Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Eve

Paris, May 1946

When I returned to the house after visiting Serge, the smell of real tobacco and the sound of a man’s smooth baritone voice coming from the parlour told me that Lucile’s nephew, Georges, was paying a visit.

‘Ah, there you are, Eve,’ he said, rising from his chair when I entered. ‘I was just telling Odette here that we would have to send a search party to find you somewhere in Galeries Lafayette.’

From the enthralled look on the maid’s face, it was clear they’d been discussing more exciting topics than my whereabouts. I guessed Georges had been entertaining her with stories from the war years he’d spent working in Buenos Aires – that city of sleek cars, bright lights and sultry women. Georges was nothing like his timid aunt. If suaveness and sophistication could be bottled into a fragrance it would be named ‘Georges No 5’. His twinkling steel-blue eyes and upper-class French accent, blended with the inflections of an English education and the romance of South America, made women swoon. If I hadn’t already been burned by another wealthy man as charming as he, I might have succumbed myself.

‘Thank you, Odette,’ I said, pulling off my gloves and holding them out for her to take.

At first she appeared not to hear me. Then when she realised I was addressing her, she gave me an embarrassed smirk, took the gloves and hurried away.

‘I’m afraid your aunt is at the beauty parlour today,’ I told Georges. ‘She won’t be back before five.’

Georges stood up. He was tall for a Frenchman and towered over me. ‘It’s you I came to see, Eve. I felt I ought to forewarn you that your intimate dinner of ten is now going to be twelve.’

It was nearly four o’clock. It was impolite for Georges to be thrusting new guests on me. Despite his reputation as a lady’s man, he was a lawyer and quite serious about his cases, I had been told. He was cluey enough to know that planning for an elegant dinner party took precision and last-minute invitations were a great inconvenience. But refusing him was next to impossible because his voice was like a narcotic. I would have gladly listened to him reading out the Métro schedule.

‘Some friends of yours?’ I asked.

‘Goodness no! I would never be so inconsiderate to you, or risk sending my aunt into a flap with even a glimmer of spontaneity. These are self-invited guests. And rather unpleasant ones, I’m afraid.’

I didn’t like the ominous tone in his voice. ‘Who are they?’ I asked, indicating for him to sit down.

‘The dreadful Marthe de Villiers and her husband, Cyrille. Hasn’t my aunt ever mentioned them to you?’

I took the armchair opposite him. I could count Lucile’s social circle on my fingers and toes, and I had never heard of Marthe and Cyrille de Villiers. ‘No, she hasn’t.’

‘Marthe’s father is one of the richest men in France,’ Georges explained with a hint of distaste twisting his lips. ‘But he was wise enough to see war coming and moved his investments and family to Switzerland. Marthe and Cyrille have been in Lucerne for the past seven years. Now they are back, and ready to wreak havoc on Paris. Before the war, Marthe’s mother was one of the most popular socialites in Paris. She died last year, and Marthe’s determined to step into her shoes as Paris’s most revered hostess. She saw the article in Elle and I am sure she wants to investigate what you have done with Lucile’s apartment.’

I was all for a bit of healthy rivalry to perk up one’s game. But as it didn’t take much to upset Lucile’s applecart, a woman like Marthe having the gall to invite herself without speaking to Lucile or myself directly was like a slap in the face before a duel. To be a successful hostess in Paris, I had observed, a woman had to have one of three advantages – she was likeable, she was feared, or she was of great importance. In Marthe’s case it seemed I could safely discount the first.

‘Why do you describe Madame de Villiers as “dreadful”?’ I asked.

‘Why?’ he exclaimed. ‘Because she blighted poor Aunt Lucile’s life. Their fathers were business associates, which meant that as young women they were often thrust together at social occasions. Marthe was a bully, and what little confidence Aunt Lucile had was quelched by her antics. She seemed to forever place Aunt Lucile in situations that made her look dumpy and grumpy. Once at the opera, Aunt Lucile was wearing the most exquisite blue silk dress and cloak. All eyes turned to look at her. But Marthe deliberately tripped her, sending her sprawling in a most undignified manner down a flight of stairs. She played innocent, of course, and pretended to be deeply concerned that Aunt Lucile had hurt herself.’

‘What an atrocious woman!’ I cried.

‘Unquestionably,’ agreed Georges.

