had last worn at Christmas.
She remembered how they’d cleared the hotel sitting room of furniture that night in Rouen – there’d been charades and singing and musical chairs – and decorated it with Chinese lanterns and paper festoons and holly and mistletoe. And they’d danced until they were breathless – old-fashioned dances like waltzes and lancers and reels – and the silk of her gown had swirled round her in a blur of colour and motion. Much later, Scotch had taken her out into the garden for air and his breath had been a brush stroke of spectral mist in the freezing night as he’d leaned down to kiss her mouth . . .
Jessie bit her lip. Would the gown pass muster at such a sophisticated gathering? For the first time since she’d arrived in Paris she had an opportunity to earn decent money and make important contacts. If she declined the count’s invitation she’d be back in the Hôtel des Trois Moineaux, breathing in the stench that wafted through the narrow corridors, and listening to the racking bark of the consumptive youth who lived on the floor above.
She couldn’t do it. She
couldn’t
go back to a place where cockroaches were her room-mates, and where there was fighting in the street outside her window every night. She couldn’t go back to a place where lecherous wet-lipped types ogled her every time she passed them on the stairs, and where her Serbian neighbour had taken to burning sulphur to drive off his lice. Her Scripture teacher at school had told her that hell smelt of sulphur, and Jessie was sick to death of living in hell.
She smiled across the table at Count Demetrios. ‘I think,’ she said, ‘that I should be delighted to accompany you this evening.’
An hour later Jessie had finished her soup, her veal, her vegetables, and her heavenly pineapple fritters.
‘Thank you from the bottom of my heart,’ she told the count. ‘I’ve been dreaming about that kind of food for ages.’
‘I’m delighted you enjoyed it.’ He gave her a brief smile, then signalled for the bill. When he had settled up he turned back to her, and Jessie noticed with a pang of apprehension that his expression was grave. ‘Madame,’ he said. ‘I do not know how to ask this question without appearing discourteous – ill-bred, even – but ask it I must. It is clear that you have fallen on extremely hard times. May I enquire as to whether you have the correct attire for a social event of the kind to which I am to escort you?’
Jessie faltered. The Dutch courage instilled by the cognac was beginning to desert her. ‘I have – an evening dress. It is of the finest silk from Liberty of London.’
‘A most elegant establishment.’ The count directed his gaze at her tanned legs.
‘But I have no . . . no stockings.’
‘Well,’ said the count. ‘We must remedy that. Let us make our way to the Boulevard Saint-Germain to do a little shopping.’
‘I have no money, Count!’
‘Allow me to make a gift of the stockings to you.’
‘No!’
His eyes narrowed, and he assumed his autocratic air. ‘Madame. You must permit me at this stage of the game to assist you in any way that I can. I myself shall look upon the purchase of stockings for you as an investment. If I say so myself, I predict a successful outcome to this little experiment of mine.’
‘Experiment?’
‘Monsieur Lantier is a young man, Madame. But already his palate is jaded. I told you I intend to whet his appetite for something fresh and new. If you refuse my help, I cannot interest him in employing you because, Madame, if you have no stockings, you cannot go where polite society congregates. It is as simple as that.’
Jessie frowned, considering.
‘Madame, Madame!’ He was leaning towards her, hands clasped over the handle of his cane, and his tone was hectoring, now. ‘You can repay me any money I expend in your interest another time. Right now, we must strike while the iron is hot. Otherwise you are – as they say –
She remembered how they’d cleared the hotel sitting room of furniture that night in Rouen – there’d been charades and singing and musical chairs – and decorated it with Chinese lanterns and paper festoons and holly and mistletoe. And they’d danced until they were breathless – old-fashioned dances like waltzes and lancers and reels – and the silk of her gown had swirled round her in a blur of colour and motion. Much later, Scotch had taken her out into the garden for air and his breath had been a brush stroke of spectral mist in the freezing night as he’d leaned down to kiss her mouth . . .
Jessie bit her lip. Would the gown pass muster at such a sophisticated gathering? For the first time since she’d arrived in Paris she had an opportunity to earn decent money and make important contacts. If she declined the count’s invitation she’d be back in the Hôtel des Trois Moineaux, breathing in the stench that wafted through the narrow corridors, and listening to the racking bark of the consumptive youth who lived on the floor above.
She couldn’t do it. She
couldn’t
go back to a place where cockroaches were her room-mates, and where there was fighting in the street outside her window every night. She couldn’t go back to a place where lecherous wet-lipped types ogled her every time she passed them on the stairs, and where her Serbian neighbour had taken to burning sulphur to drive off his lice. Her Scripture teacher at school had told her that hell smelt of sulphur, and Jessie was sick to death of living in hell.
She smiled across the table at Count Demetrios. ‘I think,’ she said, ‘that I should be delighted to accompany you this evening.’
An hour later Jessie had finished her soup, her veal, her vegetables, and her heavenly pineapple fritters.
‘Thank you from the bottom of my heart,’ she told the count. ‘I’ve been dreaming about that kind of food for ages.’
‘I’m delighted you enjoyed it.’ He gave her a brief smile, then signalled for the bill. When he had settled up he turned back to her, and Jessie noticed with a pang of apprehension that his expression was grave. ‘Madame,’ he said. ‘I do not know how to ask this question without appearing discourteous – ill-bred, even – but ask it I must. It is clear that you have fallen on extremely hard times. May I enquire as to whether you have the correct attire for a social event of the kind to which I am to escort you?’
Jessie faltered. The Dutch courage instilled by the cognac was beginning to desert her. ‘I have – an evening dress. It is of the finest silk from Liberty of London.’
‘A most elegant establishment.’ The count directed his gaze at her tanned legs.
‘But I have no . . . no stockings.’
‘Well,’ said the count. ‘We must remedy that. Let us make our way to the Boulevard Saint-Germain to do a little shopping.’
‘I have no money, Count!’
‘Allow me to make a gift of the stockings to you.’
‘No!’
His eyes narrowed, and he assumed his autocratic air. ‘Madame. You must permit me at this stage of the game to assist you in any way that I can. I myself shall look upon the purchase of stockings for you as an investment. If I say so myself, I predict a successful outcome to this little experiment of mine.’
‘Experiment?’
‘Monsieur Lantier is a young man, Madame. But already his palate is jaded. I told you I intend to whet his appetite for something fresh and new. If you refuse my help, I cannot interest him in employing you because, Madame, if you have no stockings, you cannot go where polite society congregates. It is as simple as that.’
Jessie frowned, considering.
‘Madame, Madame!’ He was leaning towards her, hands clasped over the handle of his cane, and his tone was hectoring, now. ‘You can repay me any money I expend in your interest another time. Right now, we must strike while the iron is hot. Otherwise you are – as they say –
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