18

When Clare opened the door of the room she shared with Louise on the following Monday morning, she gasped in amazement. The room was completely empty. Gone were the high desks and stools, the ancient bookcases and filing cabinets, the straight-backed chairs and worn strips of carpet. The only sign of life in the deserted room was a huge sheet of wrapping paper attached to one pocked and pitted wall. She looked at it and laughed.

‘Welcome home,’ it said in English, the big letters written with a one-inch paintbrush. Below it, in biro, a further message in French: ‘Come and find me, I’ve missed you, Louise.’

For a moment Clare stood looking round the empty room. It suddenly dawned on her that all was quiet. At long last, the hammering and banging had stopped. She turned on her heel, set off towards the corridor that led to the new suites and was confronted by Madame Japolsky, who shot out of her office opposite at the sound of footsteps.

‘Ah, Mam’selle ’Amilton, you have had a good holiday?’ she began. ‘Monsieur Lafarge wishes to see you immediately,’ she went on, without the slightest pause for any reply to her question.

She edged past Clare so that she could peer up at Louise’s notice through her minute, gold-framed spectacles.

‘When you have seen him, I shall show you to your new office,’ she added severely. ‘Naturally, there will be new arrangements.’

Clare crossed the banking hall and climbed the familiar flights of stairs, walked along the familiar landings. Every time she passed those elaborate gold frames, she thought of Harry, just as she had done when Paul had conducted her to Robert’s room the very first time and ushered her into the royal presence like a courtier of Louis Quinze himself. Dear Harry. He’d always been so good to her. Unpacking her suitcases the previous day, she’d thought about the lovely home he’d created, about Jessie wandering round it, half in a dream, relating only to little Fiona.

‘Viens.’

As she opened the door, she found Robert was halfway across the room to meet her.

‘Good. You look well,’ he said, kissing her cheek.

His telephone rang and he turned away, strode back to his desk and picked it up. ‘Paul, I am engaged. I do not wish to be disturbed. No, not by anyone. I will tell you when I am free.’

Grinning broadly, he waved her to an armchair by the window.

‘Did you have a good holiday?’

She laughed and smiled warmly at him.

‘Madame Japolsky asked me that. But she didn’t wait for a reply. I’ve been trying to think what I’d say if you asked me.’

‘I am quite willing to wait for a reply,’ he said, settling back in his armchair.

‘It was a mixed experience, Robert, and not a very happy one. There were good things. I had a lovely evening with my old friend Keith Harvey, and Charlie Running was so pleased to see me, so were Aunt Sarah and Mrs McGregor. But the visit to my grandparents was rather depressing. They are ageing visibly and aren’t at all happy. My brother asked me for money before we’d been together for five minutes.’

‘Did you give it to him?’

‘No. I told him I’d have to talk it over with Granda Hamilton. He wanted the money to buy a car and I was uneasy about that. He once broke his leg riding a motorbike he’d taken without permission. He’s unreliable about most things. Granda said he thought a car wouldn’t be wise. So I didn’t give him the money. I did give Granny money for any clothes he might need. But he said I was mean, and didn’t speak to me again after that.’

Robert nodded thoughtfully.

‘And your friend Jessie. Was she pleased to see you?’

‘I really don’t know. Harry was. But Jessie was quite sharp with me at times. Something’s wrong, but I don’t know enough about having babies to understand. I’ll have to talk to Marie-Claude. Jessie seems totally preoccupied with Fiona, spends far too much time with her, and almost none with Harry. He’s as loving as ever, but it can’t be easy for him. She’s not the girl he fell in love with.’

Robert nodded again. ‘And did you meet up with Andrew or your friend Ginny?’

‘Not directly. I found out from Harry that Ginny is now Andrew’s girlfriend,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘I suppose I should have guessed that when she didn’t write to me. Ginny’s always been fond of Andrew. When we were engaged, I used to be surprised she was never jealous. But I’m sad about Ginny too. We came very close to each other when Teddy died. I miss her. But they seem to be very happy together. I saw a photograph of them in a magazine at the airport. At a Hunt Ball,’ she ended, laughing wryly.

