Chapter 1
CHAPTER 1
PARIS, 12 APRIL 1985
LUCREZIA
I stood in front of the Galeries Lafayette beside a cameraman from Canal Société , holding my blazer, too warm for this beautiful spring morning.
Early spring had always been my favourite time in Paris. Scarves were loosened and coats unbuttoned, people stopped to chat in the streets and slow promenades were taken for pure pleasure again, to soak in the first sun. The city swam in that timid, pale gold light and buildings looked like the petals of new blooms. This city might have never felt like home to my wandering heart, but it was certainly exquisite.
Claude, both my employer and my partner, was ready to turn the bowls full of different ingredients lined in front of him into crepes with strawberries and crème Chantilly, as if by magic. The demonstration was going live in the most popular morning programme of the nation, Bonjour Avec , and millions of people would be tuning in. One of the presenters, a slim woman by the name of Amandine, was straightening her skirt, her trademark perma-smile ready to go.
‘Ready in three minutes!’ someone called out, and the small crowd that had formed in front of the stand swayed in anticipation.
Claude ran to me and tucked a strand of my auburn hair behind my ear. Small flashes of light from the cameras told me that this moment would be portrayed in gossip magazines. Claude belonged to that breed of celebrity chefs whose life seemed to be fascinating to the public, just as much as their cooking. He’d been known to have a new girl on his arm every time he was pictured, until I came on the scene, and then, the consensus was that he could have done better than this unsmiling woman who everyone knew wasn’t French, but didn’t seem to come from anywhere in particular. All I’d read in my favour – reading what was written about us was part of my job – was that I had a good sense for fashion. Apart from that, I was described as… thorny .
Which, to be fair, I was.
‘All good, yes?’ he whispered in my ear, so close that I could smell his lemon and vanilla cologne. His fair hair was ruffled in that faux- I just got out of bed way. And as always in his TV appearances, he wore what he called his civilian clothes, and not chef’s attire. Cooking while dressed formally, in pressed shirt and suit trousers, was part of his image.
I was about to answer when something in the crowd caught my attention. Among the women, men and children, the strangers that filled my line of vision, an achingly familiar face made me freeze.
A head of flaming hair, brighter than mine, the curve of a long white neck, a graceful profile and the quick sway of a layered skirt, like a butterfly’s wing.
She can’t be here. She’s dead.
But I knew that profile, I knew that body, I knew that exact shade of red.
I’d nestled my head against that neck, as a baby, and her hair had covered me and my twin while we slept leaning on her breasts. She was the milk we drank, the air we breathed. She was the arms we ran to when we fell and the last voice we heard before falling asleep.
My eyes and my heart screamed that my mother was there – but my mind couldn’t quite believe it, and the dissonance made me feel cut off from space and time, existing in a dimension where space didn’t matter and time didn’t flow.
Mum!
The first word I’d ever learned to say, the sweetest word, was stuck in my throat, my lips unable to form it.
Fireworks exploded in my brain with contrasting messages: run after her, stay, she’s dead, she’s right there, run to her! The crowd moved like one body, melted, came apart again. The red-haired woman was nowhere to be seen.
I was about to take a step, to look for her, when someone held me back.
‘ Lucresiah ?’ Claude pronounced my name with the accent on the last syllable, the French way, and he now called me in a low voice, with that irritable edge I knew so well. What he meant was we’re on stage: perform.
I brought a hand to my cheek, and I was surprised to feel it wet. I’d melted into tears without noticing.
I hadn’t cried for a long, long time.
‘We’re about to go live, Lucresiah .’ I could see a red halo around Claude – he was angry, even if his tone was calm and measured. Being able to see auras, like I could, was a gift and a curse. A gift, because it helped me to read people – a curse, because sometimes I learned things I didn’t want to know.
‘The light made my eyes water.’ I summoned an excuse. Claude’s face morphed from irked to TV-ready, and he beamed at the world as he returned to the table. The cameras were on – one minute – thirty seconds – count back from ten – and we were live.
My gaze wasn’t on Claude’s performance, but beyond, to the crowd, as I half hoped, half dreaded to see the red-haired woman again. I was rooted to the spot, my face composed, but my chest heaving – thud , thud , thud , went my heart, and with each beat more unshed tears swelled behind my eyes. The handbag at my side felt hot and heavy, pulsating with a life of its own: inside was a letter from Bianca, from Casalta, the first after a long time.
I didn’t even know why I kept it in my handbag and carried it around with me, when I’d cut all contact with my family years before.
Claude’s demonstration came to an end; voices rose to signal that the event was over. I brought a hand to my mouth; I was trembling so much that an assistant laid a hand on my arm, murmuring something about sitting down and getting me a glass of water.
It took all my willpower not to run into the crowd and scream her name, to look for her among all those strangers’ faces.
This was the second time I thought I’d caught a glimpse of my mother.
The first was twelve years ago, not long after she died.