My mind quickly dissected the situation. So, Lucile had been bullied? That would certainly explain her timidity. Some considered childhood bullying a rite of passage, but I knew the damage it could do. When I was at school, those children whose parents couldn’t afford to give them lunch were issued special tokens to purchase food from the canteen. Nobody at my school was rich, but as one of the few token-holders, I stood out as the poorest of all. Sometimes the hunger was easier to bear than the humiliation and the teasing. Even though I now had an armoire full of couture dresses and a gold watch to wear, I still felt like the lonely poor girl on the inside.

‘I’ll tell Marthe de Villiers that she is not welcome here,’ I said. ‘She’s obviously someone who picks on easy targets and I won’t put up with dirty tricks. Lucile deserves to have a lovely birthday party.’

Georges regarded me with renewed appreciation. ‘You genuinely care about my aunt, don’t you?’

I felt the colour rise to my cheeks. Of course, Georges must have known that I wasn’t some rich girl from the landed gentry of Australia. He managed Lucile’s finances. He would have figured out I was a paid companion but was gentlemanly enough to have never said a word. He certainly never spoke to me as if he saw me as a servant.

‘Well, yes,’ I replied. ‘She’s been generous to me. I know she can be a bit of a fuddy-duddy sometimes but now you’ve given me a possible reason for it, I feel even more protective of her.’

‘She was terribly lonely before you came along, even when she was married,’ said Georges. Then a smile came to his face, and he leaned forward. ‘I have a better idea. If you snub Marthe it will only make her more determined to defeat you, and you must remember she has much more social influence than Aunt Lucile. You might find my aunt is suddenly uninvited to important social events after you’ve worked so hard to get her name on those lists. I say let Marthe come here and you take her on. As they say, “Hold your friends close, and your enemies closer”.’

‘Me? But I’m a nobody in Paris. I don’t have a franc to my name, and I guess you know it.’

Georges shrugged. ‘So what? What you have, Eve, is worth so much more than money.’

My curiosity was piqued. ‘And what’s that?’

He steepled his fingers and smiled. ‘You, Eve, have an ability to influence people. You know what their secret desires are and how to fulfil them. Who would have known that dear Aunt Lucile harboured a longing to be a socialite? Until you came along, she shunned social engagements and could barely get the courage to speak up to her own servants. You’ve given her confidence, and she has blossomed.’

‘But not blossomed enough to challenge Marthe herself?’ I asked.

‘I’m afraid not.’

Odette knocked and entered the room, carrying the presentation box holding Lucile’s necklace from Mauboussin. ‘This just arrived for Madame Damour,’ she said.

I took the box from her and opened it to show Georges.

‘That really is splendid,’ he said, nodding his approval. ‘You have excellent taste, Eve. The sight of it will have Marthe de Villiers breathing fire.’

He stood up and asked Odette to bring him his hat. ‘I must get going now. I have a client to see before dinner tonight.’

I walked him to the front door. ‘Before you leave, Georges, I have a legal question I want to ask you on behalf of... a friend.’

His face, smiling a moment ago, turned serious. ‘Am I correct in assuming that you mean a friend of the male persuasion?’

He appeared so put out by the idea that it almost seemed as if he was jealous. But the idea was ridiculous. A man who could have any woman he wanted would not be worried about who I might be seeing. ‘No, nothing like that,’ I said. ‘An older man and a mentor.’

Georges sighed and took his hat from Odette. ‘Ask your question, Eve, but with the full understanding of the ridiculousness of my profession.’

‘This friend of mine was a successful art dealer before the war... a Jewish art dealer. His gallery was requisitioned by the Germans and sold to a French art dealer who doesn’t want to give it back, not unless my friend pays an exorbitant amount of money. The case seems to be taking a long time to get to court. Is there any way to speed up the proceedings?’

Georges rubbed his chin. ‘The French government has put in place restitution laws, but the process is time-consuming, difficult and, I’m afraid to say, sometimes futile. What is your friend’s name?’

‘Serge Lavertu.’

‘Ah yes,’ Georges said. ‘I know of him. Well, I can certainly see what I can do.’

‘Thank you.’

He grimaced. ‘Don’t thank me, Eve. It bores me to be thanked. Human beings are fundamentally selfish and rarely do things entirely out of pure intentions.’ His eyes rested on my face for a moment. ‘As it turns out, I have a favour to ask of you.’

‘Really? What could it be?’

