Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

Eve

Paris, May 1946

The dining room was bright with sunshine when I entered it the following morning. The table was polished and laid for breakfast. The air was still and no one’s reflection but mine shone in the Venetian mirror above the sideboard. There was not a clue to suggest that only a few hours before, the room had been filled with guests. It was as if they had all been otherworldly beings who had crossed a threshold of some magical place and now they had vanished. Not even an essence of them remained. I thought life was something like that. One day we would all be gone for good, and we should enjoy the party while we could.

‘You are looking very thoughtful this morning, Eve,’ said Lucile, coming in and sitting down at the table. ‘You would think after all the food we ate yesterday I wouldn’t want breakfast this morning, but I’m famished.’

She looked radiant and not at all tired. When she sat down and examined the newspaper I had laid next to her setting, she did so with an air of confidence. The sight of her happiness instantly lifted my mood. Despite all Marthe’s attempts to derail the evening, the party had gone off remarkably well, and Lucile appeared to have turned a corner in a view of herself. I felt her victory as if it had been my own.

‘You were superb last night,’ I told her, sitting down opposite while Odette brought in the breakfast. ‘And wasn’t Fanny Toussaint wonderful? I imagine that Olivier and Alice will be spreading the word about her today.’

‘The necklace was a success,’ Lucile said, ‘but what about the black dress? Marthe said—’

‘Marthe was green with envy,’ I assured her. ‘Don’t worry about anything Marthe said. She was simply trying to spoil your triumph.’

Lucile took a slow sip of her coffee. ‘So you think she was jealous?’

I had never seen such a devilish glint in her eye. I didn’t think she had it in her. But when one’s life has been blighted by a bully, why shouldn’t one feel pleasure when the tables were at last turned?

‘I told you that all your hard work with the apartment and your style would pay off one day,’ I said. ‘Soon you will be the most admired hostess in all of Paris. But most importantly, I hope you will be the happiest.’

Lucile beamed at me. ‘You did it all. I don’t know what I would do without you, Eve.’ She reached across the table for my hand. But then a thin line etched itself between her brows. ‘But what about the Degas? Perhaps it didn’t have quite the effect we’d hoped it would?’

It was the first time Lucile had expressed any true doubt in my judgement. She might have been reluctant to cut her hair or get rid of her heavy furniture, but in the end she had always conceded to me. But this questioning was something different. I thought of how Marthe had been adamant in her dismissal of the painting. No doubt she was the one who had planted the seed.

At first I had an impulse to doubt myself too. Marthe was born to the high life while I was the one who had studied it. The first time Anthony had played a recording of the opera Samson and Delilah , I felt things I hadn’t been able to put into words. After that, I listened to every opera record I could. I longed for a world of beauty and sophistication. But perhaps my attempts at elegance and taste would always have something false about them, like a glass bead trying to pass as a pearl? But then I straightened myself. When it came to art, I had confidence that I’d had the best teacher possible in Serge.

‘I believe we’re in safe hands with Monsieur Lavertu,’ I said firmly. ‘If anyone understands the French restitution laws, he does. The art market after the war is fraught with risk. The provenance for all of Monsieur Lavertu’s inventory is impeccable. No other gallery owner in Paris can offer us that. They were all conveniently negligent with their recordkeeping during the war, but provenance can still be proved by people – Jewish people – who had their paintings stolen. If we buy a painting from another dealer, there might be a chance that you will have to give it back to whoever the painting was looted from, or sell it back at a deflated price.’

‘I see,’ said Lucile. But not with as much conviction as I would have liked.

*

The rest of the morning was spent in preparing Lucile for the luncheon she was going to at the home of Simone Cabasset, a socialite of middling importance in Paris. She looked fetching in the polka-dot pencil dress I had selected for her, but I had to stop her several times from straightening her fashionably asymmetrical hat. I wasn’t worried that I wasn’t accompanying her. I had yet to establish myself as someone worth inviting and it would be good practice for Lucile. If she made some dreadful faux pas, the consequences would not be as disastrous as they would be if she was going to the home of a star hostess.

