Beyond the Green Hills (22 page)

‘There’s nothing to be done but get on with it. If it’s going to be awful, it’ll still be over by midnight. If it’s not, you’ll feel a fool for having worried yourself silly.’

She did her best, but the sense of anxious tension just wouldn’t go away. She left putting on her dress to the last possible moment because she kept having to go and pee, yet the moment she put it on, she felt better.

She picked up her evening bag and checked the contents. Key, hanky, powder, lipstick, slim notepad, biro, supply of Robert’s cards. She counted the remaining Anadin in the paper strip. Three lots should be enough: Robert, herself, and perhaps some other poor soul. She was amazed at the way men who regularly suffered from headaches never thought of carrying tablets, especially when they had so many pockets.

The June evening was so warm she decided not to bother with a wrap of any kind. She would go as she was and probably be grateful for her bare shoulders and back when she reached the even warmer restaurant. She glanced in the mirror to make sure her roses were lying easily on the single shoulder strap, then went and stood by the window
looking out at the sunlight on the river.

Robert’s car drew up almost immediately. To her
amazement, Robert himself sat beside his chauffeur. He was looking profoundly uncomfortable.

‘I was ready early, so I came to save Gilles an extra journey,’ he explained, with a certain lack of conviction.

‘Oh good, I wasn’t looking forward to arriving by myself.’

‘Why ever not?’ he asked sharply, as he opened the door for her and climbed in beside her.

‘It’s silly, I know, and I’ve scolded myself thoroughly, but I’m nervous.’

To her surprise and delight, he smiled broadly.

‘Oh good, so am I.’

She felt the tension ease as Gilles drove sedately along the quay and turned towards the Arc de Triomphe.

‘We’re still early, Gilles. Can you take the longer route, please?’

‘Certainly, monsieur.’

‘We are reprieved. How shall we spend our leisure?’ he asked.

She thought for a moment.

‘We could discuss the international monetary situation,’ she said slowly, with as serious a look as she could manage. ‘Or I could tell you a joke,’ she added wickedly.

He laughed and sat back more comfortably in his seat.

‘You look extremely lovely this evening,’ he said, as matter-of-factly as if he were commenting on a balance sheet. ‘Why have you never worn green before? It suits you particularly well.’

She blushed and laughed at herself.

‘Do you really want to know?’

‘Most certainly, I do.’

‘My school uniform was green and I vowed when I left school I would never wear green again.’

‘And you actually changed your mind. How extraordinary,’ he said severely. ‘Just
how did this unlikely event occur?’

She smiled to herself, comforted. If Robert could tease her, he must already be feeling a lot easier than when he’d arrived at her apartment.

‘I tried on the model dress, just to please the Madame, who was being so helpful. I liked the feel of it. I was going to ask if they could make it up in another colour, but as I turned round, I saw the girl who had come to pin the hem. She was looking up at me with big round eyes. So I asked her if she liked it. She just kept nodding. She’s a very shy girl. But I knew then the dress was right. Perhaps she was seeing something I couldn’t see.’

‘She certainly was. I think Madame St Clair will be proud of you.’ He settled himself more comfortably and looked at her sideways. ‘Now tell me a joke, please, before we arrive.’

‘What is smooth and yellow and highly dangerous?’ she asked, falling back on the last series of jokes Philippe had entertained them with before he went away to school.

‘I do not know,’ he said solemnly. ‘What is smooth and yellow and highly dangerous?’

‘Shark-infested custard.’

Robert was still grinning as the car drew up
outside the restaurant in the Champs-Elysées. The door of their car was opened by an elegant figure, so beautifully uniformed he looked as if he might have survived the Revolution. Robert gave her his hand and, as she stepped out, she saw below her satin evening shoes that red carpet had been laid across the pavement. Ahead of her, the entrance to the restaurant was banked with flowers, their perfume wafting towards her on the warm evening air.

‘Monsieur Lafarge, ici, s’il vous plaît Mademoiselle, ici, ici.’

Clare registered the sudden flare of a flash bulb. From two clusters of young men twisting themselves into the most uncomfortable positions came a stream of requests. ‘This way, monsieur. Mademoiselle, this way, please.’

