A Week in Paris by Rachel Hore

Uncle Pepper had not known how to behave with children. He’d always treated her as another adult, with a serious formality.
    ‘You must think me rude, not to have introduced myself,’ the young man said, standing and putting out his hand. I’m Dr Eugene Knox – Gene to most people.’
    ‘And I’m Kitty Travers. Are you a medical doctor?’ She found him easy to talk to, did not feel shy with him in the least.
    ‘They’ve seen fit to let me loose on the unsuspecting sick just recently, yes. I’ve started work at the American Hospital, if you know it.’ Kitty didn’t, so he explained. It had been established by his countrymen as a charitable trust, principally to look after the many Americans who were living in Paris, though it treated people of other nationalities from time to time. ‘And you, you’re English, of course – but what brings you to Paris, if you don’t mind me asking?’
    ‘I’m here to study the piano,’ Kitty told him. ‘You could say that I’m attached to the Conservatoire – that is, I go to classes there, but I’m not properly part of their system. I’m being taught privately by Xavier Deschamps. Have you heard of him? They say he was a famous concert pianist in his day.’
    Eugene shook his head, a regretful expression on his face. ‘As I say, I enjoy listening, but I don’t know much about your kind of music. I’m more of a jazz man myself. Duke Ellington’s a favourite. You ever heard him play?’
    Now it was her turn to say no. She didn’t even know the name. ‘I haven’t ever heard much jazz.’
    ‘You haven’t? Then may I respectfully suggest that you haven’t lived, Miss Travers.’ He paused for the slightest of moments, then said, almost casually, ‘Perhaps we can remedy that. I’d be honoured to take you to hear some one evening, if you’d allow it.’
    ‘Oh, I’m not sure . . .’ she started to say, dismayed, then it came to her, why shouldn’t she? Who would stop her? She was her own person here and she liked this young man, liked him very much and felt him trustworthy. ‘Well, yes, I’d like that, thank you.’ She was surprised at the heady sense of freedom the answer gave her. She was still getting over the fact of him sitting here, a complete stranger, and yet somehow so utterly familiar. It made sense to her that he was a healer for his was a soothing presence. There was something about him that was comfortable, comforting, and she found herself flying to him like a bird to a safe nesting place.
    The following Friday, Kitty told Sister Thérèse that she wouldn’t be eating dinner at the convent and asked if it mattered that she’d be back a little late. The young novice’s response was to fetch a spare key, which she slipped into Kitty’s hand with a complicit smile.
    That evening found Kitty puzzling between the two long dresses she owned, rejecting the formal black silk she’d brought in the event of concert performances in favour of one in soft apricot organdie she’d had made up in London, sleeveless with a fashionably pleated skirt and a matching jacket. There seemed to be no full-length looking-glass in the convent, so she was forced to position the adjustable face mirror in the bathroom as best she could to view bits of herself from different angles and trust all was well. Her shoulder-length hair with its natural curls needed little more than to be parted in the middle and clipped back with a pair of mother-of-pearl slides. Some russet lipstick and a touch of powder were all it took for a palely glamorous face to reflect back at her, eyes bright with excitement. As a final touch she fastened round her neck the delicate sapphire pendant she’d inherited from her mother and clipped on matching earrings. It struck her that it was her first proper night out in Paris.
    At the stroke of eight she slipped out unseen to meet Gene, and found his cab already waiting. He took her first to Harry’s Bar near the Opéra, where she viewed the