The Last Dress from Paris(68)
Where they will never be seen.
17
Lucille
FRIDAY
PARIS
It’s really not the time to be stuck in traffic. And especially not in the back of a taxi that reeks of stale cigarettes and sweat. I only left the hotel ten minutes ago, cut across the Champs-élysées, made a right, and then ground to a halt.
“Excusez-moi, monsieur.” I don’t know why I bother to start the conversation in French, because I certainly can’t finish it that way. “Can you see what the problem is? I’ve got a train to catch.”
“Pardon?” The driver is frowning at me in his rearview mirror with a look of such utter confusion that I don’t bother to repeat myself. I’ve got an hour and a half to do a journey the concierge promised me would take no longer than an hour, so I decide to just chill and hope for the best. Worst case, I’m on the Eurostar after the one Veronique’s on, which will be annoying but not a disaster.
I wind the window down, keen to smell something that isn’t ingrained nicotine or some stranger’s armpit, and look across the road at the building we’ve stopped in front of. There are black metal bars at the ground-floor windows and humorless-looking guards marching between green wooden century boxes with large guns strapped to their waists. I have another stab at making myself understood with the driver, this time jabbing a finger in the direction of the guards.
“Qu’est-ce que c’est, s’il vous pla?t?” I’m glad Leon isn’t here to hear my crude attempt at a French accent.
Silence.
In the absence of anything else to do, I lift my phone and start googling it. I’m sure Veronique will know what it is. A prison, by the looks of it. It’s very serious, with huge black lacquered doors that look completely impractical, like they’d be impossible to open. There is no sign of life from within.
The next thing I know, the stern face of one of those armed guards is suddenly filling the car window and shouting at me.
“Arrêtez Pas de photos!” This is followed by something equally cross to the taxi driver that I don’t quite catch, but the horrified look on his face as his head spins toward me basically says it all. The man with the gun is very cross with me.
“No pictures, mademoiselle. You have to delete them. It’s a British embassy building, no pictures are allowed.”
Now he speaks perfect English! I consider pointing out that, as I am indeed British, I really don’t see what the problem is, but instead turn my screen toward him so he can see it’s Google and not my camera that I’ve been using. The guard remains bent through the window, pointing at my phone, until I access my pictures to prove none of the building have been taken. Only then does he slap the taxi roof hard enough to dent it, and we’re off, the driver muttering what I assume are uncomplimentary things about me all the way to the Gare du Nord.
* * *
? ? ?
I feel violently nauseated by the time I get out at the station from all the unnecessarily aggressive driving, but for some reason I still hand the driver an overly generous tip. Not even that gets a smile. I think he’s just desperate to be rid of me. But frankly, who cares, because there is Veronique, hanging out of the still-open train door, waving and beckoning me to join her. But my phone is buzzing in my pocket and I can’t ignore it. I pause on the platform and see that it’s Granny. I raise an index finger to Veronique to let her know I’ll be as quick as I can and watch her eyes flick to the giant digital clock that warns our train departs in eight minutes.
Granny sounds exhausted when I answer.
“Hello, Granny. How are you feeling?”
“Not my best, darling. I’m a bit all over the place today. Thank goodness for Natasha. She stayed much longer than usual and made sure I have everything I need.”
I hate that I’m not there with her. She sounds like she needs a hug. I can hear the vulnerability and loneliness in her voice, the lack of energy. Why isn’t Mum putting her time to better use instead of calling me? It hits me that Granny will never spring out of bed again ready to tackle the day with full force. I try not to think about how scared she must feel about that on mornings like these.
“Tell me, Lucille, how are you getting on?” Her usual enthusiasm just isn’t there today. Perhaps she senses my great adventure, and hers, is coming to an end.
“I’ve done it, Granny. I followed the notes, far enough to work it all out. I’ve visited the places across Paris that A and A did. I’ve walked in their footsteps. I’ve walked in your footsteps, Granny.”
She’s silent and I give her time, listening to how her breath is trying to hold on to a sob, feeling the sting as it brings tears to my own eyes. I picture her hand moving to cover her mouth.
“It’s okay, Granny,” I say as I grip the phone to my ear, my eyes flicking back to the clock and an increasingly stressed-looking Veronique.
“What eventually led you to me?” She delivers the confirmation I am looking for.
“It was the night at Musée de l’Orangerie, the Monet exhibition, when you wore the Debussy.”
“Oh, that evening. The undoing and the making of me in so many ways.” She sighs, and I can feel all the pent-up emotion tumbling out of her.