Hopper!’
‘Good luck. You’ll need it. It was delightful to meet you, Sabu,’ she added, before turning and marching off magisterially across the croquet lawn. Her high heels left little pockmarks in the grass as she walked, as if she was stabbing it with daggers.
Lisa and Sabu exchanged looks of mock-trepidation, then clutched each other and burst out laughing.
Later, they joined Hollywood royalty in Mr Stein’s projection room. Down from the ceiling the screen came, and as Baba was looking around with awe at the stars sitting around like everyday folk, the door opened and the gardener walked in. Except this time he wasn’t wearing swimming trunks and a sun hat, he was wearing dark pleated trousers and a silk shirt that had to be from Sulka.
‘What’s the gardener doing here?’ Baba asked Sabu.
‘That’s not the gardener,’ Sabu told her. ‘That’s Ziggy Stein.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
JESSIE
PARIS 1919
OVER BRANDY AND sodas and fragrant Turkish cigarettes Jessie told Count Demetrios her tale of woe: how she’d woken in the Hôtel Simonet in Finistère one grey morning at the end of summer to find Scotch gone.
‘Gone? You mean he abandoned you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Despicable! That kind of conduct’s beneath contempt. Where did he go?’
‘I haven’t an idea.’ That was a lie. She knew only too well that Scotch had gone to Chambéry, to the Italian girl.
‘And why did you decide to come here to Paris, instead of returning to your family in England?’
‘I – I suppose I rather hoped that Scotch might drift back here.’
‘Unlikely. My guess would be that he has gone to Corfu. He expressed an inordinate interest when I suggested that I could introduce him to some patrons there. There’s money to be made in the wake of the war, if you know where to look for it, and he knows that the mere mention of my name will open doors for him. Do your parents know that you are alone in Paris, Madame?’
‘No.’
‘Why haven’t you told them?’
‘I couldn’t bear the shame, Count. My mother had warned me against marrying Scotch, and I didn’t listen to her.’
‘Why didn’t she want you to marry him?’
‘Because we’re from completely different backgrounds. She said I’d regret it, and sadly, it would appear that she was right.’
‘Have you taken a job of work?’
‘Yes. As an artist’s model, for twenty francs a day.’
The count sucked in his breath. ‘Twenty francs!
Tiens!
How do you manage?’
Jessie shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I’ve been living on bread and cheese and
Bouillon Zip
.’
‘
Bouillon Zip?
That disgusting packet soup?’
‘It’s cheap.’
The count gave her a look of assessment, then raised his hand and clicked his fingers peremptorily. ‘
Garçon!
The menu, if you please.’ He turned back to Jessie. ‘Now, Madame. What would you care to eat?’
‘Oh, really – I couldn’t accept—’
‘You must. I insist.’
Jessie bit her lip. The image of her most cherished fantasy meal – escalope of veal with
pommes rissolés
and
petits pois
– swam before her mind’s eye. Oh, God! She realized now that she hadn’t had a decent meal for months – not since Florence. She’d been too sick with worry when Scotch had fallen ill in Chambéry to look after herself properly; her chief concern then had been to make sure that
he’d
been well fed.
A waiter was approaching with a menu. Another bore aloft a dish of
boeuf bourguignon
so aromatic that Jessie thought she might pass out. Her pride insisted that she couldn’t accept the count’s hospitality, but her stomach was begging her to. It felt as if it was turning inside out with hunger. With an encouraging smile, Count Demetrios slid the menu across the table, and to her horror she found herself bursting into tears.
‘My dear! What’s wrong?’ asked the count.
‘I’m pregnant,’ she blurted out. ‘I’m expecting Scotch’s baby.’
Demetrios said nothing for a moment or two. He gave her a pensive
‘Good luck. You’ll need it. It was delightful to meet you, Sabu,’ she added, before turning and marching off magisterially across the croquet lawn. Her high heels left little pockmarks in the grass as she walked, as if she was stabbing it with daggers.
Lisa and Sabu exchanged looks of mock-trepidation, then clutched each other and burst out laughing.
Later, they joined Hollywood royalty in Mr Stein’s projection room. Down from the ceiling the screen came, and as Baba was looking around with awe at the stars sitting around like everyday folk, the door opened and the gardener walked in. Except this time he wasn’t wearing swimming trunks and a sun hat, he was wearing dark pleated trousers and a silk shirt that had to be from Sulka.
‘What’s the gardener doing here?’ Baba asked Sabu.
‘That’s not the gardener,’ Sabu told her. ‘That’s Ziggy Stein.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
JESSIE
PARIS 1919
OVER BRANDY AND sodas and fragrant Turkish cigarettes Jessie told Count Demetrios her tale of woe: how she’d woken in the Hôtel Simonet in Finistère one grey morning at the end of summer to find Scotch gone.
‘Gone? You mean he abandoned you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Despicable! That kind of conduct’s beneath contempt. Where did he go?’
‘I haven’t an idea.’ That was a lie. She knew only too well that Scotch had gone to Chambéry, to the Italian girl.
‘And why did you decide to come here to Paris, instead of returning to your family in England?’
‘I – I suppose I rather hoped that Scotch might drift back here.’
‘Unlikely. My guess would be that he has gone to Corfu. He expressed an inordinate interest when I suggested that I could introduce him to some patrons there. There’s money to be made in the wake of the war, if you know where to look for it, and he knows that the mere mention of my name will open doors for him. Do your parents know that you are alone in Paris, Madame?’
‘No.’
‘Why haven’t you told them?’
‘I couldn’t bear the shame, Count. My mother had warned me against marrying Scotch, and I didn’t listen to her.’
‘Why didn’t she want you to marry him?’
‘Because we’re from completely different backgrounds. She said I’d regret it, and sadly, it would appear that she was right.’
‘Have you taken a job of work?’
‘Yes. As an artist’s model, for twenty francs a day.’
The count sucked in his breath. ‘Twenty francs!
Tiens!
How do you manage?’
Jessie shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I’ve been living on bread and cheese and
Bouillon Zip
.’
‘
Bouillon Zip?
That disgusting packet soup?’
‘It’s cheap.’
The count gave her a look of assessment, then raised his hand and clicked his fingers peremptorily. ‘
Garçon!
The menu, if you please.’ He turned back to Jessie. ‘Now, Madame. What would you care to eat?’
‘Oh, really – I couldn’t accept—’
‘You must. I insist.’
Jessie bit her lip. The image of her most cherished fantasy meal – escalope of veal with
pommes rissolés
and
petits pois
– swam before her mind’s eye. Oh, God! She realized now that she hadn’t had a decent meal for months – not since Florence. She’d been too sick with worry when Scotch had fallen ill in Chambéry to look after herself properly; her chief concern then had been to make sure that
he’d
been well fed.
A waiter was approaching with a menu. Another bore aloft a dish of
boeuf bourguignon
so aromatic that Jessie thought she might pass out. Her pride insisted that she couldn’t accept the count’s hospitality, but her stomach was begging her to. It felt as if it was turning inside out with hunger. With an encouraging smile, Count Demetrios slid the menu across the table, and to her horror she found herself bursting into tears.
‘My dear! What’s wrong?’ asked the count.
‘I’m pregnant,’ she blurted out. ‘I’m expecting Scotch’s baby.’
Demetrios said nothing for a moment or two. He gave her a pensive
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