Hervé greeted the news that Claire needed the day off without apparent chagrin, or even much interest. He was in the office, writing up the new menu. As she approached his desk, she tried her best to read la carte upside down—she’d definitely need to critique it thoroughly once it was finalized—but his handwriting was atrocious.
“Don’t bother,” Hervé said without looking up. “You will know what’s on the menu when everyone else does.”
“You aren’t even going to ask for my opinion?” Claire would have reached over the desk and snatched the menu from him, only she probably couldn’t read his writing when it was the right way up.
His eyebrows lifted and his intense blue eyes met hers. “I’m sorry—aren’t you leaving Le Chat as soon as you can find a position somewhere else? How’s that going, by the way? Have you called Thibault yet?”
She avoided his eye. True to his word, Hervé had given her Thibault’s number and told her to call. She hadn’t quite worked up the courage to do it.
Throwing down his pencil, Hervé relaxed back in his chair and put his hands behind his head. She couldn’t help but be aware of the strength in his bare forearms, with his sleeves rolled up to the elbow like that, nor the bulge of the biceps that strained against the fabric of his pale blue shirt. He wasn’t wearing the traditional chef’s whites—never had, even when he’d worked at the Meurice.
Claire shrugged, dragging her gaze away from his physique. “I bet you can’t wait to have me gone.”
“When did I say that?” He frowned. “You’re in a mood today. What’s up?”
So he’d noticed. Well, good. “I came in last night and found the larder overflowing with leftovers.” The words shot out of her mouth like bullets.
He tilted his head. “Huh. I thought someone had been in the kitchen after lockup.” He quirked an eyebrow.
She flushed. She was not the one in the wrong. “You did say I could let myself in to practice my skills.”
“I did, didn’t I?” The look in his eye told her he knew she hadn’t been practicing last night. “So. Leftovers.”
“We always take them to the nuns at St. Catherine’s,” said Claire. “Change the menu all you like, but I can’t believe you would change that.” She gave him a scornful look. “Soon you’ll be calling the place Hervé’s and turning it into some fancy showpiece. Drive all our regulars away.”
Hervé rubbed a hand over his face and sighed. “I told your papa it was a bad idea to keep you on here.”
Claire threw up her hands. “Oh, here we go! I knew it would only be a matter of time.” She smacked her palm on the desk and leaned in. “You need me, Hervé. You’ve only ever worked for other chefs. What do you know about running your own restaurant?”
“I know enough. And what I don’t know, I’ll learn my own way, in my own time.” He picked up his pencil. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a menu to plan.”
“And my day off?” asked Claire. Just see how you do without me, she thought. “Make it a week.”
“Take a month. What do I care?” He crossed something out on the menu and scribbled something down.
Furious, she stormed out of the office and headed straight to the kitchen, where the chefs were busy with the morning preparation. “Louis!”
The plongeur was doing the washing up. At her sharp command, he dropped a plate with a clatter. Muttering something under his breath, he scooped up the plate and turned his head. “Oui, mademoiselle?” When had he stopped calling her Chef?
“Last night’s leftovers,” she began. “I—”
Louis’s shoulders slumped. “Not you, too! I’ve already been yelled at for that.”
She moved closer. “What? By whom?”
He threw up a hand, and a spray of water arced in the air, narrowly missing her head. “By Chef, of course. He left me to close up last night but I had to go straightaway. My girlfriend was waiting for me, and it was late, so . . . I forgot to take the surplus food to the nuns. I’m sorry, okay?” He seemed to pluck up some courage and stuck out his chin. “But . . . but you’re not the boss here anymore, so . . .” He trailed off, faltering beneath her frown.
She jabbed a finger at him. “I’m still the boss of you, Louis. And don’t you forget it.”
Claire turned away before he could see her cringe at the thought of all she’d said to Hervé. Ugh! Even worse than butting heads with the brasserie’s new owner was the realization that she’d wrongly accused him about the leftovers. It made her want to shrivel where she stood. She’d have to apologize.
With dragging feet, she went back to the office and looked in, but Hervé wasn’t there. The menu he’d been working on sat on his desk.