‘So, you are glad to be back.’

‘Yes, I am. My empty apartment was far more welcoming than either of the places where I stayed. Paul had arranged some flowers from the courtyard for me, and Louise had put something for my supper in the fridge. The minute I arrived, Madame Dubois came to see if there was anything I needed,’ she went on, smiling. ‘I think I might do as Charlie suggests and become a Frenchwoman like Matilda Wolfe Tone.’

He smiled unexpectedly.

‘She was the wife of the revolutionary in whom Charlie had an interest?’

‘Yes, that’s the one,’ she said, nodding. ‘I don’t know quite where she fits into his book, but it seems to me she made a far better life in France until she went to America. Charlie says Ulster is simply not moving with the times.’

‘Do you think he’s right?’ he asked soberly.

‘Yes, sadly, I do. Even Keith, who’s a very easygoing man, says all the urgent questions are being ignored. He’s planning to go to Australia when he’s had two years’ experience at his present school.’

‘I am sad for you. I, too, went back to my part of France and found that what I’d left behind was better left behind. But I am glad you have the wisdom to accept what you see. The worst thing one can do in life is go on seeing situations as once they were, or as you wish they might continue to be. Both individuals and groups fall prey to such fantasy. It is a very dangerous thing.’

He gathered himself and straightened up in his armchair.

‘It looks as if we shall have an opportunity to dine together later this week,’ he said, waving a hand towards a pile of papers on the desk behind them. ‘Bordeaux,’ he added.

‘Good,’ she said, smiling. ‘This time, thanks to you, I know the wine but not the region. Usually it’s the other way round.’

‘I shall want to hear much more about your visit then, but meantime, I have a favour to ask of you. You must refuse if you feel uneasy, but I very much hope you will say yes.’

‘I shall certainly want to say yes, Robert. What is it?’

‘Emile Moreau’s farewell party next week. It will be a large affair. As well as Emile’s own family and guests, we will be asking important customers, particularly those he’s been involved with in recent years. There will be some government ministers and some colleagues from the financial world,’ he said solemnly. ‘Including your friends the St Clairs,’ he added, more cheerfully. ‘I shall have to make the inevitable speech, but I should like you to present the gift from his colleagues.’

‘But why me, Robert? I like Emile very much, but there are so many people who have known him much longer. Surely one of them would be more appropriate.’

To her surprise, Robert laughed.

‘I thought you’d protest. But I have good reasons for my request. Emile is a shy man. There is considerable interest in his retirement in the serious newspapers and the financial journals. We shall have to admit the press and submit Emile to being photographed. He may tolerate it better if you are by his side. He always seems easier in your company.’

‘Does he?’

‘Yes, he does. I have observed,’ he said crisply. ‘Besides, I need a young face in these photographs. Yours is the youngest I’ve got,’ he said, decisively.

‘May I ask why?’

‘Yes, you may,’ he said, nodding, as he stood up, collected the pile of documents on his desk and handed them to her. ‘The photographs taken at this event reflect upon the bank. There is no better way of declaring our perspective on the future than by having an attractive young woman among all the old-timers.’

Clare smiled and shook her head. Robert had made up his mind. And, when he had, as always, he was able to find good reasons to support his decision.

‘Yes, I’ll do it,’ she said, smiling. ‘You’ve picked the right week. I have a new dress that should be ready in time.’

‘Good,’ he said, looking pleased. ‘I’ll ensure that there is an appropriate interval between the bank and the Champs-Elysées in which to prepare yourself.’ he said, as he walked with her to the door. ‘Unlike the last time we dined!’

 

‘Well, Clare, what do you think?’ demanded Louise, as Madame Japolsky shut the door behind her. She took off her jacket and dropped her shoes on the carpet.

