you. See, I’m not exactly what you think I am.’ There, she’d said it.
Another silence. The same? Colder? Longer? ‘Go on.’
‘I’m not really a milliner. I pretended I was, but I’m—’
‘Playing at it.’ He placed her hand on his belly so she felt the rise and fall of his breathing. ‘Like Ottilia, who bought La Passerinette because she found herself in Paris, bored, and decided a hat shop would be the thing.’
‘Wait, La Passerinette belongs to Ottilia?’
‘Entirely. And listen to this: once she decided she would be a concert pianist so the most expensive piano in Berlin was delivered to her house. Three lessons later, she gave up. Why be a milliner, Coralie, when very ordinary girls can do it better?’
She let out an exasperated breath. Ottilia was like a bad dose of measles, all over her and up her nose. And if she never got a clear run at a confession, she’d never do it. She couldn’t go on letting Dietrich think that she was a rich London girl, playing at a career, free of family ties, when the reality was so different. Sordid, even. ‘Dietrich . . .’ his breathing was growing shallower ‘. . . I want to tell you about . . . ’
‘Mm?’
She’d been going to say, ‘Cora Masson,’ but her courage ran out. She asked instead, ‘What do you know of Lorienne Royer?’
‘Too much, certainly, for her good.’
‘That girl of hers – Violaine, was that her name? I’m damn sure she gets knocked about.’
‘That’s quite an allegation. What makes you say it?’
‘I know the signs. There’s a kind of posture you – people adopt after they’ve been clumped a few times. They know where the fist or boot comes from, but not when, so they’re always in fear. I’d love to give the poor girl tips on how to fight back. Grabbing hold of somebody’s eyelids stops a whole bunch of trouble, in my experience.’ She was astonished to hear laughter.
‘Take the fight to the enemy? But, Coralie, if Violaine is twenty-nine, she isn’t a girl. She can fight her own battles.’
‘I’m not so sure. I don’t like Lorienne. D’you mind me saying?’
‘Do I sound as if I do?’
‘La Passerinette’s your favourite hat shop, so I supposed you and she must be friends.’
‘My love, I go to one tailor in Berlin, to another in Zürich, and always to Henry Poole in London. I don’t necessarily like the gentlemen who measure me up.’
‘But you wouldn’t want me to punch them.’
‘No – or to hang on to their eyelids.’
‘I’d punch Lorienne if I caught her swiping at that poor girl. I hate bullies.’
Dietrich wound his fingers through hers. ‘Let me stop being obtuse. I thoroughly dislike Lorienne Royer, though I hardly know her. She turns out lovely hats, and as it is Ottilia’s shop, I take friends there when I can. Happy?’
‘I suppose “obtuse” means being a clever-clogs,’ she said crossly. How many ‘friends’ did he take hat-shopping? ‘How can you dislike somebody without knowing them?’
‘Do you like Sir Oswald Mosley?’
The question bewildered her. What had that got to do with Lorienne? ‘Mosley the Fascist? I hate Fascists. They’re ignorant. Once, we ran out of silk ribbon at Pettrew’s because those daft sods burned down the warehouse supplying it because it was owned by Jews. Three weeks we were laid off—’ she ended, on an intake of breath. God help her, she’d just accidentally spat out that she was a factory girl.
‘So you don’t like Oswald Mosley, even though you don’t know him, which proves that disliking a stranger is sometimes more than unexamined prejudice.’
She waited for Dietrich to catch up with her error but he went on, ‘Lorienne Royer was Ottilia’s lady’s maid before the present one. Lorienne wanted to go on to better things and Ottilia handed La Passerinette to her to run. They are supposed to share the profits fifty-fifty. Mademoiselle Royer is efficient, but I don’t consider her particularly
Another silence. The same? Colder? Longer? ‘Go on.’
‘I’m not really a milliner. I pretended I was, but I’m—’
‘Playing at it.’ He placed her hand on his belly so she felt the rise and fall of his breathing. ‘Like Ottilia, who bought La Passerinette because she found herself in Paris, bored, and decided a hat shop would be the thing.’
‘Wait, La Passerinette belongs to Ottilia?’
‘Entirely. And listen to this: once she decided she would be a concert pianist so the most expensive piano in Berlin was delivered to her house. Three lessons later, she gave up. Why be a milliner, Coralie, when very ordinary girls can do it better?’
She let out an exasperated breath. Ottilia was like a bad dose of measles, all over her and up her nose. And if she never got a clear run at a confession, she’d never do it. She couldn’t go on letting Dietrich think that she was a rich London girl, playing at a career, free of family ties, when the reality was so different. Sordid, even. ‘Dietrich . . .’ his breathing was growing shallower ‘. . . I want to tell you about . . . ’
‘Mm?’
She’d been going to say, ‘Cora Masson,’ but her courage ran out. She asked instead, ‘What do you know of Lorienne Royer?’
‘Too much, certainly, for her good.’
‘That girl of hers – Violaine, was that her name? I’m damn sure she gets knocked about.’
‘That’s quite an allegation. What makes you say it?’
‘I know the signs. There’s a kind of posture you – people adopt after they’ve been clumped a few times. They know where the fist or boot comes from, but not when, so they’re always in fear. I’d love to give the poor girl tips on how to fight back. Grabbing hold of somebody’s eyelids stops a whole bunch of trouble, in my experience.’ She was astonished to hear laughter.
‘Take the fight to the enemy? But, Coralie, if Violaine is twenty-nine, she isn’t a girl. She can fight her own battles.’
‘I’m not so sure. I don’t like Lorienne. D’you mind me saying?’
‘Do I sound as if I do?’
‘La Passerinette’s your favourite hat shop, so I supposed you and she must be friends.’
‘My love, I go to one tailor in Berlin, to another in Zürich, and always to Henry Poole in London. I don’t necessarily like the gentlemen who measure me up.’
‘But you wouldn’t want me to punch them.’
‘No – or to hang on to their eyelids.’
‘I’d punch Lorienne if I caught her swiping at that poor girl. I hate bullies.’
Dietrich wound his fingers through hers. ‘Let me stop being obtuse. I thoroughly dislike Lorienne Royer, though I hardly know her. She turns out lovely hats, and as it is Ottilia’s shop, I take friends there when I can. Happy?’
‘I suppose “obtuse” means being a clever-clogs,’ she said crossly. How many ‘friends’ did he take hat-shopping? ‘How can you dislike somebody without knowing them?’
‘Do you like Sir Oswald Mosley?’
The question bewildered her. What had that got to do with Lorienne? ‘Mosley the Fascist? I hate Fascists. They’re ignorant. Once, we ran out of silk ribbon at Pettrew’s because those daft sods burned down the warehouse supplying it because it was owned by Jews. Three weeks we were laid off—’ she ended, on an intake of breath. God help her, she’d just accidentally spat out that she was a factory girl.
‘So you don’t like Oswald Mosley, even though you don’t know him, which proves that disliking a stranger is sometimes more than unexamined prejudice.’
She waited for Dietrich to catch up with her error but he went on, ‘Lorienne Royer was Ottilia’s lady’s maid before the present one. Lorienne wanted to go on to better things and Ottilia handed La Passerinette to her to run. They are supposed to share the profits fifty-fifty. Mademoiselle Royer is efficient, but I don’t consider her particularly
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