Page 23 of Daughters of Paris

Louis raised his brows. Colette recognised her own expression on his face.

‘I won’t make her leave. At least not for the time being. I know what your mother said sounded heartless.’

‘Yes, it did, and you have to understand that Fleur and I, well…’

She paused and drummed her fingers on the table. ‘I can’t bear to think of her homeless or having to find an awful man just so she could live somewhere.’

‘Are those the only options you can imagine?’ Louis asked. The scenarios she had imagined for Fleur were what Colette feared herself but before she could answer, her father smiled and patted her hand, leaving her with the impression he was teasing her.

‘Don’t worry, I won’t see her forced onto the streets or into a scoundrel’s bed. Does Fleur know you have come to speak to me?’

‘No and she mustn’t find out. She’s so self-reliant she would hate to think I was speaking for her.’

Colette heard the admiration in her voice. Fleur was forced to be independent but was facing her uncertain future bravely. She looked at the world with determination, trying to salvage a future after a dreadful loss. Colette was certain no one viewed her in that way.

Left without a relative in the world, Colette knew she would crumble. She felt close to crumbling most days as it was.

She leaned against Louis, wishing she was a child again without any worries. She caught herself. That was exactly the problem: she wanted to feel safe and while she could, there was no need to be brave.

She walked around the desk, straightening pens and coffee cups. ‘What is going to happen to the world? Everything seems so uncertain now.’

Louis’ expression was bleak. ‘It is. I’ve lost nearly all my male employees to the army. The women are close to exhaustion trying to work and keep their families going. I don’t even know if the business is going to make any money this year. I only thank the Good Lord that the factory survived the bombing.’

‘Paris will have to rebuild. There will be plenty of opportunity to sell tiles to the people who have lost their homes,’ Colette told him.

He smiled. ‘Do you know,ma petite, that is what I said after theGrande Guerre. And it was true. The timing was exceptionally good for me. But this time I don’t know. It is too uncertain.’

Colette drummed her fingers on the desk again. Today, her almond-shaped nails were rose pink and glossy. They were hands that were unblemished by work. She closed her fist, suddenly ashamed of how easy her life was.

‘I can help you, if you need more workers.’

Louis frowned. ‘I swore that you and your mother would never have to work. Why do you think I toil such long hours?’

Colette returned his frown. ‘But perhaps I want to. Not on the machines, as I wouldn’t know how to begin making anything, but if you have paperwork, I could do that. Invoices or orders, and so on. I am good at mathematics.’

She lifted her head, hoping to see pride in her father’s eyes but seeing only uncertainty.

‘Perhaps, if you want something to keep you busy until you find a husband…’ Louis said reluctantly.

Colette gritted her teeth. It wasn’t what she had meant. It was on the tip of her tongue to ask where she would find her husband, given that most men her own age were in uniform fighting for their country’s freedom. Besides, with bombs falling on the city that was the least of her concerns.

‘I’m proud of you for showing compassion for Fleur and for thinking to offer your help. After your unfortunate behaviour in the past I am surprised but pleased. Now go home,ma petite. The greatest help you can be to me is to keep your mother company. She has fragile nerves and they are becoming increasingly so.’

Louis kissed her on the forehead then, dismissing her, and she returned home, conscious of how little equipped she was for a changing world.

It was to change further before long.

There had been no repeat of the bombing attack and it was Colette’s view that Paris was determined to act as if nothing had happened, and prove it by drinking more, kissing harder, and dancing later into the night. Colette was more than happy to join in.

She woke at eight with a pounding head and a gritty throat after a hot night of decadence to celebrate Sophie’s birthday. She was pondering whether to sleep off her hangover for an hour or two longer, or have a bath and face the day, when Louis burst through the door of her bedroom without knocking. He stared down at her with a frown.

‘You are still in bed at this time? Colette, come to my bedroom.’

His urgent tone cleared her head. Colette sat up.

‘IsMèreill?’

‘Just come.’ He turned on his heel and walked away.

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