To her surprise, Robert smiled obligingly, took her by the elbow and made sure all the young men had their opportunity. He bowed to them when they had finished and ushered her into the foyer, as magnificently decorated with flowers as the entrance had been.

‘Now, Mademoiselle Clare, to work,’ he whispered. ‘You’ve made an excellent beginning.’

Marie-Claude was quite right. From the moment she set foot on the red carpet, she was too busy to be nervous. She remembered all Marie-Claude had taught her. How to sit when wearing a low-cut dress. Which of the phalanx of glasses to use for water. How to avoid drinking too much wine when waiters constantly refilled your glass. Paul had
briefed her on how to address ambassadors and other dignitaries, while Jean-Pierre Crespigny had shown her when not to translate a greeting or phrase the context made clear.

By the time she stood up to present Emile with his gift, a good meal and a cautious amount of wine had settled the butterflies in her stomach. Moving past the tables that surrounded the small dance floor she felt perfectly easy, prepared to say whatever words came to mind should the one’s she’d prepared desert her.

‘Bravo, Clare.’

She recognised the familiar voice. It was Gerard St Clair. She did not turn towards him but she smiled with delight as she stepped up on to the dais where Emile was waiting.

‘Clare, you are wearing roses,’ he said quietly.

‘For your future, Emile. May it be full of roses, of every kind.’

She added a few extra words to those her colleagues had suggested, handed him the cut-glass rose bowl and an envelope containing a very large cheque. The flash bulbs popped all around them, but neither she nor Emile paid the slightest attention to them as he kissed her cheeks and thanked her.

It was only as she made her way back to her place beside Robert that she noticed a young man with dark hair and even darker eyes. He was looking at her as if she was the only woman in the whole glittering assembly.

‘Clare you look wonderful,’ said Marie-Claude,
touching her shoulder gently and smiling at her in the mirror.

‘Oh Marie-Claude, how lovely to see you.’ Clare turned and kissed her. ‘I hoped you’d appear, even if you didn’t need to. Your nose never shines.’

‘True, but, unlike you, I’ve been enjoying my wine. I must go and make myself comfortable. Don’t go away, I have something to say to you.’

Turning back to the mirror, Clare watched her friend weave her way through the crowded powder room, full of the rustle of gowns, the mingling of perfumes and the laughter of women released from the formalities of a presentation dinner. As she pressed powder carefully on her warm face, she was suddenly aware of the picture the broad expanse of glass reflected back. It was one thing standing in front of her own long mirror at home, anxiously checking every detail, quite another to see herself like this, as she must appear to others. The emerald silk dress did look wonderful, she had to admit, its style and cut, the way it complemented her creamy skin and dark curls. The little seamstress had been absolutely right.

As she carefully applied lipstick, she saw herself set against a background of self-possessed women, moving to and fro behind her, for the most part what Ronnie would call ‘the great and the good’. Women of all ages, some severely formal in their dress, silver-haired and wearing velvet and pearls, some bedecked in jewels, some wearing tiny orchids, others large corsages of flowers. A stunning blonde in a red dress. An awkward-looking woman,
heavily sequinned. They greeted friends, adjusted skirts, or necklaces, tucked back strands of hair from chignons, ran damp fingers along eyebrows. She smiled to herself. She looked perfectly at home amongst them, as if she had been attending such occasions all her life. The face that looked back at her now, smiling with pleasure as she caught sight of her friend returning, seemed to say that she was managing to enjoy herself after all.

‘Chérie, have you noticed that young man at the next table but one?’ asked Marie-Claude, bending over her and whispering.

‘Dark hair and eyes?’

‘Yes, and distinctly handsome. Do you know him?’

‘No, never seen him before.’

‘His eyes have never left you. With the greatest of discretion, he has watched you all evening.’

Clare laughed and shook her head.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘And all the time he’s been watching me, you’ve been watching him, just as discreetly. You’re as bad as Gerard,’ she said, squeezing her arm. ‘But can you really believe it, Marie-Claude? Can you?’

‘Believe what, chérie?’

‘Tonight. Here and now. Your protégée. The poor, sad little refugee from a broken love affair who came to your door last July. You have been so kind and taught me so much. How can I ever thank you?’

