our lives cannot be taken away from us. We’re here for every one of those people who was killed that night.’
Thierry wants to hear what I think as he asks me about the impact the attacks had across the Channel in Britain, and how we have coped with terrorist atrocities on our own soil.
‘My father was already worried about me coming to Paris,’ I admit. ‘Not that London is without its dangers.’ After the Charlie Hebdo attacks, Dad had tried hard to talk me out of taking the job, right up until the last minute. At the time, I’d resented his interference and put it down as another example of the distance between us – couldn’t he see how important this opportunity was to me? Didn’t he understand how strong the longing to leave was within me? But now I realise how anxious he must have been. From this perspective, I can see that the fact that he didn’t want me to go was perhaps more to do with love than with a lack of understanding. For a moment, I miss him. I make a mental note to try to call him again tomorrow, although he’ll probably be too busy to talk, as usual, out shopping with my stepmother or driving the girls to their weekend dance classes and sleepovers.
Thierry and I talk on, late into the evening, long after the musicians have finished their set and joined us at the table, and by the end of it I feel a closeness to Simone and her friends that is a new sensation for me. Slowly I find myself dropping my guard, my usual reticence thawing, as – tentatively – I begin to allow my thoughts and feelings to show themselves.
It seems that, in a new language and in a city where I am naturally an outsider, I find it easier to be myself. Perhaps, here in Paris, I can begin to become the person I want to be, enjoying the liberation that a new start brings.
Then another thought occurs to me: perhaps that is exactly what Claire felt too, all those years ago.
1940
The atelier closed early on Christmas Eve once the final few clients had been received in the salon, coming to collect last-minute commissions which were needed for the soirées and events of the festive season.
Mademoiselle Vannier even managed a tight-lipped smile as she handed out the wage packets to the seamstresses. ‘Monsieur Delavigne has asked me to tell you that he is pleased with your work. It has been one of our most successful seasons yet, so he has, most generously, asked me to give each of you a small additional consideration in recognition of your efforts and your loyalty.’
The girls exchanged sidelong glances. It was common knowledge that one of the vendeuses had left the salon only a week ago, taking with her her team of assistants and her little black book with the measurements and contact details of all of her clients. Rumour had it that she had been poached by one of the other couture houses, and one of the seamstresses had even dared to murmur that a certain ‘Coco’, who had cultivated particular links with the German occupiers, was known to be on the lookout for staff now that her business was doing so especially well.
The seamstresses chattered excitedly as they hung up their white coats and pulled on scarves and gloves. Claire glanced at them enviously as she thrust her pay packet into the pocket of her skirt; most of them had homes to go to and families to share tonight’s Réveillon de Noël dinner with, no matter how frugal a feast it might prove to be this year, staying up to see in Christmas Day together. She, on the other hand, had only her three companions in the upstairs apartment and an unappetising menu of vegetable soup – which tasted mostly of turnips – and some dry bread to look forward to.
In her chilly room upstairs, she took the money from her pay packet, carefully counting out what she would need for the coming week and stowing the rest away safely in the tin that she kept under her mattress. The pile of banknotes – her life savings and her passport to the life she longed for – was growing slowly but steadily.
Then, from the drawer next to her bed, she took a small package wrapped in brown paper, and went down the corridor to tap on the door of Mireille’s bedroom.