Claire glanced around. No sign of him. Truly she would have to be a saint to miss this opportunity.
She went to the desk and picked up the pages he’d written, with much crossing out.
“Aren’t you supposed to be taking the day off?”
She jumped. Hervé leaned over and snatched the menu from her, then slapped it face down on the desk.
“I couldn’t read your writing, anyway,” said Claire. Although she’d deciphered several of the dishes, and one in particular—the sauce she’d developed. He’d included it in the description of the roast beef as “Sauce Claire” just as she’d insisted, and circled her name three times. It was a strange and giddy feeling to have a sauce named after her. Even though she’d demanded it, she hadn’t really expected him to comply.
Her face was hot. She put the back of her hand to it, and hoped he hadn’t noticed. And then she realized a reddish tinge burned along his high cheekbones, disappearing into his stubble.
“I came to apologize,” she said quickly. “Louis explained about the food surplus.” How much easier was it to say she was sorry than to dwell on the cause of their mutual embarrassment?
He grunted. “Fine. Maybe next time you’ll give me the benefit of the doubt.”
Claire’s gaze went to the menu. Maybe she would.
Gina woke late the next day with a headache and a vague sense of foreboding. She sat up and drove her fingers through her hair, then grimaced. After whatever magical potion Margot had put through it to create those sleek blond waves last night, today Gina’s hair needed a wash.
Margot. Her story had made a few lost millions seem like a blip on the radar. Margot was scarred from that marriage in ways that weren’t visible. Thank goodness she’d agreed to come live with them above the brasserie. She needed to stop hiding herself away.
They were moving Margot out of her Pigalle boardinghouse today. She’d better get up and find a cure for her hangover before they left without her.
The bed next to Gina’s was neatly made. It was Saturday, yet Margot never seemed to deviate from her morning routine, no matter what went on the night before. That hadn’t changed, at least.
Something else hadn’t changed. The way Hal had looked at Gina last night. The way he’d made her feel. A weaker woman would have danced the night away in his arms and to hell with the consequences. She ought to feel glad she’d resisted him. Because the fact remained: She was not the right wife for him. He needed a girl who had the money and connections to help his political career. She was no longer that girl.
Gina stretched, felt pain grip her brain at the movement, and was tempted to lie down and close her eyes again. Sleep would stave off the pain, both in her head and in her heart. She didn’t want to think about Hal.
But she’d never been one to run from the truth no matter how ugly it might be. And besides, she’d promised to help Margot move. Gina swung her legs over the side of the bed and cautiously stood up. She hadn’t drunk that much at the ball. It had been the shared bottles of red in the brasserie kitchen that had done it.
She rummaged in the drawer of her vanity and found a medicinal powder she always took on mornings like this. As she straightened, she saw the typed pages of her manuscript and her gaze snagged on a penciled annotation. “Perfect!” had been written above the opening paragraph. Gina’s eyes narrowed. She knew that neat, bold cursive.
Snatching up the manuscript, she turned page after page. Deeper into the story, Margot’s commentary riddled the text. In the margins, “Awkward phrasing” and “Why??” and “Oh, I like her!”
“Margot!” Gina yelled. Head pounding now, she pulled on a robe, grabbed the manuscript, and stormed out of the bedroom.
She found her friend in the kitchen, slicing pain de mie. The air was redolent of cooking. Several rashers of bacon sizzled in a large fry pan.
“Morning,” said Margot, smiling. She reached for the coffeepot. “Want some?” Her gaze flicked to Gina’s manuscript and back to her face, her expression turning wary.
“What I want is for you to tell me what the heck you mean by reading my pages!”
“Oh, that.” Margot swiveled back to the pan to turn the sizzling bacon rashers, one by one. She reached for an egg, cracked it in. “I couldn’t resist.” She blew out a breath. “Well, if you must know, I was bored waiting for you to come home from the ball and the manuscript was just sitting there, so . . .” She shrugged. “Don’t be cross, darling. You know I’m the best editor you’ve ever had.”