‘I must attend the Anglo-French Legal Conference dinner in July. I’m normally quite happy to go to those tedious functions by myself. But it seems the wives’ committee this year is being quite insistent that every single man must come accompanied. As I can’t think of any woman who wouldn’t mistake the invitation as some sort of sentimental gesture, I’d appreciate it if you would do me the honour.’

‘A sentimental gesture?’ I replied with mock horror. ‘Could there be anything ghastlier?’

‘Exactly!’ Georges grinned.

‘Well, of course I’ll go with you. It will be my pleasure.’

He studied me. ‘It will get them all talking, I suppose. You won’t mind that?’

‘I don’t care,’ I said, as Odette opened the door for him and he stepped out into the hallway. ‘It doesn’t matter what people say, as long as it isn’t true.’

He gave me a slight bow before turning to leave. ‘Once again, Eve, you’ve shown yourself to be the most astute woman in Paris.’

I laughed and waved as he strode down the corridor. Then suddenly remembering the point of his visit had been to warn me about Marthe de Villiers, I called after him, ‘You didn’t say anything about Monsieur de Villiers. What should I expect of him?’

Georges turned back to me. ‘He is a nothing. About as appealing as a typhoid-carrier.’

I grimaced and Georges mirrored the expression back to me. ‘Yes, he has exactly the same effect on me,’ he said. ‘The man sets my teeth on edge. Well, goodbye, Eve. I am looking forward to this evening.’

*

Soon after Georges left, the flowers arrived and I turned my attention to studying the arrangements from every angle. I moved an occasional table to position it directly under the Degas painting in the drawing room and placed a vase of lilies on it – the kind of flowers that might be thrown to a dancer after a splendid performance.

I looked around the room with an air of satisfaction. The clusters of roses, tulips and hellebores were tasteful and intimate. The candles were a decadent touch – they were rationed and expensive, but they were also practical. The electricity supply in Paris was erratic and I was worried it might suddenly shut off in the middle of dinner. Then I went to my room to dress for the evening. As I combed my hair at the dressing table, I remembered my visit to Serge’s gallery and that he’d said I reminded him of someone. I had assumed it was my mother, although our features couldn’t have been more different. But now I believed it was himself. I stared at the mirror at my pale, translucent skin with the pinches of colour in both cheeks, my chocolate-brown hair and green eyes, and thought that if he hadn’t been my father, and we were the same age, Serge and I could have been twins. Yet, he couldn’t see the resemblance.

For the first seven years of my life, I had thought my father was an out-of-work and out-of-luck actor named Efron Archer. He didn’t live with my mother and me, but turned up at random intervals, drunk and berating my mother for ‘ruining his life’. Even at my young age, I sensed that Efron was the cause of his own demise. What my mother felt for him, I could never detect. It was only after he died of cirrhosis of the liver that she told me that my natural father was Serge Lavertu. My eyes travelled to the dresser drawer again, and against my better judgement, I took out the letter she’d left and reread it:

Dearest Serge,

I know it will be a shock to receive this letter after so many years. But I’m descending into a darkness that I fear I will not come out of again. Not this time. I am a cat who has used up her nine lives.

But I cannot depart this world without telling you that you made me happier than anyone else ever could. What joy we had together in our younger years in Paris and Nice. But the darkness grips me more urgently now and I have no strength left to fight it. So, I must tell you two things. Firstly, I understand the reasons you couldn’t love me the way I loved you, and I forgive you for them.

The second thing is we made a daughter together. I named her ‘Eve’ after the last painting I posed for. I did not tell you about her before because I didn’t want to make you feel responsible. But now some aspects about myself have come into sharp relief, and I wonder if in doing so, I deprived you of something essential to your own being.

I must go now. If anyone could have saved me, it would have been you. But alas this beast is too strong for a mere mortal like me.

With all my heart,

Madeleine.

PS. I will ask Eve to go to you with this letter. Eve is a bright young girl who has a lot of you in her. Please help her find her way in the world.

I was at work at the haberdashery when my mother took her life. We had received a bolt of pearl-pink crepe de Chine that day, and as my mother was writing her final letter to Serge, I was imagining myself wrapped in glorious Vionnet-style gowns. In the weeks leading up to her suicide, she had been in constant states of rage and bitterness and I had taken to staying out late with friends after work to avoid her. I often wondered if my rejection was the final straw that led to her fatal decision. I closed my eyes to fight back the tears. I did not want to make my face puffy and red for the party.

‘Mademoiselle Archer,’ came Odette’s voice at the door. ‘Are you ready for me to do your hair now?’

