Epilogue Adelia Boutique, Montmartre
Epilogue
Adelia Boutique, Montmartre
Twilight. The sky was low and pink. Boulevards of plane trees popped with golden hues.
The jigsaw of Montmartre streets and avenues thrummed with activity as the locals moved between smoky jazz clubs and dance halls, trying to settle on a mood for the evening.
Charlie weaved her way between old, hunched men with canes, lattice chairs on footpaths and couples slowly strolling hand in hand.
She was running late to Violet’s launch.
As always, Charlie regretted her decision to wear kitten heels, but not Aleksandr’s blue dress.
She reached beneath her coat and stroked the darts at her hips.
Every time she’d worn this dress, it had revealed something.
Last time, she’d revealed something, and she was hoping third time would be a charm.
Charlie continued to wobble like a drunk sailor until she came to the double-fronted Art Deco shop. A brass plaque sat neatly at the side: Adelia.
Charlie polished the gold plaque with her coat sleeve and admired the two huge display windows that managed to feel bohemian enough for Montmartre, elegant enough for the crème of Paris society and edgy enough for young Parisians.
The left window featured an overstuffed floral chair with a faux peacock perched on the seat.
Beside the chair stood a headless mannequin in a teal silk slip with rows of coloured beads slung around its neck.
In the right window was a headless suit of silver armour holding an arrow upright in one hand with a shield lying at its feet.
An old sideboard stood to one side, topped with teal porcelain plates loaded with fresh oranges.
A second mannequin stood beside it in an orange slip dress with garlands of crystal beads around the wrists and at the neck.
Charlie stepped through the front door into an explosion of noise and lights, the party in full swing.
In the far corner behind a microphone stood a young woman with a dark bob in a short, sequined dress, singing a brooding love song with a voice so sensual and husky, she sounded like édith Piaf.
Teary Harlequins with bright face paints and costumes juggled oranges and dodged waiters carrying coupes of champagne.
In the centre of the room, a champagne fountain frothed and bubbled. Beside it were silver platters dotted with salmon quiches and crudités. There was even a silver trolley with its own waiter spooning caviar onto crackers from a small silver bucket.
Charlie elbowed her way through the crowd to her friend.
‘Violet!’ She kissed her on both cheeks, and they linked arms to stroll through the shop.
It was unlike any Charlie had seen, set up with carved wooden bedheads from India, beaded necklaces from Venice, mismatched serviettes, silverware, cups and plates sourced from estate auctions, shoes from Tours and brocantes all over France.
In among it all were silk slips and pantsuits especially crafted by Aleksandr at a price point suitable for the shop.
Adelia wasn’t just a fashion house, it was a lifestyle.
It was the best of Violet—her flair, energy and elegance—on display in a shop.
‘Galeries Lafayette has nothing on this.’ Charlie rested her head on Violet’s shoulder. ‘You did it. You made your own store.’
‘It’s about time.’ Lady Ashworth floated across from the circle she was speaking with, wrapped in a black silk sheath and with a small faux parrot tucked into her green hair.
‘Hello, Just Charlie. Hello, dear Violet.’ She kissed them on both cheeks.
‘No one has better, or more eclectic, taste in Paris.’
‘Oh, I don’t think I’ll be putting you out of business anytime soon.’ Violet laughed.
‘No, you certainly won’t, my dear. But we women must stick together.
’ She winked at them. ‘Speaking of women, I spoke with my clients, the Bells. Dolly and Jimmy Bell are ever so grateful for your role in finding Maisy, Charlie. What a sorry story that is. I’m so glad the trial is over.
Perhaps now the Bells can go about finding some peace and take the time to grieve without everyone poking around in their affairs. ’
‘I’ll drink to that.’ Charlie held up her glass. ‘Salut. To Maisy,’ she said sadly.
They stood in silence, reflecting on the young American tourist whose dream holiday had gone so wrong.
‘Well, I may not work at the paper anymore, but I sure do buy it, especially when my best friend is on the cover.’ Violet reached to the music stool next to the grand piano they were standing beside and held up copies of the day’s Times with Charlie’s name in the front-page by-line.
Under the headline Guilty were pictures and names of all Fischer’s victims. ‘You got your monster.’
‘Let’s hope he doesn’t become the stuff of fairytales,’ said Charlie. ‘A life sentence. But it’s not just his sentence, it’s the families of all his victims who will live with this hurt for the rest of their lives.’
