Charlie's Dream (11 page)

"Are you fulfilled?" asked Francine, taking a sip of her Pernod.

"I don't know what to say, even my English vocabulary is not sufficient enough to thank you, let alone my French one," answered Marie, smiling. Francine reached out her hand and touched her on the cheek in the most intimate of ways.

"You deserve it, ma cherie, you have gone through much and you have a full path ahead of you," she said tenderly, before draining her glass and motioning almost imperceptibly at a passing waiter for a refill. They sat for quite a while at the café, just chatting and laughing, until a chill filled the air as the sun disappeared behind the city's tall buildings. They hugged and kissed before climbing wearily into a taxi that whisked them home to a light supper with Cecile, who was dying to see them.

"Oh, mon Dieu," exclaimed Cecile, seeing Marie struggle through the front door with all of her shopping. "I see that our friend Francine has been looking after you."

"Yes, I have been spoilt beyond my wildest dreams," replied Marie, looking exhausted but ebullient. "Now all I need is somewhere to wear them tomorrow," she continued, climbing the stairs to her room.

"Ah yes, now that you bring that up, a young man named Peter phoned for you an hour or so ago. He said he was to be your escort for a city tour tomorrow and that he would pick you up at ten if that was okay by you. He sounded most charming on the phone. I hope for your sake that his face is as beautiful as his voice, eh," she said, with a laugh.

"Oh shoosh, Cecile, this may be Paris, but the last thing I need is another love affair to complicate things," she said from behind her pile of bags.

"I should say that was a very wise position to take," said Gemma, joining the conversation from just inside the front door.

"Ayaar, you say that now but you forget. I remember what you were like when you lived here. You used to have one lover climbing down the Boston ivy while another was knocking at the front door and they were probably brothers if I remem."

"Yes, yes that will do thank you very much, Cecile," interrupted Gemma, in a vain attempt to quieten her friend. The large pile of bags was shaking, as Marie laughed while still staggering backwards up the stairs.

"Yes, and that will be quite enough from you too," said Gemma in the direction of the bags.

"Cecile, I shall look forward to some juicy stories over dinner, when I have stored my booty upstairs," replied Marie defiantly.

So that's what happened, as the three of them sat at the end of the large, applewood kitchen table, with the remains of a scrumptious dinner in front of them, Marie heard some stories from Gemma's wild Parisian life. There were lost loves, forbidden meetings, deaths, births, flights over country borders to escape outraged rulers and art, there was always art. Gemma wasn't allowed to miss a single detail by Cecile, who had a formidable memory.

"How old are you, Cecile?" asked Marie when a break in the stories finally arrived.

"Oh, I'm one hundred and twenty-seven next month. However, I have visited the valley with Gemma and I am certain that its magic has lengthened my life considerably. Even though it was so many years ago, the memory of the place still lives in my heart," she continued.

"I didn't think anyone could go there?"

"It is true that no one normally goes into the valley, but I was lucky enough to accompany Gemma on a trip there. She is one of only a handful of people or elves who know the exact times in the year when it is possible to enter its frontier by use of certain ancient rituals. Even with this knowledge, it's very dangerous to use the side door through Provence, so I was most fortunate to be allowed to go with Gemma."

"Ah," said Marie.

"It is like no place on Earth. The scale of its beauty defies description and when you are there, it seems to cover the whole planet with its magic. Ayah, it is impossible to describe," she said, shaking her head and looking to Gemma for inspiration.

"I've never had to describe it to anyone," said Gemma laughing. "But yes, it is hard to explain the scale of its beauty. My brother and his friends have done a good job," said Gemma, before going quiet.

"You haven't had contact with him in many years, have you?" said Cecile.

"No, it's been far too long. I could have used the compassion of his presence after George died. I missed him more than ever then. I felt more alone after his death than ever before," sighed Gemma.

"I can truly understand that, George was a very gentle man indeed," said Cecile, nodding her head.

"With just enough craziness in his character to keep you guessing about his plans," added Gemma. "He had a very hard time during the war, so there wasn't much in civilian life that could scare him. He regarded business and the petty agendas of most people involved in it as a complete joke," she added, taking a sip of her Hennessy XO.