I pressed the heels of my palms hard against my eyes and composed myself. ‘Yes, Odette,’ I said. ‘You may come in.’

*

I waited until Lucile was dressed and ready to receive her guests before I broke the news that her old nemesis was coming to dinner.

‘Marthe!’ she said, her voice as high as a soprano’s. ‘Marthe de Villiers! She’s coming here? Tonight?’

The beautician had done a wonderful job with Lucile, shaping her eyebrows and creating a pretty bow shape to her lips. Now she had a crimson flush from her throat to her forehead and was starting to look hot and shiny. It was clear she was still intimidated by Marthe.

‘Now, remember what I told you,’ I said, thrusting a glass of champagne into her hand. ‘Never let anyone get the better of you.’

Lucile glanced at her reflection in the bullet-scarred mirror in the drawing room. ‘The better of me?’ she repeated, before taking an undignified gulp of champagne.

I was worried she was about to fall apart on me. It was like being a captain who finds their major hiding under a camp bed moments before an important battle.

A knock at the apartment door made Lucile jump out of her skin. I had to practically drag her to the foyer, but thankfully it was a smiling Georges who met us when Odette opened the door. He looked even more debonair than usual in his black evening suit. With him were Alice Dabescat and her husband Olivier, and their adult son, Ronan.

Georges sidled up to me. ‘I thought I might come a bit early for moral support.’

‘Thank you,’ I whispered back.

‘Well, isn’t this all delightful!’ said Alice, looking around at the flowers and the dozens of flickering candles. ‘And don’t you look wonderful!’ she told Lucile, looking her up and down with admiration. ‘And so do you, Eve,’ she added. ‘But then you always do.’

I was wearing a silver and white lamé evening dress draped around the neckline. Alice was frowzily dressed in a shapeless taffeta gown, but what she lacked in fashion finesse she made up for in personality. Her liveliness and quick wit could perk up any party, and unlike most society people in Paris, she didn’t have a mean bone in her body.

Olivier, a serious man with a long upper lip and grave face, launched into the headline news of the day. ‘The Russians have been secretly taking over Paris. They are buying the best buildings and homes in the finest arrondissements. Proletarians, indeed! Their officers are better dressed than the French in gold braid, and I’ve seen them at the Club Scheherazade, spending as freely as the Imperial family ever did.’

Lucile glanced at me, and I gave her a nod of encouragement. I’d told her to never speak about politics emotionally, but with an open and astute mind, sticking to the facts and always offering a fair solution to the problem.

‘The Soviet Union doesn’t allow French government officials outside their embassies without strict permits. We must insist on reciprocal rights for all,’ she pronounced with eloquence.

Georges looked in my direction and lifted his eyebrows.

‘Won’t you please come this way,’ Lucile said, guiding the guests towards the drawing room.

The Dabescats followed her, Alice oohing and aahing at the apartment’s new décor. Georges stayed behind with me.

‘Now tell me more about the guest of honour this evening,’ he said. ‘I’ve been hearing excited whispers in every home I’ve visited this week. People have been guessing, but nobody really knows.’

‘Her name is Fanny Toussaint,’ I told him. ‘She is not yet famous but soon will be. In the past year she won the Prix Premiere at the Paris Conservatoire, and also came first in discus and shot-put at the European Championships in Oslo.’

‘A concert pianist and an athlete? A highly unusual combination,’ remarked Georges.

‘I’m pleased you agree,’ I said. ‘It’s one thing to have someone celebrated at your table, but an even bigger thrill to have someone who is on their way to being famous. For Lucile to be able to claim some part of Fanny’s trajectory of success will give her kudos. If you are in agreement, I’d like Lucile to pay Fanny’s tuition. The girl works at her music and sports with utter devotion. I promise you there will be a payoff in the future.’

Georges nodded. ‘How could anyone refuse such an intriguing proposition? Just as I’m sure I’ve learned everything about you, Eve, you surprise me yet again. Is there nothing you don’t think of? If you should ever tire of working for my aunt, I should very much like to have you on my legal team.’

Another knock at the door heralded the arrival of Fanny and her mother. I was pleased to see that the young woman’s squared-jawed face and broad shoulders were softened by the Cartier earrings I’d sent her.

‘Ah, Fanny,’ said Lucile, reappearing in the foyer. ‘How wonderful to see you, dear. Come, I have some people I want you to meet.’

