A Perfect Heritage (24 page)

‘Actually, I did,’ she said, stung. ‘Before I went to Farrell’s, I asked you, I said it would be worse than PDN, I said I’d like your agreement, and you said if I really wanted to do it, then I should.’

‘My God, you don’t take any prisoners, do you, Bianca? I’m glad I don’t work for you.’

‘Oh, don’t be so ridiculous!’ she said.

‘You know,’ he said and his eyes meeting hers were more hostile than she could ever remember, ‘sometimes it just feels like that. Being part of your team.’

‘Fuck you, Patrick Bailey,’ she said, ‘that is a monstrous thing to say.’

‘Is it? When everything I do has to be cleared with you, just in case?’

‘Oh, what!’

‘Yes. Yes it does. Moreover, I do remember having roughly the same conversation with you when I went to Finlaysons. And you said – unfortunately I don’t have your gift for total recall – I should go ahead.’

‘That was because of what you said about being miserable, about dying at your desk and nobody noticing. Not about how you might not be able to do so much with the children.’

Patrick was silent. That was unarguable. That was the trouble with all of it; it was all unarguable. There was absolute justice on both sides: he was reneging on the deal with Bianca, and she took advantage of him to the most appalling degree, often staying at the office and working through when really she could perfectly well have made a school or doctor’s appointment, and then carried on at home.

‘Well, something clearly has to be done,’ he said now, ‘we can’t go on like this. We’ll both have to make concessions, you’ll simply have to be a little more—’

‘More what?’ she said, her voice heavy with suspicion.

‘More flexible,’ he said, ‘and I will do my best to bring work home whenever possible, rather than staying on in the office. Saul said that would be fine by him. But Bianca, I’ve just started that job. I desperately need to make a good start. You of all people should see that.’

‘I do,’ she said suddenly, becoming visibly more conciliatory, and he wondered how much of it was genuine and how much was her taking advantage of a weakness in his argument. ‘Of course I do. Patrick I’m – well, I am sorry. I know I’ve been very lucky. And I do really appreciate it. And now I’m just beginning to see the wood for the trees, I will try very hard to do better.’ She smiled at him, a rueful, almost shamefaced smile.

‘Good,’ said Patrick, taking this olive branch slightly coolly, ‘I’m delighted to hear it. Well, we seem to have a semi-solution, in theory at least.’

‘Yes, we do.’

She smiled at him, wishing she believed even in the semi-solution. Theory was so easy; it was practice that was hard.

Chapter 24

She knew what had done it; what had made the thing thinkable when the moment presented itself – it was Athina saying, ‘Look, take Florence, she’ll be of some use to you, I expect. She speaks French for a start, don’t you, Florence? And I really am far too busy to go myself.’

It wasn’t the dismissal of her professional abilities; it was the clear assumption that there could be no possible danger in sending her husband off to Paris – Paris, of all places – in Florence’s company, no fear that he might find her even remotely desirable, or their situation in any way compromising, or even beguiling.

However, she steered herself away from such reflections, merely thought that three days in Paris, a city she had never visited, would be a glorious treat, despite the fact that they would be largely devoted to work, and even managed not to show her further irritation when Athina said that Cornelius must find Florence somewhere to stay near his hotel. Indeed, when Cornelius said that perhaps Florence should stay at the same hotel, she felt a flash of danger along with the pleasure and was almost relieved when Athina said, ‘I hardly think that would be appropriate, Cornelius, some nice little
pension
nearby will do perfectly well.’

The trip – to investigate the possibility of the House of Farrell having a presence in Paris, had been planned for some time; appointments had been made and hotels booked. But at the very last minute, Athina had been asked to work on an exclusive promotion for Harrods and it was simply too good an opportunity to miss. On the other hand, rescheduling Paris had proved impossible; and thus it was that, in the last week of May, 1957, Cornelius and Florence boarded the Golden Arrow at Victoria station, bound for the Gare du Nord and Paris, by way of Folkestone and the Channel ferry.

The crossing was rough and took longer than its allotted span; Florence stood on deck, enjoying the rise and fall of the boat, and the wind in her hair, one of very few people to do so.

‘How brave you are, Florence,’ Cornelius said. ‘I was afraid you might have been overcome with
mal de mer
.’

‘Of course not,’ said Florence, ‘I love it. My godfather had a yacht, a small one, and he used to take me sailing in the Solent, and the rougher the better. It comes close to flying, at times, especially if you look up at the sky. He had a sort of canvas seat, fixed to the deck that swung right out over the water, a cradle it was called, and I used to sit in it, pretending I was one of the seagulls screaming overhead. “Hold tight, Little Flo!” he used to shout, “I’m not coming in after you!”’

‘How full of surprises you are,’ said Cornelius, ‘and I like the nickname, Little Flo.’

‘Yes, well it was a very private one,’ she said, ‘and I only allow very special people to use it.’

‘I see. I presume that doesn’t include me?’

