The Paris Secret Page 5

  On top of which, Dupont’s snores echoed through the walls of the small apartment, and kept her awake most nights, along with her thoughts.

  Bringing up the war had made Dupont’s mood even more sour than usual.

  He’d turned quiet, monosyllabic. A dark mood had taken over him, and didn’t pass for most of the week. Despite the quiet this ensured, as well as the break from his outbursts, it made the days longer, and tenser somehow.

  For the first time since she’d arrived she’d begun to really wonder at what she’d done – why she’d come. What would happen when she told him who she really was? What would he do? What if she came to love him…? Though there seemed little danger of that now, stranger things had been known to happen, she knew. What then? It had been easier to convince herself that his indifference didn’t matter when he was a stranger. She’d seen how his face had turned when he spoke about the Nazis; it was a different kind of anger. It wasn’t his usual disagreeable nature – this was cold, hard, and she could tell it wasn’t something he wanted prodded.

  During the few hours of sleep that she snatched in the night, her dreams had been the same – the Nazis marching through the city, flags of spidery swastikas taking over everything, the removal of old street signs, replaced with ones in German highlighting their headquarters, the Paris streets in smaller letters beneath. She wondered when she woke up, her heart pounding, how her mind had filled in those images. Had she perhaps seen them in a newspaper somewhere? Though she couldn’t quite remember where. At last, she greeted the dawn with bruise-like shadows beneath her eyes. She sat up, her mouth dry, her tongue parched, and reached for the glass of water on her bedside chair, and took a sip with a frown. The last dream had felt so real.

  She was three years old, her blonde hair streaming out behind her, the red ribbon getting sucked up by the wind, and as she turned to chase after it, she heard Amélie’s voice: ‘Vite, vite, chérie, there’s no time.’

  But it was her only ribbon. They weren’t easy to get any more; Grand-père had said that she had to make this one last when he tied it to her hair each morning, tightly. She started to cry. Amélie hadn’t tied it right when she’d done her hair, and now it was gone. Amélie ignored her crying, and told her to keep going. But Valerie was tired, not used to walking so far, and her feet had begun to throb in her thin shoes, the cold creeping into the toes. Amélie tugged at her arm again, not letting up.

  ‘But I want to go home! This isn’t the right way!’ She didn’t want to be with her any more, her ‘aunt’ whom she’d just met the day before – she was still a stranger, and now she was weary and sick of being polite. She just wanted to go home. ‘Grand-père will be worried. Let’s go back now,’ she said, tugging Amélie’s hand, and turning back towards the direction of the apartment.

  It was getting late. This was the time they always played the game, the one with the cat and the string. Why was Amélie taking her so far away? Why was she going with this woman, who insisted that she call her ‘Aunt’ though she’d never met her before?

  Her panic began to mount, and she began to sob. As they were going further and further away from the apartment, Valerie realised suddenly that they were on the wrong side of the river and it would take even longer to get home, yet still Amélie kept walking, dragging her along, finally picking her up despite her cries. ‘No, I want Grand-père! Grand-père!’

  ‘Enough, child,’ said Amélie, cradling her to her chest as she ran, Valerie’s head knocking into the woman’s hard shoulder, her arms tight and unrelenting, even as she screamed…

  Valerie woke up with a start, the sob still tight inside her throat, her heart feeling as if it may burst out of her chest. Was that just a dream? Or a memory?

  The vision of herself as a child, playing some game with her grandfather, seemed real. More real than she would have thought.

  And was it true – had her Aunt Amélie been a stranger? She rubbed her throat, struggling for breath, and went to the small sink, clutching it with both hands, her knuckles turning white. She splashed cold water onto her face and saw her reflection in the small vanity mirror; she looked grey. Was Amélie really a stranger when they met? Amélie had told her that she’d sneaked into the country especially to fetch her. Why?

  She’d got the impression from the way Amélie had spoken that her grandfather hadn’t been interested in raising his granddaughter, that he’d wanted her to be safe, yes, but that he didn’t want to be her guardian. But that memory – or whatever it was – was something else, a long-ingrained habit of spending her days with the old man, of him looking after her, doing her hair in the morning, eating together, and playing with the cat long into the afternoon, just the two of them. That didn’t seem like a man who hadn’t been interested in his grandchild: quite the opposite. Why, then, would he give her up?