I was glad that Lucile had relaxed into her role as hostess, but it was a misstep to not have acknowledged Fanny’s mother. The woman looked about awkwardly at the Qing-dynasty vases like a tourist seeing the Arc de Triomphe for the first time. She was clearly uncomfortable in the surroundings.

Georges flew into action. ‘ Bonsoir , Madame Toussaint,’ he said gallantly. ‘I am Madame Damour’s nephew, Georges Camadeau. Allow me to accompany you to the drawing room.’ He offered his arm, and the mesmerised Madame Toussaint took it. ‘Now do tell me,’ Georges continued as they moved away, ‘where does your daughter get her talent in shot-put from?’

Jeanne and Henri Perret arrived soon after. They were an attractive couple in their late forties and too rich for their own good. They had a tendency to monologue endlessly on topics that were of no interest to anybody but themselves: their personal sleep schedules; their obsession with deep-sea fishing; where their children were going skiing for the winter season. Lucile had implored me to invite them as she’d known them for years, but if she wanted to be a successful socialite, I was going to have to wean her away from them. At one exclusive luncheon, the hostess confided in me that it was an unspoken rule among the top hostesses to never sit bores next to interesting people. ‘They kill the mood. But if one sits bores together at the same end of the table, they seem to enliven each other with their monotonous conversations.’ After that, I noticed that Lucile was nearly always placed with the Perrets and other social bores and that had to stop.

I followed the Perrets into the drawing room, leaving Odette and another maid, Marie, to wait for Marthe and her husband. It was rude enough that they had invited themselves and at such short notice, but to be over half an hour late was unforgivable. I could never be sure how long the electricity supply would last and if they didn’t come soon, we’d all be eating a cold dinner.

‘Tell us something about your life in Australia, Eve,’ Olivier said to me, once we were all gathered with a glass of Veuve Clicquot in our hands.

I did not enjoy telling lies, but I launched into my well-rehearsed life story about growing up on a vineyard in the Hunter Valley and the pretty homestead that had survived bushfires, hailstorms and floods.

‘And the wine?’ asked Ronan. ‘What kind of wine did the vineyard produce?’

‘Fine semillon wines,’ I answered on cue. ‘Zesty and crisp with complex flavours.’

‘But they have dangerous snakes in Australia, don’t they?’ asked Jeanne with a shudder.

I never quite understood how a people who had lost over half a million of their fellow citizens in the war could be so afraid of God’s own creatures, who were generally shy and avoided human contact. But for the sake of the dog and pony show, I was about to launch into my well-worn tale about waking up one morning with a snake next to me on the pillow when Odette ushered a couple into the room. I hadn’t heard them arrive.

‘Monsieur and Madame de Villiers,’ Odette announced.

Marthe de Villiers was the same age as Lucile, and handsome with a long neck decorated with a white gold necklace and diamond pendant. Her gleaming silver hair was set off by a sparkling sapphire tiara. But there was something wrong about her dress, the skirt of which consisted of yards of pleated cream silk. It was more a ballgown than an evening dress. And the tiara especially troubled me. Why would you crown yourself to attend another woman’s birthday party?

Showing more bravery than either Georges or I had credited her with, Lucile immediately stood and greeted the couple. ‘You look marvellous, Marthe,’ she said. ‘The Swiss air has done you wonders.’

Although there was the tiniest crack in her voice, it was such a gracious and disarming approach that I was proud of her.

‘I couldn’t have done it better myself,’ Georges whispered in my ear.

‘And you, Lucile,’ replied Marthe, squinting at her, ‘look enchanting.’

I saw a glimpse of relief in Lucile’s eyes that perhaps the hatchet had been buried and she no longer had to fear Marthe. After all, they were both now mature women with life experience. But the moment was cut short when Marthe added, ‘Black is no longer for widows, I see. I’ve noticed all the young girls donning it.’

Marthe’s backhanded compliment was followed by a horsey laugh that pinched every nerve in my body. Lucile looked crestfallen. She opened and shut her mouth, like a goldfish swimming aimlessly around a bowl.

Cyrille stared forlornly at his jacket and tails. He was shorter than Marthe and as colourless as Georges had described, with grey-blond hair and such unremarkable facial features it would be impossible to give detectives an accurate description of him should he go missing. ‘I’m sorry we are overdressed. Marthe insisted it was a white-tie occasion,’ he said.

Marthe touched her tiara and looked around the

gathering. ‘Oh, black tie is positively quaint. We aren’t the last to arrive, are we? There are more people coming? It is your birthday, after all.’

