Chapter 26
Stéphane seems to have disappeared out of my life currently, as I haven’t seen him for several days now.
I miss him terribly, but I have managed to do a lot of writing.
I suppose he’s busy, but I have no idea with what.
He’s never mentioned his job, other than to say, ‘It’s a family business’, when I asked him one afternoon what he did.
It did cross my mind once that maybe he was involved with the black market in some way.
Despite rationing, his clothes appear to be new and of good quality, rather than being made from the poor-quality utility material available via ration stamps.
But surely the black market is declining now the war down here is over and life is slowly becoming more normal?
Oh well, I expect he’ll turn up again when he’s done with whatever it is he’s doing.
I’ve not only been writing, but I’ve also done some research and discovered there was an American woman called Isabel Pell who was very involved in the French resistance down here.
I have a French conversation class this morning, but before that I need to go to the telegraph office at the post office and send my latest copy to Max.
Afterwards, I think I’ll have lunch at Brasserie Jules.
Maybe I can persuade Annie to join me. I’m hoping, too, Annie will help me translate the various newspaper features I’ve found about Isabel.
From the little I can make out myself, she seems to have been quite a gal, but I need Annie’s fluent French to make sure I’ve understood things correctly before I write about this American heroine.
* * *
Unfortunately, Annie wasn’t at the conversation class this morning, so I made my way alone to Brasserie Jules for lunch.
I am becoming quite accustomed to eating alone these days.
I was waiting for the waiter to show me to a table when Stéphane suddenly appeared at my side, his habitual cigarette in hand, the smell of the tobacco announcing his presence before he spoke.
I am sure the smell of Gauloises cigarettes is always going to be synonymous in my mind with memories of Stéphane.
‘Bonjour, Evelyn, ma chérie,’ he said, as he gave me his now customary three cheek kisses.
I did try to hide my joy at seeing him, but I know I didn’t succeed totally because he took my hand, gently stroking it as he said softly, ‘I like that you missed me. It is good.’
‘Where have you been?’ I asked, pulling my hand back as an indication that I was a little cross with him.
‘Paris.’
‘Paris,’ I echoed weakly. ‘You could have told me you were going to be away. I could even have come with you.’
‘Non, you could not. Impossible. You begin to sound like a possessive wife trying to come when I am working.’ He looked across at a waiter, who immediately hurried across. ‘A bottle of my usual red wine,’ he ordered before turning back to look at me.
Seeing this brusque side of Stéphane was a disquieting development.
Did it mean he was feeling relaxed in my company?
Or had he shown me an ugly side of his character I’d never noticed before?
And why that comment about sounding like a possessive wife?
Either way, I didn’t like the way he’d spoken to me or the waiter.
‘You have a dress to go dancing in? If not, I buy you one,’ he said, looking at me and smiling, his bad mood seemingly gone.
‘I have two or three; I bought them in America before I came over. They are by a French designer.’ I’m not sure why I felt the need to boast to him about my new dresses, and where I’d bought them, but I definitely felt a little unsettled at that moment.
And I certainly didn’t like the idea of him buying me a dress.
‘Très bien. We go dancing soon at Le Provencal, Juan-les-Pins,’ Stéphane said, as the waiter returned with the wine and two glasses.
‘When? A girl needs to know so she can prepare, surely you realise that?’ I said, thrilled to learn about the dance but still not mollified enough to forgive his behaviour.
‘Valentine’s Day. Be ready to dance the evening away. You tell Madame Dupont you will be dining at Le Provencal that evening.’
‘You haven’t forgotten about my ten o’clock curfew, have you?’ I asked anxiously.
I can only call the look he gave me at that moment exasperated.
‘Non. How could I possibly forget about your Cinderella hour.’
* * *
Carefully, Evie closed the journal. Somehow GeeGee’s written thoughts about Stéphane had conveyed something disquieting. GeeGee was clearly very fond of him even after such a short time and Evie was already hoping she didn’t end up being hurt by him.
Evie couldn’t remember ever hearing her mention him by name, or any man other than Great-grandfather Louis, when she talked about her time in Europe. There had to be a reason for that when he seemed to have played such a prominent part at least in the early weeks of her stay in Antibes.