The Milliner's Secret (27 page)

Coralie sang on; according to the lyrics, everything in life was free and easy. People could do as they damn well pleased . . . In Lambeth, or anywhere for that matter.

The Tommies certainly thought so. They were mobbing the stage and the Corsicans were piling in behind, pulling off caps, tearing collars. Soon fists were flying, women screaming. A bottle crashed at Coralie’s feet. She hurled it back. ‘“You’ll find yourself, doin’ the –’ one of the gangsters got hold of her leg ‘– “Lambeth walk, oi!”’ On ‘oi’ she kicked him but he pulled her down anyway. Shrieking, she grabbed her hat to protect it. Arkady got her under the arms and heaved in the opposite direction. Coralie shouted at him to let go. If she didn’t split in half, her dress would. She landed with a thud on the dance floor, and before she had time to refill her lungs, she was hauled up. Shutting her eyes, she softened every muscle to withstand the coming blow.
Not a black eye, please.

The blow didn’t come. Instead she was pulled to her feet and hustled away towards the stairs. She staggered along, her hand in a stranger’s, gold hat over her eyes. She hoped Julie, Una, the
midinettes
and Teddy had run for the exits too. Ramon could look after himself. She stumbled through the lobby, past the cloakroom, whose attendant flashed a muted torch, and out on to boulevard de Clichy where the air was as cold as sea spray. A smudge of moon gave just enough light to make out the outline of a man with padded shoulders, wearing a cap. He had a belted middle. She realised she’d been pulled out by the tall RAF man she’d admired earlier. ‘
Merci beaucoup
,’ she panted, continuing in French, ‘You ruined my chance of an encore.’

Hands linked behind her head and she was looking up into a face that was lean and serious, faintly familiar. A second later, she was being kissed so hard she could hardly keep her feet on the ground.

When it ended, his lips stayed on hers and he said in English, ‘Do you know how long I’ve waited to do that?’

Without thinking, she shot back in the same language, ‘Bloody cheek! I’m a married woman and my husband is down in that club.’ That was another of Ramon’s roles: to be the eternally jealous husband whenever she wanted to discourage an over-enthusiastic man.

‘Married? Cora, what have you gone and done? And what the hell are you doing here?’

Cora
. . . She stared up, trying to impose on the hard face the soft features that matched the voice, which had grown deeper, the worried inflection gone. ‘Donal Flynn. Donal . . . what the hell have
you
gone and done?’ She pulled a serge sleeve.

‘Joined up, of course. You didn’t think I’d still be pushing laundry carts now we’re at war? Cora, why did you go? Why did you run? I looked high and low for you. I thought you were—’

‘Shush.’ Her gaze scavenged the frosted boulevard. It was empty. ‘Donal, don’t call me Cora. I’m
Coralie
, Coralie de Lirac. Never call me anything else.’

‘I went looking for you after the Derby. I looked for you for days, and then for your body, on all the waste sites and the culverts, and down by the docks—’ He broke off, pulling her to him again.

‘You thought I was dead?’

‘I thought Jac had done for you. I cornered him in his shed, got him by the throat, but he swore he hadn’t touched you. I knocked him down. Oh, Cora. Alive and three times as beautiful. Cora—’

‘Coralie! And, hey, you owe me an explanation too. Leaving me stranded at Epsom Downs—’

He groaned. ‘I know. I went home – I was fuming and it never dawned on me I had your ticket till I woke up in the dead of night. I fetched my jacket and there it was. I swear I went straight round to your house and knocked on the door, but nobody answered. Cora—’

‘
Coralie
. I’m Coralie now.’

‘But why are you here? Why didn’t you go home while you still could?’

‘This is home. And I’d rather face the Germans than my father, or your bloody sister.’

‘But that’s it. Your dad’s gone and so has Sheila.’

‘Where? To hell in a handcart?’

‘They’re in Ireland, lying low, so my dad thinks. The knives came out for them when you disappeared. Secrets came out. Their love affair was the talk of the streets and Sheila got a formal reprimand from her inspector. Which was nothing to what she got from our gran. Then the big rumours started.’

‘What rumours?’

‘First your mother disappeared, then you. Then your mother’s actor-fellow resurfaced.’

‘Who? That Timothy Cartland she ran off with?’ Coralie’s ears hurt from the pressure of her pulse, from forgetting to breath.

