The Paris Girl

by Natalie Meg Evans

Genres: Historical Fiction; Holiday books; Literary Fiction; Sagas; Women's Fiction; Clean & Wholesome Romance; Historical Romance; 20th Century Romance; Military Romance

Synopsis

1920s Paris. Tatiana Vytenis has worked hard to leave her past behind. Once a ruined Russian princess in hiding, she is now a sought-after model and engaged to Gérard de Sainte-Vierge. But fate still has a final hand to play. Hidden beneath their genteel exteriors, Gérard and his brother have a secret darker side, and her darling fiancé will gladly ruin Tatiana's life to save his own reputation. As Tatiana's situation becomes ever more desperate, she crosses paths with an unlikely guardian angel. Regan Dortmeyer is an American in Paris. As the consequences of her disastrous engagement threaten to swallow Tatiana up, he might be the only one who can save her now…

Release date: October 31, 2019

Publisher: Bookouture

Print pages: 468

Sample

‘You really want to marry me?’

Tatiana Vytenis stared at the ring on her finger. An oval ruby, surrounded by seed pearls, it looked valuable. Deeply serious. As did the man who had just slipped it on her finger.

Gérard de Sainte-Vierge was rarely anything other than serious, but that was part of his allure. He was so unlike the rowdy, puppy-dog men she and her friends went dancing with. Gérard carried his good looks and ancient name with conscious dignity.

‘You want me to be your wife?’ Tatiana couldn’t tear her eyes from the ruby. After months of dashed hopes, break-ups and misunderstandings, he was finally taking the plunge. In, of all places, a studio behind a house on Place du Tertre, on the butte de Montmartre. In front of a mob of other girls. Who, like Tatiana, were clad in knitted leotards and silk tights having just completed a strenuous, two-hour ballet class. She was slick with sweat; the wall mirrors made no bones about it. A raspberry flush crossed her nose, and her scraped-back hair was dark as rain-washed copper.

‘You really, really—’

‘Want to marry you. Do you imagine I would have put my grandmother’s ring on your finger otherwise? I’ve been pacing outside for an hour, waiting for the music to stop. I want you to set the date for our wedding, Tatiana.’

‘But why now?’ Gérard worked for the Ministry of Finance, where swift decisions were considered unhealthy. He was never impulsive.

A slow smile woke the latent charm of his eyes and his dark moustache curved seductively. ‘It’s a beautiful May morning. You are a beautiful woman. Need I say more?’

The other dancers crowded around, bringing with them the healthy smell of skin salts, and Tatiana extended her left hand and let them feast. Gérard was the marquis de Sainte-Vierge. On marriage she would become his marquise. But that wasn’t why she loved him. She wanted to laugh, to cry. All around, congratulations rang out.

Two onlookers held back. One was her teacher, retired ballerina Rosa Konstantiva. Thirty-seven and childless, Rosa often treated Tatiana as a surrogate daughter and she disapproved of this love affair. Not on moral grounds – Rosa had enjoyed a catalogue of lovers in her time and had one now, an illustrator several years her junior. No, she plain disliked Gérard.

‘Wonderfully well connected, chérie,’ was her opinion, ‘and provably unreliable. Stay with him, you’re nailing your heart to a windmill’s sails.’

Rosa was wrong and Tatiana looked forward to proving it.

The other person showing no joy sat at the piano. Unlike Rosa, who had assumed her Russian name for professional reasons, Larissa Markova was Russian by birth, as was Tatiana. Like Tatiana, she was a mannequin at the fashion house Javier, employed for her stunning looks and her ability to make clients desperate for the clothes she modelled. Larissa was also a classically trained pianist, and though being a ballet school accompanist did not dig deeply into her skills, she needed the extra income. She pursed her lips each time the word ‘marquise’ was mentioned. In Larissa’s opinion, aristocratic titles should be extinguished. She and Tatiana had never hit it off. Larissa’s family had been Muscovite tradespeople whereas Tatiana was the daughter of the late Prince Ulian Vytenis, entitled to call herself Princess Tatiana. Which she made a point of doing when Larissa was nearby.