‘Can’t quite believe it,’ Clare replied, as she surveyed their new retreat. The modern furniture reminded her of Charles Langley’s office: teak desks, a glass coffee table, swivel chairs upholstered in soft leather. But the colours were gentler than in Charles’s room. Grey and pink on the walls to match the carpet, white on the tall windows looking out on to the cobbled courtyard. On the floor a soft, rose-pink carpet on which Louise was luxuriously curling and uncurling her toes.

‘I hope you took in Madame’s strictures about the use of the bathroom, Clare,’ said Louise, pulling a face.

Clare giggled. ‘I liked the bit about not cooling wine in the bidet,’ she said, grinning. ‘I’d never have thought of that if she hadn’t mentioned it.’

‘I’m so glad to see you back, Clare. I’ve moved your things as best I could,’ she explained, as Clare began to open her drawers and take out what she needed for the morning’s work.

‘Was it awful leaving all your family and friends?’ Louise asked anxiously. ‘I cry every time I leave Ravenna, though I love it here,’ she said, as she took down a dictionary from the bookcase and unscrewed the cap of her fountain pen.

‘Not as bad as I expected. I’ll tell you all about it. D’you think we’ll manage a lunch hour today? I’d love to take you to Franco’s. It’s been my turn for ages now and we never coincide.’

‘Ah, but we will, we will. I’ve bearded Madame in her lair. We’ve got the two weeks in July we wanted and I’ve made a provisional booking. Two weeks in Greece without le grand Monsieur. How about that?’

‘Wonderful, just wonderful,’ Clare replied, as she took a pad of lined paper from a deep drawer. ‘Meantime,’ she said, laughing, ‘I shall be spending the morning in Bordeaux.’

 

‘Good, you are home already. I’ve been thinking of you all day,’ said Marie-Claude, the moment Clare picked up the phone. ‘Has your dress arrived?’

‘Yes, it came yesterday. I do hope you like it. It’s the first one I’ve chosen without you to help me.’

‘But, chérie, you are a good pupil. You have outgrown your teacher. Will you tell me the colour, or is it a surprise?’

‘I never thought of surprising you. What a lovely idea. Yes, I shall keep it a dark secret. I’m dying to see you in evening dress. I’m sure you will look lovely and Gerard will look terribly distinguished.’

Clare heard Marie-Claude laugh. She muttered about Gerard’s cavalier attitude to evening dress.

‘I’m not sure we’ll even get speaking to each other if the American ambassador turns up,’ Clare said suddenly. ‘If he does, Robert will pretend he doesn’t understand a word of English rather than lose face with his mid-west accent and I won’t be able to leave his side all evening.’

‘Don’t worry. I shall take my opera glasses and peer at you from afar,’ she replied, teasing her. ‘But the moment you spy a day off, I insist we have lunch. I’m dying to tell you about my studies. Prepare to nod indulgently while I bore you to death. Now, I must go. I intend to lie in the bath for ages. I hope you are going to do the same.’

‘Yes, I am. I don’t think I’ve ever managed a bath before an evening engagement,’ she said. ‘I wish I wasn’t so horribly nervous,’ she added, honestly.

‘Chérie, I don’t believe it,’ Marie-Claude replied, her voice full of amazement. ‘You have only to give Emile his prize for being good. He will kiss you no doubt. Do you mind that?’

‘Oh no. It’s not that. I think Emile is a dear man. Right from my first week he helped me with all sorts of things. No, it’s the photographs I’m dreading. I look horrible in photographs.’

‘And when were you last photographed, chérie? On the beach at Deauville playing cricket, perhaps?’

‘I don’t remember. I suppose it was a long time ago.’

‘And probably on someone’s old box Brownie?’

‘Yes,’ she said, laughing. ‘How clever of you. I think you’re right. Jessie’s mother had one and I remember Aunt Sarah taking a picture of Jessie and me. The sun was in my eyes or I blinked. I looked most peculiar anyway.’