There was a knock at the front door and Odette answered it. The next minute, a string of florist delivery boys brought in bouquets of roses. Odette, Marie and I scrambled to find vases for them all, placing them on tables and shelves in the drawing room and Lucile’s bedroom. When we were finished, there were so many flowers that the apartment had taken on the atmosphere of Empress Joséphine’s rose garden.

‘Who sent these?’ I asked one of the delivery boys before he headed out the door. ‘Is there a card or note?’

The boy shook his head. ‘The sender did not give a name, mademoiselle. He only said that we should deliver the best roses in Paris.’

Georges was my first suspect. Perhaps he wanted to bolster his aunt for her birthday. But his charm was subtle. He was more likely to send one bouquet of very fine and exotic flowers rather than fill a room with roses. The gesture was wildly extravagant and much more something a lover would do than a nephew. It wasn’t easy to find roses in Paris because the lack of food had seen many flower gardens converted to vegetable farms. It certainly would not have been any of Lucile’s tight-fisted siblings, the ones who neglected her shamelessly and never invited her anywhere. For one uncomfortable moment, I thought it might be Marthe, trying to unsettle Lucile in some way. But then I decided against it. These were long-stemmed red roses. The very best kind. They made the room smell like an orchard of peaches and lemons. I was sure even Marthe wouldn’t spend so much money on a practical joke. No, the flowers were from a man on a mission.

I turned to Lucile and clapped my hands. ‘You have an admirer!’

Colour flooded her face. ‘I can’t believe it!’ she said, reaching for one of the bouquets and gingerly touching the flowers as if to check they were real. ‘Who do you think it is?’

I shook my head, completely confounded. It wouldn’t have been any of the men from the previous evening. Besides Georges, Ronan was the only single man there, and he wasn’t interested in women. ‘The sender has remained anonymous. I’m sure he’d only do that if he was confident that you would guess his identity.’

‘But I have no idea who it could be,’ said Lucile.

‘Truly?’

‘I tell you everything, Eve. You know exactly where I have been and who I have seen.’

Her words assured me of her faith in me again. ‘Whoever he is, he is very rich and very determined.’

‘What should I do?’ she asked, her eyes bright with excitement.

I had to admit to myself that being showered with thousands of francs worth of flowers was outside my experience. In my mind, it was the kind of thing that only happened in the pictures. I thought back to the wealthy female customers I had served when I worked in the department store. What would they have done in such a circumstance?

‘There is nothing to do,’ I said, aware that time was flying by and that Lucile would need to be leaving for her engagement. ‘We must wait to hear more from this mysterious admirer.’

I fixed her hat one more time and led her towards the door.

‘I can’t wait to tell the others about the roses,’ she said. ‘I haven’t... well, I haven’t had an admirer for a long time.’

The wrinkles on her brow had softened and her eyes sparkled. The years seemed to have dropped off her. What a bit of romantic attention does for a woman! I thought.

*

After Lucile left, I sat at the bureau and organised her correspondence. Odette came into the room and handed me an envelope addressed to Lucile. The paper was of the finest linen and it smelled of jasmine.

‘It came by special delivery,’ she said.

‘Thank you, Odette.’

But she seemed hesitant to leave.

‘Is there something I can help you with?’ I asked.

She beamed. ‘I just want to say, Mademoiselle Archer, it’s wonderful what you’ve done with Madame Damour. I’ve worked for her for five years now and I’ve never seen her so happy or look so lovely. Her mood today is definitely bright pink. She looked like she is in love.’

It was probably the most gratifying compliment I had been given and I could see from Odette’s face that it was heartfelt. Although every instruction I had ever read on running a household counselled against getting too close to ‘the staff’, I picked a rose from one of the bouquets and gave it to her. ‘Why don’t you put that in a vase in your room for you and Marie to enjoy.’

