much.’
Nicole held out a hand to her friend. ‘If there’s anything I can do.’
She thought about her part in the musical at Les Variétés and was glad the rehearsals took her mind off things in the evenings, even if it did intensify the feeling of being a
métisse
. The night before she had worn a shirtwaister in sherbet pink, with a full skirt falling a fraction below mid-calf, cinched at the waist with a black leather belt. It made her feel glamorous but had only served to increase the growing split within her. With her daytime hours being so thoroughly Vietnamese, she felt as if she was pulling further away from her French family. It frightened her. If she split apart from them, what would be left? She longed to discuss her problems with O-Lan, but she’d have to leave out the shooting, and that was at the centre of everything.
‘Your singing has improved,’ O-Lan said.
O-Lan was right. With practice, she’d mastered voice control, and that gave her added power. With a wide grin on his face, Jerry had even begun to say he thought she’d make a passable impression on the audience.
‘Shall we have another go at it?’ Nicole said.
O-Lan stood and gave her a sweet smile.
This is good, Nicole thought. If I can hold on to the positive things in my life, perhaps the awful images from the night of the shooting will eventually fade. She paused in her thoughts. What about Mark? She would just have to try to reconcile herself to what she now knew about him.
On a slow day in the shop Nicole decided to rearrange the stock in order of colour categories, starting with the cooler blues and greens and working her way through to the oranges, reds and magentas. The colours spoke to her. Blue and lilac for their days in Huế. Red for her anger and yellow for the warmthof the garden in summer. She liked to lose herself in the silks, wrap herself up in them and pretend to be one of the emperor’s women; the time, long gone, when life must have been so simple. As she stroked the silk, the feel of it comforted her.
She had been wondering about visiting the village where the silk was woven from threads produced by families who lived there. Though much of the Duval silk still came from near to Huế, it would be great to find a local provider too. She knew all about the different qualities and thicknesses of silk and how the thread mattered, varying from so fine it was almost invisible to thick and inferior, which was used for the lesser fabrics bought for everyday.
Just as she was mulling this over, a voice interrupted her thoughts. ‘So, you are still here?’
She spun round then felt the blood drain from her face as she stared at the gap between his front teeth. Surely he was the young Vietnamese man, O-Lan’s cousin Trần, who’d been killed in the hotel cellar?
‘You can’t be … I thought you were –’
‘Dead? You thought I was dead?’
‘I … I mean, I …’ Profoundly shocked, Nicole swallowed rapidly.
‘So you know about the shooting?’
She rubbed the back of her neck. ‘I don’t know anything.’
She hadn’t meant to use such a haughty tone of voice and regretted it the moment he moved a couple of paces closer. She stepped back beside the desk and cast around for what to say. He came right up and, placing his hands on her shoulders, stood too close. As he wasn’t much taller than her their eyes were on a level. She had no option but to look at him, though his eyes bored right into hers. How was she to hold his gaze without giving herself away?
He snorted. ‘Really?’
‘Yes,’ she said as sharply as she dared, though all she could see in her mind’s eye was the dead man. She tried hard to hold eye contact, but the stinging in her eyes meant she couldn’t stop blinking.
He narrowed his gaze. ‘Something wrong with your eyes?’
She heard the sound of wheels from beyond the shop door, the squeal of brakes, a door opening and slamming shut again. Her instinct was to escape his grip
Nicole held out a hand to her friend. ‘If there’s anything I can do.’
She thought about her part in the musical at Les Variétés and was glad the rehearsals took her mind off things in the evenings, even if it did intensify the feeling of being a
métisse
. The night before she had worn a shirtwaister in sherbet pink, with a full skirt falling a fraction below mid-calf, cinched at the waist with a black leather belt. It made her feel glamorous but had only served to increase the growing split within her. With her daytime hours being so thoroughly Vietnamese, she felt as if she was pulling further away from her French family. It frightened her. If she split apart from them, what would be left? She longed to discuss her problems with O-Lan, but she’d have to leave out the shooting, and that was at the centre of everything.
‘Your singing has improved,’ O-Lan said.
O-Lan was right. With practice, she’d mastered voice control, and that gave her added power. With a wide grin on his face, Jerry had even begun to say he thought she’d make a passable impression on the audience.
‘Shall we have another go at it?’ Nicole said.
O-Lan stood and gave her a sweet smile.
This is good, Nicole thought. If I can hold on to the positive things in my life, perhaps the awful images from the night of the shooting will eventually fade. She paused in her thoughts. What about Mark? She would just have to try to reconcile herself to what she now knew about him.
On a slow day in the shop Nicole decided to rearrange the stock in order of colour categories, starting with the cooler blues and greens and working her way through to the oranges, reds and magentas. The colours spoke to her. Blue and lilac for their days in Huế. Red for her anger and yellow for the warmthof the garden in summer. She liked to lose herself in the silks, wrap herself up in them and pretend to be one of the emperor’s women; the time, long gone, when life must have been so simple. As she stroked the silk, the feel of it comforted her.
She had been wondering about visiting the village where the silk was woven from threads produced by families who lived there. Though much of the Duval silk still came from near to Huế, it would be great to find a local provider too. She knew all about the different qualities and thicknesses of silk and how the thread mattered, varying from so fine it was almost invisible to thick and inferior, which was used for the lesser fabrics bought for everyday.
Just as she was mulling this over, a voice interrupted her thoughts. ‘So, you are still here?’
She spun round then felt the blood drain from her face as she stared at the gap between his front teeth. Surely he was the young Vietnamese man, O-Lan’s cousin Trần, who’d been killed in the hotel cellar?
‘You can’t be … I thought you were –’
‘Dead? You thought I was dead?’
‘I … I mean, I …’ Profoundly shocked, Nicole swallowed rapidly.
‘So you know about the shooting?’
She rubbed the back of her neck. ‘I don’t know anything.’
She hadn’t meant to use such a haughty tone of voice and regretted it the moment he moved a couple of paces closer. She stepped back beside the desk and cast around for what to say. He came right up and, placing his hands on her shoulders, stood too close. As he wasn’t much taller than her their eyes were on a level. She had no option but to look at him, though his eyes bored right into hers. How was she to hold his gaze without giving herself away?
He snorted. ‘Really?’
‘Yes,’ she said as sharply as she dared, though all she could see in her mind’s eye was the dead man. She tried hard to hold eye contact, but the stinging in her eyes meant she couldn’t stop blinking.
He narrowed his gaze. ‘Something wrong with your eyes?’
She heard the sound of wheels from beyond the shop door, the squeal of brakes, a door opening and slamming shut again. Her instinct was to escape his grip
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