"I'm almost too afraid to ask this after my previous experiences, but what happened to him in the war?" asked Marie, nervously.

"He was a spy, the most loathed and feared profession in the war. Mistakes meant death and virtually no one could be trusted, even those who were supposed to be on the same side. He was caught once and his British commander was so concerned about the extent of his knowledge that he authorised a bombing operation of the chateau where he was being tortured in a direct attempt to kill him quickly before he could say anything."

"My God, how did he know all this? I mean, how did he escape? They normally hold spies in impenetrable dungeons, don't they? Or, at least that's what I've been used to seeing on TV," interrupted Marie.

"Well, in this case, such a cliche is not that inaccurate. He was being held in the cellar of the large chateau and he found out about the plan. Francine's grandmother, or rather one of her lieutenants, intercepted the British air force transmission that detailed the instructions to their wing commander. They used the air raid as a decoy for a small commando operation to free him. It was risky and they lost a couple of men in the exercise, but they got him out. It was incredible."

"Whaa, but why did they go through so much danger to save him. You know, he was an English spy that even his own side was trying to knock off?"

"They owed him a favour. He was caught because he drew the attention of the Gestapo search team away from the headquarters of the resistance by using himself as bait. He hoped that he could slip through their net once they had been distracted. The idea half worked, but he got sprung and then went through a three-day tour of the Germans' best torture techniques, the details of which I shall not bore you with," said Gemma, laughing.

"Thanks, I appreciate that," replied Marie, wistfully.

"But tell me something, when he got back to England, what did he do to the commander who ordered the air strike?"

"After the war he returned to London where he made an absolute fortune out of real estate. He kept tabs on the wing commander who had ordered the assault, but not being a vengeful man, he waited until an honourable moment arose to present the man with the truth of his past. His opportunity came some fifteen years later when the guy was actually running for Lord Mayor. He timed his exposure perfectly, by asking the guy out for a drink at the local pub a few weeks before the election. Being a moneyed constituent, the greedy old fool accepted his invitation immediately, smelling a possible contribution to his campaign. Instead, George presented him with the truth about his past all bundled up in a neat little dossier that he had prepared years before. Suddenly, the conservative front-runner had to mysteriously pull out of the race. An ex-football player who ran a newsstand behind Buckingham palace won it. Boy, did we have a good night when he pulled out, or what?"

"It was a great night. I never saw Mr George happier, although he was always joyful when he was with you," said Cecile, looking at Gemma tenderly. "It was a shame that you did not get to meet him, Marie, he was a wonderful man," added Cecile, turning to Marie. Unfortunately, it was lost on her, for she had fallen to sleep on her outstretched arm and neither of them had noticed.

"She is a special soul," whispered Cecile.

"She is indeed, I have come to love her a great deal," said Gemma.

In the morning, Marie was woken by the doorbell and in a moment of blind panic, she thought it was her escort for the day. Fortunately, it was just the young boy from the local boulangerie delivering a regular order of bread. For a while, she lay there listening to Cecile chastising the poor boy for not using the back door. The next thing she knew, there was a knock on her door and Gemma was standing there with a tray in her hands and she realised that she must have drifted off to sleep again.

"Hello there, it's eight o'clock and I thought you might like some time to get ready. Are you certain you're okay with the arrangements for today?" asked Gemma, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

"Sure I am, as long as Peter isn't a complete bore, I'm sure I'll be fine."

"Thanks, I just didn't want to ruin your time here," said Gemma, quietly.

"Don't be silly, we'll have a great day. You're the one who has to speak to a whole room full of powerful politicians. Aren't you nervous?"

"Oh well, to me the only powerful person is one who doesn't have their own agenda in everything they say and believe me, there won't be many of those in the room today. I've done plenty of speeches like this before, so it's nothing new, really. I just wish politicians had enough strength to follow through with the logic of it all instead of bending to the desires of the powerful lobby groups. Anyway, forget about all that stuff now. Cecile and I are dying to see what you're going to wear on your hot date," said Gemma, heading towards the door.

Marie grabbed a pillow and hurled it at Gemma, but she saw it coming and ducked out through the door as it slapped against the wall. Marie could hear her giggling all the way down the hall.

