Paris Kiss (21 page)

She threw the book she'd been holding on the floor so hard its spine cracked and the pages spilled over the carpet. ‘No more of this! I won't listen to another note of this hideous cacophony. These sugary lyrics and trite melodies – cheap and sentimental, just like your work, Jessie.'

Camille stormed out of the room, leaving my parents open-mouthed at her outburst. Ma was the first to recover. ‘I have no idea what that was all about, but you'd better go after her, Jessie. She must be feeling unwell, the poor dear.'

I didn't want to go, but my mother had that look on her face, the one that brooks no argument. Ma wanted me to make peace, but I knew she would have had no sympathy for Camille if only she'd understood what she'd said to me. But Ma had no French at all. Papa, on the other hand, was as fluent as me. He stood with his back to us, clearly embarrassed, looking out through the window as if he could see through the black squares to the garden.

Ma glared at me as if it were I that was at fault, not Camille. ‘Jessie, what are you waiting for?'

I had no choice – I would have to go after Camille and make peace, even though I was shaking with anger and humiliation. After everything I'd done for her, covering up her affair with our tutor, caring for her and encouraging her during those terrible storms of weeping when she and Rodin quarrelled. And now, in my own home, in front of my parents, she had insulted me in the worst possible way. She had gone too far. I had had enough and I would tell her. At the door, I composed myself and turned to say goodnight to Rodin. He was standing at the mantelpiece, smiling to himself like a cat that has just caught a mouse between its paws.

Chapter 36

Camille was not in her room. She had taken to disappearing at night. I'd been concerned the first time she'd done it in London, when she'd walked the streets near the lodgings we'd taken and wandered alone through Hyde Park. At least here she would be safe, and I wasn't going to worry Ma and Papa by telling them. I sighed and settled down on her bed to wait for her. When I woke, the room was light and the birds were calling to each other. Camille had not come back. I pulled on a shawl and ran out of the house. The grass was damp from last night's rain and soon the hem of my dress was soaked. She was nowhere to be seen. I searched the rose garden and went down to the stream that ran through the bottom of the garden, growing more and more frantic. Surely she hadn't gone out the gate. My chest heaving with panic, I ran back up towards the house and stood under the elm tree where I could get a better view of the lawns, which sloped down towards the limestone walls. A twig snapped above me and I looked up into the tree. There was Camille, huddled on a branch, her back to the trunk. She stared down at me sightlessly. When I called to her she shook herself, as if waking from a dream and slowly began to climb down. She stood before me, her teeth chattering, hair hanging in damp tendrils and her clothes wet through. I put my shawl around her and led her back into the house.

I towelled her dry, the way Ma used to do to me after a bath, and put her into bed. I took off my own wet dress and climbed in after her, held her until the warmth of my body crept into hers and she stopped shivering.

Her breathing grew regular and I thought she'd fallen asleep when she spoke. ‘Jessie, I'm sorry.' And she began to cry, great heaving gulps, like a child. I held her more tightly and kissed the top of her head.

‘Don't fret, my lamb, don't fret,' I said, using the words that had comforted me as a child.

She rubbed at her eyes and sat a little apart from me. ‘I didn't mean those things I said about you. How could I? You know that, don't you?' Camille's navy blue eyes were ringed with dark shadows, her brow creased with anxiety. I nodded and she relaxed a little. ‘Rodin and I, we had a fight.'

For the first time in a long while I wanted to laugh. ‘You don't say?'

A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. ‘Of course, it was obvious. I behaved like an idiot.'

Now that I'd found her and she was safe, I allowed myself to be angry with her again. ‘You behaved horribly, not only to me, but to my parents.'

Camille rubbed her forehead. ‘I know, I know. But listen to me, and maybe you will understand.'

I crossed my arms and faced her. ‘What could possibly excuse such rudeness? In my home, Camille, in my own home.'

‘Rodin told me he won't leave Rose. He said we can never be married.'

