Chapter 23
Twenty-three
As their hotels were in the same general direction across the river, Isabelle shared a taxi with Audrey from the railway terminus at Montparnasse station, while Romy and Alex went on foot back to Romy’s flat, where Alex was to stay the night on the sofa bed in the living room.
Family discussions coming up, clearly, Isabelle thought with a stifled yawn and a glance at Audrey, who returned her look with a tired smile.
‘It’s been quite a day,’ she said, ‘but a fruitful one, don’t you think? ’
‘Absolutely.’ In more than one way, Isabelle thought, thinking not only about what had happened and what they’d learned, but also about the look on Carlos’s face when he’d said he might join her in Paris later.
She hadn’t tried to pin him down, because his expression had made her feel both stupidly like crying and even more foolishly like cheering.
She had, of course, done neither and simply whispered, ‘I’m sorry, Carlos,’ and he had shrugged and whispered back, ‘What’s done is done, but please, Isa, remember I am on your side.
’ That had almost undone her, though she’d managed to keep it together and on the train she’d been grateful for the excuse to close her eyes, surprised when she woke up a couple of hours later when they briefly stopped in Bordeaux.
‘I’ll be going to the Académie de la Grande Chaumière, the art school that Alice attended,’ Audrey said. ‘They cancelled the first visit I’d arranged with them, but finally got back to me with a new confirmed time when I could visit.’
‘That’s great.’ Isabelle hid a smile, knowing that the art school was in the same street as Romy’s apartment building, the very same one where Alex was spending the night.
Perhaps he’d still be there tomorrow morning.
Those two had history, she was sure, a history that wasn’t quite extinguished, judging by the way they’d looked at each other when they had parted ways at Montparnasse station.
Well, if Audrey wanted to talk about it, she would when she was ready.
If not, that was fine. After all, she had her own love tangle to sort out, rather than speculating on other people’s.
She had told herself that her relationship with Carlos was just a pleasant no-strings episode that could be ended amicably when she wanted to.
She’d known to her cost that she’d always trusted the wrong sort of men, yet when she’d come across a genuinely good one in Carlos, she hadn’t even realised it.
And she had not factored in what he might want, only that she’d convinced herself that he was the easy come, easy go type who wouldn’t worry too much about moving on.
But how Carlos had acted today pointed to a rather different kind of person than the image she’d selfishly, shallowly, stupidly assumed.
Whether she had ruined what they had—and she wasn’t sure still what that was—or not, she had to make amends.
There was hope, because of the fact he’d be coming to Paris, but perhaps that was because he wanted to end it properly, face to face without others hovering.
She’d thought she could easily read Carlos, but she’d been wrong.
Oh well, she could do nothing about it right now.
The next move belonged to Carlos, not to her.
The taxi reached her hotel, and before getting out, she offered Audrey money for her part of the fare, which Audrey smilingly refused.
‘It’s a tax deduction for my book, anyway,’ she said.
‘Besides, it’s a very small thanks for letting me share in this whole thing with you—it’s going to make a big difference to the story I’m telling. ’
Touched, Isabelle said, ‘It is an absolute pleasure, and thank you too for sharing Alice’s wonderful notebook. Well, I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a good night.’
As the taxi drew away, Isabelle set off for the nearest late-closing restaurant and was almost there when her phone buzzed with a call. ‘Simon,’ she said, surprised to be hearing from her eldest child. ‘It’s late. Where are you? Is everything all right?’
He gave a laugh. ‘Yes, Maman, of course it is. I just wanted to say hello. I’m in Vienna with the orchestra, just came out of a concert. Adeline told me you were in Paris.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’ve been on the trail of something very interesting related to my work, a letter I found from the 1930s, which could have been a vital clue to a mystery related to a designer from that time, Elisabeth Fontaine.’
‘You said “could have” been,’ he said. ‘But it isn’t?’ Simon could be vague, but sometimes he startled her by zeroing in on things people said which they hadn’t even realised were ambiguous.
‘I think it still is,’ she said slowly. ‘But things haven’t turned out quite as I thought, and I’ve been so focused on the fact of the letter itself, and who it was sent to, that for a while there I almost lost sight of what she actually says.
’ And that was true, she thought, surprised by her own words.