‘Really?’ asked Odette, gazing at the rose.

‘You have my permission.’

After she left the room, I turned my attention to the envelope she had given me. I gasped with astonishment when I saw the cream card and elegant calligraphy. My eyes raced over the words. It was an invitation for Lucile to attend the Fouquets’ ball. The event was one of the most important ones of the year. Lucile had been snubbed when the invitations had gone out the previous month. Now there was a personally written note from Madame Fouquet herself, apologising for the ‘oversight’.

‘Oh!’ I said, rising from my seat when I read that Lucile had also been invited to the private dinner before the official events of the evening. The pre-ball dinner would only be attended by the most important people in Paris. Lucile had a secret admirer and an invitation to the most prestigious ball of the year! My fears about Marthe undermining me vanished. Then, just when I thought things couldn’t get any better, I found a second invitation behind the first. The sight of my name caused my heart to miss a beat. I paced the room barely able to breathe from the excitement. Lucile’s star was rising faster than I’d expected and I was following in her path. We would both need wonderful dresses for the occasion... Balenciaga should make them. But there wasn’t much time. I looked through my address book for the number of his atelier and when the receptionist heard that the dresses were for the Fouquets’ ball, she made an appointment for the next day. I put down the receiver and stared at it. What I had dreamed of was coming true. I thought of what Olivier had said about other society women wanting me to decorate their homes. Of course I would always be kind and loyal to Lucile, grateful for the opportunities she had given me, but the way she was ascending in society she wouldn’t need me much longer anyway. I sat back and closed my eyes so I could savour the sense of triumph. Lucile and I had both been tortured by bullies – but look at us now, I thought.

The telephone rang and I jumped. Without waiting for Odette to take it, I picked up the receiver. ‘The Damour residence, good morning.’

‘Eve?’

It was Serge. There was background noise and he sounded agitated. I began to panic. We always corresponded by letter. He never called me.

‘Is everything all right?’ I asked.

‘I’m at the H?tel Drouot,’ he said, naming the famous Paris auction house. ‘A painting came up for sale and I bought it.’

I thought of my conversation with Lucile earlier that morning. I hoped it was something spectacular. Something no other dealer in Paris would be able to obtain.

‘It’s by Kristina Belova,’ he said, sounding on the verge of tears. ‘It was painted only a few months ago. It means that—’

‘She is alive!’

‘Yes!’

I’d been cynical when I had thought people never came back from the dead. Kristina Belova proved an exception to the rule. I was beginning to sense that the whole day was blessed by the sublime and everyone’s wishes were coming true.

‘I would love to see it. Can I come by today?’ I asked.

‘I’m still at the auction. I’m just about to go back inside. Perhaps Thursday?’

‘Thursday then,’ I said, distracted by Odette coming into the room and handing me a velvet presentation box with the Mauboussin logo on it.

‘Shall we say about three o’clock?’ asked Serge.

‘Perfect, I’ll see you then,’ I said, before ringing off.

I lifted the lid off the presentation box and saw inside an exquisite amethyst and rose diamond bangle.

Mon Dieu! I thought, lifting it out and admiring the way it sparkled.

I wondered who might have sent Lucile such an

exceptional gift. Tucked into the silk of the box was a note. I hesitated. Perhaps the gift was from Lucile’s secret admirer. If it was an intimate note, then I should not be looking at it. But Lucile was so sensitive and easily shaken that perhaps I should, so I could advise her on the best response? I wavered before giving in to my second impulse and opening the note. But when I stared at the first line, I saw the bracelet wasn’t a gift for Lucile. It was for me.

Dearest Mademoiselle Archer,

I hope the roses have brought you as much joy as you have given me. You have completely cast me under your spell. Today I find myself thinking over the events of last night so much that I can concentrate on little else. The touch of your hand on my arm, your secret smile that was meant only for me. I have ordered all the servants to leave me alone so that I may pursue my daydreams of you undisturbed.

