Chapter 14

Fen awoke the next morning to the sound of the front door of the apartment closing. She sat up in bed and swung her legs out, stretching out the last of her sleepiness as she did so. Once the curtains were open and her old land girl jumper slipped on over her nightdress, she ventured out of her room and into the light of the studio. Rose was already at her easel, the curtains long drawn back and the morning light streaming in through the tall panes of glass.

‘Good morning, slug-a-bed! Can I put the wireless on now? I do so like some jazz while I work.’

‘Good morning, Rose, and yes, I’m so sorry, of course – fire her up!’ Fen headed towards the bathroom but paused and asked, ‘Did I just hear the front door go?’

Rose sighed and dragged her eyes away from her canvas and met Fen’s own enquiring look. ‘Young Simone has just returned. I thought you both might have come home together, but…’

Fen rubbed her eyes again and tried to remember what had happened after the fourth or fifth glass of wine. She remembered all three of them trying to get the big grey door open downstairs, but perhaps it was just her on her own who practically pulled herself up the banister to the fifth-floor apartment.

‘I’m sure James looked after her,’ Fen said, by way of an explanation.

‘It’s not his hospitality I question, dear girl.’ The look in Rose’s eyes implied she knew all too well what two young people might get up to alone in a hotel room and Fen nodded, before leaving Rose to carry on with her painting as she headed into the bathroom.

‘Ah good morning, young lady,’ Rose eyed up her lodger as she rather sheepishly left her room and closed the door behind her. Fen looked up from the daily paper and Simone winked at her. ‘I’m not sure I should condone this sort of behaviour…’ Rose continued as Simone walked into the centre of the room and helped herself to a cup of coffee from the pot.

‘Urg,’ she swallowed it in disgust. ‘It’s the chicory stuff again.’

‘It was all I could find,’ Fen shrugged her shoulders.

‘It’s all we have,’ Rose spoke over her. ‘And I’m sure it’s nothing so good as one can get at the breakfast tables of the Hotel de Lille.’

Simone was modest enough to finally blush a pretty shade of pink and lowered her eyes to the coffee pot.

Fen knew that Rose was cross with her, whether for her loose morals or just that she had been worried about her, she wasn’t sure, but she knew she should say something to ease the tension. ‘Simone, is a visit to your atelier still on the cards today? I rather fancy a walk out and about.’

‘Of course. I will warn my friends Christian and Pierre that they will be meeting one of the famous English land girls!’

‘Rightio!’ Fen clocked what Simone had said and smiled, cheered at the thought. ‘Though I didn’t know we were such celebrities.’

Simone just laughed and took another sip of her coffee. She wrinkled her nose in disgust at the ersatz brew. Fen took a sip too, but couldn’t say she disliked it. Real coffee was such a luxury these days and Fen had grown rather fond of the woodiness of the chicory drink.

‘Mind if I bring a chum?’ Fen remembered her promise to Magda and thought it might be friendly of her to ask if she’d like to come along as well. Simone merely shrugged and Fen wondered if perhaps an audience to show off her glamorous workplace to was always welcome. ‘Wonderful. See you later then.’

With the rendezvous arranged, Simone bid her goodbyes and donned her coat before leaving the apartment.

‘If she were my daughter…’ Rose began, before leaning over to pick up her cigarette holder and light one up. Her long beads clanked against the jars of white spirit next to her easel. She had wrapped her hair up in a navy-blue turban today and paired it with a striking bejewelled peacock-feather hatpin. She inhaled deeply and then laughed to herself. ‘Who am I kidding, if she were my daughter, she’d be twice as bad and thrice as ugly.’

‘Oh Rose.’ Fen laughed at her. ‘Still, I’m rather intrigued by seeing this fashion house. I’ll put in a call to Magda’s building and, then, is there anything I can do for you in the meantime?’

Fen had slightly regretted asking Rose that a few hours later. Her hands were now red raw and reeked of white spirit. Cleaning oil paint off brushes in the freezing cold of the kitchen sink was not fun at all, but Fen couldn’t begrudge her friend the favour – she was staying with her free of charge after all.

‘Reminds me,’ Fen said to Tipper as he sat on her feet like a fluffy hot-water bottle while she stood at the sink, ‘I must see if there’s anything particularly tasty at the shops this afternoon. I think we could all do with a bit of a treat.’

The little dog had agreed with her, or so she thought by the yapping, followed by a particularly energetic bout of tail chasing. She looked at the ball of fluff as he skittered around the kitchen, bumping into her ankles, and couldn’t help but smile at him. Perhaps it would be nice to get a dog once she was settled back in England? The rather pleasant daydream of choosing a breed occupied her until she’d finished washing out the brushes, and once she was free of oil paint splats herself, she put her mind to what she should wear for this adventure into the heart of haute couture.

