The Lollipop Shoes (16 page)

She nodded, looking round with small-animal wariness at the new displays.

Alice, we know, is painfully shy. Her voice is a wisp; her hair, a shroud. Her kohl-rimmed eyes, which are rather beautiful, peep out from beneath a mass of white-bleached fringe, and her arms and legs poke out awkwardly from a blue dress that might once have belonged to a ten-year-old.

Her shoes are enormous platform boots that look far too heavy for her little stick-legs. Her favourite is milk chocolate fudge, though she always buys the plain dark squares because they contain only half the calories. Her colours are gilded with anxiety.

‘Something smells good,’ she said, sniffing the air.

‘Yanne’s making chocolates,’ I told her.

‘
Making
them? She can do that?’

I sat her down in the old armchair I found in a skip down Rue de Clichy. It’s shabby, but quite comfortable; and like the shop, I intend to make something of it within the next few days.

‘Try one,’ I said. ‘It’s on the house.’

Her eyes gleamed. ‘I shouldn’t, you know.’

‘I’ll cut it in half. We’ll share it,’ I said, perching on the arm of the chair. So easy to scratch the seductive sign of the Cacao Bean with my fingernail; so easy to watch her through the Smoking Mirror as she pecked at her truffle like a baby bird.

I know her well. I’ve seen her before. An anxious child; always aware of not being good enough, of not being entirely like the others. Her parents are good people, but they are ambitious, they are demanding; they make it plain that failure is not an option, that nothing can ever be too good for them and for their little girl. One day, she misses dinner. It makes her feel good – emptied,
somehow, of all the fears that weigh her down. She misses breakfast, dizzy with that new, exhilarating feeling of control. She tests herself and finds herself wanting. Rewards herself for being so good. And here she is now –
such a good girl, trying so hard
– twenty-three and still looks thirteen, and still not quite good enough, still not quite there—

She finished the truffle. ‘
Mmmm
,’ she said.

I made sure she saw me eat one too.

‘It must be so hard, working here.’

‘Hard?’ I said.

‘I mean,
dangerous
.’ She flushed a little. ‘I know that sounds stupid, but that’s how I’d feel. Having to look at chocolates all day – handling chocolates – and always with the smell of chocolate . . .’ She was losing some of her shyness now. ‘How do you do it? How come you’re not just eating chocolates all day long?’

I grinned. ‘What makes you think I don’t?’

‘You’re thin,’ said Alice. (In fact I could easily give her fifty pounds.)

I laughed. ‘Forbidden fruits,’ I said. ‘So much more tempting than the ordinary kind. Here, have another.’

She shook her head.

‘Chocolate,’ I said. ‘
Theobroma cacao
, the food of the gods. Make it with pure ground cocoa beans, chillies, cinnamon and just enough sugar to take away the bitterness. That’s how the Mayans used to make it, over two thousand years ago. They used it in ceremonies to give themselves courage. They gave it to their sacrificial victims just before they ripped out their hearts. And they used it in orgies that lasted for hours.’

She stared at me with widened eyes.

‘So you see – it
can
be dangerous.’ I smiled. ‘Better not to have too much.’

I was still smiling when she left the shop with a box of twelve truffles in her hand.

Meanwhile, from another life—

Françoise Lavery made the papers. Seems I was wrong about the bank’s camera footage: the police got a fairly good set of pictures of my last visit, and some colleague or other recognized Françoise. Of course, further investigation proved that there
was
no Françoise and that her story was fake from beginning to end. The results are somewhat predictable. A rather grainy staff photograph of the suspect appeared in the evening paper, followed by several editorials, suggesting that she might have had more sinister motives for her imposture than money. It was even possible, gloated
Paris-Soir
, that she may have been a sexual predator, targeting young boys.