Having paralysed Lucile with her venom, Marthe then set her gaze on Alice. ‘Oh, hello, dear. You look rather swish in that gown. I believe that shade is called “shrimp-orange”. I remember how popular it was before the war.’

It should have been my cue to leap into defensive action but I found myself glued to the spot, gaping in horror at what Marthe was doing. It was such an obvious approach for a bully that we could have been children in a schoolyard and not adults in a drawing room. I wanted to ask her to leave, but I remembered Georges’s warning. I glanced at him for inspiration, but he seemed equally engrossed by the exchange.

‘If only Aunt Lucile was astute enough to make witty comebacks this could be a thrilling bout,’ he said out of the corner of his mouth. ‘At Madame Florence Gould’s soirées, the biting repartee between the social divas is the main attraction.’

Marthe turned her sights to young Fanny, and I froze. The girl was my trump card. She was going to play Ravel’s ‘Scarbo’ after dinner, a piece that required great virtuosity and was rarely played at recitals because of its notorious difficulty. I anticipated every salon in Paris would try to snatch her once they heard about it, but Fanny would remain loyal to Lucile if she was paying her tuition. I couldn’t let Marthe spoil my plan by scaring Fanny off.

‘What should I do?’ I asked Georges.

‘It’s time to get into the match, Eve,’ he said.

Without further thought, I blocked Marthe from reaching Fanny like a fencer lunging for an attack. ‘ Bonsoir , Madame de Villiers,’ I said. ‘I’m Eve Archer. I’m so sorry that you misunderstood the dress code. If you feel at all uncomfortable, Lucile will happily lend you one of her gowns. She has a lovely one designed by Christian Dior. Do you know him? He used to design for Lucien Lelong but now he is stepping out on his own.’

Out of the corner of my eye I spotted Georges giving me a silent clap. But my counter-parry seemed to have little effect on Marthe. She waved me away as if I were no more than a bothersome mosquito. ‘Oh yes, the little Miss Nobody from Australia.’

I was temporarily stunned by her audacity. Despite all the diamonds in her tiara, the woman was as rude as a fishwife. Then Olivier, apparently oblivious to the dark side of society hostess rivalry, inadvertently came to my defence. ‘Mademoiselle Archer’s photograph is in Elle this month. Everybody will try to snatch her away from Lucile to redecorate their homes. Lucile had better be careful.’

Georges signalled for Marie to bring Marthe a glass of champagne while the rest of the room fell into a tense silence as they awaited her reply.

‘All this white and glass, and the chrome finishes?’ she replied, looking around and wrinkling her nose. ‘It’s a fad, nothing more.’

I countered with a running attack inspired by what Serge had told me that afternoon. ‘The décor is modern. It always takes time for the general public to catch up with new ideas.’

Marthe’s mouth quivered, and I half-expected her to lash at me with her tongue. But at that moment, the butler I’d hired for the evening rang a bell to invite us to the table. Marthe and I were forced to disengage. She was not a subtle enemy; she was a wrecking ball. I was glad I’d had the foresight to have placed her next to Georges at the table. His unruffled charm would be a good distraction for her and give me time to regroup. I would keep my eye on her husband, Cyrille, and use my own charm to glean information about Marthe from him that might be useful. When facing a formidable opponent, one must be quick to discern their Achilles heel.

‘You’re my dinner partner tonight, Monsieur de Villiers,’ I told the odd little man, linking my arm with his. ‘Shall we go to the table?’

His eyebrows rose in surprise and delight. ‘It would be my honour, Mademoiselle Archer.’ Then leaning in close to me, he whispered, ‘You were very brave to have taken on my wife. She’s not a woman for the faint-hearted.’

I found the remark coming from Marthe’s husband funny. Against my better judgement, I chuckled, which seemed to delight Cyrille even more.

*

Berthe the cook had outdone herself. Lucile might not be the most exciting hostess in Paris, but no one could criticise the food served at her table. The consommé was so clear you could see the gold rosette on the bottom of the soup bowl. The marrow on toast with a sprinkle of salt was all panache without being showy. It was quite a feat considering flour and bread were now rationed again. When the plates of tournedos with sauce béarnaise were laid out on the table, someone nudged my foot with their own. At first I thought it was Georges trying to get my attention, but he was engrossed in conversation with Fanny. Whoever it was nudged my foot again. I studied the faces of the others, but nobody gave the slightest indication it was them. Most likely the culprit was long-limbed Olivier stretching his legs and not realising he was kicking me. It wouldn’t do to look under the table, so I tucked my feet under my chair.