‘You really mustn’t worry, Clare. These Press people know what they’re doing. Just smile gently if they ask you to. When you present Emile’s gift, look at no one but Emile.’

‘I wouldn’t anyway.’

‘Well, there you are. You see, you know what to do instinctively. I’m sure the evening will be a great success. You will probably captivate the American ambassador. Gerard will be triumphant and I shall glow with pride and reflected glory. Go and have your bath. I shall think of you. Once you begin I’m sure you won’t be nervous at all. Good luck.’

 

Clare didn’t enjoy her bath. She lay there thinking of all the things that could go wrong: from her knickers falling down, to spilling her wine, tripping over her few words to Emile, or mistranslating some important comment from a foreign visitor.

‘Come on, Clare. What is wrong with you?’ she demanded, as she sat naked in front of her dressing table, an array of bottles, brushes and pencils lined up in order of use in front of her.

‘Maybe it’s the dress,’ she said to herself. ‘Perhaps it’s unlucky.’ Auntie Polly used to think certain colours were unlucky. And pearls, of course. ‘Pearls for tears, Clare,’ was what she used to say. Well, that was no problem. She hadn’t got any pearls. In fact, the only decoration she was wearing tonight was a tiny spray of two yellow rosebuds, a tribute to Emile, a passionate gardener, who intended to devote part of his new-found leisure to growing roses.

‘There’s nothing to be done but get on with it. If it’s going to be awful, it’ll still be over by midnight. If it’s not, you’ll feel a fool for having worried yourself silly.’

She did her best, but the sense of anxious tension just wouldn’t go away. She left putting on her dress to the last possible moment because she kept having to go and pee, yet the moment she put it on, she felt better.

She picked up her evening bag and checked the contents. Key, hanky, powder, lipstick, slim notepad, biro, supply of Robert’s cards. She counted the remaining Anadin in the paper strip. Three lots should be enough: Robert, herself, and perhaps some other poor soul. She was amazed at the way men who regularly suffered from headaches never thought of carrying tablets, especially when they had so many pockets.

The June evening was so warm she decided not to bother with a wrap of any kind. She would go as she was and probably be grateful for her bare shoulders and back when she reached the even warmer restaurant. She glanced in the mirror to make sure her roses were lying easily on the single shoulder strap, then went and stood by the window looking out at the sunlight on the river.

Robert’s car drew up almost immediately. To her amazement, Robert himself sat beside his chauffeur. He was looking profoundly uncomfortable.

‘I was ready early, so I came to save Gilles an extra journey,’ he explained, with a certain lack of conviction.

‘Oh good, I wasn’t looking forward to arriving by myself.’

‘Why ever not?’ he asked sharply, as he opened the door for her and climbed in beside her.

‘It’s silly, I know, and I’ve scolded myself thoroughly, but I’m nervous.’

To her surprise and delight, he smiled broadly.

‘Oh good, so am I.’

She felt the tension ease as Gilles drove sedately along the quay and turned towards the Arc de Triomphe.

‘We’re still early, Gilles. Can you take the longer route, please?’

‘Certainly, monsieur.’

‘We are reprieved. How shall we spend our leisure?’ he asked.

She thought for a moment.

‘We could discuss the international monetary situation,’ she said slowly, with as serious a look as she could manage. ‘Or I could tell you a joke,’ she added wickedly.

He laughed and sat back more comfortably in his seat.

‘You look extremely lovely this evening,’ he said, as matter-of-factly as if he were commenting on a balance sheet. ‘Why have you never worn green before? It suits you particularly well.’

She blushed and laughed at herself.

‘Do you really want to know?’

‘Most certainly, I do.’

‘My school uniform was green and I vowed when I left school I would never wear green again.’

‘And you actually changed your mind. How extraordinary,’ he said severely. ‘Just how did this unlikely event occur?’