‘Madame la marquise de Sainte-Vierge,’ Tatiana said with a chuckle, ensuring Larissa heard. ‘Imagine embroidering that on one’s pillow slips!’ She flung her arms around Gérard, feeling him flinch at the contact of her rapidly cooling body. He was squeamish about the realities of being human. ‘Can we go home and tell Mama?’

‘Perhaps in a few days? Let us keep it to family and close friends only.’

‘But Mama is family!’

‘She’s unable to keep a secret. “More child than parent”. You said so yourself.’

True, but why should their engagement be a secret at all? ‘Surely, I must call on your mother, Gérard.’

‘Let’s leave that a while.’

‘At least let me tell Constanza. She’s my best friend.’

‘Constanza Darocca? Mm. I’d prefer to keep it under wraps until I have informed my wider family.’

‘If you wanted to keep this engagement under wraps, Monsieur, why go down on one knee in front of twenty ballerinas?’ Rosa Konstantiva tapped an impatient foot. ‘We have not finished our class.’ Though she was the only professional among amateurs, Rosa maintained rigid etiquette, as if this were a morning class at the Bolshoi, or the Paris Opéra Ballet where she had trained.

Gérard apologised, but with that twitch of the lips that made Tatiana ache to kiss him.

‘Go and get a coffee on the square,’ she suggested. ‘I’ll join you shortly.’

After he’d gone, class concluded, finishing on a deep curtsey. Rosa made a reverence of the arms in reply and acknowledged Larissa who played a flighty arpeggio to sign off.

‘Au revoir, mes filles,’ Rosa waved her pupils to the door. ‘Go and cover up. Tatiana, a word.’

‘I’m so sorry, Rosa,’ Tatiana burst out when they were alone. ‘I had no idea.’ She gazed lovingly at her ring. ‘By its very definition, this won’t happen again.’

‘Apologies have no value when the giver is grinning all over her face.’ Rosa gave the reprimand in English. She’d been born in London and because Tatiana was determined to improve her languages, often spoke English to her. ‘We have a saying where I come from: “Marry in haste, repent at leisure”. I don’t deny he’s suave as a velvet coat but have you forgotten how he abandoned you when you were gravely ill?’

‘That was three years ago, Rosa, and he had no idea I had Spanish flu. He thought I’d collapsed because I’d been under-eating and staying up too late. He’s apologised since, truly he has. He can’t bear illness, you see. A sister of his died of diphtheria. He’s never got over it.’

‘I see.’ Rosa placed her hands over Tatiana’s. ‘Speaking of siblings, a little bird tells me that his brother is also in love with you.’

Tatiana dashed a damp strand of hair from her brow. ‘Armand? He’s besotted with all the Maison Javier mannequins. Ask Larissa.’

Larissa, who had followed the dancers out but was now back to collect her music, replied with a flat contradiction. ‘I’ve never seen Armand de Sainte-Vierge offer flowers or attentions to any other woman. If he’s besotted, it’s with you.’

This was not what Tatiana wanted to hear. Armand de Sainte-Vierge had pursued her relentlessly for months. The fact that she loved his brother seemed to make him all the more determined to win her heart.

Larissa went on, ‘He is also a deeply troubled young man. His mind is scarred.’

‘You think I don’t know that?’ Tatiana burst out. Nobody understood better than she that the pain Gérard’s brother carried like a nail-riven cross was the consequence of surviving horror. Horror that could not be talked away or dispelled. Tatiana’s response to the inrush of emotion was a characteristic one. She flounced to the door, saying, ‘Thank you for spoiling my special moment, both of you.’

