Page 93 of Daughters of Paris

She felt her cheeks growing warm. There was plenty to tell but some she was forbidden from sharing and the rest was too personal and private.

‘But come upstairs to my room in a couple of hours and I’ll show you something.’

She bathed and washed her hair then dressed in the warmest pyjamas she could find and climbed into her bed. She felt cold again and desperately tired. She slept huddled into a ball and wishing she was back in Laurent’s arms.

She awoke later to the knocking on the door and let Colette in.

‘What did you want to show me? Do you have a bomb or a revolver?’ Colette asked.

‘Don’t be silly. I wouldn’t bring anything like that into the house,’ Fleur said, thinking of the parcel she had to deliver later in the day. She opened her basket and pulled out the voluminous cloth.

‘Look, I have a whole parachute of silky material. Laurent said we should use it to make new clothes. Slips or underwear.’

‘Did he?’ Colette raised her brows. ‘I suppose he asked to see the finished product too.’

‘What are you trying to say?’

Colette smirked. ‘I’m saying he would probably like to see you wearing only a few wisps of silk.’

‘I’m sure Sébastien would feel the same,’ Fleur retorted.

Laurent’s recent rejection had stung. He could talk of honour and the wisdom of it as much as he liked, but when he also said he only went to bed with women he cared about, well, it was hard not to feel spurned.

‘I’m sure he would too,’ Colette said, smiling like a cat who had discovered an unguarded salmon. ‘When the weather gets warmer I’ll find a pattern. There’s no point making something if it is just going to be hidden under layers.’

It was only as Fleur cycled to the art gallery later that it occurred to her that she had not minded the thought of Colette titillating Sébastien in silky slips in the least.

Chapter Twenty-Six

May 1942

It was the start of summer before Colette finished her parachute creations. She had intended to complete them earlier, but, in a rare fit of public-spiritedness, Delphine had announced that the trunk of drastically out-of-date outfits were to be altered to fit the children of refugees who were pouring into the city. To Colette’s surprise, she even helped with the sewing, suggesting that the three women spent the evening in her salon where the window caught the best light.

Just in time for the summer, Colette produced one short and one long-sleeved blouse for Fleur (who had flatly refused to entertain the idea of suggestive underwear) and a short nightgown and camisole for herself, knowing exactly what effect she intended to have.

Sure enough, when Sébastien came home from the café to find her lying on his bed, wearing her new ensemble with her hair loose about her shoulders, he was rock hard before he had even removed his trousers.

Afterwards, he brought them both a glass of wine and lay back, pulling Colette between his open legs to rest against him. She sipped it and pulled a face.

‘Did you leave the cork out? It tastes nasty.’

Sébastien swallowed a mouthful. ‘It isn’t the finest vintage, but it isn’t sour.’

Colette took another cautious sip. If anything, this one was worse, making her feel slightly queasy.

‘Not sour. It tastes like someone stirred it with a spoon and somehow the flavour of the spoon came off into the wine. I don’t think I want any more.’

‘Spoons don’t taste of anything, but I’ll drink it if you don’t want it.’ Sébastien took the glass and tipped the contents into his own. He began to massage her shoulders then work his way down and round to her breasts. She ran her hands down the inside of his thigh and felt his cock jump awake in the small of her back. She reclined against his chest, leaving her neck exposed for a kiss and forgot all about the wine.

The solution to the mystery was revealed a week later when Colette walked to the bathroom, caught the scent of the geraniums standing in a vase and promptly vomited. Fortunately, she had the presence of mind to turn to the sink before the stream of liquid erupted from her throat. She clung on to the edge of the porcelain lip, trembling, as a cold wash of perspiration soaked her lower back. When the feeling subsided, she drew a glass of water and left the tap running to wash away the vomit while she sipped it. It must have been something she had eaten. Her health had always been excellent, with barely a day feeling off colour since childhood. She could only remember one time when she had vomited in such a dramatic fashion.

‘Oh no. Surely not,’ she moaned aloud.

She cleaned her teeth and went back to her room on shaky legs. She hadn’t needed a diary since the start of the war. Social engagements were so rare that they did not need noting down. In the back cover of a book she wrote down the date, counting backwards. The nausea increased, but for a different reason.

She closed the book. They had been so careful. Hadn’t they? They had used the preventatives that Sébastien kept in his nightstand, and on the few occasions he had run out he had made sure to withdraw when he was close to finishing. It must have been something she had eaten that was making her sick.

She tried to keep telling herself that, but the same thing happened on three subsequent mornings. For the next two weeks she walked around the house in a state of anxiety, waking each morning hoping that she would be greeted with the smear of blood that was overdue. It didn’t arrive.

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