models who was wearing a coat that Mireille recognised. She had finished sewing the lining for it just the other day.
‘Here she is, our star seamstress,’ gushed the vendeuse. ‘This gentleman wanted to meet you, Mireille, to thank you in person for the work you have done on his orders.’
Thankfully, the others in the room were too intent on fluttering about their client like moths around a flame to notice the startled look that shot across Mireille’s features before she could prevent it. Because next to the fire, which blazed brightly in the hearth to keep the damp March chill at bay, Monsieur Leroux sat in one of the gilt chairs that were reserved for visitors to the salon, his long legs crossed and his hands in his pockets, in a pose that spoke of the self-assured ease of the very wealthy.
She composed herself quickly, forcing herself to keep her eyes cast down to the pattern of the Aubusson carpet on the floor of the salon so that no look of recognition could give away the fact that she had already met this man. Neither did she want to betray the fact that, this very evening, she would be running an errand for the underground network that he controlled. She had received her latest instructions from the dyer only yesterday.
‘Mademoiselle,’ he said, ‘I apologise for interrupting your work. But I wanted to thank you for the attention to detail that you put into the garments that I commissioned. It is important, occasionally, to pass that on personally, n’est-ce pas?’
Did she imagine it, or had he placed a slight emphasis on the word ‘important’?
He smiled at the assembled company, who all beamed back at him, having already been on the receiving end of his largesse.
He beckoned her closer and then slipped a folded five franc note into the pocket of her white coat. ‘A small token of my gratitude, mademoiselle. And my thanks to you all once again.’
‘Thank you, monsieur. You are too kind,’ Mireille replied, her eyes meeting his for the briefest of moments to let him know that she understood.
He stood then, and one of the assistants hurried forwards with his coat. Turning to the vendeuse, he said, ‘So you have all the measurements you require for that suit?’ He gestured towards one of the new season’s designs that were displayed on mannequins against one wall.
‘Oui, monsieur. We will make it just as you wish. It’s an excellent choice – I happen to know that this particular style is one of Monsieur Delavigne’s favourites.’
‘Merci. And have the coat sent to my usual address.’ He nodded towards the model. ‘But I will settle my account now, if I may?’
‘Of course, monsieur.’
The saleswoman flapped a hand at Mireille, indicating that she was dismissed and should return to the atelier, while one of the assistants hurried to fetch the ledger in which the details of clients’ orders were kept.
Before going back into the sewing room, Mireille slipped into the lavatory on the first floor. She pulled the five franc note out of her pocket and unfolded it. As she’d guessed, a slip of paper was hidden inside the money. And on it was written just one word, heavily underlined: ‘CANCELLED’.
She realised that something terrible must have happened for Monsieur Leroux to have risked coming to see her to deliver this warning. Her hands shook as she tore the note into tiny pieces and flushed them away, making sure they’d gone, before washing her hands. They shook still as she dried them on the towel which hung on the back of the door, imagining what – or who – might have been waiting for her if she’d gone to the rendezvous point that evening. The Germans were trying to tighten the net around all Resistance activity and it was well known on the streets of Paris that those who were taken to the SS headquarters in the Avenue Foch for questioning did not usually reappear. She had seen, too, with her own eyes, the lines of people being marched under armed guard into the city’s stations and forced to board the trains heading eastwards. And, it seemed to her, they far outnumbered the people returning.
When she slipped back into her seat at the sewing table, Claire nudged her and asked her what she’d been sent downstairs for. She pulled the five franc note out of her pocket and showed it to the other girls, who exclaimed in envy.