Leaving Rosa’s house, Tatiana spotted Gérard at once, sitting at a table under freckled shade. Rosa’s and Larissa’s warnings faded at the sight of him. It was too lovely a day for shadows other than those cast by venerable acacia trees, artists’ easels and the green metal legs of café tables. Place du Tertre lured creative people from all over the world. As Tatiana strode through patches of sunshine to where Gérard sat with a newspaper, she picked up bursts of conversation in English, Spanish, Polish and Russian. Gérard was deep into that day’s edition of Le Figaro, an empty cup by his wrist, and she indulged a secret pleasure at the sight of his fingers wrapped around the paper’s edge. Long, clever, lover’s fingers. His skin was that very French olive-almond colour.

‘Anybody home?’ She plumped down opposite him.

He lowered the paper. ‘Good. You’re not as pink as you were. I always imagined ballet was ladylike, mostly consisting of floating.’

‘It’s very physical. More like rowing a barge than pretending to be a feather.’

‘You have a furrow between your brows.’ He traced it with a finger. ‘You don’t regret accepting me?’

‘Of course not! Shall I prove it?’ She peered at the newspaper, read ‘13 May 1922’, stood up and threw her arms wide. ‘I hereby rename this square “Place du Treizième Mai” in honour of the day that Gérard proposed to Tatiana.’

He smiled. ‘Sit down. Coffee?’

‘Citron Pressé, a large glass.’

Gérard folded his paper and clicked to a waiter. ‘Darling, it might be an idea only to wear the ring when we’re out together. People will talk otherwise.’

She stared at the ruby, then at Gérard. ‘Engagements are public news, otherwise it’s an “understanding”. “Unknown to their families, they had an understanding.” You surely aren’t asking me to take the ring off the minute after you’ve put it on my finger?’

He gave her a small antique box. ‘It’s rather old, that’s all. I wouldn’t want you to wear it for… I don’t know… household chores.’

She laughed. ‘I don’t do household chores. We pay a maid and a cook for that. My job demands I keep my hands unblemished.’ The perfect excuse for avoiding all unpleasant work. ‘Let me keep it on. I promise I won’t go gassing and gossiping about it.’

‘Very well. And may I say, you look particularly edible today.’ Gérard’s gaze appreciated her outfit, a blouson top and skirt of dove-grey linen, chic and simple. Tatiana’s crowning glory, her auburn curls, nestled under a hat of Italian straw. She was turning heads. An artist a few paces away had begun sketching feverishly, no doubt eager to capture her so he could ‘sell her on’ to a tourist. Normally, the idea would make her tense, but now she was more concerned by the reticence of the man in front of her. Gérard was saying all the right things, but he wasn’t bubbling over with happiness. His expressions, his words, were too orderly for her liking.

‘Are you worried what your mother will say? She won’t approve of me, I know. Foreign. Russian Orthodox. Your lover for the past three years, not a virgin fresh out of a convent.’

He cleared his throat, discomfort swiftly swallowed. ‘I wouldn’t mention that in front of Mother. She will come round. Only, we have to play it carefully.’

‘You will tell Armand, though, won’t you?’

He made a ‘perhaps’ face.

‘Only, Rosa and Larissa worry he’ll be distressed.’

‘Rosa and Larissa are experts on my brother, are they?’

The shift of his tone jolted her and she rushed to placate him. ‘No. Forgive me. They seem to imagine he’s in love with me, that’s all. Of course he isn’t.’

‘Ah, but of course he is. You have so little idea of your charm, my darling. Men want to take care of you and women are jealous.’

She laughed uncertainly. There’d never been a queue of men offering to take care of her. Somewhere along the way, she’d learned the trick of offending the male sex. Coldness and caprice. Men never knew where they stood with the ‘prickly princess’. Part of Gérard’s attraction was that he took none of her nonsense. ‘When would you like the wedding to be?’

‘When would you like it to be?’

It was like being shown Ali Baba’s cave and told to fill her pockets. ‘Um… October. I turn twenty-three on the eighteenth, so perhaps the end of that month. By then, the fittings for the midseason collection will be over.’

‘Fittings? Midseason collection?’ Eyes the colour of varnished teak widened in amusement. ‘My wife will not need to work.’