‘And what about me?’ Marie-Claude protested. ‘A poor mother with an empty nest, wondering what to do with the rest
of her life. So depressed I couldn’t even appreciate my dear Gerard.’

Marie-Claude broke off suddenly. The room was emptying around them.

‘My dear we must go,’ she said quickly, walking her to the door. ‘Robert may need you just now. I’ll ring tomorrow morning, late, or until I catch you, to hear what happens next.’

They parted as Marie-Claude reached her table. Gerard stood up to help her to her place, looked at Clare and gave her a tiny wink.

Suitably refreshed during the interval for the presentation and speeches, the band put away the light classical music they’d played during the meal and launched into a selection from Glen Miller with considerably more enthusiasm. As Clare sat down again, she could feel her feet tapping. She wondered if Robert ever danced and whether anyone else might ask her. She longed to dance.

For a few moments no one moved except the waiters bringing brandy and liqueurs and serving more coffee. She was puzzled. Here was this lovely floor, this marvellous music. Why on earth was no one dancing? The band paused between numbers. She saw Robert nod across the table to Emile. They exchanged glances. Emile rose in his usual dignified manner, excusing himself to his elderly sister, and came and stood behind her chair.

‘Mademoiselle Clare, may I have the honour …’

‘That would be lovely,’ she said, as he drew her chair away, took her hand and led her to the dance floor.

The band struck up immediately. To Clare’s absolute amazement, Emile danced her vigorously round the
empty floor to the strains of ‘American Patrol’. She was so delighted to find herself dancing again after so long and to that particular tune, she hardly noticed the discreet round of applause, after which other couples joined them on the floor and Emile had to be more circumspect in his manoeuvres.

‘Thank you, my dear,’ said Emile, bowing slightly, as he took her back to her place. ‘You make
me
feel young again. See what you can do for Robert.’

Robert grunted as Clare settled herself beside him. She hadn’t realised quite what good friends the two men were till this evening. She wondered if it was because they were both widowers. Perhaps having to remake a life after great loss had created a special bond between them.

She looked at Robert encouragingly. To her surprise, he blushed. Given the heat and the amount of very good wine they’d all drunk, his change in colour was almost certainly invisible, but she knew Robert was quite aware of it.

‘Have all those pressmen gone home?’ he asked, leaning across the large, round table to where Paul sat entertaining an official from the Ministry of Finance and his wife.

‘Yes, monsieur. They were given supper with the band and have gone away happy.’

‘Humph.’

Robert straightened himself up, ran a finger round the left side of his collar and stood up.

‘Mademoiselle Clare,’ he said formally, as he looked down at her.

Dear Robert, she thought, a wave of tenderness
sweeping over her. That gesture with his collar had gone straight to her heart. She’d known it for some time even if she’d not admitted it herself, that here was a man just as vulnerable as the first Robert. The one a country blacksmith, the other the chairman of a leading French bank. A whole world of time and distance separated them, yet each was as much prey to simple anxiety as the other. She wondered, could that be why she loved them both?

‘Thank you,’ she said, smiling.

They walked to the floor and began to dance. Robert was no dancer, but he knew the steps and went through them meticulously, though without much relation to the music, so they managed well enough. After a couple of circuits, he began to listen to the tune and to relax. By the third number in the sequence, he began to move with the rhythm. She could see he was almost enjoying himself.

‘You love dancing, don’t you?’ he said, choosing a more adventurous turn, as the band increased the tempo.

‘Yes, I do. I’ve always loved it from the very first time I danced. It was at school, with Jessie, in green knickers. I really do prefer a dress.’

Robert laughed.

‘Emile is right: you make me feel young. But not young enough to dance into the small hours,’ he added sadly. ‘I shall be leaving shortly with Emile and his sister, but you are to stay. Enjoy yourself. You’ve done a good job this evening. I wish I could be
there to
see Henri Lavalle’s face when he opens his copy of
Le
Monde
and sees you smiling back at
him.’

‘And you too, Robert,’ she reminded him.

‘Yes,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘He may be amused to see that I now possess a shirt with a collar.’