‘Yes, that can happen,’ said Simon. ‘It’s like you get hung up on a note and the rest of the piece blurs.’
She smiled to herself. Trust him to find a musical image.
‘Yes. Like that.’ She asked him about Vienna, and they talked for a couple more minutes.
As Isabelle sat a short while later over a reinvigorating bowl of couscous, her mind was clear and bright, for Simon’s simple question had put something into perspective.
The letter was very important, crucial even, because without it she would never have started this quest. But even though Cazenave had stolen it, she still had Elisabeth’s words.
She still had the heart of the story. The gown had never been made, yes.
But the sketches had. And their copies might still be discovered.
They still had a chance to find them, if they could track down the identity of Mademoiselle Houssaye.
Yes, Cazenave was a professional researcher, so he might have all kinds of means at his disposal.
But unlike him, they knew about Patricia Landry.
As soon as Romy opened the apartment door, Mitzi rushed out to greet her, purring and winding around her legs with such affectionate assiduity that she couldn’t help laughing. ‘Okay, Mitz, I’m sorry, and don’t worry, I’ll give you double rations tonight.’
‘She’s not the only one needing a meal,’ said Alex, bending down to stroke the cat, who responded positively if a little impatiently, her gaze fixed on her mistress who was taking out a pouch of cat food ready to go into her bowl.
‘There’s a tin of cassoulet in the cupboard that I can heat up,’ Romy said, doling out the contents of the pouch to Mitzi’s quivering delight. She noticed her stomach was rumbling now. ‘There’s some leftover bread we can toast, too.’
‘Okay to the bread,’ Alex said. ‘But no to the tin. I’ll make something fresh. You have eggs?’ She nodded. ‘Omelette, then. That do you?’
Her uncle’s omelettes were famous. Well, to Romy, anyway. ‘Absolutely,’ she said. ‘And while you do that, I’ll go and have a quick shower.’
She came back into the kitchen a short time later, wrapped in her big fluffy dressing-gown, to find that Alex had not only made a cheese and herb omelette, but also set the table and toasted some leftover baguette.
It was a quick but delicious meal, and afterwards a satisfied Romy leaned back in her chair and asked, ‘Is it my imagination, Alex, or are you looking suspiciously happy?’
He laughed. ‘It’s your imagination, my dear, for when do I ever look suspicious?’
‘Frequently,’ she flashed back. ‘But seriously, I hope it does work out between you and—’
He held up a hand to stop her from finishing. ‘Don’t. Let’s not tempt fate, shall we?’
And with that, Romy had to be content for the moment. But later, after retiring to her own room, she picked up her phone and sent an impulsive text to Mickael. If you’re awake, can we talk?
He answered almost at once. Yes. You’re back? He knew she’d been in Toulouse as she’d messaged him from Youssef’s plane.
She didn’t text back, but called him instead and filled him in on everything that had happened.
He listened intently, without interrupting her, though he made a soft sound when she told him what Cazenave had done.
When she finished, he gave a low whistle and said, ‘Wow, Romy. That is quite some story. Amazing.’ He paused, then added, ‘The prof—sure, I’m shocked, but not altogether surprised. ’
‘What do you mean?’ she asked, sharply.
‘Look, he’s done okay in his career, he has a decent reputation, but judging from a couple of things I’ve noticed, and things he’s let slip, I think he probably imagined something greater for himself than teaching part-time and writing the occasional text for an exhibition.
Maybe he had an ambition to do much more and thought that by this stage he’d be at the top of his particular tree, but it just hasn’t happened.
He’s basically at retirement age now. So perhaps when your friend Isabelle left the letter behind, he saw it as his last shot at greatness, at solving a mystery no one else has been able to. ’
Romy snorted. ‘He could have done that with us! Isabelle liked him, trusted him, as did I. We wouldn’t have stopped him from writing it up and getting academic credit for it. Besides, if that’s the case, why try to sell the letter?’
‘He could have both,’ Mickael said. ‘Both the kudos and the cash.’
‘That’s what Isabelle said.’ Romy sighed.
‘And now I don’t know how we are going to get the letter back.
Isabelle has the envelope and the photos, but the original letter is still important and we can’t just give up on it.
But if we push too hard, he might do something drastic, like destroy it, out of spite. ’