Page 133 of Daughters of Paris

August 1945

It shouldn’t rain in August, but nevertheless torrents hammered rhythmically on the pavement. It reminded Fleur of the relentlessness of jackboots marching. Even though a year had passed since the last regiments of Germans had marched out of Paris, the association was enough to make her shiver. The rain might account partly for the reason the bookshop was empty on a Saturday morning.

Monsieur Ramper would find his business a sad shadow of its former self when he finally returned.

If he returned.

Regretfully, it was becoming less and less likely that he would. Fleur had read the newspaper reports that told of the existence of the death camps where the Nazis had murdered the Jews they had said would be housed safely in work camps. Seen the photos of the emaciated faces, jumbles of limbs, bodies piled on top of each other in a sickening display of callous evil. The true numbers were not yet known but they must be in the tens of thousands, if not the hundreds of thousands. The lies and the horror were impossible to comprehend.

Monsieur Ramper. Michal. The Halevy family. Where were they now? Would they ever be accounted for? The names in the bookshop ledgers would remain for ever with their debts unpaid, a chilling memorial to lives abandoned and destroyed.

It was a grim train of thought and Fleur was glad when the doorbell clanged and a damp wind blew in as a customer entered the shop, forcing her to think of other things.

‘Good morning, monsieur.’

She glanced up briefly then went back to her writing. Most customers wanted to be left alone to browse the shelves before making their purchases and so she spent most of her time in the shop writing. Trying to make some sense of her thoughts and memories. Most likely only she would ever read them but pouring out a story was cathartic.

This customer was different. He walked straight up to the desk and cleared his throat.

‘Do you have a copy ofCyrano de Bergerac?’

At the sound of the voice Fleur raised her head and looked at him properly. Her hand began to shake and she lowered the pen into the inkwell before it dripped onto her notebook.

Laurent’s beloved, familiar face smiled down at her.

‘Hello, Fleur,’ he said quietly.

She stood and wished immediately that she hadn’t because her legs began to tremble.

She thought back occasionally to the moment when Sébastien had returned and Colette had stood like a statue in the doorway. She had always wondered what possessed Colette not to hurl herself straight at him. Now she had the answer because her legs refused to move.

‘You came back.’

He smiled. ‘Of course. Did you doubt I would?’

She didn’t want to admit it, though long nights lying in bed wishing he would get in contact had meant with each passing day she thought it less likely.

‘I didn’t know if you would be able to. Or if you would want to.’ Her voice sounded very small.

‘I would have come sooner but travel isn’t as easy yet as it was before the war. I had affairs to tend to.’

‘Affairs?’

His lip twitched. ‘Matters, let’s say. Certainly not affairs of the sort you’re worrying about. I told you before there would be no other women besides you.’

He took his hat off and ran his fingers through his hair. It was longer now, parted at the side so it flopped slightly across his forehead. There was a slight wave to it that suited him.

‘Aren’t you going to kiss me I’ve after I’ve come all this way?’

‘Not yet,’ Fleur said frankly.

He laughed ruefully. ‘There’s a wretched greeting for me. Don’t tell me you’ve moved on and met somebody you prefer?’ His voice was light but his eyes watched her intently.

‘You told me not to wait,’ Fleur said quietly.

She lifted her eyes to his and smiled.

‘I waited anyway.’

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