Birth Marks by Sarah Dunant Page B

to her husband she became positively aggressive and starting asking questions back. I began to wonder if maybe a private number didn’t mean a private affair between Etienne and a certain English Employment Agency manageress. I decided to think about that one and extracted myself from the conversation, pleading inadequate comprehension of the language, although by now a split French degree and a six-month stint translating EEC business in Brussels were positively flooding back to me.
    I went through the Employment Agencies like a knife through melted Normandy butter. I had polished my story along with my teeth: a bureaucratic little tale about how Potential’s receptionist had taken a call from Paris yesterday but had been unable to read her own writing. Had they by any chance called and, while they were on the line, could we check a few details on the personal assistant job they had sent us through last February? The answer was the same four times over. Nobody had any record of any such jobs last year. That left one more number. Jules B. It rang seven times before a woman answered.
    â€˜Hello. Mr Belmont’s phone.’
    â€˜Is he there please?’
    â€˜No, I’m afraid Mr Belmont is still unwell.’
    â€˜I see. Could you tell me when he will be back?’ Sometimes I think a parrot could do my job.
    â€˜I’m afraid I cannot.’
    â€˜It is rather urgent. I wonder, is there a home number where I could reach him?’
    â€˜I’m sorry, no. Who is this please?’
    So I let her have it with the Potential Employment Agency story.
    â€˜I think you must have the wrong number. We are not an employment agency. This is Belmont Aviation and you have come through to Jules Belmont’s private phone.’ And there was something in the tone of her voice that made me realize Mr Belmont’s private number was not the kind you just got out of the book.
    On the list in front of me I put a question mark next to Belmont, him and Etienne: still hardly enough to waste a plane ticket to Paris on. I was beginning to feel somewhat bruised from all the brick walls I was running into. I sat for a while pushing mental needles into a wax effigy of Mrs Sanger, then I went back into labour. When I finally gave birth it was a mewling puking thing, not worthy to be called an idea, but it was all I had and better than nothing. According to Mrs Sanger there had been a considerable response to the advertisement. Now what ‘considerable response’ meant in employment agency jargon was beyond me, but somewhere out there there must be, what—ten, twenty, who knows even fifty attractive, healthy, intelligent caring young women who would have answered an ad, filled in a questionnaire, and in a few cases might even have gone to Paris for an interview. Maybe some of them were still looking for the right job, still checking the employment columns. I phoned through a box advert in the Evening Standard for the next week appealing to anyone who had answered the ad last February to contact me. Then I had another idea. Not quite so original but cheaper. When you need help, ask a policeman.
    He sounded quite businesslike until he realized it was me. ‘Wait a minute, will you?’ In the background I heard the clink of glass and the glug of liquid from a bottle.
    â€˜A bit early, isn’t it, Frank?’
    â€˜And how do you know it’s not one of your poncy bottles of mineral water?’
    â€˜Let me see? No fizzing sound when you unscrewed the top?’
    â€˜Veerry good. Uncle Frank’s training is having some effect at last. So, what can I do for you?’
    He keeps the bottle of Glenfiddich in the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet. He says it’s because it’s cheaper than the pub, but I like to see it as a gesture in homage to old heroes. Usually he drinks alone, but occasionally I get an invite. The stories are as good as the booze: tales of metropolitan CID, the