She grasped his hands. ‘I adore you, my darling. You make me feel utterly, utterly safe.’

From the square, they took the metro to central Paris, then went on foot to rue Molière and the pied-à-terre flat Gérard rented in the shadow of the Louvre palace. After they’d made love, Tatiana basked in an unfamiliar sense of optimism. In just a few months, she would be a cosseted wife, protected by a powerful name. Gazing at her lover stretched out on the pearly linen, she imagined breakfasting with him every morning. Dining with him every night. She lingered on his concave stomach, the shadows of hair across his lean chest and in the creases of his limbs. Like her, Gérard ate sparingly. He was not a man of animal appetites, as his lovemaking proved. She compared him instead to a violinist, a virtuoso in stroking, plucking and teasing out cadences of erotic sensation. He had used a condom as he always did, withdrawing before climax, almost obsessive in his determination not to impregnate her. She appreciated his care but longed for the day they would no longer need to be constrained.

We’re perfectly matched, she told herself. Just look at the way we’ve arranged our clothes. Her grey ensemble hung on the back of the bedroom door. Her hat was on a stand on the dresser while Gérard’s things made a straight-edged stack on a chair.

He gave a reluctant yawn.

She smiled. ‘I thought you were falling asleep.’

‘No, and I ought to stir, I’m needed elsewhere.’

‘You’re needed here, Monsieur. Can’t we spend the day together?’

He rolled towards her. ‘My angel, I have a pile of papers on my desk at home that will get snow on top if I don’t decrease their height.’

Tatiana laughed more heartily than the joke deserved, it so surprised her. Her sister Katya had once said, ‘Your Monsieur de Sainte-Vierge has an underdeveloped sense of humour.’ To which Tatiana had retorted, ‘It’s the only underdeveloped part of him, I can assure you.’ Her smile faded as she saw he was serious about getting up.

He leaned over and kissed the end of her nose. ‘How about I brew a pot of coffee? Shall I run you a bath?’

‘Yes to coffee, no to a bath. I’ll wash at the sink. Since I’m being kicked out, I might as well go home and be useful to my family. Darling, when we’re married where will we live?’

Gérard had swung his legs off the bed and looked at her across his shoulder, his mouth turning down. Had she said something vulgar? Being Russian, she was forthright in her questions and opinions, often transgressing French subtlety. His irritation was fleeting, however.

‘Summers and Christmas will be at Tournon-sur-Rhône,’ he told her. ‘Only fair I spend time at the family chateau, otherwise the staff lose heart and the estate workers get lazy. The rest of the time we’ll be in Paris.’

‘But where in Paris? What of your mother and Armand?’ Gérard’s family home was exactly that, in that it contained his mother and younger brother. A sprawling mansion, to be sure, on one of Paris’s premier avenues, but even so, Tatiana couldn’t envisage her position there with his mother in residence. She’d feel like a second cherry on the bun.

‘Maman will return to her apartment on Malesherbes when I’m married,’ Gérard said calmly. ‘As for Armand… well, you won’t notice him. He keeps to his rooms at the top of the house.’

Without waiting for her response, Gérard knotted a sheet around his loins and left the room. Tatiana reached for her robe. For all they were long-term lovers, the intimacies of the bed remained within its sturdy frame. Beyond the bedroom, modesty prevailed. Blame their formal upbringings in households with servants and, in her case at least, religious icons on every wall. She’d no more wander around a flat naked than walk down the street that way. Which was why she gasped when she strolled into the bathroom and saw Gérard’s unclad buttocks as he shaved at the sink. ‘Mon Dieu! I’m sorry.’

Their eyes met, his reflected in the mirror. The lower part of his face was slathered in foam, through which a blade had made a single sweep. Black, glittering eyes offered a comical contrast to the whiteness below. Except there was nothing funny in their expression. Hate, love, lust…

She stood, transfixed. She’d heard him in the kitchen as she left the bedroom. Heard him opening a cupboard, and the ‘pop’ of the gas as he lit the stove. Could the cleaning woman have let herself in and be making their coffee for them? Tatiana stammered, ‘I’m sorry… I didn’t mean—’

‘Tatiana.’ He turned, naked and obviously aroused.