‘What? But he promised! Does that mean you and him…'

She covered her eyes and began to weep again.

Rodin had left before we came down to breakfast. A note on the hall table thanked us for our kind hospitality.
Désolé
but he had to leave immediately for Paris to sort out a problem with his exhibition with Monet. Camille tore the note into pieces so I had to write it out again in an approximation of Rodin's scrawl and give it to my parents at breakfast.

Ma squinted at the note. ‘What terrible writing. That's a shame he had to dash off, such a nice man.' She smiled at Camille. ‘Are you feeling better dear? You look a little peaky.'

It was an odd summer – not at all like I'd imagined it would be. Camille's moods were changeable: affectionate towards me one day and the next she'd be distant and cool. She went away to stay with Amy Singer's family, making it clear she wanted to be on her own. And when she returned she talked incessantly about the Singers, a large, artistic family. Their bohemian home seemed more to her liking than Wootton House and its quiet pace. We went to stay on the Isle of Wight with an old schoolfriend of mine, Florence, and I thought we'd finally have time together, walking along the cliffs and sketching. But Camille struck up a close friendship with Florence and I'd often find myself excluded in those subtle but devastating ways women employ to make it clear you are not wanted.

But still I kept making excuses for Camille. She was confused; she was heartbroken over Rodin; she was fragile. The stream of letters continued to arrive unabated from Paris in Rodin's unmistakable hand. Some she'd tear up and stamp on the pieces, others she'd press to her lips and tuck into her pocket to read again later.

Finally, September arrived and it was time for her to go back to Paris. Ma had asked me to stay on for Christmas and I'd agreed. As their only child, I knew they missed me dreadfully. Besides, Camille's long visit had put a strain on our friendship. Perhaps we needed a break from each other.

I knelt on the floor, helping Camille to pack. We layered her dresses with tissue paper and folded them into her trunk. We worked in silence and I thought how different it used to be with her in the early days of our friendship, when I could say anything to her, no matter how irreverent, my candour rewarded with shouts of laughter and an answering jibe. Instead I'd taken to choosing my words carefully, watching her face anxiously for the first signs of an outburst. I'd always prided myself on my courage and hated this new tentativeness. And, it only seemed to make Camille more impatient with me. I'd watch powerless as her lips curled with disdain as I stuttered some inane pleasantry. She was slipping away from me and I knew unless I fixed what had broken between us, I'd lose her. I sat back on my heels and summoned the Jessie who was afraid of nothing.

‘Camille, look at me.'

She glanced up and went back to folding a shawl. I grabbed her wrist. She tried to shake me off but I held on.

‘What is it?' she said.

‘This summer, I've found it difficult, found you difficult. At times you've behaved as if you were my enemy, not my friend.'

Camille sighed and I released her wrist. ‘You're right,' she said. ‘I've not been myself, I'm sorry. Can't we be friends again?'

‘No we can't, not until we sort this out. Sorry just isn't good enough.'

Camille stood up and walked towards the window. She looked out at the elm leaves, which were turning to copper. ‘It's all Rodin's fault,' she said with her back to me. ‘He ruins everything. He wants to control everything – me, you. I haven't been able to think straight.' She turned around. ‘But it's true that things can't go on like this. It's intolerable for all of us. When I go back to Paris, I promise I'm going to sort everything out. I know you've hated acting as our go-between and putting up with my moods, but you won't have to do that any more.'

She came and knelt beside me and put her arms around me. I closed my eyes. These were the words I'd wanted to hear. I'd talk to her about spending more time in our own studio, working on our own pieces. Perhaps everything would go back to how it used to be when we'd sit and drink tea, and smoke and talk about our plans. It would be Camille and I against the world once more.

‘Jessie,' she whispered. ‘You are my one true friend. I don't know what I'd do without you. Can you forgive me?'

I nodded through tears. She was my Camille once more. Everything was going to be all right.