“But I wasn’t ready to show anyone yet. I don’t—”
“It’s the finest work you’ve ever done,” said Margot simply.
Gina stared at her, all the wind taken out of her sails. Damn the woman. How could Gina stay mad when Margot said something like that? She swallowed. “You really think so? I mean, I can never judge a book when I’m in the middle of it.”
“I know so. And I never say what I don’t mean. Not about books.”
Disarmed, Gina turned away, groping for the water jug and a glass. She poured herself some, tipping the headache powder in and stirring it with her finger. She chugged down the concoction.
“By the way,” Margot said, plucking two slices out of the toaster, “your father called.”
Gina grimaced as the bitter dregs of the headache powder caught on her tongue. “Thanks, I’ll call him later.” Her father would want to know whether last night’s mission had been a success. He’d find out soon enough when he received Hal’s call.
“Now come and eat,” said Margot. “Claire left for the brasserie so I thought I’d do the honors.” Onto a plate, she placed a piece of toast, then doled out crispy rashers of bacon, glistening with fat. She slid a spatula under a fried egg and then shimmied it carefully onto the toast. “Don’t look so worried! I’m good at a fry-up.”
Gina’s stomach churned, but the scent of bacon was so enticing that she began to feel ravenous at the same time. “I don’t know whether to bless you or curse you,” she said.
They took their plates onto the terrace. The weather was still chilly of a morning but the day was clear and bright. Too bright. “Ugh,” said Gina. “I need sunglasses.”
They both bundled up warmly and put on sunglasses. Gina sat down and watched the street below for a few moments. Le Chat was already busy with weekend patrons enjoying the pleasant weather. She couldn’t see beneath the awning of Le Chat but she could hear the chink of cutlery on plate, the buzz of conversation. Farther up the street, a group of boys were rolling a large hoop along the sidewalk, calling good-natured taunts to each other.
Margot returned from the kitchen, holding up two glasses filled with thick red liquid spiked with bright green celery sticks. “Virgin Bloody Marys,” she said. “Best thing for a hangover.” She set them on the table and sat down.
Cautiously Gina sipped. To her surprise, Margot was right. The savory tang of the tomato juice concoction with its hint of heat and spice settled her unruly stomach somewhat. She stirred the drink with her celery stick.
Margot took up her knife and fork. “Do you feel like talking about what happened at the ball last night?”
Gina’s throat tightened. “There isn’t much to tell. I saw Hal. It was excruciating. He agreed to meet with my father. That’s about it.”
“You’re not going to see him again?” Margot’s attention was on her plate and her tone was casual—as if she could fool Gina.
“Not if I can help it.” Gina paused. She needed to change the subject, so she heaved a sigh. “All right. Out with it.”
Margot’s head snapped up, her eyes wide. She swallowed. “Out with what?”
“The manuscript,” said Gina. “You’ve told me the good. Now give me the rest.” Margot would have criticisms. She always did, but it was hard to resent her for it; she invariably knew how to make a story ten times better. And anyway, arguing with her would take Gina’s mind off Hal.
“Okay, I will.” Margot put down her knife and fork. “The opening is strong, and I expect that’s because you’ve worked on it the most. But later on, I need . . . more. More emotion. More description.” Margot gestured around her and flung a hand toward the street. “I want to feel like I’m in Paris. But I know you always layer the detail in later, so I’m not too worried about that.” She frowned. “It’s the friend. Marcie. She’s too passive.”
Gina felt herself prickling up like a porcupine, the way she always did when her work was criticized. She made herself take a pause to think about Marcie. “But she’s there to provide a foil for Laura.” Laura was the central character of the novel.
“I know that, but she feels two-dimensional to me,” Margot argued. She sipped her own Bloody Mary. “And if she’s such a milquetoast, why on earth is a firecracker like Laura friends with her?”
Gina had to accept the sense of this.
“What if . . .” Margot began, and with that, they were away, brainstorming, arguing, and laughing together, just like they used to do all those years ago. And the more they discussed the characters of Gina’s book as if they were real people—friends to gossip and wonder about—the more vivid and real they became.