Tonight, my sweet, tonight. I have booked a private dining room at the Ritz where we can continue the beautiful dream we have started. There is so much more I want to give you than this humble token of my deep admiration. Please meet me there at eight o’clock.

Yours fondly...

A sharp bolt ran up my spine when I read the signature at the bottom.

Cyrille de Villiers

*

That evening when I sat down with Lucile for dinner, I had no appetite and had to force myself to eat. It was eight o’clock and I did my best not to imagine Cyrille de Villiers and his pouty lips waiting for me at the Ritz. The image was so sickening, I felt bile shoot up my throat, and had to cover my mouth with my hand.

‘Are you all right?’ asked Lucile, looking up from her plate. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Something caught in my throat,’ I said.

‘Oh,’ she said, not really concerned about me but rather eager to talk about her luncheon. ‘The ladies were very excited about the roses. We all took guesses at who my admirer might be.’

I thought it very unlikely any of them would have imagined that insipid Cyrille de Villiers was behind the gesture. This was truly a disaster in the making. Each of those ladies would tell at least five of their friends, who would in turn tell another five of theirs, and soon the gossip would compound at the same rate that rabbits breed. Every salon and drawing room in Haute- Paris would be discussing who had sent Lucile the roses.

‘Blanche d’Alcy thinks it is Gaston Modot. Mona Faber is sure it is Louis Le Bargy,’ Lucile continued.

Both men were rich and rather dashing widowers. While it was charming that the ladies now had high expectations for Lucile, they could not have been further from the mark.

The telephone rang and Lucile and I both jumped with surprise.

‘It’s rather late, isn’t it?’ she asked.

We never received telephone calls in the evening. Even when Lucile’s brother-in-law had become gravely ill, nobody had thought to call Lucile. Only Georges came the following morning to inform her that his father had died. I knew there was only one person it could be. My stomach felt as though it was full of frantic birds wanting to escape.

Marie appeared in the dining room.

‘Who is it?’ Lucile asked.

Marie shook her head. ‘There was someone on the line, but they said nothing then hung up.’

The telephone rang again.

‘Perhaps I should answer it?’ I suggested, rising from my chair.

Neither Lucile nor Marie protested, and I went out into the hall and picked up the receiver.

‘Hello, who is calling please?’

There was a pause before Cyrille’s voice came on the line. ‘Mademoiselle Archer? You couldn’t get away?’ His voice was tight, like a string on a violin that had been tuned too high.

I hung up immediately, cringing. Just hearing his voice made me feel as if the man had drooled over me. I left the telephone off the hook and returned to the dining room.

‘Who was it?’ Lucile asked.

‘There must be something wrong with the connection. There wasn’t anybody there.’

Marie cleared the plates. Lucile watched her impatiently and after she left, leaned towards me, her pupils large with excitement.

‘It’s him! It must be! My admirer.’

I shook my head to discourage the idea.

The telephone rang again. Marie must have seen it off the hook and replaced it.

‘I’ll answer it,’ said Lucile, getting up. ‘He’s hoping I’ll do that. That’s why he’s ringing so many times.’

She ran out into the hall before I could stop her. Even if it had been an admirer for Lucile, I was sure that such a display of eagerness wasn’t the right response. We weren’t girls in a boarding school.

‘You’ll do nothing of the sort,’ I said, chasing after her and grabbing her arm.

She raised her eyebrows at me.

‘If it is him then it is most ungentlemanly of him to call you at this hour. You can’t show any interest in a man like that. You must scorn him.’

Lucile searched my face as if she couldn’t believe what I was saying. ‘Why?’

‘Because it’s not respectful. The flowers are all very nice, but a man can’t buy Lucile Damour with flowers.’

For one moment in my imagination, Cyrille de Villiers vanished and in his place stood a true admirer. Perhaps Gaston Modot or Louis Le Bargy. What would I have said to Lucile then?