She smiled to herself, comforted. If Robert could tease her, he must already be feeling a lot easier than when he’d arrived at her apartment.

‘I tried on the model dress, just to please the Madame, who was being so helpful. I liked the feel of it. I was going to ask if they could make it up in another colour, but as I turned round, I saw the girl who had come to pin the hem. She was looking up at me with big round eyes. So I asked her if she liked it. She just kept nodding. She’s a very shy girl. But I knew then the dress was right. Perhaps she was seeing something I couldn’t see.’

‘She certainly was. I think Madame St Clair will be proud of you.’ He settled himself more comfortably and looked at her sideways. ‘Now tell me a joke, please, before we arrive.’

‘What is smooth and yellow and highly dangerous?’ she asked, falling back on the last series of jokes Philippe had entertained them with before he went away to school.

‘I do not know,’ he said solemnly. ‘What is smooth and yellow and highly dangerous?’

‘Shark-infested custard.’

Robert was still grinning as the car drew up outside the restaurant in the Champs-Elysées. The door of their car was opened by an elegant figure, so beautifully uniformed he looked as if he might have survived the Revolution. Robert gave her his hand and, as she stepped out, she saw below her satin evening shoes that red carpet had been laid across the pavement. Ahead of her, the entrance to the restaurant was banked with flowers, their perfume wafting towards her on the warm evening air.

‘Monsieur Lafarge, ici, s’il vous plaît Mademoiselle, ici, ici.’

Clare registered the sudden flare of a flash bulb. From two clusters of young men twisting themselves into the most uncomfortable positions came a stream of requests. ‘This way, monsieur. Mademoiselle, this way, please.’

To her surprise, Robert smiled obligingly, took her by the elbow and made sure all the young men had their opportunity. He bowed to them when they had finished and ushered her into the foyer, as magnificently decorated with flowers as the entrance had been.

‘Now, Mademoiselle Clare, to work,’ he whispered. ‘You’ve made an excellent beginning.’

 

Marie-Claude was quite right. From the moment she set foot on the red carpet, she was too busy to be nervous. She remembered all Marie-Claude had taught her. How to sit when wearing a low-cut dress. Which of the phalanx of glasses to use for water. How to avoid drinking too much wine when waiters constantly refilled your glass. Paul had briefed her on how to address ambassadors and other dignitaries, while Jean-Pierre Crespigny had shown her when not to translate a greeting or phrase the context made clear.

By the time she stood up to present Emile with his gift, a good meal and a cautious amount of wine had settled the butterflies in her stomach. Moving past the tables that surrounded the small dance floor she felt perfectly easy, prepared to say whatever words came to mind should the one’s she’d prepared desert her.

‘Bravo, Clare.’

She recognised the familiar voice. It was Gerard St Clair. She did not turn towards him but she smiled with delight as she stepped up on to the dais where Emile was waiting.

‘Clare, you are wearing roses,’ he said quietly.

‘For your future, Emile. May it be full of roses, of every kind.’

She added a few extra words to those her colleagues had suggested, handed him the cut-glass rose bowl and an envelope containing a very large cheque. The flash bulbs popped all around them, but neither she nor Emile paid the slightest attention to them as he kissed her cheeks and thanked her.

It was only as she made her way back to her place beside Robert that she noticed a young man with dark hair and even darker eyes. He was looking at her as if she was the only woman in the whole glittering assembly.

 

‘Clare you look wonderful,’ said Marie-Claude, touching her shoulder gently and smiling at her in the mirror.

‘Oh Marie-Claude, how lovely to see you.’ Clare turned and kissed her. ‘I hoped you’d appear, even if you didn’t need to. Your nose never shines.’

‘True, but, unlike you, I’ve been enjoying my wine. I must go and make myself comfortable. Don’t go away, I have something to say to you.’