Marthe sat back and patted her lips with her serviette. ‘Paris has changed so much,’ she said. ‘I am scandalised by the prices in the shops. The lack of food is a disgrace.’

It was Lucile’s role to introduce the topics of conversation and allow each guest the opportunity to express their opinion, but Marthe had taken it upon herself. I glanced in Lucile’s direction and nodded, encouraging her to take back control of the evening. She went to open her mouth but Olivier, without meaning to, spoke over the top of her so that her words were drowned out.

‘What can we do?’ he replied with a shrug. ‘The fishermen have discovered that they can make more money selling the fuel the government has allotted to them than to go out to sea and catch fish.’

Lucile cleared her throat, ready to try again, but this time Jeanne spoke. ‘Do you know what happened the other day while I was waiting for my daughter outside the Ritz? I threw my cigarette butt away and it was swooped on by a well-dressed gentleman.’

‘There’s a market for cigarette butts,’ said Henri. ‘This is what we have come to, I’m afraid.’

It was as if Lucile had become invisible at her own birthday party. Georges stepped in and attempted to turn the focus back to his aunt. ‘Come now, here we are in this splendid apartment, celebrating Aunt Lucile’s birthday and eating a fine meal. Why should we talk about rationing again?’

‘You are correct, Georges,’ agreed Alice. ‘I lost a good ten pounds during the occupation.’

‘I did too,’ said Jeanne. ‘I had to walk everywhere.’

It was a good try on Georges’s part, but it seemed the ball simply kept rolling further and further from Lucile. Apart from Marthe and Cyrille, who brought with them ill intent, the others at the table were people Lucile counted as allies. How would she ever survive in the vipers’ nest that was Tout-Paris ?

Cyrille leaned into me. ‘My wife wouldn’t have been able to stand the occupation. She hates walking. She has to be driven everywhere. Sometimes I think she doesn’t have legs.’

‘Indeed,’ I said, but my attention was on Madame Toussaint. Her brassiere strap was slipping down her arm. I tried to catch Odette’s attention so she could discreetly slip it back into place for her, but she was too busy clearing the used dishes from the table.

‘I heard there was a shortage of women’s underwear during the war in France,’ Cyrille said. ‘It was almost impossible for a woman to get a brassiere.’

I assumed he had noticed Madame Toussaint’s predicament and felt some need to focus on it.

‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘They are a rather intricate form of apparel with nearly twenty different parts. I suppose those parts were needed to make bombs of some sort,’ I added, trying to use humour to distract his attention.

He gave an insipid laugh and took a sip of his wine. There was something off about him, a bit creepy. Like one of those society men you read about in the papers, the ones who have been murdering virgins for years and storing their bodies in their wine cellars. I regretted engaging with him on the topic of women’s underwear and tried to turn the conversation to Marthe’s shortcomings.

‘So, your wife doesn’t like to walk about the world’s most romantic city,’ I said. ‘Is there anything else about the city she finds disagreeable?’

But before he could answer, Fanny piped up, rather loudly for a dinner party.

‘It’s outrageous that mothers can’t buy enough milk for their babies,’ she said. ‘It should be a crime to use milk in any kind of cooking. It should all go to the babies.’

While it was admirable that she cared so much about her fellow citizens, introducing a topic in such an emotional way was not acceptable at a formal dinner party. We weren’t in a Left Bank café where passionate debates were settled by punch-ups and knife fights. I’d have to speak to her about her etiquette. I glanced at Lucile. It was her opportunity to continue Fanny’s topic but to soften the tone in which it was discussed. But to my horror she remained mute in her chair, looking for all the world like a deflated balloon. It gave Marthe the opportunity to fan the flames.

‘The black market is France’s disgrace,’ she said, eyeing the rich food in front of us. ‘Those with money to buy it do not have the right to make their fellow citizens go hungry.’ She turned to Lucile. ‘But I’m sure none of tonight’s dinner was bought on the black market?’

‘No, of course not,’ replied Lucile passively.

Sometimes I thought Lucile was one of those people who went through life in a bubble, oblivious to the workings of the real world. If Berthe and I hadn’t traded on the black market for the ingredients for the dinner, we’d have been having Oxo and hot water. As for Marthe being so high and mighty, very likely the reason her cook didn’t have to buy on the black market was that the family owned farmland, an advantage Lucile didn’t have.