‘True.’
‘Listen, let’s tuck those papers away. I’m honoured you bought them but sadness and Bluebeard have no business in this shop tonight.’ Charlie squeezed her friend’s hand. ‘Are you going to buy out all the local news stands every time I get a front-page story?’
‘I don’t have enough room for that—it will be so often from now on, Charlie.’
‘I’ll drink to that.’ And they all clinked glasses again.
Violet grabbed Charlie’s hand. ‘Excuse me, Lady Ashworth, but I need to show Charlie a scarf in the dreamiest blue.’
As they turned, they almost bumped into George Roberts.
‘Here they are. Trouble.’ George bustled into their group, holding a champagne coupe.
‘I have no idea what this shop is supposed to be, Violet,’ he sniffed, ‘but it’s a pity Mrs Roberts had to go home to see her ailing brother.
I can see her spending a wee fortune here. No wonder your parents are so proud.’
A small, dark-haired woman with porcelain skin and an identical smile to Violet’s stepped from behind George.
‘Mother! You made it!’ Violet put her hands to her cheeks as her eyes welled with tears.
‘I never miss an opportunity to dress up and drink champagne, Vivi. Or shop. This place is remarkable. Magical. I have no idea how you gathered all this together. Your father and I are so very proud.’ Her cut-crystal English voice wavered.
Violet leaned in and hugged her mother tight for at least a minute. After they stepped apart, Violet tugged Charlie forward. ‘Mother, this is the famous Charlie James I’ve told you so much about.’
‘That’s my cue.’ George rolled his eyes good-humouredly and took a big swig of champagne before disappearing into the crowd.
‘Charlie, meet my mother, Adelia.’ Violet threw her hands in the air in delight.
‘I can see where Violet inherits her flair from,’ said Charlie, kissing the older woman on both cheeks and taking in Adelia’s cream Chanel suit, matching heels and peacock-blue feathered bag. ‘This shop could only be named after you.’
A Harlequin clown juggled past them and the piano changed chords.
‘I’m not sure about that, but it seems Violet has made quite the impression in Paris.
Creating a business of her own and making very special friends.
’ Adelia smiled as she looked over Charlie’s shoulder to where Aleksandr was standing in his tuxedo by the caviar station, deftly placing caviar on crackers and dispensing them to the charmed guests.
Aleksandr Ivanov was one of the hottest designers in Paris.
A true star. But tonight he was simply the barman, holding space for Violet to shine.
Adelia glanced from Charlie to Violet and back again as she said, ‘It looks like Paris will be home. I, for one, am very much looking forward to coming to visit. It’s not every day a shop is named after you. ’
‘The shop,’ corrected Charlie.
‘You get a ten per cent discount, Mother. Twenty per cent if you bring your friends.’ Violet laughed as she grabbed her mother’s hand and tugged her back to the party.
‘Now excuse-moi, Charlie, I need to introduce The Adelia to everyone here. Mother, you need to make sure no one leaves empty-handed tonight.’
Charlie watched as Violet and Adelia introduced themselves to adoring customers and decorated them with crystal necklaces and feather brooches. Occasionally, Aleksandr looked up to find Violet in the crowd and there was no mistaking the pride in his eyes as he tracked her about the room.
Violet moved from guest to guest in her long, midnight-blue sheath cut with a V to reveal her back, dazzling each guest as she went, pressing pieces of brocart into their hands, or showing a matronly customer how to wear a cluster of Venetian beads with her diamonds and pearls.
With each step, Adelia Carthage beamed beside her daughter, gliding between languages and enjoying every second.
If Aleksandr was proud, then Violet’s mother was bursting.
As the music swelled and chatter and good spirits heightened, there could be no doubt Violet Carthage had created something magical.
Not many people could manage haute couture and second-hand or market fashion in the one space, let alone with the introduction of bric-à-brac, antique furniture and the like.
How many people could convince a society doyenne to wear a green parrot in their hair?
Or a duchess to use mismatched crockery?
Violet navigated Paris society as easily as water through a mountain cutting.
Charlie grabbed a fresh coupe of bubbles from a passing waiter and tucked herself quietly near the front door, out of the way, to admire the singer, who was midway through an édith Piaf song.
édith had learned her trade in nearby Montmartre bars and now this young singer was filling the room with her own voice and creating a new story. Was she a Paris local or had this dark-haired pixie come to Paris to chase her creative dreams, like Charlie and Violet? Like Maisy Bell?