"BRRIINNGG," went the doorbell as Marie was putting the finishing touches to her make-up. "BRIINNG, BRRINNG," it went impatiently.

"J'arrive, j'arrive," shouted Cecile, approaching the front door.

"Those bloody old ladies, they've built this whole thing up so now I'm all over the place," muttered Marie.

Downstairs, she could hear the burbled laughter of two old inquisitors and their prey. By the time she pushed open the swing door between the hallway and the kitchen, she was in quite a state of anticipation. Unfortunately, her anxiety clouded her memory of the geography of the house and she completely forgot about the series of three steps that led down between the two rooms.

"WHAA," she screamed, as she fell towards the three people below.

"Whoa," breathed Peter, turning to see the impending collision.

"THUNK," they went as they crashed together onto the kitchen floor, leaving Marie sprawled across her escort's chest. The old ladies stood there in a moment of stunned silence and then without missing a beat, Gemma lent down and said,

"Peter Allbrush, meet Marie Hosking."

"Charmed," he said politely, as they attempted to disentangle themselves.

"I'm so sorry," said Marie, straightening herself up and offering her hand to the gorgeous-looking man who was standing in front of her.

"Don't worry, Dad warned me that my time with Gemma and anyone close to her would be interesting," he said, tenderly.

It turned out that Peter was living in Paris while he worked for a merchant bank that had its main European office there. He was hoping to return to the head office in New York, once he'd done enough time on the European side of things. He was nearly twenty-seven, but no, he didn't have a girlfriend at the moment. This was the summary of his life that he offered under the gentle interrogation from the old ladies and Marie was impressed by his calmness under such scrutiny.

"I think we should be on our way," said Marie, in an attempt to relieve him of any further questioning.

"That's a good idea," said Gemma, in support. "I need to get prepared for my meeting. I'm sure my driver will be here any minute and I'm still in my pyjamas."

"BRRIING," went the doorbell.

"Oh no," she said, leaping up from her chair. "Tell him I'll be downstairs in ten minutes," she said, hurriedly thumping upstairs to her bedroom. Marie and Peter squeezed past the driver as he stood at the front door expectantly and informed him of the imminent arrival of his passenger. They were still giggling as they jumped into Peter's red sports car and Marie felt that the day might be all right after all.

They started by having coffee at a trendy cafe that was full of people talking earnestly in between drags on their harsh, French cigarettes. As Marie observed her companion's behaviour towards her, she could tell that he had great kindness in him. His conversation matched what his eyes spoke from within him and Marie felt slightly unnerved by his gentleness. It took her only a matter of minutes to decide that she would trust him which, in itself, was unusual for her. She could tell that he was very unlike the arrogant, immature merchant bankers she had met before and she had met quite a few through her mother's work as a lawyer. He was confident, without being pushy and if anything, he seemed quite embarrassed by his good looks, which impressed her a lot.

"So what's it to be, the river cruise, or the palace at Versailles?" he said, jerking her out of her thoughts.

"What, I er."

"It's just we can't do them both. In fact, we have to be very careful not to overload our schedule or we'll miss everything. Are you actually listening to any of this?" he said, with his words trailing off into nothing.

"Oh yes, er. I mean no, oh, I'm sorry Peter, I'm just enjoying being with you and watching the city go by. I'm sorry, I don't mean to be a bore," said Marie, gazing at Peter across the table.

"That's okay then. I was just worried that you were bored with me or something."

"No, no it's not that at all," answered Marie, reaching across the table to touch his hands.

"You're lovely and I think a river cruise sounds like fun," she said, tenderly.

The tourist boat meandered along the Seine at a gently, melodic pace and an enthusiastic French lady pointed out all the main attractions in broken English as they went. The plane trees that lined her banks were all covered with fresh, young leaves that shone with a greenness that seemed almost false to the eye. Men played La Boule on the gravel pathways, lovers walked along the bank holding hands and the grand architecture of the old city drifted by, as Marie leant over the side of the boat. She felt the warmth of someone holding her around her waist as she gazed out contentedly with her heart full and her mind free for a while.