the variety of dishes she’d ordered. “Unless you prefer white?” he asked Margot.
“Not at all.”
“Don’t I get a say?” Charlotte put in.
Her brother glanced at her sidelong. “Your taste in wine is about as good as your taste in men.”
“Oh, that’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?” said Margot.
“No, no. He’s right, drat him,” said Charlotte with a sigh.
“The latest was a poet,” Andrew informed Margot. “And it’s all my fault, apparently. He’s one of mine.”
“What do you mean, one of yours?”
“Oh, I’m an editor,” said Andrew. “At least, I’m on sabbatical at the moment, but I work at Viking in New York.”
“Oh, blast,” muttered Margot. Could this man be any more perfect? Not only was he warm and amusing and kind to his sister, but he loved books, too?
“Sorry, I didn’t quite catch . . .” The poor man seemed mystified, as if he’d heard what she said, but couldn’t understand it.
Margot hurriedly covered her slip. “I meant about Charlotte and the poet. In my experience, poets can be extremely tiresome. They tend to forget everyone else for days at a time.”
“Yes, but you see, he thought I was his muse,” said Charlotte mournfully. “It was utterly exhausting. I wish he would forget me, quite honestly.” She sighed. “Anyway, Andy warned him off, didn’t you, big brother?”
He shrugged. “I merely told him I couldn’t act as his publisher while he was with my sister. It’s a conflict of interest, you see. The lover and the artist went to war inside him for all of five minutes, I’d say. But the artist won, so that’s that.”
Their savory courses arrived all at once, as Margot had instructed, and they had terrific fun, picking and choosing and passing plates.
Margot questioned Andrew so closely about publishing that he asked, “Why? Do you have an interest in that world?”
“I love books, you see.” Margot dabbed at her lips with a serviette. “And I have a friend, Gina Winter, who is writing a novel. No . . .” She held up a hand as Andrew went to speak. “I do not expect you to publish it or even to read it. I would never impose like that. But I think this book is going to be terrifically good—I mean, it’s really got something special—and I happen to have excellent taste. So I was wondering how I might help her to get it published.”
“Really?” Mountbatten leaned forward, as if intrigued. “Perhaps I can help point you in the right direction.” They embarked on a thorough discussion of the publishing industry and its foibles. Margot was so absorbed and fascinated, she forgot about the time, until Charlie dabbed at her lips with a napkin and said, “Well, I must be going. I have an appointment.” She waved an encouraging hand at them and gave Margot a knowing smile. “But you two carry on.”
Reluctantly, Margot decided it would be dangerous to remain alone in Mountbatten’s company. The gleam of appreciation in his eyes when he looked at her, his dry wit and self-deprecation, his keen observations about books and their authors . . . She was beguiled by him; she had to admit it, if only to herself. All the more reason to keep her distance. She stood to accompany Charlie. “Thank you for lunch, and for telling me all about publishing. I’ll pass it along to Gina.”
“Publishing houses aside,” said Mountbatten, rising as she did, “your friend’s best bet would be to interest a literary agent.” He thrust a hand into his pocket and said with studied nonchalance, “Listen, I’m having a gathering of sorts next week. Authors, editors, agents who are all here for the Festival du Livre. You and Miss Winter would be most welcome to join us.”
In the interests of self-preservation, she should have declined. She couldn’t afford to fall for anyone right now. She couldn’t trust herself to choose wisely. But she wanted this opportunity almost as much for herself as for Gina. She needed to find a publisher for this book. “Thank you,” she heard herself say. “We’d love to come.”
But when she broached the subject with Gina upon her arrival home, her friend was far from appreciative.
“The book’s not done yet.”
“You’d only be meeting people, not handing them your manuscript,” argued Margot. “According to Andrew Mountbatten, writing a good book is only half the battle.”
“Yes, I do know how it works in the publishing industry, thank you very much.”
“I think you’re wrong to say no to Mountbatten’s invitation, Gina,” Margot insisted. “It’s a great opportunity for you. Andrew said you need a literary agent, that these people work for you to sell your book on commission.”
“I know what a literary agent is,” said Gina. “I’ve been rejected by enough of them.”