‘Armand!’ She clutched her robe in a convulsion of embarrassment. ‘When did you—? No, don’t!’ Gérard’s brother stepped towards her, eyes flicking to the engagement ring, and she let out a scream. A moment later, Gérard was behind her.

‘Putain! Armand? What the devil? Tatiana, go to the lounge.’ Gérard gave her a push, though she hardly needed it. She scurried to the kitchen, where she shut the door hard. Through the pumping of her heart, she heard muffled exchanges between the brothers. Gérard’s voice remained the loudest. As the elder, the one with the influential position as well as being his mother’s favourite, he easily dominated. How could this have happened? Her cheeks scalding with mortification, Tatiana took the coffee percolator off the flame. Strong brew was pulsing under its glass dome.

Gérard joined her as she was placing cups on the kitchen stand. She muttered, ‘Has he gone?’

‘No, but he will the moment he’s dressed. What made you scream like that, Tatiana?’

‘You mean, “Haven’t I seen a naked man before?” Yes. You and you alone, and I’m starting to find Armand’s interest in me deeply unpleasant.’

‘Then you should have walked away the moment you saw him. Loitering at the bathroom door only encouraged him.’

‘I thought he was you!’

‘It didn’t occur to you that under such circumstances, I’d have locked the door?’

‘No,’ she sighed, pouring a wavering stream of coffee. ‘Armand looked so shocked and angry at the sight of me, though he must know we’re lovers. Or suspected it, at any rate.’ The way he’d stared at the ring on her finger disturbed her. More, perhaps, than the memory of his physical response. ‘What’s he doing here anyway? He has a key?’

‘Yes,’ Gérard admitted. ‘I gave him one so he could use this place after a night out if he was unfit to go home. I didn’t invite him to avail himself of it during the day.’

‘So… he was here all the time we…’ Tatiana shuddered. Gérard shrugged uncomfortably.

The crash of the front door announced that they were alone.

As Tatiana drank coffee she no longer wanted, she wondered why every supposedly happy occasion in her life turned into heartache and conflict.

Instead of going straight home, Tatiana called on her best friend. Constanza Darocca lived in Batignolles, a couple of metro stops north of the eighth arrondissement where Tatiana lived. She and Constanza had first met as novice mannequins at Callot Soeurs, the couture house on Avenue Matignon, and for a while had shared the Batignolles flat. The more confident of the two, Constanza had shown Tatiana what bohemian Paris offered fashionable young women. In particular, those who could dance and weren’t burdened with chaperones tapping their wristwatches at midnight.

That first taste of freedom had thrown Tatiana into the path of young men released from war and there had been many flirtations, but nothing serious until she tumbled into Gérard’s arms. The fun had skidded to a halt when she’d succumbed to Spanish flu in the summer of 1919. Pulled back from the brink of death, she’d taken weeks to recover and had only restarted her modelling career after her sister Katya founded Maison Javier with two colleagues. Tatiana had become their first mannequin, joined by others as the couture house roared into success.

Bumping into each other at a party, she and Constanza had slid back into their old, gossipy ways. Constanza declared herself bored with Callot. ‘It’s growing frumpy and smells of violets and old lace.’

‘Then join me,’ Tatiana had invited. ‘It would be a dream to have you along. The other girls resent me for being the boss’s sister and you’d frighten them into being nice to me.’ Half-Argentinian with obsidian eyes, jet-black hair and creamy skin, Constanza Darocca magnetised all who met her. Cats adored her, but women and most men were afraid of her. For his part, Gerard was unenthusiastic.

‘An acquired taste, but I’ll work at liking her, for your sake.’

Even after Tatiana had moved back to live with her mother, the Batignolles flat was a sanctuary when she was too tipsy to go home or needed to share turbulent feelings.

