Page 3 of Daughters of Paris

Both girls looked down at themselves then at each other in horror. They had strawberry juice stains all over the front of their dresses. Fleur’s plain blue cotton had fared better, but Colette’s peach muslin with embroidered rosebuds was ruined with red smears that would never wash out.

‘We were eating strawberries,’ Colette explained.

‘And where did you find those?’ Edith demanded. The girls looked at each other, at a loss to explain.

Fleur was the first to reach for an answer. ‘There is a bowl in the kitchen. I didn’t thinkTanteAgnes would miss one or two of the small ones.’

Edith darted a hand forward and slapped her arm. ‘It’s wicked to steal. Now, Colette, go to your mother in her salon. Fleur, go and find your aunt in the kitchen; she will have work for you.’

Edith spun around and strode back up the garden path.

‘You didn’t have to take the blame,’ Colette said.

Fleur shrugged and rubbed her arm. It stung and she wanted to cry but she would endure another slap rather than admit that. ‘I don’t mind. It didn’t hurt anyway. A little pain is worth it to keep a secret.’

The girls parted at the garden door, Colette to go upstairs to her mother’s salon and Fleur to the room on the ground floor she shared with her aunt.

‘Secret sisters,’ they whispered, linking their fingers and thumbs.

Delphine Nadon was already tipsy when Colette entered the airy salon on the third floor of the house, though she would deny the fact to her last breath. Fortunately for Colette, this meant that she was surrounded by a fragrance of fumes and perfume and in a good humour. She pouted and gave Colette a look of disappointment.

‘That dress was one of my favourites. I assume you have been in company with Fleur Bonnivard. I would never have allowed you to play with that girl if I had known what it would lead to. In fact, I should never have agreed to her coming to live with her aunt. If Agnes was not such an excellent cook, I’m not sure I would have.’

Remembering the way Fleur had taken the blame, Colette flushed. ‘It was my fault as much as Fleur’s. She didn’t lead me anywhere. Don’t stop us playing together. She’s my best friend. My only real friend,’ she added under her breath.

Delphine shifted on her chaise longue and took another sip of the bright pink cocktail she was working her way through. She drummed a glossy red nail against the side of the glass and gave her daughter a long look.

‘We do need to solve that problem don’t we,ma chérie. You do need friends. Proper friends in the right circles. Your papa makes excellent money now, so we should be mixing with the best families Paris has to offer.’

‘What about Rachel and Simone Halevy from the other side of the boulevard?’

‘Perhaps not the Halevy girls.’ Delphine’s smile tightened, as did the skin around her eyes. ‘Perhaps we should send you away to school. I loved my school. I made a perfect start in life.’

Colette couldn’t deny this. Delphine had left behind the provincial Breton town where she had grown up and married an ambitious businessman almost twenty years her senior just before the Great War. Louis Nadon’s modest tile-making workshop had prospered, and he now owned an entire factory on the edge of the sixteenth arrondissement, manufacturing beautiful tiles for bathrooms and kitchens.

‘What did you want me for,Mère?’ she asked. AlwaysMère, neverMaman. She envied the ease with which Fleur and herTanteAgnes got on with each other.

Delphine beckoned her across. ‘I thought we could look at some magazines together. I have a new delivery from New York that we can compare toLe Miroir des Modes. We can pick you a hairstyle and choose some new outfits for the autumn. Would you like that,chérie?’

Colette drew up a chair eagerly. For all that she loved playing with Fleur and exploring the garden, there was something about the photographs of sleek women in beautiful dresses that she couldn’t resist. One day she would be one of them, and when she was, she would not waste her days lying in a quiet room drinking cocktails. She would explore all that Paris had to offer.

The conversation inTanteAgnes and Fleur’s bedroom was much less amicable.

‘Every time you lead Colette into trouble you jeopardise our situation,’TanteAgnes raged, whipping at Fleur’s legs with her apron. ‘How many women in Madame Nadon’s position would allow her employee to raise an orphan child in the household rather than terminate their employment? It is only because we grew close when we were younger that she allows it. Do you know how fortunate we are? You could ruin that for us.’

Fleur looked around, not for the first time thinking that the long, thin room with a bed at each end and only a curtain to give a little privacy was not very fortunate. The concierge’slogein the entrance archway to the four apartments that comprised the building had more space. Fleur sat on the bed with her head bowed.

‘I’m sorry,TanteAgnes, but Colette and I like each other. We are friends.’

Agnes Bonnivard sat on the bed beside her niece. ‘You cannot be friends. At least, perhaps you can for now, and only in the house. When you grow up you will move in completely different circles. Colette will marry somebody rich, and you will have to earn your living.’

Fleur raised her head. ‘But you were friends with Madame Nadon. You just said so.’

TanteAgnes sucked her teeth. ‘That was during wartime. Things were different. Usually a woman like her would not grow close to a woman she employed. Thankfully, we do not have to suffer that anymore. France is at peace. Europe is at peace.’

She stroked Fleur’s hair and Fleur leaned in towards the comfort. She had only vague memories of being cherished by her mother, who had died when Fleur was three, and Agnes was not the most affectionate of women but her love at times like this felt as solid as a blanket.

‘You will not have to work as nurse or become a housekeeper like I did. You are a clever girl, little one. You could become a secretary.’

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