wages by working in the theatres. Starvation
wages! But it was the knowledge and skills I was building to say nothing of the contacts I was making that have stood me in good stead.’ She waved a hand around her office. ‘I am doing
rather well, you see.
‘But I owe it all to Dominique. I still work – ludicrous, I know, but it’s how I feel – for him. For a future together. I have never accepted his death . . .’ She
gave them both a challenging look. ‘It’s pathetic, I understand that, and I see the embarrassed pity in your eyes before you look politely away, but the conviction that he is alive and
will one day come back to me has always been so strong that it is quite useless to fight it.’
‘How did you meet this officer?’ Dorcas asked, enchanted by the story. ‘Oh, I say, I’m sorry . . . excuse me . . . it’s none of my business . . .. Sorry, Uncle
Joe.’
Mireille turned and smiled at her. A smile to match Thibaud’s, Joe thought.
‘It was very romantic! I was working here – in the old shop, that is – helping my father with his tailoring when a dashing young officer came in. Literally dashing! He was in a
hurry – his regiment was being sent north to harry the Germans and the sleeve of his tunic was hanging off. A respectable dragoon does not harry Germans looking like a scarecrow! He needed
attention on the spot. The standard of tailoring in those days was appalling but so much to do in so little time . . . My father was away so I did the work myself. He stood in his shirtsleeves and
watched me while I sewed. We talked. We flirted. We fell in love. He said he would return. I knew he would and he did. And I know he will again.’ She looked at them with speculation and came
to a decision. ‘Come with me. I want to show you something.’
She led them out through the french window, across the courtyard and into a recently built extension to her empire.
‘This is where I live. I hope you like the modern style?’
‘I visited the exhibition of Arts Décoratifs in Paris last year,’ said Joe warily, ‘and was most impressed.’
He made further polite comments as she showed off her cool white interiors with their accents of black, grey and cobalt blue; he enjoyed the gleam of chrome, the sculpted lines of the black
leather chairs, the feeling of generous space after the bustle and clutter of the commercial premises. ‘Your own design?’ he asked.
‘No. The work of a charming though expensive young architect from Paris. I bring you here to impress you, not with my success and my taste but to give you an idea of my grasp on reality. I
want to demonstrate that here lives a woman who is firmly rooted in the modern world . . . a woman of common sense and energy who can look to the past and not ignore it and to the future and not
fear it but who can – and does – live fully in the present. Oh, dear!’ she smiled in apology. ‘I don’t like to hear myself blowing my own trumpet but time is short.
You are a stranger whom, for some reason of instinct, I wish to impress. Forgive me for showing off but you will understand that it is a necessary preparation for the next room I shall show you.
This one is back over there in the old building and is indeed a re-creation of the living quarters of the old house. My father’s old parlour. It is very special.’
Joe guessed what she was attempting before he stepped through the parlour door. And stepped into a different age. It took a moment to adjust to the scene. He found himself in a room from before
the war. Dim, cosy, overstuffed and decorated in the manner of the belle époque , was his first impression. A thick wreath of wood-smoke spiked with the orange peel and rose petal
scent of pot-pourri was almost overpowering. Red plush curtains and potted palms, gold chandelier far too imposing for the room – after the clean geometric lines of Mireille’s house, it
was all an assault on the senses and very surprising.
There was
wages! But it was the knowledge and skills I was building to say nothing of the contacts I was making that have stood me in good stead.’ She waved a hand around her office. ‘I am doing
rather well, you see.
‘But I owe it all to Dominique. I still work – ludicrous, I know, but it’s how I feel – for him. For a future together. I have never accepted his death . . .’ She
gave them both a challenging look. ‘It’s pathetic, I understand that, and I see the embarrassed pity in your eyes before you look politely away, but the conviction that he is alive and
will one day come back to me has always been so strong that it is quite useless to fight it.’
‘How did you meet this officer?’ Dorcas asked, enchanted by the story. ‘Oh, I say, I’m sorry . . . excuse me . . . it’s none of my business . . .. Sorry, Uncle
Joe.’
Mireille turned and smiled at her. A smile to match Thibaud’s, Joe thought.
‘It was very romantic! I was working here – in the old shop, that is – helping my father with his tailoring when a dashing young officer came in. Literally dashing! He was in a
hurry – his regiment was being sent north to harry the Germans and the sleeve of his tunic was hanging off. A respectable dragoon does not harry Germans looking like a scarecrow! He needed
attention on the spot. The standard of tailoring in those days was appalling but so much to do in so little time . . . My father was away so I did the work myself. He stood in his shirtsleeves and
watched me while I sewed. We talked. We flirted. We fell in love. He said he would return. I knew he would and he did. And I know he will again.’ She looked at them with speculation and came
to a decision. ‘Come with me. I want to show you something.’
She led them out through the french window, across the courtyard and into a recently built extension to her empire.
‘This is where I live. I hope you like the modern style?’
‘I visited the exhibition of Arts Décoratifs in Paris last year,’ said Joe warily, ‘and was most impressed.’
He made further polite comments as she showed off her cool white interiors with their accents of black, grey and cobalt blue; he enjoyed the gleam of chrome, the sculpted lines of the black
leather chairs, the feeling of generous space after the bustle and clutter of the commercial premises. ‘Your own design?’ he asked.
‘No. The work of a charming though expensive young architect from Paris. I bring you here to impress you, not with my success and my taste but to give you an idea of my grasp on reality. I
want to demonstrate that here lives a woman who is firmly rooted in the modern world . . . a woman of common sense and energy who can look to the past and not ignore it and to the future and not
fear it but who can – and does – live fully in the present. Oh, dear!’ she smiled in apology. ‘I don’t like to hear myself blowing my own trumpet but time is short.
You are a stranger whom, for some reason of instinct, I wish to impress. Forgive me for showing off but you will understand that it is a necessary preparation for the next room I shall show you.
This one is back over there in the old building and is indeed a re-creation of the living quarters of the old house. My father’s old parlour. It is very special.’
Joe guessed what she was attempting before he stepped through the parlour door. And stepped into a different age. It took a moment to adjust to the scene. He found himself in a room from before
the war. Dim, cosy, overstuffed and decorated in the manner of the belle époque , was his first impression. A thick wreath of wood-smoke spiked with the orange peel and rose petal
scent of pot-pourri was almost overpowering. Red plush curtains and potted palms, gold chandelier far too imposing for the room – after the clean geometric lines of Mireille’s house, it
was all an assault on the senses and very surprising.
There was
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