The Milliner's Secret (9 page)

Dietrich began to unbutton his shirt. ‘Tell them strong and no milk. A quarter-teaspoon of sugar.’

She used the time to put a robe on over her nightdress. When the coffee arrived and she took his cup in to him, he was basking with his arms draped over the rim, his hair like a halo. The bath really was a monster – he could lie full-length.
How muscular he was
. The thought was out before she censored her gaze. She’d never properly seen an adult male body before. In Southwark Park, she’d made love under the stars. In films, only women took baths and they stepped into the water swathed in towels before disappearing under a snowdrift of bubbles. She’d never seen how water made a man’s chest hair darken and straighten, or turned fair skin bronze. Damn, she was blushing. ‘I’ll leave you to your, um, washings.’
Washings?
Oh, God.

‘But you haven’t given me my coffee. Sit down and talk.’

She chose the bath’s edge and fixed her eyes on the expanse of muscle between Dietrich’s chin and navel.

He sat up, palming water from his face before taking his coffee. ‘Why have you put on an outdoor coat?’

‘It’s my dressing-gown.’

‘But the intention is the same. Did you think it would rain in here?’ He flicked water. ‘Or were you afraid you would get cold? It is easily eighty degrees Fahrenheit.’

‘Only eighty?’ And look how steam was moulding slipper-satin to her curves.

He
was
looking. ‘Take it off. I want to see your arms. And your throat and shoulders. You have a heroic shape, Coralie, which I saw even before I noticed your poor eye the first time we met. Don’t hide from me.’

‘I’m not hiding.’ She removed the dressing-gown.

‘Closer.’ Dietrich reached with the hand not holding his cup, and curled it around her waist, drawing her towards him. She could feel his sodden handprint as his eyes closed. When he cupped a breast through the satin, she gave a soft cry. Eyes opened lazily and she felt he was smiling, though his mouth didn’t move. So grave, so perfect, she wanted to lean forward and trace his lips with hers.

‘Take this cup.’

She reached for it, lowering her lashes because otherwise she would see his arousal. That was the sort of reality you dealt with by steps, first in the dark, then in demi-light. As she took the cup, the coffee aroma hit her. Blood rushed from her head and from far away she heard the shatter of china and tasted soap. Then, red-tinted nothingness.

When she came to, she was warm, naked and steady breathing filled her ears. So. Dried like a child then put to bed like a drunk, having landed head first in Dietrich’s groin. If she was going to faint every time she smelt coffee, Paris would finish her off.

She couldn’t resist checking that Dietrich was in one piece. Flying coffee might have scalded him, or broken china could have stuck in his eye. He seemed all right, his features almost boyish in repose. She fitted herself closer and his arm came around her, drawing her against him. The Hôtel Duet’s soap smelt of spring hyacinths.

‘Coralie.’ He woke more with each syllable and then there were two arms around her and his lips were on hers, explorative, then urgent as desire took him over. Coralie let him lead, glad that he wanted nothing imaginative from her this first time. He was a man who would take the lead in everything, drawing her along . . . and why not? Letting go and trusting, her body cried out in delighted relief. If he noticed she wasn’t a virgin, he didn’t comment. Or seem to care. So that worry slipped away and love crept into the bed.

Sneaking in when her eyes were closed.

CHAPTER 4

She’d won a pot of honey once, in a charity raffle. The carpet in Maison Javier’s salon was the same colour. Its pile encroached over the toes of her shoes. They were about to watch the afternoon parade and Coralie felt as frightened as an under-rehearsed soloist.

Dietrich led the way to a cream leather banquette, and sat with one arm along its back. Coralie tried to copy his posture, but it was difficult in a dress and she ended up sitting like somebody waiting for a job interview. He’d brought her here, to rue de la Trémoille, after taking her for lunch on the nearby Champs-Élysées, explaining that he’d selected this house because Roland Javier was Spanish. As a Spaniard, Javier revered womanhood. He never sought to dress his clients as little girls, or surreal sideshows or, indeed, as boys. ‘Also, most of his mannequins are very tall. There is no point showing you
haute couture
worn by pocket Venuses.’

