Girl Unknown(78)

She ran her finger over her lower lip, the smile still there.

‘You don’t want to get caught out –’

‘Like you, you mean?’

The venom in her voice was unmistakable. It came at me so suddenly it took me a moment to absorb it fully. Before I could answer, she spoke again, her voice rising with a little tremor in it. ‘Or were you referring to my mother?’

The coolness of her sudden anger pooled in the air between us.

‘Why would you say such a thing?’ I asked, and thought of how it always was whenever I was alone with her – her iciness announcing itself abruptly, coming down on our conversation, like a blade slicing through air.

‘Any luck?’ she asked brightly, as Holly joined us on the street.

‘No,’ she answered.

We tried other shops but the offerings were overpriced, largely just souvenirs, which was not what Holly wanted. She became more despondent as the afternoon wore on and eventually declared she’d had enough.

‘We can go to La Rochelle another day,’ I said. ‘Once the fire has burned out and we can escape the island.’

‘Let’s just go home, Mum,’ she said, turning for the harbour and walking back towards the bikes.

We passed through streets of tall buildings with grand apartment blocks, clipped boxwood and lollipop bay trees standing sentry at the doors, the niggle of Zo?’s words worming its way inside me.

Like you, you mean?

But how did she know? Had David told her? We had never discussed it with the children – or with anybody. That he might have shared something so intimate with her – a secret so deeply private to me – felt like the worst kind of betrayal. And if she knew, had she shared her information with Chris? Or with Robbie? The worry brought a new bloom of anger. When was she going to leave us? This was our holiday and the days were petering out – how much longer would we have to tolerate her company?

We were nearing the harbour, the air drenched with the smell of salt, smoke and petrol, when my eye was drawn to the draped folds of silk on a mannequin in a window and I stopped outside a bridal shop. An idea took hold. ‘What do you think?’ I asked Zo?. ‘Shall we go in?’

I’m not sure what drove me to do it – anger pushing me towards meanness? Her reluctance served only to spur me on.

‘Come on,’ I said. ‘It’ll be fun.’

After the glare of sunlight on the street outside, we had to wait while our eyes became accustomed to the low-key lighting and plush interiors. The shop assistant, a woman I guessed to be my own age in a smart linen suit, pearls at her throat, came forward all smiles and greetings, switching from French to English once she realized we were not natives.

‘Ah, but you are so young!’ she remarked gaily, when we told her that Zo? was the bride.

She drew us further into the shop where velvet armchairs clustered in the centre of the room, a chandelier twinkling overhead.

‘Have you anything particular in mind, chérie?’ she asked.

Zo? chewed her lip, looking at the rails of dresses, each one encased in a zipped clear bag. ‘Not really.’

The first dress she tried on was a lace gown with a slim silhouette and scalloped neckline, the skirts pooling around her bare feet on to the plush grey carpet. It dragged her down, her figure appearing curveless within the crusts of lace that clung to it.

‘I have something better,’ Madame suggested.

‘I’m not sure about this,’ Zo? said quietly, but I would not listen to her reluctance.

‘Oh, come on!’

The hard kernel of anger was pushing me. Let’s play my game now, I thought.

I made her try on five dresses in all, and with each one, she became increasingly withdrawn.

The last was a delicate thing made of white tulle, cinched at the waist with a band of nude pink satin. Beneath the whispery outer layer there was a glimpse of the same pink in silk beneath. Dainty lace appliqués adorned the bodice, which closed like a corset low on the back. Behind her a tiny train spread across the floor of the changing room.

‘Parfait!’ Madame declared. ‘Look at yourself!’ she demanded, turning Zo? towards the mirror. ‘You are beautiful!’

‘You really are,’ Holly agreed, her voice coming out hushed with awe. Or maybe it was envy.

Zo? stood perfectly still, looking down at the reflection of her feet in the mirror, refusing to take in the full length of her body. ‘I want to take it off,’ she said quietly.

‘One final touch,’ Madame insisted, going to the glass cabinet and removing from it a small tiara twinkling with Swarovski crystals. ‘Just to complete the picture, yes?’

She fixed the crown carefully into Zo?’s hair, which fell around her shoulders in a deluge of curls.

‘Such hair!’ Madame remarked, oblivious to the brittleness of Zo?’s mood, the shadowy look that was crossing her face. ‘There!’ She stood back to admire her handiwork. ‘What a proud man your husband will be!’

I could see that Zo? was close to tears. Her cheerfulness over lunch, the sunshine of the day, her delight at her purchase, all of it had vanished. The weight of each dress had soaked through her, crushing any happiness inside her. On the floor, tossed to one side by the mirror, lay the orange plastic bag containing her T-shirt, its youthful sensibility forgotten amid these sombre dresses and the onerous responsibilities they symbolized. Beautiful as she was, there remained something ridiculous about her, in the same way that her ring was ridiculous – a little girl dressing up in her mother’s clothes. She had no intention of going through with the marriage – she never had. I knew it and now I had exacted my proof.