In the Paris Fashion (compelling, intriguing, romantic)

Chapter 1

One

Isabelle didn’t open the wallet. She didn’t need to read the letter inside the envelope.

By now, she knew its words by heart. But she hadn’t told anyone about her find, not even Carlos.

Especially not Carlos. She pushed that thought firmly away, along with the memory of his warm body as she slipped out of bed that morning.

Instead, her mind turned to the moment she’d first spotted the letter.

She yawned, the early start beginning to take its toll, as well as the adrenaline of excitement that had been building up in her ever since she’d first read that letter, just three days ago.

She’d booked the Paris trip that very day.

Sure, it was a long shot but she had always operated on instinct in her business and it had rarely let her down.

With men, that was another story, she thought ruefully, as she put the wallet with its precious contents back in the pouch, closed her eyes and let herself drift off, intending only to doze for an hour or so.

In the event, she only woke from a deep sleep because an enormous suitcase had slipped out of someone’s hands as they tried to heave it from the baggage rack right behind her, the sharp corner of the suitcase hitting her shoulder, painfully jerking her out of a vivid dream.

‘Are you okay, Madame?’ its owner, a thin middle-aged man with an English accent, asked anxiously, and she managed to nod reassuringly before following the rest of the passengers out of the train and into the terminus, the station of Montparnasse.

Still feeling a little groggy from the nap and her shoulder beginning to ache after the blow from that ridiculous suitcase, she looked around for a coffee stand.

After a swallow of mediocre but hot coffee, she started to feel better.

Taking out her phone, she checked Google Maps once more for the route she needed to take from the station.

It looked fairly straightforward and should take her less than fifteen minutes.

And though the sky was filling up with dark clouds, she thought the weather should hold out for the walk.

Draining the last of the coffee, she picked up her tote bag, adjusted the strap of her pouch, and set off.

Romy Valence put the measuring tape down and stared across the table at her uncle. ‘He can’t be serious, Alex!’ she exclaimed.

He gave a wry smile. ‘Surely you know that joking has never been a part of Didier’s repertoire, my dear Romy.’

Romy grimaced. Didn’t she ever know that!

Why was her father so different from his brother?

Sure, there was a big age gap—Alex was closer in age to Romy than he was to her father—but it was more than that.

In personality, they were like le jour et la nuit, night and day as the French phrase had it, where English might say chalk and cheese.

Didier Valence was uptight, taciturn, but with an unpredictable streak of temper; Alexandre Valence was laid-back, open, but with a surprising streak of melancholy.

Even in appearance, they were very different: her father tall, dark, elegant; Alex smaller, sandy-haired, and always casually dressed.

He’d never taken part in the family business, escaping it and their home city of Brussels as soon as he could, angering Didier who had made that same business his life, imprisoning himself in a gilded cage of obligations and duties and keeping up the family name.

Romy knew how that felt, as she’d felt the full force of her father’s disapproval herself when she’d finally plucked up the courage to tell him that she’d resigned from her lucrative job in a Belgian finance company—a job he’d helped her get—to pursue her childhood dream of starting a career in fashion design, learning from the ground up, from the very basics of cutting and pattern-making, in a prestigious couture school in Paris.

That had been on her thirtieth birthday, one whole year ago, but judging by what Alex had just revealed, her father still had not accepted it.

His latest move was to offer her a rent-free apartment and an allowance if she moved back to Brussels and looked for what he called a ‘proper’ job.

And Alma, he’d said, completely agreed with him.

She swallowed. ‘Well, he can forget it. I don’t need his money and I’m certainly not going to give in to anyone’s manipulation.’ Her voice faltered a little. ‘Did you speak to Alma?’

Alma was her older sister, and though they’d never been close growing up, it hurt Romy to know that her only sibling was still taking their father’s side.

But then Alma had always been close to him, even more so after their mother, Blanche, died when both girls were in their twenties.