‘Men do not value women who come at a low price,’ I continued. ‘Of course, no one expects you to play coquettish games, but you shouldn’t appear desperate either.’

Lucile’s chin trembled. ‘It’s easy for you to say, Eve. You are young. There will be many men for you. But when you get to my age you can’t be choosy. And I’m so... lonely.’

Her statement plucked at my heart strings. But she was wrong to think that young women were never lonely.

‘On the contrary, you can afford to be choosier!’ I told her.

I turned her to face the mirror that hung in the hall. It didn’t have bullet holes in it; it was a grand Louis XV mirror with a gilt frame carved with scrolling foliage. ‘Look at how you have transformed. Look at how beautiful you are,’ I told her. ‘Your spirit must now match your looks. Lucile Damour will not be at any man’s beck and call simply because he sent her flowers.’

Lucile’s shoulders relaxed and I could feel the tension in her dissipate. ‘Yes, Blanche d’Alcy didn’t get married until she was fifty-six and I have already had two husbands. “A woman is like wine, she gets better – and wiser – with the years,” Blanche always says.’ She looked at the telephone, then after a second’s pause, turned in the direction of her room. ‘Thank you, Eve. Well, I think I’ll go to bed early tonight.’

I watched her go, feeling utter repulsion for Cyrille de Villiers. He had sent all those flowers and the bracelet without a second’s thought about the consequences for Lucile or me. Lucile had gone to the luncheon and told everyone about her admirer, which now made the whole situation ten times worse. I would have liked to have confided in her about Cyrille’s unwanted attention, but now that was impossible. It would break her heart and the embarrassment might make her turn on me.

*

Cyrille de Villiers turned out to be a man who was not easily put off. Although I had returned the bracelet to Mauboussin first thing the following morning, I received a note from him asking me to meet him in the Jardin des Tuileries, at the tenth bench on the Grande Allée. He didn’t even have the sense to choose somewhere discreet.

With no one to rely on but myself, I knew I would have to confront him to put an end to his pursuit. He was placing me in jeopardy not only with Lucile’s feelings, but the wrath of Marthe should she ever find out. When I returned the bracelet, I asked Sylvette whether I should approach Marthe about her husband’s behaviour. Her words were not only firm but ominous: ‘Don’t ever involve the wife,’ she said. ‘She will always blame you for leading her husband astray, no matter how many times he may have done this before. And worse for you, to save face, Marthe de Villiers will set to work convincing everyone else of your guilt too. She could destroy everything you’ve worked so hard for.’

The Jardin des Tuileries was beautiful with the sun-dappled pathways and flowerbeds full of sweet-smelling jonquils. But I barely noticed as I hurried along. Despite my efforts to calm myself, I kept seeing Marthe behind every tree or in the face of every woman strolling around the pond.

Finally, I spotted Cyrille sitting on a bench with his hat in his hands. His hair was pomaded into ridiculous curls and he was wearing a red rose in his buttonhole.

He jumped to his feet when he saw me. ‘Mademoiselle Archer, you came! Shall we have a stroll and then lunch? Perhaps at Le Taillevent? The restaurant is new and will take my reservation at a moment’s notice.’

The man felt like a rash crawling over my skin. He truly had no idea when to stop. I shook my head. ‘I can only stay five minutes. Please let me make this brief—’

‘You sent back my gift,’ he said, smiling lopsidedly. ‘I understand. Women prefer to play a little hard to get .’

The last part was said in garbled English which did nothing to heighten his attractiveness. Women prefer men who don’t make their skin crawl , I thought. But I took a breath and forced myself to be tactful. ‘I think there has been a misunderstanding—’

‘I find myself reliving every moment of the other night,’ he continued, as if I hadn’t spoken. ‘I can still smell your perfume. The wonderful way you brushed against me when we said “goodnight”.’

