Chapter 11
Eleven
He pulled out one of these folders, labelled ‘Elisabeth Fontaine’, as well as three or four books, and after fetching them both drinks—a Cinzano for her, a whisky for him—he settled down with her at the table in the dining alcove.
They looked through it all together, with him explaining anything in the folder that didn’t seem clear, especially as, he freely admitted, his handwriting could sometimes be hard to decipher.
‘Like a doctor’s,’ Isabelle joked. He smiled and said, ‘Maybe not as bad as that!’
He showed her an illustrated timeline he’d drawn up of Fontaine’s life: her birth in Lyon as the only child of parents who never had enough money despite working very hard, her father’s death in an industrial accident when she was thirteen and the subsequent move to Biarritz where her mother had found a job, then later, her own work as a sales assistant in the Chanel store there; her move to Paris, the start of her design career, then the massive success of her first collection, the brilliant love marriage, and then her untimely death at the age of just thirty years old.
‘A short life, yes, but a truly extraordinary one,’ he said, and Isabelle agreed, but added that it was sobering to think of what she might have achieved if she’d lived.
‘That’s true,’ Pierre said, ‘but on the other hand, would people still be talking about her now, if there wasn’t this mystery, this drama about her?’
Isabelle nodded. ‘You’re right.’ She gestured towards the letter, which was lying on the table. ‘And for us, now, there wouldn’t be this excitement around the letter, would there?’
‘Perhaps not,’ said Pierre softly, and the look in his eyes made her colour slightly. Was he flirting with her? Of course he was. Did she like it? Of course she did. But should she encourage it? Probably not.
‘Can we look at the work lists?’ she asked hurriedly, and he smiled as though he knew why she’d changed the subject. Leafing through the folder, he handed her two sheets of paper printed with a list of names—Fontaine’s employees, her petites mains and others—that he’d managed to put together.
‘It’s just a partial list. I’ve only tracked down more long-term employees,’ he cautioned, but Isabelle was impressed for it was much more than she could have discovered herself.
Together they went through the list, but as she’d half-expected, there was no Houssaye in it. With his permission, she took photos of the list and other information, which she’d keep working on with Romy.
Meanwhile there were other aspects that they could look at.
‘I’ve got quite a collection of newspapers and magazines of the time,’ he said.
‘Some of them are about her as a designer, others are about her personal life, and they really give you a feel for her both professionally and as a woman.’ He had indeed quite a pile of these old publications, which they spread out on the table alongside the letter in case they spotted anything that was echoed in it, and they went through it all methodically.
There were reviews and sketches of her first collection, pieces about her previous life in Lyon and Biarritz, and clippings about society events she’d attended with Edmond, as well as a three-page special on their wedding, with photos.
They gave a wonderful picture of her world but not a single one of the articles made even a glancing mention of a Mademoiselle Houssaye, who remained frustratingly elusive.
Pierre then produced a book about the history of the great department stores of Paris, and they looked through the pages about La Belle Jardinière, just in case the idea of Houssaye having been a designer for the store had some relevance.
Not surprisingly they didn’t get far with that, as the in-house designers for the stores usually didn’t get a credit.
Besides, as Isabelle pointed out, given the fact that the dress that had been circled in the catalogue was a blatant copy of a Fontaine frock, why on earth would a successful couturière like Elisabeth have trusted a plagiarist with the precious sketches of her evening gown?
There was some other link to the catalogue, but right now, they had no idea what it was, and no clue had turned up as to what the ‘orphan box’ had been.
It was now close to eight o’clock, and Isabelle was beginning to feel droopy and light-headed, the ache in her shoulder making its presence felt again, so Pierre proposed having dinner in a nearby bistro.
Here, over excellent steak frites and a bottle of red, she began to feel better, and by mutual accord they veered away from Fontaine matters for the moment, as the conversation took a more personal turn.
Isabelle learned that Pierre had lived in Paris for fifteen years, but before that had worked in many other places around the country, and that he’d once been married, but divorced long ago and had no children.
Then, after Isabelle told him about living in the Basque countryside inland of Biarritz, Pierre said that he’d visited the region a couple of times and had been astonished and pleased to find that Cazenave was a well-known name in the area.
‘Of course,’ Isabelle said, smiling. ‘The master chocolatiers of Bayonne! Are you related to them at all?’
Pierre laughed. ‘If only! I tasted their chocolate when I was in Bayonne and it was a superlative experience. I’ve never tasted chocolate like that before or since …
But no, my family’s from Lyon, like Elisabeth Fontaine’s.