The last Maisy Bell story had been sent to press. Charlie sighed and took a sip of champagne as her heart ached for Maisy and her family, who would no doubt be relieved to continue their grieving in private. For the Bell family, this story, this heartache, would never be over.
Now that the court case had concluded, Charlie would have no more incidental contact with Detective Allard. No more professional pleasantries on the courthouse steps or awkward glances in the courtroom when one thought the other wasn’t looking.
Charlie took another sip of her drink and felt the bubbles slowly slide down her throat.
She ran her fingers over her blue dress, idly flicking at the darts as she listened to the song, remembering the last time she wore this dress.
The last time it was peeled from her skin.
Allard’s lips at her neck, her breasts, and her hands deep in his hair.
It was unprofessional, but she did not regret their one wild night together. Not for a second.
Charlie’s only regret was that her investigative work as a reporter, unravelling secrets, had come to occupy almost every second of her life.
She watched her friend Violet flit about the room with her proud mother at her shoulder, admiring and sweet-talking customers as she strutted into the next chapter of her life.
Charlie needed to do the same. She’d long said goodbye to the tentative reporter nursing a broken heart who’d arrived in Paris from Sydney via the Night Ferry from London.
Chasing the Maisy Bell story had proven once and for all that her instincts and judgement were sound and she was indeed very good at her job.
But winning at work was no longer enough…
Charlie gulped the last of her bubbles and set the glass on the silver tray of a passing waiter.
Behind her, the shop bell tinkled as the front door opened. Charlie turned half-heartedly to see if a tipsy customer was coming or going; she was enjoying the parade of couture and costumes. She stiffened when she saw a handsome man with unbrushed curls and a smart tuxedo striding through the door.
Detective Gilles Allard.
The detective surveyed the crowd and his cheeks coloured.
The heady layers of music, scent and fabric textures were a far cry from courtrooms and crime scenes, and he wore the same look of wonder he’d worn at Lady Ashworth’s Versailles soiree—like a child seeing an elephant or giraffe at a zoo for the first time.
Aleksandr gave a welcoming wave and before Charlie could slink off to an even darker corner, he pointed to where she was hiding. Allard followed Aleksandr’s gesture and stepped towards Charlie, who was by now standing between a mannequin and an apricot Grecian bust draped with pearls.
She made room between the artefacts in her dark corner of the shop for Detective Allard. If he was distracted by the ample breasts of the marble goddess jutting between them, he had the grace not to show it.
‘Bonsoir, Mademoiselle James.’
‘Bonsoir, Detective Allard. I wasn’t aware you were in the market for antiques. Or a pearl necklace.’ She ran her fingers along the necklace on the bust and gave Allard a cheeky smile.
‘I’m not. Violet insisted I come to the launch. She said you would be here and I thought that maybe now the court case was over…now there was no conflict of interest…we might start again. Properly?’
‘Properly?’ Charlie raised her eyebrow. They’d connected ‘properly’ for one night and she hadn’t stopped thinking about it. Had Detective Allard been thinking of Charlie too?
‘I’m not one for games, Detective Allard. We had…’ She gulped and articulated her words. ‘We chose work. I respect that.’
‘Charlie, I was wrong. I thought it was best to keep everything professional. I crossed a line—’
‘We,’ corrected Charlie.
‘We.’ Detective Allard nodded, his lips twitching as he tried not to smile. ‘Give me a second chance, please?’
Charlie took his hand and squeezed it. She’d moved to Paris for a second chance to make it as a reporter writing features with her own by-line.
She’d arrived on the brink of divorce, not exactly sworn off men, but with a tender, bruised heart that was unwilling to risk another heartbreak.
Her thoughts flashed with the photo of Maisy Bell, her open young smile.
A woman who’d travelled to Paris with dreams of her own and never got the chance to live them.
Life turned on a dime and sometimes you had no control over which way the coins fell.
But with her hand firmly tucked inside Detective Allard’s warm, callused grip, she realised this was her second chance. She squeezed his hand. Yes.
Detective Allard sighed with relief, kissed the top of her head and took in the line of her dress, her body, as he stroked her cheek. He smiled, but stayed silent, letting the singer’s smoky notes and the excited buzz of the crowd cradle them.
There was no place for words in that sweaty corner of the shop.