The Silk Merchant's Daughter (7 page)

A third hairpin sprang from her fingers and skimmed across the floor. Nicole swooped down, scraping a nail on the floorboard as she picked it up. Damn! A broken nail. It was now early July and a typical hot wet summer with daily rain and numbing humidity but at least the streets were dressed in the bright red of flamboyant blossoms. She had, at last, told her father about the show and, after some persuasion, he’d grudgingly given his permission; but when she’d handed him the Vietminh leaflet she’d found in the street, he’d just torn it up.

She hadn’t seen Mark for nearly four weeks, and was now so excited she felt all fingers and thumbs. Exactly what she didn’t need. She’d have to fix the nail later; first she needed to sort out her hair. She perched on the edge of a stool, her skin growing increasingly hot as her frustration mounted. Great. Now she’d have a red face, a broken nail and hair behaving badly. If only it wasn’t so thick and straight. Just a little curl or a wave like Sylvie’s would do. With each grip that slid out, she attempted to fix it in again, until, defeated, she flung the pins down. Instead she brushed vigorously to bring out the shine, applied a little rouge to her cheeks and rubbed her lips together to smooth out the pale pink lipstick.

She went on to the landing to scrutinize her appearance in the full-length mirror. Never too confident of what suited her, she frowned. Were the red roses she’d had sewn on to her lime-green dress a bit garish? And that pink lipstick! She rubbed it off.

A knock at the door.

‘Are you ready? The car is here,’ Sylvie said as she came in.

Nicole stared, struggling not to gasp in surprise.

Sylvie stood in her simple pearl-grey silk chiffon oozing perfection, as if she’d stepped out of the pages of French
Vogue
. No roses on her dress, no flowery drape. She rubbed her hands together. ‘Well? All set?’

‘But –’

‘What?’ Sylvie said, pretending innocence.

‘Your dress. I thought …’

Sylvie laughed.

Nicole felt the pressure building behind her eyes. She must not cry. But compared with her sister’s understated elegance, she felt stupid and overdressed. ‘Why are you trying to ruin my life?’

Sylvie flicked a stray hair from her eyes. ‘Don’t be melodramatic. It was only a joke. You look all right.’

Nicole sprawled in her armchair, digging her broken nail into her palm. Her sister had chosen her words for maximum damage. Who wanted to look ‘all right’?

‘So? Are you coming?’

‘No.’

‘Do come. They’re going to take photos and I want you to be in them too.’

‘You want me to look hideous beside you?’

Sylvie threw back her head and laughed again. ‘You’re being ridiculous. I told you: it was a joke.’

Nicole glanced up. Sylvie was still smiling. She can stand for hours, Nicole thought, waiting for me to make a fool of myself.

‘You always blamed me. Didn’t you?’

‘For what?’ said Sylvie.

‘You know.’

‘I was a child, Nicole. A five-year-old little girl who’d lost her mum.’

‘Just go,’ Nicole said without raising her voice.

‘You don’t look all that bad. I could do your hair?’

Nicole didn’t reply.

Sylvie turned on her heels and closed the door quietly as she left.

Nicole’s mood plummeted. It wasn’t only jealousy; more that Sylvie’s triumph brought to the surface the old buried feelings of insecurity. She glanced out of her bedroom window as the velvet sky became shot through with silver. It was supposed to have been such a glorious night.

She thought of the day she and Mark had gone out in the boat. The memory made her smile and gave her the push she needed to do something to save the night. It was her own fault for trying to copy Sylvie, but she could not let that defeat her now. She picked up a pair of nail scissors and began to alter her dress. Although she did her best, it was difficult working with silk, and in a moment of inattention she sliced through the fabric of the dress, making a hole. She tore the rose off and flung it at the wall. She felt angry with Sylvie and furious with herself for letting it matter. It hurt far more than a damaged dress ought to hurt; it struck at the truth of who they both were.

She heard a knock at the door.

‘Go away,’ she shouted, and threw herself back in her chair, thinking it was Sylvie again.

‘Aren’t you going,
chérie
?’

Nicole turned to see Lisa standing in the doorway. When the cook came across and hugged her, Nicole attempted to choke back the tears.

‘Dry your eyes. You’re coming with me.’

‘I can’t wear this,’ Nicole said, her voice shaking.