But even best friends can disappoint. Shown the ring, Constanza’s mouth made a sour little shape.

‘Not you as well!’ Tatiana wailed. Wasn’t anybody she loved going to congratulate her?

Constanza collected herself. ‘It’s fabulous news, but Tatya, I’ll lose you. Married women have no time for friends.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘My mother didn’t. And what about Katya? How many get-togethers or long lunches do you have with your sister?’

‘Not many, but Katya works so hard. Being a wife, a designer and director leaves little time for anything much. But she has her circle. As will I, and you will be friend-of-honour.’

‘You’ll choose a wedding dress from Javier?’

‘I suppose.’

‘You have to, and ask Katya to design it or risk offending her.’

Tatiana groaned. ‘I didn’t realise before today there were so many people to offend. I’ve already snubbed Rosa and Larissa. As for Gérard’s brother…’ She sketched the hideous incident outside the bathroom.

After she’d howled with laughter, Constanza warned Tatiana to treat Armand de Sainte-Vierge with care. ‘He’s not a man to withstand having his heart broken in public. You had better write to him.’

‘What on earth would I say? “Dear Armand, sorry I encountered your backside, oh, and by the way, I’ll soon be your sister-in-law.”’

‘Let’s throw you an engagement party and invite him. Give him a chance to get used to your new status. I’ll bring some unattached girls and hope he falls in love with them instead.’ Constanza showed her teeth in a smile, which implied, ‘There – all arranged.’

Tatiana couldn’t see how a rowdy night out would alter Armand’s obsession with her. ‘I’d rather not be in his company at all.’

‘That won’t work, not once you’re married. You’ll be constantly thrown together,’ Constanza persisted. ‘The only way to avoid him is to break off your engagement. No? Then put your head in the lion’s mouth.’

Tatiana sighed. ‘I suppose that in a public place, surrounded by others, he can’t harm me. Fine. Organise a party but nothing showy and not too many people. Armand doesn’t cope well with noise.’

‘He is not made of eggshell. He needs to be treated as a grown-up. Agree?’

‘If you say so. I agree.’ A concession that was to rebound fatally.

Constanza threw the party the following Saturday night. The location was the Café Select, a fashionably raffish place in Montparnasse. Locals in shirt sleeves mingled with girls in evening gowns and boys in black tie, while older women entertained their gigolos at discreet tables, safe in the knowledge that their husbands were dining somewhere smarter with their mistresses. It was the Left Bank, the hub of creative Paris.

Had Constanza not called for her in a taxi, Tatiana might have cried off. It wouldn’t feel such an ordeal had Gérard been one of the party, but he was dining at Les Ambassadeurs, the café-restaurant of the Hôtel de Crillon. His position as a high-ranking fonctionnaire often obliged him to entertain. Tonight it was visitors from a London bank, enjoying a true ‘Parisian night’ without straying too far into the hinterlands. It had struck Tatiana that she ought to have been asked along, but when she’d suggested it, Gérard had assured her she’d have much more fun with her own set.

‘Surely, though, I ought to learn the ropes. Won’t entertaining be part of my job when we’re married?’

‘Exactly,’ he’d replied. ‘When we’re married. Have a splendid time and I’ll join you if I can.’

Truth was, Gérard disliked her friends. His efforts at ‘acquiring a taste’ for Constanza were not progressing well either. ‘I daresay some men admire smouldering sexuality,’ he’d said when Tatiana had pleaded with him to get to know her friend better. ‘For my part, I prefer not to be scorched.’ Places like the Café Select grated on him. Loud, with perspiring waiters serving hearty dinners. Artists vying to out-shout novelists while trying to out-smoke poets. All to the strains of popular music. Gérard liked opera, and would book the best seats once a month. In between, he listened to gramophone discs in his flat. So while she hoped to see him later, Tatiana wasn’t counting on it.