Romy didn’t know for sure what her mother would have thought of her decision a year ago, but she suspected that she’d have backed Didier.

She nearly always had. And now Alma was doing the same.

She’d hardly spoken to Romy in months, and when she did, it was clipped and cool.

Even the imminent arrival of Alma’s first child had not softened her towards her sister.

‘I did speak to Alma,’ Alex said, ‘but you know what she’s like, stubborn as they come!

Things will change though, I’m sure, once the little one arrives.

Babies have a way of reminding people what really matters.

’ He gestured at the table, where Romy’s sewing machine sat to one side, surrounded by the usual array of paper pattern pieces, lengths of calico, spools of thread, and all the rest of the accoutrements needed by a couture student.

‘Just keep doing what you do, what you love, my dear Romy, and they’ll come round in time, especially when they see just how skilled you are getting. ’

His words were well meaning and sincere, Romy knew that, but he couldn’t see what was in her heart, the doubts and fear that had been rising in her over the past few weeks.

I won’t make it. I’m not good enough. I will never be good enough, no matter how hard I try.

And worse still, the nagging little voice that whispered that perhaps her family had been right.

She hadn’t told Alex how lately things hadn’t been feeling quite right: she’d fumbled a couple of assignments in her arduous course, she’d copped her share of criticism from a particularly rigorous teacher, and she’d increasingly been feeling out of place in the midst of her much younger classmates.

Now she felt rattled as she thought of the fitted jacket she had to make for the next assignment, the final and most important for the year, before school broke up for the summer holidays.

The students had to make up the patterns themselves, based on a design they’d chosen, and then create the prototype in calico.

It had felt like an exciting project, and she’d found a timelessly elegant design: a skirt suit with a closely fitted jacket and straight skirt.

The skirt had been easily created and her pattern for the jacket had looked good.

But when it came to cutting and assembling the prototype, she had run into trouble almost immediately and had to start again with the toiles, after making serious mistakes with her first attempt at the sleeves.

The calico from which the toiles were made wasn’t expensive, but the wastage seemed to symbolise the wasteland which she was afraid of finding herself in if her dream turned to ashes.

She forced a smile. ‘I suppose we’ll have to wait and see if the age of miracles hasn’t finished yet. But what about you, Alex? How was that class reunion you went to in Brussels?’

He made a face. ‘Exactly as I thought. Everyone just wanted to talk about their fancy cars, their smart apartments and big houses, their talented kids, their thriving businesses, their world travel. So what were they to make of a single, childless barman?’

Romy glanced at him, her face lightening. ‘Oh Alex, you didn’t!’

‘Didn’t what?’ he replied, a twinkle in his eye.

‘Tell them you were a barman!’

‘Well, yes. Because it’s true,’ he replied, smiling. ‘I work in bars, don’t I?’

‘Bars you happen to own,’ she said, mock-sternly.

Sure, he’d started as a barman twenty years ago, but two years later he had leased small, shabby, cheap premises in the 20th, turning them into a funky New Orleans–style bar which soon took off.

Now he owned no less than seven successful bars around the city.

‘Well, it was just so much fun seeing them tie themselves in knots trying not to patronise me as the class failure,’ he said, grinning.

She shook her head. ‘You are terrible, Alex,’ she said, affectionately.

‘Sadly, yes.’ His eyes crinkled with his ready smile as he got up. ‘I’ve got to go now, but how about we have dinner tomorrow night. Are you free?’

Was she free? She was always free. She’d not made any real friends since she’d arrived. ‘Yes, I am, and yes, I’d love to,’ she said, getting up in turn and kissing him on both cheeks. ‘Thanks for dropping by, Alex. It’s always lovely to see you.’

‘Even as the bearer of bad news from Brussels?’ asked her uncle, wryly.

Romy smiled. ‘Even then. See you tomorrow.’

‘Yes,’ he said, and nodded at the basket where Romy’s grey cat lay fast asleep, her tail curled around her body. ‘See you later too, Mitzi.’