Turning back to the mirror, Clare watched her friend weave her way through the crowded powder room, full of the rustle of gowns, the mingling of perfumes and the laughter of women released from the formalities of a presentation dinner. As she pressed powder carefully on her warm face, she was suddenly aware of the picture the broad expanse of glass reflected back. It was one thing standing in front of her own long mirror at home, anxiously checking every detail, quite another to see herself like this, as she must appear to others. The emerald silk dress did look wonderful, she had to admit, its style and cut, the way it complemented her creamy skin and dark curls. The little seamstress had been absolutely right.

As she carefully applied lipstick, she saw herself set against a background of self-possessed women, moving to and fro behind her, for the most part what Ronnie would call ‘the great and the good’. Women of all ages, some severely formal in their dress, silver-haired and wearing velvet and pearls, some bedecked in jewels, some wearing tiny orchids, others large corsages of flowers. A stunning blonde in a red dress. An awkward-looking woman, heavily sequinned. They greeted friends, adjusted skirts, or necklaces, tucked back strands of hair from chignons, ran damp fingers along eyebrows. She smiled to herself. She looked perfectly at home amongst them, as if she had been attending such occasions all her life. The face that looked back at her now, smiling with pleasure as she caught sight of her friend returning, seemed to say that she was managing to enjoy herself after all.

‘Chérie, have you noticed that young man at the next table but one?’ asked Marie-Claude, bending over her and whispering.

‘Dark hair and eyes?’

‘Yes, and distinctly handsome. Do you know him?’

‘No, never seen him before.’

‘His eyes have never left you. With the greatest of discretion, he has watched you all evening.’

Clare laughed and shook her head.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘And all the time he’s been watching me, you’ve been watching him, just as discreetly. You’re as bad as Gerard,’ she said, squeezing her arm. ‘But can you really believe it, Marie-Claude? Can you?’

‘Believe what, chérie?’

‘Tonight. Here and now. Your protégée. The poor, sad little refugee from a broken love affair who came to your door last July. You have been so kind and taught me so much. How can I ever thank you?’

‘And what about me?’ Marie-Claude protested. ‘A poor mother with an empty nest, wondering what to do with the rest of her life. So depressed I couldn’t even appreciate my dear Gerard.’

Marie-Claude broke off suddenly. The room was emptying around them.

‘My dear we must go,’ she said quickly, walking her to the door. ‘Robert may need you just now. I’ll ring tomorrow morning, late, or until I catch you, to hear what happens next.’

They parted as Marie-Claude reached her table. Gerard stood up to help her to her place, looked at Clare and gave her a tiny wink.

Suitably refreshed during the interval for the presentation and speeches, the band put away the light classical music they’d played during the meal and launched into a selection from Glen Miller with considerably more enthusiasm. As Clare sat down again, she could feel her feet tapping. She wondered if Robert ever danced and whether anyone else might ask her. She longed to dance.

For a few moments no one moved except the waiters bringing brandy and liqueurs and serving more coffee. She was puzzled. Here was this lovely floor, this marvellous music. Why on earth was no one dancing? The band paused between numbers. She saw Robert nod across the table to Emile. They exchanged glances. Emile rose in his usual dignified manner, excusing himself to his elderly sister, and came and stood behind her chair.

‘Mademoiselle Clare, may I have the honour …’

‘That would be lovely,’ she said, as he drew her chair away, took her hand and led her to the dance floor.

The band struck up immediately. To Clare’s absolute amazement, Emile danced her vigorously round the empty floor to the strains of ‘American Patrol’. She was so delighted to find herself dancing again after so long and to that particular tune, she hardly noticed the discreet round of applause, after which other couples joined them on the floor and Emile had to be more circumspect in his manoeuvres.

‘Thank you, my dear,’ said Emile, bowing slightly, as he took her back to her place. ‘You make me feel young again. See what you can do for Robert.’

Robert grunted as Clare settled herself beside him. She hadn’t realised quite what good friends the two men were till this evening. She wondered if it was because they were both widowers. Perhaps having to remake a life after great loss had created a special bond between them.

