herself ‘Coralie’.
She’d thrown herself into his arms, hardly noticing the male attendant staring down a distinctly put-out nose. Dietrich had held her, panting, at arm’s length.
‘Like Mid-day Sun, forty miles an hour. Brownlow, give me your ticket. You’re taking a later train.’
Dietrich hadn’t rejected her, but he might after her performance just now. She’d seen it in his eyes.
Expecting him to return with a milliner in the style of Miss McCullum, Coralie was astonished when an elegant woman of about twenty-five preceded him into the salon.
‘This is Mademoiselle Royer,’ he told her. ‘Privileged friends call her Lorienne.’
The woman’s hands were alabaster-white against a black linen dress, nails long and polished. Not really milliner’s hands at all. She wore three strands of black pearls around her left wrist, and Coralie saw an echo of Ottilia, but in the negative. Her most extraordinary feature was her platinum-blonde hair – peroxide, buckets of it – though there was nothing of the tart about her as the hair was twisted into an effortless pleat. Deep brown eyes, high cheekbones and a voluptuous mouth completed a beautiful woman. Knows that pouting gets her further than smiling , Coralie judged. With men, anyway.
Lorienne Royer placed her hip against Dietrich’s leg, but even as she welcomed Coralie to La Passerinette, her words were aimed at him. ‘We can do something with this. A lofty brow and Saxon colouring. Natural straws will suit Mademoiselle de Lirac perfectly.’
Coralie butted in, ‘I’d rather have pink.’ The brief desire to appease Dietrich had faded. That was half her problem in life. Her resolutions were not colour-fast. They ran in the wash, but damned if she was going to be topped off with a boring bit of straw. If the marquise could rebel at eighty, she could do it at twenty-two.
Lorienne shook her head. ‘Those are special-occasion hats. Will Mademoiselle please come to a mirror?’
At the table previously occupied by the marquise, Coralie was confronted with her own face from three angles. She looked away, and saw the assistant with the thick glasses standing outside on the pavement, staring sadly towards her. Or perhaps just staring as she must be too shortsighted to make anything out. As the girl came back inside, a thought flashed through Coralie’s mind: She hates this place .
‘Would Mademoiselle de Lirac please look into the mirror?’ A buffed nail brushed Coralie’s chin. ‘So I can take a long look?’ Without breaking her study, Lorienne asked the assistant, ‘Was the marquise in a tolerable mood?’
‘No. I’m afraid she was in one of her queer tempers.’
‘Did she decide upon her new hat?’
‘Yes, Mademoiselle Lorienne. The biretta. The coque in wild-rose pink? Only she called it “calamine”.’
‘What?’
‘Calamine.’
Coralie yelped as a fingernail dug into her jaw. After a hasty apology, Lorienne turned to the girl. ‘You sold the rose pink biretta to the Marquise de Sainte-Vierge? What a triumph. You’ve excelled yourself. No – don’t say anything, just fetch me straw shells for this customer.’
Coralie flashed a look of sympathy, but the girl’s head stayed low as she edged past, flinching as Lorienne raised an arm – to shake down her bracelets, as it turned out, not to hit her. Coralie risked turning once more to see if Dietrich had witnessed the moment, but he was staring at the window, or through it, turning a silver key in his fingers. The key had a tag tied to it. She frowned. Why did he have a house key on him when he lived in a hotel?
‘You are lucky,’ Lorienne said, after studying Coralie’s reflection for a good five minutes. ‘Most shapes will suit you, so long as we stay away from narrow crowns.’
‘No witch’s hats, then?’
Had that stab at humour been a ball, it would have rolled into a corner.
‘The crown of a hat should be as wide as, or wider than, your cheekbones. Yours are
She’d thrown herself into his arms, hardly noticing the male attendant staring down a distinctly put-out nose. Dietrich had held her, panting, at arm’s length.
‘Like Mid-day Sun, forty miles an hour. Brownlow, give me your ticket. You’re taking a later train.’
Dietrich hadn’t rejected her, but he might after her performance just now. She’d seen it in his eyes.
Expecting him to return with a milliner in the style of Miss McCullum, Coralie was astonished when an elegant woman of about twenty-five preceded him into the salon.
‘This is Mademoiselle Royer,’ he told her. ‘Privileged friends call her Lorienne.’
The woman’s hands were alabaster-white against a black linen dress, nails long and polished. Not really milliner’s hands at all. She wore three strands of black pearls around her left wrist, and Coralie saw an echo of Ottilia, but in the negative. Her most extraordinary feature was her platinum-blonde hair – peroxide, buckets of it – though there was nothing of the tart about her as the hair was twisted into an effortless pleat. Deep brown eyes, high cheekbones and a voluptuous mouth completed a beautiful woman. Knows that pouting gets her further than smiling , Coralie judged. With men, anyway.
Lorienne Royer placed her hip against Dietrich’s leg, but even as she welcomed Coralie to La Passerinette, her words were aimed at him. ‘We can do something with this. A lofty brow and Saxon colouring. Natural straws will suit Mademoiselle de Lirac perfectly.’
Coralie butted in, ‘I’d rather have pink.’ The brief desire to appease Dietrich had faded. That was half her problem in life. Her resolutions were not colour-fast. They ran in the wash, but damned if she was going to be topped off with a boring bit of straw. If the marquise could rebel at eighty, she could do it at twenty-two.
Lorienne shook her head. ‘Those are special-occasion hats. Will Mademoiselle please come to a mirror?’
At the table previously occupied by the marquise, Coralie was confronted with her own face from three angles. She looked away, and saw the assistant with the thick glasses standing outside on the pavement, staring sadly towards her. Or perhaps just staring as she must be too shortsighted to make anything out. As the girl came back inside, a thought flashed through Coralie’s mind: She hates this place .
‘Would Mademoiselle de Lirac please look into the mirror?’ A buffed nail brushed Coralie’s chin. ‘So I can take a long look?’ Without breaking her study, Lorienne asked the assistant, ‘Was the marquise in a tolerable mood?’
‘No. I’m afraid she was in one of her queer tempers.’
‘Did she decide upon her new hat?’
‘Yes, Mademoiselle Lorienne. The biretta. The coque in wild-rose pink? Only she called it “calamine”.’
‘What?’
‘Calamine.’
Coralie yelped as a fingernail dug into her jaw. After a hasty apology, Lorienne turned to the girl. ‘You sold the rose pink biretta to the Marquise de Sainte-Vierge? What a triumph. You’ve excelled yourself. No – don’t say anything, just fetch me straw shells for this customer.’
Coralie flashed a look of sympathy, but the girl’s head stayed low as she edged past, flinching as Lorienne raised an arm – to shake down her bracelets, as it turned out, not to hit her. Coralie risked turning once more to see if Dietrich had witnessed the moment, but he was staring at the window, or through it, turning a silver key in his fingers. The key had a tag tied to it. She frowned. Why did he have a house key on him when he lived in a hotel?
‘You are lucky,’ Lorienne said, after studying Coralie’s reflection for a good five minutes. ‘Most shapes will suit you, so long as we stay away from narrow crowns.’
‘No witch’s hats, then?’
Had that stab at humour been a ball, it would have rolled into a corner.
‘The crown of a hat should be as wide as, or wider than, your cheekbones. Yours are
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