As for Armand, he had accepted the invitation by return of post, and when Tatiana and Constanza arrived he was already at an inside table, a pastis glass and water jug in front of him. He watched their approach. Their previous meeting uncomfortably fresh in her memory, Tatiana knotted her silk stole tighter around her shoulders. Better not reveal her evening dress with its cutaway back and shoulder straps. Not until she was safely ensconced in a crowd. Initially she’d chosen a modest tunic dress for tonight, but Constanza had shouted in protest when she saw it.

‘I’m not taking you out looking like a nomad camel-driver!’ She’d made Tatiana change into something ‘that makes you look female’.

Shaking hands with Armand, Tatiana blushed. Armand remained unabashed.

‘I’d prefer it were just the two of us,’ he murmured as the rest of their party arrived.

While they ate he said nothing to cause alarm. Everyone around the table knew he’d had a bad war and made concessions. He’d hung on the margins of Constanza and Tatiana’s set for months. In fact, Tatiana had known him before Gérard. Her first job in Paris, following her family’s flight from Moscow, had been as a waitress in a tea parlour. Armand used to come in with his mother. His gaze would follow her as she worked her way between tables. The red star medal on his lapel had told her that he’d been invalided out of the army and was one of the legion of damaged men vying for compassion. Except she hadn’t much compassion for anyone back then. Leaving the tea room to start work as a mannequin, she hadn’t given him another thought. Not so for him. He’d tracked her down to Callot Soeurs.

He’d pressed hothouse flowers upon her, invited her for coffee, riverside strolls, dinner, ignoring her protestations that she was not seeking admirers.

‘Thank you, but I mean to be independent. I’m not looking for love.’

Words that had slid like rain off an oilskin coat. Armand had become a fixture at the salon, watching the afternoon parades with twitchy intensity, impatient for Tatiana’s appearance on the catwalk. In the end, Callot’s directrice had telephoned his mother, asking her to please discourage her son from being quite so… ahem… regular in his presence. That had brought Gérard to the salon to investigate the situation. A fateful visit; Tatiana, who was convinced she was too cold-hearted for love, had fallen. And yes, she could certainly pity Armand now. Imagine, if Gérard told her he was in love with her sister! But that was life, wasn’t it? A relentless stream bringing joy one moment, misery the next. At least tonight Armand was behaving. She could hear his monotone drone. He was telling one of the married women in the party about his law studies, which war had cut short. He would return to university, he said, but for the intense headaches that plagued him. ‘I don’t sleep.’

Tatiana whispered to herself, ‘Insomnia is another price of survival.’

‘You said something?’ Armand shot her a look she wasn’t fast enough to avoid. Giving him a nervous smile, she pushed away her unfinished plate of food and leaned towards Constanza.

‘Shall we skip dessert? Go straight to coffee?’ She wanted the evening to end. The earlier they ordered their taxis, the better.

But Constanza only laughed. She looked magnificent in red, her caramel skin glowing in the globe lights. ‘Home by ten? What are you, a baby?’ She raised her hand to summon their waiter, though in the end she had to stand and wave both arms to get attention. Over in a corner, a group of intellectuals were noisily sharing their argument with everyone. Who was the greater genius, James Joyce or Marcel Proust? ‘Who cares?’ Constanza roared. ‘Shut up so I can make my waiter hear me!’

Armand leaned forward and murmured to Tatiana, ‘If we sent a taxi to rue Hamelin and fetched Monsieur Proust here, he would settle the argument at once. He would say, “The greater genius? Myself of course!” Tatiana, when I got your invitation, I was so happy.’

‘It wasn’t from me. Constanza sent it.’

‘At your insistence. No?’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake—’ Tatiana tried to get Constanza’s attention. It didn’t matter what she said, or how she said it, Armand wilfully misread her. Just then, two waiters walked up. One carried a jeroboam of champagne, the other a tray of goblets.

Constanza laughed at Tatiana’s expression. ‘A certain gentleman left instructions. Gérard may not be here, but he makes up for his absence in bubbles.’ Lifting the first sparkling glassful to her lips, Constanza calle