Wrapped in the afterglow of more lovemaking, Coralie had smiled and nodded. In bed with him, she’d stepped into womanhood, learning to look without blushing, to touch and be touched. Finding herself in the salon of an elite couturier sent her back a few paces.

Dietrich raised her hand to his lips. ‘You are allowed to enjoy this, you know. Did you never go to Molyneux in London, or Stiebel or Norman Hartnell?’

‘Not really.’ She presumed he was naming dress designers, but wasn’t sure so she avoided his eye by searching in her handbag, a neat little rectangle of the softest leather, from Hermès. A gift from Dietrich. Just to say something, she scolded, ‘You shouldn’t be spending all this money on me.’

‘And who
should
I spend it on?’

The name ‘Ottilia’ bounced into her mind, followed by ‘Your wife?’ but instead she answered, ‘Yourself, of course.’

‘There are only so many black, grey or French-navy suits one man can own, and since I’m always on the move, I cannot collect cars or horses.’

‘Why are you always on the move?’ In her experience, men who shifted around a lot were escaping from the police or from debt collectors.

‘I have restless feet. But for all that, I take no pleasure in buying shoes. Would you admire a man who owned forty pairs?’

She got the feeling that he’d just shuffled off a difficult question but she let the subject drop, because Josette, the
vendeuse
assigned to her, was setting down glasses of chilled wine and wafer biscuits sprinkled with almonds. How indulgent – alcohol at three in the afternoon. No sooner had she released the thought than another took its place, that of her father heading down Shand Street for his lunchtime pint. She breathed deeply until the image went away. She might be her father’s daughter in some respects, but not when it came to the demon drink.

Music filled the salon, waterfall strings seeping from a proscenium arch flanked with flowers. Shallow steps led down to a walkway ending in front of the banquette. ‘Catwalk’, Dietrich called it. Ten or so other ladies shared their banquette, which must have been thirty feet long. Some undoubtedly were mothers and daughters, and they all shared an effortless posture, legs sloping to the side. All wore suits or smart town dresses. Coralie felt that – without even shifting their profiles – they’d evaluated her flowered pink cotton, with its neck flounces and pussy-cat bow, and marked her down. She loved the dress she was in, insisting on it even when that first
vendeuse
at Printemps had tried to dissuade her: ‘It is too fussy for Mademoiselle and rose does not flatter such fair skin.’

Too bad. Pink was her favourite colour. In fact, she liked it so much, she’d bought another dress in carnation, and one of dark madder. But, to judge from the glances she was getting, pink wasn’t considered smart daywear at Javier. Why hadn’t Dietrich said anything?

She was wondering if he’d let them leave, when a girl in black fastened back the proscenium curtains. A middle-aged woman, whom Josette whispered was the
directrice
, announced that the afternoon parade was about to begin.

Coralie settled down, intrigued in spite of herself. All she had to do was pick out a couple of dresses, and Dietrich would buy them. Everybody happy.

The first mannequin had golden hair. She sauntered past them while the
directrice
, whose name was Mademoiselle Liliane, described her ensemble.

‘Heloïse wears number one, Esprit. Fashioned in lustrous cotton, this simple dress is perfect for afternoon tea, a visit to a museum, even a stroll in the woods. Mesdames, Monsieur, appreciate the narrow pleats, which flare as Heloïse moves. Esprit drapes when still, swings as she walks, a symphony of line and movement.’

After ten minutes’ similar commentary, Coralie’s head spun. How were you meant to remember so many different names? Esprit, Élan, Eldorado, Elderberry. Actually, there hadn’t been an Elderberry, but all the same . . . and whoever made these clothes – Javier, was that his name? – was wedded to white. White everything, worn by long-necked girls with dancer’s arms. It was like watching a flock of storks. No patterns, spots or stripes. It was all so drab.

