Chapter 7 #2
Romy looked at her, eyes alight. ‘It was partly due to something you wrote’, she said.
‘Your interview with the designer Inigo Lopes, whose business had fallen on hard times, and yet he said he didn’t regret a thing—that risk was a part of creativity.
That stayed with me, so, as I stood a year ago with my family and my then-boyfriend at my thirtieth birthday party, obediently raising a glass to the prospect of a promotion in my job, it suddenly hit me.
It was time. Silly dream or not, I had to give it a go.
I had more than enough savings to take a risk, whatever the outcome.
Otherwise, I knew I’d regret it for the rest of my life. ’
Audrey remembered Inigo’s fine-featured face, his hollow cheeks and intense gaze, as he spoke to her, words flooding from him as he tried to explain why he felt as he did.
She didn’t know if he’d just been trying to persuade himself that it had not been for nothing, all his hard work and talent crashing and burning after a too-rapid expansion, or whether he genuinely believed it.
But everyone had a right to their own story to live by, whether or not it accorded with other people’s views of it, and she’d never judged anyone for that.
And now, as she listened to this animated young woman telling her story, Audrey felt strangely humbled by the thought that she had certainly believed what Inigo had said.
And it had changed her life. Gently, she said, ‘So you left your job and came here.’
‘Yes. My family was absolutely furious, of course—except for my uncle, he completely understood and supported me, and he still does.’ A pause.
‘Anyway, I quit and came to Paris, enrolled here.’ She shrugged.
‘And so here I am, struggling through my first year and not knowing if I’m really going to make it.
’ A look of what almost looked like horror came over her face then and Audrey knew that those last words must have tumbled out of their own accord.
Mickael must have seen it too, for he reached out to her, briefly brushing his fingers across her hand. ‘Everyone feels like that in their first year, Romy.’
She met his gaze and whispered, ‘I’m not sure about that,’ but her expression had lightened.
That was a beautiful moment, Audrey thought, her writer’s instinct prickling.
It would make a great joint interview, all the more wonderful because it had been unscripted.
In fact, it might be at the heart of her article.
‘Thank you so much to both of you,’ she said.
‘It’s been great talking with you, but I better get back to my official schedule, if you’ll take me to Professor Cazenave’s office, Mickael. ’
‘Oh, I’ve just been there,’ said Romy. ‘That’s why I can’t meet you later, Mickael. This afternoon is the only time he can meet a friend of mine who wants to ask him about Elisabeth Fontaine.’
Audrey’s ears pricked up. ‘What about her?’
Romy waved a hand vaguely. ‘Just about her old workshop, I think, and whether there’s any record of the people who worked for her there.’
‘That sounds interesting,’ said Audrey. ‘Is your friend a researcher or academic?’
‘No, she’s a brocanteuse. She sells vintage clothes and jewellery, and specialises in that period.’
‘I see. Has she ever come across any Fontaine clothing or accessories?’
‘Um, I don’t think so,’ Romy said. Audrey thought she seemed a little evasive and was now intrigued. ‘They don’t ever come on the market, do they?’ Romy went on quickly. ‘They’re either in a museum or owned by private collectors who are never going to let them go.’
Audrey decided not to probe. ‘True enough. Well, good luck with your meeting. And—’ She fished a business card out of her bag and handed it to Romy.
‘Please tell your friend I’d love to see what she stocks.
I’m writing a book about the designers of that period, but I also love the era for its own sake.
’ And I’ll also have the opportunity to ask about the Fontaine angle, she thought, because there’s something this woman isn’t telling me.
Romy took the card. ‘I will definitely tell her. It was so good to meet you, Audrey. Thank you for taking the time to talk to me.’
‘It was a pleasure,’ Audrey said.
‘And Mic, maybe we can catch up tomorrow?’ Romy added.
‘Sure,’ he replied, his face filling with the biggest smile.
It was only then, as Romy hurried away, that Audrey remembered something.
‘Mickael,’ she said, ‘I’ll need both your full names and email addresses so I can send you the transcript to check. Do you happen to know Romy’s?’
‘I can give you her school email address,’ he said. ‘And as for her full name—her surname is Valence. Romy Valence.’
Audrey’s throat clenched. Valence was an unusual surname.
And Romy had said she was from Brussels and that her family was very controlling except for the uncle who’d supported her change of direction.
My God—it had to be. No wonder she’d felt a sense of vague familiarity.
Romy didn’t have Alex’s colouring, but her expressions, the shape of the mouth, the tilt of the chin—it definitely added up to a family resemblance.
And when Audrey had met him in the street, he’d said he’d been visiting his niece.
A niece who, like him, had escaped from the clutches of that rigid family.
But he must not have said anything about Audrey to Romy at any stage, for she had clearly responded to the famous journalist, not her uncle’s long-ago ex.
She’s bound to tell him about our encounter, and I’ve given her my card, Audrey thought, panic-stricken, wishing she could take it back.
But it was too late. And then she thought, so what if he did have the chutzpah to call?
It didn’t matter. It was time to lay that ghost to rest for good.
Pulling herself together, she said, ‘Thanks, Mickael. I appreciate it. Now, I wonder if you could take me to see Pierre Cazenave?’
‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Please come with me.’