As if
, as Annie would say. Still, it makes for a good headline, and I expect to see that photograph several times more before its newsworthiness fades. Not that it troubles me at all. No one would see Zozie de l’Alba in that mousy little piece of work. In fact most of my colleagues would have been hard-put to see Françoise herself – glamours don’t transfer well to celluloid, which is why I never tried for a career in the movies, and the photograph looks less like Françoise and more like a girl I used to know, the girl who was always It at St Michael’s-on-the-Green.

I don’t often think about that girl now. Poor girl, with her bad skin and her freak mother with the feathers in her hair. What chance did she have?

Well, she had the same chance everyone has; the chance
you’re dealt the day you are born, the
only
chance. And some spend their lives making excuses, and blaming the cards, and wishing they’d had better ones, and some of us just play the hand, and up the stakes, and use every trick, and cheat where we can—

And win. And win. Which is all that matters. I like to win. I’m a very good player.

The question is, where to begin? Certainly, Annie could do with a little help – something to boost her confidence, to start her on the right path.

The names and symbols of One Jaguar and Rabbit Moon, written in marker on the bottom of her schoolbag, ought to take care of her social skills; but I think she needs a little more. And so I give her the Hurakan, or Hurricane, the Vengeful One, to make up for all those times of being It.

Not that Annie would think so, of course. There’s a regrettable lack of malice in the child, and all she really wants is for everyone to be friends. I’m sure I can cure her of that, however. Revenge is an addictive drug, which, once tasted, is seldom forgotten. After all, I should know.

Now I’m not in the business of granting wishes. In my game, it’s every witch for herself. But Annie is a genuine rarity – a plant, which, if nurtured, may produce spectacular blossom. In any case, there’s precious little opportunity to be creative in my line of work. Most of my cases are easy to crack; there’s no need for craftsmanship when a cantrip will do just as well.

Besides, for once, I can sympathize. I remember what it was like to be It every day. I remember the joy of settling scores.

This is going to be a pleasure.

4

Saturday, 17th November

THE FAT YOUNG
man who never shuts up is called Nico. He told me so this afternoon, coming in to investigate. Yanne had just finished a batch of coconut truffles, and the whole place smelt of them; that mulled, earthy scent that catches at the throat. I think I said I don’t like chocolate – and yet that scent, so like the incense in my mother’s shop, sweet and rich and troubling, acts upon me like a drug, making me reckless, impulsive – making me want to interfere.

‘Hey, lady! Like your shoes. Great shoes. Fabulous shoes.’ That’s Fat Nico; a man in his twenties, I’d say at a guess, but weighing a good three hundred pounds, with curly hair to his shoulders and a puffy, screwed-up face like that of a giant baby, perpetually on the brink of laughter or tears.

‘Why, thank you,’ I said. Actually they’re among my favourites: high-heeled pumps from the 1950s in faded green velvet, with ribbons and crystal buckles on the toes . . .

You can often tell a person by their shoes. His were two-tone, black and white; good shoes but downtrodden like slippers at the heel, as if he couldn’t be bothered to put them on properly. Still lives at home, so I would guess – a mummy’s boy if ever I saw one – rebelling quietly through his shoes.

‘What’s that smell?’ He’d caught it at last; his big face turning towards the source. In the kitchen behind me, Yanne was singing. A rhythmic sound, as of a wooden spoon against a pot, suggested that Rosette was joining in. ‘Smells like someone’s doing some cooking. Point me to it, Shoe Lady! What’s for lunch?’

‘Coconut truffles,’ I said with a smile.

In less than a minute he’d bought the lot.

Oh, I don’t flatter myself on this occasion that it was any of my doing. His type is absurdly easy to seduce. A child could have done it; and he paid by Carte Bleue, which made it the work of an instant to collect his number (after all, I must keep in practice), although I do not mean to use it as yet. Such a clear trail might lead to the
chocolaterie
; and I’m enjoying myself far too much to jeopardize my position at this stage. Later, perhaps. When I know why I’m here.