What was it about some men – especially the repugnant ones – that made them feel so entitled to a young woman’s regard? I was quite certain I had not ‘brushed’ against him. I realised that this was not a man in his right mind and had to make my rebuttal firmly, or things would only get worse. I had to force myself to look directly into his eager eyes, although I would have far preferred to set my attention anywhere else.

‘Monsieur de Villiers! I want to be very clear. You have misinterpreted my actions. I had no intentions towards you other than the courtesy I would have shown to any guest. So please stop this useless pursuit of me. I’m sure you will come to your senses, and you have my word that I will not mention this lapse in your judgement to anyone.’

I gave him a minute to let my clear communication of disinterest set in, but to my dismay – and fury – he only smiled like an imbecile.

‘Perhaps a little holiday,’ he said, reaching his spiderly hand towards me. ‘Perhaps a trip to Normandy. Just the two of us.’

It had been a mistake to meet him and try to make him see reason. I felt like a gazelle who had spotted a lion on the horizon. I was seized by a sudden urge to run. For there would be no point for a gazelle to try to reason with its predator. I turned and started to walk quickly away.

‘We can go by train,’ Cyrille said, trotting after me. ‘Or by car. With my private driver if you wish to be... discreet .’

I began to walk faster but Cyrille kept up with me. Finally, I was out of breath and had to stop.

‘I’ve made my feelings very clear, Monsieur de Villiers. I find you continuing to pursue me this way most ungentlemanly .’

He giggled stupidly. ‘Darling, after all the glances we exchanged the other night, after all I have imagined for our future, I know I am not mistaken about your true feelings.’

Despite my intentions of calm – and the precarious position this stupid man was putting me in – his last statement hit a nerve.

‘I am very sure of my own feelings, Monsieur de Villiers.’

I turned and walked away again, but he sped up in pursuit of me. I turned down a path and crashed straight into a huddle of women. They scattered in all directions, clucking and screeching like farmyard chickens.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ I said.

‘Eve?’

I turned around to see Blanche d’Alcy, Lucile’s friend, among them. Then I recognised Mona Faber too. The entire group were all dressed in flounces and feathers like women from the previous decade.

‘Where are you off to in such a hurry?’ Blanche asked.

My heart was pounding and I had to catch my breath. ‘I have to order some new stationery.’

‘Isn’t it wonderful news about Lucile?’ said Mona. ‘An admirer! She’s very excited.’

I felt dizzy. The discombobulation caused by my situation was something akin to being very, very drunk.

‘Oh, he’s just one of many,’ I said.

They gathered around me as if I was the farmer’s wife tossing out seed.

‘Really?’ asked Blanche. ‘Do tell us more.’

Before I could make up a story, Mona frowned and pointed at something behind me.

‘Isn’t that Cyrille de Villiers over there?’ she asked.

We all turned to see him peering at us from behind a tree. He tipped his hat and stalked off in the opposite direction.

‘He’s a funny man, isn’t he?’ said Blanche. ‘Apparently he has quite an eye for the young ladies. I heard there was some trouble in Switzerland. That’s why he and Marthe are back here, to make a new start.’

‘Trouble?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ said one of the others, a woman so tiny she could have been mistaken for a child. ‘He’d given some jewellery belonging to Marthe to some maid or another. There was a formidable row about it, apparently. I haven’t heard the full story, but I believe Marthe had him committed to a mental asylum for treatment.’

I clenched and unclenched my hands. Whatever the ‘treatment’ was, it clearly hadn’t worked.

‘What happened to the girl?’ I asked.

‘She was arrested,’ said Mona.

‘Arrested!’

‘She deserved it, I’m sure,’ said the tiny woman. ‘We all know that type – ready to take advantage of a situation by leading a sick man astray.’

‘I’m very sorry, ladies,’ I said, ‘but I must hurry with my errands.’

I made it to the edge of the park and clung to a tree. Less than two days ago I’d felt on top of the world. Now I was seized by a fear that things were about to go horribly wrong.

