Chapter 8
A bearded man with a bulbous nose, who could either have been an artist or a criminal, seemed to be studying Rosalie.
She tried to meet his pale, guarded eyes but they were focused just shy of her left ear, unsettling her.
Judging by the look of the network of broken veins on his cheeks, he was a drunk, but still Irène led her across to the bar to introduce them.
He frowned and something pulsed inside her. A warning maybe. Rosalie shot her friend a curious look. Why was she insisting on introducing them?
‘This,’ Irène said, ignoring the look, ‘is Pierre.’
‘Drink?’ the man said.
She spotted he had two chipped teeth then looked down at his feet. You could tell a lot by a person’s footwear and his shoes were expensive, Italian leather. When she glanced up, she smiled. ‘Pernod, please.’
‘Good choice,’ the man said.
‘Pierre has something for you,’ Irène said.
‘Really?’ Rosalie said, tapping her fingers on the bar counter.
The man studied her face before speaking, and something about the way he did it made her feel wary. There was menace in his gaze. She saw it in the way the skin around his eyes tightened as if he were calculating.
‘What would you say if I told you that your father has a secret?’ he finally said.
Rosalie frowned. How did this man even know who her father was?
‘I’d laugh at you,’ she replied, already sensing that if she engaged with him there might be no turning back.
He tilted his head to one side and scrutinised her face again. ‘You’d be wrong to do so.’
‘How can someone like you know anything about my father?’
‘I could take the information to the police.’
As well as a sickly-sweet cologne, danger came off this man in waves.
‘What’s it about?’ she asked.
He scribbled something on a piece of paper, and she raised her brows.
‘Well?’ he said. ‘Interested in saving your father’s reputation?’
‘You have proof?’
‘I do.’
And what do you want in return?’
‘Just a small payment.’
‘How much is small?’
The door of the bar swung open and a group of wealthy young people swept in, older than her of course, laughing and teasing each other as they clamoured for champagne. High spirits, she thought, longing to be one of them.
The man whispered something in her ear.
She raised her brows. ‘I don’t have that kind of money.’
‘I’m sure you can find a way.’
‘In that case,’ she said, turning to watch the newcomers and quickly deliberating before twisting back to the man, ‘I will see you and your proof the evening after next.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow.’
The next afternoon, while her mother was taking a nap on the chaise longue in the drawing room, Rosalie crept into her parents’ bedroom, where heavily draped velvet curtains shut out the light.
This was risky and she’d have preferred to wait until a time when her mother might be out enjoying her weekly luncheon with her cronies.
Would the man really go to the police? What information could he possibly have?
Rosalie had lain awake all night going over it in her head.
Now she withdrew the small key to the old jewellery box her mother kept on a shelf in her wardrobe.
Her father had intended to install a safe in the apartment, but luckily for Rosalie, that hadn’t happened yet.
She unlocked the box, lifted the mother-of-pearl lid, and then pulled open the lowest of the satin-lined drawers where the very smallest pieces of jewellery were kept in velvet drawstring bags.
Without her mother ever noticing, she’d been trying on these family heirlooms for years.
Now she withdrew a pair of tiny glittering earrings, their absence least likely be noticed.
She replaced them in their velvet bag and, hearing a sound from the drawing room, crept out and ran soundlessly to her own room.
That night she danced as she’d never danced before.
More overtly sensually, and more dangerously.
In the crowded, smoky room, the mirrors glittered with reflected light and, ramping her performance up, she swayed her pelvis, feeling like an enchantress.
Then she turned her back and rotated her feather-clad bottom to jubilant yells from the audience.
She kicked up her legs and twisted her body, the eroticism charging the already excited audience with an even headier thrill.
When it was over and the clamour had died down, she met with Pierre again. This time Irène did not stick around, perhaps knowing it was going to be a private exchange.
‘You got what I wanted?’ he asked when they were both settled in an alcove with drinks before them.
Discreetly, she showed him the earrings.
He whistled. ‘Nice. But I said cash.’
‘That wasn’t possible. These are diamonds and worth far more.’
He pulled a disgruntled face. ‘More traceable too.’
She smiled, beginning to enjoy the exchange. ‘I’m sure you’ll find a way. So, what have you got for me?’
He drew in his breath and then leant forward conspiratorially. ‘It’s complicated. The bottom line is that your father is using another name, not his own.’
‘And?’ she frowned. ‘Why would he do that?’
‘To defraud the government.’
Now she laughed. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. It’s clear you know nothing about my father.’
He inclined his head and gave her an insincere smile. ‘There was an article in which he was quoted and in which his photograph appeared.’
‘In Le Temps. I saw it. He was talking about the success of French reconstruction since the war. It’s the department he works for.’
‘And you were proud of him?’
She sniffed. ‘I don’t have that kind of relationship with my father, not that it’s any business of yours.’
‘So, you wouldn’t be interested in knowing he has set up a little construction company of his own?’
‘I’d be extremely bored by that.’
He tilted his head. ‘A company that does not really exist, into which considerable sums of governmental money have poured for work that has never been done.’
