Chapter 8
Eight
Il faut souffrir pour être belle. You have to suffer to be beautiful.
Isabelle’s mother used to say this to her, loaded with a sour judgement that implied that Isabelle could certainly not be considered naturally beautiful.
It was one of a number of dispiriting proverbs her mother liked to quote, including qui fait le malin tombe dans le ravin—the one who tries to be clever will fall into the ravine.
That one was usually directed at Félix, who reacted to the stifling home atmosphere with flippant jokes and witticisms. The use of such proverbs was their mother’s way of criticising while distancing herself, not taking responsibility for her own opinions.
As for their father, he didn’t wield proverbs or shout at them or even express much emotion at bad behaviour; the closest he came to that was to say tu me décois, you disappoint me, or tu me froisses, you wrinkle me—this latter phrase still evoking for Isabelle decades later the atmosphere in their house.
A passive-aggressive protest at the children wrinkling the smooth grey surface of their parents’ lives was about as much emotion as the man could muster.
Later, Isabelle had bought a baguette sandwich and a bottle of sparkling water and had them in the nearby Luxembourg Gardens, happily breathing in the balmy air under the trees in full glorious summer leaf.
Lovers strolled hand in hand; teenagers sprawled on the grass; young children raced toy yachts across the basin; old friends chatted comfortably to each other on chairs near the bandstand; and a small group of eager tourists followed a guide carrying a discreet sign, ‘Secrets of Paris Gardens’.
That was one of Isabelle’s favourite occupations: people-watching.
And fashion-watching too, especially in this season when there were so many vibrant outfits in riots of colour, of pattern, of fabrics, all of them joining with the exuberance of nature to create a joyful mosaic of summer.
Her own outfit, in its gorgeous colours and textures, blended perfectly into that mosaic.
She felt mellow. Her shoulder still ached, but she’d bought some strong anti-inflammatories and that had helped a lot.
And she’d voice-messaged Carlos to tell him all was well, so he should stay out of her hair now.
Yes, it had been a great day. But maybe she’d remembered her parents’ unpleasant comments because she felt nervous about the meeting with Professor Cazenave.
She felt in her bones that she was right about the letter’s importance, but what if he poured cold water on it?
What if he patronised her as an amateur, while he was the expert?
Isabelle knew she gave a good impression of being utterly confident, not one to be easily dismissed or ignored—her childhood had taught her the importance of not submitting to anything like that.
But at times the confidence was just a front, and she was still the little girl who had been told she was of no consequence.
At that moment, her phone buzzed with a text message.
It was Romy. Isabelle, just in case I forget—Audrey Oliver came to our school this morning, she’s really sympa.
Anyway I mentioned you and she’s interested in chatting about what you sell and also about Elisabeth Fontaine.
I didn’t mention the letter, leaving that up to you! And then followed the contact details.
Isabelle instantly forgot about her nerves.
Audrey Oliver! She knew the journalist’s name, of course.
Who didn’t, if you were interested in fashion?
She wrote well—in both English and French, which was impressive—and she really knew her stuff.
And apparently she was writing a book about the great female designers of the 1920s and ’30s, including Fontaine.
Meeting her would be an unmissable opportunity, that was for sure.
She could see the café now, and Romy already sitting at an outdoor table with a tallish man she could only see from the back. Isabelle walked over to them and said, ‘Hope you haven’t been waiting long.’
‘Not a problem,’ said the man. ‘Romy and I have only just arrived.’ He held out a hand to her. ‘Pierre Cazenave. Pleased to meet you, Madame Bernard.’
‘Isabelle, please,’ she said. He was around the same age as her, good-looking in an academic sort of way, blue eyes behind light-framed glasses, a head of well-cut salt-and-pepper hair, a short, groomed beard, and dressed in a casually elegant suit with no tie.
As she shook his hand, she noted he didn’t wear a wedding ring, only a discreet gold chevalière, a family signet ring.
‘I am most intrigued to find out what you have to tell me about Elisabeth Fontaine,’ he said, ‘who I am sure Romy has told you is one of my great research interests.’ He saw Isabelle’s expression and smiled. ‘Romy has told me very little, I assure you—only just enough to whet my curiosity.’
‘It wasn’t my discovery,’ Romy said, speaking for the first time, ‘so I’ve left it up to you, Isabelle, to explain to Professor Cazenave.’
‘Very well.’ Isabelle felt a tingle of anticipation that wasn’t just about revealing the contents of the letter. ‘Shall we order drinks and begin?’