  Valerie sat in the dark, and for the first time she felt the sorrow behind what had happened to her, felt the pain. For the first time, she admitted to herself that perhaps her being here, prising out these long-buried secrets, might just end up opening a wound she couldn’t easily close.

  If Valerie was somewhat reserved that morning, Dupont didn’t notice. He was too busy fighting with his customers. She got stuck into the day’s administration, cataloguing the stock in her neat handwriting on index cards, which she put into a wooden box on her small desk. Making a note of what had sold, and what new orders were needed.

  When the large black telephone that Dupont had moved to her desk – he thought she responded better to the customers (this wasn’t hard) – rang, she started, her heart thudding, so lost was she in her thoughts.

  ‘Bonjour, Gribouiller,’ she said in her polite assistant-librarian voice, a voice that couldn’t seem to help whispering just a little around books.

  ‘Ah oui, I am looking for something,’ said a muffled voice on the line.

  She frowned. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Something that I seem to have missed.’

  Valerie frowned. ‘Did you misplace something in the shop?’

  Her eyes scanned the newly swept floor, noting the polished wood – her recent work from the day before – the neatly stacked books, the new window display along with her cut-outs of snowflakes and frost to highlight the season… nothing looked amiss.

  She glanced over at Dupont’s desk, which of course looked like a tip, covered in overflowing ashtrays, paperwork, books and crumpled bits of paper, along with the cat.

  ‘Yes, actually,’ said the voice.

  ‘Oh? Can you describe it, please, I’m sure I can put it aside for you if I find it.’

  ‘That would be most kind, merci. Well, let’s see, shall we? It’s quite small for its age. Has long blonde hair, and wears these rather awful mustard-coloured skirts with brogues, but somehow manages to carry it off.’

  Valerie frowned. ‘What?’

  ‘Look to your left,’ said the voice.

  She looked to her left.

  ‘Your other left.’

  Then she let out a squeal, and jumped up and down in her seat. Across the street, standing at a payphone, was Freddy. She could see his tall, lanky frame, his dark, tousled hair, and his wide grin from here. ‘So, are you going to come and give us a hug or what?’ he said, and she could hear the warmth in his voice.

  ‘Yes!’ she yelled. Then she jumped up and ran out of the shop, to M’sieur Dupont’s, and indeed the cat’s, utter surprise.

  ‘Well?’ asked Freddy, after she had at last let him go. ‘Did you miss me?’

  ‘Nah, hardly thought of you at all,’ she said, giving his hair a sniff and closing her eyes in bliss. It still smelt the same, like peppermint and boy.

  He put a thin arm around her. ‘Me neither. Lunch?’

  ‘Yes – let me quickly tell M’sieur Dupont.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘You have to let me go first,’ Freddy pointed out.

  ‘Right,’ she said, then grinned, reluctantly letting go of his string-b
ean arm and dashing back inside the shop.

  She returned in seconds, and they walked to the bistro on the corner. From the flower shop window, she caught Madame Joubert’s eye and her raised eyebrow. ‘Very handsome,’ she mouthed with her forever cherry-red lips, which made Valerie laugh.

  ‘What?’ said Freddy, who hadn’t seen. His dark eyes crinkled at the corners, and she couldn’t help staring at him too long, drinking him in.

  ‘Nothing, never mind. Freddy, how are you here, why are you here? Tell me everything,’ she said as soon as they’d sat down at a table on the cobblestone pavement and ordered coffees. Her big green eyes wide and shining, her cheeks rosy and lighting up the cafe, she seemed very alive. A group of chic Parisians looked up at her loud voice, then readjusted their sunglasses, taking sips from their short glasses of wine.

  ‘Oh Val,’ he laughed. ‘Paris has rubbed off on you… you’re all poise.’

  She narrowed her eyes, but couldn’t help her grin. ‘Shut up and tell me why you’re here.’