She looked at Robert encouragingly. To her surprise, he blushed. Given the heat and the amount of very good wine they’d all drunk, his change in colour was almost certainly invisible, but she knew Robert was quite aware of it.

‘Have all those pressmen gone home?’ he asked, leaning across the large, round table to where Paul sat entertaining an official from the Ministry of Finance and his wife.

‘Yes, monsieur. They were given supper with the band and have gone away happy.’

‘Humph.’

Robert straightened himself up, ran a finger round the left side of his collar and stood up.

‘Mademoiselle Clare,’ he said formally, as he looked down at her.

Dear Robert, she thought, a wave of tenderness sweeping over her. That gesture with his collar had gone straight to her heart. She’d known it for some time even if she’d not admitted it herself, that here was a man just as vulnerable as the first Robert. The one a country blacksmith, the other the chairman of a leading French bank. A whole world of time and distance separated them, yet each was as much prey to simple anxiety as the other. She wondered, could that be why she loved them both?

‘Thank you,’ she said, smiling.

They walked to the floor and began to dance. Robert was no dancer, but he knew the steps and went through them meticulously, though without much relation to the music, so they managed well enough. After a couple of circuits, he began to listen to the tune and to relax. By the third number in the sequence, he began to move with the rhythm. She could see he was almost enjoying himself.

‘You love dancing, don’t you?’ he said, choosing a more adventurous turn, as the band increased the tempo.

‘Yes, I do. I’ve always loved it from the very first time I danced. It was at school, with Jessie, in green knickers. I really do prefer a dress.’

Robert laughed.

‘Emile is right: you make me feel young. But not young enough to dance into the small hours,’ he added sadly. ‘I shall be leaving shortly with Emile and his sister, but you are to stay. Enjoy yourself. You’ve done a good job this evening. I wish I could be there to see Henri Lavalle’s face when he opens his copy of Le Monde and sees you smiling back at him.’

‘And you too, Robert,’ she reminded him.

‘Yes,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘He may be amused to see that I now possess a shirt with a collar.’

 

Robert and Emile leaving was a sign for the more senior guests to follow. The man from the Ministry of Finance and his wife said their goodbyes and Paul promptly asked Clare to dance. He was a splendid dancer, his footwork so precise and yet fluid they appeared to float round the floor without the slightest effort.

‘That was marvellous, Paul. I think I need another glass of water,’ she said, laughing, as they stopped in the middle of the floor and made their way back to the empty table.

‘Would you like some as well?’ she asked, as she picked up the jug.

‘No, my dear Clare. I never drink water when there is wine,’ he said cheerfully, reaching across the table.

Before he could turn back towards her, a figure appeared behind her chair. It was the young man with the dark hair and the even darker eyes.

‘Clare,’ he said, without more ado. ‘May I have the pleasure of the next dance?’

 

As she stepped on to the dance floor and he held out his arms to her, Clare knew she’d dance with no one else that evening. Before he had even spoken to her, she’d read a quiet determination in his manner. He would be discreet, as Marie-Claude had observed. He would be courteous, as indeed he had been, in not approaching her till all possible duty had been done. But now that he had spoken she sensed he would not let her go.

They moved together easily. Less flamboyant than Paul, yet full of a pent-up energy, she sensed he was matching their steps before he spoke.

‘Let me introduce myself, Clare,’ he said smiling. ‘My name is Christian Moreau. I have been grateful to my dear uncle often enough, but never more than tonight. He said I would like you, an understatement worthy of the English.’

Clare laughed, could think of nothing whatever to say. But Christian needed no reply. He looked down at her, his tanned cheeks and dark hair so close she caught the hint of his after-shave, his eyes deep and intense.

‘We shall dance till the band goes home and then I shall take you to a nightclub in Place Pigalle. There we can dance till dawn. I think you will enjoy that.’