*

For three days, my nerves were on high alert. It was as if everything I touched sparked with static. I jumped every time the concierge came to the door with a package or a letter. But when Cyrille made no further attempt to contact me, I thought that by some miracle he had come to his senses, and it was with a lighter heart that I went to visit Serge to see the new painting.

This time when I entered his gallery, it was not Serge at the front desk but a pleasant-looking woman of about sixty years of age wearing a flecked-wool suit. Her hair was swept into a high smooth bun and she gave off the pleasant scent of rosewater. Serge had told me about Inès Bonne, his faithful secretary who had kept an inventory of his artworks that were plundered by the Germans during the war. Madame Bonne had hidden the list in a violin and kept it at her mother’s place. It was this precious list that Serge was now using to retrieve his treasures.

‘ Bonjour , mademoiselle,’ Madame Bonne greeted me when I entered.

‘ Bonjour , madame. I’m Eve Archer.’

She rose from her chair in that elegant way that sophisticated French women have perfected, and that I had learned to imitate.

‘Monsieur Lavertu said you would be coming today, Mademoiselle Archer. He has gone out in search of real coffee and said that you should wait for him upstairs. May I show you the way?’

She arched her arm through the air like a ballerina taking a curtsy. I was so in awe of her natural grace that even though I knew the way to Serge’s apartment myself, I followed her like one under an enchantment.

‘Monsieur Lavertu goes to court in two months’ time to try to get his gallery back,’ she said as we climbed the stairs, our footsteps clacking in perfect unison. ‘It was beautiful before the war, with elegant exhibition rooms and softly filtered light streaming through the windows. He always had a refinement about him, and his knowledge and taste are far superior to any of the other dealers.’

I listened to her with interest and a great deal of pride. I’m not such an imposter after all , I thought. I have good taste in my genes .

Once we were inside the apartment, Madame Bonne ushered me to the sitting room. By the fireplace was a painting on an easel covered with a red velvet cloth.

‘Monsieur Lavertu always shows off his art with éclat,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to wait till he gets back to see the new Kristina Belova painting he acquired. I’m quite sure he spent his very last franc on it.’

I took the seat she offered me and, with a wistful eye, looked around the room trying to see it as my mother had. How many hours had she and Serge sat in conversation in these high-backed chairs and sipped coffee from the same set that Madame Bonne was arranging now on the dining table? But I couldn’t be sure of any of it except for the walls and ceiling. Perhaps the chairs and coffee set were replacements for those that had been stolen by the Nazis. I caught sight of a painting behind Madame Bonne that hadn’t been there before, but I instantly recognised my mother’s face in the model. I stood up and walked towards it.

It was a painting of my mother in a way I could never have imagined her depicted. Her face was lit with both joy and fierce rebellion. She was wearing a suit of armour and wielded a sword. Gigantic angel wings sprouted from her back. She was flying away from two men in the far distance – a young one holding an apple in one hand and a snake in the other; the second man was white-haired and bearded and holding a staff. It was Adam and God. My eye fell to the signature. It had been painted by Kristina Belova. Then I saw the small name plaque at the bottom of the frame, which read: The Flight of Eve .

My heart stuck in my throat. This was the painting my mother had told me about. The last one she had ever posed for and after which I had been named.

‘It’s magnificent, isn’t it?’ said Madame Bonne, coming up behind me. ‘It’s just been returned after spending the war with a fascist dealer in Holland.’

‘It’s beautiful,’ I said, barely able to get my words out. ‘But weren’t Adam and Eve expelled from Paradise because Eve was tempted by the Devil?’

‘Not in Kristina Belova’s depiction. Eve, fed up with both God and Adam, is leaving to find a better world than the one they have created for her.’

‘It’s a masterpiece,’ I said.

‘It certainly deserves to be considered as one,’ sighed Madame Bonne. ‘Unfortunately, “masterpiece” is a title that seems reserved for works by male painters.’

Footsteps sounded on the stairs and the next minute, Serge burst in the door. ‘Ah, Eve, you are here,’ he said, handing a small tin to Madame Bonne.