It was precious, so precious, this thing she and Margot had together. Precious and rare. No one had ever cared as much about Gina’s writing as Margot. Hal had been supportive and a good listener, but he was more of a sounding board than an active participant. Besides, her fiction had taken a back seat since she’d returned to America and become a journalist. Margot might not have gone to university, but she had read extensively and she was analytical about her reading. Not only could she tell Gina what she did and didn’t like about a book, she could tell her why. She could even make suggestions about how to fix it, some of which Gina took and most of which helped her to come up with her own solutions.
Despite herself, Gina began to feel confident. Not only would she finish this novel, this time, she would send it out to publishers and see what happened. She’d only tried to get a novel published once before, and the many rejections she’d received had so disheartened her, she’d decided to focus on journalism for a while. Confident to the point of brashness in other areas of her life, when it came to her fiction, she was as tender and vulnerable as a newborn.
When she’d finished her breakfast, Gina reached across the table to grip Margot’s hand. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
Margot smiled but her eyes glistened with tears as she returned Gina’s grip. “Me, too.”
“Right,” said Claire, her hands on her hips as they stood outside the run-down boardinghouse where Margot had been staying. “That’s all done. I gave the key back to that horrible landlady and you are now officially moved out!”
Margot hadn’t bought much furniture since her arrival in Paris—an armchair for reading, a cheerful rug, and a faux Tiffany lamp. Louis had driven off with Margot’s scant possessions in the brasserie van. Now the three women had the evening to themselves.
“Golly, look at the time.” Gina was checking her watch. “I didn’t realize it was so late. Is there somewhere good to eat around here? I’m starving.”
“Let’s celebrate,” said Margot. There was a reckless air about her, as if, having agreed to move into Madame Vaughn’s apartment, she had thrown away the last vestiges of caution. In for a penny, in for a pound.
They dined at the Petit Moulin Rouge, and lingered over their wine. There was so much to catch up on, and now that Margot had finally confided in them about her marriage, she had much to tell of her adventures back in Sydney before she got married.
“I suppose we ought to go home,” said Claire, checking her watch. She had to be up early in the morning if she wanted to stick to her self-imposed cooking regime.
“Oh, come on!” said Margot. “It’s my last night in the Pigalle and I want to go out with a bang. I know! I’ll take you to my favorite club.” Her eyes sparkled with that naughty mischief Claire had come to know and half love, half dread in the past. Now she was glad to see animation replace the fear in those lovely eyes.
“I thought you were lying low,” said Gina. “How is it that you’re still going to nightclubs?”
But Margot gave her a mysterious, sidelong glance and tapped the side of her nose.
A short walk took them deeper into the seedy streets of the nightclub district. They came to a building that looked half derelict, with its windows boarded shut.
With an exchange of dismayed looks, Claire and Gina followed Margot down a stone staircase to basement level, where the squeak and rustle of rats could be heard.
“Yikes,” said Gina as they picked their way along the alley. “Do you think it’s safe? This place looks likely to fall down with us in it.”
“Hardly,” said Margot. “It survived the war. It’s not likely to collapse now.”
Claire thought this showed a blithe lack of understanding for the principles of engineering and construction but she didn’t want to rain on Margot’s parade, so she swallowed her protest.
They reached an iron door that looked so impenetrable, it should have led to a bank vault. Margot pressed the worn buzzer on the wall beside it. A small panel in the door at eye level slid open. Margot mumbled what Claire assumed must be a password, and the door swung open.
Admitted to a dimly lit, smoke-filled club, they were greeted by the wail of a jazz trumpet. Claire stared about her, wide-eyed, at the gathered crowd. Some were gyrating to the music. Some were seated at tables, apparently engaged in intense conversation.
“I’ve never seen so much black outside of a funeral,” said Claire.
“Beatniks,” said Gina. She raised an eyebrow at Margot. “I didn’t know this was your scene.”
“Why not?” Margot shrugged. “The wine is cheap and the conversation can be interesting. And nobody cares who I am or where I come from in this place.”
