[Fen Churche 02] - Night Train to Paris, Fliss Chester [free ebook reader for pc TXT] 📗

‘Yes, you pretend you want, you know, jiggy-jiggy with them and then lure them into an alley where others were waiting.’ She ran her finger across her throat and Fen instinctively raised her hand to protect her own neck.

‘Cripes!’

‘No more than they deserved,’ Magda crossed her arms, looking more defiant than Fen had seen her.

Simone laughed and pulled a scrap of fabric out from an end of one of the rolls and draped it over Magda’s shoulder. ‘Suits you,’ she said and then coolly carried on with her story. ‘Of course, there was always that temptation to let them go, or accept their offers of money and ration books… like The Chameleon obviously did.’

‘That brute.’ Magda practically spat the words out, then hurriedly fetched her handkerchief out of her bag and blew her nose again.

‘Were there many double agents, do you think?’ Fen was curious, and while not wanting to upset Magda by dwelling on the subject, she wanted to know more.

‘Yes. More than you’d think.’ Simone looked thoughtful, and Fen watched as she took in the obvious sadness in Magda’s eyes. ‘Anyway, now my life is full of silks and brocades, not mouldy bread and rat droppings. Oh, this fabric is so beautiful, don’t you think?’ Simone seemed easily distracted, even from her own story.

The other two women murmured their agreement over the prettiness of the fabric and Fen, her natural curiosity still burning, willed Simone to continue. She wasn’t in luck, however, as Simone walked them out of the fabric room and back through the cutting room to the salon where smart Parisiennes would come to watch girls such as Simone model the latest fashions.

‘Here, I have a gift for you both.’ Simone slipped down behind the raised walkway and pulled out two neatly tied packages. She handed one each to Fen and Magda. ‘Pop them in your handbags, quick. Don’t let anyone see on the way out,’ she winked at Fen. ‘They keep these scarves here for important clients. A little sweetener to encourage les madames to buy the clothes.’

Fen couldn’t help but have a quick peek and peeled open one end of the brown paper and gasped. Magda had done the same but couldn’t even manage to make a sound. Fen quickly closed the paper up and offered the parcel back to Simone.

‘Oh Simone, I can’t possibly take this.’

Simone pushed the parcel back into her hands. ‘Honestly, it’s not a big deal to us. I have two or three of these scarves in the new patterns. Take them, take them.’

‘This is too much,’ Magda had found her voice. ‘I… I don’t know what to say.’

Fen could see that Magda very much wanted to keep the pretty silk scarf that was wrapped up in the brown paper, but was torn, like her, by the morality of accepting such an expensive and luxurious gift from a near stranger.

But Simone all but forced them on to the women. ‘Catherine says I have an eye for design,’ she explained. ‘I cut the fabric for these scarves myself. To me, fashion is a disguise, you know, like a mask. You can wear something beautiful now and for a moment you can forget your past.’ Simone ran a finger down the sleeve of her own blouse, which Fen noticed was pure silk and utterly divine. Simone looked up again, awakened from her own reverie. ‘Please, have them. I am glad to be able to bring a little joy, especially to you, Madame Bernheim.’

‘Thank you, Simone,’ Fen touched her arm, careful not to snag the silk, while Magda gathered Simone into an impromptu hug.

Simone smiled at them both. ‘I will do anything, you see, anything to not go back to the poverty of my childhood. But I know I am the lucky one now, being here among this luxury. You’ve both suffered too, and sharing a bit of this good fortune, well, it’s the least I can do.’

‘Thank you, again.’ Fen said, feeling the softness of the silk inside the packet. ‘And, well, yes, you’ve landed on your feet here, I think. Pierre and Christian obviously think very highly of you and—’

‘And maybe I can marry well now the war is behind us and I look so smart, yes?’ Simone winked at Fen, who smiled back at her, finally realising what she meant about not being in Paris much longer.

Oh you’ll marry well, all right, she thought, knowing exactly who she had her sights on. I think I may know just the chap…

Sixteen

‘She’s right, I suppose,’ Magda said to Fen as they stood at the northern end of the Pont des Arts. Magda and Joseph had found a reasonably priced apartment to rent in the Marais district, which was on the northern, or Right Bank, of the Seine, while Rose’s apartment was over the river in Saint Germain.

‘What do you mean?’ Fen asked her, unlinking her arm from that of her old friend.

‘Just that fashion is a type of disguise. I mean, even before the war when we dressed up for occasions, well, what did we mean by it?’

Fen thought for a moment. ‘It was different then though, wasn’t it? We just followed conventions. I would never have worn trousers or work overalls before the war, but now I feel rather useless in a skirt. And somewhat exposed in a way!’

The women both laughed as Fen juggled her handbag and the bag of patisserie they had stopped to pick up, so she could keep her dress from floating up thanks to a stiff autumnal breeze.

‘Here, you take these.’ She passed the brown paper bag of bread and strawberry tarts to Magda. ‘I know for a fact that Rose has more than enough bread in the apartment. I think the boulanger at the end of the road has a soft spot for her. Maybe she painted him a nice picture of a croissant or something?’

‘Are you sure?’ Magda asked, ignoring Fen’s little joke. She sounded as serious as if Fen had offered her the use