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

‘Of course. And send my best to Joseph, tell him the tarts are particularly good.’

The two women embraced and Fen was able to walk across the bridge with one hand free now to keep her billowing skirt at bay. She was pleased that Magda had accepted the bread and tarts, as she knew they were struggling to make ends meet from what Magda had said as they queued up in the patisserie for the treats.

Fen thought about it as she walked over the bridge. She had wanted to visit one of her favourite patisseries, which she knew lay only a few streets from the atelier.

Her mother had taken her to Patisserie Cambon on the occasions that Fen had had to wait patiently for her to be fitted for whatever dress she had ordered, and worse, sometimes Fen herself had had to stand on the funny little box in her underwear as the long tickling tape measure had dangled down from shoulder to ankle. Even now its red awning and window, filled with sugary pastries and tempting glazed tarts, had made her eyes much bigger than her stomach. She had asked Magda if she didn’t mind the diversion from their way home and both ladies had feasted their eyes on what the talented pastry chef had put in the window.

There had been cream-filled religieuses, their choux pastry tops daubed with chocolate and nuts, delicate pale green macarons and elegant slices of chocolate gâteaux, but it was the bright-pink strawberry tarts, their glaze almost dazzling in the sunlight, that had caught Fen’s eye. They were at least affordable; food shortages and rocketing inflation making the other treats most expensive. Magda had pointed out as much and Fen had remembered that her friend had lost everything and cakes that would have once been part of life were now an almost impossible luxury. She hadn’t really wanted a loaf of bread or those strawberry tarts for herself, and was pleased to be able to send Magda home with them.

Fen carried on across the bridge, her thoughts mostly occupied by how she would wear the jazzy new scarf that Simone had given her, when she noticed a very familiar person on the quayside, no more than thirty feet or so away from her, talking to a man. She was about to call out to Rose when something made her stop. There was something about Rose’s countenance, the way she was talking to the man, that made Fen pause and take note. Were they arguing?

Fen sidestepped a mother who was dragging a querulous child along by his hand and leaned against the rail of the bridge, hiding herself behind a lamp post, hoping Rose wouldn’t look over and see her.

They were definitely arguing. The man was waving his hands around, while Rose stood her ground and occasionally pointed a finger at him, jabbing it towards his chest as she seemed to make a point. Fen was unsure as to whether she should go and help Rose, but she looked very much to be in control of the situation.

The breeze that was still trying its best to embarrass Fen was blowing Rose’s velvet coat large behind her, helping make her look authoritative, while today’s choice in coloured turban elevated her height by another few inches. The man she was arguing with, however, seemed small in stature and smartly dressed. Fen could make out what looked like a blazer and light-coloured slacks. Maybe not the right clothes for the season, but smart in their own way nonetheless. Something about his slicked-back hair and slightly receding hairline reminded her of the portrait of Napoleon she had seen in the Louvre only the day before, and Fen suddenly worried that this Frenchman might be just as aggressive.

Fen was about to grit her teeth and enter the fray when the conversation between the two combatants ended, each turning on their heel and heading off in separate directions from the end of the bridge. Fen trotted across the rest of the wooden slats, but by the time she’d got to where they had both been standing, there was no sign of either of them. The temptation to follow Rose’s Napoleonic adversary was strong, but Fen knew finding him down the many and varied routes he could have taken from the river would be a fool’s errand – plus, what would she say to him if she found him?

Instead, she carried on her way back to Rose’s apartment, wondering as she did how she might bring up the subject of this mystery man with her old friend, and if there was a story to be heard behind it all.

‘Nothing of the sort,’ Rose snorted as Fen questioned her on him later that afternoon. She had walked the few streets back to the Rue des Beaux-Arts and climbed the stairs up to the apartment, all the while posing theories in her head as to who the man might be. A rogue supplier who wanted his bill paid? A spurned lover of Simone’s wanting Rose to pass on a message? Possibly even one of those duped buyers wanting his money back?

Fen had rather tumbled all of these theories out over a cup of tea and now Rose was laughing it off.

‘He was just my art dealer, Fenella, dear. Michel Lazard.’

‘Oh.’ Fen thought back to what Magda had been saying earlier about Rose’s dubious links to the less salubrious art dealers. ‘What did he want from you? You seemed quite peeved with him, if you don’t mind me saying.’

Rose looked at her and Fen got the impression that perhaps Rose did mind, just a little, what she was saying. ‘Michel is a rough diamond. You know my art falls between genres, not elevated enough to be taken seriously by Henri, yet too good for those roadside tinkers. Michel fills that space, if you know what I mean.’

‘I see.’ It still didn’t explain to Fen why he and Rose had been arguing and she