I disentangled myself. ‘There's nothing to forgive. Come on, we'd better get your packing finished.'

She dug into her skirt pocket and grinned at me. ‘Not before we have a last cigarette.'

Chapter 37

Peterborough

February 1887

Once again I was knee-deep in tissue paper but this time it was Ma and I smoothing silk skirts and brushing out furs. I was lost in a daydream, the boulevards of Paris already stretching before me as I walked arm in arm with – with whom? Certainly not with William. My letters to Manchester had met with flinty silence and I'd stopped writing after a while. Instead I pictured Georges, a scarf tied loosely around his neck to ward off the crisp early-spring air. Another of his letters had arrived the day before.

Jessie! Where are you, for God's sake? I am dying from boredom. Paris is a desert without you. Come quickly! It's time you came back to where you belong – to Paris and to me. Je t'embrasse mille fois. Georges.

‘Penny for 'em.' Ma raised her eyebrows.

‘Mmm?'

‘Jessie dear, you're a million miles away.'

‘Sorry, I've a lot on my mind.'

‘Come here, my lamb, I'll miss you.' She put her arms around me and I sank into her warm embrace, her cheek soft against mine.

Suddenly I was tired of fighting my feelings, of the push and pull between William and Georges. William had made it clear he didn't want me, and Georges was waiting.

‘Ma, you know how you always said I could tell you anything?'

She stiffened and held me at arm's length. ‘You're not… We can bring the wedding forward and nobody will be the wiser. William won't mind. Plenty of girls have early babies.'

I stared at her open-mouthed before bursting into laughter. ‘Ma, I'm not pregnant! Besides, we're not engaged. And you know William and I haven't been speaking since he came back from France. Ma, I told you we'd quarrelled.'

She waved her hand dismissively. ‘Don't try to pull the wool over my eyes, Jessie Lipscomb, I'm your mother, I know everything. William's mother told me he'd taken the family emeralds out of the safe and had them cleaned and remounted – and that means only one thing, a wedding. I just assumed you'd come to your senses and make it up with him. But still, it's a blessing you're not in the family way, not just yet anyway.'

I couldn't help laughing. There I was, my precious virginity intact, no thanks to Georges' attempts, and there was certainly no danger now of William ever breaking down my defences.

She frowned at me. ‘I don't know what's so funny. You wouldn't be the first girl to walk down the aisle with a big bouquet.'

Thinking about William had been a mistake. My laughter turned into a sob before I could disguise it.

Ma took my hand and patted it. ‘What's troubling you? Out with it – don't worry, I've heard it all after years standing behind a bar. Lord, the tales I could tell! Come, tell Ma what's troubling you.'

Surely, anything I said about Georges would seem trivial after my mother's vision of me waddling up the aisle.

‘Ma, William did ask me, but we're not engaged.'

‘What? Jessie, don't tell me you've gone and turned down the best chance you'll have of a good marriage.' She crossed her plump arms and waited.

My words tumbled out, my cheeks pinking. ‘The reason we quarrelled, well it was my fault. You see, in Paris, there's this other man. A Frenchman. He's an artist, but oh, he's so talented, he'll go far just as soon as he gets a break. And he's handsome and funny and, and
romantic
. Oh Ma, I'm mixed up, I don't know what to do. One minute I know William is the one I should be with for the rest of my life, and the next Georges just has to write to me or to, to kiss me and…'

Ma gripped my arms so hard I gasped. Her voice was hard. ‘Now, you listen to me, Jessie Lipscomb. You've been cosseted all your life. It's probably your father's and my fault for spoiling you, but the upshot is you've always got what you wanted. You don't know a thing about real life.'

‘Ma! You're hurting me.' She let go my arms and I rubbed them. I could hear the petulance in my own voice. ‘I do so know about real life; I'm not a child. Haven't I lived on my own as an independent woman in London and Paris?'

‘Independent!' She snorted. ‘On your father's money, more like.'