‘No, Cornelius, it does not.’

They reached the Gare du Nord at five that evening, and took a cab to the rue Jacob, where the Hotel d’Angleterre was situated; Florence’s
pension
, which was modestly charming, was on the rue de Seine, a minute’s walk away.

‘Can you be ready in an hour?’ Cornelius asked, having seen her safely in. ‘For an aperitif before dinner?’

‘Of course. But nowhere too smart, I hope. I don’t have anything very grand to wear.’

‘Not too grand at all, a café indeed, but with a certain chic. You will like it, I’m sure. And we will go somewhere similar for dinner. I will be here at six.’

Which he was, wearing a dark suit, his pink and green Garrick tie, a raincoat slung over his shoulders.

‘You look perfect,’ he said, studying her black woollen dress, with its slash neckline, swirling skirt and wide red belt. ‘Quite perfect. And we are going to the extremely famous Café de Flore, which is so fortuitously near.’

‘I know that, and I also know it’s extremely famous,’ said Florence briskly.

‘Oh, darling Florence, forgive me. Of course you do. I should have known that.’

The darling made her forgive him; forgive him for thinking she was just a foolish little girl from London, who he employed to run a shop for him, and could not possibly be expected to know about the smart cafés of Paris.

‘Now. What will you have?’ he said when they were seated.

‘Oh – I don’t know. What would you recommend?’

‘I think . . . a kir. Made not with champagne but white burgundy. Which is, of course, as it should be. And I will have the same.’

He lit a cigarette, offered her one; she hesitated, then took one, and they sat back and watched the world go by, down the Boulevard St Germain, couples strolling, talking, laughing, arm in arm, some with small dogs in tow, the younger ones pausing sometimes to kiss, the older ones to call their children to them, some very old and touchingly hand in hand, and all so stylishly, so beautifully dressed, so at ease with themselves and the place where they were.

‘You realise, of course,’ he said, ‘that we are in Leonard Trentham’s Paris. This is the area he loved, where our courtyard was. Where we had our first tryst.’

‘Yes, so it is,’ she said, ‘and I hadn’t realised.’

And she was silent, careful not to look at him, remembering that evening at the gallery and the sudden dangerous intimacy between them, and in a way it was as if they had been there before and this felt like a return to somewhere well-known and loved. Which was of course both fanciful and absurd.

‘Tomorrow we will go and find our door, our courtyard. Would you like that?’

‘I would very much,’ she said determinedly brisk, ‘but we’re here to work, Cornelius, in search of business, not courtyards. What would Athina say if she knew we were wandering the streets, indulging ourselves?’

‘I dread to think,’ he said, laughing, ‘but she will not know for neither of us will tell her. And of course we will work, but one cannot visit Paris and not have fun as well. Now have your drink and we will consider a venue for dinner. There is no work to be done now.’

And she gave herself up to enjoying herself. She had been avoiding him lately in London, determined that the disgraceful, if delectable event that had taken place in the taxi, should remain what it was, a piece of reckless, irresistible foolishness, never to be repeated, for it had been conducted not only between herself and a married man, but a married man who just happened to be the husband of her employer. But – here she was, in Paris, with the married man, at the suggestion of his wife; surely therefore she could allow herself to enjoy it?

‘So, I think we will dine just down the street there, a small bistro, very, very French. We will find no English there, and very simple food, but oh, so delicious. Now will you have another of those or . . .’

‘No, I think I have to limit myself. I’m not used to all this good living.’

‘Then you should be. And I intend to rectify that, over the next few days. But tonight we will take things quietly.’

Which they did; dinner was indeed simple, onion soup followed by chicken, and then some amazing cheese, all so very delicious, so infused with the quality of Paris; they parted at ten with the briefest kiss on the doorstep of her
pension
.

They breakfasted – if a croissant and a café au lait could be described thus – at Les Deux Magots, adjacent to the Flore and as deservedly famous, and planned their day.

‘We will begin just over there,’ Cornelius said, gesturing across the street, ‘at the Bon Marché – we have an appointment at ten. Now, my French is not of the highest standard, but I shall employ the well-known English method of shouting increasingly loudly, in my mother tongue if needs be. How is your French?’

‘Oh, passable.’

‘
Bon
. And my plan is for us to alternate business with pleasure. All through the day.’

‘Cornelius—’

‘No, no, I insist. There is too much for you to see for us to leave it until the last few hours. This is, without doubt, the most beautiful city in the world but we clearly have to be sparing. Of course you must visit the Louvre and Notre Dame, and we must stroll the rue de Rivoli. The Champs-Élysées is essential; you will never see a more beautiful street as long as you live, so I think we will go there for lunch to Fouquet’s, a legend in itself, then cocktails at the Ritz, of course.’

‘The Ritz! Cornelius I have no clothes for the Ritz.’