Nico is not the only one to have noticed a difference in the air. Just this morning I sold an astonishing eight boxes of Yanne’s special truffles – some to regulars, some to strangers lured in from the streets by that earthy, seductive scent.

In the afternoon, it was Thierry le Tresset. Cashmere coat, dark suit, pink silk tie and hand-made brogues. Mmmm. I love a hand-made shoe; glossy as the flank of a
well-groomed horse and whispering
money
from every perfect stitch. Perhaps I was wrong to overlook Thierry; he may be nothing special from an intellectual point of view, but a man with money is always worth a second glance.

He found Yanne in the kitchen, with Rosette, both of them laughing fit to split. Seemed slightly put out that she had to work – he came back from London today just to see her – though he agreed to call back after five.

‘Well, why on earth didn’t you check your phone?’ I heard him say from the kitchen door.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Yanne (half laughing, I thought). ‘I don’t really know about things like that. I suppose I must have forgotten to turn it on. Besides, Thierry—’

‘God help us,’ he said. ‘I’m marrying a cave woman.’

She laughed. ‘Call me a technophobe.’

‘How can I call you anything if you won’t answer the phone?’

He left Yanne with Rosette then, and came round to the front for a word with me. He mistrusts me, I know. I’m not his type. He may even consider me a bad influence. And, like most men, he sees only the obvious: the pink hair; the eccentric shoes; the vaguely bohemian look that I have worked so hard to cultivate.

‘You’re helping Yanne. That’s nice,’ he said. He smiled – he’s really very charming, you know – but I could sense the wariness in his colours. ‘What about the P’tit Pinson?’

‘Oh, I still work there in the evenings,’ I said. ‘Laurent doesn’t need me all day – and really, he isn’t the easiest of bosses.’

‘And Yanne is?’

I smiled at him. ‘Let’s say Yanne doesn’t have such – roving hands.’

He looked startled, as well he might. ‘I’m sorry. I thought—’

‘I know what you thought. I know I don’t quite look the part. But really, I’m just trying to help Yanne. She deserves a break – now don’t you agree?’

He nodded.

‘Come on, Thierry. I know what you need. A
café-crème
and a milk chocolate square.’

He grinned. ‘You know my favourite.’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘I’ve got the knack.’

After that, it was Laurent Pinson – for the first time in three years, so Yanne says – all stiff and churchy and trying too hard in his cheap and shiny brown shoes. He hummed and hawed for a laughable time, occasionally casting a jealous glance at me over the glass counter-top, then opted for the cheapest chocolates he could find and asked me to wrap them as a gift.

I took my time with scissors and string, smoothing down the pale-blue tissue paper with the tips of my fingers, wrapping it all in a double bow of silver ribbon and paper rose.

‘Someone’s birthday?’ I said.

Laurent gave his habitual grunt –
mweh!
– and fingered out the correct change. He has not yet spoken to me of my defection, though I know he resents it, thanking me with exaggerated politeness as I hand him the box.

I have no doubt as to the meaning of Laurent’s sudden interest in gift-wrapped chocolates. He means it as a gesture of defiance, indicating that there is more to Laurent Pinson than meets the eye and warning me that if
I am fool enough to ignore his attentions, then someone else will benefit in my place.

Let them benefit. I sent him away with a cheery smile and the spiral sign of the Hurakan scratched on to the lid of his chocolate box with the pointed tip of a fingernail. It’s not that I bear any especial malice towards Laurent – although I’ll admit I wouldn’t grieve if the café were struck by lightning, or some client got food poisoning and sued the management. It’s just that I have no time to deal with him sensitively at this time, and besides, the last thing I want is a love-struck sexagenarian following me around, getting in the way of business.

I turned as he left and saw Yanne watching.

‘Laurent Pinson, buying chocolates?’

I grinned. ‘I told you he was sweet on me.’

She laughed at that, then looked abashed. Rosette peeped out from behind her knee, a wooden spoon in one hand, a melted something in the other. She made a sign with her chocolatey fingers.