‘Ma! Let's not talk about money, it's vulgar.'

‘Vulgar! I'll tell you what's vulgar my girl – a woman having to break her back to earn her own living. Have you thought for one minute how this whatsisname is going to provide for you?'

This wasn't going the way I'd expected it to. Why was Ma being so cruel? If only I could make her understand.

‘His name is Georges. And I don't need anyone to provide for me. I could work. Once I get a few commissions…'

She cut me off with an exasperated sigh. ‘Work! You don't know the meaning of the word. Do you think art will pay your rent? Put food on the table? You want to try fourteen hours on your feet behind a bar, listening to the muck men talk, or sweating away in the din of a factory, going to bed in a freezing room, so tired you don't know whether to cry or sleep.'

I opened my mouth but she held up her hand. ‘Hold your tongue, I haven't finished yet.' I closed my mouth. Ma had never spoken to me like that before.

‘What happens when you do fall pregnant?' she said. ‘How are you going to work then? You'd have to leave the babby with some old drudge for a few pennies and hope she doesn't feed it gin to keep it quiet. Soon you'd be too tired and worn out to go on and there's a worse fate waiting. A few moments on your back and you could make more in a night than you could in a month, and not have to leave the little one. I had a
Georges
buttering me up and chasing after my skirts, but men like that don't stay the course. Thank God for your father. He saved me from a bad end.'

I couldn't speak. I pictured my mother at my age, alone and heartbroken, abandoned by some awful man after he'd taken advantage of her.

But that wouldn't happen to me. These were modern times, the world had changed and women could be independent if they wanted to be. I tried again to reason with her.

‘I know women – poor women – have to work hard, but I love my work, and besides, Papa is wealthy.'

Her voice was hard. ‘You think Papa is going to make it all better? Do you think he'd forgive you for throwing William away and taking up with some penniless artist?'

‘He forgave you, for your past.'

Her face grew red with fury and she clasped her hands together, as if to prevent herself striking out. I drew back but she only took a deep breath and closed her eyes. When she spoke again her voice was low and controlled.

‘Listen to me, Jessie, and then we'll never talk of this again. Your father married me because he was in love with me and he's a good man who forgave my past mistakes. But it's different for you – you're his precious little girl. He's always put you on a pedestal, but if you break off your engagement to William and disgrace yourself – and us – by running away with a foreigner of no character and become his mistress, he'll cut you off. Make no mistake about it. Decent society will turn its back on you. And so will your father. You'll be ruined.'

I bit my lip to stop myself from crying and looked out of the window, where the elm tree's bare branches were moving in the wind.

Ma sounded tired. ‘Even if Papa were to forgive you, the money's not there like before. I didn't want to have to tell you this, but he's had a bad year and lost a fortune on the stock exchange. We weren't sure if we could afford to send you back to Paris. The rent for your digs at the Claudels and the studio are really more than we can afford now. But, as usual, your father insisted his Jessie is not to want for anything.'

She stood up stiffly, her knees creaking. ‘I can't make up your mind for you. But if you go off with this man, you'll have to stand on your own two feet.' Ma narrowed her eyes at me. ‘And perhaps your fancy Frenchman won't be quite so keen when he finds out you're not an heiress any more.'

I was stung. How dare she? My fists closed, crushing the silk dress I was holding. ‘Georges loves me. It wouldn't make a blind bit of difference if I were a pauper.'

She laughed and shook her head. At the door she turned to me again. ‘You're a fool if you leave William. You don't know how lucky you are to have the chance of a husband like him. Handsome young men with no prospects who promise you the moon are ten a penny. You don't have to go to Paris to find one – the streets of London are full of 'em. I know it's hard, Jessie, but love – that kind of love – isn't worth throwing your life away for.'

I waited until I heard her footsteps on the staircase before I took out Georges' letter from my skirt pocket, smoothed out the creases and read it again, my eyes blurring. He did love me. He did. I didn't care what they all thought.