‘Nonsense. You have natural style, Florence, you don’t need to worry about such things. The Ritz here in Paris is the most famous hotel in the world, although I prefer the Crillon myself, and you must visit it. It is as iconic as the Eiffel Tower. To which I think we may give a miss – there are other more beautiful places and things to see. Now, have you finished your coffee?’

‘Oh – yes, thank you,’ said Florence, ‘and Fouquet’s sounds wonderful, but rather expensive and—’

‘Florence, dear Florence, this is all on company expenses, so neither of us need worry about it for one moment. Now – to work. We have to go to Galeries Lafayette and to Printemps, one of the sights of Paris in itself, as well as Bon Marché, and then to Fouquet’s. After that, Sacré Cœur.’

She shook her head.

And so the day went on; now a little work, now rather more pleasure. Florence marvelled at the chic of the women who stood at the Bon Marché counters, trying and testing colours, asking for advice on their skincare, wondering what was it about French women that gave them that astonishing edge, that could only be described in their own language – chic. They looked younger than their English counterparts, but more sophisticated, their hair simpler, their outfits less elaborate, their colours more muted. There was something else too, which she couldn’t define, but pressed by Cornelius when she remarked upon it, she realised they had a self-confidence and a self-awareness that was very – well, very sexy. English women, she thought, were not often sexy. Not obviously so.

She considered her light grey woollen dress, with its nipped-in waist and swirling skirt, her carefully chosen low-heeled court shoes, half-hat set on her unruly hair, and compared it with the clothes of her nearest neighbour. She wore a narrow black suit with the new longline jacket that reached almost to her knees; her hair was swept back into a flawless chignon, and her hat was a small, neat affair, in dark red, little more than a beret, set firmly on the middle of her head. Her shoes were also dark red as was her bag; she looked – well, she looked chic.

Florence sighed.

They visited the cosmetic buyer at Printemps on the Boulevard Haussmann, with some success: she loved Athina’s paintboxes, agreed to order them along with The Cream and some lipsticks, and when Cornelius went to the accounting department he dispatched Florence to the fashion floor, and she wandered through it, pausing every five minutes or so to gaze upwards at the dazzling stained-glass cupola that arched over the entire store. She found a pair of shoes, lizardskin courts with the new narrow heel and pointed toe, and was trying them on when Cornelius found her.

‘Very nice, Florence.’ He gave her name the French pronunciation. ‘
Très chic
! Are you going to buy them?’

‘I am not,’ said Florence firmly. ‘They are far too expensive for me. Really, Cornelius, I’m just a poor little shop girl, I can’t afford this sort of thing.’

‘But you should have them. They flatter your ankles so beautifully. And you have such very pretty ankles. No, you must buy them. I insist.’

‘Well,’ said Florence, ‘you will have to give me a raise.’ She said it lightly, not imagining that he would take any notice, but he was pulling out his wallet and peeling off a fifty franc note, handing it to the sales girl before she could stop him.

‘Cornelius, stop it! I don’t want charity.’

‘This is not charity, and you are buying them yourself. With an advance on your new, higher wages.’

‘Cornelius, no!’

‘Florence, yes. Now come along, and I want you to wear them to our lunch at Fouquet’s. Where they will feel very much at home.’

‘Here we are,’ he said as their taxi drew up in front of Fouquet’s. ‘I think you might remember this from another painting . . .’

She did; remembered the wide, curved frontage, its so-distinctive red canopy, miniature trees lining its entrance, remembered it and smiled at him; he smiled back.

‘I like it so much that we have already enjoyed Paris together,’ he said. And she felt she had taken another step, another dangerous step back – or was it forward? – into the intimacy of that evening. ‘Now, we could have lunch in the restaurant, but the
terrasse
is more fun. See, just through there, the long room, and the line of tables by the window, looking on to the street. How would you like that?’

‘Very much indeed,’ said Florence, ‘but—’

‘Florence, do stop saying but. There’s nothing to but about.’

‘Cornelius,’ she said, ‘there is something to but about. It’s Athina, as you very well know. What would she think, if she knew you were buying me cocktails and shoes and lunches?’

‘The very worst I imagine,’ said Cornelius cheerfully, ‘but she doesn’t know, and she won’t know, and the worst isn’t going to happen anyway – is it, Florence?’

‘No,’ she said quickly. Very quickly. Sensing that his presenting it to her as a possibility, however slight, was a provocative thing to do.

‘Of course not. So, she would be misjudging us terribly. Now come along . . .’ He held out his hand, and she knew as she took it that, in spite of his words, there was a great deal to worry about and that really she should insist they left the restaurant now, at once, and return to their work. But . . . ‘Right,’ he said as they settled by the window, ‘there are lots of wonderful things to eat here but I can recommend the
moules marinières
, they are simply magnificent. Do you like
moules
?’

‘I’ve never had them,’ said Florence.

‘Then it’s time you did.
Moules
– mussels in plain English, sounds so much less attractive – are completely delicious served with
frites
and a nice dry white wine, a Muscadet, I think. The perfect lunch. A martini while we order?’