‘She didn’t, that’s the point. I read in a newspaper that a play had opened in Shaftesbury Avenue, and it mentioned a Timothy Cartland. I went to see him after a matinée. I thought you’d want me to.’

No
, she thought.
Why can’t you leave well alone?

‘I asked him, “Where’s Florence Masson?” He didn’t know but when I said her stage name, Florence Fielding, he remembered working with her about twenty-five years ago. “A slip of a woman with a big, loud voice.” He swore they’d never had a fling. He
had
been to New York but he’d travelled alone and come back alone, in 1938, and in all that time, he said, he’d never heard a squeak of Florence Fielding. I went away, thinking, If Florence didn’t go to America—’

‘That’s enough, Donal. Leave it buried.’ Coralie reached up and kissed him, the better to shut him up, and was completely unprepared for the physical yearning that coursed through her. It was more potent than sexual desire. Donal had grown into a handsome man. He was in uniform, serving his country, and that was excuse enough, but until this moment she hadn’t realised how desperately she missed love. Missed the comfort of a shared existence. If anybody was safe to be with, it was Donal. They’d shared the same air, the same dust. Yet as he pulled her hard against him and possessed her mouth, her assumptions altered.
Bring down the shutters
, she told herself.
You can’t risk him asking questions and seeing too much.
She pulled away, asking, ‘What do you fly?’

‘I’m not meant to say . . . but I suppose it can’t hurt. Fairey Battles, light bombers. I’m the observer-navigator and we fly night missions – but listen, Cora—’

‘
Coralie
. You’ve become rather a good kisser, Navigator Flynn. Had a bit of practice?’ She felt the knot of his tie move with his throat, and recognised his old diffidence. Good. Let him get tongue-tied. One day she’d be strong enough to hear the ending to Florence’s story. And one day she might sit down with Donal and tell him all about Coralie de Lirac. But not now. She’d invested too much in her life here to risk being unmasked as a fraud. She stepped back.

‘Cora, don’t go!’

‘
Coralie
.’ It wrenched her heart to deny the hope and desire in the hands that reached for her. God knew, she might never see him again. That silver wing above his left pocket was the real thing, not like her cheap glitter. Donal risked his life every time he took to the air, while she danced and sang. ‘I’m going, Donal, and I don’t want you to follow.’

Was he even listening? ‘I’m in Paris till tomorrow night. We could—’

‘No. I’m sorry I kissed you – but doesn’t that tell you I’m as bad as I ever was? I’m not only married, I’m a mother.’ She cinched her waist with her hands and took another step back. ‘I’ve filled out, see? A little bit matronly, these days.’

‘You’ve got a shape like a film star. Please don’t go.’

She walked away, refusing to turn even when it dawned on her that she’d left her comfortable shoes in the club, along with her coat, and that she had a long trek home. And she was still wearing a gold hat. If she avoided being robbed, the first gendarme she met would book her for soliciting.

‘Coralie!’ Donal’s anguish reached her, but he wasn’t chasing her.

‘Be safe up there in the skies, my friend,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t let the buggers bring you down.’

CHAPTER 14

Christmas 1939 froze the pipes and put such thick rime on the windows that Coralie prepared a festive dinner in the kitchen with gloves on. She’d invited Una, Ramon – who had ditched his latest woman, or been ditched – Arkady and Florian to her table.

As she trussed the skinny goose she’d bought at the market at ten times last year’s price, she was interrupted by a knock. She was astonished to find Julie at the door, clutching a basket of apples and trying to hide a party dress by holding her winter coat closed at the neck.

‘Julie? You were meant to take today off.’

The girl answered with a nervous giggle. Heavens, had Coralie really expected her to stay at home? Never mind, she was here now. Her parents, uncles and aunts were all dozing with their mouths open, except one aunt who kept making comments on Julie’s new hairstyle.

Coralie took in the mass of curls and interwoven ribbon. ‘It is rather . . . Hollywood.’

‘I know!’ Julie went straight to the hall mirror. ‘The girl at the hairdresser’s said I look just like Bette Davis in
Jezebel
.’ She took off her coat and turned to Coralie, revealing a cardigan straining over an uplifted bosom. ‘I’ll help you cook and I’ll serve at table.’

‘I’ll find you a nice big overall to wear.’ Coralie couldn’t resist adding, ‘It’s just us girls. The men can’t come.’ Seeing Julie’s face drop in dismay, she laughed. ‘Joking. Shall I put you next to Florian?’