And like her, I have a real interest in silk as one of the great raw materials of high fashion.
’ For centuries Lyon had been the centre of the silk industry in France, and thus very important to the couture houses in Paris.
‘I suppose you could say that was part of what inspired me in my late twenties to change direction and become involved in the study of fashion design.’
‘That’s wonderful.’ Isabelle tried to sound enthusiastic but a tidal wave of exhaustion hit her now, and the light-headedness returned with a vengeance.
Pierre didn’t appear to notice as he talked animatedly about his work, how absorbing it was, how immersive and exciting, but also how frustrating, how difficult it was to cut through in his chosen field, how there was backbiting and jealousy in academia that meant sometimes you were stymied from progressing.
‘It can be quite precarious these days,’ he finished.
‘Too many people competing for too few jobs.’
‘That sounds difficult.’ Isabelle had only half-absorbed all that he’d said and was really struggling to stay focused now.
He waved a hand, as if to dismiss his earlier words. ‘Oh, it can be, but it can also be so rewarding. And, of course, I have the opportunity of meeting truly interesting people,’ he added, with a meaningful smile.
It was a clear signal, and in normal circumstances Isabelle would have responded, but she didn’t feel normal at all and it cut right across anything else, including embarrassment at having to leave before the evening was truly over.
‘I’m so sorry, Pierre,’ she said, ‘but I’m feeling rather unwell.
I’m going to have to go back to my hotel. ’
Concern flooded his face. ‘Oh no, is there anything I can do?’
‘Maybe you can call me a taxi?’
‘Of course. Would you like me to go back with you?’
She shook her head. ‘Thank you, but no. I’m sorry for spoiling our evening. I’ve really enjoyed it—all of it. I can’t say how much I appreciate your help with the research.’
‘It is a pleasure,’ he said. ‘It isn’t every day that one can be involved in a discovery like that. Now, let me call that taxi.’
It’s never completely dark in a big city, even in the middle of the night, so when Isabelle woke hours later with a parched mouth and clammy skin, she thought it must be morning.
When she’d got back to the hotel, she’d taken two anti-inflammatories and gone straight to bed, falling asleep at once.
Now, lying in bed in the half-light, she knew what had woken her, for there was a deep hot throb in her shoulder.
It was much worse than the night before, when she’d not even had any painkillers.
And she had a nagging headache as well, probably from too much red wine at the bistro. Why oh why had she done that?
Gingerly, she raised herself up on her other elbow and looked at the time on her phone.
It was only 1 am—it had just been three hours since she’d taken the tablets.
She really should wait another hour, or at least another forty-five minutes, before taking the next dose.
In the meantime, she could use the aloe vera muscle balm she’d bought yesterday, to help take some of the edge off.
But trying to rub it onto her shoulder caused her to flinch so much that in the end all she could do was lightly stroke the balm over her skin, which at least made it feel a little cooler, even if it didn’t take the pain away.
She lay back down, closing her eyes, and tried to will herself to go to sleep, but the pain wouldn’t let her.
After fifteen fruitless minutes, she opened her eyes again, carefully got up and tried to slip a cardigan over her nightgown, but failed because she could hardly move her injured shoulder.
She swore under her breath, cursing the pain, cursing the bloody suitcase and its owner—but cursing herself too, for not having gone to see that doctor of Adeline’s yesterday.
She realised now that Adeline had been right: this was more than a simple muscle inflammation, there must be some deep soft tissue damage.
She’d go to see the doctor first thing in the morning.
To distract herself until then, she took her phone from the bedside table and sat down at the little desk near the window.
Using her good arm, she scrolled to the photo gallery to the pictures she’d taken in Pierre Cazenave’s apartment.
As she sat scrolling, she thought with sudden longing of her cosy red and white village house, her next-door neighbour who always made sure her plants were watered when she was away, and her lively circle of friends, mainly other brocs, and then came an image of Carlos, rustling up something good on the stove without having to be asked.
She bit her lip, feeling a twinge of unexpected guilt and the prick of sudden tears which were surely just to do with being exhausted, in pain and knowing she probably wouldn’t sleep well the rest of the night.
Turning back to the photos, she tried to concentrate on those lists again, with an idea of crosschecking the names on the list with mentions of Fontaine on Google.
She began the laborious process, but after a while, she knew she was much too tired and confused to continue.
But thank God she could now safely take the painkillers. Swallowing them down with a glass of water, she sent a short message to both Romy and Pierre, explaining what she’d been doing. Then she put her phone on silent and crawled back into bed.