‘This painting,’ I said. ‘It’s extraordinary.’

‘Yes,’ he said, not quite looking at it. ‘But I’ll talk to you about that painting later. Meanwhile, while Madame Bonne brews the coffee, come and have a look at this extraordinary painting that turned up at the H?tel Drouot auction.’

My heart pinched a little that he seemed more interested in the new painting by Kristina than he did by the return of the one of my mother. For a fleeting moment, I wondered if it had been Kristina who had come between them. But she had been the wife of Max, and Serge did not seem the type who would cuckold his best friend.

He lifted the red velvet cover from the painting and at once I recognised Kristina by her beautiful eyes and high cheekbones. It was another glorious self-portrait, but the subject was clearly a changed woman. Those eyes that had sparkled in her younger days were flat and tired. She had outlined herself in heavy fluid lines as if to emphasise the weariness of her being. Her expression was stern, and many different colours had been worked into the contours of her face and neck. Yet there was still an air of pride and nobility about her. Her golden hair was neatly pulled back in a chignon. Her blue dress was simple but tailored. It was only the background that gave the painting a sense of effervescence with the vibrant colours in the palette of Matisse. It certainly had the hallmarks of genius, but as Madame Bonne had so sadly pointed out, would probably not be given that status by art critics simply because Kristina was a woman.

‘It’s wonderful,’ I said. ‘But somehow, despite the bright colours, sad.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Serge, his eyes shining. ‘Yet she is alive and painting better than ever.’

‘Do you know where she is?’

‘Not yet, but from the colours in this painting I’m hoping she has returned to her family villa on the C?te d’Azur. I have written to an old friend of mine in Nice to make some inquiries for me.’

‘You don’t think she’d be pleased to hear from you directly?’ I asked.

Serge’s cheeks flushed and he shook his head uncertainly. ‘I don’t know.’

I found his hesitancy odd. From the way he had described Kristina and Max, it seemed they had been the greatest of friends. Had something happened during the war? Something that made him doubt Kristina would have warm feelings for him?

Then, as if to change the topic as quickly as possible, he returned his attention back to the painting of my mother.

‘The attention to detail is very typical of Kristina. Although she has paid homage to Charles-Amable Lenoir in style, she has subverted his tendency to paint women as beautiful, delicate and frail. She has made the mythical Eve look capable of commanding an army and achieving victory.’

I peered at the painting, trying to see the world from my mother’s perspective as she posed. An artist and their model spend hours together. The two women must have known each other well. The subject had been treated with both admiration and tenderness. It was not a piece of art painted by one female rival of another.

‘Who is the model?’ I asked. My voice trembled despite my efforts to control my emotions.

‘Madeleine.’

I was shocked that he said my mother’s name impersonally, as if he had no feelings for her at all.

‘Madeleine who?’ I asked, although I knew perfectly well. There was some part of me that hoped by seeing me in close proximity to the painting of my mother, he would repeat his sentiment of the other day that I reminded him of someone. I’m a product of the both of you , I yearned to tell him.

‘No one ever knew,’ he said. ‘She never used her last name.’

Our eyes met, and a slight frown came across his face as if he was on the verge of making the connection. But then Madame Bonne gave a gentle clearing of her throat to indicate the coffee was ready and Serge immediately turned his mind to other things.

‘Oh, that delicious aroma,’ he said, rubbing his hands together. ‘Let’s drink to better things and better days.’

Although I drank real coffee at Lucile’s, I could see the pleasure that Serge and Madame Bonne took in sipping a drink that had once been a mainstay of French life but that was still hard to find two years after the occupation. They could have been sharing a bottle of fine Beaujolais from the way they inhaled the coffee before taking a sip, saturating their palates for just a moment, and then exhaling as they swallowed.

I expressed my appreciation of the rich full flavour. But my heart, which had been opened by Kristina’s depiction of my mother, had once again retracted in my chest.