“Well, that’s their bad taste and nuts to them because I loved your pages. And if I loved them, so will tons of other readers.” Margot tapped the side of her nose. “You know I can pick a winner from the outside. Mark my words, Gina. Your book is going to be a big hit. We just need the right person to represent you.”
“What we need is for the book to be finished,” said Gina. “And I’m a little preoccupied with other things right now.”
“Well, that’s not going to cut the mustard, my dear,” said Margot. “If you want to be a published author, you need to do whatever it takes to get those words on the page.”
The plain truth of that statement made Gina even madder. Margot could see by the way her nostrils flared and her eyes flashed with annoyance.
“So you’re going to this soiree, then, whatever I say?” Gina demanded.
“Yes,” said Margot. There was nothing to stop her talking to everyone in general terms about Gina, even if her book wasn’t ready yet. “I certainly am.”
Only later, once the excitement of the day had worn off, did Margot realize what she’d done. She’d agreed to attend a cocktail party full of all kinds of people with Andrew Mountbatten, a man who didn’t even know her real name. What if an acquaintance spotted her and spilled her secret? Could she bear seeing the look on Andrew’s face when he found out the truth? What if this one evening brought her all of the trouble she’d been trying so hard to avoid? What if her husband finally found her?
Margot drew in a deep breath and let it out again. Let him find me, she thought. I refuse to live in fear anymore.
A week was too long for Claire to stay out of the brasserie kitchen. Of course it didn’t help that she lived upstairs.
“Again?” Early one morning, Hervé eyed her as they both set to work. He wiped down the marble-topped bench, floured the cool, clean surface, and began the bread-making with which he always started the day.
As Claire was assembling ingredients to make her strawberry tart shells, the door to the alley opened and one of the waitresses came in. Mélanie was a pretty young woman, dressed that morning in black cigarette pants and a tight black sweater and sporting a swinging high ponytail. She called a greeting as she hung up her coat, then poured herself coffee. Claire noticed Hervé’s gaze follow the waitress as she took her cup out to a sidewalk table to enjoy her morning cigarette before starting her shift.
Though accustomed to thinking herself plain or even freakish because she had inherited her mother’s red hair and fair skin, Claire had never begrudged other women their beauty. But just sometimes, when she saw a man like Hervé give a woman like Mélanie an appreciative look, she did wish that she might command similar admiration.
“Did you get in touch with Thibault yet?” asked Hervé, bringing her back to earth. “He’s been expecting your call.” His strong hands worked quickly, shaping, kneading, in a well-practiced rhythm, his muscles flexing as he drove the heel of his hand into the soft dough.
Without meeting his eyes, Claire said, “I wanted to make sure my consommé was perfect first. You know what a stickler he is.” A lame excuse. “And you know better than anyone that I was fired from his kitchen, so I don’t hold out too much hope.”
“Your consommé is not the problem,” said Hervé. “And if Thibault held your previous misdemeanors against you, he wouldn’t have agreed to meet.”
Claire felt a peculiar warmth seep into her chest at his words. “I suppose you’re right, but—”
“Don’t wait too long.” Hervé covered the bread dough and set it aside to prove. “He’s about to announce the new restaurant. You know what it’s like. As soon as they hear the news, everyone will be begging to work there.”
Claire quirked an eyebrow. “Can’t wait to be rid of me, hmm?” As soon as she said it, she knew she sounded ungracious. Hervé was putting his own reputation on the line by recommending her. No one else had wanted to hire her, and Thibault was one of the best. She was unlikely to have another opportunity like this, so what was stopping her? Fear that all of those other chefs were right. She’d been out of the game for too long. She wasn’t good enough.
Claire touched his arm. “Sorry. I really am grateful. I won’t let you down. It’s just that right now, I feel . . .” “Terrified” was the word.
“Don’t tell me I’m going to have to fire you,” Hervé growled.
Laughing for what seemed like the first time in weeks, Claire put up her hands in surrender. “All right, all right. I’ll call him tomorrow. Happy?”
He grunted and turned away. “Ecstatic. Now get back to work on those tarts, will you? We’re running behind today.”