Visiting a fashion house hadn’t been on Fen’s agenda when she’d packed her old brown case in West Sussex last month and headed off in search of Arthur. At that point, she’d figured her luggage would be more usefully filled with rugged work overalls and sensible jumpers; which indeed had been just the ticket as she’d taken up the role of a vineyard worker to aid her search.

Now, though, she felt like her Sunday best of a smart tweed skirt and nice cream-coloured blouse just wasn’t going to cut it, while the Victorian cameo brooch of her grandmother’s that she’d so almost lost to a thief in Burgundy, as precious as it was to her, wasn’t exactly à la mode either. Plus, Rose’s dress she had worn the night before hadn’t had a chance to air out and still smelt of tobacco smoke and stale beer, more’s the pity. Luckily, Rose was as generous as ever, and although Fen had only her sensible shoes and trench coat, she was glad to have borrowed another one of her friend’s less-exuberant tea dresses, this one in a rather fetching blue with little white daisies on it.

As Fen put it on and pulled the belt tight around the waist to give the dress a bit of definition, she started to feel a little of her old self come back. Fen had never been a vain woman, but she did follow her mother’s mantra of ‘it’s nice to look nice’ and had been known to check her headscarf and victory-rolled hairdo in the passing wing mirror of a farm vehicle when she’d been working in the fields. Perhaps this trip to the heart of the Parisian fashion world would be the boost she needed after losing her darling Arthur had knocked her for six.

A few hours later and Fen and Magda walked along arm in arm towards the atelier.

‘This is such a joy,’ Magda exclaimed, ‘not just being here with you, although that is wonderful, don’t get me wrong,’ she squeezed Fen’s arm, ‘but I mean just being in Paris again! Home.’

‘It must have been terrible, having to escape from your own city, I mean.’

‘I cried all the way to New York,’ Magda said and released her arm from Fen’s. ‘Poor Joseph had to almost carry me onto Ellis Island.’

‘You knew then that your parents hadn’t made it?’

‘Yes. They should have been on the same voyage as us, but…still, Rose did all she could to help then, just as she is now. At least the war was good for one thing.’

‘What’s that?’ Fen turned to her friend in bewilderment.

‘Rose. She was getting in some hot water just before we left.’

‘Rose?’

‘Bless her, you know how she loves copying paintings?’

‘Gosh yes, the paintings in my bedroom in her apartment could fill a wing of the Louvre and barely anyone would notice the difference!’ Fen suddenly remembered the woman in the fox fur saying something similar and was about to tell Magda all about it when she stopped herself. Gossiping about her most generous hostess had its limits.

‘Exactly.’ Magda carried on talking anyway. ‘Well, you know the old rumours about her being a forger? They were surfacing again and Rose was about to be hauled in front of some sort of committee. Apparently a few too many of her “homages” were on the open market and the auction houses were feeling the heat. Some of the news even made it to the New York Times. There really were some cross people out there who’d thought they’d bagged a Rembrandt or Degas for silly money and hadn’t realised they’d been duped.’

‘But not by Rose, surely? She always says they’re copies. She even adds her own flourishes at the end to prove it.’

‘I think that’s the point. She’s never anything but upfront about it. But once they’re sold on once or twice, and what with the art all being stolen and shifted around,’ Magda shivered and threaded her arm through Fen’s again, ‘well, I think she might have been investigated. It certainly made some of the art world and a few patrons very cross indeed.’

‘Poor Rose. All she ever wants to do is paint and create art. It’s not her fault if someone else sells it on as the real thing.’ Fen felt aggrieved for her eccentric friend.

‘I’m just glad to see her still with us now. I couldn’t have borne it if she had been killed too.’

‘Killed?’ Surely Magda was referring to Rose’s war work now? Fen checked. ‘You mean if she’d been caught by the Germans with her codes and ciphers and things?’

‘Oh yes, there was that too. What I meant, though, was that she had received quite a few threats, if you know what I mean. People don’t like being made fools of, and don’t you find it’s always easy to blame us women for everything. Just before we left, she was in a real pickle, almost about to go underground, then Henri Renaud vouched for her and…well, there you go. I’m just so glad she’s safe now.’

Fen thought about Magda’s words. Rose hadn’t mentioned any of this. Perhaps she was embarrassed, falsely accused or not, mud often stuck. Maybe, as Magda had said, the war in its crazed crucible of fire and heat had at least saved one person – Rose. Like a phoenix from the flames, she was reborn as just another artist. Had the war done anything to silence her detractors though? Or was that just another pot waiting to boil over?