Everyone brought something: coal, wine, a nip of cognac, potatoes, smoked sausage. Una contributed a case of champagne, a gift from a wealthy admirer who worked for the government. Yet more unexpectedly, she brought Ottilia von Silberstrom.

Una had met the Baronne in London in 1937, but hadn’t given her much thought until Coralie’s brief glimpse of her on boulevard de la Madeleine. Una had afterwards made enquiries, but everybody said the same thing: ‘Poor darling Tilly? Didn’t she take refuge in London? Why would she return to Paris, the way things are?’ Una had been inclined to think that Coralie’s eyes had deceived her.

Then, a few days ago, Una had found herself standing behind Ottilia in the queue at a tobacconist’s off quai d’Orsay. ‘Turns out, she’s been living like a hermit in rue de Vaugirard since the summer,’ she told Coralie, in a low voice. They both looked at Ottilia, who was bending down to make the acquaintance of Noëlle. She was draped in thistledown fur. Noëlle was stroking a sleeve, clearly bewitched.

Ottilia looked towards them and smiled, and Coralie returned a nod. The silent exchange was as good as a conversation:
We’ve met before. A man we both love stands between us and we will not speak of it.

Una, seeing none of this, went on in an undertone, ‘I hated to think of her all alone through Christmas so I dispensed with European etiquette and invited her. Don’t say you’re offended! You asked me to find her. ’

‘To discuss business. Oh, Lord, look at that.’

Ramon was now kissing Ottilia’s hand and, like Noëlle, seemed to be slithering under a spell. Had Ottilia had this effect on Dietrich too?

Suddenly aware of her grease-spotted apron and red cheeks, Coralie escaped to the kitchen, dispelling her emotions by lifting pan lids and slamming them down again.

Una trailed after her, opening the oven door. ‘Oh, joy! Roast goose, my favourite. Forget work for a day, and get to know Tilly better. When the moment feels natural, we can mention La Passerinette. Let me tell you something, the girl under all that fur and those pearls is a sweetheart.’

And indeed, over champagne aperitifs and an
hors d’oeuvre
of braised chicory, Ottilia displayed none of the grandeur that had so offended Coralie on Epsom Downs.

Later, as Ramon carved the goose, Coralie recalled Dietrich explaining that Ottilia floated through life, the implication being that she didn’t quite ‘get’ the world. The impression solidified when Ottilia said that she’d returned to Paris to oversee the freighting of her art collection back to England.

‘My husband insists we bring the paintings to London.’ Franz had been angry with her for leaving them in rue de Vaugirard, she said. ‘I thought they were safe, but he does not trust the French or anybody. And certainly not me.’ Ottilia laughed shakily. ‘He said I must go to Paris to arrange for the boxes to be shipped, only . . . So many!’ She’d sat in her flat all the summer, unable to lift a telephone to seek advice. ‘Graf von Elbing used to do that sort of thing for me.’ She met Coralie’s eye briefly. Not in challenge, in a bid for understanding. ‘I called his home in Germany, but his wife told me he wasn’t living there.’

Coralie was cutting up meat for Noëlle, checking for bones. ‘So where is he living?’

‘Berlin. She gave me a number but told it me wrongly. Deliberately so, I’m sure, because it was like no Berlin number I’ve ever seen.’

‘Has he no friends who could get hold of him for you?’ Una asked.

‘I tried some galleries, and an auction house he deals with, but as soon as I said my name, they cut the call. In Berlin “von Silberstrom” is as well known as Rothschild in London, or Rockefeller in New York. Only, these days, our name makes people put down the phone. I rang my brother Max in Geneva, and he thought Dietrich might be in Shanghai.’

‘China?’ Julie gasped. The word circled the table, gathering incredulity.

‘I loved
Shanghai Express
,’ Coralie said, ‘but I wouldn’t want to be on that train. China’s at war, isn’t it?’

‘With Japan,’ Una said.

Ottilia sighed. ‘Dietrich went to buy Oriental art, which is going cheaply now.’

‘One man’s war is another man’s profit.’ Una said it with a half-smile but Ramon growled, ‘Damn capitalist.’

Not a capitalist, just
passerine
, Coralie answered silently. Flitting from tree to tree, feeding as he goes. ‘None of this explains how you got stuck in Paris,’ she said to Ottilia. It was dawning on her that this stranded creature might some day become a liability.

The answer was simple. Once war had been declared and the night-ferry to England suspended, Ottilia couldn’t conceive of any other means of returning to London.