‘No, you can’t. We are going to find you something far
better. It’s time you understood you don’t have to look French to be beautiful.’

Though Nicole smiled, she wasn’t convinced.

An hour later Nicole paused at the entrance to the ballroom, gazing at the glittering chandeliers and panels of mirrors. Dozens of expensive scents mingled with that of white roses interwoven with trailing ivy round all the columns. Smart waiters balancing trays of champagne nipped here and there among the crowd, and the orchestra at the opposite end had struck up a tango. At first, feeling destined to imitate one of the marble statues in the gardens, Nicole couldn’t move. But, as the music soared, she felt a rush of excitement. She pulled her shoulders back and, moving slowly, glided in.

She had arrived late and the ball was in full swing. Now, transfixed by the women dazzling in shimmering fabrics decorated with sequins, pearls and rhinestones, it seemed as if the spell of luxury had wiped away the troubles of the past. It was all colour and light, and in this delicious moment, with the fragrance of roses permeating the air, the best of their French colonial world shone for all to see. Nicole felt it would be the night of her life, after all.

Earlier, after dragging Nicole out of her bedroom, Lisa had pulled from her own wardrobe the most beautiful dress Nicole had ever seen.

‘It was your mother’s,’ Lisa said, then paused. ‘Chanel.’

Nicole whistled. ‘Are you sure?’

Lisa nodded. ‘I think it will fit you.’

‘Why have you kept it?’

‘Your father brought it back from Paris before you were born. She only wore it once. After she died he didn’t want any memories, but told me to pick one of your mother’s things to remember her by. I picked the dress. He sold all her beautiful
gold jewellery or I would have chosen a necklace. I had the dress altered recently, brought up to date. I’d thought of giving it to you for Christmas.’

The gown did fit perfectly and Nicole had been astonished to see herself looking so glamorous. Made of scarlet grosgrain silk and red chiffon, it had a sleeveless, tight-fitting bodice, fastening down the front with hooks and eyes, a high neckline and a skirt of red silk chiffon, falling from pleats at the waist. Nicole could hardly believe her good fortune as she twirled around. There was nothing old-fashioned about the dress, just timeless simplicity.

‘Look at how it complements your skin,’ Lisa said. ‘See how lovely you are? Now you need red lipstick and black eyeliner. I’m going to pin up your hair Chinese style with a single red rose from that awful dress you were wearing.’

A pair of high-heeled shoes and Nicole was all set, wearing a classic French dress but looking stunningly oriental.

As she stood inside the entrance to the ballroom, the orchestra stopped playing. She could hear the clink of champagne glasses, a steady hum of voices punctuated by ripples of laughter and the odd jubilant shout.

She looked towards the floor-to-ceiling windows lining the entire courtyard side of the room. The drapes had been left open and dozens of torches lit the gardens, their glitter reflecting in the central ponds and increasing Nicole’s expectation of enchantment. She spotted Mark wearing a black dinner suit, talking to another man. His shoulders seemed broader than ever and although his hair looked as if it had been trimmed, a curl still fell over his right eye. She found herself wanting to rush over and flick it way. He threw back his head and laughed at whatever his companion had said, and Nicole felt suddenly shy and faltered. Had she imagined that he liked her? But at that moment he spotted her and stopped laughing. They stared
at each other and then he seemed to collect himself, clapped the other man on the back and walked towards her.

Happy that for once it was her turn to shine, she waited, her heart fluttering just a bit.

‘Let me look at you,’ he said as he came close and held out both hands. ‘You are absolutely stunning.’

‘Am I?’ She took his hands and felt her spirits soar as she looked into his shining eyes and saw the affection and admiration there. She hadn’t imagined it.

‘I was worried you weren’t coming.’

She could hardly speak. ‘I had trouble with my dress.’

He kissed her on both cheeks and she closed her eyes, wanting to savour every moment.

‘Dance?’ he said. ‘The orchestra are tuning up.’

As he took her arm with a palm resting under her elbow, Nicole spotted Sylvie over at the other side of the ballroom, laughing with a blond officer dressed in white and gold. She witnessed Sylvie’s surprise, and didn’t try to hide her triumph.

‘Well, the little duckling has turned into a swan,’ Sylvie said, smiling widely as she walked across. ‘Hasn’t she, Mark?’