  His eyes were alight with amusement as he took a cigarette out of his coat pocket, tapped it on the table twice, popped it between his lips and lit it, taking a deep drag. Then he handed it to her so she could do the same. He crossed his long legs, then unbuttoned his shirt collar. ‘Well, to tell you the truth, the paper wanted someone to cover a political story here – so I volunteered to go.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Okay, I begged.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yeah, well, actually they’d already agreed to send Vile Jim.’

  They both shared an eye roll. Jim Murphy was a slightly senior reporter who always seemed to get the best assignments, mostly because he was a bit of a bulldog. The trouble was that he liked to rub Freddy’s nose in his victories. ‘But I knew other papers would be interested – particularly if I could stay for a while – and Jim’s a family man… so they agreed, mainly because now I can keep tabs on a few other leads. And I come rather cheap – basically I’ll be a glorified private investigator. The job comes with a rat-infested apartment, a shared bathroom and practically no money, but I’m here, which is the main thing.’

  She frowned. He had been getting pretty high up at The Times; this seemed almost a step back in some ways. ‘Why would you agree to that?’

  ‘Why do you think?’

  ‘You were worried about me?’

  ‘I was worried about you,’ he agreed. ‘And don’t get soppy about this. But I missed you.’

  She gave him a soppy look.

  He laughed. ‘I said, don’t.’

  ‘It’s only been two weeks,’ she said. Though she had missed him every second of that time.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever not seen your face for that long.’

  Valerie laughed. ‘Except for that time you went to Spain to be like Hemingway for a month? Or you decided to try living in a van down in Devon for a fortnight writing your novel, before you realised you quite liked showers.’

  ‘Okay, yes, besides those. Honestly now – and don’t lose it with me – but I just want to be here, however this goes. If it ends up going wrong – this thing you’re doing with your family, pretending to be someone else – then I need to know you aren’t here falling apart all by yourself, with nowhere to go. If it goes well, then, you know, I want to know that too.’

  She took his hand and squeezed it. ‘Thanks, Freddy. Did you have to break it to all the other girls?’

  He shrugged. ‘Yeah, that’s why it took two weeks: lots of paperwork.’ He grinned.

  When she got home, she found Madame Joubert and Dupont sitting in the living room in the apartment upstairs, having a glass of wine.

  ‘Well, well, wonders never cease,’ said Madame Joubert, her full cherry lips splitting into a wide grin. ‘Our little Isabelle… I would not have expected to see you run off like that into the arms of a man.’ Her eyes scanned Valerie’s brogues, her long corduroy mustard- coloured skirt. ‘You never can tell with a librarian,’ she said in a stage whisper, which made Dupont choke on his wine, as she chuckled.

  Valerie made things worse by blushing.

  ‘It was only Freddy.’

  ‘Oh, Freddy,’ said Madame Joubert, her kohl-rimmed eyes sparkling. ‘I like him already. Tell us about this Freddy.’

  So she did.

  ‘He’s a journalist. My oldest friend – that’s all he is really.’

  Even Dupont scoffed at that. Which was when she admitted the truth to them: that she’d been in love with him since she was a girl, and then the even more heart-breaking truth, which was that to Freddy she would always be that little girl. ‘He’s had dozens of girlfriends. I suppose I was always waiting for him to one day magically see me as something besides the girl next door, something besides a sister. That’s why he’s here – he’s on assignment, but he’s just checking up on me, being a good “big brother”.’

  Valerie felt her mood deflate as she admitted the truth to herself. There had been a moment when she’d almost convinced herself that Freddy’s feelings for her had changed, had turned romantic, but she could see now that she was probably fooling herself, once again.

  Madame Joubert burst out laughing. ‘Ah, Dupont, do you remember being so young and so foolish?’

  Dupont looked shocked. ‘Me? Pah, never.’

  Madame Joubert nodded, eyeing his white, slightly balding head, his stooped shoulders, and sighed. ‘I suppose you were born old…’

  He made a grunting noise and she continued.

  ‘My darling Isabelle, a boy does not run to Paris to check up on his sister.’

