Chapter 4

Marseille. May 1936

I t was wonderful to be back in Marseille. It was only a weekend break at L’ H?tel Louvre et Paix with friends, but it was needed. Everyone had been working so hard lately. Life had slipped into a dreamy haze of cosmopolitan café culture, chasing news stories and living out of a suitcase. It wasn’t particularly glamorous, but that didn’t bother me a jot. Having dreamed of seeing the world for so long, I spent hours on trains zigzagging across France. That said, I always yearned for Picon and my small Parisian apartment, always glad to return home for a rest. Marseille, however, was different. There was something about this Mediterranean jewel that dazzled beneath the sun by day and rallied to pearlescent moonlight by night. Either way, I was going to enjoy my weekend away, shut out the rest of the world and forget all about the news.

‘Nancy, come and dance,’ Richard asked, holding out his hand, breaking my reverie.

The melodic notes of Une Chanson D’Amour sailed high above the tobacco haze and swayed along with the sweet fog of champagne that settled in my head. I reached for his proffered hand. Richard was tall, good-looking, and a superb dancer to boot. He was slightly younger than me, not that it mattered. We were only friends. Can’t a woman keep male friends without question?

We took to the floor and swayed along to the music, Richard’s hair slicked back with Brylcreem, the usual thin strand that refused to be tamed, flopping onto his forehead. I loved to dance. It was freedom, close to floating on air. The hairs bristled at the back of my neck, and as we sailed across the floor, I glimpsed a man in black sat at a table in the furthest corner hidden from the glare of the chandeliers, his gaze on me. Eyes locked, I suddenly and uncharacteristically glanced down, my cheeks burning. When the music ended, Richard led me to the bar.

‘Another brandy, Nance?’

‘You twisted my arm.’ I raised an eyebrow, smirking. ‘I won’t be able to walk home at this rate.’ Still a little self-conscious, I turned to where the mystery man had been sitting, the table now vacant. It wasn’t the first time I’d caught men looking, and I usually paid no attention, but his eyes, his presence, well, it was as if we’d met before.

‘You can drink anyone under the table.’ Richard laughed.

‘And I never slur my words.’ He was kind; they all were, and helpful. Some of the more experienced journalists had already taught me so much, and it was thanks to them I’d passed my initial trial and now had a permanent job. The humid evening air sailed through the open windows and doors, moist, fresh, infused with spicy saffron, a familiar aroma in Marseille when the bistros and restaurants prepared bouillabaisse.

‘Hey, Nancy. What is it the locals call you?’ Marie grinned.

For a minute, she caught me off guard, and then I realised what she meant. ‘La demoiselle avec le bain.’ I lit up a cigarette, inhaled, and blew out a swirl of smoke. ‘When I first moved into my apartment, I asked for permission to have a bath installed. It caused great amusement, still does.’

Marie laughed. ‘That’s right, the girl with the bath.’ She turned to the others. ‘Permission to have a bloody bath installed. They still laugh when they see her coming.’ She sipped her wine. ‘Only the best for our girl here.’

So true. Whenever the locals saw me coming, one or two would call out, ‘Noncee, come and have a drink.’ And, unless I was dashing off on an assignment, I usually would. I was polite, and I enjoyed the company.

A dark silhouette caught the corner of my eye, and I turned to see my secret admirer leaving with his companion, saying his goodbyes to people he knew. Then, just when I thought he’d gone, he turned and headed toward our table, and I found myself gazing into the eyes of Henri Fiocca. Goosebumps prickled my arms, and I drew my scarlet wrap around my shoulders. Men rarely ruffled my feathers, but something about him had captured my attention.

‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle. Henri Fiocca. Such a pleasure to meet you.’ He fixed his gaze solely on me.

‘Bonjour. Nancy Wake,’ I said, holding out my hand. ‘Delighted.’

‘Ah, the pleasure is all mine.’ He kissed the back of my hand before reaching into his breast pocket and producing a business card. ‘Please, next time you are in town, call me.’ He placed it on the table next to my drink and smiled.

The blonde behind him huffed out a sigh. Her pouty ruby lips and scowl spoke volumes. The chatter at our table tailed off, and I was aware of the pause as my friends waited, eager for my response. I puffed on my cigarette, blew out a cloud of vapour and stared into his soft, hazel eyes. ‘I’m afraid I never call men, Monsieur. They call me.’ I noted the flicker of disappointment in his eyes, promptly replaced by amusement as he smirked, drawing himself up to his full height.

‘Another time, Mademoiselle. I wish you all a pleasant evening. Bonsoir.’ As he sauntered away, the blonde cast me a stony glance as she trailed after him like a puppy dog.

Marie nudged me. ‘He likes you. You should call him next time you’re in town.’

‘You must be joking. I never call men. Cheeky devil! If he wants to see me that badly, he can bloody well call me.’ I grasped my brandy glass and downed the shot in one, determined to push Henri Fiocca out of my mind. I was no man’s pet, nor a diamond to adorn a man as he graced the town in the evenings. That old ache resurfaced in my chest, but I swallowed, banishing it to the darkness. No, I definitely wouldn’t call him, but I wondered if he would call me. For whatever reason, Monsieur Fiocca had caused a ripple in my world. Well, fate, destiny, if it was meant to be, then it would be. Simple as that. I sighed, flicked a wistful glance at the door where seconds earlier he’d breezed out into the night.