She did as she was told, kneading the pastry dough a little before rolling it out to a uniform thickness. They continued in silence for some time before she said, “What made you decide to buy Le Chat? I thought you aspired to be the next Escoffier.”
“Me?” Hervé began slicing onions so quickly, you could hardly see his hands move. “I’d never thought of owning a restaurant like this until I heard it was for sale.” He cleaned off the board with his knife, sweeping the diced onion into a bowl, then got to work on a bunch of carrots. Ordinarily this was the job of apprentices, but Hervé seemed to like to have a hand in everything, once in a while. She liked that about him. He had never thought himself too good for any kind of kitchen work.
“So what made you decide to buy it?”
He shrugged. “I’d just come in to some money from my grandfather. It seemed like fate.”
As she turned that over in her mind, she sensed him watching her. “You believe in fate?” she asked.
He cut his gaze away. “I guess we’ll see if I was right.” After a few moments, he added, “At first, I admit I came here expecting to change everything. But you know how I trained under the great Mère Brazier?”
“Really? I didn’t know that.” Brazier was the first chef to be awarded six Michelin stars—three at each of her two restaurants. A legend in the industry. Hervé had never mentioned he’d begun his apprenticeship with her.
“La Mère taught me that simple meals made with the finest produce are best.” He reached for another onion. “Besides, Le Chat has a dedicated clientele and I don’t want to mess with that.”
“But?” Claire sensed he was trying to decide how to say the next part.
He blew out a breath. “It might take me some years but I want to make Le Chat so profitable that I can open another place. A small, exclusive restaurant that serves only the finest cuisine.”
She stared at him. “But that is what I’ve always wanted, too. Only I need a lot more experience first.”
“Not so much more,” he pointed out. “You already know all about the business side. And you’ve organized this kitchen as well as any hotel restaurant, taught your chefs superior skills. You already invent your own dishes. A couple more years working with the best, and you will be ready. And then,” he added matter-of-factly, “I will steal you from wherever you are, and you will come and work with me.”
She nearly dropped the tray of tart shells she was holding. “You have all of this thought out?”
He spread his hands. “I’d ask you to stay, but I don’t think it’s what’s best for you. You need to prove to yourself you can cut it out there before you settle for something else.”
Slowly, she said, “I don’t think I’d see it as settling.” Somehow she couldn’t look at him. She felt as flushed and giddy as if he’d just proposed marriage. It was all so confusing. She’d thought she was over her feelings for Hervé . . . But she shouldn’t get ahead of herself. His interest in her was purely professional, just as it always had been.
“Why don’t you finish up here and give Thibault a call?” Hervé said. “You know you’re only putting it off because you’re scared.”
That fired her up. “I am not scared!”
“Oh, yeah?” He laughed. “Prove it.”
“All right,” said Claire, ripping off her apron and throwing it at him. “I will.”
Snatching the apron from the air, he gave her a wolfish grin. With the knife in his other hand, and with that shaggy hair and stubbled jaw, he reminded her of a pirate. A very annoying one.
“Bonne chance, ma chère.”
“Oh, go jump in the lake!” Claire muttered in English.
As she stomped upstairs to find the card Hervé had given her with Thibault’s details, she realized what he’d done, and got mad at him all over again. How easily she’d fallen for his goading! She huffed out a sigh. Only an idiot refuses to do what they should do just because an extremely provoking person has told them to do it.
Her annoyance receded, but anxiety about what she was going to do took its place. Her shoulders tense and her throat tight and dry, she had to force herself to cross to the ivory-and-gold telephone and dial Thibault’s number.
Maybe he wouldn’t be at the restaurant. Most chefs at the top of their profession did not have to arrive early to prep the kitchen the way their underlings did.
“Allô?” a female voice answered.
She had to clear her throat before she could get the words out. “May I speak with Monsieur Thibault, please? It’s Claire Bedeau calling. Hervé Gabin recommended me.”
This time, she was not fobbed off on the sous-chef. Monsieur Thibault himself came on the line.
“Ah, yes. Hervé’s protégée,” said the chef de cuisine. Either he didn’t remember her being fired from his kitchen all those years ago or he was too polite to mention it. “I’d like to visit this brasserie of his I hear so much about. Why don’t I make a reservation and we can discuss?”