“Why do you need a password to get in, though?” asked Claire. But she was to be left to find that out for herself. Gina smirked and Margot said, “Come on!” She turned to lead them to the bar.
They ordered drinks. Gina and Claire sipped cautiously while Margot downed hers in one long swallow and ordered more. Someone shouted, “Marie!” and suddenly they were surrounded by several of Margot’s acquaintances, drawing them deeper into the club. The supper tables were bare and scarred, and the only available chairs were milk crates and rickety stools, but Claire found she didn’t mind at all.
They talked and laughed and danced and the hours passed by like minutes. Claire enjoyed a fascinating conversation with one gentleman who turned up on the small stage half an hour later dressed in a blond wig and black sequined gown with a split to mid thigh, giving a marvelous impression of Marlene Dietrich.
Claire glanced at Margot to see her friend grinning at her. “Isn’t she brilliant?” Her eyes were heavy-lidded and Claire guessed she’d had one too many glasses of bordeaux.
But when the song ended and the applause died, Margot stood up. “And on that note, it is time for us to leave.”
Forgetting she’d wanted to be up early to work on her skills the next day, Claire objected. “But we’re having such fun!”
“My dear, one should always, always, always leave a party when one is most enjoying it.” Margot flung out a hand. “Let us unto the starry night be borne!”
Dryly, Gina said, “Looks like we’ll have to carry this one out of here.”
Between them, Claire and Gina helped Margot upstairs and out into the street. After walking some distance, they managed to hail a taxi.
“But my place is that way!” protested Margot, lurching away from them.
“You’re not going to your place tonight, remember?” said Claire, pulling her back. “You’re coming home with us.”
Claire chuckled to herself as she shut the taxi door on Margot and went around to slide in the other side. All three of them under one roof. She loved the idea. Despite Margot’s troubles and the need for secrecy, they were going to have a lot of fun. And hopefully, in time, Margot would relax her vigilance and allow herself to return to normal life.
Smiling, Claire glanced over at Margot, who had closed her eyes and seemed to have fallen asleep.
When they arrived back at Le Chat, the restaurant lay in darkness, a nearby streetlamp throwing a gentle glow onto the sign of the cat and the fishing line.
“I’m all right. I’m all right.” Her hands in the air, palms outward, Margot refused help to alight from the taxi, but as Claire turned to the apartment building, still laughing and feeling for her key, Margot let out a hoarse scream.
A man had stepped out from the shadow of the doorway. “Sorry.” Pulling his hat brim lower over his eyes, he brushed past Claire, and sauntered up the street.
“It’s all right, Margot.” Claire put her arm around her friend and rubbed her shoulder. “He wasn’t here for you.”
Gina was staring after the stranger as he vanished into the darkness. “Then what was he doing here?”
Shrugging, Claire unlocked the door and they headed upstairs.
By the time they reached the apartment, Margot had calmed down and seemed to have sobered up a little as well. “I overreacted,” she said. “Still jumpy, I guess.”
“I don’t blame you,” said Claire. “He gave me quite a fright.” But, she wondered, as Margot shuffled off to the bedroom she shared with Gina, what would it take before Margot felt safe?
“We need to help her get this divorce,” said Gina quietly, as if she’d read her mind.
Claire nodded. “I’ll call Maître Bosshard in the morning.”
As she turned to go, Gina said, “Claire? Did you hear what that man said when he pushed past us just now?”
Looking back, she answered, “Yes. He said . . .” Claire’s gaze met Gina’s. “He said, ‘Sorry.’ He said it in English.”
“English, but with an American accent,” added Gina. “There aren’t any other Americans in the building, are there?”
“He could have been visiting,” suggested Claire. She frowned. But had the man actually come out of the apartment building? Or had he been skulking in the doorway for some reason? If he’d been coming out, wouldn’t he have held the door open for Claire and her friends?
Gina’s face was stony. Claire asked, “What are you thinking?”
Gina shook her head and wriggled her shoulders a little as if shaking off a disturbing thought. “Nothing. I’m sure it’s nothing. Good night.”