So, instead of watching the clothes, she concentrated on the girls. Two were petite brunettes, Nelly and Zinaida. They laughed, and were what Mademoiselle Deveau would call ‘
animée
’. The tall ones shared a gravitas, as if extra inches meant they couldn’t smile. Some were statuesque, others slender as reeds. Their complexions were flawless, and there must have been a resident hairdresser round the back somewhere. Coralie had been happy with her body an hour ago. Now all she could think of was the fat she’d put on her bottom, and the shoulder muscles that were a legacy of ironing at Granny Flynn’s. As each girl wafted away through the arch, another took her place in tempo with Mademoiselle Liliane’s commentary. There must be a mad paddle to get them into the next costume, the next hat. No sign of it, though, as they came out, calm and majestic as swans.

‘Lovely, yes?’ Dietrich asked.

‘They could have come straight out of Hollywood.’

‘I mean the clothes.’

‘Oh, they’re really nice too. It’s just there’s a lot of, you know, white.’

‘This is a spring–summer collection. Ah.’ Dietrich nodded at a girl in a raw silk tailor-made. ‘Black. Happy now? Be sure to take the number of any items you like.’ He gave her the pad and a pencil Josette had left on their table. Coralie had assumed it was for noting down the drinks’ tab.

‘To be honest, Dietrich, they aren’t really me.’

Did his eye halt for an instant on her flounces, on the pussy-cat bow? ‘Do you imagine I have brought you here by mistake? Javier is not for women who like their clothes to shout to the rafters. Ottilia wears Javier.’

Bugger. Ottilia. Obvious, really, when she recalled the woman’s Derby Day outfit. Coralie sketched a jealous zigzag with her pencil then wrote ‘Esprit’ because that was the only name she could remember. When Mademoiselle Liliane named the black crêpe tailor-made ‘Envie’, she wrote that down too.

Sighing, Dietrich beckoned to a mannequin. ‘Mademoiselle, if you please?’ The girl assumed a languid pose beside them. ‘Coralie, look properly. See? A plain dress, perhaps, but take your eyes for a walk. This sleeve?’

Obediently, she followed his pointing finger. Silk in a shade of blue that reminded her of prayer books left in a cupboard too long.

‘Take in the detail.’

She peered, as if reading the label on a very small tin. The sleeve ended in a turned-back cuff with tiny mushroom buttons pushed through loops without a wrinkle. A pattern of rose briars had been worked in thread exactly the same shade as the dress. Every stitch was of identical length, and that she
could
appreciate. It had taken two years’ training to reach the standard required for Pettrew & Lofthouse, every stitch precisely one sixteenth of an inch. ‘I’d have made the embroidery jollier.’

‘You are still missing the point.’

To her relief, out came azure blue day dresses, after which the mannequins appeared in beachwear, then in skimpy tennis dresses. At last, some jazzy fabrics. The evening gowns that finished the parade were muted but their shapes were sexy and the girls wore big costume jewellery. Coralie put down a couple more names and Dietrich smiled. He picked up her hand and his smile turned confidential.

‘Have you had enough?’ she asked, meaning,
Shall we go back to the hotel?

‘Coralie, we haven’t even started.’

She strangled a groan.

As the final ripple of white disappeared through the arch, her
vendeuse
returned. ‘You are a little overcome, Mademoiselle de Lirac? It is a long show. Monsieur Javier could not decide which of his models to choose and, in the end, allowed nearly sixty. But you are pleased?’

Coralie nodded, rather too vigorously. ‘Lovely, Josette, thank you. Only I don’t think I want to try anything on today.’

Josette returned a perplexed frown. ‘Indeed, no, that would not be at all possible.’

Coralie knew she’d put her foot in it, but wasn’t quite sure why.