Page 61 of Daughters of Paris

He laughed but it sounded bitter rather than amused. ‘Love? What do you think this is, Fleur? A romantic two-reeler with a happy ending of marriage and children, or one of those books from fifty years ago where letting a man fuck her ruins a woman’s reputation? You don’t have to love me. I certainly don’t love you. I just want some fun.’

Fun. When had Fleur last had fun? Colette had fun; flirting and laughing with men in nightclubs. Eating birthday cake. Did Colette…?

Fleur blushed to realise she couldn’t say the word Pierre used, even in her head. Did Colette want to do that with Sébastien? Colette wouldn’t hesitate to kiss him, that was certain. After all, Colette had kissed Sébastien when she had only just met him. And Sébastien had kissed her first.

Fleur’s stomach twisted. What the hell, she didn’t have to like Pierre, he just needed to give her some fun. Let her feel something other than anxiety and watchfulness. It was only a kiss. She wasn’t going to go any further.

She reached her arms around Pierre’s neck and kissed him for a longer time. She only stopped when he began wriggling his fingers under her skirt towards the top of her stockings. His thumb brushed against her thigh and she felt a ripple of revulsion.

‘That’s enough,’ she said, pushing his hand away gently and looking up at him with a smile.

Pierre’s face was flushed. ‘You’re an ice-cold bitch, aren’t you? Getting me heated up and ready to burst.’

‘I’m sorry. It felt strange. It is my fault, not yours.’

He frowned. ‘Still a virgin after all this time?’

She nodded, feeling like a child. Wishing she was as ice-cold as he thought she was. If that was how she reacted to being touched intimately it looked like she would remain one too.

Pierre adjusted his trousers. ‘Alright, we’ll stop this time. If you would like some fun at any point, you know where I am, but don’t be such a little tease again. It’s not fair on a man to make him stop like that.’

He sauntered off. Fleur waited until he had turned the corner then wheeled her bicycle the other direction. She would take a longer route home rather than risk bumping into Pierre again. It was only as she began to cycle against the breeze that she realised she had tears running down her cheeks.

Pierre had been so kind, stopping even when she had made him think she wanted him. What was wrong with her? She envied Colette’s ease around men. She could ask Colette for advice; how to stop being a tease without even intending to be, but Colette and men wasn’t something she wanted to think about. Whatever advice Colette gave, Fleur would be picturing her carrying it out with Sébastien. She clutched the handlebars tighter. Better to say nothing, avoid the subject and do her best to avoid Pierre until she worked out what she should do again.

Fleur carried two books home each time she returned from the shop. She’d initially planned to take them to the Secret Garden, but decided she might be spotted wandering in and out of the bushes if she did it too often. There was no reason to think the house might be raided by the authorities so she waited until she had a large bag taking up space in her wardrobe. By mid-June she decided it was safe to take them to the Secret Garden to hide with the volumes of poetry. She made her way down the garden, pausing to take a moment to smell the sweet scents. Some of her plants were starting to grow and might bear fruit when summer and autumn came. Courgettes, tomatoes, and beans would be a welcome addition to the repetitive menu. She crawled through the door into the Secret Garden and stood.

A hand went over her mouth and she was pulled backwards against the wall, the blade of a knife glinting in the late evening sunlight.

Chapter Seventeen

Fleur couldn’t scream. She could barely breathe. Blinded by terror she flailed her arms and then as quickly as the pressure over her mouth had started, it eased, though the hand remained.

‘Mademoiselle Fleur, don’t fear me.’

She recognised the voice, though she hadn’t heard it since before the Occupation and she sagged. Michal Drucker.

‘Do you promise me you won’t shout again?’ he whispered in a desperate voice. Fleur nodded and he released his hand.

She relaxed and leaned back against the wall. Her legs wobbled and she slid down until she was kneeling with her knees tucked beneath her. Michal was still holding the knife but on seeing her staring, he tossed it onto the blanket that he had discarded. Beside the blanket was a knapsack. A pair of socks were draped over a hook in the wall, drying. He had made this his home.

Michal sat beside her. ‘Do you have any food? When I heard the door, I thought it might be Mademoiselle Nadon.’

‘No, I’m sorry, I don’t.’ Fleur digested his words. ‘Colette brings you food? She knows you are here?’

‘Yes, when she can. It was Mademoiselle Nadon who brought me here and let me hide.’

He told Fleur of how he had slept on the streets until Colette had chanced upon him. How one night of promised rest had turned into many.

‘How long have you been hiding here?’ she asked weakly.

‘I am not sure. I planned to mark the days but I decided after a week that I would rather let time pass without counting.’

Fleur could scarcely believe what she was hearing, her world inverting itself into something completely new and confusing. She had assumed Colette’s only form of defiance had been parading in front of the soldiers in her best clothes. Now it turned out that Colette had been doing something not only braver, but infinitely more compassionate than Fleur had ever dreamed of doing. She had never breathed the slightest hint to Fleur even when Fleur had made withering comments about her visiting the hotel. Or maybe because of those comments. Would Fleur have trusted someone so critical with a secret that could see her executed? Not if she had any sense!

‘I’m sure Colette has explained that our ration coupons barely give us enough to feed ourselves but we can be creative. I bought a Toulouse sausage this morning so I could make a cassoulet that would last us all for a while.’

Michal’s eyes took on a worried expression. ‘That’s very kind of you, but I cannot.’

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