‘She always was a swan,’ Nicole heard him say, though she didn’t think Sylvie had caught it.

At that moment a photographer from the local newspaper came up and snapped the three of them. Sylvie posed for the man, giving him a perfect smile, then drew Nicole aside to whisper.

‘You look lovely. I’m sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to upset you. Please forgive me.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Nicole said and meant it. ‘I shouldn’t have been such an idiot.’

She slipped her fingers into Mark’s large warm hand. With his other hand firmly on the small of her back, he guided her to
the centre of the room. When they began to move Nicole felt light-headed and pressed herself against him. The solidity of his body so close for more than just a brief hug released a tension inside her she hadn’t known she had been holding. He whirled her round in a Viennese Waltz and, barely aware of the other dancers, she spun across the floor. The faces blurred – even Sylvie disappeared – until the room emptied of everything but him. When her feet began to perform the steps without her needing to think about them, she acknowledged that those dull ballroom dancing classes had been worthwhile after all. She felt thrilled to feel so free, and couldn’t believe the wonder of it. When the music stopped after three dances in a row, his eyes lingered on her face as he blew the fringe from her eyes.

‘Your hair has come loose.’

As he ran his fingers down the nape of her neck, she noticed him smile. He’d used the opportunity to repin her hair to touch her and, knowing that, she grinned, so aware of his fingertips that she felt she might melt. He turned her round and held her away from him.

‘Thirsty?’

She was. It was smoky too and she felt weightless from dancing, though maybe more from his proximity than anything else. He said he’d fetch champagne and asked her to wait at the side of the room, where she replayed every moment of the dance in her mind to fix it for ever. One of the French girls who had previously called her names walked by with her mother. Nicole smiled but they blanked her. She didn’t care. This was her best impression of being a well-brought-up French girl so far.

Mark was gone for longer than expected, so she decided to find him. As she glanced around, a passing waiter handed her a glass of champagne and, after drinking it in one long gulp, she went to look in the lounges.

In the first lounge, cigar smoke mingled with the intoxicating smell of brandy from the glasses of a few elderly men in armchairs. She tried the other lounges and bars, then headed back into the ballroom where the crowd had dispersed a little. She made her way through the people standing about in knots and spotted Mark opening a side door at the other end of the hall. As he went through it she started to go after him, but was distracted by her old school friend Francine, who took hold of her hand and wanted to gossip about inconsequential things. Although Nicole kept glancing at the door, Mark didn’t come back out and by the time she managed to shake Francine off several minutes had passed.

Finally she made her way to the door, opened it and found herself in a chilly corridor with no carpet. She followed it round, expecting to find perhaps a discreet way through to the gaming rooms. Instead, the corridor twisted and eventually came to an end at a place where there was only one door. She pulled it open. A steep stone staircase led downwards. She hesitated and, although it seemed odd, she began to make her way down because Mark must have definitely come this way.

A metal handrail provided a degree of safety, and as she reached the concrete floor at the bottom, it became clear she must now be underground and in a wine cellar. She continued along the passage until, hearing the murmur of voices, she came to a halt. The voices faded. She continued past several alcoves, two of which opened into vaulted rooms storing barrels and racks of wine. This far below she could no longer hear the orchestra clearly, and only the sound of her own footsteps echoed around the cavernous place.

Curious about what might be at the end of the passage, she eventually reached a row of shelves that had been swung back but not quite properly closed afterwards. She frowned but pulled them open and saw what looked like a metal door with
a small central peephole. There was the sound of scraping chairs and a muted cry. Her palms began to feel a little sweaty. Maybe this was not such a great idea. Upstairs was light and laughter; she should have waited there for Mark. The cry came again. In the cold of the corridor she began to shiver. Why had she ever thought it a good idea to come down here?

She took a step back. The skin at the back of her neck began to prickle and she wiped her clammy hands on her dress. She wanted to retrace her steps but something stopped her. And even though she didn’t want to, she felt compelled to look through the peephole. Time slowed right down the moment she saw a young Vietnamese tied to a chair. Although she couldn’t see the gap between his front teeth, she recognized O-Lan’s cousin, Trần. Her throat tightened and she struggled to hold on to herself. She made a fist and jammed it into her mouth.