‘Not all the black-marketers are criminals,’ said Georges. ‘Most of them are ordinary people with families to feed too.’

‘I suppose you’ve used that defence in the courtroom, Georges,’ Marthe replied. ‘That’s a lie people tell themselves to ease their guilty consciences. And you know it.’

If Lucile didn’t step in and defuse the brewing argument, the night was going to be a disaster. Then I remembered what Cyrille had told me about Marthe hating to walk and came upon an idea.

‘You are quite right, Madame de Villiers, to remind us all that we must not live selfishly,’ I said. ‘Why don’t we all pledge not to go anywhere by car for the next month and to donate the gasoline to the hospital for their ambulances instead. Who is with me?’

The idea brought amused chatter to the conversation. Lucile looked slightly alarmed but raised her glass.

‘It’s a splendid idea,’ said Alice. ‘It will alleviate my guilt over the sumptuous camembert I bought today.’

‘Well, I don’t mind a month of walking for a good cause,’ said Olivier.

I looked in Marthe’s direction. She would be damned by her own words if she refused. She lifted her glass and squinted at me.

Touché! I thought.

*

After dinner, Fanny played masterfully for us as I knew she would. Ravel’s ‘Scarbo’ wasn’t the usual lyrical, after-dinner music that tended to make guests drift off into their own worlds. The movement was dark and foreboding. Its jagged, violent dissonance had us all on the edge of our seats. Frenetic and relentless, I knew the contrast of Fanny’s girlish innocence and the psychotic intensity of the piece would astound everyone.

‘Bravo! Bravo!’ both Alice and Olivier cried as they rose to their feet when Fanny finished. They were both music aficionados, and I counted on them spreading the word about Lucile’s ‘discovery’ of Fanny. The other guests also clapped enthusiastically except, unsurprisingly, for Marthe, who frowned, puzzled at how Lucile had managed to discover such a unique talent.

‘You know that piece was born of a competition, don’t you?’ asked Georges, sidling up to me afterwards as the guests broke off into little groups for conversation.

‘Yes, Ravel deliberately set out to write something that could break a virtuoso. He wanted the movement to be even more difficult than the almost unplayable “Islamey” by Balakirev.’

Georges lit himself a cigar. ‘Ravel was a show-off though. At least Balakirev was sincerely trying to convey the grandiose beauty of the Caucasus Mountains and the unique folk music of the region. Ravel was simply trying to outdo him.’

‘Show-off or not,’ I replied, ‘everyone knows Ravel’s piece. He had the last word.’

‘As have you, my dear,’ he said, nodding in the direction of Marthe. ‘She appears to have quite a case of indigestion after that performance.’

I laughed and looked around the room to see what Lucile was up to, but found myself accidentally locking eyes with Cyrille. He lifted his glass of Cognac to me, and I had no other option but to lift mine back to him.

‘Typhoid-carrier indeed,’ I whispered to Georges. ‘Anyway, I suppose I’d better help Lucile mingle. The music was a triumph. This is her chance to make up for lost ground.’

Ronan and Henri were standing in front of the Degas painting. It was exactly the opportunity I was looking for. I indicated for Lucile to join me as I approached the men.

‘What do you think of it?’ I asked them. ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’ ‘It is quite splendid,’ agreed Ronan. ‘I didn’t know you collected moderns, Madame Damour.’

‘She’s just started,’ I said. ‘With the help of a wonderful art dealer named Serge Lavertu. I can put you in contact with him if you like.’

‘That Jew?’ came Marthe’s voice from across the room. ‘The one that deals out of Saint-Germain-des-Prés? Oh Lucile, you could do so much better.’

Her words made me flinch. I couldn’t bear to hear her disparage Serge that way.

‘The painting brims with life and movement. It was bought straight from Degas’s studio. Serge Lavertu is a dealer who is adored by both artists and collectors,’ I told her.

With great show, Marthe came and put her face close to the painting. ‘I can’t believe you bought a painting from that poky gallery on Rue Seine near that café where all the students meet. Next time you are thinking of acquiring a painting, Lucile, you must allow me to introduce you to my nephew, Martin La Farge. He has a simply beautiful gallery at number twenty-one Rue la Boétie.’

My face froze. That had been Serge’s gallery before the war. It was Marthe’s nephew who was refusing to give his property back.