  ‘Course he does. He was worried about me.’

  Madame Joubert shook her head.

  Dupont shook his head too. Valerie was glad to see that the dark mood that had grabbed hold of him this past week had shifted somewhat, and he was back to being his usual cantankerous self.

  Madame Joubert nodded. ‘I had two brothers myself. I can’t say they ever worried that much about me, not to the extent that they would follow me to another city. Non, chérie, I’d say that that’s the work of a boy in love.’

  Valerie swallowed, trying to stem the sudden surge of hope her words had caused. ‘Stop it, please, Madame,’ she said, taking a sip of her wine. ‘I might believe you, and then I’d really be in trouble.’

  Madame Joubert’s large dark eyes were surprised. ‘Why would that be trouble?’

  ‘Because it’s probably not true.’

  ‘Maybe, though I doubt it – don’t you think it’s time you found out?’

  She swallowed. Maybe. Though the idea of having things become strained between them filled her with dread. How could you tell your oldest friend that you were in love with him and not have that change everything?

  While Dupont snored on the sofa, Madame Joubert poured them some more wine, getting up to put another log on the fire. It was cosy in the apartment, the windows offering a view that stretched in the distance to the lights of Paris, with the Eiffel Tower far beyond.

  Valerie took a sip of wine, and looked at Madame Joubert, and shook her head.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Well, it’s just you’re so nice. I mean, Dupont is…’

  ‘Dupont,’ said Madame Joubert. ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you are friends.’

  Madame Joubert smiled. ‘Yes. We are. The truth is,’ she said, waving a hand when Valerie shot a glance at Dupont. ‘Oh, don’t worry, chérie, he could sleep through Armageddon… Well, as I was saying, the truth is we are the only ones left, we’re family now. I used to be friends with his daughter,’ she explained.

  Valerie paused mid-sip. ‘Mireille?’ she asked.

  Madame Joubert’s eyes grew sad as she nodded.

  Valerie looked from Dupont to Madame Joubert, and whispered, trying her best not to seem too eager, ‘What was she like? Was she like him?’

  ‘Mireille?’

  Valerie nodded, and Madame leant her considerable bulk back against the sofa, her magenta curls brush
ing against the soft linen, and sighed. ‘She was’ – she raised her eyes to the ceiling, as if to ward off the sudden onset of tears – ‘wonderful, truly. We were best friends from the time we could walk and talk. Neighbours – like you and your Freddy,’ she said with a soft smile. ‘Mireille’s mother, Jeanette, had died when she was young, so Dupont raised her all by himself. They were a pair, the two of them. Arguing all day, like an old married couple, and always about books.’ She laughed. ‘A little like the two of you, now,’ she said, then chuckled.

  ‘I think it’s one of his biggest regrets really – that he didn’t insist that she go with the others: the ones who were fleeing Paris for the countryside in their droves when the Nazis arrived, when she had the chance. But I knew Mireille and there was no way he would have persuaded her to go – not without him. What happened wasn’t his fault.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  They were whispering, careful not to wake the old man.

  ‘I mean, how things turned out. He couldn’t have known. None of us knew what would happen – we’d hoped they’d be here a few months and then be gone, driven back by the allies… we couldn’t know what was to follow. In a way that was a blessing, and a curse.’

  Chapter Nine

  1940

  Clotilde slunk into the bookshop, her face dark as thunder, her mouth uncharacteristically un-lipsticked and sagging at the corners. Her hair was flat, devoid of its usual curls and bounce. She looked like a large balloon that had developed a slow puncture, and she was, if possible, shorter somehow, as if she had been cut down at the knees.

  Mireille looked up from the Nazi officer, a young man with a crew cut, ice blue eyes and sharp, white teeth, who was trying his best to charm her, while asking her about the best place to have duck à l’orange, and whether she would like to accompany him sometime. Mireille frowned, her mouth making a small ‘o’ of surprise as she stared at her friend, her eye falling at last on the badge like a yellow beacon on her friend’s jacket. She watched as Clotilde sloped into the corner, half hidden behind a small stand of paperbacks, waiting for her.