She laughed again. ‘Where on earth are you getting all this?’
‘I have my contacts.’
‘So? Go to the police.’
He narrowed his eyes. ‘The police do not pay for such information.’
‘And you have proof with you now?’
He passed her a folder. ‘You will find it there. My cousin, shall I call her, works at the bank where the money is paid in and from where your father draws it out. Like I said, he uses a false name, but my “cousin” recognised him from the photograph in Le Temps.’
‘Where’s the bank?’
‘All in the folder. The bank is in a distant suburb where under normal circumstances nobody would be likely to recognise your father. Civil servants are usually grey, faceless men. Usually his image would not have been in the paper, but with no minister in post, it was.’
‘But why would my father do this? It doesn’t make sense.’
‘You may not know it, but your father has another secret.’
She stared at him, feeling a strange fluttering in her chest. ‘Not another family?’
He laughed. ‘I can put your mind at rest about that. He gambles, my dear.’
She frowned. ‘Where?’
‘Private members’ clubs. Secret clubs.’
‘So why not go straight to him with this?’
He twisted his mouth to the side. ‘Because he’d kick over the traces in moments and I’d likely be carted off as a blackmailer.’
‘Which you are.’
‘Maybe.’ He lifted the earrings and smiled. ‘But I’m not a greedy man. These will do nicely.’
‘Who else knows?’
He sighed. ‘Only my cousin knows about the bank. But I do have an associate who works in one of the private members’ clubs. It was only I who put two and two together.’
The next day was Sunday and Rosalie was feeling jittery, her nerves completely on edge.
She needed to decide whether to show the folder to her father or not.
He would be outraged if he saw it, not least with her, and would undoubtedly deny everything, but if she didn’t show it to him, what then?
Pierre or his cousin might get greedier.
Demand more, or even inform the police. If a scandal erupted, then everything would be lost and her father could go to prison.
She wasn’t his greatest fan, but she didn’t hate him.
At least if she gave him the folder, he might be able to ward off disgrace and humiliation.
After a long dreary lunch, during which she tapped her foot nervously and was scolded for it while her mother ate painstakingly slowly, she went to her room and then came back into the drawing room carrying the folder.
‘You need to see this, Papa,’ she said, holding it out.
He didn’t look up. ‘Put it down somewhere, I’m reading.’
‘Papa, you have to see this now.’
Her mother raised her chin. ‘Do not speak to your father like that, child. What are you thinking?’
‘But Maman …’
Her father looked up now. ‘Well give it to me then,’ he said and reached out for the folder. Rosalie watched anxiously as he opened it and read the contents. His face turned pale.
‘What is it?’ her mother demanded and when he held it away from her, she snatched it from him.
Rosalie remained motionless, holding her breath. Her father was staring at the floor and breathing heavily.
There was a long, terrible silence.
Then her mother rose to her feet, her face pinched and white. She marched over to Rosalie and slapped her hard across the face. ‘How dare you?’
Rosalie gasped, took a step back and rubbed her stinging cheek.
Her father retrieved the folder from his wife and tried to hide it, but his hands were trembling and he looked truly awful. ‘This is nonsense,’ he said. ‘How could you come here and show me such a thing?’
‘I was given it. I thought you should know.’
‘Ridiculous,’ he said, but there was a hint of something else in his outrage. ‘You actually believed this filth?’
‘I … I didn’t know what to believe.’
‘Enough, I don’t want to hear it,’ he said.
Then, a strange look passed between her parents and Rosalie felt certain that her mother knew something about this.
Her mother spoke again, her voice vitriolic. ‘You treacherous little madam. The sooner you leave home and make your own way in the real world the better. Then you’ll find out how hard life really is.’
Rosalie fled the room in tears. Soon after she heard the front door slam as her father left the apartment. He never usually went out on a Sunday.
Smarting from the slap, she remained in her bedroom brooding and listening to her mother’s heels click up and down the corridor and around the hall.
A few hours later Rosalie heard her father come home.
Her parents murmuring voices rose steadily until all she could hear were her mother’s accusations and sobs and then her father slamming a door. She longed to know what was happening, but they would never tell her. It was bad though, and Rosalie knew she would take the blame.
Her eyes swam with tears. ‘It isn’t fair,’ she muttered. ‘It’s not my fault.’
She’d been trying to help, give her father fair warning, but she knew her parents, and they would never forgive her. Her mother already resented her for being the late, unexpected, unwanted child, who’d always got in the way.
In a flash she knew what she would have to do.
Whatever was going to happen here, it would happen whether she was around or not and if she were here, she’d be imprisoned in her own home.
Her mother wouldn’t let her out except to marry a suitable man, and how easy would that be if a family scandal erupted?
In any case, her dancing life would be over.
No. Her whole life would be over. She couldn’t go to Claudette.
Her sister’s hands were already full enough looking after her three daughters.
It was frightening, but Rosalie prided herself on being independent, the kind of person who adapted easily, who could move on without a second thought.
Although that had never been put to the test.
Until now.